#when else would they ever have worn these suits. you cannot convince me that they didn’t have a shopping montage moment before this scene

[housewifebuck]

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Hanged Man

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | eight

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: After some time apart, new conclusions are met.

Word count: 7.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT, fingering, unprotected piv sex, emo emo emo (are we even surprised any more), mature themes, abandonment/family trauma, loss

Notes: Friends, wow. I'm honestly embarrassed by how long this took. Thank you for your patience. I hope you find the reward worth the wait. This chapter is nearly all in Din's POV until it switches and blends in the last chunk. If you’re new to KOC, you’re more than welcome to start at this chapter! Love you guys x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

“Din.”

Familiar fingers brush through his hair, a hand he knew once combing over his overgrown locks. He feels the drag of nails across his scalp, tucking a truant curl behind his ear, and the act feels like home— like hearth.

Somewhere beyond his open window a morning bird trills, perched in its roost nestled into the forked branch of the elm.

He breathes a sigh, the sound thick with sleep, and turns to his pillow, burying himself deeper into the linen.

“Din, honey.”

He blinks— lazily, molassesed— her shape clearing into focus.

Green eyes peer back at him, fine lines framing the corners of them, and crescents crease around her lips, pulled warm into a soft curve.

Small toys— wooden things, baubles and bits, dolls made from scraps of old fabric—litter the floor, spilling from the chest butted against the stone of the wall. A book, well-loved and dog-eared, rests on his nightstand—the one he insisted she read from each night, the story he couldn’t possibly fall asleep without hearing—the images written on the page, dancing in his small mind to the tune of her voice.

It’s all there now as it was then before.

“It’s time to wake up.”

She sits at the edge of the bed—his bed—the weight of her arm draped over his shoulder like a blanket— like shelter. Like never being fearful again. Like never dying. Like summer, forever.

“I am awake,” he murmurs, and it is with his own tongue that he speaks. Not that of a boy, but a man—unfiltered, unmodulated. Stripped of his helmet, he hardly recognizes the tenor of it, of its richness, but he feels the words reverberate against the hollow of his throat and he knows they belong to him.

Light casts through the window behind her—particles of dust, trapped in the tines. Floating there, suspended on strings.

She only smiles, and strokes a thumb across the sweep of his cheekbone, there in the room he last felt safe.

“No, not yet.”

It’s time to wake up. It’s time to wake up. Wake up wake up wake—

“Not yet.”

His eyes blur open with a flutter of his lashes, the lifeless durasteel ceiling coming into view—the jade of her gaze fading, fading. Blowing away.

He shifts a hand through his hair— through the long strands in dire need of trimming— lying on his bedroll, spine knobbing into the thin mattress. The cold metal overhead stares back at him.

His chest rises. Falls.

Din can still feel her, the warmth of her, there on his cheek.

///

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He knows what you’re thinking, he can see it in the guard you’ve encased yourself with— your glass walls, your glass house. Transparent but impenetrable, Din can only look. A spectator, watching as you go about your routines— a stranger on the outside.

And he sees how you look at him.

You think he’s fine.

You think he’s marble. Unbreakable. Impervious to time, to cold, and he does nothing to correct you; no, he allows the belief. He lets you believe the calloused veneer of his beskar— lets you assume he is more machine than man.

Din thought it would be simpler. Convenient. Din thought it would hurt less.

Because how can he tell you? How can he possibly communicate the imprint you’ve left on him— how his mind revolves around the imagery of that evening in vicious figure-eights. How he can’t unremember your heat curling around his fingers, how he can’t unbridle the pulse of his cock in your palm. How he can’t unspeak that which he called you, his virgin tongue flicking new and flighty around the word.

Cyare.

It tripped—in the midst of his pleasure, it sprang clumsy from him how the inevitable always seems to where you are concerned: transport to Coruscant, his past, his history, his identity— it just happens, reasonless, illogically. Some driving magic beckoning him to buckle, wishing him to give.

Your moans, your gasps, how you prayed his name— this is the white noise murmuring through the ship, harmonizing with the tinny mechanical beeps and settling groans of the bulkheads. You churn like smog through his helmet. Ever present, the memory of you is constant— invasive. It’s suffocating him.

He’s been dealt plenty of injuries and contusions— he has the scars enough to prove it— but it’s this. It’s this that’s killing him. It’s you.

All of these paintings, life-like and lurid, and yet it is this wound - untended, uncauterized - that scalds most: the moment Din, that beskar apparition, slipped away from you. You were there, hip under the weight of his glove, and he simply

went, like fog.

He watched your face crest and fall—felt your heart, skipping nervous like a stone over a morning pond, little waves rippling lightly, lightly out and out until it puttered quiet and

sank.

He abandoned you there. He left you before you had the opportunity to convince Din that you wouldn't do the same to him. Because Din has learned this, his suit of armor a trudging reminder of the inherent fact: good things leave.

You’ll be gone soon. You’ll leave him—he’s taking you home and you’ll leave him. His son will leave him.

He’ll be alone again. He’ll have the Crest, he’ll have the Guild—he’ll have the life he once cast in stone for himself, the life he’s worn as proudly as the Mudhorn emblem he boasts on his pauldron. But that was then - before - and he can never find his way back to that now; now that he knows what he knows—of breakfast and bitter caf and laughter like church bells and warmth and goodness and you.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

There in the galley, lamp-lit iridescence caressing your countenance, you asked him once if he was scared of anything and he told you he wasn’t sure— not yet.

Din lied.

As a rule, he doesn’t make a habit out of dishonesty; it doesn’t typically suit him, he is blunted to a fault— earning allies and enemies alike with the very attribute—but he lied to you then. Maybe his fears are the same as everyone else’s, maybe they’re simple. Human.

Maybe he’s scared that you’ll unchain him from his armor, of his shortcomings and tragic flaws and see the pulpy heart of him—that you’ll look and look and look, and you will like nothing that you find there. That he’s just a man.

And perhaps, he’d rather remain unknown than risk the chance of being unlovable.

For there is a certain hollow you befriend in the aftershock of loss—there is an aperture loss gores you with. There are some holes time can never fill; they remain trenched, dug from rusted trowels— left to fester, left to ill.

Sometimes, in the surly vacuum of space, in those dulled moments in which he has nothing but to count the seconds as they tick clocklessly away, Din attempts to conjure the last word his mother gave to him. He didn’t know it then—he didn’t know it was intended as a gift, boxed and ribboned and bowed. He didn’t realize—a child, wide-eyed with naivety, drenched in fright—that he should cherish it. Remember it. Keep it safe.

No matter how hard he tries, how hard he strains, he can’t recall it. He practices the nightmared memory of it, transports himself into that war zone, dodging shrapnel and brimstone just to catch sight of her face— and he can see her lips moving, can feel the fan of the flames as his world is reduced to cinders, but he cannot hear her.

Was it goodbye? Was it I love you? Was it be safe? Was it hide? Hide hide hide for me. Be good and hide, kind boy—

It dogs him. The nothinged mumble, his silent passenger.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He heard you. There in Valentia, the city buzzing cacophonously like an orchestra tuning their instruments, he overheard the Twi’lek translate for the older woman.

Family, she said. You have a beautiful family.

Din has never in his life considered forsaking his Creed— forgoing the thing that saved him, made him, honed him to tungsten, sharp as a blade.

But he did then.

It was a flash, something fickle and brief— like the flicker of a candle before it diffused to smoke— but in that nanosecond he saw himself ripping off his helmet. He saw himself going to you, pulling you close to his plated chest. He saw the surprise wash over you—the shock that bubbled to elation. He saw you smile, that crippling gorgeous thing, with his own naked eyes and—

And then suddenly you were there before him, snapping Din from his reverie, blanket snug to your chest, the child — his child— slung beside you. He wished he had an explanation, but before he could process his actions his hand was drawing itself to your body, tugged by some unseen force—robbed of his autonomy— and rapturously, he touched you. He felt you.

His knuckles grazed your arm—your warmth, radiating past the aged leather of his glove—and the wisdom that woman uttered, the plain truth only the ancient could learn— only a mother could know— rattled around his mind, unanchored and barreling.

Yearn for the past. Reclaim time.

Hold onto them hold onto them hold on—

Never let them go.

Ready? he asked you, arm resigned to his side, feigning monotony beneath the cover of his visor.

You threaded an even smile to your lips, as if Din were none the wiser— as if he hadn’t catalogued every lick of your expressions, every curve and bow and wrinkle as your emotions sung across your face. As if he didn’t know when you were lying. As if he didn’t know when you were falling apart.

Ready, you replied, swallowing past the disappointment welled in your throat.

Both your hearts broke then. Perfectly—the same.

This is the Way.

///

Din is gone over a week. It’s the longest he’s ever been away for a hunt—it’s the longest nine days of your kriffing life.

The ship feels vacant without him; she’s cumbersome, too cavernous for the likes of only you and his foundling. Her durasteel sidings yawn morose against the wind beating restless against her—her metal stretching like a lothcat in a patch of sun. The doors and hatches complain ajar and gripe shut, as if she’s recalcitrant to go about her standard operating procedures without Din’s presence. The old gal misses him, down to her steely bones and dual ion turbines, and in truth — and despite yourself— you suppose a small part of you feels the same, shares an inkling of that same loneliness.

The rituals and dog-eared routines you’d drawn comfort from are now rinsed in a forlorn wash.

The single bowl of food you prepare looks wrong without its twin beside it.

You scroll a finger over your display screen, flicking through various articles, the faint light from the holopad basking the contours of your face in a lonesome shade of inanimate blue.

Anything good you hear him ask, there in your inner ear— the memory of his voice leaving a nick among the many wrinkles of your brain.

You sigh, quietly— alone. Never.

Even Munch misses him, although he expresses it differently. He’s been a downright terror with Din gone. At first it was a vacation, a luxury retreat; you and the child gorged yourself on crackers and grava berries and dried bantha meat—mindful of sweeping up the crumbs on whichever surface you snacked. You giggled and ran amok and shared secrets in code only the two of you could decipher.

But one day grew to two, and two to three and three to four and by the fifth you were out of treats and your patience too had dwindled to short supply.

The child is special— unquestionably unique. And as much as you adore him, would lay down your life for him if it came to it, Maker he is uniquely qualified to send you round the bend twice over. He’s baffling, infuriating— just like his father. Of all the things he could have inherited from the man, of course he decided to latch on to his vexing penchant for mystery.

You lost him for half a day. He was somewhere aboard the Crest, of that you knew that for certain, but he managed to enact a stunt that could’ve puzzled even the most illustrious of illusionists with how quickly and effectively he vanished, seemingly out of thin air.

He emerged eventually for dinner, babbling wickedly. There was that, at least: you could always count on Munch to — well, munch.

Over a week of this— nine days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, to be exact… But who’s counting.

The sky glitches with lightning, sparking like a bulb in dreadful need of changing, and veins of violet skitter along the horizon, chased by the clapping hammer of thunder. Fat drops of rain trace down the transparisteel, the metalled drum of their pattering against the Crest lullabying your eyelids to a slumbered close. You drift, weightless, waxing and waning in and out of a reoccurring dream that always blurs to mere suggestion - to shadow - as soon as you wake.

The harsh sound stirs you—the ramp’s gears springing to life, signaling the Mandalorian’s return. Rapidly, you blink clear the slog of sleep from your eye, re-emerging from the forgotten depths of your subconscious and half-roused, you bound from the copilot’s chair. You rally from your stupor, instinct urging you to meet the bounty hunter by the entrance—some tittering, foolish part of you still so glad and girlish just to see him.

Hobbling down the ladder with veteraned coordination - one leg one arm one foot one hand - you hop the last two rungs to land catlike on the balls of your feet, heading towards the stern of the ship and—

You don’t make it three steps.

He’s there. Din is there— nine days later and finally, like a hallucination, he’s here— ominous and backlit by the glow seeping in from the galley. An obelisk, undaunted.

Your gut somersaults, flipping until it dizzies.

Knee-jerked and reflexive, the basest part of you demands you go to him, to cross the threshold separating you— the time and space and uncertainty dredged like a moat between you two. But instead of greeting him as you wish— two arms thrown around him, welcoming him home—back to the Crest, to the child, to you—you stand there, dumbstruck and wanting.

The passage of the corridor is like a strait. It's so narrow you can smell him— his carbon musk, his petrichored sweat—and it furls thick into your sinuses, fogging up your vision, clotting the faulty wiring of your mind. He’s brought the wet in with him, drip dropping from his hulking frame to splat puddled onto the deck.

plop

plop

plop

A beat ferments, hanging ripe from its branch as the tempest rages outside the sheltered hull of the ship. Distantly, thunder booms from above.

“Din— hi.”

“You’re up.” He doesn’t move from the archway. Stiffened, composed from granite, the man hardly breathes. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily—untruthfully.

Din scans you: your obviously tousled hair, the drowsy flush kissing your jaw, the tell-tale crinkle of your tunic. Your tongue darts out to skip over your lip and his lungs pull, aching beneath his ribs.

Maker, you’re pretty even when you lie.

“Go back to sleep,” he assures, but you hardly register it; it’s scarcely above a murmur by the time the words hum through his modulator.

“Can I make you some food? Can I—"

There’s a tarred shake of his helm, tiredly dissuading you. “No, you—you’ve done enough.”

“But you must be exhausted, Din. Let me help you,” you urge, sincerity shaping the lilt of your voice. “Please, I—” You falter. Vision finally adjusted in the dimmed hall, it is then that you spot it.

Your mouth runs dry.

He’s dappled in a violent scarlet, foreign red splatters contrasted against all that silvered grey, bleeding with the rainwater to roll sanguined down the rounded edges of his armor.

Blood. He’s covered in blood.

Something pitted—something vital— in you contracts; horror, prickling the fine hairs along your forearm. “Maker, what happened?”

Eyes gaping fearful, you skitter around his breastplate, his vambraces, the paneling of his flight suit, roving meticulously in search for the source of his injury. Thoughtless, consumed with only one concern - is he hurt? - your hand flies to his chest where it rests—solid. Fretting. “Stars, are you—”

He can see it—he can see you, always—how your gaze swells, laced with a surge of adrenaline, of care, and Din lays his broad palm flat over your knuckles, grabbing your frantic attention. “It’s not mine—hey, it’s not mine.”

Your shoulders deflate, relief visibly relaxing the rigidity in your spine, and for the first time in what feels like minutes you release the breath you’d fostered high behind your teeth.

He doesn’t know what overtakes him. Perhaps it’s your sleep swollen lips or the soft petal of your cheek— taunting Din, daring him to feel you again, as he did before— or perhaps it’s the all too apparent fact that you simply give a shit about him— despite everything he’s done, all of that which he has left unsaid. That you worry. That you care.

Puppeted, arm hoisted by some invisible strings of fate—those unseen threads of inevitability—he reaches for you. Din’s thumb roams the slope of your cheekbone, the buttered hide of his glove gliding over your skin. Something rattles flustered in your chest, and you must look pathetic— how your eyes bat at him and your mouth parts, breathy and demure.

“Dala.” He sounds pained when he says it, as if it’s poisoning him; the very syllables like hemlock dripping down his tongue—slowly gradually, ending his life— this life.

This life as he knows it.

You nuzzle into the cradle of his palm, encircling a hand around his wrist, urging him still. You both know he could break away from you without an ounce of strength squandered, but he doesn’t; he listens, he quiets for you. Enchanted, neither of you dare move— neither of you, willing to shatter the profound spell of intimacy you’ve stumbled onto.

He holds you like this, and you hold him to you. His hand on your cheek; yours over the birdcaged throb of his heart— burning - devouring - its entombed aril like the heart of a dying star.

“Where’d you go?” you whisper, heathered, into the heel of his hand. There is something broken in your cadence, like the chipped rim of a fragile cup, and it punctures him just there beneath his sternum.

Where’d you go?

Where’d you go before? When you left— where did you spirit away to?

Why didn’t you take me with you?

A sick wave rots his stomach. He couldn’t answer you then, not when you were wobbly and coltish beneath him—Din can barely answer you now. His digits twine into your hair, cupping the arc of your neck. The gesture is not unkind. It is delicate— urgent, too—and the following hush you share speaks tomes for the both of you, the sob of his leathered fist admitting what he cannot utter.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Maker, if you could see him. See how his face folds for you, grief lined into the shallow grooves that mark him. The cycles of it— how they bend him into something contorted. Something in need - I need you I need you I need - something ugly, he thinks. Leftover. Hidden. Hide hide hide hi—

You turn, pressing a kiss into the rough of his palm. It’s a soft thing— trepid and cautious—too worried you might frighten him away to offer anything more than a chaste brush of your lips—too worried you’ll send him scurrying back into the cratered unknown he crawled out from.

But he doesn’t.

Din doesn’t turn tail and run, he stands firm—weaving his hand further into your scalp, guiding you closer to him with a throaty sound. The forehead of his helm sinks to yours, and through its filter you discern the tremor of Din’s breathing, made fuzzy by the tinny modulator.

This is nothing like before. Din was hot blooded and vicious then, possessed by the infernal likes of some great beast, but he has since been tamed, if only momentarily—coaxed into a certain meekness by the frail ache of his heart—by the grace of your kind mouth, kissing his gun-worn glove.

He groans your name, mumbled and brassy. The two of you so close, so merged, that if it weren’t for his helmet, you’d feel the tickle of the syllables as they sweep over your face. Din repeats himself, repentant—praying for forgiveness on the cross of your name—your kiss, a benediction.

Again, he calls you. I’m sorry.

Again, you kiss him. There is nothing to forgive.

Again. Again.

With a flutter of bravado, you sling a lumbered arm over the span of his neck, notching yourself into his chest, an interlocking piece finding it’s match. Din’s forearm comes to coil around your waist, wide hand spanning the small of your back, and if possible, gathers you nearer— a growl emanating somewhere from under his beskar.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, bullet riddled—grating—warring with the countless shards of himself he has yet to reconcile; but his body betrays his intentions as Din’s grasp finds itself lower, filling his fingers with the plush of your ass. “Tell me, please.”

Arousal rushes to pool in your depths—at the proximity of him, the hungered way at which he paws you—and it’s a reaction you feel mimicked by the iron rod straining against Din’s flight suit, pressing into your thigh. You shake your head, gaze colored earnest, and you shift, applying a grind of your hips against him in response.

Din lets out a defeated groan; weak to you, a fabled Mandalorian warrior brought to trembling knees by the guile of a good woman. And suddenly, like striking a match in a room swarmed with gas, you are incendiary.

He’s everywhere— groping and kneading your arms, your ass, your neck and waist. You are malleable beneath him, sculpted like wet clay under his eager touch—as if he is committing your form to memory; the fervor of his grip, reclaiming time.

He hooks a hand under the crease of your knee, yanking you to the column of his armor, sealing your bodies together. Gyrating your hips against him, your clit yearns against his thick outline as you dig into the cowl draped over his shoulders.

Sliding his hand down your backside, he presses his palm into your clothed heat from behind, pads of his fingers insistent as you saddle your spine into his touch, granting him better access. His cock brays, straining beneath his many layers, and a withered moan breaches past your lips.

“Gods, Din.”

Din. He can’t stand that—his name, lush in your wet mouth—and without ceremony, drops your leg from where he’d glued it to his hip. Like a beggar, impoverished and need-stricken, he begins to fight with your clothing, half tempted to rip the damn things off you, leaving you tattered; he’d happily buy you a new wardrobe if it meant having you as he’s wanted for these long months—naked and vulnerable and his.

Your tunic and pants come off in a flurry, your underwear too, discarded hastily in some forgotten corner—and with a hand on your chest, he walks you backwards until your bare ass connects with the durasteel, a jagged inhale tearing through you at the chill. A question knits your brows to meet as Din paces away from you, increasing his distance.

