#through the silence i can feel the affection i once held towards the world rot into contempt and revulsion

[dyingfad]

for some reason my dreams the past few days have without fail focused solely on unpleasant memories

[ay0nha]

Buggy searching out reader after a fight and showing up to her doorstep like a puppy looking for help

feel free to make it angsty or fluffy (or smutty lol)...reader could be an ex-marine and hates pirates so it's not clear whether or not they like each other (spoiler they do)

PAIRING: OPLA!Buggy x f!reader

WORD COUNT: 2.3K

WARNINGS: ANGST, canon-typical things, cursing, smoking, descriptions of injuries/fucked up shit Buggy did, mutual pining, brief mention of reader being a former marine, vague description of smuggler!reader, soft touches, enemies ish to lovers, etc.

A/N: This was fun lol. It's a little weird and experimental (?) for me? So, she got a little messy as I was getting excited to just Get This Out, so it didn't sit in my drafts. I want more buggy angst lol. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in any OPLA things or along the lines. Enjoy.

!!!COMMENTS ENCOURAGED!!!

(tags: @gingernut1314)

There were reasons habits quickly morphed into vices, something immoral and wicked. Yet, you were lethal, the definition of torment. Your silhouette alone was enough to send Buggy spiraling. 

Each step toward you felt unreliable and fuzzy, making Buggy question if he reattached his limbs correctly. His gut felt twisted with a foreign feeling that he wanted to trap away. He wondered if he buried the feeling deep enough if it would turn to treasure or become forgotten rot. 

“Buggy.” Your voice even irritated him. Yet, he found relief in finding you alone. “Third time this month. Careful…I’m starting to get a big head.”

“That sounds like a medical problem…” He mumbled with little enthusiasm and a half-hearted smirk, “...should probably get seen for that.”

“Admitting you care, eh?” You teased. You were preoccupied, cigarette dangling from your lip and bobbing with every word. “What can I help you with?”

The receipts tended to be formidable, but you couldn't help but feel your concentration falter when you were met with uncharacteristic silence.  Typically, you were shy of whiplash from an unwarranted insult or backhanded compliment. However, once your eyes landed on Buggy, you only saw deep anger veiling desperation. 

 “How serious is it?” Your pen was settled beside the book, whatever records you were once concerned with dismissed.  Buggy looked awful—his posture gave away his exhaustion and discomfort.

“What? Can’t we skip the part where I say ‘the other guy looks worse’?” His busted lip ticked with dry humor. There were rumors he was in trouble, but that paled compared to the truth you knew about Buggy. 

“Depends.” You frowned. “That other guy isn’t stopping by, is he?” If it were true, you’d have to lay low, something you never had time for. “This is why I don’t like your kind.”

“My kind?” Buggy continued unamused. You weren’t more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing to him. You were a smuggler. Plain and simple. It was impossible for something to stay hidden from you for long.  “You’re not far off, sweetheart.”

His terms of endearment never held affection, but he seemed to soften this time for some reason—almost pleading between the lines. You held a trained expression, taking a moment of consideration. 

Your typical jobs with him were small. Typically, they consisted of information that he could coax out of you for trinkets. He brought the world to you. Other times, you moved things through the shadows to an even darker location. 

This was different, you decided. 

Stalking toward the clown, you saw how the pain mapped on his body.  “You look awful.” 

The jester’s bow was fueled by pained sarcasm. Although his abilities helped, Buggy's flesh was still pliable. His jaw was a deep-set purple, contrasting the faded red of his cracked lips. It was hard to distinguish what was paint and what was blood. His eyes were bloodshot with broken blood vessels, and there were gashes littering every place imaginable. 

You were surprised he was still standing. You noted how his breath became labored, as if holding onto what he could before he collapsed entirely. But looking between his eyes, you saw the struggle he had deciding what was worth his final breath: business or pleasure. 

—

At the atrium of the town, your home went unnoticed. The average eye missed it, but those who could look past the unassuming home knew what lay behind the walls. You were particular with your arrangements, always done tightly and if challenged dangerously. 

Buggy learned the hard way of earning your loose alliance. The scar you left behind cinched on his side, and sometimes, if he found you lingering in his mind, he swore he felt it ache. Yet, just being in your presence seemed to be the closest thing to a remedy. 

“You can’t just show up like this.” Your scolding was shallow, there only as a buffer. You distanced yourself from the pirate despite the intimacy you provided. 

The handful of candles in the room glowed yellow, highlighting the dark corners that threatened to swallow everything whole. Your fingers trailed various cabinets, pulling out necessities: make-shift gauze, old booze, and something loosely resembling thread. 

“Then, don’t leave a key under your mat.”  Buggy hadn’t bothered with the front door, stumbling through a window once locked. The so-called key was that he knew how to dance around your traps, dragging in an air of death.  

“Hilarious.”

“Gimme a minute...” He raised his uncovered hand.“... I’ll come up with something better.”

The irony hadn’t set in yet, but whoever had hurt him made it personal. Buggy’s middle fingers were gone, not detached, but entirely ripped off.  

“Oh—” You bubbled with laughter lightly, “—that must’ve hurt.”

“Well, aren’t you a twisted one?” Buggy’s tone was flat, but his eyes tracked you. He silently begged you to put him out of his misery. 

“What’s twisted is you, Buggy.” The decision had already been made to help him, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t draw it out.  “You come here asking for my mercy and expect it for free…” 

Buggy’s throat went dry, his tongue barely able to wet his own lips without tasting blood. He leaned through your threshold, head hung, leaving a trail of blood with every uncomfortable shift. His breath was heavy, wheezing with effort to remain upright.  

There was no use in prayers. The gore set the air with dust that could never settle; a blood-warm heat had set into your marrow, never to be forgotten; Buggy had been dragged to your doorstep like a cat bringing in fowl. 

Buggy spoke low as if the neighbors would hear. He hadn’t even wanted to hear himself, knowing his desperation.  “...can’t you play favorites for once?”

“That’s a trick question.” Your facade had slipped. Your response was a second too quick, letting warmth trickle throughout his chest.

Buggy’s ears rang at the admission. Your words filled the room and stuck like honey.

You were always thinking. You were intentional; everything was thought out, and if it wasn’t, you were still level-headed. It wasn’t hard to recognize his behavior patterns; he knew what he was doing. Finally, though, everything became a second thought as you reached him with intent, tilting his chin to expose his neck.

“Easy, puppet.” Buggy caught your wrist. The tight hold was a warning moments away from a fracture. “Pity isn’t your color.”

Buggy fed off cruelty that incited fear. It was foolish to think he could do the same to you. 

“How naive of you to think this is what pity looks like.” Your voice was soft and steady, pent-up venom behind every word. “Before me is a shell of a man playing pirate—” 

You paused to regain your wrist. Regret flashed over Buggy’s features, but he held onto every one of your words. His humor was his defense, and beyond that, he was pliable in your hands. There was little room for recovery. 

“—don’t fault me for something you let get out of hand.” You finished. 

Fear clawed its way up Buggy’s throat, determined to make itself known. It fought with another emotion he was too proud to name. He wasn't unfamiliar with loss. But this.  The feeling was wild. Sentimental.

The small candles’ fire illuminated the room only so much, hiding the loneliness of the small space. Very little signs of life filled the room, but your supplies dominated the counters. It was a tick you picked up from the Marines that you couldn’t shake. On nights when sleep was hard to find, you would organize and filter through everything in preparation for nothing. 

It seemed wrong to encourage the relief you felt, finally putting what you had to use. But its familiarity was oddly cathartic. So, with clean hands, you began. 

“Lean forward—” You instructed. The chill in your tone softened as Buggy struggled. “—move slowly. Slowly.”

You’d already discarded his hat; scorched by the battle, it had lost most of its form. You moved slowly, calculated with every experimental touch. The years of back and forth and treachery never lead you to believe Buggy would be sitting at your mercy. 

He grunted as you removed his jacket. It was tattered and drenched with rainwater. The leather of the chair protested against being ruined. Each layer removed revealed every minute it took for him to arrive. 

“Were you shot? Show me where it hurts. ” You prompted bluntly. The training was still ingrained; your mind filtered through a clinical set of diagnostic questions, your hands moved with practice, and you were returned. “Dizzy? Light-headed? Anything like that?”

His skin pricked. Your touch tickled him, but he leaned into it fully. Buggy was used to touch hurting or leading to something that hurt. He put far too much faith in you, unlike the others. He humanized you. It would be a mistake if you did the same.

“No, no,” Buggy shook his head, the action unsteady. “My ribs—” He coughed with discomfort when you pressed against his side. “Fuck—”

Your hands were steady as you worked. The gauze was taut in the right places, and Buggy’s body finally relaxed. He received a good beating, but nothing bed rest would fix. While you tided, you rambled on about the possibility of a fever, infections, and whatever else came out of your mouth to ignore the feeling of his severe gaze. 

“You’ve changed,” Buggy muttered sharply. He took in your entirety. You held yourself well; you’d matured into your confidence unrestrained. Without him, you soared.  

“And you’ve fallen.” Your mouth fidgeted with a frown. Your head remained leveled with his, bandages secured at his temples. 

Buggy’s bloodshot eyes darted between your own. He wanted to tell you that you were the brevity of his curse, his burden. His mind was always riddled with reflections, constantly ruminating about possibilities that could bring so-called success. You quieted it and saw him for what he was good and evil. He gave all of himself to you. 

“Oh yeah?” He encouraged. 

You only noticed now the position you were standing in, not entirely between his legs, but knees brushing with every motion. Intentional or not, Buggy took advantage, bruised knuckles, finding a place just shy of your pant’s fabric. 

“I got you something.” He whispered. Buggy knew you well enough that the seed that only he could nourish had been planted. It was only moments before you’d cave. “Check my pocket; the left one.”

A strange feeling surfaced, pulling away, but you were enticed. Buggy learned your tastes, knowing you placed value on rarities. There was no rhyme or reason behind it, possibly besides the fact that each trinket was tangible evidence that you were on his mind. Therefore, there was no stop to the allure. You explored his discarded jacket, eagerness fueling your search. 

“Jesus, Buggy!” You cursed from the texture alone. Buggy fulfilled his titles, always sporadic with his behavior and anger. The blood was warm and fresh, staining your palm as if making sure it was now shared blood on your hands. 

You flung the nose to the floor, cartilage still firm and skin still stringy with the residue of its owner. The image alone told you everything. The scene was explicit—nothing could be saved from Buggy’s carnage. 

“Oops.” He wheezed an ill-timed laugh. To be seated in the depths of your home, he still sought  out an advantage. “Must be the other pocket.”

“It’s too late for your pranks.” You spat. Your kindness felt thrown back in your face. The faint embarrassment morphed into anger. “Don't you get this is exactly why I—

“I forgot, you don’t like my kind.” Buggy chose malice as his only form of self-preservation. The statement mocked you and your previous life sewing up Marines that Buggy most likely sent you. “How selfish to think everything is about you.” 

Buggy detached his bandaged hand with the little energy he had left, going to the correct pocket. He let his defensiveness stew, already committing to the rash gift he’d brought for you. It was heavy on its return to you. 

Reaching out, your heart dropped to your stomach. The glass was pristine, and the snowglobe’s inner frost moved your heartbeat to your ears. You refused to shake it, nervous your uneasy hands would break something so inherently precious. 

Holding it tightly to your chest, your eyes were blown wide, pouring into Buggy’s. It was clear to you now the state he was in was of a transactional purpose. He offered himself for the trivial object. It spoke of the confusion of feelings that drowned Buggy. Pain became inherent to his life, functioning as a scale of value. 

The greater the risk, the greater the reward. 

“Do you like it?” Buggy’s voice surpassed the thumping in your ears. 

When you were young, you threw things out of your bedroom window to learn how they would break. Many of them did not—the plastic dolls and plush toys landed safely on the grassy yard below—but the wooden toys did break, or at least they came apart.

One day, you found a snow globe. A winter village stood inside, with snow-covered roofs and chimneys shooting up into the domed sky.

This snow globe was the last thing you threw out of your window, not because your mother scolded you, which she did, but because this snow globe smashed so gloriously—an explosion of crystal, water, snow, and glitter, the village utterly destroyed —you thought you wouldn’t be able to replicate such destruction again.

It was bullshit then, and it was bullshit now. Moving and letting go was never in the stars for you. Or the tea leaves. Or in the deep lines of your palm. You were destined for destruction. 

You’d told Buggy this once. Your state of inebriation fostered the interaction, the memory far more fuzzy for you than for him. It was told nonlinearly, but he followed it well as if he were then to witness it himself. He understood its value to you even if he couldn’t fully understand it.  It wasn’t odd or facetious. It was your greatest regret that he became determined to restore.  

“Yes.”

[bl00dgutsgl0ry]

Since your requests are open i shall throw my brain rot at you <3

Slightly mean(bc he is a tease and is having the time of his life bc of the current scene in front of him) Kaeya that watches his virgin s/o try to fit him inside but she fails ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

And finally after some time he agrees to help out.

(uh also if u are accepting anons, may i be the ⚠️ anon?)

Pairing - Kaeya x Fem!Reader

Warnings - Degradation kink, praise kink?, very slight dollification

Word count - 1.7k

Other comments - Dude your Kaeya brainrot is always welcome here I love him. You’re so smart, mean kaeya is next level. And of course everyone welcome ⚠️ anon! Also this one is a little shorter, i just wasnt in the mood to write the build up i just wanted s e x

Your body was hypersensitive with nerves. It was your first time so of course you would be anxious about this whole situation. What wasn’t helping was your boyfriend's relentless teasing. It was aggravating and embarrassing, but part of your body was getting off to it as well; your body getting even more sensitive as time passed.

Right now, you were trying desperately to ride Kaeya, but he was just way too big and you didn’t know what you were doing so nothing was going well on your end. Kaeya on the other hand was having the time of his life watching you struggle.

“God if you hadn’t told me you were a virgin, I’d have never known seeing as how you're whining like a little slut right now cause you can’t ride me.” You shot your boyfriend a glare. God you just wanted to shut him up.

“Watching you struggle like this is quite amusing my dear… Maybe I’ll just sit here and force you to keep trying. You're destined to get it right at some point hm?” You heard him chuckle as you groaned out. There was a feeling that was beginning to bloom deep within you. You couldn’t quite name the feeling but all you knew was that you needed Kaeya’s help and you needed it now.

“Please Kaeya. This is driving me crazy. I need you Kaeya.” There was a needy rasp in your voice that made his only exposed pupil blow wide. There was a low rumble in his chest that only made this feeling intensify. You didn’t know what you had done, but you knew you weren’t going to regret it.

In less than a second there was a punishing grip on your hips, Kaeya’s long slender fingers holding so much strength in the iron grasp he had on you. Effortlessly Kaeya had you hovering over his pulsing cock. You whimpered in anticipation.

“Such a pathetic useless slut, always in need of my assistance. Hold yourself up like this so I can line myself up. You’re competent to be able to do as simple of a task as that right?” You nodded quickly, biting your lower lip instinctively out of mild anxiety. Once again, despite it all, this is still your first time. Your position did not waiver when Kaeya pulled away one of his hands. You could still feel the imprint of where it was on your hip.

“You’re okay right (y/n)? We’ll take this first part slow so as to not hurt you too much. This isn’t going to be amazing at first but just trust me it’ll get better. Then we can get back to having real fun.” The change in Kaeya’s whole tone and demeanor gave you whiplash; a stark contrast to the dark look he held only moments ago when degrading you. Instead he held a warm, almost concerned and genuine look on his face.

You took this moment to really admire him. The way his dark blue hair fell over him, shining in the pale light of your lamps next to the bed. Your breath never ceased to be taken away when you looked at him like this, cherishing the way his tanned skin contrasted the shining pale blue eye he had exposed. You guessed you had been staring at him for a little too long, with the way his expression started leaning more towards concern than anything.

“I always trust you Kaeya, this time is no different than the others.” A gentle smile formed on both of your faces. There were no words for how much you guys trusted each other, having this unexplainable bond. Somehow you both knew more about each other than yourselves.

Kaeya nodded before he nudged the hand that was still on your hip down, signaling for you to start lowering yourself. There was still an unease in the pit of your stomach, but it was much less noticeable now. You jumped slightly when you felt the tip of Kaeya’s dick intrude, causing him to chuckle quietly and begin rubbing comforting circles into your hip. You continued down, wincing as you felt yourself begin the stretch around him. It ached, and Kaeya was right, this certainly did not feel amazing, but you trusted him. After a few more painstakingly long moments of lowering yourself, you were fully seated on his lap. You could feel every pulse and twitch of his cock, and slowly the pain began to fade; leaving a burned need to feel more in its wake.

You squirmed on his lap, not trusting yourself to talk at the moment, in fear of saying or making some abhorrent noise. Kaeya’s punishing grip returned, holding you still on his lap.

“That didn’t take very long. Are you sure this is your first time? You’re really acting like a slut now.” The antagonizing tone returned to Kaeya’s voice, and it was really affecting you now. You desperately needed him to move. You let out a whimper as you futilely tried wiggling around in his grasp. A dark smirk graced his face as he tightened his grip even more.

“What was that my slut? What do you need? How am I possibly to know what you need if you don’t tell me. I’m not a mind reader darling.” You groaned, your face lighting up red with embarrassment with the knowledge that you were indeed going to have to beg this man to move.

“Kaeya…. I need you….to move please. I need to feel you in me. Please Kaeya help me.” You saw that familiar darkening on Kaeya’s face that made you melt, and an ache began deep within you.

“Your wish is my command, my beloved.” Before anything else could be exchanged, Kaeya hoisted you up until only the tip was still inside you then almost dropped you back down. You repeated this motion over and over and you let out loud moans and cries.

“That’s right. You’re my whore. I’m the only one that ever gets to see you this way or make you this way. Let everyone know who you belong to. Who exactly is making you whine like a bitch.” You cried out at a particularly hard and direct thrust into that one special spot that made you see stars.

“Say my name you little whore, say it out loud so we can all know whos fucking you this well.” You cried out once again, your moans being interrupted with the loud gasps of his name on your lips. You chanted his name like a prayer to the Archons above. In this moment, he was your archon, your divine being who you followed with unwavering devotion. What else were you to think when he was bringing you such pleasure.

“That’s it my darling. Even though your only use is being my fucktoy you are such a good one. You just keep sucking me in so well, this feeling is addicting.” You moaned out louder at the words he was throwing at you. Only moments later your legs began getting very tired from the constant up and down. You placed your hands on his toned chest as you began slumping over, not being lifted up quite as easily.

Suddenly you felt yourself being tipped over before Kaeya quickly pulled out, rolled you onto your back and caged you in with his strong arms on either side of your head. Without warning he thrusted himself in again, much easier this time.

“We haven’t even been doing this for very long and you already seemed so fucked out. Of course I shouldn’t be very surprised seeing how pathetic you are.” You could feel tears beginning to fall from your eyes from the pleasure that was wracking through your body. The tears only egged Kaeya on, as his thrusts became even harder. You could sense how sore you were going to be, you might have to stay home tomorrow. Kaeya began to let out strained grunts and groans, gritting his teeth in pleasure. He could feel the way you were squeezing him, and how you were about to fall over the edge any second now. He needed to ruin you.

The tears began to fall faster the closer you got to the end, a huge knot threatening to break in your core. After only two more targeted thrusted your back arched off the bed, smashing into Kaeya’s torso above you as you screamed out his name along with a few other profanities. Your vision flashed white as the feeling of your orgasm crashed over you like unrelenting waves in the sea.

Your cries quieted down as you slumped down onto the bed trembling, tears staining your deep crimson cheeks. Kaeya had grown much louder over those few moments and before long we was shoving his throbbing cock as far as he could get it and cumming. His orgasm took him by storm, nothing ever feeling that incredible before. The noise he made as his body shook above you and his sweaty forehead fell into the crook of your neck only made you tremble more. Before too long Kaeya gently pulled his softening dick out of you and slumped down onto the bed next to you. You were immediately pulled into him as he wrapped his arms tightly around you. This skin to skin contact filled you with the fuzziest feeling in the world as you snuggled as deep as you could into him.

You guys stayed in silence, the only sound being the rhythmic breathing of the two of you. You were both tangled in each other’s bodies before you quietly heard Kaeya mumble a soft ‘I love you’. You smiled and kissed his chest, not having the energy or willpower to speak. Not long after the two of you were lulled into the deepest, most peaceful sleep of your lives.

[caker-baker]

ahh I loved 'If there was a crown' If you have time would you please consider writing a continuation? because it was amazinggg

The hero hated princes. Princes were annoying, vain, arrogant, and so very cocky, according to the hero.

The prince, on the other hand, didn’t so much mind bakers. Bakers were fun, scare-able.

At first, the prince was everso delighted when learning of the hero’s identity, his plot being decided in all of two minutes.

Then the baker-hero was there, and they were so different than the prince imagined. He always thought they would be strong, with or without the costume, but this baker was barely quelling their nerves.

And to hear them call the prince by his title gave him relief to no end. But it felt oddly wrong.

To see the fear dawn on the baker’s face - fear the prince had never seen in their fights - it was all too perfect, and all too short lived.

Next was the taunting, something the hero had always been able to participate in, and with the repartee being one sided, the prince was filled with glee.

Until he wasn’t

He was frustrated, he thought he would be happy. As a prince, he could have anything except the hero, and now that he had them, it wasn’t enough. He wanted more, still.

The prince noticed the hero’s harsh concentration whenever he neared, their head working on ways to escape.

He was a diplomat, the prince. He was taking over the kingdom, he was raised to know what people were thinking.

“Pesky little hero, it’s no use.”

