#til my throat memorizes every vein

[yorozoha]

OH TO BE PINKO😭😭😭

[berry-potchy]

this man had me calling out to god more times in the past month and a half than the rest of my life. i'm literally not religious i just see him and moan "oh god" 💦💦💦

[imaginespazzi]

Part 3: Miss Me, Miss Me Not

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11

And it hits me when the lights go on (shit, maybe I miss you)

(In which a lazy writer somehow still manages to make her deadlines, much to her own shock)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst, Pining and a teensy bit of Fluff

Words: 5.8K

TW: Swearing (once again I think that's it?)

A/N: Hello my lovelies <3 I'm not gonna lie til about an hour ago, I very much did not think I was gonna give y'all a Monday update but here we are! A couple of housekeeping things, I went back and added months to the years so hopefully that's more helpful. I lowkey dislike this part but I felt like the fic needed it and I'm excited to write the next part. Ngl, the editing on this is pretty nonexistent because trying to read this back lowkey killed me so please feel free to point out mistakes so I can fix them. As always, let me know what you liked, and disliked and anything you wanna see going forward. I really appreciate all of y'alls feedback and the long reviews make my day! Have a good rest of your week lovies <3

September 2017

Azzi: just got home :) 

It’s a simple text and it should be easy for Paige to conjure up an equally simple reply. Instead she finds herself typing and deleting, over and over, because nothing sounds quite right. There’s this hollow feeling thrumming in her chest, that has only gotten stronger every passing minute since she’d said goodbye to Azzi at the airport. If she tries hard enough, she can still feel the remnants of their last hug lingering against every inch of her skin. She wants to memorize that feeling and create a blanket out of its threads to numb the ice cold shiver that’s been repeatedly running through her veins from the second Azzi had gotten on that plane. But even that might not be enough. Not when she’s learnt just how warm Azzi’s presence can be and how everything else pales in comparison. 

Paige lies to herself that it’s an accidental slip of her fingers, that she’d meant to press send not call, that she had every intention of hanging up the facetime on the first ring itself. 

But then Azzi picks up on the second one.

And really it would be rude to hang up. 

“Hey what’s up?” Azzi’s face fills the screen, tired eyes staring intently at Paige through the screen. 

“Oh um-” Paige fumbles for words, awkwardly shuffling her feet that are dangling off the side of her bed, “I just wanted to ask how your flight was?”

Azzi raises an eyebrow, “you couldn’t have texted me that?”

“Too tired to text,” Paige lies and the words i just wanted to hear your voice stay stuck, burning hot, in her throat, “gotta save these money-making fingers for more important things.”

“Yeah I’m hanging up-”

“NO-” it comes out far more forceful than it should and if possible, Azzi’s eyebrow shoots up even farther, as Paige clears her throat, “I mean- uh- you didn’t tell me how your flight was.”

Paige is too busy cringing at herself to notice the light blush that tinges Azzi’s cheeks. She’s too busy wondering why this girl brings out this nervous bumbling side of hers to notice the fond smile that almost cracks through Azzi’s lips. 

“The flight was okay. I actually got to sleep this time,” Azzi says pointedly and Paige laughs. 

“So what you’re saying is it was boring as hell.”

“I’m saying it was really peaceful not having someone yapping in my ear while I was trying to sleep.”

“So you didn’t miss me?” Paige presses, trying to keep her voice teasing despite how desperately she wants the admission. 

Azzi hesitates, as if she’s debating with herself, before, “I didn’t say that.”

It’s a little ridiculous how large Paige’s grin is but it’s okay, because Azzi’s smiling back, soft and shy. They’d look foolish to anyone else, the way they’re so intently gazing at each other through a screen as if there’s no barrier between them at all. 

“It’s gonna be weird going to the gym without you tomorrow morning,” Paige confesses after a second, moving to lay down on her stomach. 

“I bet. You’re gonna get absolutely nothing done without me,” Azzi teases dramatically before her eyes soften, “it’s weird that I’m not gonna see you at all tomorrow.”

There’s something gut-wrenching about that admission and yet, there’s something in it that heals a part of Paige’s heart that she hadn’t even known needed to be fixed. It means something to her that Azzi must feel it too. Because if she’s honest with herself, Paige had been just a little afraid that maybe the connection was just in her head, that maybe Azzi was simply tolerating her presence out of kindness. 

“You should just move to Minnesota,” Paige replies finally, “much nicer than Virgina or whatever.”

“Have you ever even been to Virginia?” Azzi asks, eyebrows raised as she flips herself to lie on her back, holding her phone above her in a way that lets Paige see entirely too much and yet not nearly enough. 

“No but it sounds boring as fuck.”

“Not with me,” Azzi says, biting her bottom lip sheepishly as soon as the words are out. 

Paige smirks, suddenly filled with a brand new confidence, “yeah? You’d make Virgina interesting for me Fudd? What would we do?”

Azzi licks her lips and Paige feels her mouth go dry. 

“We’d be together,” the younger girl says finally, averting her gaze as the depth of her words begin to make Paige feel like she’s being flooded by an ocean of emotions she’s not quite ready to feel yet, “anything can be interesting if we’re together.”

It would be so easy to come up with a sarcastic quip or tease Azzi for being a sap and yet there’s a certain sincerity in this moment that feels too fragile for Paige to feign nonchalance. 

“Is Virginia nice in the winter?” she asks finally, hands fidgeting with the hair ties secured around her wrist, “Minny’s a little too cold sometimes.”

Azzi’s eyes shine and Paige wants to try and read them, find the little clues hidden in her irises and solve the mystery lingering behind the crimson flush of her cheeks. But the truth is that Paige is a little scared of what she’d find, a little scared that discovering Azzi might mean discovering herself too. 

“You should come find out some time,” the brunette says, casual tone filled with intricacies of something far deeper. It’s the closest they’ve gotten to saying anything of actual substance and they tip-toe around saying what they both want, daring the other to ask first. 

“I dunno,” Paige says, determined to win the game, “I’m not in the habit of showing up to places without a proper invite.”

Azzi scoffs, “a proper invite? Are you expecting someone to send you a carrier pigeon with a gold letter addressed to her royal highness or something?”

“That would be nice,” Paige surmises and Azzi rolls her eyes.

“Does your back ever hurt from carrying that ego?”

“Only hurts from carrying my team.”

“Oh my god you’re so full of it.”

“Full of talent? Yessirrrr.”

Azzi huffs, “Paige.”

“Azzi,” Paige hums. 

“Do you wanna come visit me in Virginia during winter break?” Azzi says finally, a small smile playing on her lips like she’s okay with losing this game as long as it’s to Paige. 

“If I must,” Paige says dramatically, shrugging her shoulders and everything as Azzi lets out an offended squeak. But inside, her heart flutters at the offer, at the idea of seeing Azzi again, even if it feels like a lifetime away. Because as long as it’s Azzi on the other side, Paige and her impatient self can wait however long it takes. 

“Actually you know what nevermind, you don’t gotta come,” Azzi concedes bitterly,  scrunching her face (and Paige would never tell her this but she thinks Azzi looks just a little too cute when she’s mad and so maybe she riles her up on purpose)

“No takesies backsies Az,” Paige sing-songs before her lips uptick from a smirk into something more sincere, “hey Az,” she whispers, giggling to herself when Azzi pretends to ignore her, “I’d really like to come see you in Virginia during winter break.”

And as a brilliant grin dazzles across Azzi’s face, Paige realizes that her favorite thing about Azzi’s smile isn’t when her dimples show or when her eyes twinkle, it’s when it’s there because of Paige, when it’s there just for Paige. 

“Good,” Azzi whispers as they fall into a comfortable silence. 

There’s this serene sense of calm that laces itself around Paige’s nerves. Her normally fidgeting body is content to be perfectly still, an anomaly to her usual demeanor. The truth is that Paige isn’t the kind of person who’s okay with just existing; she likes to spend every second in motion, living out the high. There’s a part of her that’s scared of missing moments, scared that the people around her will leave her behind if she doesn’t chase them. But it’s different with Azzi. The younger girl makes Paige feel like it’s okay if she takes a moment to just breathe. Because Azzi will wait. Because Azzi won’t leave Paige behind. 

“Wait,” it’s a little while before Azzi pipes up, shaking Paige out of her thoughts, “what time is it?”

Paige’s eyes flicker to the time on her phone, confused by the line of questioning, “it’s almost 9 why?”

“Don’t you have a team party or something to go to tonight?” Azzi asks, face scrunching, “I swear you told me you had something tonight.”

“Oh-yeah- Amaya’s back to school thing,” Paige sheepishly scratches her neck, suddenly feeling itchy in her flannel shirt. She’d forgotten she was wearing that instead of her daily clothes. Hell, she’d forgotten she was supposed to be going somewhere in the first place, too occupied with other thoughts. 

“Bro get up,” Azzi orders, “you’re already late.”

“Nah it’s fine. I don’t think I’m gonna go,” Paige says and she thinks she should probably feel a little more guilty about it. 

“What do you mean you’re not gonna go?” Azzi asks in disbelief, “dude you’re the star of the team. You have to go.”

“Amaya will understand besides-” Paige drags in a deep breath, feeling vulnerable as the next words fall out in a quiet whisper, “I don’t wanna hang up yet.”

“Paige c’mon we can talk tomorrow,” Azzi tries to protest but it’s half-hearted at best.

“I wanna talk right now,” Paige argues, “you don’t wanna talk to me?”

For a second Paige thinks Azzi might just say no, might just chip away a little bit of heart with a well-intentioned rejection, but she doesn’t, “always wanna talk to you P.”

“Then don’t hang up. Talk to me.”

And Azzi does. All night. 

Two weeks laters there’s a letter, in an envelope with a picture of a carrier pigeon, that arrives in the Bueckers’ mail box. 

To her royal highness, 

Unfortunately I couldn’t find an actual carrier pigeon (I swear I tried) so this envelope and the mailman will have to do. 

~ You are formally invited this winter break to the Fudd family residence in Virginia. ~

(And you better show up Bueckers)

Yours, 

Azzi

February 2033

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me,” Ice whines petulantly as she makes herself comfortable on the couch across from where Paige is getting her makeup done, “this is parental neglect.”

Paige laughs, eyes closed, her makeup artist does her mascara, “you’ll survive.”

“You don’t know that” Ice argues, plucking a grape from the fruit basket before segueing into a rant about how boring Arlington, Texas is. 

Paige is grateful for the distraction her younger friend is providing. Her nerves had been on edge since the moment she’d woken up this morning, anxious to get the impending farewell press conference over with. She’d already started accepting that the Wings weren’t the right place for her but that feeling had only been heightened by her trip to the Valkyries. And ever since she’s come back, Paige feels a little bit like she’s sleepwalking through her final moments in Dallas. If she’s honest, she’s probably rushing things a little bit. There’s still plenty of time before she really has to move to Oakland but it had been her choice to move there as soon as possible. Paige had always been good at conjuring excuses and she had plenty as to why she needed to be in California so soon. But at the end of the day it isn’t about training or team bonding or any of the other hundred justifications she’s given anyone who’s asked. It’s about a little girl who’s eyes had been brimming with tears when saying goodbye, a little girl who had made Paige pinky swear that she’d be back as soon as possible. 

Really, Paige thinks she should be applauded for her restraint, because truth be told, the second Stephie’s lower lip had trembled, Paige had been prepared to ask Ice to just ship her stuff to Oakland so that she’d never have to let go of the little girl’s hand. 

And here’s the thing, Paige is willing to admit she wants to go back to the Bay Area for Stephie. It’s that pesky little part of her that’s desperate to go back for Stephie’s mother, to go back for one more hesitant yet lingering touch, that she won’t ever share with anyone else. 

“I never thought I’d live to see you and Azzi willingly playing together again,” Ice says as soon as Paige’s makeup artist leaves the room, “KK and I didn’t even try betting on it, we were that sure it wouldn’t happen. Shit I should have. I totally would have won.”

“Don’t y’all get tired of betting on my life?” Paige asks, rolling her eyes, trying to ignore the first part of what Ice said. 