“What are you-”

He interrupts you with a groan. “Just - gedet’ye - just let me—”

His gaze drips like wax down your body—eyes dressing over your clavicle, the supple weight of your breasts, the gorgeous dusting of hair at your mound, the sweet press of your thighs as you clench them together, your pretty knees, your pretty ankles, your pretty feet, pigeoned inward nervously.

Pretty pretty pretty—fuck, all of you. So fucking pretty.

With the cock of his chin, his gaze returns to the heave of your breasts—tracing over your nipples pebbling in the everpresent draft of the Razor Crest— and you rile under him, heart stammering loud—so loud you’re convinced he can hear it with the aid of his helm. And Maker above, the way you’re fucking staring at him—all hooded lids and flushed cheeks. Din wants to fucking ravish you.

Dismantle you.

Pick you apart bit by bit until you’ve come undone completely.

And as if slogging through gravity itself, movements prowled, he steps to you. Din finds your hips, running the whisper of his gloves along the slopes of your sides; a master of patience, commanding time to his will, he crawls up your skin

slow

slow

deliberate.

You’re all but helpless to the shiver that traverses the planes of your body, zipping along your synapses like the fault lines of a quaking planet—cracking you open, exposing your molten core. You’re not proud of the noise you make when he cups your breasts. Starved, you whine as he takes you into his hands, pinching and groping until you’re pert and sore and you drive your pelvis into him, rutting yourself against his frame like some flea ridden slum-mutt in the prime of her heat.

Din seethes, mumbling in Mando’a—spitting curses you can’t pretend to comprehend, but that blot warmth along your cheekbones at the oaky depravity of which he utters them.

He seals over your mound, blood pumping at your seam, bundle of nerves pulsing steady against the heel of his hand. Immobile, he waits, hovering stagnant and teasing before his lust to feel you outweighs his desire to make you be good and wait—and parting through your curls, he kisses the tips of his orange gloves into your honeyed cunt.

It’s dirty. He’s dirty, he’s fucking filthy—covered in foreign blood and alien soil—and you feel depraved, unclean. Powerful. You feel, perhaps, as the Maker intended—wild and without shame, to roam his gateless garden and sully the soles of your feet.

You feel raw. Din Djarin sands you raw.

The pump of his wrist is merciless, pistoning in and out in shallow thrusts, knuckles angled to prod at that spot— that piece of primordial heaven sequestered at the channel of your cunt—and he keeps discovering it over and over again with a sharp shooter’s precision—zeroing in on his mark and releasing the trigger. Dead eyed.

You grab greedily at his bulge, at his cock begging for regard beneath the protective fabric covering him, and you squeeze the best you can. The angle is awkward and unweildy and it’s not nearly enough for either of you, but it conveys your intention well enough.

Can I have this? Will you give this to me?

Din growls his reply, leaving your pussy to fumble with the waist of his trousers, fidgeting over the pesky buttons—the final of the flimsy holdouts separating you and the tempered steel hanging solid between his legs. It bobs free from his pants, ruddied tip straining and pining for you, and without spending another moment idle, he rediscovers the warmth of your naked body— molding himself to your form, his grip once more finding the pit of your knee and bracing it to his side.

He ruts the underside of his shaft through your slick folds, his blunt head nudging at the swollen cleft of your center—each pitch of Din’s hips sending bolts of pleasure crackling through your core. He’s stifling a string of moans while he does it, while he undulates against you, the sighs and gasps digitized to near silence as he coats his cock in your gloss—and not for the first time do you find yourself considering how fucking colossal Din is. How fucking virile and engulfing, like blaster smoke and tabacco and cedar. Like coaled smog from a cremulator. Like giving life, like taking it away— like mercy. Vengeance.

Din swipes your standing leg up to match the other in a fluid motion, effectively levitating you off the ground with only his palms secured beneath your hamstrings and your strangled hold around his neck to suspend you.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He’s practically begging you now, anguish wrecking through the timber of his voice—grasping blindly for an excuse not to lose himself in you completely, not to bury his primal drives and fears into the chasm of your sex.

You’ll leave him you’ll leave him he’s terrified you’ll leave him

“I-I don’t want you to stop— I want this. Din, I want you, I missed you. I miss you.” You miss him. He’s right here, cock streaking through your middle and still, you miss him. You’ll never stop missing him—wanting him. An unscratchable itch at the median of your back, burning for his affection, for his touch.

He releases a husked sound at that, as if hearing it from you hurts— your words, purpling a bruise into the bloody beat of his heart—and like a dipping sun sinking below the crust of a darkening planet, the last of Din’s resolve fades to utter black as he finally - finally - buries himself into where you weep for him.

Oh Maker. Fuck, fuck—

You muffle a relieved cry, forehead collapsing to the slope of his shoulder. Your walls shutter, blinking and gasping around his cock as he rolls up into you, lips pulling taut around his girth with each drag through your cunt. Din fucks you slurred and languid—his pace, sweltering like a summer fever—heavy, punitive. Smothering and thick. You can feel every vein, every silken ridge, as he notches himself inch by inch— the cant of his hips meditated, aiming to melt you open with each wave.

Stuffed to the hilt inside you, he rakes in a ragged breath, calming the race of his bloodstream drumming percussive in his ears.

It occurs to you then that he might be trying to be careful with you, curled around him like this, crushed up against the bulkhead. You think he might be treating you as a jeweler would handle a rarified gem— gentle and tip-toed, afraid of letting you clatter to the counter, of scuffing your facets— devaluing you.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want cautious or considerate or any of those awfully pious things. You want to be owned. Devoured. You don’t want to feel anything else but him. You want him to need you so terribly, so primally, he bleeds. You want to forget your own damn name and replace the memory of it with his—just his, to sit besot like liquor on your tongue. Din Din Din.

“Fuck me— please - please - fuck me harder Din.” Fuck me like you need to. Fuck me like you want me— please just tell me you want me. Tell me I’m wanted. Tell me I’m worth this.

You can see the deliberation span over his mask, the light glinting off the steel there hesitant, wary. Are you sure?

“Fuck me.” I want this. I want you.

He wants to give this to you somewhere soft— somewhere you deserve. With a feathered mattress and molted down pillows and gauzy curtains billowing in a sea breeze as light dapples prismed patterns on your dewy skin. He wants to give this to you somewhere beautiful—perhaps on that planet you once probed him about - Adega - with its red trees and warm nights and friendly natives you’d cherish and keep aloft in your breast.

He wants you to feel safe. Adored.

But what he wants and what he needs are two vastly different things—two opposing extremes at odds with the other. Because he needs to fuck you here— it has to be here. Needs to score your backside with metaled bites from the Crest’s unforgiving interior; needs you crumpled and sloppy, panting out his name to echo shamelessly into the deviled bowels of his gunship.

He needs you charred for him. Scorched earth.

And with your panted pleas, lilting addictive and irresistible, he is all but helpless to deny you— to deny himself. Relenting, resolved, his voice bottoms out.

“I-I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He fucks you frenzied. The snap of his hips drives you into the wall; he lifts you off his cock just to spear you on it once more, fucking up up up into you, unleashing all his strength— his neglected need—into the grail of your womb. The salted slaps of skin are loud enough to make a lecher blush. It’s a chorus of beskar rattling, wet and ugly and Maker, he’s splitting you open and all you can do is mewl.

You screw your eyes shut, lost to oblivion—crown of your head shoved back, jugular bared for him like prey before the slaughter.

“No.” Leveraging his mass against you, Din clasps at the nape of your neck to command your focus, forcing your chin. “No, look at me,” he orders, brutal and sinewed and there’s desperation there. Din needs you looking at him — seeing him— the embrace of your gaze like a life raft, tethering him here, grounding him to this plane of existence, the one where he has found salvation—if only fleeting, if only like hourglassed sand sifting through his fingers—within the temple of your body. Struggling and led-lidded, you pry your lashes apart, shivering as you drink in the punishing expression leering across his visor; and as you always do, you peer past the murky T there, meeting his eyes camouflaged in their sockets behind it.

“There you are. There you are, my pretty thing - hnng—” He silences himself with a hoarse moan, the sensation of you clenching firm around him, gripping Din like a man would a rope, dangling some feet above the ground, hiccuping him to stutter. “T-That’s it, dala—fuck, y-your pussy is so godsdamn tight.”

You go boneless at the praise—at how he tongues out those fond epithets, vehement and covetous and brined in sincerity—and your breathing quickens as you soak the coarse weave of Din’s flight suit, chafing your clit to shambles with each bow of his starved sex.

You’re close. Stars, you’re so kriffing close—reach out and touch it and you’re there, a promise fulfilled dancing at your fingertips—and you almost tell him; you wish you could - don’t stop don’t stop please right there Din - but you’ve lost your voice, vocal chords stricken with tension. More than that, you’ve lost the wedge of your brain that recognizes articulation all together. Speech itself. You’re wasted. You’re shattered. You’re being fucked within an inch of your sorry life.

Nimbled, without a word of warning, Din relocates— grappling under the plats of your thighs and bracing you featherlight to his chest—negligible in comparison to the ton of armor he dons cycle after cycle, weightless when compared to that of his Creed, hanging like a yoke around his gullet. You yip in surprise and scramble around him, calves digging into his back, forearms clamped around his shoulders—his cock remaining delved within your pussy with each footfall.

Four long strides and he’s reached his destination: a large crate, stranded just outside the hallway leading to the galley. Stooping at the waist, he lowers you down with astonishing ease until you’re flush on your back, knees flanking his frame. You heave a sigh, petulant and wanting, when he slips from you mid-adjustment, a lewd squelch accompanying the movement. It is to the fervor of your clawing, desperate nails scratching down metal - please please please - that he glides back into you with one deft sweep, a satisfied gasp tumbling loose from him.

He looms over you now— Din, a tower unyielding—thrusting into you rough and hard and perfect. He’s filling you in undiscovered places long gone unrealized, nooks you didn’t know you had—the length of him completing you, making you whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, orange pads of his gloves dimpling your hips.

With a tremor of your chin, you moan—broken and chirping. “Don’t - please - please don’t - shit - don't stop—” Your prayers convulse, dying in your throat, sentence cut short as he circles his thumb over your clit, catching at your slippery bud. Ever the marksman, he’s debilitatingly attentive to you, the hide of his glove snagging against your cleft, and combined with the steady rock of his dick shredding you open, you’re all but defenseless to the dawning of your release, crawling closer and closer and—

“Din,” you pant, ”Din Din Din, I think I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna, oh Maker—”

The muscles in your stomach seize, a twisted expression cramping your brow. You scamper to his arms, reaching out for something - anything - a parcel of real estate to clutch onto while you unravel. You’re grappling with his pauldrons, the pulsepoint at your wrist humming over the symbol welded to his shoulder, and you mage into starlight. You’re fizzing. You’re blind. You’re atomic and phasing in and out of realities and you burn— a meteor hurtling through the upper atmosphere crashing crashing crashing and—

Language exhausted, all there is left for you to do is cry, the evidence of your orgasm ricocheting like a hail of gunfire against the Razor Crest walls.

“That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl for me—f-fuck." It’s like taking a jab to his solar plexus, how you cinch around him— the corset of your walls milking his cock until he’s shaking, stumbling. The drive of his pelvis has gone erratic, the throbbing bloom gnashing its teeth in his gut—that rabid thing desperate to be released, uncaged—teeters on the identical ledge you’d just leapt from.

“Tell me to stop - please - tell me to, tell me to stop—” You’re all eyes. Your whole face, swallowed by the sweet, glassy orbs notched below the quiver of your forehead, and you’re looking at him like he could hang the damn moon and it’s too much— it’s too much too much he can’t levee this raging need— and with a hurried gasp he pulls out of your heat to tug at his slicked cock— panting ragged as he gushes onto your stomach, your legs, your pretty pussy made pink and puffy with abuse.

His breathing is labored; you can see it in the mountainous rise and fall of his chest plate as his strokes slow, his other hand digging into your flesh, indenting you. He exhales, scraping clean the fissure between his lungs, and Din tips his head, angling it backwards— granting you a rare sliver of the stubbled swath along his neck. The sightly patch, treasured behind his silvered grotto, shouldn’t be the thing that plays upon your heartstrings like one would pluck a harp— not after he’s burrowed himself inside you, not after he’s carved you to his likeness— but it does. You’re butterflied and cherry blossomed and you grin— not so much on your lips but in your soul, and there is a purring warmth that’s radiating like candle flame from the anima alive beneath your breasts and—

And then, suddenly — like time, like memory— he is gone.

He leaves you. Mirrored, he does as he did that night—laying a squeeze into the meat of your hip, he transpires to atoms, dissipating round the unknown bend of a corner and you’re alone again—alone, with only the citric bile steeping in your insides to accompany you, threatening to rise up your windpipe.

No. No no nonono—

Din’s presence, a beacon in the moonless night, disappears— leaving you orphaned and moored and mortified. He’s done it again— he’s left you, he keeps leaving you— and it renders you sick; viscerally, you’re angered and ill and green-washed with naivety.

Fool you once, shame on them. Fool you twice, and what in Maker’s name did you expect? A declaration? An about-face? As if a Mandalorian could let the beskar from his blood. As if Din could reanimate the cadaver of his past—could slip into that old snakeskin he’d shed cycles before.

It paralyzes you. Immobile, you are chambered flat on your back in the resin of your embarrassment, bereft of your vision as you stare sightless into the steel. You’ve separated—your mind and your body disjointed like oil and water, and you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the tread of Din’s feet, you don’t register his aura, Illuminous in the archway; you don’t see the stray towel fisted in his grip, you don’t feel the clench of a frozen hand around your heart as he does his. For he sees you there—a tick in your jaw; eyes distanced, fogged—and he knows he’s done this to you. The scarring of how he derelicted you then tarnishing the new-leaf flesh of the present.

He steps towards you, closer now, and your alerted gaze pins to him. A surprised expression makes a home there, astoundment freckling your face— and although he hasn’t earned the right, it strikes him bullseyed between his plated ribs because it hurts— the obvious shock of him returning for you hurts. Din is not a good man— not all of him. Sometimes, you and all your heaven-lit gleam, you make him forget that.

But sometimes, you make him remember.

And Maker, if you don’t look good like this. Streaked with his seed, creamy white pearling the maps of your body, the shine of it catching in the cannistered shafts of filtered light.

There’s a word for this—for you, for how you look, splayed and painted with his cum—with him. It puffs up like petals would, there in the square of his center. He’s never said it. His mouth doesn’t know the feel of it, his lips don’t know its shape. It’s scribed in Mando’a, and as native as the language is to him—as fundamental as Basic, if not more so—the word itself is foreign. Gawky. The thought of it alone hobbles through his mind on foaled legs. Din keeps this word barred, its essence clinging to the iron partitions of his skull, its perfume clouding his senses, his better judgement, his confounded rationality dangling precarious by a string.

Beautiful. Mesh’la.

You shift under his watchful eye, knees steepling mousy, and gingerly, he prizes the two apart and you let him.

You let him you let him of course you let him.

Din runs a damp cloth up your seam, up those hypersensitive folds, towards the expanse of flesh leading to your belly, and you hiss—a startled chill icing through your body.

“It’s cold,” he informs you, well after the fact, and you chortle a note in response. He continues to lave you clean, the drag of the material smoothing over your stippled planes and it’s intimate—how he takes you under his care, how he unmakes his mess.

Your heart, silly flustered thing it is, it tells you the act feels worshipful—reverent, maybe—but your head convinces you to look away, to cower, to do anything but address the blaze left in the wake of the rag he’s swiping over you. It’s too much. You feel vase-like— fragile and dainty, for the bounty hunter to either fill with wildflowers or crush under the heel of his boot— and it’s too unbearable. Bringing a hand to your sweat-sheened face, you shadow your eyes, ostriching shyly— if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

A clipped tone escapes his helmet and it’s a sound you can’t place— it’s short, a blip—and you presume he’ll remain mum until he speaks. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You don’t have to hide from me. I don’t want you to hide from me.

You nearly whimper at that. There’s something endearing and bronzed about how he says it, something torn, too—and you peak through the curtain of your fingers to watch him perform his ministrations. Almost begrudginly, you remove your hand from it’s shelf, resting it on the swell of your breast while he passes the cloth along your inner thighs, erasing the sticky traces of himself. There’s a quiet pause, a moment of distilled nothing before—

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” you admit, small.

He soothes his thumb into the crook of your hip, voice blunt with guilt. “I know.”

Sighing, you nod a little thing, a half-gesture, practically creeping under the Mandalorian's radar undetectable. Thunder shouts, lightning cracks— the bombastic storm outside apathetic to the lull within. Din clears his throat, rasping. “Was that okay?”

You resist the temptation to snort. Din is such a juxtaposition—one you don’t imagine you’ll tire from any time soon. He’s dangerous and protective and clever and strong and kind, despite his best efforts to snuff his compassion to ash like the butt of a dead cigarette. Lifting your palm from its perch, you extend to him, measuredly sliding your fingers against the crate— stretching stretching until he meets you, dubious and toddling like a child’s first steps, orange-dipped digits touching nude flesh. Your everbright grin brightens all the more— bewitching, back-breaking—as you entwine your hands to mesh.

“More than okay,” you say coyly. “Was that-was that good for you?”

Din huffs out an airy chuckle rich with disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re even asking him—like you’d even have to ask at all. “That was—that was good. Very good,” he confesses gruffly, never a man for poetry, breathlessness still apparent in the bleed of his vocoder. “Even better than I imagined.”

A feline grin unfurls your lips, boldly quirking the droll corners of your mouth. “You imagine this often, Mando?”

Smirking wry and devastating, Din ushers you up by your woven hands, your body pliable and easy to his will; uprighted, his hips slot between your pretty knees, and he expertly twists your arm behind your back, snaring it there. Spine swooped, breasts brushing against his beskar, your nipples pebble cold. “Don’t let it go to your head, dala,” he gravels, visor tilted down at your dwarfed form, tenting you.

“Well," you tease lightly, "I’ll try my best.”

And you look at each other with all the tender awkwardness of two people standing on the edge of a brave new unknown.

Nervous, girlish, you smile.

Fluttering, pussy-drunk, he smiles back.

///

Nested in the pronged branch of a tall tree spindling up from the graveled soil, Din— a man, a boy too— reclines supine against the bark. His feet dangle like they did then, back when he wasn’t so afraid, and the air is dusted with a rosy haze as dusk settles upon the tired day.

The sun sets. The world twinkles a midnight blue, winking starshine as she spins.

Somewhere, behind him, his mother calls him home for supper.

/

tags: @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey @severinsnape @kirsteng42 @justanothersadperson93 @mrsbentalmadge @radiowallet @librariantothejedi @whataperfectwasteoftime @babydarkstar @punkremus @mandobloggin @alma-rt1 @not-the-droids @pedrostories @kylieann0716 @jk7789

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Crimson Ties (Bela Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 3

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language Warnings: Typical Vampire shenanigans + mentions of animal death Genre: Hurt + comfort Summary: Time to meet the family! What exactly has Cassandra told her mother? Can Bela convince her family to calm the hell down? We'll find out! Spoiler: there's the start of a cute date afterwards Notes: Once more we visit Bela's private study, which I first described in a chapter of Serenade. Added a few more details this time. PS reader is probably low-key a theater nerd with a hint of a goth phase, just saying. Also this chap is a little short, sorry. Previous Chapters: 1: Stem the Flow, 2: Tangled Strands

3: Rumbling Thunder

Heart racing, you step into the dining room, just behind Bela. Both of you are nervous, but find comfort in each other. Still, what you see upon entering only makes you feel worse. At the head of a large table stands none other than Lady Alcina Dimitrescu. Besides her is her middle daughter, the one who confronted you earlier, who sends you a knowing smirk as you walk in. Lady Dimitrescu, on the other hand, is scowling. Her eyes are squinted in a clear display of disapproval. If not for Bela’s hand squeezing your own, it was likely that you would have fainted from fear.