“What?” The hero snapped, still mid thought.

In response, the prince smiled, and tilted his head to the side. “Would it be fair to assume you have never been in such a situation?”

“Take your best guess, my prince.” The hero’s tone was anything but formal, but that didn’t stop the delighted feeling flowing throughout the prince.

“Such malice, baker.” His words were equally as venomous. “For someone in such a bind, I would think one to be kinder.”

“I would think I still have my dignity.”

“And shaking hands.”

The hero fell silent.

Sly eyes found their way to the crown in the corner of the cell. While it was hard to break, the hero certainly did try, the crown now dirtied and somehow slightly dented.

The prince didn’t know they had that sort of strength.

“I did mainly come to drop this off.” A tray of food rattled on the lone desk. “But it seems you are in dire need of company, what, with taking out your solitude on my most prized possession.”

“You shouldn’t give nice things to pesky heroes.” The hero bit back, the chains on their wrist becoming uncomfortably heavy.

“I told you, I would make an exception for you.”

Silence reigned for a brief moment.

“I could strangle you.” The hero said, voice soft and hands trembling. “If you just got close enough, these chains are more than enough, I could-”

“Then do it.” The prince stepped closer. “I won’t try to stop you. I will even assist you.” He turned around, back towards the hero. “I’m close enough, unsuspecting, a prime opportunity if any.”

Nothing happened. The hero didn’t move, the prince didn’t move, and the world came to a standstill.

“Or,” the prince spoke, still turned around. “Is this not how you would like me? Would you prefer I go to war for you? Some neighboring territories would be rather easy to take, if only in your name.”

The hero actually stepped back. “What is this?”

“Compliance. I’m being a kindly host.”

“A host?” The hero repeated. “This is a game to you?” Their face had twisted into a snarl, but no move was made against the villain. “Tormenting one while killing others?”

The prince whipped around. “What makes you think I’m practicing villainy again?”

“There was never a choice, was there?” A stark laugh came from the hero. “That’s why you’re the only one down here, isn’t it? Everyone else thinks I’m long gone. Besides, are your plans for the kingdom finished?”

Oh, this amused the prince greatly.

“Clever and pesky.” He muttered. “An awful combination.”

Despite their nerves, the hero managed to stare the prince in the eye.

“Won’t your guard be suspicious?” The hero asked. “The king?”

Pure anger flashed on the prince’s face. “That man is of no-” he remembered himself, the anger dissolving before a neutral expression took hold. “You should eat. I’ll know if you don’t.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I hope you don’t value that bakery all too much.”

When the prince had gone, the hero let themselves come undone, trembling in a pile of fear.

No other threats were made past that one fateful day, on either end.

It became a routine, of sorts. The hero would try to find a way out, and the prince would sit back, amused.

Once, the prince stormed in, wrinkled papers clutched in hand.

“I’m working in here.” He announced, making use of the desk oh so generously supplied to the hero.

The hero had to wonder if that was the purpose of it, more for the prince than them.

“I thought you had no power.” The hero mumbled folding something from ripped book pages.

“I still have responsibilities, something I suppose doesn’t affect you anymore.”

The hero nearly crushed their paper creation. “My responsibilities were ripped away from me if you deign to remember!”

The prince waved them off, scribbling something with their other hand.

There was no way of knowing how much time had passed for the hero, it was only when the prince sighed and leaned back did they realize time had passed at all.

“What are you making?”

“A child’s toy. Most every child in the kingdom can paper-fold.” The hero snorted. “Probably not royal ones.”

The prince stood tall over the hero, eyes landing on the expert foldings. “A paper crown. How ironic when a real one stays in the corner.”

“How ironic you keep coming here.” The hero set the paper crown aside, their hands clutched together.

They were refusing to look at the prince.

“Pesky little hero, your silence is suffocating.”

“What were you working on?” The hero said, still not looking at the prince, though they could see him in their side view.

“Are you truly interested?” The prince asked. “Or is this you trying to find information to use against me?”

“What does it matter to you? Any information I get will rot away with me. It’s ‘no use’, isn’t it?”

Clever and pesky indeed.

“If you must know, you pesky thing, I’ve been trying to worm my way out of a potential marriage.”

The hero’s head snapped up, only to find the prince already looking at them, smiling widely. “There you are. A possible wedding is what it takes for you to look at me?”

“So you won’t be getting married?” They made to look down again, but the prince snaked out a hand, grabbing the hero’s chin.

“You would make a pretty royal.” He said appreciatively, turning the hero’s head with his hand. “Especially done up for a royal portrait.”

“So you’ve said.” The hero tried to yank away, but the prince held fast.

“We,” he began, “are created to be perfect. I was created to be perfect. There’s something so fascinating with everyday people still being beautiful.”

The hero’s lip curled. “My appearances are not for you to marvel at!”

“My, my.” The prince dropped his hand. “Where do these little bursts of defiance come from? It feels as if I am truly talking to Hero, and not some baker. By the by, what do you call a baker without a bakery?”

“Go to hell.”

“At some point.”

The hero suddenly regretted their words, their bakery floating to the top of their mind.

“That’s not a concentrating face.”

They hated him, for being a prince, for figuring out their identity, for having power, even if he didn’t realize it. But most of all, they hated he could hold their bakery over their head.

“And that’s resolve. What, I wonder, is going through your head?”

The hero’s eyes dropped, their hands reaching to tear more book pages, and at this, the prince sighed.

“Fine then, I’ll leave you to your folding.”

“What do you care?” The hero asked, already making a crease in the words. “Are you just having your fun before you decide to kill me?”

“No.” The prince spoke quickly. “No. I am having fun, but you will not be dying. Not here. Not by my hand.”

“Then it is just simple then.”

“What is?”

The hero looked up. “You are a cruel bastard.”

There was no response, just a long and cold stare, then once again, the hero was alone. They were alone, and now had a plan.

The prince had mentioned it earlier, but the hero didn’t believe him, they thought he was still going to kill them. However, the quick desperation of his tone made the hero rethink otherwise.

The prince didn’t want them dead, did he? What were the chances of getting out if the prince thought they were close to death?

This was a flimsy plan, especially in that there was no telling when it would happen. The hero would have to make it look like something had happened, but the prince would have to be there to witness it.

So, the hero had to listen, and carefully.

Any sign of steps, and they would move. First, to the bed, where they would grab the blankets and pull them down, trying to make it look as if they had clutched onto something before falling.

Next was the positioning. The hero wasn’t sure about this, the chains being a bit inhibiting, but hopefully, if this all went as planned, the chains would be coming off.

Finally came the hard part, acting. They had never needed to pretend to be passed out, they had never had to force themself to be calm like this. It was already difficult for them to even their breathing while in a state of nerves, but to play at vulnerability while making their lungs steady was difficult to say the least.

So, it all came down to keeping their nerve, and timing. It would work fine, they were sure of it, despite how hard their heart was hammering in their chest. This had to work fine.

Listening was difficult, singling out one specific sound among dozens of others, especially to the untrained ear. Once or twice, the hero had prepared, positioning themselves with the blankets in hand, only to realize it was an echo of a sound.

Knowing what time it was would make it easier, the prince delivering meals himself at a specific time was otherwise useless information.

They couldn’t be sure how long they listened, only that they were suddenly on the floor, the sound of regal boots getting closer.

The creaking door opened, and the hero had to stop themselves from shaking. They had to do this right, it had to work.

The prince cursed, something dropping onto the ground.

Then there was the sudden closeness, the prince mere inches from the hero’s face, who could feel their muscles tensing.

Two fingers were on the hero’s neck, who almost cried having to keep still while the prince checked their pulse.

A rattling sound, then the weight on the hero’s wrists dropped. They had to stop themselves from flinching away, from running right then and there. They had to make themselves be dead weight when strong hands lifted them.

Breathe even.

Dead weight.

Don’t let your eyelids move.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

The steps the prince took were large, frantic. He was in a hurry to wherever he planned on taking the hero now.

And once the hero was sure, absolutely positive they were at least past the bars of the cell, at least far away from the manacles, and at least in an open space, they struck.

A fist flew to the prince’s jaw, his hold on the hero weakening. They hero leapt from his arms, rolling back onto their feet.

“And there’s that acrobatic hero I know and love.” The prince chuckled, rubbing his bruising face.

There was no time for the hero to play into what was surely his attempt at stalling. They could either incapacitate him now, or run and hope to find the quickest way out.

A prince knocked out in his own home might raise questions the hero couldn’t afford to answer.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid to fight?” The prince baited.

It almost worked. Almost.

The hero, fists clenched, turned and ran. Maybe this wasn’t the brightest of plans, but none of the options were the best.

“I happened to have grown up in this place.” The prince said, leaning against a corridor wall the hero had just turned onto.

They immediately turned around again.

“Pesky hero.” They heard the prince tut, footsteps once again fading away.

A door, it was all they needed, a window is what they got.

They didn’t hesitate, smashing their elbow against the glass, cracks beginning to form. This was done again and again, until the window had shattered completely.

The hero peered down, looking at the two story height.

Considering the prince had taken them from seemingly below ground to upper levels of the palace, the height made sense.

And the height worked. The hero had done much more from much higher places. This would be easy, it might still hurt, but it would work.

The hero stepped up, their back facing outside, a slowly setting sun bathing them in light.

“Hero.” A voice said, cold and commanding. It was a voice future kings should learn.

“Your highness.”

“You don’t know what you would happen if you made a reappearance as Hero. You don’t know what would happen if you left.” The prince took a step forward, fully aware of the hero watching him. “As it turns out, I’m not the only royal who dislikes heroes.”

“Is that all?”

The prince cautioned two more steps. “I don’t think you quite realize what I have afforded you.”

After prince’s taunts, his fun, it felt good to see his discomfort, even if vengefulness wasn’t the hero’s style.

“I’m sure I don’t.”

Three more steps. “And I don’t know what stunt you are trying to pull here, but-”

“Not a stunt.” The hero interrupted. “I’m just leaving.”

It had gone right, this plan, and it felt fantastic, they felt calm for the first time in a while. They felt a lot that they hadn’t felt in a while.

“I think we could discuss this civilly, don’t you?” One more step, and he was in arms length of the hero.

“I think you’re wrong.”

The prince lunged, but the hero was quick enough, pushing him back as momentum for the fall.

If he wasn’t aware of the hero’s skilled ability in any and all things acrobatic, he would’ve been worried for their safety, but instead, he had a million other things to worry about, namely, how to get them back without making a fuss.

The prince chanced a glance out the broken window, but the hero had already faded away, disappearing with the prince’s dignity.

The worst and most daunting of it all was that the hero had managed to snag the prince’s brooch on their way down.

[hotdogct]

blooms in adversity ||| n.jm

pairing: na jaemin x reader genre: angst-ish, fluff. words: 1.8k a/n: you ever get rejected from a job and have a complete meltdown over your future hahahahahhaaa just asking for a friend :) title is an obvious nod to ‘mulan’, i listened to way too much hippo campus while writing this. enjoy!!!

network tags: @czennienet​

At this time we have decided to move forward with other candidates in the hiring process. Thank you for your interest and we wish you the best of luck in the future.

The rejection email might’ve landed in your inbox late in the afternoon, but you had been anticipating its arrival all day long - the thought of it lingering, stagnant, weighing heavily on your brain like a storm cloud that refused to pass. 

Jaemin knew this, anticipated it. It’s why the two of you were outside, taking full advantage of the warmth the sun was providing this late spring day. After noticing the neglected planter on your balcony in the early days of your relationship, Jaemin wouldn’t stop nagging you about his ‘legendary’ green thumb. As soon as winter began to fade to spring he began to wax poetic,  explaining the overwhelming benefits plant ownership has on a person and pretty please can-he-take-you-to-the-nursery and-

It’s not that you didn’t appreciate flowers. Some of your fondest memories of the early stages of your relationship were the bouquets Jaemin would spoil you with at each date - how you used to keep them on display prominently in the kitchen, a silent reminder of his newly blooming affection towards you. Even after they wilted, lost their petals, there was seldom time to mourn. A new bouquet would always take its place, and the absentminded cycle could continue.

Absentminded. That was your whole problem, the reason for the sad remains of dead flowers residing in the neglected planter. You had started off with the brightest of intentions when moving into your first apartment - wanting to establish routine and create the perfect place to unwind at the end of the day.

Nervously you had browsed the outdoor section of the nearest hardware store, shaky hands brushing over begonias and marigolds, before settling on a flat of dusty pink petunias to take home. None of these names meant anything to you, no terms familiar. Equipped with extra gardening tools courtesy of your mother, you spent that afternoon carefully digging into the soil. Gently sitting each starter petunia into place and covering their roots as if tucking in a child for the night. For the next few days, you’d make sure to have your daily nightcap of wine out on the balcony, watch the sunset and water the planter. 

But one day you forgot. The next you were tired. Then you went out of town for the weekend. And at that point, shame left you frozen. Rather than attempting to salvage your petunias, you passively let the entire idea and label of “plant mom” slip from your brain.  A pattern that followed you your entire life - never quite being able to follow through, see something to completion. Sometimes you almost feel as wilted as the abandoned petunias themselves.

This was why Jaemin, with his prince-like features, his romantic gestures and bouquets, swept you off your feet almost instantly. Rather than nagging you about a drawer being left open in the kitchen, a light left on in the living room, the messy dining room table after a night of arts and crafts, he would simply take care of whatever chaos you had left in your wake. You might’ve been a storm, tremendous and unpredictable. Yet Jaemin thought there was nothing more beautiful, and decided he was up for the thrill of the chase. 

So it was only fair to humor him, to try again at the “plant mom” thing. After his consistent nagging reached a crescendo that rivaled only the oncoming cicada brood in terms of volume, you found yourselves strolling through the nearby nursery bright and early on a weekend morning. 

“You’ve put this off all Spring long,” Jaemin lamented, gesturing wildly with his hand at the expanse of greenhouses before the two of you. “And look! Now there’s nothing pretty left!”

“What are you talking about, Na?” You could easily spot at least three to four different flats of colorful starters that had already caught your eye, and started to walk tentatively over in their direction. Before you could get too far, Jaemin’s firm grasp on your wrist prevented you from moving much further, a pout apparent upon his features. Instead he pivoted you both in the opposite direction, towards the more complex greenery and shrubs. You shot Jaemin a confused glance, which only led to a small laugh escaping his lips, followed by words that left your cheeks as crimson as the nearby roses:

“Those flowers weren’t nearly pretty enough for the balcony, let alone pretty enough for you.” 

It had been Jaemin who had pushed you to apply for this job. You were blinded by the familiarity of the stressful retail gig you held long before the two of you even met. The ever changing schedule, along with the grueling work and constant understaffing was your unshifting reality. But you had health benefits and a small, but earnest 401K started - what could you really complain about?

Turns out, quite a bit. It wasn’t until one late night in bed, where Jaemin was massaging your back and shoulders wordlessly after a brutal shift - doing his best to water and tend to you, his most beautiful flower. Silently pressing his hands firmly on, around, all over your shoulder blades in a busy pattern, he tried his best to keep his anger contained to the intensity of his movements. How could they neglect you so? A flower of your caliber needed full sun - and Jaemin didn’t need to feel the tight knots your muscles had twisted themselves into to know that you were wilted. While he was especially gifted at keeping his mouth shut, a brief look at your pained, exhausted expression was all it took for him to slip, speak up.

“You deserve better than this.”

Immediately wide eyed despite how tired you were seconds before, Jaemin realized the vagueness of the previous thought, and clarified, pulling away from your body so that you could roll over, sit up. “N-not like that. This job is going to kill you.” 

Your face softened. While stubborn to a fault, even you could admit Jaemin’s argument was sound. When was enough enough?

And then, doubt. Before you could even begin to imagine the possibilities, the blue sky ideas that could await you. Instead, you immediately hone in on the skills you don’t possess, requirements you don’t meet. The idea of not running on automatic, the thought of having to try, of doing something new. The overwhelming fear of rejection. Pulse racing now, each shallow breath in only made the thorns that had grown around your ego constrict themselves further, pressing in uncomfortably.

Jaemin’s arms find their way around your trembling body seconds later, his added weight bringing you back down to earth. You periodically feel his lips leaving gentle kisses, pressed with the utmost care along the back of your neck, the curve of your shoulder. In between, ghost whispers of comfort land reassuringly in your ear.

“You have so much to offer the world.” 

“You deserve to be somewhere where you can shine.”

“Let's get you blooming again, yeah?”

The smile that graced Jaemin’s face when you told him you had a second interview scheduled was so bright it could probably be seen from outer space. True to his word, over the last month he helped revise your resume, hunt for job listings, prepare for interviews late into the night. There was gradually less and less tension in your muscles when Jaemin would massage almost nightly. Buds slowly began to appear on your stems, where rot had once been. 

The second interview went great - or so you had thought. Then the hours after turned into a day, then two, then the week passed without hearing back. Your expectations had plummeted like a sagging helium balloon, days past its prime. The subject went unmentioned by both you and Jaemin, the silence instead speaking volumes.

The two of you were out on the balcony, music blaring. You’re sitting on an uncomfortable stool watching Jaemin below you, donned in a gardening visor and bright pink gloves. He was planting the flowers you were absolutely frightened to take care of, when the rejection email arrived, unceremoniously. 

You blink once, twice, comprehending the words on your phone screen individually. Move forward - are you now set back? Other candidates - no, that’s you, you feel like the “other”, luck - you’ll need it, alright-

Deep breath. 

You look over and down. Jaemin is so heavily invested in covering a starter daisy just right with soil that he missed your initial reaction, your brief show of raw emotion.  Sensing your eyes on him, he looks up at you, squinting into the sun, smiles bright. If autopilot didn’t fail you now, the small smile on your face would convince him you’re fine, everything was fine. 

But Jaemin was intuitive, he was smart, and he knew better. The speaker was playing some cheerful pop song, the weather was cooperating and tolerable. His nail beds were caked with dirt and soil, a favorite feeling of his from childhood that comes with the satisfaction of gardening. His wide eyes were still studying you. There you were, his radiant flower, sitting in the fullest and brightest of sun, and he had nurtured you back to growth.

So why weren’t you blooming?

“Are you okay?”

A small chuckle leaves your lips, knowing the truth and the inevitability of it all. This time when you blink once, twice, in an attempt to avoid Jaemin’s overwhelming gaze, you can feel hot liquid streaming down your cheeks, taste the saltiness of the tears once they hit your lips. You can hear the clatter of gardening tools being abandoned, plastic flats of flowers being shoved aside, and you can feel Jaemin’s broad frame envelop you seconds later, almost knocking both of you off the stool. 

You lose track of the time, sobbing into Jaemin’s chest. An exaltation of the saddest manner, but necessary when coming from someone as normally stoic as you. His tight grip around you never wavered, the softest of rocking motions to settle you down, his familiar hands massaging at your weary frame. Loving words on loop from his lips.

“This is just a minor setback...it’s alright...”

“They don’t know what they’re missing.”

“We’ll get you back out there tomorrow.”

Eventually your brain stops screaming, though a headache remains. Your breath steadies into a slow rhythm. As quickly as it had arrived, the overwhelming anxiety courtesy of the rejection email disappeared.  The once raging storm had subsided.

And still, Jaemin thought, there was nothing more beautiful.

[teacup-set]

Giants

Summary: 'Thank you for the recipe', her note says, but what she really means is 'thank you for raising me, thank you for making me who I am.' She knows mama will know what she means, she always does. [SSS family]

Read on: AO3, FFN

x

The sun is low on the horizon and the sky looks like it's on fire. The contrast of the world has shifted, and the aged rust-orange of the hokage tower looks burning red like its early days. The villagers often joke that the sun burns brighter these days because there is a flame-fanning uchiwa in the hokage office, that the will-of-fire that was once a flickering flame is now a ferocious katon. 

In her office chamber, Sarada feels much more muted, heaving under the weight of the faith people put in her. This had always been her dream and she harbored no disillusion about how difficult it is to be hokage. And yet, she is crumbling. The kage summit that she is organizing looms on the horizon, and every half hour there seems to be a new logistical difficulty without fail. Just the administrative nightmare that is hosting the world's most powerful dignitaries in an event that is without a doubt a beacon for those with ill-intent has eaten up all her time. She hasn't even gotten to thinking about the delicate issues and negotiations she has to raise at the summit. She is overwhelmed, but people depend on her so she can't let it show. Part of her wants to run to her parents home, because there she is still a child, free from the weight of the world on her shoulders. There is no time for that though. Her parents, along with the Uzumakis, moved out from Konoha some years ago, choosing to spend their retirement away from the shinobi world in a rural part of Fire country. It would take too long to make the trip, and there is still much to do for the summit. 

Sarada eyes the phone on her desk. 'I could call, I suppose.'

Without thinking about it too much, she dials the number. By the second ring, she remembers to cough and clear her throat lest her voice gives away her frustration. By the fourth, her mother picks up. 

"Hello?" 

"Hi, mama!" says Sarada, forcing cheer into her voice. 

"Sarada! How are you sweetie?" Sakura chimes. Already, Sarada feels lighter. 

"I am good, mama. How are you and papa?" asks Sarada, resting her chin on her palm. 

"We are both well sweetheart, though you and the others should drop by once in a while," her mother's voice becomes fainter as she speaks, like she is turning away from the mouthpiece, "Otherwise your father and uncle Naruto will keep trying to fill the void by acting like children themselves." and Sarada imagines her mother is eyeing some mess they have made in the background. She laughs. 

"Okay, okay, I will try to make a trip soon." she concedes. The line is silent for a second. 

"Sarada, is everything okay?" Sakura asks, and immediately Sarada wants to kick herself for thinking she could ever fool her mother. Both her and her papa agree, they could give the whole world the slip, but mama knows them by heart. 