“Betting on your life has made me hundreds of dollars bro,” Ice says, before a more earnest  look crosses her face, “but genuinely P, are you sure about this? There’s a lot of history there.”

Paige sighs, “it’s not about our history. It’s a basketball decision. And we’re both mature adults who know that. I’m just tryna win. Nothing else.”

“It’s never nothing when it comes to you two.”

“It is this time,” Paige argues adamantly and Ice raises her hands in surrender. 

“I just don’t want another set of teammates to have to deal with y’alls bullshit,” the younger girl teases, but it’s laced with a hint of seriousness that sends a flare of guilt shooting through Paige’s body. 

“Ice-” she begins.

But Ice is quick to change to a lighter subject, “can’t believe Jana’s the one that gets mom and dad back together. I always knew she was the favorite.”

“We didn’t have favorites,” Paige plays along, thankful for Ice and her ability to always keep the tension to a bare minimum. 

“Oh don’t lie. We all know you did,” Ice scoffs and then lets out a chuckle, “and now Azzi’s actually a mom. That’s kinda insane. And you met the kid right?”

“Yeah. Yeah I did,” Paige says and she can’t help the way her entire face breaks into a gleaming smile as her thoughts turn into memories of Stephie. She doesn’t even realize she’s gotten lost in a different world until Ice coughs, an amused grin playing on her lips. 

“You’re so royally fucked Paige,” Ice shakes her head, “the only person I’ve seen you smile that big for before is Azzi.”

“She’s a cute, smart, adorable kid, that’s why I’m smiling,” Paige tries to defend herself. 

“She’s Azzi’s cute, smart, adorable kid,” Ice counters. 

“That has nothing to do with it,” Paige protests again but it rings hollow to her own ears.

“Oh my god I needa call KK and get this bet started. It’s only a matter of time for real,” Ice says, more to herself than to Paige, as she whips out her phone, probably texting KK. 

“A matter of time till what?”

“You’ll find out Paigey,” Ice says gravely with a mocking smile, patting Paige’s head, “all in due time.”

***

The Dallas Wings media room is buzzing, reporters desperate to ask Paige questions and the blonde tries to maintain a smile despite the fact that her heart is lurching in her throat right now. Her opening speech had been short and sweet, parroting basically the same thing that had gone out on her social media the night before; she’d been desperate to just get it out. Generally, Paige is pretty good with the media, having been immersed in the spotlight since basically forever. The attention and how to maneuver it has always come naturally to her so she’s not sure why she feels so unnerved by it all today.  From the back of the media room, Ice sends her a thumbs up and a reassuring grin and Paige lets out a breath, glad to have at least that comforting presence with her. 

“Aidrian Ginsburger with Bleacher Report, Paige, you’ve obviously spent all of your career so far with the Wings, can you tell us a little bit about the impact this organization has had on you?”

Paige smiles at the question, letting her brain skim through pages and pages of fond memories she has of time spent with this team. It might be time to move on but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have plenty of cherished moments. 

“Yeah um- this place has really shaped who I am as a person. Since day one, the front office, obviously it’s a different one to the one I came in with, they did a lot to make sure that I was comfortable. My teammates through the years have been incredible and I wouldn’t be the player I am today without them. And of course the fans you know, they always showed out for the team, for me. Always supported me in anyways and I hope that I was able to give back the love to them that they always gave to me,” she says, suddenly nostalgic for the team that had started it all. 

The next questions are similar in nature and Paige’s answer varies only in words but not substance. She feels herself start to settle into it, now fielding the expected questions about the Wings and Valkyries with an air of confidence. There are a couple questions about Azzi that make her heart thump, but that was to be expected. It’s a pretty brilliant story in the making, two MVPs who used to play on the same college team coming together. Talia had warned Paige in advance that there was no avoiding it. But for the most part the questions have an easy answer about how Azzi’s a brilliant player and she’s excited to play with her old friend again. That is until a familiar hand shoots up and all the tension that had previously dissipated, comes roaring back with a vengeance. 

“Olivia Reynolds with the Dallas Morning News, Paige, as others have said today, you and Azzi Fudd played together at UConn and you were best friends.” Olivia’s eyes glint viciously, “I mean it’s pretty well documented how hard you tried to recruit her to UConn. But despite being best friends, the two of you have been never seen hanging out, outside of games and formal events, unlike your other teammates that is-”

“Is there a point to this?” Paige asks, hands fisting in her lap as she tries to keep herself calm. 

Olivia smiles, sugary sweet, “I was just wondering if maybe there was some tension and how that would affect your on-court chemistry at the Valkyries?”

“There’s no tension,” Paige lies through gritted teeth, “we didn’t hang out because we live far apart. There isn’t much else to it. And even if there was, Azzi and I are professionals. We wouldn’t let anything off the court affect our goal to win.”

“You lived far apart before UConn too, but that didn’t seem to stop you guys. What changed?” Olivia presses.

“Time did. Our lives did. There’s nothing sensational here. It’s just a case of two people drifting apart,” Paige says and the fabrication feels heavy on her tongue. If only it really had been that simple. 

“But clearly not that much,” Olivia says, and Paige glances at the moderator, desperate for an intervention, “there were plenty of fan pictures of the two of you out getting ice cream with Azzi’s daughter. It seems like you’re already fitting into that Bay Area life-”

“I’m not hearing a question at the end of your sentence,” Paige hisses and she can practically already hear the scolding she’s going to get from Talia once her agent gets wind of how this press conference had gone. The entire media cohort is watching the exchange with wide eyes, no doubt questioning whether they were embarrassed or impressed by their colleague. Ice is mouthing something to Paige, probably something along the lines of please keep your shit together, but Paige is steaming. Really, she should have expected this. 

“Well if you’d let me finish,” Olivia snarls, the façade of innocence dropping, “even if the two of you have drifted, as you put it, clearly there’s still a relationship there. How big of a role did Azzi Fudd play in your choice to move to the Valkyries?”

Paige sucks in a deep breath, nails digging into her palm at the question, “Azzi is the best shooting guard in the country. That was her role in my decision to move to the Valkyries. I don’t know what else you’re trying to imply, but I want to play with her because we play well together. That’s it,” she stands up and there’s pin drop silence, “thank you all for coming but we’re done with this press conference. 

***

Paige is seething as she exits the media room, Ice hot on her heels trying to calm her down. The sane part of her knows she should head back to the makeup room or even to her car, instead she finds her feet carrying her in the direction of where she knows Olivia Reynolds will be, reviewing her press conference notes by the coffee machine like she always is. 

“What the actual fuck was that?” Paige spits as she comes to a halt in front of the reporter. 

“I know you think playing basketball is the only job in the world Paige, but that was a reporter doing her job,” Olivia says, her calm and composed voice only furthering Paige’s irritation. 

“Bull-fucking-shit.” Paige sneers, “that wasn’t a reporter out there, that was my ex-wife grilling me like we were back in fucking divorce court.”

Olivia cocks her head, “oh so you do remember who I am to you then?”

“Oliv-”

“Because if you did remember, I’d like to think you’d have the courtesy to at least personally tell me that you were moving to your,” she drops her voice, “ex-girlfriend’s team instead of letting me find out with the rest of the world. You don’t think you owed me that?”

“That’s what this is about?” Paige sighs, “Olivia we’ve been divorced for almost three years now, I don’t owe you-”

“You didn’t owe Azzi anything either,” Olivia whisper-yells, the calm in her voice replaced by the same anger that had tainted the last year of their marriage, “but when we first started dating, you kept us a secret for months. You wouldn’t even tell your fucking teammates cause you were so scared she’d find out,” her eyes drift towards Ice who looks like she wishes she’d made a different decision rather than following Paige out here, “you said she deserved to hear it from you but apparently I don’t-’

“I didn’t mean it like that Olivia. Look, I meant what I said up there. There’s nothing between- ”

“Spare me,” Olivia says, as she stuffs her notepad into her bag, “you can lie to all those other reporters out there about how all of this is a basketball decision. You can even lie to yourself if you want. But you can’t lie to me, not when I spent four years fighting to keep our relationship from getting crushed under whatever it is that Azzi is to you.”

***

It doesn’t matter how far Paige burrows her head into her pillows, she can’t seem to stop herself from hearing Olivia’s words reverberating through her ears. The two of them had done well at co-existing in their social circles after the divorce had been finalized. While no one could quite call them friends, they’d done a good job at being friendly, being able to converse and share an occasional drink when in their combined friend group. And if Paige is honest, she knows she’s fucked up, knows she probably did owe Olivia a call. But calling Olivia would have meant calling someone who would inevitably make Paige face the truth, just like she had today. The truth that, even with the deal Talia had concocted with the Liberty hanging in the background like a dark presence, the move to the Valkyries was about a lot more than just basketball for Paige. 

She’s so entrenched in her thought that she doesn’t bother checking who it is when the facetime rings, irritation seeping into her voice as she answers it, face still buried in her pillows, “WHAT?”

“Miss Buecks?” a tiny voice comes through the phone and for a second, Paige thinks she must be dreaming, until she finally lifts her head to look at her phone, and Stephie’s small face lights up the whole screen. And it’s like she can feel little hands on her shoulders, slowly unknotting her tightened muscles. 

“Stephie,” she breathes out, a sudden sense of serene calm washing over her previously tense body. 

“Hi Miss Buecks,” Stephie says happily before she squints at the screen, “you sleep weird.”

Paige laughs, “and why’s that?”

“You’re not wearing pajamas and it’s only seven. ‘Dults don’t sleep at seven,” Stephie says matter-of-factly. 

“It’s actually nine here,” Paige says, a little surprised by the time; she hadn’t realized she'd been moping in her bed for that long. Ice had forced her to get lunch together, not wanting to leave Paige alone after the encounter with Olivia. Once she’d finally gotten back to her apartment, Paige had flopped on her bed, taking out her frustrations on her poor pillow. 

“That’s not poss-ble,” Stephie scrunches her face, “Mama’s phone says it’s seven.”

“It’s seven in California, it’s nine in Texas,” Paige tries to explain though by the way Stephie’s looking at her, she thinks she’s probably just confusing the girl more, “how’d you figure out how to call me babe?”

Stephie gives her an exasperated look, “Miss Buecks I’m five. I know how to use facetime.”

“And does your Mama know you're facetiming me?” Paige asks, eyebrows raised.

“She’s in the shower,” Stephie whispers, grinning sheepishly. 

As if on cue, Azzi appears on the corner of the screen and Paige feels her mouth run dry. The darker skinned woman is clad in a light pink fluffy bathrobe that ends right above her knees, giving Paige the perfect view of her long, toned legs that seem to shimmer despite the shitty quality of the facetime. Rivulets of water cling to her neck, delicately cascading down the valley of her breasts before disappearing from sight. And Paige must be dehydrated because never has she wanted to taste a drop of liquid more than she does right now. 

“Stephie,” Azzi groans, as she walks towards the phone and Paige gulps, heart beating faster with every step the other woman takes, everything about her becoming clearer and clearer, “what did I say about using my phone.”

“Only in em-a-gencies,” Stephie recites, “but Mama I had an em-a-gency.”

Azzi tilts her head, eyebrows raised as she gives her daughter a knowing look, “and what was your emergency?”

“I really, really, really, this much” Stephie stretches out her hands as far as they’ll go,  really, really, really, miss Miss Buecks.”

Paige feels her heart flutter. Stephie’s words feel like a hand carefully pulling her out from under the pile of stress she’d been buried under the whole day. It’s like the little girl is pushing away the rubble pressing against her lungs, turning the rocks into dust with a light touch and Paige feels like she can finally breathe. 

“Sounds like a pretty big emergency to me,” she says, relishing the way Stephie’s face lights up at the admission, “cause I really, really, really miss you too Steph.”

“See Mama,” Stephie says, placing the phone against a wall so can place her hands on her hips and look up at Azzi with a pleased smirk. 

Azzi rolls her eyes before glaring at Paige, “you’re a bad influence on her.”

“I’m the best influence on her,” Paige argues, sending Stephie a conspiratorial wink, “just you wait Az, I’mma teach her all the good things.”