“I see Cassandra has wasted no time in spreading rumors,” Bela said bitterly. You’re amazed by her ability to stand tall in the face of her family’s tension. Yet there was a part of you that wondered if you were worth the struggle, at least for your soulmate. Thankfully, you are not given much time to ponder the thought. No, you’re being pulled towards the closest side of the tabe, guided next to an ornate seat. Neither Bela nor yourself sit yet, however. “Please, mother, do not be hasty to make your judgement. I promise that-”

“Do not presume to tell me of my own business, daughter. The timing of my judgement is my prerogative, not yours,” Lady Dimitrescu interrupted, staring right at you. A shiver runs down your spine at the eye contact. What did Cassandra say to her? You wonder, struggling to breathe past the lump in your throat. Even Bela becomes visibly nervous at the interaction. “Now… are you certain, without a doubt, that this is your soulmate?” Did she really even have to ask? What were the chances that Bela would save you, one person out of at least a dozen in the cellar, for any other reason? Still, your soulmate straightens up at the attention, and replies as confidently as possible.

“Yes, of course, mother. I would not dare risk your anger for any lesser reason,” Bela assured. Then she gives your hand another soft squeeze, before pulling hers back a little, catching the thread that bound you together with her fingers. Lifting it, she tugs it somewhat absentmindedly. Out of habit you immediately return the action. Unfortunately, those around you would be unable to see the display. For all they knew, the two of you could be faking it, simply attempting to get out of the situation unscathed. Surprisingly though, you see Alcina hesitate. Her left hand twitches as if she was thinking of her own red string. Has she ever met her partner? Did she know the pure joy that her daughter had so recently felt?... Maybe she’d be more sympathetic to your situation if she had.

“We will see if your defiance pans out in time, Bela. For now… Why don’t we hear what your pet has to say about themselves, hmm?” Lady Dimitrescu suggested, giving a somewhat devious smile. Next to you, Bela grimaces, then sends you a pleading look. Alas, you cannot read her mind, and can only guess as to how you’re supposed to respond. Bowing is a sign of respect in virtually all cultures, you think, probably a good place to start.

“It is an immeasurable pleasure to formally make your acquaintance, Lady Dimitrescu,” you said, before giving your full name. Then you rise from your bow, once more making eye contact. Out of the corner of your vision you see Cassandra rolling her eyes. “I know that I am a mere human, and hardly the epitome of a prime specimen. But I am determined to prove my worth, for there is no prize on this earth more grand than being allowed to love Lady Bela. Every ounce of my willpower is prepared to devote myself to this task, entirely, so that I may give Lady Bela the courtship and happiness that she is deserving. It is both an obligation and an honor.” Hopefully your soulmate wouldn’t mind you using the same line twice, at least under these circumstances.

In the seconds that follow, several things happen: One, you see Cassandra frown a little, and refuse to look in your direction. Two, Lady Dimitrescu makes a surprised face, but quickly shifts into an expression of satisfaction. Thirdly, Bela’s hand finds your own again, giving it an incredibly soft squeeze. Last but not least… someone you haven’t seen before enters the room. She has red hair, a green pendant around her neck, and eyes that light up with curiosity when she sees you. If you had to guess, you’d assume that she was another one of Bela’s sisters. Here’s hoping she’s a tad bit friendlier, you think.

“Did I miss anything? Ooh, please tell me we’re having this lovely stranger for breakfast?” She asked, grinning maniacally. So much for being friendlier, you think, figuring that she was being literal. Based on the way Bela tenses up in response, you’re probably right. Before she can protest, however, Lady Dimitrescu clears her throat and speaks.

“Ah, Daniela… This stranger-” she says the word with far less venom than you anticipated, but it is venom nonetheless- “is your dear sister’s soulmate. We will not be draining them of blood. Again. Assuming that they behave themselves. Is that clear?” She asked, staring down at the newcomer. There’s a slight pause, tension still lingering in the air, followed by a sigh of relief from Bela. Much to your surprise, neither Cassandra nor Daniela seem particularly upset by this announcement. In fact, the latter simply shrugs and takes her seat at the table. Next thing you know everyone else is sitting as well, including Bela, who gestures for you to follow suit. “I’ll have one of the servants fetch you some more… appropriate food. Cynthia, my dear?” Soon enough a maiden, perhaps a decade or two older than yourself, hurriedly enters the room. With a bow, she addresses Alcina.

“Yes, Lady Dimitrescu?”

“Have Miss Bouregard make an extra plate of whatever it is you sort eat, and bring it here. We have an… unexpected guest,” Alcina explained. At that, Cynthia glances at you, her eyes briefly widening in surprise. Without another word she turns away, giving another bow before heading away to fulfill her task. Once more you’re the only human in the room. Oddly enough, you manage to feel quite at ease, as if surviving one round was enough to guarantee you’d win the overall game. Well, at the very least you now had a chance. Regardless of what was to come, you were glad for that, for this opportunity to be with your soulmate. At the end of the day… little else mattered to you.

———————————

Much to your relief, the rest of breakfast proceeded smoothly. Conversation was sparse, with most of it being hushed whispers from the other side of the table, but you hardly minded. Normally you would find it rude. Now, you were simply pleased that they weren’t being up front with their hostility. More so, it allowed you and Bela to have your own conversation, which mainly pertained to your plans for the day. Several times during your discussion, a glance elsewhere would show you that Alcina was paying attention. Exactly once you even saw her attempting to hide a smile. A sense of pride had swelled in your chest at the sight.

It has remained there, even until now, as you move into Bela’s private study. One quick survey of the room tells you a thousand things about your soulmate. For starters, it’s clear that she’s musically inclined. There’s a harp in one corner, adjacent to a folded music stand, as well as a small bookshelf dedicated entirely to sheet music. A couple medium sized instrument cases are nearby, but you don’t immediately recognize their shape. Further into the room is a rather old looking desk, slightly worn, yet clearly cared for. Possibly passed down the generations? Next to the desk is a massive window with a couple spare chairs. All across the walls were bookshelves and mementos, including several skulls (at least one of them human). Every book you looked over appeared to be well read, with many bookmarks inside, some held together by tape and prayers.

“This… this is sublime, my darling. I could rest here for a month and hardly finish cherishing half the space!” You said, grinning at your soulmate. She’s equally pleased, seeming a tad relieved as well. Perhaps she had worried you’d be thrown off by the skulls? Wanting to reassure her, you approach that particular shelf, examining them closely. However, you do not touch them, not wanting to risk damaging her collection. “Truly marvellous. Dare I ask where you got these specimens?” It’s a joke, but Bela stiffens nonetheless, making you quickly redact your statement. “My apologies, I meant it as a jest. Though you are welcome to tell me more about them if you so desire! I will listen with rapt attention, I promise.”

“Most of them are gifts from Cassandra. During the summers we hunt, her more so than Daniela or myself. I… dislike wasting anything, and there’s only so much to be done with most bones. They have quite a few ornamental uses, however. Useful for study, as well,” Bela mentioned, smiling softly. Then she moves to stand next to you, carefully reaching to grab one of the skulls. “This was from one of our hounds, actually. I raised her from puppy to adult, took her on every hunt, even let her sleep in my quarters on colder nights. When she got sick I…” A pause, mouth open but unmoving, eyes slipping shut. “I couldn’t bring myself to put her down. Even argued with my mother, night after night, begging for another choice. None came, of course, and in the end even I could not deny her the softest embrace of death… Still, you must think me strange, to keep such a thing as a reminder of her.”

“Not at all, my dear. We all remember, and grieve, in our own ways. I’ve often found myself intrigued by skulls, of all sorts,” you admitted, sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck with your hand. “All we are, our minds or mayhap our souls, contained in one hard shell. It’s incredible, and terrifying, all at the same time, to hold one in my hands, or even merely examine one. Oh, what stories these bones could tell, if only they could talk… Though I suppose there are entire fields of science devoted to such a thought…” With that said, you look back at Bela just in time to see her staring fondly at the canine skull. Then she places it back on its perch, dusting her hands off afterwards, taking one last moment to appreciate her collection.

“I’m glad you and I agree on this,” she said softly. Once more she’s looking at you, smiling wide. “Now let’s make memories of our own, to hold in our bones forevermore, yes?”

[fascination-street-writing]

Somewhere to Begin | Pannacotta Fugo x Ghirga!Reader

He has always adored you, like the sun and the moon and more - but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

- 200 Follower Giveaway Piece iii for @idontlikerisottounlessitsnero​ -

Content Warnings: Not SFW Content, Post Break-Up, Emotional Hurt & Comfort, Regret, & Explicit Sexual Content (Aged-Up Characters)

You had promised your brother Narancia to never involve yourself directly with Passione; even the occasional stay for a meal at Il Libeccio made him antsy, yet you failed to see the harm in sharing a plate of bruschetta with Fugo, or a pot of hot tea with Abbacchio – two of his closest companions. It was only fair that you ought to spend time with the men who gave you unbridled protection at the behest of nothing more than goodwill and magnanimity. Not that you needed such security, but it kept street thieves from picking your pockets, at least.

You had promised him indeed, and now that he lies in the casket before you – clad in the suit from your mother’s funeral that you never thought to see him wear again – you intend to keep it. Giorno had offered to have an outfit tailored for your brother, but you refused him with consternation that your he would not be buried in something from the boy responsible for his death.

“No,” you had told him, cold as the wall of ice that has crept around your heart, while clutching the woolly material to your chest. “This one will do nicely.”

And so, the mortician severed the seam along the back of the jacket and draped a silk sheet over Narancia’s legs so that no one would be wiser to fact that his ankles stick out past the bottom hem of his trousers. It was bad enough that you could not afford the casket on your own. You knew better than to believe it when Mista told you that it and the headstone were paid for with the money yielded from the liquidation of Bucciarati’s assets. If that were true, then why not pay for a new suit, too?

Trish snatches a single white lily from the memorial wreath and tucks it between your brother’s still, clasped fingers. She hides her grief behind a pair of sunglasses that do not match the overcast weather that looms above your heads. You had not wanted to wait so long for the funeral – for two months, Narancia’s body had been left in the morgue to chill on ice, par Giorno’s insistence that the service must wait until his transfer of power over Passione has finished.

Thus, for two months, you had lain awake at night, shuddering at the melancholy and its melody that reminds you how you your brother died without saying farewell – his platonic little soulmate. Giorno may have his victories and suffer for them, but you would not let him entomb Narancia in the mausoleum with Bucciarati and Abbacchio.

“He’ll be buried next to our mother,” you said to the new Don with indignancy. “After everything you’ve taken from me, let me have this. Lascia che mio fratello torni a casa – let my brother come home.”

Your wish was granted, though you suspect it only so because he was growing tired of fighting with you over burial rights and passages. The congregation is kept small, consisting only of yourself, Mista, Trish, a tortoise named Jean-Pierre Polnareff, regrettably Giorno, and a handful of bodyguards, though the latter kept their distance from the immediate service; it would not come as a surprise to you, should you learn that the men in black suits were employed to protect their Don from the mournful sister of the deceased.

The handkerchief clutched in your grasp is damp with past tears. Not even your father had come, despite your pleading that he ought to pay his respects to his only son. Too preoccupied with his floozy of a new wife and her children from two previous marriages than to love his own – you never needed him in your life anyways, because you had Bucciarati. Now, you suppose that you must be a proper orphan.

You do not weep when the casket seals and cleaves the line of sight betwixt you and your brother forever. You do not weep when the mechanical apparatus lowers the coffer made of Osage orange wood into the steel vault that already holds your mother in oak. You do not weep when the gravediggers shovel the dirt mound back over the crest of opened earth.

You do not weep until Mista clasps your trembling hand, pulls you to his chest, and embraces you amidst the anguish that burns you alive. His is the consolation that you needed, but never thought to ask for, though it is not his touch that you long for. One by one, the attendees disperse for the train of luxury cars and you remain alone with the gunslinger who had been courteous enough to come without his oddly patterned beanie hat.

“Why don’t we get going?” Mista urges to coax you away from the gravesite – away from yourself and the suffocating agony. “Giorno’s having dinner for us all, back at the estate.”

You pull away. Rivets of mascara stain his white dress-shirt. “You can go on ahead,” you tell him, not quite liking the way your voice strains in your throat. “I’m not hungry.”

“Then, let’s go grab some coffee or something –”

“I’m fine, Mista.” He frowns and averts his gaze. “I have some things I need to take care of.”

“Oh?”

You tug your cardigan closer to your chest. “I’m going to collect Narancia’s belongings from our dad’s house. Not sure what I’ll do with it all, but I know it can’t stay there.”

Mementos of life, from when things were far simpler and your brother far more alive. Family photographs with tattered edges and holes of where your father should have been, wedged between unread and abused schoolbooks. Worn out blue jeans with patches of fabric scraps from your mother’s old dresses that you had sewn on for him. A collection of empty glass soda bottles. CDs and cassette tapes of Snoop Dog, Tupac, and whatever other American rappers had appealed to his tastes.

“Alright, I guess. Promise me you’ll call when you get there.”

Soon to be packed away in cardboard boxes and to be stacked precariously in the living room of your studio apartment – another gift from Bucciarati – with nowhere else to go. You simply cannot afford to rent a storage unit downtown.

“I will.”

Mista does not offer to help, because he knows you will refuse it. With that, he takes his leave of you in the cemetery. Left to your solitary devices, you clench your fists and stew on hatred and loathing for none other than Giorno Giovanna. You do not blame Narancia for his eagerness to trust the boy so quickly; his charisma, as appealing as it entreats to the willing, is an infectious disease.

If not for Giorno, your brother would have been buried two months ago. If not for Giorno, your brother might still be alive. And perhaps you must resent Fugo too, for what he has done – or rather, the lack thereof of doing; yet for everything, you are incapable of such feelings, as you have always been fond of each other. The optimistic heart within you stands that he has saved you from suffering more – that in his choice to stay behind in Venezia, it only meant you would not have to bury him, too.

Because surely, his unrestrained anger would have gotten him killed – if not before, then certainly after Narancia’s death.

With a quivering sigh, you turn from this dreary place and meet his illegible violet stare. A row of crackling headstones separates you from the boy whom you love more than life itself. Fugo clutches a pretty bouquet of daffodils wrapped with parchment paper and a white-string bow – your favorite flowers, though you wonder whether they are meant for you or your brother’s fresh grave.

You do not know, nor will you ever, as he sets the flowers atop the nearest monument and makes off, as if on sabbatical to you.

And it fills you with nothing more than bitterness.

“Everyone misses you,” Mista confesses between a sip of tea and a bite of strawberry cake. “You should come around sometime soon.”

Nearly a year has passed since the funeral, and you have yet grace anyone from Passione with your presence, with the exception of Mista for weekly sojourns to Il Libeccio to catch up on life – because, as you have learned, much can happen in seven days’ time. With each occasion of crossing the archway’s threshold into the private dining room at the back of the restaurant, you find yourself preening for two heads of black hair – one neatly combed and clipped, the other a sprawl held in place with an orange headband –, taut lips painted in black, and Fugo. And every time, you are left with the kind of disappointment that curdles your soul like sour milk.

“Who misses me, Mista?” you reprimand, pointing your icing-lacquered fork in his direction. “I barely even know Trish, and I have no interest in ever speaking with Don Giovanna again.”

You wish Giorno would call off the bodyguard who trails you every waking hour of the day; it makes you feel like a child who has proven herself untrustworthy to her parent. But you have done nothing deserving of such punishment. You suspect that his intent is an extension of the olive branch treaty that does not exist between you two – a reiteration of Bucciarati’s protection that should not have to be reiterated, because he should not be dead, either.

Or, alternatively, he wants to irk you so far that you might barge into his office one day – fuming with unspent determination to admonish him regarding his dominion over your life – just to trap you in a conversation wherein he might attempt to suspend your animosity towards him. Alas, you are simply not interested; you will scorn him, because it is all you can do.

“Forget I asked . . .” Mista trails off, swirling a dollop of whipped cream with his knife. “So uh, by the way, have you seen Fugo lately?”

Just the utterance of his name has you perking in your seat.

“No.”

“Hm, well, rumor has it, he’s working at the public library. Shaking people down for late fees or something like that.” It is not implausible to imagine Fugo in the position of extorting old ladies and young children for overdue fines – but, you know that it is only a jest. Regardless, he has always been the type of boy to surround himself with books instead of people. “Why not visit him sometime? He’s not affiliated with Passione anymore. Or, not now, at least.”

You stab at a strawberry. It bleeds beneath the weight of your fork.

“I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Mista’s question is one that you ought to be asking yourself, as you sit here at the scratched pine desk of the library – pretending to study for an upcoming exam on the history of art in Pompeii – though you look up from your scrawl of notes every few minutes to see if Fugo should pass you by; perhaps pushing a cart of books to be put away, or branding return cards with a plush red stamp to mark the date in two weeks’ time.

You have seen him only once more since his implied attempt of reconciliation at your brother’s funeral. It was by chance that you should wander into the same café as him that day; and by extended odds that – while you stood over his table with a sad smile and a cup of coffee – he stood abruptly and left without finishing his own drink. He had not even bothered to wish you well.

Today, you catch him on your way to the reference section. The look of hurt in his eyes – like salt instead of sugar on the tongue – brings a scowl to your face. “Please, Panni,” you plead, and though your fingers ache to catch his hand with your own, you refrain for you know the gesture is a crossing of the line between you two. “Can’t we just talk?”

“No,” he says, so dry and unrecognizable. “I’m not getting paid to do that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Panni, I – Please, don’t do this. I already lost my brother: don’t make me lose you, too.”

A fuse switches in his head, and you have been the one to flip it. He clutches the encyclopedia in his hands with such fervor that his knuckles pale, and for a moment, you wonder if he means to hit you with it. And maybe he thinks it too, but he drops it atop the ground as soon as the thought crosses his mind. He takes a step back, as if you have scorned him – maybe, after all, you have.

The cover spills open, and the pages bend against the hardwood floor. You wish he would do the same to you – to disclose his grievances and let you in. Instead, it is the toxicity of acrimony “Don’t ever come near me again,” Fugo warns. “Haven’t you realized by now that I never want to see you again? Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.”

You will save the tears for when you stand in front of the bathroom mirror tonight before bed to wash away your makeup from the day, amongst other regrets. But you will never understand the guilt that suffocates him – a noose that is just taut enough to keep him breathing – each time he looks at you, and even when he does not. You are everything he has ever wanted and more.

And you are the emblem of everything he has ever done wrong.

“I still care about you,” you tell him with an affirmation that will not fix the desolation. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

He bites his lip and looks away.

“I know you’re hurting. I am too. So, can’t we heal together?”

“Are you stupid?” You grimace at his words. “I told you to go.”

There is no chance to dispute it, nor to bid him an aggrieved adieu, because he is gone again. Burying him might have been easier, after all; a corpse cannot remind you of what a fool you have become.

And so it seems to you that dying dreams are the best ones.

Adulthood is – as you have found in your years of treading its waters – a dreadful inevitability. You and your brother’s boxes have outgrown that compact studio apartment, though for years, you had made it work perfectly fine. When Giorno pulled the strings to terminate your lease and forcefully relocate you into a sizeable townhouse in the Chiaia district, you wanted to hate him for it – for his reminder that you cannot sever your connection to Passione. Yet, boggled down with university loans, you were in no position to turn down his assistance.

And he knew it, well.