"Yeah, of course." Sarada attempts, and from the silence from the other end she knows she has failed. "It's nothing, mama. Just stressed. The hokage summit is next week and Konoha is hosting." she admits in defeat. 

"Oh darling, that's a lot of work. Are you holding up okay?" 

Sarada wants to refrain from worrying her mother, but it is a chance to finally vent out all that she has been holding in and she is verging on desperate so she bites. 

"I...don't know mama. There is a lot to do." she starts, "I am still trying to take care of all the security measures. There is tension between Kumo and Hoshi, and they will not allow the Raikage delegation to cross into the land of fire." 

"Iwa and Oto have also been bickering. I really hope they will behave at the summit, otherwise I don't know how I'll handle them." she sighs and continues as Sakura patiently listens, "Even beyond the kage summit there is more to do. There have been a few bad harvests near the south east border, and sending provisions from the center's stock takes too long. Most of it rots by the time it gets there. The Fire Daimyo asked the Daimyo of Tea country to help since they are closer, but they refuse. Apparently we have 'a history of not interfering in each other's affairs' and that's how they want to keep it. Can you believe that?" she huffs angrily. 

"Sarada, is this line secure?" Sakura asks, her voice level. 

"Uh, yeah. I am calling from my office." Sarada replies, taken aback by her mother's sudden question. 

"Okay." Sakura begins, "The daimyo is wrong. Fire country and Tea country don't interact because of Tea country's reluctance to interact with nations that have shinobi villages. But during the time Lord Second was Hokage, Tea was experiencing tensions with Sea Country. Something to do with ships from Sea Country intercepting the cargo from Tea, I think? Anyway, they had requested help from Fire country then." 

Sarada sits up straighter, listening attentively. 

"They requested the Leaf to assassinate one of the people involved. They happened to be a higher-up in Sea country's government, and if the responsible party was discovered it would have caused a scandal." Sakura explained, "An ANBU unit was dispatched to take care of it, without any official mission report or paper transaction to make sure it would not be traced. But just in case they were discovered, to ensure that the Leaf would not be held responsible as the perpetrator, the Second kept a signed declaration from the Tea Daimyo sealed away. You should be able to find it in Lord Second's section of the records room. Not only is it proof that Fire and Tea have been involved in each other's affairs, this is information that Tea would very much like to avoid from entering the public domain. It might help you make your case, though I can't imagine how wicked someone would have to be to refuse to feed the hungry." Sakura finishes, sounding angered. 

Sarada is stunned. After quickly jotting down a note to check the records room, she pauses. Then slowly realization dawns. To her, mama is mama. Mama who braids her hair, always overcooks the fish, and doesn't believe in separating laundry by colours. But mama is also Uchiha Sakura. She was trained by two hokage, and was also on the same team as one (-and a half). For the longest time, she was also the director of the hospital and one of Konoha's most prestigious diplomats. There is perhaps no one in the village who has been in and out of the hokage building more than mama has. Of course she would know. Mama always has the answers, after all. 

"I...thank you, mama." Sarada stumbles, still basking in the awe of her belated realization. 

"Shh, sweetheart, don't thank me." from behind her, Sarada hears movement in the background, and then her papa's voice- 

"Who is it?" Sasuke inquires, asking Sakura. 

"It's Sarada, my love." Sarada blushes slightly, still embarrassed by her parents' affections towards each other, as she listens to her mother catch her father up on their conversation. In the next instant, her papa is on the phone. 

"Sarada. There is an alternate route from Kumo to Konoha through a set of islands near Whirlpool. I am sending you a map, await my hawk." her father's steady, reassuring voice carries through the phone. 

Once again, Sarada has to reckon with who her parents really are. Her memories of her father revolve around eating breakfast in the early mornings, packing lunches for mama, and throwing Kunai in the afternoons. But her father has traveled the whole world, and not just this one. He has inherited knowledge from the founder of the shinobi world itself. There is so much in this world that only he knows. 

"I will, papa, thank you." Sarada says, in a daze. 

"Hn." her father replies, satisfied, and then her parents have swapped the phone again. 

"Sweetie, is there anything else we can do?" worry rings in her mother's voice. 

The laundry list of tasks she has to complete is still infinite, but suddenly Sarada's heart is inflated again. She is ready. 

"No, mama, I can handle the rest." she says with confidence. 

She hears the smile in her mama's voice. "Of course you can, love." 

"You're doing a much better job than the idiot." Her father mutters in the background. 

Sarada gazes at her reflection in the window of her office. Staring back at her are her father's eyes, and the purple diamond on her forehead passed down from her mother. Her eyes trail to the hokage regalia hanging next to the door, but instead of feeling daunted, she is reminded of her earliest memory of them. The same cloak and hat, hanging on the back of a dining chair in her childhood home, first when Lord Sixth would come over for dinner, and then Lord Seventh. The same cloak that would hang between her father's dark one and her mother's lab coat, the same place it still belongs. It dawns on her simply. She was born to giants. She was raised by giants. And she is a giant too. 

Her reverie is broken by her mother's voice carrying through the phone. 

"Sarada, have you eaten dinner?" 

Suddenly Sarada wants to burst out laughing. Only her mother could go from delicate, high-risk politics to dinner without a pause. 

"No mama, not yet." she answers, smiling. 

"Sarada!" her mother exclaims, and her father clucks his tongue in disapproval. 

"You must eat, Sarada." her father's stern voice reminds her, and Sarada feels her heart soar. Some things are still simple, and for that she is grateful. 

"Oh, Sarada! Your father and I tried a new silken tofu recipe! You will like it, I am sure. I will send it with your father's hawk!" her mother gushes, then turns to her father, "Darling, do you think we could send some of the cucumbers we harvested, too? They will pair well." 

Her father grunts in approval and already Sarada can hear him walking away, no doubt to ready his bird. 

"We won't keep you anymore sweetie, you have work to do. Just make sure you eat!" her mother chides. 

Sarada wants to tell her, 'You aren't keeping me from anything. I will make time for you always. I love you with all my heart.' Instead she says- 

"Okay, mama. I will see you both soon." because she will, and then she will tell them. 

"Alright then. Bye sweetheart." Sarada savors the cadence of her mother's voice and then the phone disconnects, leaving her in the silence of her office. 

Outside the sun has set, but Sarada's heart is ablaze anew.

x

The hokage summit is completed, treaties are negotiated, the famine is tackled, and just as it always has been, new problems swiftly replace the old ones. Sarada is unflinching, she knows she will solve them, just as she always has. 

She finishes tying an envelope to the messenger hawk she is sending her parents’ way. Inside is a photograph of the silken tofu she made, and a note. 

'Thank you for the recipe', it says, but what she really means is 'thank you for raising me, thank you for making me who I am.' She knows mama will know what she means, she always does.

Fin.

AN: Inspired by the poem “My mother texts me instructions to cook silken tofu” by Sue Zhao, and my general dislike of being grown up. 

[dcforts]

fix it fic. 15.20 spoilers 1.5k. ao3

The reaper they send looks at him with compassion. It’s not anyone he knows.

“Welcome, Dean,” she says, “Are you ready to move on?”

Dean blinks, looks back at where he was a second ago, where Sam is still hunched over his lifeless body.

He says, “No, my brother – first I need to make sure he’s gonna be alright.”

She smiles reassuringly and tells him, “He will be.”

But Dean insists, says, “Look, you don’t know me, but I know your boss -”

“I know you, Dean. But without Chuck, things have changed. You’re just like everyone else now.”

Right, no Billie anymore. Just an old regular Death that doesn’t care about him.

“Yeah, well, then let me stick around awhile. As a ghost or something,” he looks back once again at Sam, carrying his body out of the barn, “After everything I did. I'm just asking for this,” he begs. “It won’t be long. Just- just give me a day.”

She accepts.

*

So he sees his funeral.

There’s Jody, and Donna, by Sam’s side. There are the girls, tears streaked faces and broken voices. Kaia doesn’t leave Claire’s side the whole time. Garth is there too, Charlie with Stevie and a whole bunch of hunters he met down the literal road. It’s an impressive turn up, if he’s being honest.

Dean has always thought about how his funeral would look like. Before Sam, he thought his body would just rot away in some abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere, forgotten. He’d hated that. Later, he’d pictured his brother lighted by the fire of his pyre, alone and miserable. He’d hated that even more.

But things had changed and he’d changed and he’d let people in and fought to hold on to them and to do right by them. And he is proud of what he’s done for them and for the whole world; he wouldn’t change a thing. His life had been a difficult one, but he’d known love and family and that was the important part.

Now they are there, saying thank you and goodbye. And he realizes, he was silly to worry about Sam not being alright. Of course he’s going to be alright. He can see it in the way he gets shepherd to the car, fussed over, held, in the way Eileen never lets go of his hand.

So when the reaper comes again and asks “Are you ready, Dean?”, he says, “Yeah, we can go now.”

*

It’s only fair Bobby is the one to welcome him. He hugs him and Dean breathes in car oil and gun powder, and the inside of his house, old books and cheap booze. He doesn’t even question how is that possible.

“Good to see you, boy,” he says in the same gruff voice.

“You know that me being here means I’m dead, right?” he jokes, but accepts the beer Bobby hands him and sits next to him.

“Everybody dies, you ain’t special,” he replies with half a smile. “How was Sam?”

“Oh, you know. I’m sure he’s dealing.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be here soon.”

Dean scoffs, “Hell, I hope not. I hope he lives the longest life, so he can tell me all about it when he comes up.”

Bobby clinks his bottle against his in agreement.

He is the one who tells him about Heaven – points in the distance at Rufus’ house, his own house. He is the one who tells him about Jack. And Cas.

Dean is surprised and gets a little chocked up. “I thought he was in the Empty. I thought – I thought Jack couldn’t reach him there.”

If he thinks that he could have -

But Bobby smiles and takes a sip. “Well, you’re right, but you think that would’ve stopped Jack from trying? He’s your son, after all,” he says and Dean is filled with pride and affection. “But when he got there, turns out, Cas was fighting from the inside.” Dean huffs a laugh and Bobby follows suit. “They broke everyone free, sent the Empty back to sleep. They’re all at peace now.”

“Wh-when did this happen?”

“Who knows. Time is different here. You’ll get used to it.”

Dean waits for Bobby to offer up some other information, but he stays silent.

So he takes a breath and starts, “Is - Cas, is he -?”, but Bobby cuts him off with a look.

“He sure knows you’re here. You just gotta call him.”

Dean nods and swallows but stays put, beer forgotten in his hand.

Another moment passes, then Bobby says, “Go, boy,” and Dean doesn’t look but he knows for a fact there is an eye-roll involved.

That gets him out of his chair and out of the shade of the porch, under a sun that is not too warm, nor too cold. “Thanks Bobby,” he looks back.

He nods and says, “Hey, when you’re done, come over at my place. I’d like you to meet my Karen,” and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen such happiness in his eyes.

*

He takes a few steps from the Roadhouse but when he turns back again, the pub seems miles away and then there’s the Impala right beside him.

“Hey, Baby,” he says, touching her hood affectionately. He leans against her, closes his eyes and concentrates. “Don’t worry. We’re gonna take off in a minute. Just wanted to know if someone wants to come along for a ride?”

He feels brave and light but holds his breath in the defining silence that follows. Before he can feel like a fool though, he hears a flap of wings right in front of him.

He can’t contain the smile that takes over his face. He waits a second more before opening his eyes.

“I would love to.”

Cas is beautiful. Dean has seen him powerful, and he’s seen him determinate, but he’s never seen him so peaceful and ethereal. He looks like home and like something so out of Dean’s reach – except that’s not true. He told him himself that he was wrong about that. The light shines on his face and he’s got a little smile that reminds Dean of one time on the side of a darkly lit road a lifetime ago.

Dean closes the distance in a heartbeat and wraps his arms around him and holds tight. “Hey, Cas.”

He feels the fabric of the trenchcoat against his skin and Cas’ strong arms and warm hands around him and if he didn’t already know he was in Heaven he would have started to suspect it right then. “Hello, Dean.”

They hold each other for a long time and Dean thinks of what Bobby said and wonders how many years are going by and how many more could go by before he gets sick of that.

He pulls back a little, just enough to look at his face but not enough to get out of his hold. He jokes, “You could’ve come find me at the gates, thrown me a welcome party.”

Cas presses his lips together. “I thought it was best to let you decide where you wanted to go and who you wanted to see.”

“And you thought I wouldn’t wanna see you?”

Cas hesitates but Dean cuts him off before he can say anything.

He cradles his face and makes sure Cas is looking straight at him when he says, “Cas. I love you too. Of course, I love you too,” and it comes out a little broken and a little breathy but he feels giddy and Cas is smiling and then there’s kisses, lips and hair through his fingers and a whole new shiny beautiful world. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me,” he says. “I’m so glad you’re here, I can’t believe my luck.”

Dean keeps thinking, Cas was right. All this time he thought that the best thing that could happen was to know that Cas loved him, but the way Dean feels now, seeing his eyes shining as he hears his words, yeah, nothing can beat that. He decides then, that he’ll tell him everything that Cas always deserved to hear and he’ll make sure he never forgets it. It may not make up for the time he spent doubting, but for sure he’ll try. Cas grabs his hand, “I feel the same way.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “So, what are we gonna do?”

“I could show you around. I thought I was offered a ride?”

“Yeah,” laughs Dean, pulling him along, walking backward towards the car. “You sure I’m not keeping you? I heard you’re big shot now.”

“I am God’s father. There are perks to the position,” Cas says, as they both get inside.

“Good. Hope that means you’re gonna stay. Cause I’m kinda sick of you getting out my sight.”

Cas looks back at him from the passenger seat, and it’s a sight Dean knows very well, but this time it’s different. This time he smiles and says the most amazing thing Dean could hope for.

He says: “I’m not going anywhere.”

[michaelbogild]

Quotes written April 18 2021

our mutual melodies, our ancient lights that are wed to each other

her soul is spangled with astral grace

our love had florid stretches, our love had terrible pits

Give me, Life, a draught of oblivion.

she entered the truth of this love with a heart about to burst

Of course I love her, I am eternally fond of flowers.

how easily charmed I was, how deeply you travelled into my soul

in her heart, a lone buttercup whispering something true to his ethereal dreams

she answers his soul with all the colors of her affections

the ghostly waves of her forsaken ocean

I am just a floating phantom that once were in love but now is lost

he sailed into the star-spangled night of her sirenic beauty

the florid touch of her soul's amorous eloquence

I met the angels that wrote the harmonies of our love. They were devils.

though his love her emotions became songs of starry beauty

your roses were not without their shades, shades that swallowed me and all my eternal foolishness

tonight, tonight you look like the muse of the moon

I felt in her love the true pulse of life

I writ her absence upon the heart of the unknown

Our poem died too soon, but so does all beautiful things

he set aflame the saddest moon of her heart

surreally pulled by the gravity of her cryptic songs

I still linger in the illusion that you actually loved me

finally we meet, two souls divorced for centuries

in her heart, a fearless daffodil that knows how to dream

I am not a great guitarist, but I play the piano really badly.

Touch me with the mystic silence of all your moons.

nothing is mundane when I close my eyes and dream

her love wears the spirit of an infinite rose

Your are the blue skies that lives in my soul as lies.

her beauty is a bird fluttering in the half-light of his heart

Her bohemian soul, her fancy everything.

you broke the spine of my entire universe

Lady luck, what the fuck?

she wore the endlessness of his love, an invisible dress of mystic grace

I will never see you again, I know that, but how you shine in my lyrics.

the flaming music of her wildflower affections

her roses are now praying, where is his love?

her wraithlike eyes, eyes that saw everything and nothing

time dissolved by the power of our touches

the seraphic enchantment of her gorgeous eyes of spring

I am higher than the star of her love and beauty.

A love that could deluge the heart

we ran full-tilt into what we mistook for heaven

the ambiguous rose of her half-light love

What shall tame this heart now that it has gazed into eternity?

the sad whispers of your absence is nothing but ghosts, but I can't forsake them

she is the temple I pray in, she is the darkness outside of it

our love unfolded a higher reality

see was too ethereal to embrace

Writing poetry has become a psychedelic for me.

timeless temptress, muse of my heart, sing, sing into this night that never ends

we were the throbbing pulse of that night, we burned harder than the stars

he orbits her beauty with his delirious verses

I am suspended in a sky that exist beyond my life.

the ascending poetry of our young love

I am as broken as the autumn that gave birth to me.

the burning cathedral of our star-crossed love

The canvas is empty...and will remain so until she returns.

he excites her heart with the force of a thousand dreams

you deserve an ode that will survive the stars

I planted flowers of poetry on the grave of our love

I will rebuild my life, brick by brick, without you.

the bleeding bride of the moon, whispering to me something unclear, in a night, in a night of a thousand oddities

we took flight towards heaven winged with a thousand hopes

I read a page from her mystic heart and fell irretrievably in love

there are definitely moments when I feel like a cosmic child

she rejoiced in the spring with all the roses of her dreams

thinking about you is flirting with melancholy

I exist outside of my brain, in the world of a dream that can't possibly be real.

they married the vastness of each other's love

we were fit for paradise, but we burned it down

a poem written by the ink of God

You do not own my heart, the night does, which has stopped calling out your name.

we belong in the heart of the cosmos, our love will take us there

He scored the royal flush of women, but did he know?

her beauty, a mystic pearl

her heart was slighted by the summer of his beauty

how easily she stirs the depths of his wonder

no one will ever find the broken crown of our love, except of course they read my poems

All her stars were enchanting, she sang their light into his heart.

the lyrical dreams of our far-travelling souls

her love was a hollow poet

he brushed the marigolds of her feelings

the resounding canyon of his hearts flaming love-poems

As you played with my heart your own slowly rotted.

in this mystic night of oddities, a profound deepening, whispers, subtle lights, and all my future seen as memories

She lit a candle in the darkest room of my heart.

the elusive butterflies of her more-than-divine love

her love felt like an ancient secret, a hidden star

she wears the yoke of a thousand yesterdays

the yawning abyss of everything I have become, the endless darkness, oh the infinite darkness

The soul of midsummer has turned into the stars of her eyes

I lost my way when I decided to love you

dancing on the shore of his love, daydreaming with the waves

her hopes are now weeping within the saddest cadences of nightingales

she loves with the persistence of a waterfall

the secret rose of her soul was perfumed with the miracle of his love

the radiant songs of our hearts are now wounds of unutterable darkness

this stranded homeless soul, this soul without a dream

From soulmates to strangers, what a beautiful ending.

every song is a knife that cuts me open, how I bleed your absence

she drinks the wine of his soul

His captivated heart sails upon the waves of her songs.

her soul wears the perfume of his heart's golden poetry

the moons of her love were nothing but mirages

the transient dance of shallow love is all she has experienced

I am stranded in a desert void of her love

...and I drank a cup of stars, and I forgot the world and every traitor in it.

the ink that praises you ought to live forever

she weaves into his soul the astral charms of her wildflower sensuousness

the perpetual darkness of her devilish gravity

the astral flare of our young and burgeoning love

she could dream forever in the warmth of his arms

everything this girl does is shaped like poetry

he painted his dreams with all the colors of her personality

he shapes with his summery love the budding constellations of her dream-wild soul

we stand outside the seasons, touched by colours that don't exist

like a careless wave is fate when she washes over us

I keep circling the soul of what we had, I am knee-deep in memories

her love, my lethe

he held her in a mystic embrace, entering her heart like a thousand pulsating truths

his strong affections are madrigals of summer, strains of serendipitous light

she is perfectly scented with the roses of God

But her songs have shades and only them am I allowed to embrace

Where is my mind? Have you seen it? Did her love steal it? I will ask the moon.

at the threshold of true love, two souls ready to be united forever

kissed by a moon-goddess on a night of sweet surrender

the dreadful dissonance that is now between us, how harrowing to my heart

Snowflakes, so many snowflakes. Where are we? Oh yes, in a dream.

She basks in his vast beauty, transfixed on his beautiful lips.

her imperial eyes of sure victory

His flames are French, his warrior-heart Greek.

he is on every page of her heart

only he can read the pages of her blood

the fleeting muse of my crepuscular soul

we ascended into the heart of a sea-born mystery

I kept dancing at the edge of illusion, trying again and again to trap reality

only through love could we flow into each other's souls

the imperial flame of her ruthless soul

lonely lips, aching skin, fevered heart

the astral joys of simply just holding you

We are satellites in a sorrowful twilight, drifting further and further away from each other

Yes, I fell, but into poems.

The spring moon took us into his dreams.

You emptied day by day my soul of stars.

the spirit of the darkness, her eternal twin

richly charmed I was, deep in dreams that sang your name in rainbows

Not even Shakespeare could produce poetry this rapidly.

I live at the periphery of something that shouldn't exist

another love, another soul whose beauty will grow back my wings

We will live forever. Our love is one of divinity's rhymes.

so wondrously colored were the dreams of our burgeoning love

her words are courtesans, her eyes are lies

we turned into ethereal light in those resplendent moments of sensual love

They interwove their imaginations and composed a dream of endless splendour

you were a secret path to paradise

she liberated with a tender kiss the sunlight of his soul

he crucified with his goodbye all the roses of her hopeful love

the songs of her beauty, chains

She charms his emotions with all the summers of her heart.

the astral richness of her dreamily divine eyes

the wistful dusk has a song for our hearts

my dreams are becoming more and more solid

Often did he sail to the moon when she loved him, often did he enter the pulse of life.

bathing in the moonlight of his faithful love

I feel the alluring gravity of her notes, I throb with every beat of her wildflower airs

we met within the colors of a sudden mystery

The evanescent music of those dreamy spheres, how I miss it.