Something unreadable flashes across Azzi’s face before she’s back to looking at Paige with an unimpressed arched eyebrow, “I am not letting you corrupt my daughter Paige Bueckers.”

“We’ll see,” Paige says slowly and Azzi shakes her head before turning to Stephie. 

“Alright Stephie bean time to go brush your teeth. It’s almost bedtime babes,” she says with a stern look 

“But Mama-”

“No arguing, you have school tomorrow missy,” Azzi reminds the little girl and Paige can’t help but marvel at the mother that Azzi’s become. And it makes her heart ache for the fantasies she’d dreamed of when she was in her early twenties. She’d always known Azzi would be a great mother; Paige had just naively thought she’d be there alongside her too. 

“Can Miss Buecks stay on the phone till I fall asleep?” Stephie asks, peering up at Azzi with big doe eyes, “please Mama pleeeease.”

“I’m sure Miss Buecks has other things-”

“I don’t,” Paige cuts in far too enthusiastically, clearing her throat to get back some semblance of restraint as both mother and daughter turn to look at each other, “I don’t have anything to do tonight so I can stay till you fall asleep Stephie.”

“YAYY,” Stephie cheers enthusiastically while Azzi studies her with a weary look, “I’m gonna go brush my teeth and then you can read me, my story Mama.”

With that, the little girl runs in the direction of what Paige can only assume is the bathroom, skipping with childlike joy as she sing-songs about something Paige can’t quite make out. 

“You know you don’t have to say yes to everything she asks right?” Azzi says slowly as she grabs her phone and sits on the couch. 

Paige shrugs, “I have time to stay.”

“Do you?” Azzi asks skeptically, “because from what I heard the Wings are having a little farewell party tonight, for you.”

Paige narrows her eyes, “and how exactly did you hear that?”

“I have connections.”

“You talked to Ice.”

“I talked to Ice,” Azzi concedes, “and I’m pretty sure you’re already an hour or so late for it.”

“Exactly. I’m already an hour late so why bother,” Paige says, sitting up so she can rest head against her headboard, “why were you talking to Ice?”

“I can’t talk to my friend?” Azzi asks slowly. 

“Of course you can but why specifically today?” Paige presses 

Azzi bites her lip, “I um- I watched your press conference today. You uh-” she averts her gaze, “you seemed really stressed at the end and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

A soft grin upturns Paige’s lips before she can stop it, “were you worried for me Fudd?”

“That’s not-” Azzi groans, “shut up.”

Paige smirks, “you were worried for me.”

“I was concerned for my future teammate," Azzi huffs, “besides,” her face hardens, “she was way out of line.”

Paige sighs at the implied mention of Olivia, “maybe but maybe I deserved it.”

“No you didn’t,” Azzi protests and that oh so familiar protective tone in her voice carves itself into every crevice of Paige’s heart, “no one deserves to be put on the spot like that. She was being unethical trying to dig into your personal life like that.”

“This is nice,” Paige says softly, unable to help herself. 

“What is?” 

“Seeing you get all defensive over me. It's nice to see you still care. I didn’t know if you still did.”

Azzi’s quiet for a second, gnawing at her bottom lip as she looks at Paige, “I’ve always cared Paige. And-” she hesitates as the tightrope beneath them wavers, “I’m always gonna care.”

There’s years worth of unsaid words lingering in the silence between them as they breach some unspoken rule they’d both inadvertently agreed to. And they both know that they shouldn’t be saying things like this to each other, that they’re teetering on the edge of falling into an abyss that has nothing but destruction at the bottom. But Azzi’s words feel like sunshine, like heat waves across her skin and Paige is so tired of feeling cold. 

Before either of them can say another word, Stephie comes back into the room, crawling into Azzi’s lap.

“I’m back,” she beams, completely unaware of the way the two adults are scrambling to act normal around her. 

“Here baby,” Azzi hands the phone to Stephie, “take Miss Buecks to your room. Mama’s gonna go change and then she’ll come read to you okay?”

“‘Kay Mama,” Stephie complies, pressing a soft kiss to Azzi’s cheek before running towards her room. For a second Paige’s screen is blurred in motion until Stephie fixes her again and Paige catches a glimpse of Stephie’s room, specifically the walls that are painted the perfect shade of Valkyrie purple. 

“I love your walls Stephie,” she compliments.

“They’re pu-ple,” Stephie exclaims, “that’s my favorite color.”

“First the ice-cream, now the color, you’re stealing all of my favorites kid,” Paige teases but she’s secretly pleased by this revelation. It’s dangerous how fast Stephie’s starting to whittle down Paige’s walls and build herself a permanent shelf in Paige’s cabinet of my people. 

“Can I tell you a secret Miss Buecks,” Stephie whispers, bringing her lips closer to the phone. 

Paige smiles, “of course you can.”

“I think Mama misses you too,” Stephie says softly and Paige feels her heart catch in her throat, “I heard her tell Nanna on the phone.”

“Can I tell you a secret Stephie?” Paige lowers her voice, leaning into her phone. 

“‘Course you can Miss Buecks.”

Paige swallows as the admission falls from her lips, “I really miss your Mama too.”

I miss her always and I think I’ll miss her forever. 

“What are you the two of you whispering about,” Azzi’s voice cuts in as she tucks herself next to Stephie, a children’s book in her hand. 

“Nothing Mama,” Stephie says immediately, winking at Paige through the phone. 

“Yeah,” Paige echoes, ignoring her erratic heartbeat, “nothing Azzi.”

Azzi looks between the both of them, clearly aware she’s being left out of something, but doesn’t push further. Instead she flips open the book, pulls Stephie closer into her arms and starts reading. If anyone were to ask Paige later, she wouldn’t have the faintest idea about a single word in that damn book. Because as Azzi’s soothing voice begins to lull Stephie to sleep, and the younger girl, despite her yawns, holds the phone up so the blonde can be included in every second of it, Paige feels herself being pulled into a dream she has no right to dream. She dreams of being in Stephie’s purple bedroom. She dreams of her and Azzi lying against Stephie’s lilac bedspread, their hands entwined in the middle over Stephie’s little body. She dreams of a forever that she’d long forsaken.

[odetolove]

til my throat memorizes every vein

[aftonfamilyvalues]

there was a saying i heard once that i feel i can relate back to my current situation. it went, "til my throat memorizes every vein"

[omgreally]

I’ve been reading mandos intergalactic taxi service and UGH✨💕 the pining and fluff with the intimacy smut is just chefs kiss your writing style is amazing🤌🏽✨ I’ve been in such a Din mood lately, could your write like a confession drabble where the reader and din are pining for each other and din is dropping hints but the reader is like really not a hint taker lol pretty please with a cherry on top 😭💕 smut or fluff your choice I know you’d write it so well!!

BLESS YOUR HEART @liltangerineart and thank you! Next chapter of Taxi Service should be up tomorrow I hope!

In the meantime I hope you like this? Not a confession as such and more, uh, top!Mando than I intended, but he is bad at dropping hints. I like to think he would be very...straightforward 😎

Din Djarin/F!Reader - E - 1624 words - Oblivious!Reader, Infatuated!Din, frustrated yearning, angst and, of course, smut.

It's getting ridiculous.

He is a Mandalorian, one of the most fabled, the most feared warriors in the galaxy. Rumour and danger follow him as he charts a path through the galaxy that blazes bright, leaving behind myth and legend - people whispering things like 'I heard he killed a whole troop with his hands tied' and 'I heard he was eight feet tall, made of steel'.

He is a Mandalorian, who has never had to rely on anybody but himself - and yet here he is, sweating beneath his cowl whenever you brush too close, trying too hard to inhale the scent of you through his helmet's filters, memorizing the sound of your laugh.

It's like he's a foundling again - uncertain, insecure, nervous. And they’re not butterflies in the pit of his stomach - they’re bullets from an ancient slugthrower weapon, and he can taste metal at the back of his tongue whenever he tries to talk to you.

“Do you have someone, back home?” A clumsy overture, as obvious as it is stupid; Din winces beneath the helm but you don’t seem to notice - you just shake your head and shrug.

“No. Just me. I wouldn’t have left otherwise.” Loyal, he thinks, and the bullets in his stomach sting just that little bit harder.

He tries asking you more about yourself. How you became a bounty hunter. How many weapons you’ve handled. The different kinds of ships you’ve flown. Places you’ve been. But you never give up anything truly personal about yourself - you’re a cypher.

Maybe that’s why the Mandalorian finds himself strangely drawn to you.

He doesn’t know how to navigate this - not really. He has no experience with this kind of thing. It’s always been about the next quarry, the next job, and then it was about the kid, and now…

And now he’s stuck.

He wants to hit something, break something, feel the impact of his fists against flesh and bone. He settles for balling them up whenever you’re around, biting his tongue, and waiting til later to jerk himself off in pathetic, clench-jawed silence in the refresher.

“You slept late,” you point out the next morning as he emerges, stiff in more than one way, from his bunk.

“Couldn’t sleep last night,” he says, and he’s so tired, so frustrated that he adds, gruffly: “Bed was too empty.”

“Probably need more pillows,” you muse as you wander off to the kitchenette. “Cup of caf?”

“Extra strong,” he grunts as he leans a shoulder to the wall, and you’re oblivious to his glower.

“Coming right up.” A minute later, you press a mug into his hand. “I’ll leave you to it. No need to go hide, I’ll go find a bulkhead to look at while you take your helmet off.”

You grin at him, and he stares at you. You’re just about to turn away when he reaches up, and you go still, your smile slackening in shock as he thumbs the release latch under his chin.

The helm’s pneumatic seal hisses as it lifts, just enough so he can get the rim of his mug up and to his lips. He takes a long, slow pull, and while his vision is eclipsed by the rim of the helmet at the moment, he knows you haven’t left.

As he expects, you’re still there - staring at him as he lowers his helm back into place. Your mouth is even slightly open - lips parted - and he watches the dart of your tongue as you wet them before swallowing hard.

“I’m just...I’m just gonna,” you say, abortingly, and start to back away. You jump as your shoulder hits the hatchway. Din watches as you turn, hesitate, then hurry away, your shoulders squared defensively as if you can feel the force of his gaze on your back.

Alone, the taste of caf hot and bitter on his tongue, Din Djarin grins.

After that, he starts to notice. He starts to notice how tense you are when he’s close.

At first he’s not sure - but then, once, he deliberately brushes your waist as he moves past you in the cockpit to take the pilot’s seat, and you’re still standing there, frozen, when he glances back at you. You brush it off, but it happens again when you bump into him coming out of the fresher. When he reaches over your head in the kitchenette to fetch a ration bar from a compartment. When you lean over his shoulder to point out the coordinates to a refueling station. When he catches you yawning, falling asleep in the passenger’s seat.

“I’m going to hit my bunk,” you say, rising to your feet, your arms stretched above your head. Din turns slowly, and he catches the glimpse of a sliver of flesh as your shirt rides up. The words escape him before he’s even conscious of their existence.

“Want some company?”

Dank farrik, he’s been dropping hints and touches for ages - and he knows you’re affected by his presence, he’s sure of it now. They might be closer to butterflies for you, but his bullets are bouncing around in his gut right now.

“What?” you ask, half-laughing - as if it’s all some grand joke. “You gotta stop with the innuendo, Mando. I might get the wrong idea.”

“And if it’s not innuendo?” He’s flicked the ship to auto-pilot - on his feet - looming towards you. You’re caught in the hatchway, unable to step backwards to fall down the ladder, unwilling to turn your back. "If you've got the right idea?"

“What?” you repeat - licking your lips again. Your eyes are flicking back and forth from his visor to his hands. It’s almost like you're expecting a fight.

“I want to fuck you.”

The words are matter-of-fact but delivered in a low baritone, a gravelly rasp that lifts the hairs on the back of your neck. You stop breathing for a second - he can see it - and your leg twitches, just half a step backward - but then you swing it forward again, swaying towards him. Like he has you in his gravitational pull.

It’s all Din needs. He closes the distance between you, his gloved hands closing around your biceps, the leather worn and warm through your shirt.