A pretty townhouse located in one of the nicest regions of Napoli cannot bring Narancia back, nor can it attune for every bit of suffering incurred since his death; but if it is a strain upon the aging Don’s wallet, then it is all the better.

On the day of your fourth birthday spent in solitude, you treat yourself to a tub of gelato and a dress from the costly boutique across the street that you will never wear because you have no need to. It will hang in your closest amongst other unworn gowns, still pinched with price tags, that you have impulsively accumulated over the years – a hereditary habit of your mother’s that had caused more than a few spats between she and your father. You know your vice, but there is something so gratifying about it.

You sink into the tweed couch that does not quite match the architect’s vision for the living room – with its crown-mould white walls and hardwood floors the color of wenge; too clean and proper for what furniture you have kept from your former residence. Silver spoon clenched between your teeth as you page through television channel after channel, you balance that melting gelato on your lap. Perhaps you should have grabbed a straw from the kitchen as well.

The evening passes by, uneventfully so. You have spent it spoiling yourself and replying with fabricated enthusiasm to incoming text messages from study mates, who wish you well on this happy day – as if you have a reason to remember your twenty-first beyond the accomplishment of finishing the entire tub of would-be-frozen lemon curd without incurring a single regret or twinge a of brain-freeze. You have gotten rather good at knocking back shots without needing to stop for breaths, too.

At the ringing of the doorbell, you are torn from the real estate program that you have invested so much time these past few hours. Mista, no doubt – come to deliver a gift and takeout because he knows you have not eaten properly tonight. You have no room left in your belly, but whatever he brings will make for a decent meal tomorrow.

You do not bother to tidy up, and when you open the door, you wish you had. Illuminated only by the balcony light stands Fugo with a bouquet of daffodils, a bottle of sauvignon blanc, and a remorseful, sheepish smile upon his handsome face.

Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.

“Uh . . . “ He trails off before he has even begun, perhaps taken aback by the widening of your eyes and the disheveled appearance that, despite your own judgement, he thinks to be the most beautiful vulnerability in life. He speaks your name with the kind of tenderness that you have not felt since you were teenagers. “Buon compleanno.”

You need not ask how he found you, because you know without question that either Mista or Giorno had told him. “Why are you here?” you ask.

He clutches the flowers a bit tighter. You do not move to take them; however, you have already decided on which vase you will place them in. “I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And give you these.”

The bottle of wine feels far too heavy in your arms – and the daffodils, as if they might float off in an unforeseen gust of wind. “And, to apologize. For too many things that I can’t ever make right; although, if you’ll let me, I’d like to try.”

“Fugo, I . . . I don’t know.”

“Please, [Y/N]. That day in the library, all those years ago . . . I never stop thinking about the horrible things I said to you. It killed me – it ate me alive; I thought for all this time and before that you hated me, because of what happened to Narancia. Because I wasn’t there to save him.”

“It hurt when you told me to get out of your life, but I listened, and I did it.”

He brings the heel of his hand to swipe at the tears in his eyes. The curling of his other fist is a gesture that terrifies you – although, not for your own sake. “I couldn’t face you. I was scared to look you in the eye, because I thought you hated me,” he mutters like a broken record as his voice cracks with agony. “I thought you hated me, because of him.”

He stops, throwing his head back with a groan. The apple of his throat bobs up and down as he chokes down a sob. He refuses to look at you when he speaks again – too afraid to come undone before he has made his peace with you, his greatest loss. “We were young. Probably too young to even understand what love really meant. But, dio dannazione, you were the most important thing to me, and I understood that more than love.”

His words have always held the capacity for swaying you, as if they replenish the empty spaces within. It is why, as you open the door wider, you let him fill you once again. Fugo contemplates the crannies of your living room, hovering above the couch that you insisted he take a seat upon – he remembers when you bought it, because you had dragged him to the furniture outlet that day. He pretended to be annoyed, though in truth, he was beyond elated that you had chosen him over Mista, or even your brother.

“I guess I should put these in a vase,” you say about the bouquet of flowers. “They’re beautiful, Fugo. Thank you.”

He nods, suddenly entranced by a photograph of Narancia that sits atop the fireplace mantel. You do not notice his unease.

“I’ll grab us some glasses, too.”

You find your vase in the kitchen cabinet niched into the alcove above the refrigerator. Its emerald swirls glisten under the twine of the recessed lights that add no character to the room. So much for a birthday spent in reclusion, you chide alone. Deep within you sits a fire that longs to ignite – to send Fugo away in some thwarted act of retribution for the very loneliness he inflicted upon you years ago; as if to say that the rejection suits you well.

Of course, you cannot deny that your heart leapt into your throat when you saw him standing before the front door, a vision of a man who still held those inklings of boyish charm that you fell for in your adolescence. They say you should not dote over the first person beyond your mother and father to call you pretty; it is weakness to complacency. Your life has never been one of convention – and so by that right, who there is to insist that you must abide?

Bearing a content grin, you trim the stems one-by-one to better fit the vase. In synchronous rhythm to the next, the green stalks bounce from the cluttered countertop to the floor. You have only just stuffed the flowers back into the vase when the shattering of glass resonates its way into the kitchen.

The photograph of Narancia lies amongst bits of broken frame and wreckage. Face buried in his palms, Fugo crumples until his knees meet the ground; he shakes, as if smothered by a chill. When his hands fall to smack the coffee table – baring his grief, in all its pandemonium – you catch them and force his arms around your waist instead; his fingers lock together, holding you in place. He whimpers against your stomach. Already, you can feel the wetness of tears through the fabric of your overstretched shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry, [Y/N]. I’m sorry.”

Your own fingers curl through his strawberry blonde hair – a means of stability as you too have begun to cry. “It’s just a picture frame,” you promise, and it is the grandest thing he has ever heard. But it is more than a box made of wood and glass – it is an impossible longing. “I’m not upset at you.”

“I . . . Okay.”

Mindful of the mess, you rock him backwards until he is lying down. You join at his side, take his hand into your own, and wait in silence for the moment when his misery will dissipate for clarity. Regardless of the circumstances that have brought him here tonight, you are grateful for it – even if your birthday is spent wallowing in irrevocable regret.

Above all else, you know that he has always adored you, like the sun and moon and more – but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

Your thumb coaxes over the back of his knuckles. “There’s a crack in your ceiling,” Fugo announces, nonchalant and monotone.

“Where? I don’t see one.”

He raises an unoccupied finger, and you follow its gesture to the corner of the ceiling, just above where the moulding meets. It is no longer than the length of hair from his head, and quite honestly, not an underlying issue of foundational complications. Still, you indulge him. “Oh, wow. I never noticed.”

In this hasty repertoire of patterns, you fall into stillness again. “Panni,” you whisper with the utterance of his endearing name. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He squeezes your hand.

“But it’s getting late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Truthfully so, you cannot send him on his way in such a state of disarray.

“I can make up the couch for you, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” he murmurs.

However, you do not make it far because he has – inspired by a need to express his devotion and apologia – pulled you atop himself, hands braced on your hips as you balance on bent knees and grasp his shoulders. Tenderness is becoming of the boy – no, the man – who looks up at you as if you are the embodiment of everything good that exists in one life to the next. It is a side that he has never shown to anyone other than you.

You covet it like a piece of cherry-flavored candy, even when you lean down to capture his lips and nip at his tongue that likewise explores the long-forgotten caverns of your mouth. It is a distraction of meaning and not; from the broken frame, loss, and perhaps everything in between. Every attempt to catch a breath of air is met with resilient protests of needier touches and not before long, you lie on the couch – shedding your clothing like the skin of the woman you no longer wish to be – and let him in.

Bare chest to bare chest, you cup his hardness as he places his fingers to your untouched folds. You mean to tell him that you love him, but the penetration of unpracticed digits to your core stifles the very thought from your scattering mind. In dark closets and empty rooms, you two have had your share of imprudent experimentation with one another’s bodies in the past – and nothing more than warm, tentative touches that lead to girlish giggles and boyish huffs.

Fugo pinches your nipple, drawing a plush gasp from you; it urges him to do it again until at last you are throbbing with need from your lower half, your pelvis jerking upwards to meet his for the stimulation of wanting. His breath ghosts your face, and you think you smell wine – a drink for good luck, you think, because despite the distress manifesting in his soul, his mannerisms are otherwise as habitual as you might recall from moments of normalcy.

It feels wrong – to be filled with such wanton, salacious desire within the very hour that you have both spent in mourning of your brother and everything else that has been discarded to the wind, to be picked up by someone else. Yet tonight, you will not sleep with Fugo to forget your blue heart, nor for celebration’s sake as you embark upon another year of being – you will sleep with him, because you have grown tired of learning how to end your days without him.

“I haven’t . . .” You trail off, mesmerized by the way his violet eyes look at you; though puffy and stained red from crying, you take them in as he cocks a brow, imploring you to finish your thought. “I haven’t been with anyone else since you.”

“Good,” he sighs, and you think he is trying to hide a smile. “Me neither.”

Braced by his arms, you are flipped onto your stomach. The tweed upholstery bites into the soft flesh of your breasts with each jostle elicited by the curling of a finger within you. You push backwards until you swear you can feel his fingers against your cervix.

“Oh my god,” he groans, flexing out as if to move deeper. “Ti senti così bene.”

“If it feels good, then do something,” you whine, hands dug between the cushions for support.

But, to your chagrin, he takes his time to admire the way your folds pulsate around just two fingers. You glisten like a gem – his gem. Indignant with petty annoyance, you pull away and straddle the lithe, albeit toned, legs that dangle off the edge of the couch. Arms thrown around his neck, you sink down until you have reached your fill of his manhood.

“I did tell you to do something,” you sigh at Fugo’s displeasure, biting your lip as you adjust to the size of his shaft. “Didn’t I?”

He kisses you once and moves grasp your backend. You savor the feeling of him ingulfing you. “I was distracted.”

You would laugh if not for the anticipated bulging inside you as Fugo buckles into your heat. The sight of your jostling breasts with each bounce of you on his cock is a page of some heavenly doctrine – one that he should study and commit to forever. He moves with strength that he reserves for moments of rage, and even his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave bruises for the days to come. You do not mind; they will help you to remember the best night you have had in years.

With a cry that blossoms into a moan that tells him that he has treated you well, you ride out your orgasm and slump against his chest in your own exhaustion. When he reaches his peak, he slides out; you reach for him – dampened with your slick – and finish him until white pearls bead at the tip and trickle over your working fingers.

Foreheads pressed together, you flash tired grins before settling against the cushions, your head pressed to his chest and his arm braced around the small of your back while his fingers trace shapes against your perspired skin.

Panting, his heart skips every few beats – like a song, sung only for you. Content with that which has returned itself to you, you fall asleep to the sound of this lovely little love affair.

| 4966 Words |

[jeongi]

cabin fever | jjk (m)

↣ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | jungkook x reader

↣ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 8k

↣ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 | fluff. smut. mild angst. exf2l au (?)

↣ 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐱 | explicit language and sexual content. oral sex (f + m receiving), fingering, unprotected floor sex (dongs better be wrapped irl), light dirty talk,  very soft, fluffy smut. jungkook is sad, soft babie.

↣ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | trapped in a cabin with your ex-best friend jungkook, you’re forced to overcome the fallout between you two. 

↣ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | cabin fever

“We're lost!” Seokjin shouts dramatically from behind the wheel. “Hopelessly and forever lost!” The van’s radio crackles and pops as the soft ooze of music sits underneath your friends’ bantering.

“You're such a baby,” says Namjoon as he smacks Seokjin with the map he's holding. “Relax. I know my maps.”

“You've only been here all of one time—” Seokjin spits back, his fingers clenching the wheel harder. You chuckle under your breath at their bickering, your body immediately tensing as you feel Jungkook adjust himself next to you. A part of you wonders if he’s still alive; you have no idea how he’s managed to sleep through the endless bickering- yet, there he sat, still snoring away. If you remembered correctly, Jungkook was almost impossible to wake up.

You ask yourself why you still felt somewhat nervous in Jungkook’s presence, and for the upteenth time, your memory reminds you of that giant nothingness that now separated you two.

Hoseok giggles behind you and your mood dampens further. His excessive, unwarranted giddiness irritates you on any given day, but today it seems extra warranted. How could you not feel irritated when your ex boyfriend is sat behind you, practically playing grab-ass with his new girlfriend?

You ask yourself again why you ever agreed to come on this trip, let alone agree to be stuffed in a van with an ex-boyfriend and an ex-best friend. And once again, you come up empty. You're sure there must be a reason.

“Hey, focus on the road!” Jyo-en shrills from the seat directly behind Namjoon. “Some of us want to arrive alive and unharmed.” Jungkook once again shifts in his seat, his shoulder pressing against your own and his mouth wide open. You can faintly hear the purrs of soft snoring escaping him.

Alas, your motives come to light. Frankly, you knew you were doing this as a favour to Jyo-en more than anything else. Her undying, one-sided pining after Seokjin had her on her knees begging you to go on this trip with her. There wasn't much that could ever reduce Jyo-en to such a state, but her affection for Seokjin's masculine wiles had been too much for her to bear. The fucker was just too damn charming and you couldn’t blame her either. From the broad expanse of his muscular shoulders, to the plump of his pink, full lips, you figure the chaos that naturally comes from his presence is usually heavily subdued by the sheer epitome of beauty that is Kim Seokjin.

Nonetheless, you had agreed to come on this trip, much against your initial refusal.

“Pipe down back there,” Namjoon shoots. “It could be worse.”

“Yeah,” says Hoseok, “Namjoon could be driving.”

Involuntarily, you snort. It isn't so much the humour that prompts such a response, but the bitterness you can't help but feel. However, that response is lost amidst the sea of laughter that now fills the van, save yours, Namjoon’s and a sleeping Jungkook’s.

Namjoon turns in his seat and glares at Hoseok. “Just because I don't have a license doesn't mean I can't drive.”

Seokjin chortles. “You literally almost drove us straight off a cliff the one time I let you drive.”

“You’re being dramatic. It wasn't even that tall a cliff…”

Beside you, Jungkook smacks his lips in his sleep, and sinks his shoulder further into yours. You absentmindedly wonder what he’s dreaming about.

Do you even care? Probably not. But the mental exercise in speculation offers some respite from the storm of emotion slowly and undeniably building within you. You glance back at Hoseok and Nancy, their disgusting buffet of PDA having no regard for anyone but themselves. You know for a fact you and Hoseok would have never done this. Turning away, your eyes once again fall on Jungkook.

You hope it's a dream better than this.

2:04pm [You]: ugh.

2:05pm [Yoongi]: Lol. What’s wrong?

2:07pm [You]: remind me again why i couldn't come tomorrow with you guys?

2:10pm [Yoongi]: Dude we've been over this, you couldn't swap spots with Jimin because he works tonight. It's the entire reason we're leaving tomorrow

2:10pm [Yoongi]: Is it that bad?

2:14pm [You]: between hoseok munching on his new gf and jungkook literally speaking to everyone but me,,, i’d say this is the car ride from hell

2:15pm [Yoongi]: Yikes

2:15pm [Yoongi]: Sounds about right, but I don't know what I can do from here...

2:25pm [You]: it’s whatever, tell jimin and tae i miss them dearly

2:26pm [Yoongi]: I’ll probably forget

2:27pm [You]: you’re the fucking worst.

You sigh heavily and lock your phone, haphazardly flinging it back into your lap. The van door opens with a whoosh and your eyes immediately squint against the intense albedo that now renders you temporarily blind.

“Did you just fucking hiss?” Seokjin asks, no trace of humour in his voice. You shoot him a silencing glare and he plays along to it, his hand shooting up to his chest as he fakes a few stumbles back. The effort to make you smile is that of triumph, the edges of your lips quirking up to a faint smile. Nonplussed, Seokjin continues. “Well, this is it!” He says with far too much enthusiasm for have driven nearly six hours. He reaches down towards the duffle bag by your feet and you swallow the bubble of discomfort that fills you when Nancy squeals behind you.

“This cabin is huge!” Her voice reminds you of Polystyrene rubbing together. It pierces your skull, scorches the skin on the back of your neck and you internally scream. Hoseok chuckles beside her and you can’t help but want to gouge out your eyeballs with a screwdriver.

When Seokjin swings the navy blue bag over his shoulder, his eyes briefly glance towards the still sleeping figure next to you, his face static in the grips of slumber.  

“Hey!” Without warning, a red glove speeds past your face and smacks Jungkook in the nose with a surprisingly satisfying thwack. Immediately, Jungkook jolts awake, shooting you an accusing glare so icy, the snow around you may as well be a sunny beach. Before either of you can react, the glove’s partner in crime follows and smacks him in the face again. “Well, good morning, sleepy beauty,” jeers Seokjin. “Now that you're alive, how about you start helping us move our stuff?”

Blinking in the new light before his eyes, Jungkook sighs explosively, half yawn, half exclamation.

“It’s sleeping beauty, you imbecile.” You think you hear him grumble under his breath. A part of you wishes he’d acknowledge you again like old times. Another- and you convince yourself, a greater- part of you simply cannot be bothered to care anymore.

“I think that’s the last of it!” Namjoon yells from the trunk of the van. You hear him close it with a loud thud, one arm holding a cooler, the other locking the trunk. Seokjin stands by the porch of the cabin, nodding approvingly at the progress. He checks his watch.

“I’m hungry,” he says, “Should we go into town?”

You groan in protest. “Dude, we just got here. You want to hop back in a stuffy van and drive, again?”

“Yes,” he answers without a beat.

“Yup!” echoes Namjoon. You have no idea how he heard this.

“Ah, food would be so good,” Jyo-en says as she comes up from behind you, a hand patting her stomach and a frown adorning her face. You can't help but roll your eyes; she’s not hungry at all.

“Food it is,” Seokjin confirms. Despite the peckish feeling that jabbers at your stomach, you're not certain your appetite can handle another car ride with them so soon.

“You guys go ahead without me, I had a big breakfast this morning,” you lie.

“Suit yourself,” he says with a simple shrug of indifference. Turning away to head inside, you hear Seokjin yell for the others. You’re not sure where Hoseok and Nancy scurried off to, though the list of possibilities is disgustingly short. As if on cue, they near stumble out of the room they had chosen for the night, their lips swollen and clothing frayed. You think you’re going to be sick, and a subsequent twist of your innards does everything but confirm the sentiment.

You need to get out of here. You desperately need to get out of here.

As quietly as you can, you pull your boots on and stuff a spare water bottle in your jacket. The door before you opens, and with a breath, you crunch your way into the snow covered trees. You should have worn something warmer, you scold yourself as you cross your arms over your chest and blow out a huff of air.

The air is still- too still, you think. Even the melody of chickadees sound too far away. Your breath comes out in stiff clouds, hanging seconds in the air before fading away. You shove your nose deeper into your scarf as you aimlessly wander, allowing your thoughts to get as lost as you’re about to be.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost be convinced it was four years ago. The way the wind nips your face reminds you of waiting for the train at the worst possible hours of the morning, despite the fact you only had the one class that day.

The rest of the day was for the squad.

This could mean anything from half-attempted study sessions (in reality, a thinly veiled excuse to gossip about your classmates and munch on overpriced cafeteria food) to skipping down to the neighbourhood village just down the street from your university for the far better food that was just as expensive. It could mean sneaking off between classes to a quiet staircase and into Hoesoek’s arms for as many fleeting moments the two of you could steal in a day. It could mean a walk down to the university bar for curly fries and maybe one too many drinks. Sometimes it was the train ride home, hand in hand and falling asleep on each other’s shoulders.

The wind was just as cold as it has always been, but you haven’t been. Somewhere along the line, something had changed. A whole lot of somethings. At some point or another, it all just started to come crashing down until now you stand, here, in a snowy field standing ankle deep in fading memories.