I imagined a heaven that could never exist

her love is a conduit of colours, the spring of eternal songs

she breaks the borders of my very thoughts, her soul is pure endlessness

the truest colour must be that of your eyes

the soft whispers of angels can still contain lies

the infatuated moons of her sea-kissed heart

he reached with a perfect kiss the secret lyrics of her spring-blessed soul

I clung to a dream that didn't want me.

your love and beauty is the true world and the only world I will worship

our moonstruck hearts spoke in the poetry of sensual touches

To think of you is to walk at the contour of a mystery.

We have never been further apart, so why do I feel you so deeply in my bones?

Venus herself could not have slid into my soul any faster than you

the velvet paradise of her seraphic love

our love had a spiritual chorus, but this religion had to die

the aching ocean of her breakable heart

the burning pilgrim-notes of her desirous love

His imagination has taken on the shape of the universe.

she is made entirely of night-songs

she floats into empty spaces and decorates them with all the colours and shapes of his translatable beauty

she invites another universe into my heart

Everything she is, everything she does, summons poetry from his soul.

the sunset knows my heart better than you ever did

I amorously burn through verses and visions. I miss you all the time.

the liberated Venus of her bashful beauty

he rides on the crests of her oceanic emotions

the luscious strains of her beauty's cosmic song

black tears, all I shed now are black tears

you darken my writings, your dusk is everywhere

I was enslaved within the songs of the sea-nymphs, I felt a thousand waves curse my bones and blood.

though naked she wears the spirit of the night

I am restlessly rooted in nights that call out your name.

her poems like ornately-colored butterflies

I can finally drink the wine of my own spirit.

she danced with the soul of his love on a shore of exotic dreaming

foolishly anchored in the elusiveness of his love

vaster than the dreams of God is her summer-born beauty

nothing can dream like a pair of green eyes

he chases immortality through sonnets of glorious devotion

they were ready to drown in each other's blood

she is the throbbing pulse of his verdant poetry

love, the mirage I supposed real

I am high on the poetry of this life, this life with you

She plays with the unsung darkness, places the dusk upon her tongue.

Ever a slave to her sorcerous spirit.

how rapidly we turned into stars, how deeply we felt the cosmos of love's deepest truths

loving her was like dancing next to an abyss, drunk

I stand in the rich blaze of her mystic spirit

he courts her jasmine heart with a poem of unbeatable eloquence

the sea-nymphs of her silken voice speaks of endless love

[bellemorte180]

If I Die Before I Wake: Chapter Four

Vengeance is defined as punishment or retribution for a wrong committed against another. A single curse could derail and weaken the most powerful being in the world. A single massacre could take the entire world in one go; but it could centuries to execute the perfect vengeance.

Chapter Four:

Mystic Falls April 2010

A new day dawned and the town went on how it normally did; with the exception of the few inhabitants. Bonnie was practically glued to Freya's side, training as though her life depended on it. She had a realization that the only way out of this mess was to listen to Freya and wake Klaus's wife. So she played along, staying at the Boarding House and meeting with Freya until the sun set.

Damon vanished the moment Freya's spell let him drop to the ground. Everyone assumed that he was trying to find some scheme to save Elena, who Freya assured Bonnie was perfectly fine. Stefan remained in his room, sorting through his emotions. He replayed every memory from the twenties in his mind. The love he felt for Rebekah returned with a force but that didn't stop his heart from loving Elena. Part of him wanted to rescue Elena while the other wanted to run to Rebekah and see her for the first time in ninety years. Incapable of deciding what was right, he decided to wait it out. Holding out that Elena was safe and well.

It was the Original family that seemed to have the most productive of times. Finn fled the moment he realized nearly nine hundred years had passed since he had a dagger in his chest. He spent an evening with Freya, whom he was close to before their aunt stole her away, and then vanished. Everyone assumed he went to search for Sage. It was actually Klaus who was the least angry at him for the abandonment, simply stating that he understood. That and the fact that Finn was dull played a part as well. Rebekah spent time alone mostly, avoiding the doppelganger and Marcel; pondering what she needed to do about Stefan. Kol poured over the spell to ensure that Freya's way be better than the plan that got him daggered in 1914. Besides Freya, it was Kol that knew the most about witchcraft seeing that he inherited his mother's abilities before he was turned. Elijah just kept Klaus from losing his patience and massacring the town because he couldn't wait till the full moon. Which is how he found himself trailing his brother through the woods of Mystic Falls.

“Where exactly are we going Niklaus?” Elijah asked, annoyed that dirt was getting on his expensive loafers. Klaus didn't answer him but kept moving. He would stop, listen and then head towards another direction. Soon, Elijah realized where he was going. “Really? Is this necessary?” When Klaus didn't answer, the older brother sighed. “Alright. If this is how you're going to release some tension for the next few days, at least allow me to enter first.”

“Want to say your goodbyes brother?” Klaus asked with a devilish smirk. “You do realize that she isn't Tatia. They may look identical but they are not the same person.” They rarely spoke of Tatia; not even when they were human; except for once. Klaus knew his brother had loved her even though she was in bed with both of them. Klaus took a step back, told Elijah to never speak of her again to him and moved on. “You never saw Katerina when you looked at her.”

“I know, but I still need closer.”

“Very well but do hurry. I'm getting impatient.” Klaus waved Elijah onwards and the older to the two jumped into the cavity that was the tomb. When Elijah landed, he realized that Katherine was not alone. There was someone else standing outside the tomb.

“May I inquire who you are?”

“Whose asking?”

“Damon, meet Elijah. Klaus's brother.” A hoarse voice sounded from inside the tomb and Elijah could see Katerina's weakened state. She was in a tight black dress and her feet were bare. He could see the dark circles under her eyes and she slow process of desecration began. “Hello lover.”

“Wait. Lover? Don't tell me that you're in bed with the big bad wolf's brother.” Damon asked, eyeing Elijah from head to toe, wondering if he would be able to beat him in a fight. Yet, Damon could feel Elijah's age rolling off of him and knew better than to pick one that he would clearly loose. Damon was reckless but not completely stupid.

“Katerina and I were involved once, many centuries ago. When she was still human.” Elijah looked directly at Katherine and held her gaze. “However, any affection I may have felt for her died the day I realized it was her that had Emily Bennett cast the spell that took away Caroline.” Elijah picked a speck of dust off of his designer suit and looked directly at Damon. “Mr. Salvator, if you're planning on breaking Katerina out of this tomb-”

“Break her out?” Damon questioned as he cut the Original off and snorted. “I want the backstabbing bitch to rot there for the next hundred and forty-five years just as I thought she had when I was turned.” Damon raged. He had no intentions of ever letting her out. “What I want to know is where your maniac of a brother is holding Elena and since that freaky ancient witch sister of yours won't say, Katherine is the best shot I have.”

“Trust me when I tell you that Elena will be returned to you unharmed once Ms. Bennett wakes Caroline. As for my, how did you eloquently put it, maniac of a brother is standing directly outside of this tomb.” Katerina stood with pure terror in her eyes. She backed away slightly.

“Elijah. Please. Don't do this.”

“You know the beauty of Klaus and Caroline is simple. You see, Klaus is a mad man. He will burn cities to the ground simply because he is bored but he is also diabolical. He plots and plays the long game. He will take risks that no one would dare take.” Elijah stepped forward and looked directly at Katherine. “Yet, it was always Caroline who ensured that Klaus's schemes came to fruition. She always was detailed oriented; a perfectionist. Tell me Katerina, how long did you search for Nadia?”

Katherine froze with pure fury on her face. It wasn't until years after she became a vampire that she ever learned her daughter's name; a name she did not give her. Never once did she set eyes upon her daughter after the day she gave birth to her. She went back and searched every village but she was no where to be found. She was gone.

“You know nothing of my daughter.”

“I know more than you would think.” Elijah moved around the tomb his eyes never leaving his former lover's. Damon watched the scene in amazed silence. “After you killed yourself in order to become a vampire, Klaus and Caroline murdered your family. Yet, Caroline did something else. Before Klaus ran this sword through your father's chest, Caroline asked him where he placed your daughter. She then went to her home and took her away to ensure that you never found her.”

“Harsh.” Damon whispered as he saw the pain on Katherine's face. It was pure agony. In truth, Damon never knew Katherine had a daughter. He never knew anything about Original vampires and werewolves; and he didn't care either. All he wanted was Elena and would do anything to get her back. If it meant waking the Queen of the Damned, then so be it.

“Doesn't matter. It has been five hundred years. Nadia would be dead by now.” Katherine replied.

“Would she?” Elijah asked. “You see, Caroline took a special interest in Nadia. Always made sure she was provided for. Ensured that she fell in love and had children. It was important to Caroline and Klaus that the Petrova lined continued because that meant that one day, another doppelganger would surface. Nadia had three children in her twenties. Then on her thirtieth birthday, Caroline turned her.” Katherine froze, digesting this information. “Nadia is a vampire, Katerina.”

“Where is she!?”

“I don't know. Only Caroline kept track of her movements just to ensure the two of you never met. It is a pity that the knowledge of her whereabouts was lost when Caroline fell.” Elijah said. Nadia's location became unimportant once the search for a spell to wake Caroline became necessary. For all Elijah knew, Nadia could have either met the sun or found herself at the wrong end of a stake. “It is poetic, is it not? The one thing you wanted most is lost to you because of your own actions.”

“Why? What was the point of turning her?”

“Leverage.” Three heads turned and saw that Klaus had entered the tomb. Damon sighed in annoyance while Elijah did nothing at all. Katherine's eyes went wide and she backed away with pure unadulterated terror echoing behind her brown eyes. “I just wanted to kill your entire family and move on but it was Caroline who knew of Nadia's existence, she ensured that your family line lived on. She also knew that having Nadia in our back pocket might be useful one day.” Klaus cocked his head.

“You can't do anything to me while I'm in here. Step through that barrier, and you'll never get out.” That was the only strand of hope Katherine had. She hated being in that tomb but it made her the safest vampire in town, or so she thought. Klaus smirked at her and stepped through the barrier as though it was nothing.

“You're right. Neither one of us can leave now. My my, how will we pass the time?” Katherine tried to flee to back of the tomb but Klaus caught her easily. He pinned her against the wall and barred his fangs. His eyes turned yellow and he bit down on Katherine's neck. She screamed loudly while both Elijah and Damon watched. Damon's lips curled in disgust while Elijah just looked bored.

“What the fuck is he?”

“My mother had an affair with a werewolf, which produced Niklaus.” Damon just looked at him. “A little of vampire, a little of werewolf.” Damon looked at Katherine again and saw that the wound on her neck was not healing. “Venom from a werewolf bite if fatal for a vampire. Luckily, Niklaus's blood is also the cure. Katerina is in for a long haul of pain.”

“Elijah, your constant chatter is ruining a perfectly good torture session. Take Salvator the elder and leave me with my shiny new toy.” Klaus narrowed his eyes and Elijah just rolled his. He cocked his finger towards Damon and indicated for him to leave the tomb. Damon hesitated, unsure if he wanted to stay and watch Katherine be tortured or find a way to get to Elena. “and be a good brother and have Freya come release me at sundown.” He turned back towards Katherine and pulled out what looked like a pocket knife. He jammed it into Katherine's gut before slicing it completely open. He inserted two of his fingers inside of her and blood flowed down her front. “You're for at least a century and a half of torture before I show mercy and end you once and for all.”

“Time to go Mr. Salvator.” Damon turned and left with Elijah. The two of the strolled through the woods at a slow pace. “You have my word that Elena will remain unharmed. If Ms. Bennett's spell works and Caroline wakes, I will personally hand her over to you myself.” Elijah stopped. “I wouldn't try looking for her. Freya spelled our location, you'll never find her.” Damon didn't believe him and wanted nothing more than to search the entirety of Mystic Falls until he found her.

“And here I thought I was bad but your brother is far more psychotic than I could ever hope to be. Is he going to leave Katherine down there and then come to visit when he feels an inch that needs scratched?” Damon smirked.

“I'm not sure what Niklaus plans for her and frankly, I don't care. She made her bed and now she must lie in it.” Damon looked at him and didn't believe him. He knew perfectly the allure Katherine had.

“You loved her.”

“I loved the idea of her.”

“You and me both.” Damon replied as Katherine's screams echoed through the trees.

*

The first two days Elena remained in the room Klaus had placed her in. Elijah told her she could roam the house as long as she didn't try and leave. If she attempted to leave, she would be stopped. Of course, she had to try. She couldn't just walk through the front door and she knew that her room was on the second floor. She opened the window and attempted to climb down but was physically unable to. It was as though there was an invisible barrier preventing her from stepping outside at all.

So, she did the only thing she could do; she watched tv and when that got boring, she decided to take Elijah's advice and explore the house. It could be useful later. She only hoped that she didn't run into Rebekah or any of the others. She was still baffled at Rebekah's reaction to her and how it pertained to Stefan. She could only believe that it had to do with whatever Klaus had done to Stefan back at the Boarding House.

Elena strolled along the hallways. There were parts of the house that were not completed. Construction workers milled about but none of them paid her mind. It was as though they couldn't see her. She screamed and asked for help but none of them moved.

“They can't hear you.” Elena turned and saw Rebekah glaring at her with her arms crossed. “They've been compelled to completely ignore your existence. Lucky for them. If I only had that bliss. Unfortunately I am your jailer while Elijah and Nik are off doing who knows what.” Rebekah scowled at her and turned away from her. “Stay out of my hair and don't get yourself killed. If you do, just remember you have Elijah's blood in your system and that I can rip your heart from you chest.” With that Rebekah turned and left Elena standing in the middle of a half finished room.

Elena decided it would be best not to go in the same direction because she wouldn't put it past Rebekah to kill her despite what her brothers wanted. Instead, she continued to open doors and see what parts of the house she could. Eventually found a kitchen that was fully finished. She opened the fridge and only found blood bags. She scowled. She looked around and saw a door to left of a table. Elena reached for the knob and turned to reveal a set of stairs. She reached for a light switch and turned it on.

It was a basement and Elena felt the hair on the back of her head stand up. Something was down there and every part of Elena told her to turn and run. Yet, she stepped forward and slowly made her way down the stairs. The basement floor was dirt and the walls were nothing but stone. An illuminated lightbulb hung from the ceiling and swayed ever so slightly. Elena could see three coffins on the ground there were open.

“Cliche much?” Elena muttered and her eyes turned to the two coffins that were still on wheels. They were closed. She reached for the first one and attempted to open it but it wouldn't budge. It was as though it was sealed shut and nothing would be able pull it open.

“Trust me love, you don't want to open that. My mother is in there and unless you wanted to see nothing but pure evil, I suggest you leave that one shut” Elena turned and saw that Klaus was standing at the bottom of the stairs. She didn't hear him come down or knew that he had arrived back at the manor. He was covered from head to toe in blood and had a look of pure joy upon his features. “Don't worry, it may be doppelganger blood but be pleased that it isn't your's.”

“Katherine? Is she-”

“Dead? No. She has many more years of torture in her future before I show her mercy and let her die from a werewolf bite.” Klaus seemed almost merry at the thought. He chuckled and Elena could tell that he was enjoying watching her suffer. Elena almost felt sorry for her. Almost. “Open that one.” Klaus pointed towards the other coffin. Elena hesitated. “Go on.”

Elena walked around the coffin and towards the other one. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest and she could feel Klaus's eyes on her. She reached for the coffin and unlike the other one, it opened easily. Inside laid a beautiful woman with long pale blonde hair. Her skin was milky and pale. Her eyes were closed and she wore a white pantaloons with a matching corset.

“This is your wife.” Elena whispered. “She is beautiful.” In truth, she hadn't given much thought to what Caroline would look like or anything about her. She was so focused on her safety and what Klaus could possibly want from her; the reason why he was coming to Mystic Falls didn't really phase her. Yet, here was Caroline; lifeless and still.

Suddenly, Klaus was beside her, looking down at the sleeping woman. He reached out and with a bloody hand, moved a strand of her hair from her face. The look he gave her was nothing Elena had ever seen. Beneath the tormented eyes and blood stained skin, she could see real emotion there. There was depth that lingered and Elena could honestly say that Stefan never looked at her in such a manner. Caroline wasn't just a mysterious fairytale, she was real and she was everything to Klaus. Elena realized in that moment that Klaus would burn the world to the ground if Bonnie didn't succeed.

“Have you felt something deep inside of you that it clung to you and refused to let go? Like fire in your veins? A simple touch was like electric. A touch that stopped the entire world and nothing else mattered?” Elena froze and Damon's blue eyes flashed in her mind. She shut down those emotions but said nothing. Klaus chuckled. “I see you have. Tell me, is it the Rippah that sets you on fire?”

“Why do you call him that?”

“Because that is what Stefan is. Deep down. He rips and destroys everything he touches. It was a beauty to watch.” He seemed wistful. “He is young. Very young. I killed as a young vampire as we all do. You feel your victims pain and the guilt will eat you alive. Eventually, it stops eating at you and they just become another name on a long list. Some you will remember, others you won't.”

“Is that what you did to him back at the boarding house? Made him remember his victims?” That caused Klaus to chuckle deeply.

“No. Something far more painful.”

“You're a monster.” Elena hissed.

“Yes, love. I am.” Klaus replied relishing in it. “And Stefan will be as well once he gets over the conscience that caused that guilt to eat away at him. Frankly, I cannot wait to see him reach his full potential.” The smirk that was perched on his lips was sinister. Elena backed away slowly.

“He'll never turn it off.”

“Neither have I. Not once in a thousand years.” Klaus hissed at her. His eyes ranked over her and he remembered who she was. The annoyance he felt whenever Katherine was in his line of sight bubbled at the surface. That face and everything it represented tore at his soul, even though it was someone different staring out of the same pair of eyes. Elena saw it; the change and flash from one mood to the next. Gone was the joyful expression he had after bathing in Katherine's blood and back was the monster she met at the Boarding House. “Get out.” Elena didn't move but instead remained frozen in her spot. “Get out now before I coat myself in more doppelganger blood!” Klaus screamed at her and Elena turned and fled up the stairs, tripping as she went.

*

Cleveland, Ohio August 1964

Klaus stood the small studio apartment he compelled for himself and looked at the blank canvas. There was an itch under his skin and he needed to get it out. Never had he had a block before. Yet it felt that he was unable to paint anything. Art was always an outlet for him but nothing came to him anymore. He had no muse and no inspiration. He needed to get something out but nothing was coming to him. Nothing held any meaning.

It was like his entire being suffocated and died. He hadn't left his studio in at least a year, maybe two; not even to feed. He could feel the thirst eating away at him and he saw the grey tint to his skin beginning to appear as his body dried out. The old Klaus never would have allowed him to go this long without feeding; now he just didn't care. His humanity was still there but he just felt nothing in exchange. The pain was so deep and engrained in him now that he became numb.

Klaus picked up his paintbrush, dipped into jet black paint and began. Stroke after stroke he painted in no particular order. Hours past and the sun set but he just kept putting that black color onto the canvas. Eventually he put down the brush and looked down at his hands, they were covered in black. His eyes traveled to the canvas and he saw nothing but darkness.

“I get it. It's a mirror to your soul.” A voice sounded from behind Klaus, causing a flicker of a smile to reach his lips. He turned and saw his son standing before him. His skin was ever the same darkness and he wore typical clothing of the time; dark pants with a white button down and a black tie. He was handsome and he looked well. “It's good to see you Klaus.”

“Why are you here Marcel?” His voice croaked. He hadn't used it in however long; he didn't know. He knew the year and what day it was; that was unavoidable but that didn't mean that he spoke to a living soul. “Shouldn't you be running my city and keep it from burning to the ground?”

“New Orleans is in good hands.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Maybe because someone hasn't answered the phone in a decade. I brought you something.” Marcel stated. He pushed off the door frame, reached behind him and tossed a young woman to the ground. She had red hair, pale skin and brown eyes; nothing like Caroline. Klaus found that he could be in the deepest of starvation and yet he still could not kill a blonde woman or anyone who looked remotely like her. The woman didn't move and it was clear that Marcel had compelled her. “You need to feed. You're looking a bit grey.”

At first he didn't move but the blood hit him and the monster took over. He was an original but even he can't hold off the smell of blood after years of starvation. He dived and sank his teeth into the neck of the woman. She didn't scream or flinch but Klaus didn't care. All that mattered was the sweet blood that was coursing through his body. When the woman was completely drained, he tossed her to the floor and stood; looking at Marcel.

“Your color is coming back.” Marcel commented. “It's been ten years Klaus. You stopped answer my calls, Freya's calls. You haven't spoken to Elijah in how long? Since the twenties? Klaus, I know its a new invention but the telephone was invented with a purpose. When you hear it ring, you answer it.”

“Perhaps the insistent ringing caused me to smash it to bits before I attempted to hang myself with its cord.” Klaus snapped. “But alas, I'm immortal and all the cord would do is make my neck itchy.” He began to turn around to clean up his paints, stepping over the dead body. “If you're here, where is Caroline?”

“Still in New Orleans behind the massive amount spells and enchantments that have been in place for years.”

“Kol and Rebekah?”

“Still daggered.” Marcel watched him. “So this is your plan? Hold yourself up in this studio until you desiccate? What happened the man who stopped my master whipping me? What happened to the man that leveled cities because someone simply looked at my mother wrong?”

“He died in 1864.” Klaus replied, focusing now on the completely black canvas. “It's been a century. A century without her. I can't-” He could feel himself breaking. His back was rigid and it was close to initialing the whole of Ohio. His fist balled and he punched the wall, over and over. His knuckles began to bleed but due to the fresh blood in his system, they healed quickly. Marcel placed a hand on his shoulder.