He says your name, once, in a digital growl that curls your toes in your boots. And then it’s like an explosion - it all happens so quickly; there are hands and clothes everywhere and then on the deck, and in the aftermath you are in the Mandalorian’s arms, naked, your legs around his waist as he presses you up against the bulkhead.

His chestplate hits the deck - his flak jacket lifted above his head when you let him stop touching you long enough. You barely have time to appreciate the feel of his naked hands on your skin, cupping your breasts in his broad, smooth palms, thumbing your nipples all-too-briefly before he’s sliding down the zipper of his flight suit and baring a V of muscled flesh all the way to his groin.

“Mando,” you gasp as he frees his cock, as he maneuvers the throbbing, purpled head to drag through your slit. He finds you open and wet, lips parted for him, and he groans as he nudges against your fluttering hole. He doesn't hesitate.

He pushes in slow, for he’s a lot to take, thick and hard and the stretch is almost too much. You whine, your voice high and tight in your throat, and he soothes you with soft little noises and praise that makes you feel light-headed.

“Shhh, that’s it,” “You’re so fucking tight-” “Made to take my cock, mesh’la" and other words you don’t recognize. Eventually, he’s all the way inside you, his pelvis flush to yours, the scratch of hair at his pubic bone pressing into your mound.

You pant in his arms, eyes squeezed shut, a thin resin of sweat risen on your brow. “Move,” you order through clenched teeth, and finally you open your eyes to meet his visor and demand, “Fuck me, Mando.”

And he does - withdrawing his hips from the welcoming cradle of yours, his cock dragging back through you, and you can feel every ridge and vein before he’s spearing back in, jarring your back against the bulkhead. It’s a shock right through your system, and you can feel adrenaline flooding your veins, your blood pumping faster like you’re fighting for your life. You might as well be, for he does it again, and again, and soon he’s setting a punishing pace that hits against something soft and devastating deep inside you.

Your orgasm hits you like a blow you fail to dodge - winding you, knocking the air from your lungs - and for a moment all that matters is the blinding flash of pleasure through your nerves, the rolling wave that makes your cunt flutter in rippling spasms around the pulsing rod of his cock. He pins your hips with another vicious rut of his hips and then he’s coming, too, releasing into the impossible grip of your body, groaning with every spurt of spend he fills you with.

“Fuck,” Din summarizes, once you both can catch your breath - once your legs start to loosen, jelly-weak as he pulls out gently, lowering your feet back to the ground. He’s suddenly nervous - worried he’s fucked this up, done the wrong thing, lost patience and paid for it with your scorn.

But your smile is brilliant as you beam up at him - your face radiant - flushed and sweaty. You are beautiful.

“Next time, don't waste time dropping hints,” you tell him, and then you reassure him with a laugh, and the wonderful feeling of your arms around his neck.

For a while, he just holds you close. And for a while, the bullets in his stomach are gone.

[endeavours-firey-pubes]

Selfish intentions.

Warnings: dirty talk, mild slut shaming, fucking in someone else's bedroom, Dom Deku, mentions of panty stealing. NSFW. This is just fucking filth. I did this in basically a quirkless college au so all characters are 18+ aged. Thanks. This is also like 1000 words.

Maybe this was a bad, bad idea. Could you bring yourself to care? Not at all. Not when Izuku Midoriya so eagerly buried his tongue in your dripping pussy, sucking hard at your clit while two of his thick fingers worked open your cunt. Vaguely, you wondered if by the time you were done Katsuki would know you both came on his sheets.

Your hand tangled in Izuku's thick hair, making him moan when you tugged from the scalp. The noise causes your clit to twitch against his tongue from the zap of pleasure it caused. Fuck, why was he so damn good at this? You looked down, watching as he lost himself in your taste, his hips grinding against the sheets of the mattress that were clearly neither of yours. God you could cum right then, knowing your juices stained his face and the sheets below you.

Being in a place you weren't supposed to be in made it so much hotter.

Inwardly Izuku was almost mush, he loved eating you out already but knowing that it was him who was making you feel this way and only him drove it home. He supposed he shouldn't be this petty, after all it's not like he could truly blame Katsuki for his panty thieving but...you were HIS girlfriend and part of him was pissed off that Katsuki had the audacity to even think of you sexually, to think about touching you at all. He resolved, if Kacchan didn't get this fucking hint, if you'd let him he'd fuck you in front of him.

After all, Kacchan had to learn his place; but for right now he was focused on you. Tracing the letters of his name on your clit as his fingers crooked up to hit that spongy spot inside you that had him crying out his name and pulling his hair. He ignored his throbbing length in the confines of his sweatpants in order to properly please you, tasting the sweetness of your release was always his favorite part. He could almost taste how close you were, feeling how your walls fluttered against his fingers as your cries rose in pitch.

His name fell off your lips like prayers in a church and his eyes fluttered when he tasted all you had to offer, lewd slurping noises coming from tasting the sweetness of your cum making it hard for you to think. When he pulled away you could only whine in protest, almost pouting as he took your shaky legs off his shoulders.

“Turn over, hike up that pretty little ass for me princess.” His voice seemed raspier, darker than you were used to as you obeyed his command, yelping when smacked your ass. The sting of it felt good on your heated flesh.

“Good girl, you're already a mess and I've barely started.” You could feel his grin as you hear rustling clothes before feeling his cock head slide between your dripping folds, he was fucking teasing you.  A mewl leaves your lips and you arch deeply, inviting him to slide into you but he continues his teasing instead. Finding your sweet whines and moans intoxicating to his ears and his ego, you're begging for him.

“P-please Izuku, please stop teas- oh!” Your pleads were clipped short as he slid his thick cock home inside you with one thrust. Your ass hitting his thighs with a soft smack. You moaned, you could never get used to how his cock stretched you out. You could feel how every delicious ridge and vein dragged against the walls of your cunt with even the slightest movement. He let himself be still for a moment, his hands rubbing your hips to let you adjust a tad before he started his thrusts.

He was driving you insane, the ridges of his cock dragged against your walls with every slow, mind numbing thrust he made. It felt like he was trying to memorize every inch of your walls he could explore but it was too slow, making your body hot with the need to be fucked like the dirty slut you are. You could tell this was on purpose, Izuku was always a wretched tease when it came down to it. One more pleasurable but oh so slow thrust made you snap at him.

Looking back at him you glared, “Fuck me like you fucking mean it or maybe I'll kick you out and wait for Bakug- OH.” Your words got cut off as a squeal like moan left your lips, Izuku starting a punishing pace as he pushed your head down to the sheets. His movements rougher than you were used to from him, more dominant.

“He couldn't fuck you good as me anyway.” He rasped, fucking into you harder with every word. His hand on the small of your back to keep you arched for him, his other hand gripping your hip. “Look at you, a fucking mess on my cock. Pussy fucking dripping so much I can feel it on my thighs.” You whimpered, not used to how crude he was being, the words making your ears burn but you loved them.

“I'm making you gush more than he could ever dream of and that's the point.” His hand that was on the small of your back crept up to your hair, pulling hard enough to make your back bow, head up and mouth open in a gasp. “You're mine and I'm gonna leave his sheets a mess with the fucking proof that you're mine.” The low tone of his voice sent shots of pleasure right to your core, a wet squelching sound echoing in the small dormitory from just how wet you were and how hard he was fucking you.

“Don't be afraid to make a mess on my cock, on the sheets, cause I'm gonna fuck you til you're squirting all over them.” The hand that was on your hip left to press against your throat, squeezing at it just enough to make your vision blur.

“He'll like it anyway. Since the fucking pervert steals your panties, I'm gonna make sure your juices even stain his pillow.” If you could see Izuku, you'd have seen the feral glint in his eyes as he sped up his thrusts. Determined to fuck you into an oblivious, incoherent mess while he had the time.

Katsuki had returned late in the night to his dorm, wrinkling his nose slightly when he opened the door at the smell of what seemed like sex. He looked around, brows furrowed in slow building anger but everything looked the same. Except one thing, a pair of very familiar red laced panties rested, soiled on his desk. There was a note with them that said enjoy and he recognized that it was the shitty nerds handwriting.

“Fucking Deku.” He rasped, trying to ignore the fact that his cock stirred in his gym shorts.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Daniel Michaelson’s Story: Nate Vandrum, Two Years Before Daniel

(this is late for @whumptober2019 - it was planned for Day 18, Muffled Scream - but hey, it’s fun, so I’m posting it. This is Nate Vandrum, the Denners’ prior whumpee and Daniel Michaelson’s eventual savior of sorts, during his initial captivity when both twins are alive. TW/SW: knives, blood, abusive behavior, the Denners are awful)

Ashley’s sitting on his lap, facing him with her arms around his neck, crossed at the wrists just behind his head. She is close, so close her eerily pretty face takes up his entire field of vision. Slightly narrowed eyes, upswept at the corners and oddly feline, high cheekbones, wide mouth, white-blonde hair and eyebrows that seem sometimes to nearly disappear against equally-white skin.

The spitting image of her brother, nearly identical - but colder.

"You could have more scars," She murmurs in a voice like velvet soaked in whiskey, and as she leans in he turns his head to the side, looking away from her, trying to find a spot on the wall he can stare at instead.

Looking away is the best he can do. He has spent hours memorizing every mark on the walls while they turn him into someone other than who he used to be.

"Oh, Nate. Don't be so rude." She rolls her hips forward so they press against his, and he swallows hard at the way it doesn’t feel that bad at all. "You know the rules, don't you?"

There are so many rules.

Never pull away from Ashley or Abraham Denner. Never reject a touch. Never ask why. Say thank you for every gift you are given, and remember that every breath is a gift we give you now. Do whatever you are told to do, as soon as you are told. 

Take each bruise, each bleeding wound, with gratitude.

Be our pet.

Fall in love.

He'd like to pretend they cannot force the last one on him, but Bram has been gone all day and Nate misses him - his touch, even the bruising ones, his kiss, his everything.

He'd been with them for years, and somewhere in there - somewhere between the pain and the things they do to him and the way they hold him afterward - his deep abiding hatred and urge to escape have been twisted, broken, reshaped.

Ashley he cannot be forced to love, but that's not what she wants, anyway. 

Only Bram wants his love. 

Ashley just wants his obedience and fear, and those are so much easier to give.

He slowly turns his head back to face her, jaw locked tightly, feeling the ring they put through his lip on one side shifting.

When his green eyes meet her blue, she laughs, a soft low sound from deep in her chest. "Fuck, that's so good to watch. Are you going to admit I’m right now? Hm? My Brammie won't be home til late, it's just… you and me and this argument we don’t have to be having."

Nate can feel the blade in her hand graze, gentle as a kiss, against the back of his neck. He does not stiffen up or go tense - never pull away from the Denners - and Ashley never lets the edge of a blade touch someone accidentally. 

This is how she is choosing to touch him, and he has to accept it, even if it hurts.

Especially when it hurts.

“I’m not having an argument,” He says, feeling the blade move a little, the softest kiss of sharpness, around the side, up and down the line of the vein in the side of his neck, not quite cutting, not yet. Then over his Adam’s apple, smiling at him as he swallows hard and the blade pricks, just the slightly bit.

“What are you doing, then?” Her voice is a purr, a rumble in her chest. 

“Not having an argument.” Nate fixes his eyes on hers, tries to look unintimidated, like the person he maybe used to be. “You’re just wrong.”

She lets the blade slice, just the barest bit, and Nate hisses air through his teeth, picturing the droplet of bright red welling up. She darts her head forward and he feels the wet press of her tongue as she licks it up. He used to get nauseous at that feeling. Now he feels nothing at all. “You don’t get to tell us we’re wrong. God damn do I love it when your blood is hot.”

She is playing with him, of course - this is a game. Ashley Denner has always been a cat and Nathaniel Vandrum little more than the mouse she is not allowed to consume, because her twin brother loves him and has declared he gets to live.

If he stays relaxed, if he looks bored, she might get bored, too, and walk away. Maybe. 

She might decide to slice the collar again, the cuts in smooth lines that go around and around his neck but never too deep. If she does that, he must hold still. For every flinch or noise he makes, she’ll wind the knife another time.

He is very good at holding still for Ashley’s knife, now.

Never reject a touch.