You’d ask yourself how it managed to go to hell so much, so fast. But you don’t feel like opening that vault again— you’ve had it closed for good reason.

The piercing caw of a crow snaps you back to reality. Your eyes open, and the freezing train stations and too-warm classrooms fade away with the snowfall. You feel the first snowflake hit your cheek and when you look up, another hits your nose. Whichever way you go, whether it’s memory lane or the slow, cold walk back to the cabin, it’s going to be a bitch either way. It doesn’t take long for your boots to become soaked, and it takes even shorter for your toes to begin freezing. Your only regret is you find yourself wishing you’d have noticed it earlier; you were too preoccupied with watching the sun’s last stretch across the mountaintops.

Your laugh is what Jungkook remembers the most as you two walked towards the train station on those cold winter mornings. The light fragrance of your perfume that overpowered the icy winds had always made you feel like home to him. And your laugh, the thing he missed the most. When was the last time he’d seen you smile? When was the last time he’d even talked to you? It seems a lifetime ago now.

Jungkook’s fingers hesitantly hold the black pen against his sketchpad as he allows the natural skill of his hand overtake the paper. The desk he’s sat on faces towards the blanket of white snow against a crisp blue sky. He sighs, the view of the mountain sheathed in nothing but white bringing him back to old memories of you.

He can almost taste the pork bulgogi he’d always order at lunch with you. One look is all you had to give in order to silently invite him to eat after class. It was that cocked eyebrow, the slight tilt of the head and he was already transferring money into his bank account. And your scent- soft and subtle against the cold winter air. Even if his lungs were crystalized by the cool winter air, your perfumed scarf still lingered to his nose. You’d always felt somewhat like a distant lover than an old friend. What happened? He happened.

Just as Jungkook blasts his Spotify playlist through his earphones, you walk through the front door. Unbeknownst to you or him, the cause of your melancholy sits on the floor above you in his room. Your hands are freezing, a soft curse escaping your mouth as your teeth clatter and you stomp your way inside. You’re covered head to toe in snow, a sudden icy flurry hitting you on your way back. Perhaps a spontaneous walk down memory lane was one of your dumber ideas but if anything, it was nice to get away from this bullshit for even a little while. And by the looks of it, you’ll be able to escape a little while longer as you stand in the foyer of an empty cabin. You’re alone with your thoughts once again. How did you get here? You ask yourself a million times over.

Shrugging off the weight of your coat, you unravel your scarf and land with a loud sigh against the brown suede couch. It’s a cozy cabin, you’ll have to give Namjoon that much credit but his need to treat everyone as equal despite obvious differences landed you in this more than miserable situation. Your fingers hesitantly uncurl, the heat already uncoiling the ice in your veins. You reach for your phone, the only notification being a “Merry Christmas” email from your dentist. You almost laugh at yourself.

4:04pm [You]: yoongs, entertain me

No reply, instead a big fat, red “not delivered!” pops underneath the message. You frown, annoyed at the world and mostly Jyo-en for dragging you along this getaway from hell. On top of this, the three people you’ve been wanting to see and talk to the most in the world won’t be arriving for another excruciating twenty-four hours. Old Man Winter chuckles to himself as he prolongs your misery.

Jungkook is mindlessly working upstairs, watching the flurry of snow coat the mountains and area around the cabin further. If it weren’t for the gentle ooze of Keshi in his ears, he’d be concerned by the rapid snowfall. His hand works diligently, his sketch near finished as he watches the sun set outside. Somewhere between the last of his shading and perfecting does the lamp in his room suddenly give out.

Silence.

You freeze as the world surrounding you goes absolutely still. The sound of heat coming through the vents stops, the lights flicker off and you’re approaching darkness as the sun settles outside. Fuck, you think to yourself. This could not be happening.

Reaching for your phone, your fingers clamour as you hastily give Namjoon a call.

Straight to voicemail.

You try Seokjin; it doesn’t even ring.

Panic settles over you, your flight or fight kicking in as you think of what to possibly do. You scour the main floor for a landline, anything that could be of use in this situation. Surely there was a maintenance number somewhere? It’s when you’re in the kitchen that you hear the footsteps above you. You freeze again.

Now you’re almost positive it’s an intruder ready to murder you. Like in those horrible, terrible horror movies. Although you’ve played a lot of Outlast, you doubt you could handle whatever the fuck has spawned upstairs. As the footsteps shuffle some more, you grab a knife from the counter and decide if you should wait to be murdered or move towards the sound like every idiot in those movies. But just as you’re deciding, the steps move rapidly down the stairs until you’ve panicked and dropped your knife, shrieking out of pure terror with your eyes shut.  

Jungkook stares at you in complete bewilderment.

“_____?” He cocks his head to the side, his eyebrows strewn together in genuine concern. His eyes fall to the knife on the floor, further confusion littering his mind. “Are you okay?”

The voice sounds familiar, too familiar and it pangs you to know exactly who it is.

Your heart plummets to your stomach when you tentatively open one eye and see Jungkook’s big doe eyes staring right back at you.

“Jungkook? What the hell are you doing here?” You put your hand to your chest and sigh a heavy breath of relief. “I fucking...thought…” You look back up at him, the furrow in his eyebrows suddenly flooring you with emotion. You haven’t really looked at him in ages, it feels.

“You didn’t go with the others?” His lips form an innocent pout as he asks. You haven’t realized how much you missed his boyish charm. It’s then that you find yourself observing him head to toe for the first time in a long time. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and (unintentionally, you convince yourself), the plaid red pajama bottoms you got him for Christmas three years ago. Is that how long it’s been since you’ve last spoken? He looks different, more confident, more tone in his body. Although his hair remains the same shade of brunette, it’s slightly longer and rests in natural curls. His jawline is even sharper, you note. From the small mole just under his lip to the faint cleft in his chin, you find yourself completely absorbed in how good looking Jungkook has gotten.

“N-no,” you’re suddenly stuttering as you catch yourself out of flagrant staring. “I thought you did—”

“Nope.” The tension brews around you two, both of you stood across from one another as sudden realization dawns on you.

“The power’s out,” you say and Jungkook nods in agreement. You really didn’t think this day could get any worse yet here you were. “I-I tried calling Namjoon but it wouldn’t go through.” Jungkook taps his pointer finger to his lower lip in consideration.

“Phone lines must be out too,” he said half to himself. “Must be a hell of a blizzard out there.” You shudder involuntarily as you remember the way the wind tore through you on the return journey to the cabin, and with the memory comes the bittersweet nostalgia…

You mentally stomp the memories out. Not the time, not the place. Not anymore.

“Well, I don’t want to starve,” you say as you start to feel your stomach glare at you hungrily. Maybe you should have gone with them after all. An image of Hoseok and Nancy sucking face flashes before you. You shudder again. It might still be hell here, but at least it isn’t a hell so deep as watching them. Besides, this is the most Jungkook has spoken to you in years.

“Fortunately, they left us with the food,” Jungkook says to you. “If memory serves correct there should at least be a box or three of smokies floating around somewhere.” He pulls on a sweater and rubs his hands together in an attempt to warm them up.

“What about the fire?” You ask.

“What about it?”

“Well, I don’t know. Can you start one?” You know for a fact you might be able to, but this isn’t the time for you to test your skills.

“Probably. It isn’t exactly rocket science,” he replies with a smart grin. There’s a small door just under the staircase that Jungkook opens with little to no hesitation. You had always admired how unafraid of the world Jungkook had always been. Perhaps those values washed away when he too walked out of your life.

You snap yourself out of it and roll your eyes. “Jungkook, you’re the least handyman person I know.”

“At least I’m remembered for something,” he replies as he dips below the stairs to search for wood.

You damn near have to stop yourself from smiling.

You’re not certain if it’s just the natural dynamic you shared with him, or if it’s completely circumstantial, but one thing was for certain; like it or not, you found the pair of you swiftly falling back in step with one another in more ways than you’d care to admit… and more ways than you’d care to remember.

It’s almost as if he hadn’t just chosen to vanish from your life for nearly three years. It’s almost as if it were like old times. What had happened to you guys? Why did he stop calling you?

For the umpteenth time, you snap yourself away from this. It’s too late. There’s no use in thinking of the past. You sigh and return to the kitchen, scouring, searching every cabinet and square surface for candles and matches.

A heartbeat or three passes, and a clonking of feet on wood alerts you to Jungkook’s return.

“I've got good news and bad news,” He huffs as he steps back onto the main floor from the cellar.

“Oh, god,” you start. You feel a slight panic coming on again.

“Good news?” He hefts a frayed and worn burlap bag. “I found firewood.”

“And the bad news?” You ask tentatively.

He feigns sadness before he brings out two giant bottles of cabernet sauvignon from behind his back. “There's all this wine, and nobody around to drink it,” he finishes. “Except us, naturally.”

For however brief a moment it was, you knew for certain that the flash in his eyes, the quick smile he now wore, you hadn't seen for years. It seems as though, if only for a split second, the old Jungkook had returned. Somehow sensing your revelation, the moment passes as swiftly as it came, and then a stone faced Jungkook returns.

“I-if you want to, anyway.” The coolness returns without indication, a coolness you are now determined to thaw out.

“I’m insulted you even think you have to ask,” you return playfully. A hint of colour returns to his cheeks, and a fraction of a grin returns. Silently, he sets about starting the fire while you work on opening the wine.

It takes you a second to realize that the wine is in fact corked, and you had not a corkscrew between the two of you. You glance at Jungkook, his back still turned to you, rubbing two sticks together or something. You really don’t know, and he doesn’t share; in fact, he seems quite absorbed in his work.

You glance back at the wine bottle. Taking the lapse in effort, you ask yourself if this was really worth doing- if this was even a good idea.

“Aha!” You hear a whoosh followed by a golden radiance that now permeates the space. “And that,” Jungkook turns towards you, grin wide and proud, “is how you start a fire.”

You’re not only warm, but impressed- leave it to Jungkook to be perfect in literally every department. You suppose he hasn’t lost that talent yet.

Though the feeling of pride quickly fades as you see the can of body spray in one of his hands and a lighter in the other. You raise a questioning eyebrow at him, silently calling him out on his middle school arson methods.

“It was ah, taking too long,” he adds sheepishly, rolling the can of body spray towards the corner and playfully tossing the lighter at you.

“Seokjin is going to kill you.”

“What for? Theft of his lighter, or his outrageous body spray? If anything, I’m doing him a favour…how are you making out with the wine?”

“We… don’t have a corkscrew,”  you reply somewhat dejectedly. That half-serious face comes about his visage once more as you see him wracking his brain, trying to solve the problem.

His grin returns. “Don’t worry,” Jungkook says after a minute. “I have an idea.”

“What a waste of a fucking match, oh my God!” You’re sure to sound extra exasperated as you watch Jungkook wrap the loose piece of twine around the neck of wine bottle.

“Do you want to drink or not? Let me work my magic…” Jungkook wears determination on his face, a tongue poking out, eyebrows scrunched together as he ties it once, twice until you’re sure even a wine bottle could choke. You watch as he carefully takes a match and strikes it with the expertise of a pyrotechnic turned for the better. With little hesitation, he lights the twine on fire, a burning noose around the neck of the wine bottle. It doesn’t take ten seconds for the glass to crack open. He’s two for two; at this point, you find yourself enjoying his company more and more.

You’re honestly mesmerized. “How…?” You ask. He lets out a soft chuckle, barely audible.

“It’s magic,” you hear him say as he shrugs. “I don’t have to explain shit.” Another eye roll later, you’re returning to the kitchen and opening the cabinet above the sink in search of wine glasses. To no avail, you find stainless steel coffee mugs instead.

“Is this even safe to drink out of? I won’t choke on microscopic shards of glass?” You ask Jungkook after your third and fourth glasses. It’s a little too late to be asking such a question but you’re sure at this point, your words are a little slurred and nothing quite makes sense. Inwardly, you realize it’s a moot point anyway, and with that realization comes that for the first time in longer than you can remember, you’re just trying to strike up a conversation with him.

It’s hard not to when Jungkook has planted a pile of pillows and blankets in front of the fire, the pair of you sat and drinking potentially lethal wine. Before you lies half-finished board games you two attempted to play yet failed due to sheer anger at the game itself or each other. You’re sure if you were sober, this would be a lot more difficult.

“Magic, _____.” Jungkook slurs, his cheeks flushed and that half grin he does so well. Despite a certain flutter in your chest, you scoff into your mug of wine, small bubbles splashing back onto your upper lip.

“Magic?” You nearly spit. “This isn’t Harry Potter, Jungkook. How exactly do you personally quantify magic?”

A quiet moment passes as he swirls the final dregs of wine in his cup thoughtfully.

“I’d define it as the things you do to me, actually,” he replies before downing the rest of his cup.

Are you hearing things right? Did that actually come out of his mouth? Is this happening? You glance at your own cup. What the fuck is this wine, anyway? You’re drunk. Both of you are.

Jungkook stands and reaches for the bottle, filling up his cup before topping up your own. You still sit in a stunned silence, observing as he tosses another log into the fire, a shower of sparks floating up the chimney.

“Wh… Where did that come from?” You manage. He waves his hand dismissively, breaking eye contact a moment.

“Next question?” He asks as he sips.

Feeling bolder now, you pursue. He isn’t getting away that easily.

“Okay. I’ll put it another way.” You pause to sip, the confidence now flowing nominally through your system. “What exactly happened to us?” There, you’ve asked it.

A silence now spreads the two of you apart, despite the lack of inherent distance between you two presently. Now it seems to be Jungkook’s turn to be stunned into silence.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing this entire time,” he replies. The stone is slowly creeping up to his face.

“You can do better than that,” you egg him on.

“What, now you believe in me?” He shoots back. The venom in his words would take you off guard if it weren’t for how earnest his was before you. He drinks again, gulping this time. He must be on his sixth glass now. You can see the same sentiment in his eyes that you hold in your heart; a universal now-or-never. This is the chance to lay the cards on the table. You know it’s going to hurt, but you know it’s necessary. He rises slowly to his feet, swaying ever so slightly from the wine.

“How about you tell me what happened to us, _____?” Jungkook almost shouts. “We used to be close. We told each other everything. I used to stay up late just to make sure you got home from class or work, I made sure you ate your meals, that your homework was completed. I cared. We both did. Maybe a bit too much...” With this, he sighs explosively and flops down onto the dusty couch behind you, his chin resting on his hand. “We used to be something. I don't know what, but it was there. And now?” He waves an arm absentmindedly towards the window. “Nothing but cold.” The irony, you think. But it's an irony that's been a long time coming, and a certain sick irony that could only come from him.

But the question sticks with you, more than you'd care to admit. Something had slapped you deep inside, and even still it reverberated within you.

No, you're not going to stand here and take this.

“You tell me what happened, Jungkook.” You uncross your legs and rise to your feet, striding towards him. “You stopped texting, calling. You stopped wanting to hang out, and suddenly there was this wall between us. You never even told me what I did.”

For a moment, he looks hurt, as though a thousand predisposed assumptions has just come hurtling down. He regains his composure, though barely, and through shaken words, he continues.

“No, _____.” His face softens. “It isn't what you did. It isn't anything you did, not really.” He's nervous now; his knee bounces, his jaw clenches. You're fairly certain he's beginning to sweat.

What isn't he telling you?

“Tell me,” you whisper. No venom now, merely curiosity, and perhaps a hint of something more. Your hand finds its way onto his own, and your fingers slowly curl around his palm. Contrary to your assumptions, his hand remains there. Even more surprising, his hand reverses and his fingers interlace with your own. A heartbeat passes, and his eyes meet yours.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, _____. I don’t think either of us did anything wrong. Passing ships in the night? Too little, too late? Just bad timing, is that all? Hell if I know.” He takes a deep swig of the wine. “We vibed. Hard. Everything about us was natural and made sense.” You have to agree with this, even now, not talking after so long- you two felt real, felt right.

“No, Jungkook, that’s bullshit and we both know it!” You insist. “You stopped putting in the effort, you stopped wanting to be in my life, you….” It hurts you, a sinking feeling in your chest as you choke out your words. “You wouldn’t even look in my direction the past however long ago it was that you decided to walk away from my life without a single warning.” Perhaps it’s because you’re drunk that tears spring. It’s a deep-seated memory that you’ve brought back, a confrontation that you had always convinced yourself would never happen. “And I don’t even get an explanation why?” This whole situation had to have happened for a reason, you drunkenly tell yourself. If fate really was real, this moment would be its poster child.

Jungkook is staring at you with a look you can’t quite read. You can’t quite decide if he’s about to cry with you or angrily escape this situation. Instead, he places his cup on the wooden coffee table and stands up. His walk towards you in confident, as if he’s ready to expel whatever it is that riddled him in shades of torture for as long as it did. He takes your hands, a slight shake in the way he grasps them.

“I couldn’t stand seeing you with him,” he blurts.

A moment passes, your eyes unleaving as you try and process the weight of his words in your scrambled, drunken mess of a mind. You with who? Hoseok?

“Him?” You find yourself repeating. “Why would you…”

Jungkook sighs and lets your hands go, his fingers moving up to rake his brunette locks away from his face. He’s definitely sweating, you note.

“Wasn’t it obvious, _____?

“B-but what about after we broke up, you could’ve—”

“Could’ve what?” He laughs humorously. “Could have gone back to the way it was before?” He cranes his neck to the side, the palm of his hand rubbing against the skin. “It doesn’t work like that, _____. I’m selfish for you but not that selfish. Staying away was better anyway... neither of us would get hurt.”

But you were hurt, hurt more than the break up itself because at the end of the day, all you wanted was your best friend and even he had left. “You’re such an idiot.” You can’t help but say. “Stupid, stupid idiot. How could you do that?” You want to punch him, slap him as hard as you can for him to feel any amount of equivalence in physical pain that he gave you in emotional pain. All those nights you had laid wondering what you did wrong had all been for nothing?

Your frown deepens, more questions than ever before emerging. “You liked me?” Had you ever even thought of him as more than a friend? You’re not sure you should even be asking these questions with vigour liquor coursing through your veins yet, you remind yourself that the liquid courage has brought you two here thus far.

Jungkook laughs once more, no strain of humour in the vibrato. “That’s an understatement.” He then mumbles and you’re left racking your brain. For a brief second, it makes perfect sense before you completely lose your train of thought.  “Besides,” he continues. “There’s no point in thinking what could have happened, I just—” There’s a pause as his chocolates in his doe eyes search yours for something. “Will you just let me kiss you right now?”

This takes you wholeheartedly off guard, your eyes widen as you speak with hesitance. “Y-you want to kiss me?”

“I’ve always wanted to, _____.” How does this phrase create such a powerful flutter in your chest? You wonder if it’s the alcohol or maybe, just maybe, a deep-rooted longing you;d never known you had in you.

Without answering his question, you kiss him first.

As your fingers reach for his face, Jungkook grapples your waist. You feel tiny in the palm of his hands, he thinks as he feels your lips against his for the first time. Jungkook feels as if he’s dreaming- perhaps the alcohol has something to do with that.

Red wine is what you taste the most, mixed with a subtle sweetness of mint. You drown in him, melt against him as he carefully engulfs you into his arms. The fireplace warming the space around is nothing in comparison to the sudden inferno in your chest. It’s then that you realize, this is what you’ve wanted all along.

Your hand slides down Jungkook’s face to his chest. He feels broad underneath your fingertips, a certain firmness to the touch that you hadn’t expected. He only brings you closer, arms wrapping around your torso as his lips press against you harder. His tongue is soft with your own, a gentle roll with your own as a certain heat builds up in your core.