“That first night that you and Caroline took me in, she cleaned the wounds on my back. She sang to me and told me that no one was going to hurt me again. No one has. She became more of a mother to me than the woman who refused to name me. You became more of a father than the slave owner who whipped me. I will protect her until the end of time, this I promise you. I will hold your city until you're ready to take it back but I need to you continue to live. Caroline needs you to continue to live.”

Klaus said nothing but Marcel could see that he was getting through to him. The older vampire turned and pulled Marcel into a deep hug. Klaus clung to him and Marcel let him hold him for as long as he needed.

“Give me time.”

“Okay.” Marcel pulled away. He looked deeply at his sire. “I talk to her you know. Almost everyday. I will sit beside her and tell her about New Orleans. About how the times have changed. Anything that comes to mind really. She was always one to listen and always knew the right thing to say. It makes me feel as though she is still here. Perhaps, when you are able to come back, you'll talk to her too.”

“I speak to her everyday. I see her too.” Klaus whispered and Marcel was taken aback. He looked at the man and wondered how far his depression really went. He had never seen Klaus this low before. He lost it when Caroline first fell. He tore New Orleans apart and nearly burned it to the ground. He hunted and found every witch he could to break the spell; but this was different. This was not the Klaus he knew.

“Is that why you're allowing yourself to dry out? Why you've stopped drinking blood of any kind completely? Because you are hallucinating Caroline?” He didn't reply but Marcel knew that answer. “Look, I came by here a few hours ago. I called out your name and you didn't even flinch or respond. You didn't hear me. I saw the grey on your skin and I knew what you are doing. You needed blood.”

“I just wanted to see her. To hear her voice. To see if I remembered what it sounded like.”

“I know. I know.” Marcel looked towards the canvas. It might have just been black with no variations other than the stroke of the brush but to him, it summed up the Klaus that stood directly in front of him. “Take all the time you need but know that Freya is still searching. Last we spoke she was in San Diego speaking with some witch contact of hers.” Klaus nodded. “We haven't given up on her. I hope you don't either.”

“I'll never give up on her. I just need some time.”

Forty-eight hours later, Klaus was on a plane to New Orleans.

[erchommai-a]

demon blood.

trigger warning: abuse mention, gross, scars, etc.

origin.

Lilith, Mother of Demons, was not an easy creature to summon, even with Valentine Morgenstern’s talents and determination. His earlier experimentation had attracted the demon’s attention. And had manipulated certain events to inspire the man to consider her blood for his experiments, hoping that through him, she may finally bear that son that she could never have.

With it came an agreement ─ an alliance that while Valentine had no plans or means to keep, he made regardless. Should his Uprising ( or any others in the future  prove victorious ) it would not only be his Nephilim that should benefit but her included. And the added clause that she would get to watch over Jonathan while Valentine ensured that it could and cannot happen without his direct permission.

Contracts after all are binding intricate dances. Especially when done with the mother of all demons.

childhood.

His birth, for the most part, was normal. He only cried once, on that very night, and then never again. He never smiled. And often, had this knowing expression in his eyes as if he could comprehend the whole world around him, as if he could see the disgust written all over his mother’s eyes everytime she held him. It was the pregnancy with him that was difficult. Jocelyn suffered nightmares ; she suffered deep and unsettling exhaustion mixed with depression. An anxiety that wouldn’t leave her until that night Jonathan was born. A feeling that would only be replaced by disgust and almost fear for the first half of her first born’s life.

Jonathan for the most part was privy to these little things. Memories deeply ingrained in him but never really had full comprehension for it. More like vague nonsensical sequences, no matter how vivid the scenario is inside his head. Jocelyn crying. Green eyes looking down into his. Fingers in his hair. His fingers in her clasped hand. Valentine proudly called him his son. Stories of a grandmother and grandfather. Grand tales of a future to come.

Except for his eyes, by all appearance he looked normal. A quiet boy with advanced motor skills and seemingly quick and adaptive cognitive abilities. But he didn’t speak until he was around two and it was only one word, “Mom.” And he wouldn’t speak again until that fateful night his Father scoops him out of his bed and takes him away.

relationships.

In his youth he wasn’t as volatile or violent towards new people. He found them fascinating and could just stare at them for hours. It was for that very reason that people tend to react to him differently. This child with deep empty soulless eyes just looking up at you, trying to understand what you’re thinking, could be unnerving with his almost complete silence and obvious lack of affect. But generally it was the adults that could pick up on his almost other-worldliness.

Children paid no mind to it. Alec, among the few children of the circle, was considerably his most constant friend due to how close Jocelyn and Maryse had been then. And they often had no issue playing around with each other. So long as Alec doesn't push Jonathan when he doesn’t want to do anything or doesn’t take anything Joanthan considers to be his. Oftentimes, Jon would just sit there and play with his own toys right next to the other kids.

Quiet and contnet with his own company.

Of course, this changed as he grew older. Restricted and practically trapped in solitude, save for the company of his dismissive father ─ his idea of people was easily twisted by Valentine’s Dogma. And his lack of opportunity for actual social practice or basic social understanding forged instead into weaponry and spycraft. Because for the most part, he can be very intuitive in the nature of people. But his childhood has made him very much a cynic towards people. Or humanity as a whole. He doesn’t think anyone or anything is worth saving. He finds chaos to be more fascinating. Morality is muddled whether you lean towards good or bad.

Chaos, to him, could almost be his religion.

physical traits.

The most obvious and significant effect of the demon blood in his system was the black eyes. And by that I literally just mean black pupils. He does not do the whole black eyes thing in my canon verses. It is just deep soulless black eyes that are quite freakishly inhuman but also human. He’s a cryptid.

There’s also a  general sharpness to his whole countenance that he wouldn’t have if the demon blood wasn’t there. Although it’s not really something completely noticeable, or something that ruins the aesthetic of his features, in fact it enhances his looks a lot more. Accentuating the beauty to his features that almost make it unnatural. Cause again, he’s kind of a cryptid.

The best way to picture it is how it's such a direct and obvious contrast to Jace’s beauty. Jace is golden, the sun, absolutely angelic. Jon is raw, sharp, ethereal like the night, absolutely hellish.

nature of the demon blood.

Please take note of this, cause this is such a crucial part to how I play him.

The general philosophy regarding demon blood is plain and simple, it’s a cancer to his soul. It’s not something that had any serious instantaneous effect on him so much that he is inhuman ─ or that he was born demonic or anything like that. He is different. But he isn’t entirely all demon or entirely all human because he has angel blood. He is still Nephilim.

So with it came this effect of diminishing humanity ─ the hell fire inside of him was burning it up in a waythat it wasn’t just purely dependent on how he was raised but the demon blood itself was isolating him from his human traits. The good emotions, empathy, compassion, etc. And influencing him in a way that his aggression and general affinity for violence is louder. So it just amplifies deep dark baser urges that are already within him ─ like his impulse control and fascination with violence and blood lust. They were all only heightened. And you match that with Valentine Morgenstern’s school of learning ─ it builds inside of him a clashing.

Demon versus Human.

A conflict of demon and angel fighting within himself in such a profound way that him, being the one with it, can not tell the difference of how abnormal his physical constitution is. He neither feels it, nor comprehends it. To him it’s a natural state of being. That feeling of conflict inside of him that never goes away. That unbearable loneliness. That insufferable hunger or feeling of emptiness. That absolute soul sucking encompassing black hole that is never sated, never satisfied, never content. It never goes away. It just is. It’s just him.

He has been burning ─ rotting ─ from the inside out since he was born.

With that said ─ at no point does it take away his agency ( because please stop doing that ) to the point that it’s easy to assume that he would be different without demon blood. No, it won’t. The anger in him is something he was born with. That loneliness, he was born with it. He was given as much choice as anyone ─ he could have killed his Father but he didn’t. He could have killed Jace first, without hesitation or second judgement in City of Glass, he didn’t. He didn’t have to kill Max, but he did.

One could argue that he didn’t make the choices with the best capacity or capability to make those decisions, yes, But it doesn’t take away the fact that he made those choices of his own volition. He chose to follow the path that leads to his death.

The demon blood or his demonic nature is not the sole instigator.

But he has done and will do evil things.

morality.

This is just a quick thing because I stand by the notion that he isn’t evil. Not inherently. He has done despicable, heinous, evil things. He has nearly accomplished more devious and horrible crimes. And had he won ─ he could have continued to try to raise the stakes until that deep hole inside of him was filled and satisfied.

Which cruelly would never be sated.

But his intent had never been directly for absolutely malicious intent.

He was built and cultivated towards this prospect because after his first death. It is the only clear and obvious direction for him. Because without his Father’s purpose, he has nothing. Without that legacy to latch onto ─ he has nothing. That and Family has only been the two things Valentine had allowed him to strive for. So in truth, he wouldn’t really know any better.

And if you let him loose, absolutely and purely, on his own whim and want. Things would have ended differently. He would have thrived more beautifully in chaos.

It could have still led to a war. But a fun war. For him anyway.

Quick summary, he isn’t evil for evil sake. Kind of in the same vein, Valentine isn’t inherently evil. He was a villain who thought he was doing what was right, if a little bit over-zealously and like a megalomaniac. But I guess, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. There’s a method to both their madness.

effects and abilities.

infertile. This isn’t really something he knows or directly thinks about. Children, to him, for the most part aren’t like a big deal. But no, he can’t have kids. None of his own anyway.  The demon blood has taken that away. demon connection. Although his connection to Lilith is both in part because it’s her blood specifically that flows through him, it does extend quite a bit to others within the demonic hierarchy. With Lilith, it’s a very specific sort of connection. She can contact him, although with limitations, but she can make her presence very well known to him. In his childhood, she could only maintain it in short instances. Soft reassuring voices in his ears. Little visions. Little dreams. Nothing that could alert Valentine to her presence because of their contract that she is not allowed to see Jon without his permission / supervision. But this connection extends to all other demonic creatures specifically. It doesn’t only offer itself up as a sort of dowsing rod that works both ways ( he can sense them and they can sense him like he’s a beacon ). With that, also comes this understanding. He can speak in demon tongue that is also not just exclusively phonetically but emphatically or telepathically as well in the most natural sense. It was never something he had to study. demon manipulation. This is just an extension of the effects of Lilith’s blood in him. He can influence, to some degree lower tier demons. Order them around based on his blood connection to Lilith. Something that works almost similarly like light hypnotism. But is not overly powerful or overt that he can use it for very long or very often. And only works on the unintelligent breed of demons. blood magic / blood sorcery. There is, inherently, a lot of use for his blood in terms of magic and rituals. His blood being a unique combination of demon and nephilim make it a very powerful conduit or power source for dark magic.  And not only that, his blood is a good supplement to other things like summoning rituals and binding rituals. Summoning circles lined with his blood has a stronger binding energy against demons and may not be exclusive to just demons. ( He has yet to find out, although theoretically can be applied to anyone that falls within the confines of summoning circles. ) It also has  corrosive properties when interacting with objects heavenly by nature. Or some enchanted objects. ( e.g. deactivating the wards. ) demonic blood empowerment. Physically, this technically makes him stronger than jace to a certain degree. Partnered with his training, this makes him absolutely lethal. And both fast and stronger than the majority of shadowhunters. Along with it, is a sense of physical self reliance. The more the influence of the demon blood becomes stronger, the less he has a need for human things. It destroys him spiritually and mentally but it builds him up physically to the point that a lot of what is essential to another person may not be as essential to him. Like physical sustenance is less of a necessity to him which in turn makes him eat less, sleep less, basically do so little of the human things that most people absolutely need. ( e.g. dreaming art, little enjoyments, those sort of things. ) This is also where the advanced nature of his progress in childhood also comes in effect. It helped him adapt to the physicallity of growing up or maturity much faster than a normal child would have. pain supression / resistance. Mostly before LIlith's resurrection, pain to him was a normal affliction. He felt as much as anyone physically could. But again through Valentine Morgenstern school of how to be a monster, he was taught to make himself numb to it through training and with physical abuse, he did. Post Lilith’s resurrection, he was gifted with almost unnatural invincibility. He is more likely to feel the pain now unless it was directly imbued with heavenly fire. This also meant there was no scarring and that he could get stabbed as many times as he liked. Cutting his head off could also work though. If you were fast enough. limitations. For the most part, there are only three things that can effectively hurt / bruise him in a sense. First and foremost is Demon metal, weapons made from these are rare but can leave significant scars on his skin after. And nothing that any known magic or angelic rune had been able to remove. Electrum, can also have similar effects but not as aggravating or as long lasting as demon metal. In pain level, electrum is a lot more tolerable for him than demon metal. And the scars, no matter how deep, are not as permanent as weapons infused with demon metal. Sanctified objects or holy ground can make him feel kind of an allergic reaction. There’s definitely a different energy around them that makes him uncomfortable. Not to the point that it weakens and not even to any significant degree that it hurts him. But they do make him feel weird and kind of aggravate the hell fire in his veins so it’s almost like a fever that’s just there. Or an itch that he cannot scratch. Anything imbued with heavenly fire directly however can be excruciating to him.  magic. To some degree, he has an affinity for it. He can be very talented with magic. It’s something innate and he can be very  intuitive with. More so than his own father, from whom he learned nearly all the spells that are within his arsenal. However, he isn’t as in tune with it so to speak, spiritually, as he is with his weapons. It’s why even when he has the ability for most things like basic healing spells, tracking spells, etc, he still prefers to use his shadowhunter training and weapons. But he does have a working understanding of how to use and conjure magic for himself. He just doesn’t. edom magic. I thought I should separate this just to emphasize that edom was gifted to him by lilith. Edom is his and hers domain. There is nothing he or she can not build or unravel or undo or make or destroy within the confines of that universe. He is, within its world, by all means a god. It does not however mean he is omniscient or omnipotent within it. It just means every grain of sand and every single atom within the confine of said universe is his to control. wings. This is absolutely just me indulging myself because I live for the aesthetic. This comes about after the bond between him and Jace is broken in COLS. A part of Lilith’s gift. To expound on the image or her goal for her son too to be hell’s knight so to speak. An absolute bastardization of angels with his demon blood and angel blood, so voila, wings. They are dark and sharp, the wings fade from white to gray to black, right at his shoulder blades, where they connect to his skin. Blood red vains stretch from his skin to the arch of his wings.  They are retractable and can be easily hidden within his skin or just through plain glamour magic. ( Cause you know, still kind of a cryptid. Just a pretty cryptid. ) Outside of some ability for flight, they don’t offer him much protection. They work more like an extra appendage. And something that stays with him in post-cohf verses although they appear more withered then and scarred. They also appear as fresh new scars, that cover over a small part of his shoulder blade as well as over the lines of scars from his whipping across his back.

[ay0nha]

I am on my knees begging for CRUMBS

you disappear and come back with vengeance

please give me crumbs

anything

drafts, WIP, old stuff, anything

I need crumbs

SUMMARY: There were reasons habits quickly morphed into vices, something immoral and wicked. Yet, you were lethal, the definition of torment. Your silhouette alone was enough to send Buggy spiraling.  

PAIRING: OPLA!Buggy x f!reader (smuggler)

WORD COUNT: ~500

WARNINGS: hurt Buggy subconsciously seeking out reader for help, canon-typical things, mentions of blood/injury, smoking, sarcasm, two idiots in love, mutual pining that's ignored, slow burn, etc.

A/N: LMAOOO this made me SNORT. Any writer knows apart of the process is disappearing for a chunk and coming back thinking your WIPs write themselves lol. So you don't starve lol, below the cut I'll add what I'm currently working on! Be gentle, she's still forming up plot wise but based of a request for Buggy (OPLA)

FULL THING OUT NOW. FIND HERE.

There were reasons habits quickly morphed into vices, something immoral and wicked. Yet, you were lethal, the definition of torment. Your silhouette alone was enough to send Buggy spiraling. 

Each step toward you felt unreliable and fuzzy, making Buggy question if he reattached his limbs correctly. His gut felt twisted with a foreign feeling that he wanted to trap away. He wondered if he buried the feeling deep enough if it would turn to treasure or become forgotten rot. 

“Buggy.” Your voice even irritated him. Yet, he found relief in finding you alone. “Third time this month. Careful…I’m starting to get a big head.”

“That sounds like a medical problem…” He mumbled with little enthusiasm and a half-hearted smirk, “...should probably get seen for that.”

“Admitting you care, eh?” You teased. You were preoccupied, cigarette dangling from your lip and bobbing with every word. “What can I help you with?”

The receipts tended to be formidable, but you couldn't help but feel your concentration falter when you were met with uncharacteristic silence.  Typically, you were shy of whiplash from an unwarranted insult or backhanded compliment. However, once your eyes landed on Buggy, you only saw deep anger veiling desperation. 

 “How serious is it?” Your pen was settled beside the book, whatever records you were once concerned with dismissed.  Buggy looked awful—his posture gave away his exhaustion and discomfort.

“What? Can’t we skip the part where I say ‘the other guy looks worse’?” His busted lip ticked with dry humor. There were rumors he was in trouble, but that paled compared to the truth you knew about Buggy. 

“Depends.” You frowned. “That other guy isn’t stopping by, is he?” If it were true, you’d have to lay low, something you never had time for. “This is why I don’t like your kind.”

“My kind?” Buggy continued unamused. You weren’t more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing to him. You were a smuggler. Plain and simple. It was impossible for something to stay hidden from you for long.  “You’re not far off, sweetheart.”

His terms of endearment never held affection, but he seemed to soften this time for some reason—almost pleading between the lines. You held a trained expression, taking a moment of consideration. 

Your typical jobs with him were small. Typically, they consisted of information that he could coax out of you for trinkets. He brought the world to you. Other times, you moved things through the shadows to an even darker location. 

This was different, you decided. 

Stalking toward the clown, you saw how the pain mapped on his body.  “You look awful.” 

The jester’s bow was fueled by pained sarcasm. Although his abilities helped, Buggy's flesh was still pliable. His jaw was a deep-set purple, contrasting the faded red of his cracked lips. It was hard to distinguish what was paint and what was blood. His eyes were bloodshot with broken blood vessels, and there were gashes littering every place imaginable. 

You were surprised he was still standing. You noted how his breath became labored, as if holding onto what he could before he collapsed entirely. But looking between his eyes, you saw the struggle he had deciding what was worth his final breath: business or pleasure. 

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Two Demons in a Documentary

Emily studied herself as she gazed into the mirror. Gently, she touched her own face with two fingers, investigating if this was real. If she was real. She gingerly touched her cheekbone. Ran the tip of her finger down her nose.

Like waking from a dream, she began to remember why she was here: to film part of the documentary on the Mancini “murder house” in northern California. She now stood in the ladies’ room of a gas station across the street from the location. She had to find the rest of her crew.

Like wandering through a dream, she began to wonder how she got here: but that part of her mind remained a foggy gray void. Her colleagues had been telling her to stop drinking so much. Emily knew they were right, because all of her memories were beginning to blur together.

Vicky? Gloria? Hal? None of them were here. Emily stood alone in some awful little bathroom. She heard no traffic from the road outside, no voices, no human life. Just the white noise of rain cascading down in a strong downpour.

All she knew was that something was horribly, horribly wrong.

This place was a dump. Graffiti all over the walls around the mirrors and across the stalls. For a moment, Emily wondered if she had wound up in the men’s room instead, but the absence of urinals said otherwise.

As she turned and steeled herself to exit the bathroom, a memory flashed back into her mind. In what must have been another bout of her drunken irritability, she had yelled at Hal and Gloria and hurled a string of profanities at them.

The sound of rain washed it all away, like the bad memory that it was. A bad memory she had created to overwrite a worse one. Exiting the door, she held a single hand out into the open and her black leather jacket’s sleeve developed a slick reflective sheen within seconds.

The rain soaking her hand felt almost unreal. The downpour clouded her vision so much that she could barely see across the road. Under other circumstances, Emily would have found it odd that not a single car traveled down the road and not a single person was out and about.

Checking her wristwatch, it read: 3:33 PM.

The rain obscured the world, draping it in a gray twilight, with no artificial lights anywhere to be seen, and neither sky nor horizon visible in any direction. As powerfully as the downpour continued to crash down, Emily expected the occasional crack of thunder to startle her, or a flash of lightning to shed some illumination to the world she could not see. But there was only rain. Comforting, soothing rain.

Like in a drunken haze, she wandered to the van their crew had been using on the trip up north and found every single one of its doors locked. She patted down her pockets to find them all empty, and it dawned on her that Gloria must have had the keys, because she had been driving them.

Less than a minute out here and the rain had fully drenched Emily, but it did not affect her at all. It did not reach her soul. Her spirit formed a warm beacon. Deep inside, warming her from the inside out. Like a searchlight in the fog, like a gentle hearth, an inviting and warm campfire that kept the cold and the wet outside.

The gas station’s shop. She turned to it to see if any of her crew were in there. Maybe Gloria had just refueled and was checking out. But no light burned inside. The windows separating the shop’s interior from the outside world were fogged up, even a bit dingy. Emily approached it to check inside anyway.

After only two steps, she froze. A portion of the shop's left window darkened. The silhouette of a man formed there, right by the window. Emily could not discern any features at first, but the figure was tall and imposing. His face was marked by a sinister inhuman grin—like that of the Cheshire cat, far too wide to be a human's, with teeth painted across the face, and eyes striped with bright arrows, reminiscent of a clown's makeup.

Some part of Emily knew this could not be real because it should have frightened her more. But the rest of her body screamed while her mouth stayed shut. Every fiber told her to turn and run.