She is safer when Bram’s home, because Bram loves him, and he hurts Nate because he loves him, because he has to be fixed, made better. If he’s good, if he does what he’s told to do, Bram won’t hurt him very much at all.

This relationship only works if you understand your place, Nate. You're my pet and I love you - we’re going to be together forever. But if you don’t understand that you belong to me, then I’ll have to break up with you, and then you’ll have to die.

Bram loves him, and he wants to keep Nate as a pet forever, and there are moments when Nate forgets who he is.

He was a professor, back home. He had a whole life before he met them. 

Some days, it’s hard to remember that - and in those moments, he loves Bram, too, and all he wants is to make him happy. In those moments he feels like maybe he was meant for this, born to be with Bram and Ashley, born to kneel for Bram, that every single second of his life was leading up to the night they followed him home.

Bram says it all the time. You need to understand that you loved us already. You just didn't know it yet, before we found you.

I love you, Nate, so much, so much you get to live, with me forever. You'll never leave me. You'll never run. 

If you leave me, I'll cut parts of you off until you never leave again. 

I love you, Nate. I love you. I love you so much.

Now say it back or I’ll get the razor blades out again.

Bram Denner's a psychopath, and Nathaniel Vandrum is sometimes still himself and sometimes a pet, and he has no idea how long he can hold any part of himself together. He has no idea how much more of this there will be, only that it will last for the rest of his life, and one day they will get tired of him and kill him and at least it would all be over, then. 

If Bram is a psychopath, Ashley is something even worse.

“You know, when you’re like this, I can see why Brammie loves you so much.” She shifts around again, leaning in close to kiss his cheek, a trail of kisses to his ear, down the side of his neck over the healing cuts that itch and itch, licking at the still-bleeding place she’d let the knife cut in. “You've got a nice jaw, good mouth, pretty nice eyes… I get it, I really do."

Other than the fact that she is clearly female, Ashley Denner looks exactly like her twin brother. Sometimes when they are hurting him, Nate can’t remember which one he is currently begging to stop, calls the one with the knife or the whip or the cane by the wrong name, and they laugh and laugh and hit him harder until he gets it right the next time.

“Thanks for the compliment,” Nate says dryly. He doesn’t stammer yet - the stammer comes later, after he tries one more time to escape and Bram hits him too hard in the head a few times. He doesn’t stammer yet. “But you’re still wrong.”

He is currently tied to a chair because the two of them are both fucking idiots, and they refuse to listen to someone who knows something they don’t.

If she were anyone else, the weight of her hips pressing lightly against his would have been supremely pleasant. Even with Ashley being exactly who she is, it isn’t exactly a bad feeling. He tries to remember when feelings like this came from people who weren’t in the process of slowly destroying him, piece by piece.

“I’m not wrong,” She says, rolling her eyes.

The knife trails down the side of his neck, over his collarbone, traces the line of it. There’s never enough food (not enough sleep, either - when one of them is done with him the other is only getting started) and he’s lost weight since he came here, defining the muscles they force him to exercise to build.

When he is good, he eats enough, but the days he is good are the days he starts to forget who he used to be, and so he’s never good for enough days in a row to fully lose the hunger.

He has to remember who he used to be.

He has to remember that he is a person.

He has to remember long enough to find the opportunity to escape.

“You are wrong.” Another prick of the knife, just above his collarbone this time, and he manages not to wince at the bright flash of pain as the knife digs in a little deeper. “You can’t be identical twins, Ashley.”

“Why not?” She cuts a smooth line across the length of his collarbone and up to his shoulder, and Nate lets his head fall back, teeth ground together as hard as they can to keep his jaw shut, shifting but not flinching away as the skin separates like she’s cutting butter, not him, and the blood wells up in a line.

She licks it away, a low pleased growl in her throat, and her other hand holds him still by the back of his neck, fingernails digging in hard, dimpling the skin until they ache, too. 

“You’re a man and a woman,” He manages, voice strained with keeping control. Never reject a touch. Never pull away. Follow the rules. 

Be grateful for the pain, because every breath is a gift we have chosen to give you.

“I fail to see the problem with that,” Ashley says against his skin. She moves the knife away and for a second he thinks maybe this will be all, this will be enough to satisfy her.

“Identical twins have to be the same biological sex. It’s a single person’s genes that get split into two eggs. You’re not identical twins.”

She pulls back and looks at him, chewing on her lower lip thoughtfully. “We were a single person, once, then we split in two. Male and female, like twin gods in the myths.”

Nate takes a deep breath.

She’s moved the knife back and away, and is watching him with no anger in her eyes. Maybe this time he’ll get through to her.

“Identical twins are always the same biological sex.”

“Unless they’re gods,” She counters.

“No,” Nate says trying to sound patient but his collarbone and shoulder ache from the cuts and he just wants her to undo the handcuffs and let him get out of the chair. “Even those stories about the gods - they’d have been fraternal twins. That’s what you are - you’re fraternal twins.”

“We’re identical.”

“No. You’re similar.”

She frowned. “No. We are identical twins.”

“You are very similar-looking fraternal twins, Ashley.”

“I’m going to tell Brammie you said that when you come home,” Ashley says, sitting back and away from him now, resting her weight entirely on his lower thighs where they connect to his knees. He swallows, knowing what’s coming, but somehow he can’t let this go.

He doesn’t love her.

She doesn’t want him to.

And she’s wrong.

“I’m going to tell him you said we’re not identical.” She changes her grip on the knife and he knows what is about to happen next. 

He turns his head away one more time, closes his eyes, and waits. 

“He’s going to be so upset with you, Nate.”

The blade of the knife jams straight through his shoulder and out the other side, buries itself with an audible thunk into the wood back of the chair, and Nate only barely keeps his mouth shut to muffle the scream.

Ashley leans in close again, watching him with wide eyes like a child looking into the reptile cage at the zoo, her head slowly tilting to one side until a bit of wavy blonde hair falls across her cheek. “No, Nate. I want to hear you. Turns me on.”

He shakes his head, biting down on his lower lip until it bleeds, the agony spreading from his shoulder down his arm, into his chest, the feel of wet blood running in rivulets down his chest and back. 

“I say we are identical twins, Nate. And I say you’re going to scream.”

She smiles, twists the knife as hard as she can, and Nate’s back arches him nearly out of the chair at the pain, still biting his lip, the cry trapped in his throat, keep it down, don’t make noise, she likes that too much and she’ll want too much afterward, don’t-

She twists again, and then time Nate screams, head thrown back, pulling helplessly trying to free himself, the handcuffs rattling hard against the back of the chair. Ashley grinds her hips into his and starts to laugh, a strange high-pitched hyena laughter, yanking the knife back out and somehow that hurts worse and he screams again.

He always tries to hold it back.

He always screams in the end.

“There we go. That’s our good, good boy. Now… are we identical twins, Nate?”

He’s breathing hard, panting really, like the dog they always tell him he is until he earns being a person. He can’t speak for the pain, can barely hear her over the buzzing agony, and all he can do is shake his head. “Fra-... fraternal,” He grinds out. 

“Oooh, you are a masochist today,” Ashley says. Her voice is warm and playful but her eyes are very, very cold. “You are indeed. Okay, Nate. Have it your way.”

When the knife buries itself in his other shoulder, he doesn’t try to muffle the scream this time, just lets himself collapse and drown in it, in the sound from his own throat, in the pain that rattles the walls. She yanks it back out and he groans again, head dropping, black hair in his eyes.

Ashley twists her fingers into that hair and yanks his head back up. When he finally opens his eyes, narrowed against the ache, she waits until she is sure he is looking at her and slowly licks his blood off the blade.

“Bad puppy,” She says, and her lips are smeared red with his blood. “You’re a very, very bad dog. Let’s see how much of you is left by the time my Brammie gets home.”

[the-observant-frisbeetarian]

My Echo

By George deValier

Status: Never finished, 1 Chapter

WW2 AU. Captain Vash Zwingli is a soldier in someone else’s war; a man mad enough to lead where others will not. He treads a fine line between life and death, between sanity and madness, in a constant battle to forget. But when Vash’s past confronts him in the worst place on earth, will it finally tip him over the edge–or give him a chance for redemption?

We three, We’re all alone, Living in a memory. My echo; my shadow; and me.

We three, We’ll wait for you, Even ‘til eternity. My echo; my shadow; and me.

.

Summer, 1943 

The Russian Front

.

Captain Vash Zwingli walks slowly into the makeshift command hut, carefully shuts the door behind him, and with a steady, deliberate breath, leans his hands against his paper-strewn desk. The bare, wooden rooms of this silent, broken, abandoned house close in around him. Rage, frustration, fear, disbelief, overwhelming panic: a clashing cluster of emotion tears through his head, claws at his chest. Vash holds it back. Vash is so used to holding it back.

He tries to focus on the papers before him, on the reason he is here commanding this prison unit in the backwoods of Russia. Because here, Vash can control his fury and unleash his madness and chase his wildness. Here, Vash can lose himself in death; here, he can forget. But now…but this…The maps and strategies and letters of command blur before Vash’s eyes. Six years he has tried to escape one face; one name; one memory. Six brutal, blood-soaked years, shattered in an instant.

Master Roderich Edelstein. Vash’s breath catches to even think the name. Roderich Edelstein, standing in line like a common German criminal, disguised in military grey and using a name not his own. Vash fumbles for the flask at his waist, pours the clear, burning liquid down his throat. He fumbles for some sort of understanding. But all Vash can think is that Master Roderich Edelstein is still more beautiful than anything he has ever seen. He is still the only person Vash has ever wanted, needed, desired, yearned for with every last thread of his existence. He is the only man Vash has ever both loved and hated: stripped of his humanity, and sent here to die under Vash’s command.

“God DAMNIT!” Vash slams the flask on the desk. He closes his eyes, takes deep, slow, steady breaths. One… two… Not here. This is not the battlefield. He will not lose control here. Three… four… No use. Vash’s world turns red. With a furious roar, loosed like a gunshot from his throat, he over turns the desk and sends its mashing to the ground.

What the fuck is Roderich doing here?! It’s insane. It isn’t possible. He should have left Europe by now, should have escaped to America. Vash looks to the ceiling, runs shaking hands through his hair, kicks the broken desk with all his strength. His mind spins- too hot, too hazy, too fast– while every word Roderich spoke in their last exchange echoes through his head like a reverberating bullet of steel.

“I am not a soldier.” Vash laughs wildly, incredulously. Master Roderich Edelstein, a soldier! Master Edelstein, the delicate heir, who wears suits of cashmere and plays on ivory keys. Master Edelstein, whose fragile nobility could never protect him from the stones and insults of those less refined: Judenschwein! Judenscheisse! A rush of furious memory boils Vash’s blood. No, Master Edelstein is not a soldier. Master Edelstein belongs in parlour rooms and concert halls, not in this Russian hell. His hands belong to crystal glasses and violin strings, not to rifles and grenades.

“I don’t really know.” Vash strides to the wall, clenches his fist, smashes it against the cracking wood. Roderich never knew. He never saw. Roderich was blind to all but his music, blind even to the Swiss town’s hatred, blind to everything but his own small, closed, perfect world. The hours Vash sat listening outside the music room window- the days he spent watching and wanting and sheltering and protecting. Roderich never understood; he never knew.

“Rather, it pleased them too much. There are certain things I will not be associated with…” Vash feels blood run between his fingers. How very like his prideful aristocrat- always better than those who mocked and those who protected. Who did he offend this time? Who did he ignore? Who did Roderich Edelstein finally insult enough to end up in this last destination for the ruined and the condemned?

“…Nor let my music be associated with.” Of course: the music. What else would Roderich Edelstein sacrifice himself for? What else would he care about? Roderich does not even remember him. Of course Vash’s haughty, infuriating, beautiful Austrian genius does not remember him. Vash was never important or memorable. Vash was simply there.

By now Vash is frantic, desperate, his tenuous grip on control fading fast. He tries to pace, tries to breathe. The walls are too close. One… two… What can he do? How can he possibly ensure Roderich’s safety out here? Send Roderich back to Austria– he has not the authority. Transfer Roderich to a regular unit– where he will certainly be killed before the week is over. Just take Roderich and run– run where? How?