Suddenly, it’s messier. Jungkook’s tongue swipes your bottom lip before planting a soft bite. It releases a whimper from you, earning a quiet groan from him. You’ve never thought this day would come. Are you dreaming?

When you pull away, Jungkook’s full attention is on you only. He runs a thumb over your wine-stained pout, his eyes large and completely enveloped in the sight of you. “I never thought I would get to kiss these lips.” He says.

You moan and lean in for another.

No matter how much your lips fuse together, how much you press yourself against his stronger hold, you cannot get enough nor do you want this to end. It feels right, comfortable to be in his embrace like this, his mouth against yours and chests connected. It’s not long before you’re both succumbing to the fall on your knees against the self-made bed Jungkook made of old blankets and pillows. It’s cozy, neither of you wasting time to run upstairs to a proper bed. You think this is the most romantic setting you could have ever hoped for.

It’s when you’re suddenly on top of Jungkook that you feel a growth settle underneath your core. You feel the sheer girth of it as your kissing intensifies, two large hands coming to rest upon your thighs as they persuade your hips to skim over it. You gasp at the feeling, sure that you’re already soaked beyond measure. It’s not hard for you to already feel him like this, the thin veil of his pajama bottoms being the only barrier away from you having it in you. The thought arouses you far too much, leading to a harsher grind that has you both moan out. You haven’t been touched in a long while.

Jungkook’s hands travel up your sides until he’s cupped both of your cheeks in each palm. Your lips are guided once again to his own as he places a hard kiss against you. With each fleeting moment, your want for him intensifies. You can’t help but think this was meant to be, that you’ve wanted this somewhere deep within you. Perhaps the old you was looking out for the future you.

It’s with both hesitance and confidence that Jungkook inches your sweater up. His hands feel warm against your bare torso, a shiver running through you when they lazily travels up and down your sides. As you pull away, Jungkook gives you that lopsided grin you hadn’t realized you’ve missed dearly until this moment. It almost feels as if nothing has changed, as if there hadn’t been a giant nothingness between you two for so long.

“You look so beautiful.” Jungkook whispers, his right hand reaching to push a strand of hair away from your face. He helps you guide your shirt off before a thumb strokes your cheek, and then your lips. You softly bite it and receive a contempt groan in response.

“Yours too,” you gently urge as you play with the hem of his white shirt. Jungkook grins and lifts his torso before pulling the fabric over his head. He does not hesitate to kiss you again.

With each kiss, the intensity grows until you’re sure you’ve caused a puddle in your pants as you shamelessly grind your cunt against a very erect bulge in Jungkook’s pants. He feels so firm, more built than you could have ever imagined as he pulls you tighter against him. You’re slowly losing your mind before you decide to take the initiative.

“Jungkook,” you mumble against his mouth.

“Hm?”

“Let me taste you.” Jungkook nearly unravels just from those words alone.

“Yeah?” You nod, a coy smile spreading across your face as surely a heavy blush riddles your cheeks in a crimson red. Jungkook merely chuckles, planting a feverish kiss against your mouth. “You’re so adorable.”

You trail kisses down his torso, the definition of muscles in his abdomen driving you absolutely mad. You’re still unable to fully comprehend what exactly was happening yet you’re equally unable to stop yourself.  Jungkook helps you get rid of his pants, your mouth instantly watering when his erection lands against his torso with a soft thwack. It glistens against the golden aura surrounding you. He cocks his head to the side. “Think you can take it?”

If that’s a challenge you hear in his tone, it’s a challenge you’re willing to take. You might even think Jungkook remembers how competitive you are. You move down his body with ease before placing a tentative lick against the head of his cock. Jungkook’s hands immediately surrender to your hair, moving it out of your face until he’s made a makeshift ponytail out of his own hands.

“Fuuuck,” he drags out shakily when you take the whole of his head in your mouth. You suck just under his head, a certain ball of nerves that drives Jungkook absolutely mad. The hold he has on your hair acts as an invisible guide, in motion with his hips lifting does he simultaneously move your head down. “Just like that, baby.” You groan against his cock as you take more of him in your mouth. Jungkook is thick, girthy with a prominent vein that sits right where your tongue can trace it. He’s losing himself further and further into you as you begin a steady motion of sucking. Your hand holds the base of his cock as your mouth works wonders, earning you whimpers and curses from him. “So good, so good.” Jungkook gasps when you pick up the pace. It’s when he feels himself really about to lose control that he pulls you away from his cock, a satisfying pop following the disconnect.

“C’mere,” he murmurs before smashing his lips against yours. Though your lips are coated in saliva, his kisses have become sloppier, rougher as he cradles your torso with one arm before flipping you until you’re underneath him. “These have to go.” He pulls at your pants and you giggle with agreeance.

“That would be ideal.”

Jungkook undoes the buttons before tugging them down your legs. You’ve now got nothing on but your bra, a pale violet with a lacy trim on the top. Did you subconsciously know you were going to get fucked by none other than Jeon Jungkook today?

He pulls your legs apart, a satisfied hum escaping him as your glistening folds welcome him. “Fuck, _____.” He whispers as his thumb skims over your wetness. You suck in a sharp breath, the callous on his thumb sensitive against your cunt. You want him to touch you there.

It’s as if he can read your mind, the thumb now dragging over your clit. The sigh of relief you give only fuels Jungkook’s satisfaction more. He too would like to taste you.  

You cry out, hands grappling for his torso as he begins circling the thumb over your sensitive nub. “So wet,” he groans.

“J-just for you.” This makes Jungkook move faster with his thumb. He wants to feel you. Jungkook slowly slides the defts of his index and middle finger into you, your cry filling the space. He takes his time, feeling your walls clench around his digits as his thumb simultaneously circles over your clit. He’s amazed by how each thrust of his fingers causes you to coat them farther in your arousal. And you’re amazed by how soon you’re about to come. It only makes his own erection angrier and your cunt clench tighter.

“You coming, baby?” Never would Jungkook have thought he’d get to call you baby. You nod with vigour, each pump of his finger along with the relentless rub of his fingers causing your legs to shake.

“S-so fucking close...oh my god.” You’re coming, you’re coming, you’re— “Jungkook!”

He dips his head in between your thighs, his mouth instantly suctioned to your clit as his fingers continue their torture. With his tongue replacing his thumb, you come undone almost instantly, the wave of pure white, hot filth overtaking your entire body. You shudder, legs trembling as your fingers thread through the lush of Jungkook’s brown locks. Jungkook continues licking against your clit, flicking and sucking until you can no longer take it.

“F-fuck me, Jungkook- please,” you beg as your cunt craves for more. You want absolutely all of him.

Jungkook’s cock is ready, heavy against his palm as he takes ahold of the base and spreads your legs apart. His mouth is wet with your arousal, his chest littered with beads of sweat. “Your pussy looks so fucking good.” He remarks, letting the pink tip of his dick rub against your wet folds. You both moan at the sensation.

With one more rub of his head, he lines himself against your entrance and slowly pushes his hips forward. You think you could come instantly again. Jungkook’s cock feels amazing, full as your tightness grips with so deliciously, even he has to hold himself back from not undoing quickly.

“Fuck.” You let out as you place a hand on his chest, letting the feel of his cock overtake your entire body. He stops when he’s reached the hilt, careful to rock his hips out before slamming them back into you. You can’t help but cry his name out. “You feel so good.” You’re whimpering, the hand on his chest and moving to the back of his neck as you push his head forward to kiss you. He follows suit, beginning a rhythmic pace of his hips as you lose yourself further and further into him.

Jungkook kisses you feverishly, hot and wet against your mouth as he continues to rick in and out of you. His breaths are laboured, filthy words and curses escaping him as you clench around him with each thrust.

“Yeah, baby?” You’re losing your mind, already close to a second undoing. You know you’re going to come again soon. Jungkook takes your legs and places your ankles on his shoulder, plummeting into you with a force so delicious, you’re about to go delirious. You’re so tight, Jungkook can feel himself edging closer to his own end. “Fuck, turn around for me.” You do as requested, turning to your stomach. Jungkook pulls your ass up towards him and lines himself up once again. Without hesitation this time, he pushes into you, a new type of fullness that overtakes your innards. He feels so fucking good.

It’s a steady rock, your ass hitting against his pelvis as he continues a continuous motion with his hips. He’s relentless in his movements, the new position allowing him to reach deeper, feeling you clench tighter.

“Holy fuck,” Jungkook is moaning out. He grabs a handful of your ass, using it as support while he rams into you with no plans of slowing down. The room is filled with the sound of your skin slapping and your deep breath and moans. Jungkook knows he’s so close.

He reaches forward, first and second digit immediately gravitating towards your clit. As he rubs, the familiar rubber band stretches in the pit of your guts. You’re going to come again, you feel it.

It’s when Jungkook whispers into your ear how much he wants to come inside you, that you give out. It washes over you, makes you tighten your grip on the blanket underneath you as you clench so hard around Jungkook that he too comes with you. You feel the spurts of him fill you to the brim until you’re nothing but a puddle underneath him. You lay still, letting his fluid mixed with yours dribble out of you as Jungkook pulls out. It burns to have him away from you. You want him to hold you all night.

“Was that okay?” Jungkook asks, leaning forward to kiss your shoulder. You nod in reassurance, twisting your head around so he can kiss your lips.

It’s then that your phone blares, taking you both by surprise. You rush to your feet, arms reaching for your phone when you see Namjoon’s name flash across your screen.

“Hello?” You answer with no thought.

“_____! Oh my god! Are you okay? There was a huge storm, we’re trapped in town until Monday- did I ask if you were okay? I think Yoongi—” The line fizzles out.

There’s a pause as you look at a curious Jungkook.

“It looks like we’ll be here a while.”

a/n: hey babies! so sorry for the long wait for this one! i really hope you liked it! it’s been in the works for a little while haha. this is my first fic back in a WHILE! and more to come soon! let me know what you think as per usual. i love you so much!!!!!!! and happy holidays to you, your friends and families ✨💞

[ready-to-obeyme]

starlight (Lucifer/MC)

For @dazatsu for the Obey Me Secret Santa for 2020. I hope this fic of mine makes you smile at least once! :) I loved thinking up of the prompt for your secret santa, so I hope I did your aesthetics and preferences justice! I tried including both of your faves and ended up focusing on one. 

Feel free to message me on discord or on my personal @epiphyllous.

Happy Holidays! :)

Summary: It’s been a few days or so since you’ve returned to the human world to attend your university classes. Missing you, Lucifer decides to give you a visit, (with Belphie tagging along) hopefully without being seen, just to check up on you. 

Or so he planned. He never could have anticipated how much he actually misses you. 

notes: gn!reader, College Student MC, sfw, (sorta) established relationship, pining

--

Be patient, Lucifer tells himself. One semester: four months, or even better, fifteen weeks. Lucifer would never admit it to anyone else, but he counts the days until you come back to the House of Lamentations, occupy the room that is now too quiet for comfort, and sit at your seat at the dining table and laugh with all of them again.

The first week after you leave to attend university classes, he keeps his brothers in line, making sure they keep on going to RAD classes instead of spending the entire day moping over your absence. Not that he didn’t miss you, because, of course, he did. At the best of times you were like a buoy in a stormy night, and at others, you were a comforting presence at his side who taught him how to laugh again.

But you had promised to come back, and he had promised that they would be waiting for you when you did. Lucifer prides himself on control, so in control he would be.

Or so he would have been if he had not already planned to ‘check-up’ on you in the human world at the end of this week. 

(He tries not to think about the fact he has caved in only one week after you’ve been gone, but demons are weak to temptation-- so he forgives himself, just this once, because it is to see you.)

To anyone else, especially his brothers, he’s visiting the human realm to take care of human exchange student documents. Only Diavolo, and Barbatos by association, knows why he’s actually settling the last piece of his paperwork prior to his trip. Diavolo had only given him a wide smile, but he is embarrassed to be so evidently transparent to his old friend. (It would have been even more embarrassing had Barbatos had been there to receive the news, so Lucifer is thankful for that at least.) 

With everything in order, his brothers threatened to do well in class while he was gone and too distracted to notice the real reason he’s so eagerly planning a trip away, Lucifer heads out the door.

Belphie is waiting for him in the doorway. 

“You aren’t planning to go by yourself, are you?” Belphie says with a leisurely smile, and Lucifer can only sigh.

.

.

“Oh, sorry-- er, Pro-Professor…”

Lucifer watches as another student meekly ducks past him, skittering away with their head ducked low until they merge with their group. He can hear snippets of what they’re saying, and he isn’t sure what to think when all the comments have been on his attire. It didn’t dawn on him when he first walked onto campus grounds with Belphie in tow, but with the glances he’s been given and the attention he’s been garnering despite his attempts to stay hidden, he realizes how strange his outfit must be when compared to the rest of the population. 

He sighs and crosses his leg on the wooden bench they’ve perched themselves on, turning towards his youngest brother when he hears him laugh. Belphie gives him a sleepy smile that does not hide any of the amusement behind it. “Those people think you’re a cosplayer,” he says to Lucifer, pointing to a group of students who were looking at the two of them. “From an anime about vampires or butlers.” 

Lucifer looks down at his fur-collared coat on his shoulders and gives it a slight tug. “Ah, I suppose the coat is a little bit ill-suited for the weather, isn’t it?” He huffs when Belphie gives him a deadpan. “I jest, Belphie,” he says, crossing his arms (regally, in a way that only convinces everyone who watched him that he was playing in-character). “I understand clearly now that my ‘casual’ attire is not the norm for this university campus.”

“Or any other campus,” Belphie mutters. “People have been saying your vest makes you look like you part-time at Olive Garden… wherever that is. You should have just dressed like me today.” And Lucifer cannot argue with that sentiment, considering how well Belphie fits in with the university atmosphere and environment with his long jacket worn over his tee. If he ignores the comments on his own attire, Lucifer can hear the whispers of awe and even admiration at the cow-printed pillow that Belphie has brought along with him today to ‘comfortably sleep in class while he waits for you,’ or so he has explained to Lucifer.

“I’m not sure how I would pull off the university-look you so excel at,” Lucifer says exasperatedly. “I doubt it would…” Just as quickly as he cut his sentence off, Lucifer jumps to his feet, quickly dragging Belphie by the pillow (much to his complaints) to hide behind a particularly bushy shrub. 

“Ugh, let go of my pillow, you’re going to stretch it out--”

“Shh, be quiet,” Lucifer snaps, glaring at his brother who only stubbornly looks back. “I’d rather not be caught sneaking around on campus when we’re not supposed to.”

“Wait, what? Aren’t we here to see them?” Belphie retorts, “Isn’t this the whole point? Wait, unless…”

Lucifer can feel the tell-tale heat on his ears as warnings of an oncoming blush and wills it away with a scowl, daring Belphie to finish his thought. As expected from his free-spirited and equally willful brother, Belphie does anyway.

“You didn’t tell MC you were coming, did you?” Belphie says, and as much as Lucifer is happy to have such a cunning brother, he wished Belphie were otherwise at the moment. “That’s why we’ve been hiding around trying to find them rather than just having them ditch class--”

“I would not make them ditch class--”

“--and spend time with us.” Belphie pauses. “Why didn’t you just tell them we were coming?” 

In the corner of his eyes, Lucifer sees you walk down the crackling pavement-- backpack on your shoulders, skin a healthy glow (thank Diavolo), and eyes as bright as ever-- and Lucifer’s thoughts trail to a stop. His gaze follows you as you walk past them without notice, and he thinks to himself that a human like you truly does belong to a place with the sun, because you are as radiant as starlight.  

Lucifer looks back towards Belphie who had fallen silent, only to fight back another bout of embarrassment as Belphie stares back at him with a knowing, mischievous gleam. 

“Let’s grab a seat in their class,” Belphie says, standing up easily and walking the same direction Lucifer watched you disappear into. Just when Lucifer thinks the gleam is only from the sun, Belphie continues, his voice dripping with saccharine, “Just so you can watch them a little more closely.”

Lucifer sighs, less inclined to argue when they have little time to catch up with you. (Though even if he did have time, there was not much to say when nothing Belphie said was wrong.)

.

.

Looking back at the conversation now, Lucifer wishes he did argue, just a little, because maybe then he would feel better upon watching in horror as Belphie sleeps beside him in class only five minutes into lecture. 

After following you, they had picked inconspicuous seats in the back row of the lecture hall (with these tiny, little tables-- Lucifer doesn’t understand how anyone could write on these), hoping to remain unseen by you who sat a few rows up in the middle. Based off the scattered, quiet laughter that surrounds them, Lucifer thinks that their choice in seats was a moot point now. 

“Belphie. Belphie,” Lucifer hisses, nudging his brother’s leg in hopes of stirring him awake. “Lecture just began. How are you asleep already?” 

“S’fine,” Belphie mumbles, waving a flippant hand. “We don’t even take this class.” 

From behind them, Lucifer hears someone quietly whisper ‘legend’, and it takes everything in him to not bury his face into his hands and make themselves even more noticeable. He sighs, but regardless, he looks forward, spotting the back of your head almost immediately in a sea of students. Ever so often, he would see your head dip down to look at your laptop and up again to read the slides that were presented. The movement is repetitive, most likely reminiscent to how you would also be in a Devildom RAD class, but for some reason, watching you focus and intently study in your university classes makes it very evident how often he finds himself proud of you. 

And he almost feels guilty for following you on campus. After all, he did make a promise to be there when you came back after waiting patiently for you, and it was not as if you left happily. If anything, you had hoped to stay-- but your future awaits, and so you promised to work hard to get back to them as soon as possible. Perhaps he should keep to the promise you had made to each other-- oh. 

Lucifer watches as you lean down to rummage through your backpack, and he almost feels his heart stop when he sees your D.D.D in your hand. Your fingers scroll through something: Past texts? Your gallery, perhaps? Regardless of what the reason is, Lucifer feels something warm spread within his chest as he thinks that maybe you had missed them (hopefully even him?) just as much as they missed you. 

What he does not expect is to have his phone vibrate with a text from you. 

>> Are you busy right now?

Lucifer is thankful that Belphie is asleep because he does not see the way Lucifer fumbles to get his D.D.D out and text with his heart at his throat. 

<< Not at the moment. 

He pauses. 

<< Is something the matter?

The response is quick.

>> No, nothing is wrong! 

>> I’m just in class right now and ngl it’s kind of boring.

Lucifer buries his chuckle into his fist.

<< And here I thought you had an emergency.

>> :crying emoji: This IS an emergency. I’m DYING

>> of BOREDOM

>> Save me, Lucifer!!

<< I will not be an accomplice to distracting you during class. 

He’s already enabling you by responding, so it’s not exactly the truth, he admits. But he does like the way you tilt your head as you are wont to do when you find something amusing. 

>> Darn, okay I tried

>> I just

Lucifer watches as the text bubbles stay on screen, and he waits for your upcoming message when the people around them stand up, putting their laptops into their backpacks at the end of the lecture.

>> I miss you guys

He looks up to see you standing up, D.D.D. in hand, head down and fingers still over the screen. After a moment, you type something else and lock the phone, putting it into your backpack before heading down the aisle to leave the class. 

Your last few messages pop up.

>> Class just ended so I’ll have to go study at the library but

>> I just wanted to say I really miss you

>> Hope you’re doing well

>> Love you. 

“What are you waiting for?” 

Lucifer turns toward Belphie, whose violet eyes are still bleary from sleep but whose words are as clear and succinct as ever. He yawns before continuing, “Go after them. Let me know when their classes are done so we can actually do something together.” 

At this, Lucifer feels his gaze soften. “Yes, I’ll let you know,” he says, standing up and walking down the path to the door. “And, ah, Belphie…” He waits until his youngest brother looks up from his pillow before telling him with a small, wry smile, “Be sure not to get locked inside the classroom when all the lectures finish.” 