And she listened.

With no concern of getting run over and no risk of it because the wide street stayed empty, she dashed across the asphalt to the opposite side. Towards the infamous “murder house.” Maybe the others were there. Maybe there was strength in numbers. Maybe she just had to warn them.

The world—the atmosphere itself—darkened around her. The mansion’s gigantic shape loomed over her, turning the soupy twilight of rain and fog into shadows of rust and rotting wood.

With only a single glance behind her to confirm that the grinning man followed, she ripped the front door open and entered the Mancini mansion. She slammed the door shut behind her and frantically looked around for something to help bar the entrance.

Perhaps things weren’t that surreal after all. Emily’s capability to control her dreams melted away. She could feel the thrum of her panic, pulsing to the rhythm of her pounding heart.

She grabbed a mildew-covered chair and jammed it right in under the doorknobs, then backed away from the entrance.

The sound of rain waned outside, melting away from what felt natural to her, and making way for a deafening silence as the rain died down. Footsteps echoed. Her pursuer crossed the street.

Not chasing her like a maniac, but a deliberate stride. With purpose. With the intent of murder weighing down every strike of heavy boots against concrete. Thumping against wood as the grinning man arrived on the veranda just outside the door.

THUD.

Emily gasped and nearly fell backwards but caught herself. Contrary to her expectations, the grinning man did no more. Her imagination would have painted him as continuing to strike at the door, bashing it and eventually tearing it down with brute force.

But the hyperreality sliced into this dreamlike state, reminding her that this was no mere dream.

She was not in control.

The grinning man’s footsteps carried him up and down the mansion’s veranda, looking for another way in.

The surreal experience melted away and Emily needed to find the others. But something held her back. Paralyzed her with fear.

The fingers of two black-gloved hands wiggled through a crack between the boards nailed over a window, worming their way inside. They stopped squirming and grasped and clutched. Then the grinning man started to tug and the wood ached and groaned under the stress he caused it. It began to splinter. It continued to crack. Each tug damaged the boards more.

The white noise returned, transforming into the crashing downpour once more. The rain picked up again in volume and intensity, and Emily knew that she could use it to get away. To hide from the grinning man.

She fled through the derelict old mansion, passing through rooms filled with empty bottles and syringes from the junkies who squatted here. Over human refuse, past walls covered in obscene graffiti and through frames where the doors had long rotted away.

This house? This house. The haze in her mind cleared, the dread of this place’s true nature closing in on her like the walls. The syndicate used this place to dispose of people. They’d bring them here and execute them in some dingy room with axes and knives. None of the squatters ever talked to the authorities—out of fear of being next. Even with constant surveillance, local law enforcement never caught anybody going in and out of the Mancini house—assuming they weren’t bought by the syndicate themselves.

In one of the wings of the sprawling mansion, Emily stumbled out into an open area. The ceiling had collapsed here, leaving it exposed to the rain. The downpour engulfed her, drowning out all the noise of the grinning man smashing his way through the front window and entering the murder house. It was like the grinning man was a million miles away, or hadn’t even gotten inside.

Hal stood in the adjacent room, staring back at Emily in confusion. He held the heavy video camera in his hands.

“Hal? I’m sorry about exploding at you,” she blurted out.

He just squinted at Emily and shrugged. She failed to read his reaction. Comfortable only with being in control by being able to read everybody like an open book, his strange non-reaction irritated her. That anger returned and she then said, “But I wouldn’t be a dick about it if you didn’t give a me reason to, asshole.”

“A typical Emily non-apology. You can stick it up your ass,” he finally replied.

He raised the camera and pointed it at her. The device’s little red light flared up, indicating he had started recording.

“How ‘bout a little test run? Show us how much of a ‘highly-functioning alcoholic’ you really are. Maybe we can get a non-slurred speech on the twelfth take, and maybe we can make some proper progress when you stop drinking your way into your own little world.”

The words cut deep because he was right. Emily stood there dumbfounded, mouth agape. All that came out was a heavy sigh, swept away in the sound of rain.

“Thought so,” he said.

The downpour died down into a faint drizzle within seconds, leaving only a foggy gray void overhead.

Hal turned with the camera and disappeared around the corner. The shadows of the murder house swallowed him whole. She wanted to apologize, but dreaded that darkness within. She wanted to warn him, but it didn’t seem to matter now.

The grinning man was right behind her.

Emily knew before she turned to see it for herself. In the doorway to the room with the collapsed ceiling, there he stood. Dark hair wet with rain, slicked back, dressed all in black like the grim reaper himself, a bloodied hunting knife in hand, and that awful visage painted onto his face.

The rain had caused the makeup on the grinning man’s face to run, giving the wide Cheshire cat smile a row of wicked sharp-looking teeth. The striped eyes now ran red like tears of blood. Underneath it all, the man’s expression was one of a detached, alien indifference.

He tilted his head as he looked Emily up and down, cradling the knife in his gloved hand.

Before she realized how her pulse exploded, she ran again. Reality caught up with her once more. She tripped over debris and fell and rolled and stumbled back up onto her feet, turning around the opposite corner around which Hal had disappeared, hoping the grinning man would go after her instead of him.

Even underneath all the panic and despair, something else lurked below, feeding the fire of anger and arrogance: her guilt.

Vicky had told her that investigating the Mancini house would end badly, but Emily refused to listen. She believed that exposing it might lead them to exposing the syndicate’s hit man behind all the killings and getting another scumbag behind bars. Vicky knew it might just paint a target on their backs.

The rainstorm brought no thunder with it, but the footsteps of the grinning man thundered behind her, never matching her pace. Emily ran in a panic, like a rat scampering through the maze. The grinning man walked with purpose, knowing well his hunting grounds, and knowing well that she could not escape.

Emily had proven Vicky right.

Through rays of twilight pouring in through the cracks in the decrepit walls and holes of this ruined edifice, the grinning man followed. He raised his awful knife to remind Emily what awaited her. The constant jingle of metal, of handcuffs dangling from his belt, accompanied his every step.

Through it all, the sounds of steel cutting into flesh—and twisting, and sawing, and tearing—it reached her. Sliced through the air of escape. The bubble and gurgle of a human being choking on their own blood.

She had to hide. Double back past the grinning man, get out through the window that he had gotten in by. She hoped he would chase her back outside so he could not get the others.

The miracle to her prayer came when the storm picked up in force again. The patter of rain outside the mansion’s walls rose to a deafening crescendo and Emily dove behind a wall. Her pulse still raced but she held her breath, biting her tongue just enough to focus.

Focus.

The thundering boots of the grinning man passed by her hiding place. He had lost her.

For now.

She waited longer, then allowed herself to breathe.

She needed to breathe. Regain some focus. Some calm.

Breathe. Breathe.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Vicky had whispered to Emily. The words reached her through this surreal haze, the memory of the drunken blur that she often woke up to and had to blink away for minutes of disorientation. Realities clashed, with this reminiscence choosing to surface at the most inconvenient time.

That morning, Vicky had tried to wake her up at the motel. Splashing Emily’s face with a glass of water was what it took to get her up. In an indignant rage, she spouted a string of vile profanities at Vicky and added a few racial slurs to make it sting. Vicky’s face was a stone mask, unimpressed.

“Y'know, maybe you’ll just end your career yourself by drinking your way into a fuckin’ grave before the Mancini killer can even get to know us,” she told Emily after hearing out her worthless tirade. “Get ready. We’re two hours behind schedule because you can’t haul your sorry drunk carcass outta bed.”

The two of them exchanged no more words for the rest of the day and the drive upstate remained a rather quiet one.

And now? Now they were at the mercy of this hit man working for the syndicate. This demon.

The grinning man.

She heard him no longer, so she snuck back, pausing every now and then, trying to retrace their steps. In the darkness of the house, she failed to notice an old crumpled up beer can until her shoe kicked it aside with a loud metallic clattering sound. Every joint in her body locked up, cold sweat erupted from her pores, and her heart skipped several beats.

The grinning man’s footsteps, now distant, stopped. Then they picked up again, returning to her.

She ran again, taking grim solace in the thought that him giving her chase meant the others were safe. What a wonderful delusion—a cloak to drape itself over the guilt.

Just when she made it to the window where the grinning man had climbed inside, the rain began to die down. The foggy darkness outside was not natural—it did not fit the time or the place. Still, there was no traffic outside, not a single soul. Nothing was as it was supposed to be.

Because her resolve began to crumble and her escape continued to prove futile, she glanced at her watch, still displaying 3:33 PM. Nothing fit in this world. None of it was real. Just an escape.

Just like she escaped from the grinning man, she was trying to escape from reality and was failing. Failing hard.

She squeezed through the boards used to seal the window. A searing hot pain exploded in her back where the grinning man stabbed her. He twisted the knife just a little bit—so it would stick—giving Emily cause to scream.

It was another Emily who screamed. The real Emily. The one who had vowed not to scream, not to give this psycho the satisfaction. In the face of this agony, though, all vows were blown away.

The real Emily was handcuffed to a curtain bar high up on the wall, with her shoulders aching from hanging there in painful suspension; with the soles of her shoes lightly scraping over the filthy floorboards. Whether the grinning man had deliberately saved her for last or not, his first stab into her back broke her out of the fake little bubble she had withdrawn into to escape the horrors of reality.

There was no rain outside to comfort her, just another sunny day. The traffic lazily passed by, regular people driving past this old decrepit building in broad daylight without knowing that a serial killer for hire had killed Gloria, Hal, and Vicky, in that order—and was now about to stab Emily to death.

The crew’s black van stood outside, across the road, by the gas station. The only abandoned piece of evidence of their whereabouts. The bodies of her colleagues lay in the same room, eviscerated. Vicky was not quite dead yet. She still gurgled and twitched, suffocating on her own blood.

The grinning man had stabbed Emily with surgical precision, teaching her a valuable lesson about his nature: he enjoyed this work. Took pride in it—made it hurt without immediately killing. The first stab would cause no fatal injury on its own if attended to. He withdrew the blade and a sticky warmth trickled down her backside, pumping out of her, matching the pulse of her own racing heart, soaking her pants.

The second stab would leave no lasting damage, either. Just a searing hot pain and a trauma that would fuel future nightmares. Emily could not even tell where the blade went in. Somewhere on the side of her back—it wasn’t like it mattered, for her entire lower back transformed into a fiery lake of pain.

Only with delay did Emily register the shouting. She heard the words, spoken in her native language, but it took all her strength to translate them through the haze of drunkenness and the fog of this terrible reality catching up with her.

The shuffling, the gunshots, the body of the grinning man collapsing onto the ground.

“Freeze! Put the weapon down!”

The police officers had shot and killed the grinning man.

They had saved Emily, but they were too late for Vicky, let alone Hal, or Gloria. The demon that had been the grinning man—he was no more. He would live on through the grim and harrowing documentary to follow. It would not be Emily’s to make, though she would be a subject in it; just another face talking into the camera.

The guilt over the deaths of Vicky, Hal, and Gloria—it never went away. She would always wonder if things would have been different, had she not dulled her senses with a constant stream of booze. Sometimes, when it rained, she would remember them. She would remember how she retreated into another world to escape the horrible reality. A shell of madness against the horrors of a mad world.

Keeping busy and turning into a workaholic kept her distracted. The horrors faded faster than she would have thought, as her research taught her what a terrible place the world was. The Mancini mansion incident joined a series of her ongoing trauma for her to use in sanding down almost every soft spot she used to have.

She never did quit drinking, though she found some sense in drinking less. Her career was better off for it. After her exposé on human trafficking got published, people stopped asking her about the story of that demon—the grinning man.

The other demon, the one sitting at the bottom of Emily’s glass, that one would stay with her for years to come. She could blame it on traumatic experiences, most of all this one, or on other things that jaded her in her life as an investigative reporter.

But that demon was her.

—Submitted by Wratts

[izzyovercoffee]

Prompt number: 13. “I never knew it could be this way.” Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: PG? Warnings/Tags: None, that I can tell. Summary: Captain Sovris finds it difficult to be in the company of good people, and it shows.

##. the sand is not the ideal place for a nap

  The world in the wake of a battle always shook of dulled misery and bright pain, of worry and fear and things Janin could not quite come to process lying, as she did, in the bitter hot sand. Though her face, most extremities, were covered by a layer of wrap or cloth between her and the fine grains scorched under the burning sun, she still felt as though the granules crept and fell between the crevices of her fingers and her hair, in the spaces where she could not easily reach while traveling with ensemble.

So she lay there, and listened to the movement of her companions, and wallowed in the pain that split her side asunder with broken, dented armor pierced into her hip. She angled her head to the side just so, just enough, so she could see the mountainous corpse of a dead ogre already rotting in the brutal heat of the northern desert.

It only took a handful of seconds before a familiar shadow blotted out the brutal sun overhead. 

"Interesting tactical decision there... Captain."

The curled mustache of the young Altus twitched as he peered down at her, one elegantly shaped brow risen in question, or criticism, as he assessed the rest of her.

"I, personally, would not have tossed my best weapon across the battlefield."

"Mm," Janin hummed. "Perhaps, but my glaive is of little use to the young Inquisitor when we are separated by a great distance."

"Indeed." Dorian knelt down beside her, and Janin closed her eyes as she felt the soft pull upon the veil, one answered by the song of lyr in her veins. "Perhaps it would have been better to... accompany the glaive, than throw it?"

She could tell from his tone the question was one meant to tease and not criticize, if only because she could hear the softest lilt to its end that belied his very unique humor. 

As his hands coaxed the magic that would knit her side back together, she smiled. "My glaive met its target quite fine without me attached to it, yes?"

Though she could still feel the discomfort of damp fabric---one, no doubt, stained dark by her blood---she also felt the itch that accompanied fresh skin hewn together through request of a capable mage. 

"It's not the glaive's target I wonder."

"I see," Janin said. "Would you have preferred I left you alone with your handsome friend, here?" And she waved at the mountain of rotting flesh and horns not so far from her person.

"Oh, no. No."

She blinked her eyes open as she felt the last vestiges of pain recede, and found him watching her with bright curiosity alight in his gaze. "Rather, I'd ask you not to be so reckless, but given your reputation, I'm afraid it will fall on deaf ears." 

"My reputation?" She asked. "My reputation is retired."

"Oh, quite the contrary," the young Altus said, and held a hand to her as he rose to his feet. She looked from his palm to his face and back once more as he added: "It continues to live and breathe, and precedes you everywhere you go."

She took his offered hand. "Like yours?"

He pulled her to her feet, with some assistance of her hand to the ground to bear the brunt of the weight of her armor. 

"That's quite offensive, you know," he said, with his smile belying his wounded tone. "I've come a long way to outrun it." 

She dusted the sand from her trousers, and her armor. "And I am a long way from Orlais." 

"Ah, that... that was not the reputation I spoke of."

She felt a cooling effect gather in her blood, and knew better than to blame the healing. "I do not have a reputation elsewhere."

"You do," he said, brow arched and quite serious---a cold and abrupt change to the joking tone he held shortly before. "A dangerous one, I might add."

"I am no danger to you."

He waved a hand carelessly, and she found she did not believe his easy dismissal. "I didn't say you were."

"It is implied."

His brows rose, a perfect picture of surprise. "Is it?" 

She looked to the side, dragging her eyes off him in a conscious effort---it took concentration to pull one's eyes from someone who... well, that's not what mattered, was it? Her attention ended on the scattered bodies of their fellow countrymen scattered beneath the bodies of darkspawn scattered about them. 

Accosted, as they were, first by the Venatori, and then fallen upon by a darkspawn raiding party, it was certainly not the best time to raise uncomfortable, evasive, statements. 

He cleared his throat, and placed a hand on her armored shoulder. 

"Janin," he said, seriously, quiet enough to not be overheard beyond the breeze or the song of the rolling dunes. "If I thought you a danger, I wouldn't have pieced you back together." 

In silence she watched as the young inquisitor rummaged about the bodies and the sand, watched over by the young elvhen thief. 

And then she looked at him. "Do you ever consider that, perhaps, you should?" 

"Should what?" he asked. "Piece you back together? I already did."

Once more his humor shone through, and even despite the seriousness of her question she couldn't help but be affected by it. "You know what it is I meant." 

"I know." He dropped his hand. "I did, before. But I haven't for some time now."

Some distance from them, the young inquisitor reached the hurlock with Janin's own glaive sticking up from its body, lodged at an angle that propelled it some distance and to the ground. He struggled to get a grip on the weapon, and though Sera attempted to assist him with both hands on the weapon's staff and a foot stomped down on the body of the darkspawn, they still could not seem to wrest the blade free of the mangled armor and flesh.

"Were I someone else, I would not advise trust," she said. "Perhaps I am biased."

"Oh, most assuredly you are." He followed her gaze, and paused on the sight of the two struggling to free Janin's weapon. "...Do you think we should help them?" 

"Not yet," Janin said, her expression still and serious---though inside she felt rise a deep amusement within her. It'd been a long time since she had seen the heat and the sea of Tevinter, and with it a long time between her and the bitter, brutal politics of a society she, as a common soporati should not have been privy to, under normal circumstance.

But her's was far from normal, and so she had seen, and endured, and done much that, now so far removed as she found herself upon the sand, understood that life to be as bitter and cruel as it truly was. As she could not see it, when she was so thoroughly, deeply, submersed within it.

"Dorian, I..." She looked back to him as she searched for the word in her heart, and how to translate it. "...I appreciate your trust, my friend." 

"So we're friends, now?" he asked, sounding well and thoroughly surprised, though his expressive brows spoke once more to his humor. "And here I thought I should be terribly afraid of someone so small." 

"How dare you," she said with a rare grin. "I'll have you know I sink deeper into this sand than you, with all my armor---"

"Let it be known 'twas not I who said you were heavy enough to sink," he said, and took a step away from her, and towards the still-struggling inquisitor and thief. 

"There's no shame in it, Dorian," she replied.

"I didn't say there was---"

"It is implied!"

He ignored her in favor of their two companions. "Now, what are you two doing with that poor dead hurlock? I think he's had quite enough already, don't you?"

As he berated them, the song of the dunes settled over her. Perhaps it was the healing, perhaps it was something else, but a sense of calm found its place within her chest, and she meant to take in the sight, and the memory, before it ended abruptly---as all things inevitably do.

The truth of things, as it were in that moment, was that she could not believe that things could ever be this way. To hold affection and feel safe to turn her back on any of them, and not find her throat cut or her heart skewered for being so foolish.

It was a strange thing. One to be cherished in dark times and light, both.

Janin looked down to the sand in one final check to make certain she did not leave anything behind. Satisfied nothing still waited to be retrieved in the sand, she looked up and followed suit.

[echoes-of-the-clockwork]

Book One: Death (Noctis x Reader) Chapter Fifteen

A/n: I think I forgot to mention this, but this is a short series that will include four books in all. Each book will have around 15-20 chapters and you can tell this one is coming to an end. There will be a large time skip soon, but I will make sure this story has a happy ending! Love you all!!! •••••••••••••••••••• Not able to catch up to (Y/n), the boys lost sight of her. "Shit... How can she outrun us in heels?!" Noctis shouted as they came to a stop. There were two paths and no one knew which one Death took. The prince tried to follow the scent, but the smell drenched the entire area and nearly caused him to gag. "Should we split up?"

"No. With (Y/n) truant, the creatures in the vicinity will strike without warning," Ignis responded. "We will venture down both paths if necessary."

"Eenie... meenie... miney... mo..." Prompto started, determining with path they should take first. After finishing the jingle, the sharpshooter chose the path to their right. "That way!"

"Guess we're goin' right," Gladio mumbled as they took off.

Halfway down the path, the four were attacked by a couple of Mandrakes. It wasn't a grueling task slaying the creatures, but it did put more distance between them and (Y/n). Once the monsters were slain, the group continued down the path.

The four spot a familiar figure as they stood on the other side of a tunnel that led to an open area. Noctis was the first to reach the Horseman as her body appeared stiff. He followed her gaze as he heard the cries of a Wendigo and something else. Prompto stood a few feet behind the couple as he saw two creatures fighting. "Is that a...?"

"Bandersnatch and a Wendigo," Ignis responded. "Skirmishing against one another."

As the five watched the battle, they could tell the Wendigo had the upper hand even with its smaller stature compared to the Bandersnatch's immense one. Blood poured from the larger creature's side as it tried to attack the other worldly monster. The Bandersnatch's steps were wobbly, the blood loss causing its large body to sway with each step. The Wendigo pounced and landed on its opponent's back, lodging its claws into the larger monster's thick, though skin. Without hesitation, the smaller creature hissed loudly before biting into the Bandersnatch's flesh. Blood spurted from the fresh wound as the creature wailed out in pain as it no longer could stand. It tipped over, landing on its side and shaking the ground when it made impact.

The Wendigo retracted its claws and teeth from the now dead Bandersnatch, crying out in victory. (Y/n) glared daggers at the rotting, bloodied monster as it began eating the corpse of the large creature. From behind her, she could hear Prompto gag at the gruesome sight.

"What a vile creature," Ignis muttered with a scowl.

"Just be glad you don't live in the Inner Sanctum. There're monsters far worse than the Wendigo that reside in the world between life and death," the Horseman commented as she summoned her scythe.

"Gotta admit-it made our job easier," Gladio commented as he followed (Y/n)'s action and summoned his broadsword.

"Yeah, but now we've gotta face that creepy, nasty thing!" Prompto cried out, gripping his pistol tightly.

"It's an easy kill, Prom," the Horseman reassures. "The only way to kill it is to chop its head from its body. If you cut off any limbs, it won't slow it down-that'll only anger it and its movement won't be affected at all."

"Let's begin, shall we?" Ignis inquired with a dagger in each hand.