Vash roars again, his veins burning in furious frustration. His mind begins to blur; his control slips. Three… four… No use. With one swift movement he pulls the pistol from his hip, cocks it, and aims it at the wall.

“No. I’m just a musician.”

Vash feels the world turn… and he remembers.

.

Autumn, 1933 

Amanorhousein Switzerland

.

It begins softly. A gentle, falling line of trickling sound, like the flow of water in a summer stream or an early morning birdcall at the foot of the mountains. The falling lines bind together, slowly become something Vash recognizes as music. Vash has not heard much music before. His days are spent tending the Edelstein estate gardens and caring for its extensive grounds, not reclining in its drawing rooms and fine salons. He is only in the house now to fix a leaking roof, and he knows it is not his place to go where he pleases. But Vash detests these rich Austrians’ authority, and he is not a dog to be kept outside. So he makes his way steadily down the unfamiliar, ornately decorated hallway of the mansion, drawn to that delicate, falling, rising, swelling melody.

The music becomes louder, until Vash finally reaches the doorway it drifts through. The door is half open, and Vash peers through it, curious as to how something so light and fragile can draw him so strongly. The room is long and wide, polished wooden floors gleaming in the sunlight that streams through ceiling-length windows. It is empty except for a single object: a large, shining black grand piano, the source of the gentle music. And sitting before it…

The music fades. The sunlight darkens. Vash’s eyes flare and his breath stutters. His heart grows in his chest, lifts and swells and fills every part of him. His whole world, his entire life narrows to this one place; this one moment; to this one dark, pale, stunning stranger. The boy’s hair is the colour of chestnuts in autumn; his skin the colour of mountain peaks in winter. His eyes are bright and faraway, trapped behind locks of hair and wire spectacles. He moves with the music, lost in it, his fingers flying on the white keys like birds dancing in the wind. Vash has to gasp for air, has to grasp the door handle beside him. This boy is more beautiful than anything Vash has ever seen.

Vash has heard that the Edelstein’s have a son. His sister Lili is still young enough to pass gossip on from the chambermaids, and she has spoken before of a genius- a musician named Roderich, who stays in Vienna when his hateful parents visit their country estate here in Switzerland. This must be him. He is a few years younger than Vash, barely in his teens, and Vash can easily believe the stories that he is too frail to travel. Stunned and unmoving, Vash watches him; watches his white hands fly and his slender body sway and his lips part then press then catch between his teeth. Vash watches Roderich open his unseeing eyes and close them tightly, watches him tilt his head and lift his shoulders and draw lines of gentle sound from a hard row of black and white. But Vash no longer hears the music. He does not see the sunlight; he does not feel the heavy door handle beneath his sweaty palm. Vash is somewhere removed, struck senseless by this beautiful Austrian musician, by this pale, noble vision of perfection.

Vash barely notices when Roderich finishes playing. He just watches. Watches as he stands, brushes back his hair, adjusts his glasses; as he gathers pages of music in his arms then turns and strides across the room. He wears a dark, elegant suit, and though it looks too old and severe, Roderich wears it like it is part of him. He does not notice Vash until he reaches the door. When he does he swiftly halts, clutches his music to his chest, and stares silently with eyes like frozen violets. Vash’s hand clenches dangerously to the door handle, his cheeks too hot and his head too light. He tries to think of something to say. He should have something to say. Roderich looks him up and down; raises an eyebrow disdainfully at Vash’s feet. Vash looks down at his muddy boots, strangely embarrassed. He takes a step back to allow Roderich through the door. The boy takes a few seconds to do so, edging away from Vash, his lips pressed together and his eyes looking down.

The edge of Roderich’s coat brushes Vash’s arm. The delicate scent of lilacs in bloom floats on the air. Vash feels the door handle start to crack. He should say something… he has to say something… “That… the music,” he stutters, unfamiliar and unsure of these pleasantries. It is so hard for him to speak. “It was… good.”

Roderich just raises his chin as he marches away, elegant and pale and dark and beautiful. He does not respond.

.

1943

.

The crack of a gunshot blasts through the air. Vash’s senses flood back. The first thing he notices is that his pistol is still in his grip. The second is that the shot was not fired by him. Vash blinks the past from his eyes, returns the pistol to its holster, and runs a steadying hand through his hair. Deep, slow, steady breaths. One… two…

A quick glance out the window and across the village square solves the mystery of the gunshot. The enormous Swede sits beside a small fire, his rifle in his hands and pointed at the sky. Vash smirks at the sight. He knows now he let Oxenstierna keep his rifle for a reason. Two men stare down at the Swede - insignificants. The dense little Pole sits there also, and that arrogant Prussian, and… Vash’s senses slip and his stomach falls. Roderich. He reaches for his pistol, and starts to move. But something stops him.

Across the square, the Prussian smiles and speaks. The Swede fires another shot. Vash watches as the insignificants react, as one tosses a pack of cigarettes to the Prussian. He watches as Beilschmidt waves a hand dismissively and the two men stalk away. Vash watches as the men around Beilschmidt, willingly or not, do as he orders. And he watches as Roderich’s frozen violet eyes do not move once from the Prussian.

Vash’s grip on the pistol tightens. He searches his memory, recalls his profile folder: Gilbert Beilschmidt. The self-proclaimed Prussian private, with the famous pilot brother; the desperate survivor, who angers so easily and dislikes authority and starts fights in transport trucks. The Prussian private who protected Roderich from an attack at their last base. The Prussian private who is here on suspicion of illicit activity…

Vash’s gut churns and his mind tilts. Illicit activity. Roderich. He forces himself to turn away. One… two. He reaches down into the scattered debris of his overturned desk, retrieves his discarded metal flask from under a scattered page of orders. Vash drinks deeply as he scans the words for distraction. Your unit fights tomorrow… Kalova village… need corporals… Vash looks up sharply, the words firing his mind and the vodka warming his blood.

Kalova village… This unit fights tomorrow… need corporals… This unit needs men whose orders are followed– willingly or not. Vash looks to these orders, looks to his pistol. He cannot protect Roderich out here. Not observably, and not on his own. But the Prussian… Vash crumples the paper in his hand, sees nothing but Roderich’s violet eyes: wide and uncertain in an ornate hallway; confused and unaware in a military line-up. Vash breathes–two, three –calms, and grasps for the only option he has.

Yes, this unit fights tomorrow, and is not expected to survive. No, Vash cannot protect Roderich out here- but he can ensure another man does. Even if this man draws Roderich’s eyes; even if the charge is illicit activity. But as Vash smoothes his ruffled uniform and drinks from his flask and takes a lighter from his pocket, he cannot help but smile to himself. Because Vash has long learnt not to underestimate desperate men.

.

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

[eurynome827]

See You Again

Sebastian Stan X Reader

Warnings: (this is fiction obviously, I don’t know this man but that’s a separate issue...) ANGST EXPRESS, mentions of sex but nothing explicitly stated.

A/N: This is inspired by Elle King’s “See You Again” and her lyrics are interspersed throughout in italics. This is also inspired by a relationship (if you can even call it that) I had in my twenties. Some of the most honest things I’ve ever written are in here. The song grabbed me as soon as I heard it and I’m really sorry I made you the bad guy, baby. Just this once, I promise. 

Tags at the top (my everything list plus everyone who said they wanted this): @cchellacat @book-dragon-13 @spacemansam @thesaltyduchess @anyoneforteaus @igothroughphasesalot @calum-hoodwinked-me @randomfandompenguin @sebbystanlover-vk @buckmesideways22 @peaceinourtime82 @creideamhgradochas @laurafloradora @goodiebluebox @kcd15

BY CLICKING THE READ MORE LINK BELOW YOU AFFIRM THAT YOU ARE 18+ AND UNDERSTAND THAT THIS STORY CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT.

"Hey."

You forced out the word, surprise closing your throat around your heart, "Hey."

You were standing there

Fire in your eyes

"Come in."

He walked into your apartment, unbuttoning his coat, and you closed and locked the door behind him. You turned to him as he tossed his coat over a chair and stood watching you, trying to gauge your reaction. You bit your lip, held back tears. Couldn't stop yourself from smiling.

"I missed you."

You knew he was telling the truth. 

Stepping forward into his open arms, you finally allowed yourself to breathe. To breathe him in. 

As you held me in

Said, sorry, I didn't write

"You didn't call."

"I know, I'm sorry." He kissed the top of your head, ran a hand through your hair. You sighed. "I didn't know I'd have this break. The plane landed and all I could think of was you."

You ignored the voice in your soul that said 'what were you thinking about before the plane landed? And all the time before that?'

We've got seven days

'Til we say goodbye

You lived with him in the darkness. The dark and the quiet, and his hands on you making you feel alive. The days were for work and friends who asked where you had been the night before, why you had canceled plans - but the nights were for him, when he was with you. The stolen time. In your little bed, in your little apartment in the city you shared some of the time, somewhere between a dream and reality in an in-between world that you couldn't remember agreeing to.

Back to separate ways

But I'll miss you more this time

Your head snapping up at the mention of his name on the television. His picture on the posters in the subway. He was everywhere and nowhere and somehow you resented that you lived with these constant reminders of him, when he didn't have the same for you.

You were nowhere but in the stolen time for him.

So won't you stay

'Til the morning

I've been frozen since that night you sang with me,

Remembering a night so long ago, when you were coworkers in the city drinking and singing with other show friends. A group forged in fire that would be inseparable for a run and then never be the same again - maybe a few would stay close friends, maybe one fling would stick. The night he first kissed you and you kissed him back, you had hoped for that. And still you had hoped, through fumbled moments in hidden spaces and drunken making out in the back of cabs and staying in secret (had you ever even had a real DATE?) and you were still here, opening your door for him and welcoming him into your life and your body until he was gone again.

One more day

For you to hold me

'Cause I don't know when I'll see you again

Holding him so tightly, trying to memorize the feeling of his arms holding you, wishing that you could believe this goodbye would be different.

"You'll call?" A traitorous tear escaped and he brushed it away.

"When I land. I'll call."

One last kiss, and he was gone again.

He called when he landed, one promise kept. Calls became texts became the silence, again.

You don't reach out. You're disturbingly comfortable in the in-between. 

How was I to guess

I'd still be on your mind?

Enough to bring you here

And prove I wasn't right

"You have to call first next time."

"I will."

"I don't believe you."

His fingers paused their journey across your back. Silence filled the room, different from the peaceful one that permeated through the dark before your statement. You raised your head from where it had rested on his chest and looked into his stormy eyes.

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

"Don't turn this around on me. I've never asked you for a thing. I know what this is." The silence settled around you both like a weighted blanket. "But one day you're going to knock on the door and I won't be here alone. I won't wait for you."

We don't need to know

The future isn't ours

When we both let go

I'll hear you in the bars

Another long silence and you look at yourself in the mirror one morning and make a decision. You were no longer comfortable in the in-between.

You pack boxes and bags and move across town. You take different subways but his face still appears. That can't change.

You can't bear to delete his number from your phone, but at least the next time he comes knocking, you won't be there. It's something.

The ice in your veins begins to thaw. Your life is your own again.

So won't you stay

'Til the morning

I've been frozen since that night you sang with me,

One more day

For you to hold me

You still wake from the dreams of him. He texts every once in a while. He was furious that you had moved without telling him, called to tell you. You had told him that finally, FINALLY you felt worthy of some emotion from him. He had hung up on you.

The texts started a few months later. You always answered cordially but kept him at a distance.

You wouldn't live in the in-between again. If he wanted you, it would have to be in the sunlight this time.

But you couldn't say goodbye for good, either.

'Cause I don't know when I'll see you again

[kkruml]

STAY Ch 12

Thank you to @sassenachwaffles for your tireless cheerleading of my half-baked ideas, and to @missclairebelle- I know I interupted a bubble bath with a late night panic attack over the end of this chapter. Words just aren’t enough for you both.

Mood Music

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

AO3

Previously

“Jamie… for so long I’ve never felt like I belonged.” She paused, taking a breath before continuing. Her voice was quiet, but steady, “My parents and I- we did travel quite a bit. Boston never really felt like home- it was just a place to land for a spell before we were off to the next adventure.”