.

.

After a few mishaps, Lucifer manages to ask for the directions to the library most commonly used by the student body. The first few times he tried, his language was too formal for anyone to truly believe he was asking for direction. “Who are you cosplaying? Can I take a picture with you?” was thrown at him numerous times. “Am I being pranked right now? Are you a youtuber?” was also asked at him twice-- which was not often, but it was strange that it happened that many times. 

Eventually, someone had, after watching him cross his arms indignantly, given him the instructions to the library. It was only when he was walking up the steps to the building that he thought that everything would have gone much faster if he had only demanded directions and hypnotized a random student into telling him. But he imagined that if you ever found out, you would not be pleased, and that-- if anything-- was the one reason why he resisted the urge to. 

Lucifer walks into the air-conditioned building and searches for you. It does not take him long until he sees you, sitting at one of the desks in the library, laying your head on your arms, fast asleep.

It is around three in the afternoon, the sunshine filters through the ceiling windows and scatters across your desk, showering you in a flurry of light, and Lucifer thinks he was a fool to ever think he could bear to not see you for a moment longer. 

The seat beside you is open, so he sits there, watching the moving sunlight dance across the hand you placed near your face. Your chest rises and falls evenly, and for a moment, you clench your hands but do not wake, seeming to dream of holding onto something instead. It takes all the self-control Lucifer could muster to not take your hand in his. Instead, he drapes his jacket over your shoulders, careful not to let it fall off, and watches as students filter in and out of the library in the hustle of academic life. 

Lucifer isn’t sure how long he waited, surrounded by tall shelves of books and aisles of encyclopedias, but you start to stir, waking up and wincing at the sun in your eyes in a way that has him smiling in amusement. You first grab onto the jacket that had started to fall off your shoulders, and upon realizing that it did not belong to you, you look up to see Lucifer, smiling fondly. 

“Lucifer?” 

Lucifer can feel the side of his eyes crinkle at the sound of your voice still raspy from sleep. He sweeps away the lint on your shoulder as you sleepily gather up his jacket into your lap. “Whatever happened to ‘studying in the library’ as you told me?” He says teasingly, smile widening when you fluster and laugh nervously. 

“I-- you know… I was taking a break and,” you start to say, pausing only to look at him accusingly, much to his amusement. “Wait, forget about that! How are you here? Why are you here?” 

“I’m the vice-president of the student council-- I’m able to be wherever I please,” he tells you, and you huff at how smug he sounds. “As for why I’m here, it’s to check up on one of our human exchange students, of course… is what I would say.” Lucifer leans forward and gently caresses your cheek with his thumb, unable to push the affection that bubbles forth as he sees your hand press over his. “But I also just wanted to see you.”

Lucifer hears a cough from behind him and feels heat rushing into his cheeks at the (quite frankly) polite reminder that he was in a public space. He retracts his gloved hand and clears his throat, hoping that the moment is enough to clear away the pink that has undoubtedly found its way onto his face. He expects you to tease him, as you often do whenever you have the chance. When it does not come, he glances back to you, only to feel his heart squeeze at the way you look at him: your eyes softened, lips upturned gently, and gaze adoring in a way that made it seem like you believed he had hung the stars.

(If there were any more ‘coughing’ to remind Lucifer that they were, in fact, still in the library instead of their own world, neither of you take notice.)

“I missed you too,” you say, summing up his feelings in the simplest way that only you could do. You take his hand into yours and gently sway it back and forth. “Thank you for coming to visit me.”

It had been a good idea, after all, he thinks, to indulge himself for once and come see you if it meant he could hold your hand like this again. “Belphie was hoping you would give us a tour of your university,” Lucifer says softly, sweeping his thumb over your hand. “If you were done with classes.”

He feels you squeeze his hand in response to his affection, and his heart soars even as he listens to you speak. “Belphie is here?” You ask, surprised. When he nods in confirmation, you laugh. “Did he catch you when you were leaving or something? Threaten to tell your brothers if you didn’t take him along?” 

Lucifer doesn’t answer you, preferring to huff instead, though he can’t deny that he is pleased that you can know his brothers’ behavior well enough to hit it right on the money. “He opted to sleep in the last lecture hall you were in rather than go on the wild goose chase I had to find this library. Is nobody at your university unable to fathom that someone would wear something slightly more formal to class?”

“Yup,” you reply easily, grinning at him. “But it’s okay, I like your outfit. It’s very you.” You pause. “Also, we can always go shopping later, though, so people can stop staring at you. And also to buy some souvenirs for your brothers!” Your eyes brighten as you think, and his heart melts at the fact that his brothers are in your thoughts. (For as much as he wants to have your attention, he finds that the love you can give to his brothers is as equally enjoyable to witness.) 

You hum thoughtfully, “I think Beel might appreciate some food from this new restaurant that opened up last week. Maybe Levi would like something from the cute Japanese store down the road? Oh, and face masks for Asmo!”

“I’m sure they’ll be happy with anything you purchase for them,” Lucifer says, making you look up at him with a smile. And he wants to reach out to cup your face again.

Ring ring!

The both of you glance at your phone when it plays a tune, and as quickly as the alarm goes off, your hand is there to turn it off. Lucifer looks at you questioningly before you sigh.  “I have class in about ten minutes,” you say apologetically.

“Is that so?” Lucifer says, standing up from his seat. “Then I shall accompany you.” He extends a hand in askance for his jacket, only to give a huff of laughter when you only stare at him incredulously. “Is it that much of a surprise that I would like to escort you to your classes? Unless, of course, you would prefer me not to--”

“No!” You duck your head down, looking around quickly, much to Lucifer’s amusement, before lowering your volume. ‘No, I mean,” you fluster, “I’d like that. Thank you.”

Oh, how Lucifer wants to press a kiss to your forehead, but to save you (and himself, though he thinks he no longer has anything to lose) the embarrassment, he settles for easy laughter as he wraps his jacket around himself. You follow after him, pushing in your chair and lugging up your backpack, your laptop securely inside. 

“Shall we go then?” he asks, holding out an elbow for you to hook your arms with his. When you slide yourself close to him and walk down the steps outside the library, he realizes that this is the many things he has missed since you've been gone. Your hand is a comfortable presence on his arm and your footsteps are aligned with his as you walk in tandem to your next class. He briefly thinks about his brothers, most particularly how Mammon would bluster about their proximity, or how one of the romance novels Satan would have described this very situation he was in: walking alongside someone dear to him on a campus that does not seem as big when you are together.

Your hand squeezes his arm gently before you guide him through hallways and pathways. When a crowd of students bustles past them at the end of lecture, he feels you inch closer to him. 

“It’s a lecture hall, not a discussion class,” you start to tell him, much to his confusion. You laugh. “They won’t notice you’re not part of the class, so you can sit next to me.” You lower your hand and take his hand in yours.

Lucifer squeezes your hand comfortingly as the last of the previous class files out. “Try not to be too distracted by my presence,” he comments and cannot help the upturn of his lips when you shoot him a withering look he does not have to see to know it has no heat behind it.

Among other glances and subtle affection that you provide him the rest of the day convinces him fully that there has never been a better decision than to visit you. When the two of you finally meet up with Belphie, who had been asleep on a nearby bench, the night is spent out following you as you guide them around campus and at the nearest hub of entertainment. 

In the end, you do collect enough gifts for all his brothers, even sneaking a small present into his hands with a sly smile on your face.

And when he returns to the Devildom after a long, long farewell where no one wanted to leave, he provides his brothers with their souvenirs (after they stopped complaining to him about going off to the human world with only Belphie). He tugs off the coat that now lingers with your scent and places the gift you had purchased him onto his desk-- a little trinket that he can now look at and remind himself of you, with eyes of starlight and laughter as warm as the sun.

He thinks of the last message that you sent him and sends you a response.

<< I love you too.

<< Until next time. 

[hotchley]

the date

Surprise! I’m on holiday now so I’m using the time to try and get some of my WIPs finished. This and yesterdays were the most done, so don’t expect too much from the next two weeks because I also do need to start doing my work.

The temptation to post a spoiler was almost overwhelming, but I refrained so now you get to read the whole mess in one go! Also, funny story, this had been sitting in my drafts since last year and I only just got around to finish it.

There is a happy, alternate ending. Let me know if you want to see it!

Trigger Warnings: references to child abuse and domestic violence, both characters have low self-esteem and negative perceptions of themselves

read on ao3!

It's too early for anyone else to be there. The entire BAU is on leave- and given how often that was interrupted, it makes sense for everyone to be enjoying it whilst it lasts, but it still shocks her to see the entire sixth floor empty.

Apart from one person.

Hotch is sitting behind his desk, dressed casually. It's strange to see him there, frowning over paperwork, wearing a pair of worn jeans and a fuzzy jumper. It makes him look younger. more like Jack’s dad than Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner and it tugs at something in Emily's heart.

She pushes the feeling away. That isn’t why she's here. It doesn’t matter that she is the only one- aside from Dave- that knows the way he rubs his thumb against his other fingers is a way to soothe himself, not an indication that he's lying. It doesn't matter that she knows what his tell is, or that the smile that had spread across his face when she told him it was a date made her heart flutter. It's irrelevant that he’d pulled her closer when they were dancing as though he was trying to convince himself she was real.

She's leaving. And he's with Beth. Beth, who she had only spoken to for a few minutes but had immediately loved. She is everything Hotch needs after the darkness of the past two years. And Emily can't resent her. Not for falling in love with Hotch and certainly not because he loves her back.

He isn't hers. Maybe he would've been. In a different life where his torso isn't a mess of scars left by the same serial killer that had put his wife in the ground, and her darkness was something that didn't stop her from loving others or cause fear, they would've been beautiful. A peaceful garden that made people smile and realise that there was still hope and a reason to carry on.

But it isn't a different life. They live in a world where you can't keep a photo of your loved one in your wallet in case it fell into the wrong hands, and where the phone ringing did not provoke an eye roll at the latest scam, but a cold dread that someone else they loved is dead or gone. They live in a world where she taints everything she touches- apart from him because he has always been darkness and what she doesn't understand was that her touch made flowers blossom where only weeds had ever lived in his ribcage- and a world where he cannot handle his own humanity.

She hasn't knocked before walking into his office since that case in Milwaukee, all those years ago. She thinks of the woman she had been then, but for once, it doesn't hurt. She is still that headstrong and fiesty agent, but she is also more open and trusting. Aaron had changed too. He'd gotten older and more tired. But he trusts her.

Enough that she doesn't need to knock before entering. It feels wrong though, to walk in unannounced. He would know immediately if she knocks that something is up, and she wants to cling to the feeling of home for a few more moments. She clears her throat instead. The smile that crosses her face when he looks up, slightly startled by her sudden appearance, was completely involuntary.

"Why are you doing paperwork?" she asks.

He sets it to the side, looking like a child that had been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. "It's only going to pile up, so I thought I would get a head start."

"You deserve to take a break too," she chastises.

He looks down. "I know. Would you like to sit?"

She nods, taking the seat in front of his desk. When she looks at him, it is almost painful. Five years ago, he had called her into his office to snap at her. And she had hated him for it. She knew he was only pretending to not know where she'd gone for college. So she took the knife in her back and plunged it into his heart when she said he didn't trust women as much as men, despite knowing that wasn't true.

He doesn't trust anyone. How could he, when the very people that were meant to love him and keep him safe from the dark were the same monsters that emerged as the sun went down?

But he had looked younger then. Less tired by life and living. And she had been more hopeful. Not naive. She had never been naive. None of them had been. They'd never been given the chance to experience that feeling. But she'd had hope that they could save everyone.

And he hadn't been able to take that from her, but he watched as she slowly lost it. And she watched as he told the team he loved them in a thousand different ways. And she wondered how anyone could ever call him cold. He wasn't cold. Hotch did what it took to protect the honour of the BAU, but Aaron did what it took to keep his family together.

At some point, they had stopped fighting each other and started to blur the lines between friendship and more.

"Did you enjoy yourself last night?" he asks.

She nods. "JJ deserves it. So does Will. Especially after everything that's happened."

Neither of them know what, but something happened when she was at the State Department. 

"We all deserve that," he says, almost too quietly for her to hear. One set of words that she cannot say threaten to fall from her mouth.

"Beth is lovely," she says instead. "What does Jack think of her?"

He smiles at the mention of his son. "She's one of his favourite people."

"That's lovely," she says, wondering why it was so difficult to speak to him. There were only two times their conversations had been this stilted: once when he started working for her mother, and once when she first joined the unit.

There's a sudden silence, and she stares past him and at the books lining his shelves. All the ones that could be seen were law-related. What few people knew was that at the very bottom of the shelf, where his desk and chair would cover it, he has books for Jack.

It had thrown her, the first time she'd seen them. She couldn't reconcile the image of Hotch and the image of Aaron. Now the two were interchangeable. Not that she ever actually called him Aaron. He would call her Emily like her name meant everything, but she was a coward. Aaron was too personal. 

She'd used his first name twice. Once after Haley's death, when she thought he would retire even though he would never be happy. Once after her own death, when she told him to burn in hell. She regretted that, even now, after forgiveness had been given.

"She deserves better than me. I know that. I think deep down, she knows that too but I just can't let her walk away from me, and I don't know why," he blurts out. Almost like he needed to say something, but everything else was either too personal or too neutral.

But she understands what he means. She always does.

"You need to convince yourself you can love someone without destroying them. You need a reason to look through case file after case file. You need to know that someone will be waiting when you come home, that this is not for nothing."

Aaron stares, and she swallows. It had been so long since she had been this vulnerable with him. Her bad day, when she had let herself feel after so long of not, felt like decades ago. And in some ways, it had been. She had bought and sold a house. He had crumbled and found love again.

"Emily, there is a reason for all of this. You just need to remember it. And some day, you will have someone waiting at home for you, I promise. Just give it time," he says. 

She smiles as he says her name. Ian had tainted it. But Aaron says it like it was something precious and beautiful. What she didn't understand was that, to him, it was. It always had been. It always would be, no matter what.

But then the rest of his words register and her smile fades. He already knows she's leaving, had known since she returned that it was only a matter of time. Foolishly he had hoped it would be far, far into the future, when his own health issues forced him to retire. That would be kind though. And the world had never been kind to either of them.

She would walk away now, even though she didn't want to, because she could not stand the memory of the last time she had been in that office. And he would stay, even though he couldn't, because he would not let the team lose yet another person.

"You know why I'm here, don't you?" she asks, thinking about their conversation the previous night. How it had been perfect, but a cloud shaped like goodbye had been hanging over them throughout the night. She supposed that was what life was though.

It didn't make it hurt any less when Dave forced her into Aaron's arms. He had smiled, that soft and gentle one that transformed him from Unit Chief into the man that knew far too much for his age. That still longed for a childhood.

She hadn't wanted to talk about work, or her departure or even Beth. Instead, she whispered to him about the time he had spent working for her mother, and how even then, his suits didn't fit properly. He responded by talking about the evenings they had spent together watching old reruns of the comedies from her childhood.

And it was nice.

And again, she wonders if she was doing the right thing.

"I have my suspicion," he says, trying to keep his tone light. He doesn't want Emily to regret anything. He doesn't want to influence her decision. But in the back of his mind, she's just another person leaving him. And he wonders if he would ever be good enough for anyone, and then he hates himself for thinking that because this wasn't about him.

It is about Emily. And her need for a fresh start.

"You want me to say it, don't you?" she isn't accusing him. She just needs to be sure.

"Need," he corrects. "I need you to say it."

But it isn't out of spite. Or anger. He just needs to know it was her choice. That he has nothing to do with it. That she doesn't blame him anymore. That the thing that had been building between them before- before Doyle, before Foyet made him too afraid to feel anything- has not been destroyed.

"I'm resigning from the BAU and moving to London," she says. Saying it out loud, for the first time, to him of all the people, made the situation so much real.

She hadn't fully processed that she had accepted Clyde's offer. She knew for a while that she would be leaving, but now, the full impact of it hit her. There would be no more crushing hugs from Derek in private after the cases that destroyed them both. No more little toys from Penelope stuffed into her top drawer to make her smile. 

No more Aaron seeking her out to ask her silly questions about foreign languages because Jack had expressed an interest in them. No more Aaron making sure she was fine by simply glancing in her direction. No more coffee on her desk after a difficult meeting that he would never confess to making, but which everyone knew was his doing. 

No more phone calls too early in the morning begging for a story, a joke, anything, to distract from the memory he had of her in the hospital after Doyle. 

No more them, messy and broken and damaged as they were.

He nods. The smile on his face is forced, and she can see him fighting back tears. He doesn’t want her to go. But he also knows that she needs to. She is doing what he had never been able to do: leave, before it all became too much and whatever life they still had left was permanently ruined.

 “You’ll take them by storm. Just like you did here,” he says.

She smiles slightly, thinking back once more to her earliest days. “Only there won’t be someone accusing me of being a spy for their boss, which really did define those first few months.”

She meant it as a joke. She really should have known better. He always took these things too literally, so afraid of the teasing disguising a genuine anger that would only come out hours later when he had forgotten the transgression.

“Emily, I never apologised for my actions, but I need you to know-”

“You have apologised. I don’t need to hear the words to know how sorry you are. Also, it wasn’t really misplaced distrust was it?”

“Still. I am sorry. For everything.”

He isn’t just talking about those early days, she suddenly realises. He was talking about everything, from Milwaukee to Benjamin Cyrus to Ian Doyle. She longs to reach across and take his hand, rubbing her own fingers over the skin that he was always worrying, but that isn’t her job anymore.

It never had been. Even if she had wanted it to be.

“So am I,” she says. “I miss the man you were when I first joined,” she adds without thinking.

He frowns, the furrow so much like the look Jack had given her when she told him the previous night that one day, he would also be old like his dad and her. It hurt, to see how similar they were. Maybe it was because, where Hotch had always hated looking like his father, Jack would love it.

“Why?” he asks, voice slightly hoarse. He's afraid of her answer.

“You had more faith in people and their goodness. More hope for the future. I don’t blame you for changing. Still, it was a beautiful belief to witness and be a part of.”

“Haley always gave me a reason to believe in goodness,” he confesses, fiddling with the pen he had set down the moment she walked in.  

“Perhaps Beth can give you some more,” she says, without a single hint of jealousy or anger. She has no right to either of those emotions. Women like her, women that only hurt the people they loved and who were harsh and cruel and rough around the edges did not get men like him. 

Men like Aaron got soft and gentle women who saw nothing but the best in everyone. It was the only way that they could carry on doing their jobs. The only way any of them could carry on looking into the abyss without flinching was by having something that would be their solace. Something or someone untouched by the horrors of the day and evil of the night.

He has found his solace. She is still searching. Because he cannot be her solace anymore. It isn’t fair to either of them. She's not going to make him choose between loving her and loving Beth. She knows that people could love more than one person, but he already felt guilty for still loving Haley. After everything else she had put him through, she couldn't put him through the pain of knowing that she had always loved him, had always known just what his lingering stares meant, but had just never found the right time to say it all.

"When I said she deserves better than me, I didn't just mean because I'm broken."

"Aaron, you aren't-"

"Stop, let me- let me finish. I am. I have been for a while now. Maybe I was never whole to begin with. I meant that I'm in love with someone else. I thought I was over it, but I wasn't, and it was only when we started dating that I realised."

"Nobody can fault you for still loving Haley. She was torn from you in the most horrific way possible, and if you still love her, that's okay. Your heart has always been too big for just one person."

"I'm not talking about Haley," he whispers. "I'm talking about you."

"Aaron." 

"I love you," he chokes out.