"Ready whenever you are," Noctis responded, eyes bouncing over to (Y/n).

"Let's just hope I can fight in these contraptions," she responded, glancing down at her dress and heels.

Without waiting another second, the five engaged the Wendigo. The monster easily sensed their presence before they could land a hit and swiftly dodged. It wailed out in anger-its meal being interrupted. Blood covered its entire body as its red, glowing eyes bounced between the boys and girl in front of it. The creature set its sights on Prompto, earning a scream of fear from the boy as the Wendigo pounced in his direction. (Y/n) acted quickly and outran the monster, standing protectively in front of the blonde boy and raising her scythe just as the Wendigo landed a few inches in front of her. Its bloodied claws rammed into the blade, the strength behind the attack causing her to slide back in the dirt.

Prompto took the chance to fire a round at the Wendigo and managed to take out the monster's left eye. It bellowed in pain and jumped away from the two, only to be attacked by Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis. (Y/n) and Prompto joined in as they recovered and surrounded the creature. It knew where the five were aiming and protected its head as it managed to break through their defenses and gain some distance. Noctis was the first to react and charged at the monster. The Horseman saw what it had planned and quickly ran after the prince. "Noctis, stop!"

The raven-haired boy heard her shout, grabbing his attention and distracting him from the monster standing only a few feet in front of him. A menacing glint flashed in the Wendigo's remaining eye as it raised its claws and swiped at Noctis. Before the prince could feel his skin being shredded, he was pushed out of the way and to safety. His body went rolling through the grass before he came to a stop. When Noctis heard a scream, his azure eyes widened as his head shot up.

Noctis watched in anger and fear as the Wendigo tore into (Y/n)'s flesh with its claws. With the immense force of the hit, her body was swatted away and flew through the air. Her body slammed against a stone structure, which Noctis recognized as the tomb they were searching for. Stumbling to his feet, he dashed over to (Y/n) while the others handled the Wendigo.

Noctis reached (Y/n) and called out her name. When he didn't receive a response, he checked on her injuries. The ones she received from the impact were healing, but the one she received from the Wendigo wasn't and blood was pouring from the large gash on her arm. He patted his pockets, hoping to find a curative on him. When he didn't, he clicked his tongue in frustration and gathered (Y/n)'s body in his arms. "Dammit... Ignis!"

"On my way!" The tactician responded as he dodged one of the Wendigo's attacks to reach the couple. Ignis grabbed a curative from his pocket and tossed it to Noctis-who crushed it over the immense gash on Death's arm. The prince watched as the skin mended together and prevented anymore blood from flowing out.

Noctis held (Y/n) tightly, her head resting against his shoulder. He waited for her to open her eyes, signaling she was well and didn't need further medical attention. Ignis remained by the prince's side as Prompto and Gladio finished off the Wendigo with a combined attack. The two rushed over and gathered around Noctis and (Y/n), hoping the unconscious girl would wake.

A few minutes of silence passed when Death opened her eyes. She inhaled deeply before sighing heavily as she tried to sit up, but the hold Noctis had on her prevented her from moving an inch. "Is it dead?" Was the first thing she asked when she decided to let Noctis continue to hold her.

"Yeah. You alright?" Gladio asked.

"Just peachy."

Noctis was glad to hear she was fine, but one question buzzed in his mind. "How come the injury inflicted by that thing didn't heal? Your back healed perfectly fine and even when you grabbed Ravus' sword, the wound healed within seconds."

"That's because the Wendigo is from the Inner Sanctum. Injuries caused upon my being from a monster that I share a home with don't heal with mana from this world," the Horseman responded.

"That's what happened when Noct summoned you after we found the last runestone," Prompto said.

"Yes, except I wasn't only injured by that attack. By the time you summoned me, I had lost too much blood and my heart stopped."

Prompto swallowed hard at her response. "So, you were... dead?"

"In simple terms-yes. But, I am immortal and also happen to be the Horseman of Death. Kinda ironic, isn't it?"

"Never heard someone be so casual about death before," Gladio stated with a small frown.

"Well..." (Y/n) started. "When you're a being with the power to swipe someone's soul with a single touch, you kinda lose yourself to the darkness in you and end up laughing at the darkest things any man or woman could think of."

The boys were silent and couldn't think of anything to say after such a heavy statement. (Y/n) realized how she dampened the mood and decided to break free from Noctis' hold. She stood up and brushed off her dress. "You better go claim the royal arm." Not able to meet any of their gazes, Death headed towards the tunnel.

With a sorrowful gaze, Noctis watched as (Y/n) walks away from them. He wanted to chase after her and say something, but he couldn't think of anything to say. Sighing heavily, the prince opened the entrance to the tomb and claimed the royal arm.

<------<<<<<<<<

(Y/n) reached the Regalia and waited patiently for the boys to return. She examined the area she was scratched and saw the tear in her dress. "Guess I'll get rid of the sleeves before taking the photos."

"I think it suits you," Death heard a voice laugh from behind her. Spinning on her heels, she was greeted by the spectral image of one of her sisters-Famine. Unlike Death, she had blonde hair and green eyes. A smile was etched on her face as she stood a few feet away from (Y/n).

"What're you doing here, Famine?" (Y/n) questioned her sister.

"Pestilence, War, and myself have been watching the Wendigos. There's only one left and you'll be able to return home! The three of us miss you, Death."

(Y/n) glanced down at the ground, her (e/c) eyes becoming dull. "What if I wanted to stay here?"

Famine's emerald eyes widened. "What? Why would you want to stay in the land of the living?"

"There's someone I care about very dearly and I can't bring myself to return to the Inner Sanctum and leave him here."

Famine sighs in disbelief. "I understand, but you know your presence is needed to prevent another incident like this from happening. Before you slay the last Wendigo, please say your "goodbyes" to this boy. The moment the last monster is slain, the portal to the Inner Sanctum will open. Please, do not get yourself tangled any further in the living or your departure will only be more difficult."

(Y/n) remained silent as her sister vanished. She knew Famine was right and she needed to distance herself from the boys, especially Noctis. It hurt her to do this to them even after she had confessed her feelings to the prince recently. Biting the inside of her cheek, she steeled herself and made up her mind.

<------<<<<<<<

When the boys returned to the car a few minutes later, they didn't see (Y/n). Noctis searched the area, wondering if she had just wandered off a little ways. "(Y/n)?"

Prompto helped in the search, but he couldn't find the Horseman. Gladio and Ignis joined and searched further from the car. Noctis pulled out the summoning orb and curled his fingers around the ornament. When (Y/n) didn't appear, he grew worried for her safety.

"I don't see her, Noct," Prompto confesses as he returns from checking down the road.

"Neither do we," Ignis stated as he and Gladio returned from checking the foliage.

Noctis gritted his teeth, staring down at the sable orb in his hand. "Where the hell has she gone?"

[sin-zawa-blog]

Congratulations on your blog! May I request an Aizawaxstudent!reader where the reader is jealous or insecure about their feelings for their teacher after seeing Ms. Joke? Please and Thank You! Happy sinning 😉

Thank you! I’m pretty nervous about sharing my writing with everyone since I think it’s kind of weird, but I’m also really excited! Of course, you can, my little sinbun! I feel every blog has a weird name they call their followers and for that reason, you shall all be my sin bunnies! And if it’s already taken, well, fuck. 

I hope you enjoy it! :D

PS: I literally refer to Reader as “Reader”. I just prefer it over using Y/N.

-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-The reader felt shame for having such a terrible feeling bubbling in her gut. A feeling so strong that it felt as if someone had punched her right in the chest, ripping her heart out, and leaving her a  hollow shell left to rot. She just couldn’t help feeling sick to her stomach every time she looked at them – every time she looked at her; the definition of beauty, with her silky long seafoam green hair that bounced with every boisterous laugh that would spill out of her throat and into the air around her, captivating everyone near and far, including the man of her unrequited affection – man, not  boy.

The envious feeling only grew tenfold when she watched his reactions, how he patiently waited for her to finish her sentences before offering some short remark in return, and how every now and  again he would show a flash of amusement behind his tired eyes that she would kill to have directed at her, if only once. Jealously and envy swirled together in the pit of her stomach in a violent dance that had her choking on her own breath. She hated herself for feeling this way, hated herself even more for letting it affect in such a crucial in her future career as a hero. People around her were being taken out left and right in an all-out battle royal, but she herself was too busy ogling her teacher and his voluptuous friend, who was sitting just a little too close for her liking.

Reader felt…helpless. 

She knew that her feelings were irrational, and something that could never be returned; a sad, one-sided tale of love and taboo, that would never be written. She was briefly pulled out of her self-inflicted agony when her third target began to beep, signaling her elimination. Reader’s eye widened as she looked into the eyes of one of the Ketsubutsu students, grinning triumphantly at her defeated. 

She…lost? 

Reader frowned, again looking to the stands where Ms. Joke stood cheering and praising her student on a job well done while throwing small,  playful jabs Aizawa-Sensei’s way.

Reader and Aizawa-Sensei locked eyes, where shame, met disappointment.Reader hung her head and walked away trying to fight back tears and the bile that threatened to crawl out of her throat at any given moment.

Reader avoided the waiting room where she knew all of her friends who passed would be. So far, she was the only one to fail, and she didn’t want to deal with any of it. She was well aware that she screwed up but not even the fact that she flunked could drive the feeling of jealous rage out of her. The reader took comfort in the security of the locker room, finding it surprisingly empty which really  didn’t shock her since those who have passed and failed headed straight to the waiting for for food and rest, and to not cry about a man twice their age who would never be interested in a pathetic  little girl.

Reader hiccuped, swiping the hot tears from her red and puffy eyes that burned and itched the more she rubbed at them. Once she started, she just couldn’t stop. It was as if the dam containing all of her emotions finally burst and was spilling out in fat teardrops that rolled down her flushed face. If anyone were to see her right now they would assume she was upset because she failed, and not because she was jealous of the attention her Sensei was giving to another woman. The gut-wrenching sobs continued to pour out of her as she placed her head in the comfort of her arms and drew her knees to her chest, cursing herself for being so damn stupid.

“So this is where you ran off to.” Came a deep tone laced with boredom that seemed to echo of the locker room walls.

“It’s not like you to act this way. You’re one of the few out of the class that actually uses their brain, especially in moments as crucial as today. What happened? You seemed distracted.” He said, shuffling closer to her, and crouching down.

Reader’s heart thundered against her chest and her breath seized in her throat; it amazed her how just his voice alone could bring out strong emotions inside of her. She slumped against the locker she leaned on for support, hiding her eyes behind her hands as if they would mask her pain and heartache. She didn’t want him to see her like this! To see her so weak, so vulnerable, looking like a  scared little girl; she wanted him to see her as grown, mature, enticing? – like Ms. Joke! That’s how she wanted to be seen in the eyes of Aizawa Shouta, but she was nothing like that, and they both knew it.

Reader chewed on her lips feeling the tears begin to flow again. Reader shook her head and babbled under her breath words that Shouta couldn’t understand. Shouta sighed, allowing her to pour all of her emotions out even if he couldn’t understand what she was saying, he had a lingering thought of what it could all possibly be about. It didn’t take a genius to figure out something as simple as a  schoolgirl crush…but Shouta believed this case to be a little more extreme, and something that needed delicate handling. He gently pried her hands from her face revealing her swollen red eyes and puffed out cheeks that he found to be quite adorable.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong, Reader,” Aizawa said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

His hand held her face for a lingering moment, absorbing the warm that pooled from her blushing cheeks. She sighed, leaning into his touch as a way to savor a moment that she would never get again. Reader pulled herself away from his touch with reluctance, though his hand lingered as if waiting for her to return to his touch and cleared her hoarse voice that suddenly felt too small.

“It’s…nothing, Sensei, really. I’m just upset at myself for getting distracted, is all.” And for letting you down, she wanted to add but remained silent.

“That can’t be all.”

Reader bit her lip. No was her chance! She could finally tell him and get it over with. She could finally let out everything that has been eating her alive since she met him and maybe, just maybe he would…she mentally scolded herself, knowing that she was being foolish.

Reader opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. Her fists tightened at her sides and her mouth formed a tight line. 

What are you doing!? 

Open your mouth and speak you, idiot! 

Again she tries but nothing. 

Frustrated, she runs a hand through her hair that has long since fallen out of place and sighs. 

You’re hopeless, she thinks to herself.

Reader thickly swallowed. 

“Even…even if I told you the truth, it isn’t as if anything would change.” She spoke in a broken tone. “It’s much easier to fabricate a lie than to face the reality of a disappointing truth, isn’t it,  Sensei?”

The room was thick with unmasked tension and a dead-silence that weigh heavily in the air. Reader cradled her knees to her chest and looked away from the eyes of Aizawa Shouta that has filled with pitty – that is what she wanted to see; she didn’t want to be pitied by the man she had fallen in love with, all she wanted was to be loved by him.

The sudden lifting of her chin and dark eyes gazing into her own snapped Reader out of her cloud of depression. Aizawa held her chin firmly between his long, slender fingers, showing a flash of concern and guilt that made her heart skip one too many beats. Reader lifted her hand in an attempt to push him away – to push away the reality of the situation – but Aizawa grabbed her hand and held it in his own, gently, as if she were made of glass and would crack if he held on too tightly. 

The world around them seemed to freeze and Reader could practically feel her blood pumping in her ears. She wanted to look away but she couldn’t, his eyes captivated her; everything about him captivated him. As id her body were acting on its own accord she too reached out, and gently cupped his stubbly cheek, inching her fingers upwards to the scar that maimed the underneath of his eye  as a reminder of the sacrifice he made to keep them safe from harm and invoke a feeling inside of her that not even that of All might could bring about.

“You.” She breathed. “You’re on my mind, Sensei. I-I know that it’s wrong, but, I just can’t help it! The truth is, that…that I have really strong feelings for you, and it’s not some stupid schoolgirl  crush – there real!” Reader cried out, clutching her chest. “I can’t stop thinking about you and I really can’t explain it but when…when I saw you with her, with Ms. joke, I just got really jealous and angry because I wanted it to me! I wanted it to be me you look at that way!”

Reader whimpered and shook her head as the tears began to fall once again. 

“And I know that it’s stupid because why would you choose to fall in love with some stupid kid who can’t even control her own emotions?! I’m not as pretty as Ms.Joke or as cool or as funny! I’m just a stupid kid that’s way in over her head, right? But it’s all true and, and –”

Her words were smothered with a kiss. It took her by surprise. So much she even let out a squeak that was muffled by the older male’s mouth; the kiss was scruffy and tickled her face. The reader was frozen, having never experienced a kiss, let alone attraction so strongly towards someone. Should.. she kiss him back? She really wanted to, but it was like having him kiss her made her brain lose all function.

Aizawa sensing her hesitation pulled back and studied her face.  Her eyes were wide and her face was tinted red, which he thought looked cute on her. Again he brushed the hair from her blushing face and gently wiped the tears from her eyes.

“Sorry,” he chuckled, “I couldn’t help myself. It would be improper for me to let you take all of the blame when I was fully aware of your feelings.”

“You were?” Reader’s eyes widened.

“All you staring and blushing gave it away.” He smirked. “A part of me knew that I should diminish your feelings before they grew out of hand, but the other more illogical part of me dismissed those  thoughts because I started to feel attracted to you, as well.”

Aizawa sighed and brushed a hand through his hair. 

“I told myself that it was unprofessional and that it was more trouble than it was worth, but it did little to my growing affection and feelings for you and that’s why I began to distance myself from  you, however today, when I saw how upset you got over the thought of Joke and me, all reason went out the door…and here I am now. I think you’re smart enough to figure out what that means,  Reader." 

Aizawa sighed. "I guess I got a little carr –”

It was Reader this time who silenced him. Her lips smashed against his in a hasty and sloppy kiss that had her tumbling into his lap. His lips were cold and chapped, not warm and soft as the books always said they would be, but she didn’t mind. Slowly and unsurely Reader put her arms around his neck and poured her heart into their forbidden kiss. 

Aizawa chuckled and grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close. He found himself reluctantly pulling back from the kiss and burying his nose in the crook of her neck; his breath warm on her skin.

“Sensei, won’t the others start to notice how long we’ve taken?" 

"I’m not in any hurry.” Aizawa purred against her skin, leaving butterfly kisses on her exposed skin; Aizawa nipped at her skin, running his tongue over the flesh he wanted to bruise and mark as his own.

Reader groaned and knotted her fingers in his hair. Aizawa growled sinking his teeth into her skin, taking pride in the moan that vibrated from her throat and out of silky lips that he wanted to turn from pink to purple.

“S-Sen-s-e-i!” Reader whimpered.

Aizawa paused, taking hold of her chin and locking their eyes together. “Call me Shouta,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her. “Now, scream it for me, Reader.”__________________________________

I’m not very confident in my writing but I love doing it and I hoped I was able to deliver what you wanted! You never specified any sexy moments, so I left the ending open, but if requested I would be happy to write a sequel for it! :D

[millenniumrobin]

Kiss It Better

TItle: Kiss It Better Author: millenniumrobin  AO3 story link

Summary:  Dick Grayson is rotting in prison. Sitting in his cell for more than a year, there's only one person he'll give a jailhouse interview to about the night that changed his life, and the lives of those around him, forever.

Batfam Week Day 1: Vacation or Separation

“Grayson.” The sound of his name stabbed Dick’s ears like a knife. He didn’t want to open his eyes. Not yet. Not now. Maybe everything from the past year had been one long, insane nightmare and if he just kept his eyes closed, just this once, he’d actually wake up and it would all be over.

“Hey. Grayson. Wake up. If she finds you sleeping when she gets here, she’s not going to be happy.” Harsh white light pierced his vision as Dick cracked his eyelids open. He found himself looking up at the bottom of a bunk bed, flat steel bars staring back at him like a cell door. Dick could feel those same bars pressing into his back through a too-thin mattress as he pushed himself to sitting. Brushing a calloused hand over his face, Dick felt rough stubble that had sprouted.

He thought about shaving. But what was the point, really?

That same hand moved upward, running through ragged hair now long enough to be pulled back into a ponytail. It had been weeks since he had bothered to look into the small mirror that occupied a fraction of the far wall. He knew what he would find looking back at him: the shell of a man who was once one of the most feared crime fighters in Gotham, and one of the most beloved heroes in the world.

“What’s she gonna do, Jack?” Dick finally answered the voice that had forced him to rise. “Kill me?” His hollow chuckle wasn’t met in turn. The only other man in the room didn’t move from his spot. Wearing a faded orange jumpsuit and sitting on a makeshift stool by the bars that marked the front of their existence, he kept his eyes down the hallway.

“Don’t joke, Dick. She probably would. Especially today. She wants you to smile all pretty for the cameras and doesn’t want you to ruin her big scoop.”

“Born in a circus, die in a circus.” The old Dick Grayson would have been shocked by his statement and the coldness with which it was delivered. But not now. Not after the past year. “She’s an old friend, Jack. Which is why I’m talking to her, and only her.”

Dick had only gotten a few visitors once he’d been incarcerated. Alfred had visited a few times, but then he had Bruce to deal with. Tim couldn’t bring himself to come say hello. Jason sent an audio tape of him slow clapping for three minutes. That had been nice to listen to for a few hours, and then Dick had thrown it away.

Bruce hadn’t said a word to him since everything happened, but then again, he had his own problems to worry about now. Dick didn’t know all the specifics, news was sketchy on this side of bars and concrete and steel, but every new prisoner who came in and recognized him loved to extoll the issues the great Bruce Wayne, the Batman, was now facing at the hands of the law.

Then there were the Gordons. Dick hadn’t heard from the Commissioner at all. In fact, the last thing he’d seen from Barbara’s father were eyes full of pain, sadness, and anger. As for Barbara… well, Dick had no idea what she thought about what he’d done. But maybe he’d be able to ask her soon. Maybe…

“Can I ask you something?” The question pulled Dick from his thoughts yet again. Worry was creased all over his cellmate’s face as he continued looking out over common area. Dick sighed loudly as he sat back on his bunk, fingers rubbing absentmindedly as they always did over his most prized possession, a strip of photo paper.

“You’re going to be fine, Jack. You worry too much.” His cellmate was Jack Reynald, a former high-rolling investment banker who had Ponzi-schemed his way to hundreds of millions and left a few thousand people very, very angry with him. They were together because Jack was the only inmate who didn’t want to kill him. Dick also wondered if the reverse was true.

“No, no, it’s not that.” The man swallowed hard and looked back over at Dick. “I was never a good guy. Even early on in my career, I found little ways of skimming some off the top here and there. But you… you weren’t just good, you were one of the best.” Jack sighed as he sat back against the wall, the back of his balding head pressing against the rough concrete block. “If even the great Dick Grayson, the great Nightwing, could fall, what hope is there for the rest of us?”

Hearing his old alias struck Dick like a shock from a guard’s stun baton. It had been a while since it had been uttered, at least without an extreme amount of venom behind it. The other inmates had tossed it around a lot when he’d first arrived, mostly to taunt and deride, but even that had died off after a while. Dick felt the edge of the photo paper bury into a familiar crease along his thumb and sighed.

“Did I ever tell you why I did it, Jack?” Dick paused. “Why I killed him?” The Commissioner’s eyes flashed through his mind again, but he brushed the feeling away. Jack’s eyes were wide, and he shook his head slowly.

Dick smiled slowly and allowed his eyes to become unfocused. The cool grey concrete began to remind him of where it all happened over a year ago. Where this nightmare began. “It was the happiest night of my life...”