His mind conjured images of his own childhood.

The large stone buildings and secret passages through the woods that carved and molded his memories. The very stone walls of Lallybroch had been home, at least long ago. He’d always imagined being Laird, with his lady by his side. A mix of tradition and adolescent daydreams that had once seemed like the logical step in his life’s trajectory. It had been an all but foregone conclusion until a dark night and the sound of twisted metal that scattered his future to the wind… until now.

Her fingers found his hand and intertwined her fingers with his, “Home- it’s always been an idea, but not a place for me, Jamie.”

Home. Loving her was now home to him.

The weight of her hand in his anchored him to the bench as he struggled to keep a clear mind. “What is home to ye now, Sassenach?”

Golden amber glowed in the early evening sun. “Home to me… is you, Jamie.”

Claire

“Are ye sure about this, Sassenach?” Jamie’s eyes were slanted with concern as he watched her hands carefully travel over the document, her pen deftly situated in her hand.

With her heart pounding in her chest and a swell of happiness curling her lips into a smile, she met his gaze. His eyebrows were pressed together in concern, and she lifted her hand to his cheek, feeling the stubble prickle under her touch. The word bubbled from her chest and sent a warm wave of contentment through her veins. “Yes.”

The pen swirled and dipped against the paper in a flourish as she finished her signature.

Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.

A heaviness lifted, and her heart constricted as the last fleeting memories came rushing back to her.

This house. This place. Her parents. So many things that would never be. But so much more that was now possible.

Gently placing the pen next to the fresh ink, she nodded. “And that’s that.”

“What happens now?”

“Uncle Lamb will handle the particulars,” she paused, feeling a large arm snake around her shoulder and she leaned into the warmth.

They had given her the gift of her past. It was time for her to turn towards her future.

“It will take some time, but the foundation will be able to convert this place into a proper home for…  parentless children.”

Orphans.

The word she couldn’t quite say aloud. The place she’d known for so long would be the soft place to land for children less fortunate than she, but also so similar in their loss and longing for a family.

The weight of his hand brought her back to the present. The pattern of swirls his fingers traced prickling her skin were as comforting as they were intoxicating. Tilting her face to his, she was met with a tranquil sea of blue, framed by auburn lashes.

“Yer parents would be proud, Claire,” his voice was soft, the lilt of his accent wrapping around the words and catching at her name. His fingers curled around her shoulder as he gave it a gentle squeeze.

Settling against his side, she sighed and felt the release of tension between her shoulder blades, feeling the weight of the last several weeks fade away. “Take me home- to Scotland.”

Jamie

Should he ask her now?

Wait til she gets through the door ye dolt.  

He’d prepared a late-night meal for her, too planned to be a casual affair. She’d know he was up to something.

Like memorizing lyrics, he rehearsed the words over and over in his head.

My flat is two blocks closer to the hospital. Ye’ve spent all yer nights here since Boston- almost two weeks now. Why pay for a flat when yer never there?

His thoughts jumped from one point to the next in a dizzying pace until all thoughts blurred and he was left with the simple truth-

I want ye here with me.

A smile played at his lips- to know she’d be here every night, to wake up to every morning… to find in the darkness between sleeping and waking. To start planning for things to come.

‘Home to me… is you.’

Her words echoed in the quiet moments of his day, finding strength as he thought about that night in Boston.

He was ready; that much he knew. He just hoped she was, too.

His fingers fidgeted with the spare key, eyeing the clock.

11:15pm. Surgery must have gone long.

After watching the rugby highlights again, he checked his phone- 12:45am, and a new text from Claire.

               Sorry love. Likely another hour to go. Save my spot.

His heart sank as he sighed, the hope of her delicate form materializing from around the corner disappeared. Picking up his phone, he tapped out a response.

               Dinna fash, Sassenach. Yer spot’s here waitin’ for ye.

Rubbing his bleary eyes, he shuffled from the couch to the kitchen to put away dinner. Leaning against the counter, he eyed the couch- the cushions still pressed to resemble his shape after hours of surfing the tube. His gaze traveled down the hallway in the direction of their bedroom.

I’ll rest my eyes- just for a few minutes.

Trudging the dozen steps to his bed, he collapsed face first into his pillow, consciousness slowly slipping away as darkness conjured sleep.

The ringtone jolted him awake. Fumbling for the phone on his nightstand, the time stared back at him: 4:10am.

Stretching his limbs, his hand searched for the wig of curls that should be sprawled on the pillow next to him but found it empty.

Squinting through the haze of sleep, there was nothing from Claire, but there were two missed calls.

His pulse quickened, and his blood ran cold. Geillis- at 2:17am and 4:09am. He blinked at the screen.

Why would she be calling him- and why now?

It had taken all of thirty seconds for him to grab his coat and shoes before he was out the door, down the stairwell, and onto the pavement in the direction of the hospital.

He stared at the doctor as he explained her injuries, his lips moving but the sounds barely registering.

She had stepped off the curb a moment too early.

A car rushing into the A&E driven by a frantic father-to-be with his wife in labor.

The vehicle struck her side.

Blunt force trauma due to the impact.

A cascade of words unraveled as he tried to process them.

Claire. She was hurt.

His chest constricted as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. The fluorescent lights of the waiting room flickered as his knees buckled. Stumbling backwards into a chair, his fingers gripped the wooden armrests, desperate for something -anything- to anchor him to the present.

Time slowly ticked by; seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours. He perked to every pair of footsteps, hoping for an update or some word of her condition. Each fragile flutter of hope he felt swell in his chest was dashed as the sounds faded, echoing off the hospital walls.

His fingers drummed against his thigh, a constant rhythm that matched his heartbeat. Between slow, painful blinks he caught sight of fiery red hair, and he leapt to his feet- a sudden jolt of energy coursing through his veins.

“How is she?” His voice shook.

“She’s stable.” Geillis’s voice was husky, an octave lower than it should be. Her usual smirk was gone, replaced with lips drawn into a somber line. The look unsettled him. “Nasty concussion, they had a fitful time resetting the break in her arm. A few broken ribs, and some cuts and scrapes. She’s resting now.”

His stomach flipped as he conjured her face- lifeless, pale, and bleeding on the pavement. Every muscle in his body tensed, taut as a tightrope suspended somewhere between two limitless points. Once misstep and he’d come completely undone.

A wave of nausea flooded his senses, his eyes snapped shut as he heard faint sounds of tires screeching. The sound mixed with the thrumming of his pulse in his ears. He had seen this before. And he had been helpless. He’d sworn an oath of protection to Claire- that she was safe with him. He would have sacrificed his body to protect her. But here he was, hands shaking at his sides in a waiting room while she lay in a hospital bed, alone.

“Can I take ye to her?” Her voice was quiet, soft as if trying to tame a feral animal.

He nodded almost imperceptibly and shuffled behind her, barely allowing a half-step between them.

The beep of the monitors filled his ears, his eyes found her face immediately. A cut marred her perfect ivory skin lining the curve of her cheek.

Stepping slowly, cautiously, he eyed the empty chair next to her.

Geillis’s eyes traveled to the empty seat, her words urging him forward, “She’ll want ye here when she wakes.”

When she wakes.

He grasped onto the word- when- and watched it slowly morph, the letters contorting and disappearing until a thought grabbed hold of him and persisted.

If she wakes.

His eyes traveled down the lines of her thin frame, angles long ago memorized but suddenly fleeting. The urge to remember every detail overcame him. Cautiously, his fingers drifted to her hand, slowly taking it in his own. Warm and soft, he felt her blood pulsing through her veins and he exhaled in relief.

She was real, immediate, alive.

The sound of humming perked his ears and he looked around. Finding the room empty, he realized it was the sound of his own voice.

That song.

“Sassenach…” he cleared his throat to stop it from shaking. “The thing is… I’ve got this song.”

He waited, checking to see if she’d wake up. After two heartbeats and a deafening silence, he swallowed hard and continued.

“I’ve been hearin’ this melody since the night I met ye.” Gently stroking her hand, soft skin almost translucent in this light, his fingers trembled. She was too still, too quiet. He longed to feel her fingers lace into his. His voice was hollow, “I just need ye to wake up and help me with the lyrics.”

He conjured the words that had been seared into his heart- words that brought the sensation of her lips and the warmth of her touch when he needed them most. The words had flooded the still moments in his day, tangled themselves in his thoughts, but he couldn’t quite reach out and touch them and make them real.

The sound of the heart monitor pierced through the silence.

“A calm sea once clear blue,” he started, pausing to take a shaky breath as his throat tightened. “Ye came to me and turned my world to whisky.”

Her face at the bar filled his vision –– her cheeks were so rosy, the whisky in her eyes so clear.

Steeling himself, he whispered, “Taste you on my tongue, feel you on my skin…” 

The first time they had kissed – his hand molded to the soft curve of her cheek, the taste of her breath, crisp and warm.

“A bird in flight, black lines against ivory rippling across the bay.”

That heron etched into her skin, the memories she entrusted to him.

"Nothing is lost- only changed. But please…” his voice cracked as a wall of tears threatened to blur his vision. Thoughts skipped across his mind as the last of the lyrics danced on his tongue, his plea to her, “Please stay.”

[boasamishipper]

til' all my sleeves are stained red

Summary: Cavendish finds out.

Author’s Note: Since it seems all I’m capable of writing for these two is angst, I figured I’d write some more based on Fungus Among Us and Island of the Lost Dakotas. (Speaking of the latter -- god damn.) Much like my last fic, this is all speculation that will most likely be jossed, but I wanted to post it anyway.

And there will be a part two.

Of all the things to think of at this time, what came to Dakota's mind was the joke that ended, "But you screw one goat…"

It was appropriate for the occasion. He and his partner were time travelers who had saved the world once from sentient pistachios and now had to do it again. For allies, they had a dog, the star of an unmade popular science fiction television series, a boy around whom everything that could go wrong would go wrong, a mad scientist who would invent time travel twelve years in the future, and an anthropomorphic crime-fighting platypus. Then after they'd fixed the time machine and returned to the scene, the car’s battery had died, and he and Cavendish had gone off to find jumper cables while Milo and Orton Mahlson took refuge with the time vehicle in a gas station. Now he and his partner were hiding in an alley while the Pistachions were searching for them.

At this point, Dakota thought that he could handle anything.

That was until Cavendish had turned to face him with an expression as serious as sin and announced that he would distract the Pistachions so Dakota could return to Milo and Orton, jump-start the car, and go back to reverse this from ever happening.

Dakota finally regained the ability to speak once it became clear that Cavendish wasn't kidding. "Are you out of your mind?"

"No, Dakota, I'm not." Cavendish didn't even sound offended. Just…resigned, in a way. As though he'd already accepted this turn of events for truth. "You're faster than me and I trust you to get the cables back to Orton and Milo. I'll hold the Pistachions off as long as I can to give you a headstart."

Dakota's throat went dry. He refused to accept this. "Cav…" Facts were swirling around him and a numbing, fearful cold was spreading through his body. If Cavendish died here and they managed to reset the timeline, then Dakota wouldn't be able to go back in time to save him. "No. Don't do this. There has to be another way."

"There's no time to come up with anything better."

"But if you do this then you'll—then they’ll—" He couldn't even entertain the thought of Cavendish dying. Not in a way that he couldn't fix. "I won't let you do this." He tried to give the jumper cables to Cavendish, but his partner wouldn't take them. "Let me do it—"

"No, Dakota—"

"C'mon, the coast is clear, you should—"

"Dakota—"

"Just make a run for it, I'll—"

"Damn it, Dakota, will you listen to me?"

Stunned, Dakota fell silent. In all of the time that they'd known each other, Cavendish had never snapped at him like that.

Cavendish looked a bit taken aback himself, but he continued once he realized that he actually had Dakota's full attention. "Please, Dakota," he said. "I don't want you making this harder than it already is." Gently, he took Dakota's hand and squeezed it tightly. Dakota wanted to cry. "And I want you to know that…that even though I don't always say it, it's been an honor to have you as a partner."

Oh God, now he was really going to cry.

Seeming to realize that Dakota was too shocked to say anything, Cavendish appeared to steel himself and turned around, ready to walk into the open and sacrifice himself to the Pistachions so Dakota could make a run for it.

"I've seen you die one hundred and twelve times."

Cavendish stopped in his tracks.

Dakota stepped forward, his heart hammering against his ribs so loud that he was sure they'd be discovered at any second. He'd swore on his life that he could never tell Cavendish about this but if this didn't make Cavendish reconsider then nothing would. "I've seen you get shot. Stabbed. Harpooned. You've drowned in quicksand and water and lava. You've gotten hit by cars and trains and you've fallen down mountains. And I've seen it all. And every time that happened, I went back in time to save you." He swallowed, wishing that Cavendish would turn around. "There are a hundred and eleven copies of me because of what I did and they all live on a hidden island in the middle of the ocean."

It was hard to tell how much time passed. Days. Years. Several small eternities. Cavendish didn't move and Dakota couldn't, not even as the sounds of the Pistachions in the distance got louder and louder.

"Cav?" Hesitantly, Dakota put a hand on Cavendish's shoulder but his partner still didn't move. "Cavendish, say something. Yell at me. Say—say that I shouldn't have messed with the timestream. Just please—"

Cavendish turned around, and Dakota instantly shut up. His partner looked as though he'd been hit in the face with something heavy. He kept opening his mouth and closing it, as though he didn't know what to say, and when he finally managed to speak, his voice was very quiet. "Why would you do that?"

Because you're my partner. Because you're the only friend I have and I can't stand to lose you. Because you're Cavendish and what else am I going to do?  

But none of those responses sounded right, and Dakota felt the world wash away as he discovered the answer within himself, surprised that he hadn't located it sooner. "Because I love you."

No, this pause lasted for eternities. The universe expanded, collapsed, and burst outward again.

Cavendish raised his hand, and Dakota was afraid for a moment that he was going to get slapped, but that changed when Cavendish grabbed him by the collar, pulled him close, and kissed him.

It wasn't anything spectacular—the angle was awkward and the jumper cables were pressing into Cavendish's chest—and it didn't last long, but it made him feel like he was floating nonetheless.

"I love you too," Cavendish said once they had pulled away from each other. He was smiling softly but his eyes were sad, and Dakota realized that even after what had happened between them—even after telling Cavendish his secret—Cavendish still wanted to sacrifice himself to save Dakota and the others. Because that was just the kind of person Cavendish was. "You've saved my life numerous times, Dakota. Now let me return the favor."

Dakota didn't trust himself to speak without crying, but he managed to nod.

Cavendish swallowed. For the first time he actually looked afraid, but he straightened up, cupping Dakota's face in his hands like he was memorizing every detail of it. "Save the world for me, will you?"

In answer, Dakota wrapped Cavendish in a tight hug. Pulling back made him feel physically ill, but he knew that if he didn't leave now, he never would. And who knew what was happening to Milo and Orton Mahlson by now…

With one last look at him, Cavendish ran out into the street. "Hey! Come and catch me, you overgrown weeds!"

Dakota watched two Pistachions shout that they found one and chase after his partner, and then forced himself to look away and run toward the gas station. He ran as fast as he could, his shoes pounding against the pavement, and tried his best to ignore the shouting happening in the distance. The sound of someone being thrown into a brick wall and crumpling to the ground.

Finally arriving—with no Pistachions on his tail—he found Milo and Orton Mahlson fighting off a couple of Pistachions with crowbars, and immediately moved to assist them. Once the last one had been taken care of, he tossed the jumper cables at Orton, who barely managed to catch them. "It's positive to positive, then negative to negative."

Milo was gazing around the room, looking confused. "Uh, Dakota?" he said carefully. "Where's…where's Cavendish?"

"He sacrificed himself to save me.” His voice was so hoarse that it didn’t even sound like it belonged to him. "So I could make a run for it."

Milo covered his mouth with his hands, eyes widening in shock. "Oh no." Even Orton turned around, pity and sympathy etched in every line of his face. "Oh, God, Dakota. I'm sorry."

He thought of Cavendish's last words to him, of their kiss, and he released a shaky breath, hot tears pricking his eyes. He quickly swiped them away, knowing he had to be strong for Milo. "Yeah, kid," he whispered. "Me too."

The roaring of the time vehicle's engine jerked Dakota out of his trance, and the sound of voices outside spurred him into action. He ushered Orton and Milo into the car, automatically moving toward the passenger seat before remembering that Cavendish wasn't there to drive. That thought nearly sent him into tears all over again, but he stubbornly shoved that feeling aside and sat down in the driver's seat, closing the door behind him.

"Alright," he said to himself. "Let's do this."

I won't let you down, Cavendish. I'll save the world for you. I promise you didn't sacrifice yourself in vein.

And with that, Dakota pushed down on the gas pedal, and the three of them reentered the timestream.

[haphazardlyparked]

“Breathe,” Aurora said, cradling Susan’s head, her halo of black hair. “Just breathe.”

Susan’s body was slumped in her arms. Cold, already. Breathless. 

Susan. 

How many times had she just stood there (stood there, determined and strong and always sure of her conviction, even when she was weak) while Aurora growled at her and snapped and refused to meet her eyes? 

“I said I’d spy for you,” Aurora had told her most recently, half-shouting while the blood in her veins warmed her uncomfortably from the inside. Who knew what would stoke that warmth into a fire? How long could she last before the fire killed her? “But I’m not going to risk my life for every meaningless person you manage to lose.” And least of all for a ragtag group full of fools that included the one who broke their hand punching Aurora in the face.  

“Please,” Aurora choked out now, her voice strangled to almost nothing by the tightness in her throat. “Don’t leave me alone. Susan.” 

Breathless.

Her and Susan both.

Aurora squeezed her eyes shut and hugged Susan as if it were before, as if the gods hadn’t started a proxy war that engulfed the whole damned world. 

Aurora’s grip around Susan convulsed. She gasped, her blood a sudden inferno beneath her skin, a fire that spread til every part of her felt tight, dried out, burned and burning still. Her oaths were bound in the blood of her body, and they knew how she strayed.

Understanding came to her then, a clear, fresh breath that filled her lungs. Aurora exhaled steadily. She knew what she had to do. 

Swallowing back the sobs that could still rattle her apart, she lowered Susan's body to the floor. Screw the oaths. Susan was dead and that reality scorched Aurora's insides as thoroughly as her blood could.

"I'm sorry," she told Susan, looking down at her face to memorize it. “I never did enough before. I’m sorry.” She stared at Susan a moment longer, and then closed her eyes and threw herself out in all directions, yet only to one: away. 

Away: to the cells where Susan’s ragtag young fools were being held. 

(susan & aurora have a thing here too (that comes first actually))

Prompt 117

“Breathe,” the villain said, cradling the hero’s head. “Just breathe.”

The hero’s body slumped in their arms; cold by now. Breathless.

“Please,” the villain choked out. “Don’t leave me alone.”

[pixiethedm]

Sunday Respite - Necromancy: Making Friends

I will be truthful, I have never had a player choose to devote themselves to the dark-arts ... in-game, obviously. Well, and out of game. Usually they avoid the venerable school with a distance rivaled only by that given to inconspicuous props upon pedestals in wide, empty dungeon rooms. Perhaps its a dislike of suiting the stereotypical (yet badass) summoner of souls and entrapper of the dead, perhaps its a desire to pursue a more immediately rewarding school such as evocation or illusion. I say bah-humbug to this. If someone wishes to play in my game and hang out in haunted graveyards, chanting ‘til the pale moon sinks beneath the horizon, then I say good on you, pal.

Here are some enticing items to tempt the pure and incorruptible over into the blackest fifth and rotten waste, where mortal pleasures and obsessions are diseases to be cured through the sacrifice and suffering of the pursuit of true knowledge. Unlock that fascination, surrender to the whispers, take our hand and join us beneath the cloaking shadows of the dungeon walls.

Hooded-Cowl of the Antler

A warm and well-made cowl which tussles and dances in the midnight winds. A beautiful inner of amber weave gleams like torchlight under the absorbing darkness of the exterior; empty as sorrow, lonely as a blackened tide washing over barren shores of ancient bones and tattered flotsam. The collar ties loop together over the chest around an iron ring, and the hood obscures face and eye from any passing observer. The wearer, upon command, can pull forth from the speechless depths of the earth a great, prideful stag of ashen bone and gleaming frost. It howls out onto the wilderness and slowly lowers its head toward its master, offering a ride upon its icy spine. The stag can run as fast as any horse, living or dead, and can outrun a jackal pack over open ground. It leaves behind a path of frigid air, with pebbles and stones lathered in peeling cold for hours beyond its passing. Those unfortunate enough to cross this trail risk having their blood lock in their veins as they idly step through its trail.

Hangman’s Gift

This decoration is a rotten, gnarled length of thick rope, tied around the wearer’s neck with a clubbish knot hanging below the chin. The trailing fibers are frayed and sliced to wire-thin strings. This necklace, or sorts, is worn by those who have survived executions and certain death through one means or quite another. The gallows aren’t suited for them, and many executioners recognise such a symbol; one of an untouchable status. This man should be dead. Whilst the Gift is adorned, the wearer doesn’t require food, water, nor even air to survive. They live on through the worst that life can throw at them, and much beyond that.

Motley Neck-Knife

The Motley blade is a tidy-little throat slicer. Its a short, silver blade, barely an inch long, secured upon an ivory grip. Its sheath is that of a simple, black leather with a crude zig-zag stitching around its opening. When the Motley dagger earns its name and separates a man from his life with an abrupt, yet precise, infliction, that same body that dropped not two seconds ago jolts back to its feet at his killer’s side. Most guards have seen a murder in their time, so corpses scares them little. Some have even witnessed petty undead, so a shambling body upon its twisted ankles and bloated joints is nothing to panic over. But none had seen the smiles that the Motley carver grows over its victim’s lifeless mugs. Certainly none had heard the screams of the dead men inside as they watched in horror, helplessly passive as they see their own, empty forms stride forth towards friend and fellow alike with a feral madness burning in their bloodshot, and crow-pecked eyes.

Dead-Shot Arrows

These arrows are made of human bone. Their feathered ends are human hairs, the shaft is a carved femur, and the head is a incisor tooth, carved to a needle’s edge. They feel heavy to hold in mortal hands, like all of the goodness in the world and your head bleeds out onto the floor as you level it upon your pale palm. The munition is said to be made exclusively from the skeletons of priests and paladins from wherever they may be found. No-other would do, clearly. For when you test the wrath of the divine you may as well go full-in. Why not desecrate the holy dead? That query becomes difficult to dispute once the arrow meets a target. The arrow stings like a wasp swarm, digging out the skin, itching the blood like the veins are full of sandpaper. Then the victim’s bones begin to creak like heavy timbers under a sea storm, bending and twisting in horrific pain. Then they splinter and fracture through skin like porcupine quills as the bones begin to pull themselves out of their flesh.

Pipes of the Grave

A lonely city-bard may perchance these wooden pipes of birch and green leather in a lonely shop window on a lonely street they have never once walked. The shop-keep promises through yellowed teeth and dry lips that the instrument is as perfect as a true-lover’s kiss, bringing true emotion to any tale told with heartful passion and intent: a memorable performance if there would ever be one. The bard may yet further be intrigued at the low price, and may further yet buy them with a smile gleaming with the thought of gold and silver coins aplenty. The performances that she plays will sing like mountain cries and wail with forlorn hopes, echoing through every generation's ears, bringing both youth and elders alike to rapturous applause. The crowd is crying, only not in joy. They scatter like woodlice as the lush grasses of the city park grounds split open into raw dirt and clawing fingers, as the generations lost before join in on the celebrations, tearing their rotten hulks up from the ancient graveyards buried and forgotten below. His performance ceases, and the dead collapse into piles of bone. She discards the instrument, destroys it perhaps, and she returns to her original flute. Unfortunately, once the Pipes have been played, the curse it contracts is not so easily gotten rid of, and the dead will rise wherever she sings.

Enjoy

Pixie x

12/2/17