*****

“Grayson!” His shouted name danced after him in the mid-winter air, bouncing around the snowflakes and twisting on the breeze. Bright lights swirled all around him, the Gotham night a snow globe of wonder and sparkle. It was, for all its faults and dark underbellies, why Dick Grayson loved this city.

“Grayson, slow down!” But the real reason he loved this city came bounding after him in the sidewalk slush, red hair trailing behind her like a wispy cloud caught in the setting summer sun. Her voice was full of laughter and annoyance, her cheeks nearly as red as her hair with a smile plastered to her face.

“You haven’t been able to keep up with me all night, Babs. Why would I slow down now?” A swift punch to the arm was the only reply he got. He rubbed it playfully and half-grimaced. “Ow.”

“Oh, that didn’t hurt.” Laughter filled her voice again as she held an oversized teddy bear in a Superman t-shirt. It was the prize he had won her through his exploits that evening. “You want me to kiss it to make it feel better?”

“Works for me.” A mischievous smirk crossed his own face as he wrapped a hand around her waist and pulled her close. Whatever the temperature was outside didn’t matter, because when their lips met, there was only fire between them. It was a long few seconds before Dick realized they were squishing the newly won bear between them.

“All better?” There was a teasing glint in Barbara’s green eyes, and Dick responded in kind.

“I don’t know… it still hurts. I think more kisses are in order to make me really feel better.” And so they did again. And again. And again. It was a perfect evening of laughter, innuendo, and physical affection. A tavern with the bear propped up on the bar while they got a drink, a photo booth where more kisses and funny faces were shared, and endless sidewalks where they held each other close.

It was the perfect night, and Dick knew that it was finally time for that little circle of metal, hiding in his pocket for weeks waiting for a moment like this, to appear. They sat on a bench overlooking the park in the middle of Gotham, the city lights twinkling around the light snow that continued to fall.

“I love you, Barbara Gordon.” The words came easy to him, uttered countless times before. But there was something different to them this time, a finality that came with them. He knew what he wanted in life, and it was sitting right here on this bench with him. She offered back that easy smile of hers, planting a kiss playfully on his cheek.

“I love you too, Dick Grayson.” This was it. This was the moment he had waited for, planned for, hoped for since he had first laid eyes on her in grade school.

Dick began to slide off the bench, one knee dropping toward the slush-caked sidewalk. But as he turned his body to face Barbara, movement in his periphery caught his eye. Mirroring his motion, the figure moved closer, turning to face the two of them.

Time slowed to a grind. It was the years of training and adrenaline that allowed him to see everything clearly, but Dick remained frozen to the ground like the icicles around them. Why now? Why tonight? Why at this moment must the scourge of Gotham once again rear its ugly head?

And then he saw the gun. Highlighted, glimmering in the light from so many concrete and steel towers, the barrel a hole as black as anything he’d ever seen before. This was no robbery, something in his gut told him that. It was death.

A leather-gloved finger tightened on the trigger, and Dick saw the flash of the muzzle. He didn’t hear the shot. Everything had gone silent. A force stronger than anything he’d ever felt, and he’d been thrown into a wall by Bane before, slammed him back against the ground, away from the perpetrator.

He looked down to see where he had been shot. There was no blood, no gaping wound. The only red he saw was Barbara’s hair in front of him, splayed out on the ground.

If he screamed her name, he didn’t hear it. The gunman was already retreating away from them as Dick scrambled to scoop Barbara into his arms, pressing his fingers to her throat, feeling for a pulse. There was one, but it was weak, like a feather bouncing along on a breeze.

And then in an instant, that deafening silence was shattered by the sound of laughter. Low at first, then growing higher and higher to a frenzied shriek. Even if Dick hadn’t caught a glimpse of his face from the light of a street lamp, he would have known that laugh anywhere. It had haunted his dreams as a child, and Dick knew it would now haunt him for the rest of his life.

“Dick…” His name, barely heard in a breathy whisper, drew him back to the sidewalk. Barbara’s green eyes were staring past him, snowflakes she made no move to brush away gently nestling on her face. Her red hair spilled over his arm, the ends draping onto the sidewalk where it mixed with her blood.

Dick reached down, pulling off one of her mittens to take her hand in his. Even though he hadn’t been wearing gloves, her skin was still colder than his. Tears streaking down his cheeks, Dick cradled Barbara in his arms as he leaned down and kissed her face softly. “Everything is going to be alright Babs. I promise. Everything will be alright.” But it wasn’t going to be alright. He knew that, and so did she.

“It’s not your fault, Dick. You didn’t know…” she trailed off again, coughing. He kissed her face again, willing his lips to bring warmth back to her body. “Kiss it better, Dick? Please?”

Onlookers were racing around now, some with their cell phones to their ears, other taking video. The bright twinkling of city lights was starting to be replaced with red and blue flashing ones. But even with the cacophony of noise around him, Dick could only hear the whispered words of the bleeding love of his life.

“Stay with me, Dick… stay with me until I fall asleep.”

“Barbara, no. Stay awake. Stay here. I’m right here.”

“Stay with me until I fall asleep. Stay with me…” The faint steam that had been rising from Barbara’s lips froze, and her eyes began to shut. All noise and chaos around Dick seemed to stop. He knew his mouth was open, knew he was screaming something because his throat was burning and raw, but no sound reached his ears. He didn’t know how long he sat there screaming, begging for her to come back to him. It wasn’t until two police officers began dragging him away that he was lifted off the sidewalk, left only with the image of Barbara Gordon lying dead on the sidewalk, an oversized teddy bear in a Superman t-shirt still sitting on the bench behind her.

*****

“Grayson, you have a visitor.” A burly prison guard stood by the cell door, layer upon layer of muscle stretching his uniform. Like most of the other guards here, he treated Dick relatively well because the former vigilante was polite. And because, secretly, they appreciated what he had done on the outside and didn’t like how he’d been treated since the murder.

“Thanks Charles. Send her in.”

“You’ve got an hour. The Warden won’t tolerate lateness today.” Dick offered him a slight nod.

“I’ll see you then, Charles.” Jack moved from his perch by the door as a slender woman with ebony hair moved into the cell. She wore a crisp pantsuit and held a small notebook between her fingers. When she looked at him, surprise and then a hint of pity fluttered through her purple eyes.

“Grayson,” she said, pulling over the extra chair that had been set out for her. “You look terrible.”

That got him to laugh. Probably his first real laugh in the past year. She wasn’t wrong, of course. She never was.

“Why thank you, Lois. It’s good to see you too.” Lois Lane, pride of the Daily Planet, multiple Pulitzer Prize winning journalist, and probably one of the smartest women left on the planet smiled up at him as he settled back to his spot on his bunk.

“How are they treating you here?” Dick chuckled to himself. The food was lousy, he got a single hour outside his cell a day, and he lived under constant threat of being shanked. He shrugged.

“The guards are fine. The Warden wants to impress the Commissioner, so he comes down hard on me. But I’m still alive, so that counts for something.” Lois offered him a thin smile and reached into the purse she had brought with her. When her hand emerged, it held a small recording device. She looked pointedly at him, raising an eyebrow. Dick nodded in agreement. Though he knew Lois would never misquote him, intentionally or not, he knew the recording wasn’t for the story. It was for the people on the outside to hear his voice one last time.

“I was surprised when you agreed to my request for an interview, Dick. You’d shot me down the last ten times I’d asked.” Dick could only offer a half-hearted shrug and a sheepish smile that was nowhere in the realm of the one he used to flash all the time. “The Commissioner was kind enough to give me an hour, so I don’t want waste any time. I reviewed the case file and your statement from the night of Barbara’s murder, so I won’t ask you about that. What’s less clear to me is what followed. Can you tell me what happened after you arrived at the police headquarters?”

Dick’s mind flashed back to that night again. Police headquarters, Commissioner Gordon… the Joker. Yes, it was that night where he had started down this path, towards this inevitable conclusion.

“After the EMTs got there, two officers who recognized me took me back to HQ…”

*****

Dick Grayson had never known before what it was like to be alone in a crowded room. Sure, there had been times when he had just been lost in his thoughts before, but not like this. No spacing off at a Gotham Academy dance or Wayne Foundation gala could compare to how alone he felt right now. The headquarters was in a panic. Commissioner Gordon’s daughter had just been gunned down by the Joker. But as officers and detectives raced past him, Dick could do nothing but stare at his hands.

Her blood was dry now. No longer bright crimson, his hands were now caked with a dark burgundy, split by thin white lines where his clenched fists had broken it up. He wasn’t sure what felt heavier: his heart, or the engagement ring he’d never get to use that still sat in his pocket.

“Grayson!” Dick jerked his head up, seeing the rotund form of Harvey Bullock standing over him. Even as lost inside his own head as he was, Dick was shocked he hadn’t smelled the detective first. The large man still chomped on a toothpick as he thrust his thumb back over his shoulder. “The Commissioner wants to see you.”

He forced his legs to work. He had to. Every step he took toward the door with the gold lettering on it, the one he was so familiar at sneaking into through the window, seemed to take an eternity. But with each step rage also bubbled up within him. Rage at himself for not stopping the Joker. Rage at Barbara for pushing him out of the way. Rage at Bruce for allowing the Joker to live as long as he had.

But all that anger melted away as he opened the door and saw Commissioner Jim Gordon sitting behind his desk, a picture frame held in shaking hands. Dick knew which one it was. He had seen it dozens of times before. It showed the Commissioner, then a Captain, and Barbara no more than nine. They were sitting on a park bench, very close to where she had been murdered tonight. It was from their first weekend in Gotham City, when Barbara had wanted more than anything to go back to Chicago. Her father had taken her to get ice cream, to a carnival, and gotten her a balloon. That solitary blue balloon hung in the background behind the two of them, a father and daughter smiling and laughing together in a picture taken by a passing tourist. It was the moment the Commissioner had convinced Barbara to stay. Dick wondered if he hadn’t done such a good job, if his daughter would still be alive tonight.

When Jim looked up at him, his eyes were redder than Dick had ever seen them. Redder than when his wife left him. Redder than after any other night of the countless horrors Gotham had to offer. His hair, for years having kept its original auburn color with only a hint of distinguishing gray at the temples, was now almost completely white. In a matter of hours, the Gotham City Police Commissioner had aged decades. Dick felt as if his heart had gone through the same transformation process.

“Jim… Commissioner… I’m so sorry. I didn’t see him. I couldn’t stop him. And she pushed me out of the way and… I couldn’t save her sir. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I tried. I tried to save her but I couldn’t. I wanted to, sir. If I could be dead and she could be standing here sir I would do it in a heartbeat.” Dick was rambling and the tears started to flow. He couldn’t help himself. Words, barely coherent, continued in a steady stream from his lips. He wanted his words to take away the Commissioner’s hurt, to bring his daughter back, to make this whole night a very bad nightmare.

And then two arms pulled him into a hug. Dick hadn’t even noticed Jim getting up from his desk. The two men embraced, their bodies shaking, sobs wracking them both as they used each other for support. And then the words started to flow again. Dick recounting every single detail of that night. Every place they had been, the times they had been there, what they had done. He told him about the ring. He needed to get everything out before he forgot a single moment. Even, as painful as it was, the Joker killing Barbara.

By the end of it, they were sitting in chairs facing each other. The Commissioner hadn’t spoken since he had started, but Dick knew that he had heard and absorbed everything. When the words finally exhausted themselves, they both sat in silence for a few minutes, only the sounds of sirens throughout the city breaking the tranquility.

“How are you doing, son?” The question caught Dick off guard. But in an instant, he knew the answer. The rage was back. The pain and sadness had gotten their turn. Now he was filled again with pure, unadulterated rage.

“I’ll be fine.” The words were clipped. Dick knew what he wanted to do. No, not just what he wanted to do. What he had to do. “Give me a task force, Commissioner. Give me a squad, anything. The Joker won’t see the morning.”

The Commissioner physically recoiled in his chair. He studied Dick for a long moment before getting up and walking toward the window. “That’s not how we do things, son. And that’s not how he raised you to do things.”

“The hell with how he does things!” Dick was on his feet now, voice rising to meet his stature. “How he does things got Barbara killed. That monster should have been dead after he killed Jason. Now he’s taken your daughter.” Dick paused, staring at the Commissioner’s stoic back. “I’m not going to let him kill anyone else.” Turning on his heel, Dick made for the door.

“Sit. Down.” The words stopped him in his tracks. When he turned, Dick saw Batman looming in a dark corner. There was no open window. The Big Black Bat must have been standing in the room the entire time, but Dick had just been too distracted to notice. The Commissioner looked over at Bruce Wayne and nodded solemnly.

“That’s not how we do things, son. Not even when it’s Barbara he killed. Especially then.” Dick opened his mouth to protest when there was a frantic knock on the Commissioner’s door and it swung open, an out-of-breath officer bursting through.

“Commissioner, we got him!”

“Who?”

“The Joker. He just walked in the front door and turned himself in.” The officer struggled to catch his breath. “He says he wants to confess, sir. He says he wants to confess for the murder of Barbara Gordon.”

*****

“I should have known something was up. I should have known the game he was playing. But like Batman standing in the Commissioner’s office, I was too blind to see it. I was too distracted to see the big picture. That’s what…” He sighed, rubbing his fingers over the strip of paper again. “That’s what she was always so good at.”

Lois nodded slowly, looking down briefly at her recorder and her watch. She had barely asked him any questions, just let him talk. Dick appreciated that. It was the first time he was able to tell his story, he feelings. Maybe it would help the others still on the outside. Maybe people would see he wasn’t the monster the District Attorney and the Commissioner painted him to be.

“What happened after that night? Before his trial a month later.”

“The Joker confessed to the murder but plead not guilty in court. Said he wanted his day in court. We should have seen it, all should have seen what was coming. Any trial of his would be a circus, and it was. How many news outlets were there? Fifty? Seventy? All with their cameras and their shouted questions at Bruce. At the Commissioner. At me. People were starting to dig, and that’s what he wanted. He wanted the groundwork there so when he took the stand, the pieces would fall into place.”

Dick looked down at his hands again, at that strip of paper held so tightly in one of them. “I should have seen it. But I didn’t. Nobody did. I don’t think anybody could have seen what was coming but Barbara.”

*****

“The defense calls John Doe, alias The Joker, to the stand.” Dick didn’t look up to the court spectacle in front of him. He knew what he would see. It was the same thing he had seen every day at this trial. The Joker, green hair mussed, clad in an orange jumpsuit that was too big for him, arms and legs shackled and a platoon of guards surrounding him.

He also didn’t have to turn around to see what was behind him. He could practically feel the eyes of dozens of journalists and the lenses of their cameras pointed squarely at his back. At Bruce’s back. At the Commissioner’s back. The three of them were sitting directly behind the prosecutor’s table. It was as close as they could be to the action without being in the action.

The Joker sat in the witness box with that same sick smile plastered across his face. This was all a joke to him, a theater of the absurd. And now he was center stage.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” The Joker cocked an eyebrow at the bailiff.

“Not sure what the big guy has to do with this, but for the first time in my life, yes, I do.” The Joker sat as his defense council, some young public defender barely out of law school, walked toward him.

“Only one question, your honor. Mr. Doe, are you insane?” The Joker broke out into a low laugh at his attorney’s question.

“Some would like to think I’m not because then they wouldn’t have to try and rehabilitate me. Others think I am because it makes it easier for them to process my actions. But in my world, I’m the sanest one there is.” The leering voice, the upward curve at the corner of his mouth made Dick’s stomach turn. He clenched his fists between his knees.

The Joker’s attorney sat back down as the D.A. rose to his feet. “Mr. Doe, had you taken leave of your senses the night you shot and killed Barbara Gordon?” Another laugh followed.

“No, Mr. District Attorney. I knew very much what was going on that night. Two lovebirds in the Gotham winter air. It made me sick.” The Joker looked over at Dick, locking eyes with him. That old familiar rage came back again, and he struggled to suppress it.

“So you followed Mr. Grayson and Ms. Gordon with the intention of killing her, is that correct?”

A harsher braying laugh followed. “No, Mr. District Attorney, I didn’t mean to kill Barbara Gordon. I was aiming for her partner.” Dick’s back snapped to attention, rage swelling in his chest. He heard the click-click-click of a dozen camera shutters behind him, but he didn’t care at the moment. The fog of the past month was lifting, the madman’s plan crystalizing in his mind like the memories of that night.

The District Attorney turned and looked at him. “You were in the park that night to kill Mr. Grayson? Why?” The Joker’s smile grew, malice filling his eyes and words.

“Because I wanted to hurt someone very close to him. I wanted to hurt someone very close to me.” Dick felt Bruce stiffen beside him but did not look over. A glint of light off of metal caught his eye. Ahead of him, just over the bar separating the gallery from the tables and judge’s bench, stood a guard. And his holstered gun was calling to Dick.

“You see, the last time I tried to get the attention of Mr. Grayson’s friend, I didn’t get the reaction I was hoping for. I thought by going for the original, I might finally get the attention I wanted.” Something snapped inside of Dick. Whatever had been holding back the rage, the recklessness, was gone.

His hands gripped the bar as he vaulted over it. Fingers brushed the edge of his suit pants. Bruce’s. He knew they were Bruce’s. He would have been the only one fast enough to even lay a hand on him. But his mentor wasn’t fast enough. Neither was the officer, who only managed a shout of surprise as Dick grabbed the pistol and ripped it from its holster.

The commotion in the courtroom was only white noise to him now. The camera shutters, the shouts and screams, all of it was just background noise. There was only one sound he was focused on: the Joker’s laughter. It was getting higher and faster again, just like it had that night. His only goal was to make it stop forever.

His hands raised the gun, one palm pressing against the cold metal, the other wrapping around his knuckles. The District Attorney dove out of the way and at the periphery of his vision jurors scrambled for cover. They didn’t need to move. He wasn’t going to hit them anyway.

Striding toward the jumpsuit-clad monster, Dick’s finger tightened on the trigger. He saw the muzzle flash, the barrel jump back towards him, the shell casing fly off to the side. The harsh laughter ringing in his ears hitched, a cough replacing it. A bright red spot began to appear in the middle of that orange jumpsuit. But the laugh returned, wetter and wheezier than before, but still there. Dick’s finger tightened again, again, again. His finger continued squeezing until the click-click-click he heard wasn’t from the cameras but from the pistol in his hands. The laughter was just a ragged breath now as Joker’s eyes rolled back into his head.

Then he was on the floor, four police officers on top of him, wrenching the gun from his hands and yanking his arms behind his back. The cold metal of the gun was replaced with that of handcuffs. As the officers yanked him back to his feet, he caught one last glimpse of the Joker, dead on the witness stand. That sick smile was still plastered across his face.

As he was dragged out of the courtroom, Dick turned one last time to see Bruce and the Commissioner, side by side, still standing behind the railing. The cameras and reporters were already starting to descend upon them. Neither of them seemed to notice though. The last thing Dick saw as he was hauled out the door were the Commissioner’s eyes. He hadn’t been expecting the emotions he saw in them. Not relief or gratitude. Just anger. Pain. And sadness.

The door slammed shut behind him.

*****

Lois nodded slowly as he finished, writing a quick note down on the pad in front of her. “You didn’t know about the tape.”

“No.” Dick shook his head. None of them had. The tape, which went live an hour after the Joker’s death, had been recorded the night he killed Barbara. It laid out, in exacting detail, Batman’s identity. Nightwing’s identity. And, as the Joker on the tape had realized, who Batgirl was as well.

That had been the end of Jim’s career. He had been fired the next morning, his gun and badge stripped, as he was placed under investigation for aiding and abetting vigilantes. The stock of Wayne Enterprises had plummeted as companies declined to do business with Bruce Wayne. No formal charges had been found, they couldn’t prove he was Batman. And they hadn’t found the Batcave. But the Batman hadn’t been seen in the Gotham night sky for over a year.

That tape had been the Joker’s final revenge on all of them. He had laid the trap, and they had all been too blinded by grief to realize they were walking straight into it.

“Do you regret doing it?” Dick looked at her for a long moment and smiled.

“No. I wish everything had gone down differently, but no, I don’t regret it. I think there’s someone in your life who, if he was really honest with himself, would do the same if anything ever happened to you.” That elicited a small smile from Lois. She checked her watch again and looked up at him.

“Is there anything else you want to say? Off the record, but on recording for those closest to you?” Dick leaned back against the wall. There had been so many letters that he had started and torn up. He knew that no number of apologies could make up for what he’d done, but he also figured the Joker was going to expose them at the trial anyway. At least he wasn’t alive to escape and hurt others.

He shook his head slowly.

Lois’ lips pressed together as Charles came back, knocking the cell bars with his nightstick. “Time to go, Grayson.” Dick nodded and took a deep breath, standing and facing Lois again.

“One for the road?” There were tears welling in her eyes, but she didn’t allow them to fall. When he opened his arms, she threw hers around his neck, planting a quick kiss on his cheek.

“They’re going to be there,” she whispered in his ear. “Bruce and Jim. Clark too. They promised me they’d be there.” Dick broke the embrace and offered her a smile of thanks.

“Take care of yourself, Lois.” He felt the much firmer grasp of Charles as he let himself be led out of the cell.

“You too, kid. Good luck.” Dick smiled.

“I won’t need luck. I’ve got my girl waiting for me.”

As Charles led him down the hallways of the prison, past a sign that said “Execution Chamber”, Dick rubbed his fingers over that strip of paper again. The pictures on that strip were worn from age and being held for so long, but the images were still clear enough. And from that strip, as she had every night, Barbara Gordon smiled back at him, laughing as he held her close or kissed her cheek. Soon he wouldn’t have to just stare at a picture. He knew that in just a few minutes, he would get to see her again.

The smile on his face grew as he was led through the door and into a blinding white light.