He can't. He can't love her. If he loves her, he will end up in a coffin, buried in the ground because she always kills the people that love her. If he loves her, the flowers in his heart that were finally blooming after Haley's death caused them all to wilt would be permanently destroyed.

He stares at her. She looks away. The look on his face is too real. Too much. If she looks at him, she would end up tearing up the resignation and phoning Clyde to say she couldn't do it. She believes that there was a universe in which she was strong enough to stay. A universe in which she was still beautiful.

But in the universe she lives in, she isn't. She is hardened by life and terrified of love. In the universe where Aaron only knows how to say I love you when everything else failes, who had only ever heard the words used out of fear, shouted by a desperate mother as her husband refused to have mercy, she has gone too long without speaking.

"Say something. Even if it's that you hate me and that I'm a terrible person. Or that I'm being cruel and unfair because I am. You're ready to leave and I shouldn't be ruining your fresh start like this but I just-"

"I love you too," she says.

His jaw drops. "Emily," he breathes.

"I- I love you. I don't know when it started or when I realised, but I love you. I have for a while. I just- I couldn't say anything."

"Why?"

The question catches her off-guard. "What?"

"Why do you love me?" 

He's not searching for a compliment. He genuinely wants to know why she- with her beauty and strength and power and loyalty and kindness- could ever love him. 

"For the same reason you hate yourself."

He laughs. "That's funny. In some twisted way, that's funny. I love you for the same reasons you hate yourself too."

She looks at him. Him, with his tired eyes and gentle smiles. With his twisted definition of love because nobody ever taught him what it really was. Who believed he had to be perfect, or else people would leave. Who led the team with such passion and loyalty because Haley's love terrified him, and it was easy to push her away. Him, who still does not know the difference between safety and happiness and who does not understand where kindness and love differ.

And she knows that she cannot do it. She is not strong enough to love him the way he needs. Maybe a few years ago. Maybe if this was a few years later. But time was a funny thing. It was always working against them.

"I love you," she repeats.

"You won't stay though, will you?" there is no anger in his voice. Just an acceptance she hates. He always accepts things far too easily. 

"I can't."

"I know. It's okay. I don't want you to have any regrets. About anything."

He stands, and she follows almost immediately, her body still attuned to his movements. When he walks around to stand in front of her, she wonders if this is the climax of their story. If this is the final moment, where the tension peaks, and everything ends happily.

When he was a child, he pretended his life was like the films he never got to watch in order to escape the reality of it. He eventually accepted that life did not always come with closure and sometimes loose ends could not be tied up.

He holds out his hand for her. "Agent Prentiss. I wish you all the best in the future."

She refuses to take his hand. "You don't want me to have regrets?"

He drops his hand back down by his side. "Of course not Em. Of course not."

Without giving herself time to think, she closes the gap between them and stands on her tip-toes. He doesn't pull away, but his breathing goes uneven as it catches in his throat. He looks down at the ground, unable to meet her eyes.

There is so much about him she wants to learn. So much she wants to memorise but she doesn't have time. So she presses one soft and gentle kiss to his forehead, smiling through the sadness as he relaxes into the touch with a shaky exhale.

He doesn't move. He can't. And so she steps away, clearing her throat, wiping away the tear that threatens to fall. 

"Goodbye Aaron," she says, his first name slipping out without her even realising she was saying it.

"You only ever call me Aaron when you're saying goodbye. I'm not sure whether it makes me hate or love my name more," he says.

"For what it's worth, I am sorry," she says instead. She doesn't want to think about the reasons he hates his name. Or the irony of it meaning exalted, when every single person that was meant to protect him failed.

"I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to look back and smile. And be proud of the lives you saved, the family you found. I want you to remember that you made me a better man. That you were right. I wasn't alone."

"None of us were. Will you come and visit me? Maybe help me get settled?"

It is selfish to ask, but she never claimed to be good. Aaron believes she is, but she knows she isn't. 

"Of course I will," he promises. How can he not, when he blames himself for every single bad thing that had happened since she joined?

She gave him one final smile before closing the door behind her, ready to start a new life but still feeling like her heart had been torn from her chest. He watches her go, only falling to the ground to sob when the elevator doors close behind her one last time.

In the end, he does not visit. He gets as far as picking his seat, when he realises he cannot do it. He cannot see her. When he phones Derek, pleading for him to go instead, and to take Penelope so Emily cannot be angry, he doesn't even pretend to hide the fact that he has been crying.

Derek doesn't even hesitate. He just says he'll do it.

Emily hates Aaron for being too much of a coward to come and see her, even after he told her to not have any regrets. She hates herself more for not being able to see him when she hears about the emergency surgery. Saving JJ becomes her apology.

Still, it's not enough for her. Which is exactly why it's too much for him. Because even when they're stood across from each other, drinks in hand as they celebrate JJ's survival, they cannot be honest.

And then she leaves him again. He can't blame her.

He blames time. They never had enough. Or the right one. 

[rainbowvamp]

Enchanted

Happy Mercelot week my loves! Enjoy a Cinderella love at first sight au. Featuring Merlin in a pretty outfit and infatuated Lancelot!

@mercelotweek fill for "beauty"

——

Merlin looks down at the bit of fabric in his hands. He’s never tried to alter an object this way. He’d cut a bit of Camelot red from one of the cloaks Arthur had sent to be re-hemmed and was just… looking at it. It was washed, but still obviously worn, fraying in places, no matter how he’d tried to mend it. He hadn’t been particularly keen on the red, but it was the only thing he’d had on hand. He certainly wasn’t going to risk any of his own clothes for something that might not work.

Merlin had altered himself before, sure, but he’d gotten stuck that way as often as he’d done it. A mask couldn’t exactly drink a potion and return to it’s original form. So, he had to be very careful and meticulous when he crafted this spell.

The white of his party clothes was incredible, striking, really, compared to all the other clothes he’d ever worn. Cast offs, surely, but they were beautiful. Morgana or even Gwen might know if they were even still in style, but it was meant to be a bit of a lark, this party. Both for him and the other guests in attendance. The others would be in costumes fashioned from older clothing, or clothing made costume by masks. It was supposed to be fun, light hearted, this party, but here Merlin is, overthinking something as simple as a mask.

He murmurs a spell of his own creation and the scrap of fabric, crumpled and pinned to generally resemble a mask, became something gorgeous before his eyes. The fabric was thinner, almost like lace in weight, but stayed stiff in his hand like it had been over starched. The pins had become fine, metallic dots over the eye holes, and the ribbon he’d use to secure it was almost silk like.

It was beautiful, but Merlin could feel the tenuous nature of the spell. It wouldn’t last forever. It might not even last the night. He could feel the threads of magic holding it delicately in this shape, but ready to break apart at any moment.

Well, he’d just have to make his trip to the party short so he wouldn’t risk being found out. These things usually went so far into the night it became morning, but he’d probably have until midnight before the spell wore off and risked exposing him.

If anyone found out a Servant was mingling with these Nobles, he’d be in the stocks for a week. Maybe worse.

Guinevere, who is his dearest friend and closest confidant, has agreed to help him with his hair for tonight, so he sneaks off to Morgana’s rooms, the lady already down at the party, to get her help, mask already in place, just in case anyone should see him.

The palace feels different when he walks around in clothes that belong to a nobleman. The servants he passes bow respectfully, and it makes him uneasy. How can people stand this? He felt so terrible, watching people avert their eyes and how their heads like he or anyone else had any right to their humility.

In Morgana’s rooms, Gwen adjusts his coat and combs his hair back in a way he didn’t think would suit him, but he ends up liking. He tries once more to convince her to come with him, to just steal one of Morgana’s old dresses and wear a veil, but she’s convinced she’ll be found out, and isn’t willing to risk it.

Merlin has no such qualms, and has vowed to take her involvement with this little scheme to the grave. Or the stocks.

“You look wonderful,” She says when she finally lays her brush down. “You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, “Haha, Guinevere. I just want to see how the other half lives for a night. You’re sure you won’t come?”

And now she rolls her eyes. “The lady Morgan and I are much closer than you and Arthur. She’d notice me, even with a mask. Maybe the next one.”

He smiles softly at her. “Definitely the next one. Besides, you’ll still be there. You’ll just have to endure less of the idle dithering of nobles.”

She giggles, “Merlin, you can’t talk about them like that.”

“I can talk about them however I like dressed like this,” He tugged his collar a bit to show off and that set her off again. She covered her mouth to keep their presence hidden and swatted at him.

“Okay, you’ve made your point. Now go, before it’s over.”

“Love you,” he kissed her cheek and she returned the gesture.

“Please don’t get yourself killed.” Which was as good as an I love you too from Gwen.

“No promises. I did try to fight the prince my first day here.”

—-

Merlin takes a second glass of mead in less than half an hour from a passing try. He knows this will be a terrible idea, but he cannot, to save his own life, stand this lot while sober any longer.

Occasionally one of the nobles will smile and greet him, ask him who he is, but for the most part, people are interested in socializing with those they already know, and the few who approach him are obviously uninterested in him as much as they are interested in the connections he might be able to make them.

“I’m dying out here,” he murmurs to Gwen when she’s pauses briefly to grab another tray to pass around lady Morgana’s table.

“I’m so sorry. You poor dear.” She smirks and he smiles back at her.

“Your turn next.”

“Mhmm, after all the fun you’re having, I can’t wait.”

He laughed as she left and his spirits were lifted for the first time all night. He took a final sip of his mead and left it on a table, deciding to try his luck on the dance floor at the same moment that a set of deep brown eyes caught him from across the room.

“Caught” was not an exaggeration. The smoldering, desirous look in the eyes that looked like they might have been looking at him for a while held him like a man entranced. His breath caught in his throat as the man started to make his way toward him.

He was in chain mail, a knight in a cloak that was unmistakably Camelot red. It wasn’t unlike the cloak he’d cut his mask from.

At the reminder, Merlin focused briefly on his mask, whose transformed state was tenuous. It would last a while longer, maybe an hour, maybe longer.

The determined way the knight walked toward him, through the onlookers, partygoers and celebrators was almost overwhelming. No one tonight had looked so intently upon him. He wasn’t sure how to handle it.

His feet seemed to decide how to handle it for him. Thick dark hair that begged to be tugged at and a mouth made for kissing, it drew him in like so few things ever had. Even with the black mask obscuring his face, Merlin can tell he must be beautiful. The cut of his jaw is too perfect for him not to be.

Merlin is stunned by the time they meet, standing obnoxiously still in the middle of the dance floor. The knight bows to him, and while servants bowing to him had made him uncomfortable, this feels formal, and somehow honorable. He holds out his hand when the knight starts to stand, thinking they might shake, but instead Lancelot takes the offered hand and kisses the back of it, eyes trained on Merlin the entire time.

He is grateful for the cover of the mask, with the way that he can feel the blush forming high on his cheek. He wouldn’t want to embarrass himself in front of a knight.

“Hello, My Lord. I am Sir Lancelot.”

Lancelot. He’s heard Arthur speak of him, in passing. An excellent fighter, perhaps as good as the Prince himself. As he stands, Sir Lancelot smiles at him, and Merlin about melts as his stomach flutters and he stands tall, just about eye level with him.

“Hello, Sir Lancelot.” The words are breathier than he means to be, and if Lancelot notices, he gives no indication.

With the slightest bow he asks, “May I have this dance?”

Merlin had been about to dance on his own anyway. Only, Merlin’s never danced any of these formal noble dances, only remembers celebrations in Ealdor, and in the lower town. He isn’t sure of the steps, but Lancelot still hasn’t dropped his hand, and his mouth seems to speak with the same ungiven authority his feet had moved him with.

“Certainly.”

Lancelot takes Merlin’s other hand to place it on his shoulder, and takes Merlin at the waist. It’s what everyone else seems to be doing, and he’s grateful that Lancelot says nothing when they’re pulled so close their chests are nearly flush.

Lancelot starts to move, but Merlin can’t keep time, keeps stumbling over his feet, and Lancelot’s. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a dancer.” Merlin laughs, afraid Lancelot will simply leave, but the man’s returning smile tells another story.

“That’s alright. Just stop thinking so hard about it. I’ll lead.” He pauses briefly to adjust his grip on Merlin’s waist and then Merlin feels the gentle push of the hand there, urging him to move back, forth, left, right, turn, in time with the music. Between Lancelot’s easy leading, and the way his eyes seem to never leave Merlin’s, it’s easy to feel like they are the only two people here, the only ones that matter.

Merlin finds the rhythm eventually, and the gentle coaxing on his hip becomes obsolete. He still misses the feel of Lancelot’s hand in his when they’re suddenly unclasped and grabbing Merlin by the waist, to spin him around with the flourish as the dance came to an end. He laughs, and the answering twinkle in Lancelot’s eyes speaks volumes for how he’s enjoyed himself.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Lancelot asked, and Merlin smiles, letting the knight take his hand and kiss it again.

“I’d say it was the best dance I’ve ever had. Thank you, Sir Lancelot.”

“I aim to please.” Another song started up, and Lancelot raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid this one is a group dance. Unless you fancy a half dozen partners and more steps than you can count, we might sit this one out.”

Merlin laughed, “I certainly don’t want that. Get a drink with me?” Merlin doesn’t need another drink, but he is parched.

When Lancelot offers his elbow to Merlin, he almost rolls his eyes, but can’t help the grin it illicits. “Such a gentleman.” He smiles, and Lancelot returns it. They take a seat at a nearby table, long since unoccupied in favor of the dancing.

Lancelot serves him mead before a servant can, highly unusual for a knight, as Merlin is well aware. “Thank you,” he waits for Lancelot to serve his own glass and clinks them together before taking a healthy sip from his. The warmth of the joy of Lancelot and the mead mix together, leaving him feeling heady and relaxed.

“I’m afraid I don’t know your name. Is that terrible?” Lancelot asked, and Merlin laughed in response.

“Few would. I’m hardly a common attendee of these sorts of things. I’m Emerys of Ealdor.”

“Such a beautiful name, for a beautiful man,” Lancelot gestured for a servant to bring the tray they were holding, and thanked him graciously as he served both Merlin and himself honey cakes. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of Ealdor. Is it far from here?”

“Yes. I don’t see it much, anymore. It’s in Essetir, and it is not exactly safe to pass between the two lands. I haven’t been home in many years.”

Lancelot frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. I too can not return home. I know how lonely that can be.”

Merlin smiled sadly. “Yes. But I do make friends wherever I go, and that helps.”

“I hope perhaps I may one day be counted among them?” Lancelot raies and eyebrow and Merlin’s besotted.

“Easily. So you do not come from Camelot?”

“No. I was a wonderer for a long time, learning sword craft to become a knight of Camelot, one of the noblest lands I know of.”

“One of?” Merlin asked, and he’s honestly curious. He’s used to the way the knights talk about Camelot, like it is perfect, the most wonderful place to live with the most impressive king.

“The King is very noble. He has a heart for the people not all Kings can boast.”

“But?” Merlin pushes, and Lancelot smiles uneasily.

“But not all of the people of Camelot belong in the King’s heart. It is not always my desire to carry out the laws against magic users, if they’ve done no wrong. But I am always loyal to my king.” He took a sip of his mead, pulling gently on the collar of his shirt.

Merlin didn’t know what it felt like to fall in love, but he thought perhaps this might be it. Like falling and being overwhelmed, and wanting nothing more to steal away with someone who appeared perfect in every way.

“I must say I agree.” He said, and Lancelot visibly relaxed. “But like you, I have no ill will toward the King. He does what he believes to be right, and that is all any man can be asked to do.” And perhaps one day he would see that he was not right. Merlin could only hope.

“Yes. Will you be in Camelot long, after the festival?” The question is so obviously probing that Merlin feels a bit of glee at it, even as his heart sinks, because he can’t have this man. Lancelot is a knight of Camelot, and Merlin is a servant.

“I’m afraid not. I leave tonight,” Merlin smiled wanly, and Lancelot’s face mirrors him.

“There’s no possibility of your plans being changed?”

“No. I’m expected somewhere tomorrow. We’ll have to ride through the night to get there.” This is the first true lie Merlin has told all night, and it aches to say. Lancelot cares for magic users, and he’s kind, and he didn’t ask Merlin what connections he had or how he might be helpful to him. He just wanted to have a dance and talk.

He looks away and meets Gwen’s eyes, somewhere over Lancelot’s shoulders. She looks so sad, and he knows he must look the same.

“When might you be back? In Camelot, I mean?”

“I can’t say. It’s only coincidence that brought me here tonight.” This at least, is true. Merlin never could’ve come to this party if not for Gwen coincidentally finding the discarded clothing in the closer of a long disgraced nobleman. The fact that they happened to fit Merlin was also happenstance, and if not for that, he’d never be here. With an hour of Gwen’s help, she’d been able to tailor them nearly to perfect, and he was loathe to admit he looked quite good.

“That is a shame. We must enjoy tonight then.”

“Yes, we must.”

The song changed and Merlin took as delicate a bite as he could manage of his honey cake before taking Lancelot’s hand. “Teach me to dance some more, you’re fantastic at it.”

This brought a smile to Lancelot’s face. “It would be an honor, my lord.”

They take to the dance floor. This dance, whatever it is, is far more complicated than the last one, and Lancelot also stumbles through it occasionally, which makes Merlin feel just a bit better.

“We’ve nearly got it!” Merlin laughed when the music ended, and Lancelot bowed to him again. Merlin is about to ask him for another one when a tall figure suddenly approaches them.

“Mind if I cut in?” Says another knight of Camelot, this one completely disregarding the dresscode and lacking a mask. His long hair came to his shoulder and Merlin would’ve found him incredibly attractive if it weren’t for the fact Lancelot was already the center of his night.

Merlin bows goodbye to Lancelot, thinking this knight has come for his equal, he certainly wouldn’t be the only knight to do so, but then he sees the hard edge of Lancelot’s eyes and is a bit confused.

“My Lord.” The new knight says, and takes Merlin’s hand, sweeping him away from Lancelot without waiting for so much as a “by your leave.”

“I’m Sir Gwaine. You’re a pretty thing,” the knight says, and Merlin doesn’t find this compliment as positive as Lancelot’s.

“I’m sorry if I have no desire to be called an object.” He said stiffly, and Gwaine laughed.

“You’ve got nerve. Lancelot must like that.” Merlin was swept up and turned, his hands barley having time to grip Gwaine’s shoulders and stabilize himself as he was lifted into the air. “I’m sorry to intrude. Sir Lancelot is one of my dearest friends, and a bit of teasing always does him good. Can you see him?” He leaned in to whisper these last words in his ear and Merlin’s eyes start searching the floor for Lancelot.

He’s not on the dance floor, but is watching them with a deep intensity from the spot where they’d sat and ate the song before. “You’ve upset him.”

“Well, you didn’t have to accept.” The man smiled, and Merlin scowled.

“I thought you were asking for Lancelot, not me. Besides, you didn’t give me time to either accept or deny. Just carried me off like some sort of brute.”

“My apologies.” But nothing about his tone seemed apologetic. “However, when Lancelot gets his hands back on you, I think you might just thank me for my little intervention.”

Merlin’s barely following along with whatever steps, but he’s starting to fume. “What is this? Some sort of joke? Do you find that appropriate?”

“I meant no harm,” He smiled, “I swear.” They turned and for a second his eyes focused over Merlin’s shoulder and he grimaced. “But I’m afraid I may have gone too far. I’m going to get it in training tomorrow.” He focused on Merlin again to grin. “But I’m sure I’ll be able to handle it.” The song ended and Merlin just barely put up with a peck on his hand. Before he can pull away, Gwaine holds his hand tight, and Merlin freezes. “Lancelot hasn’t looked this happy for a very long time. I hope you don’t mean to dash his heart.”

Merlin is shocked at the insinuation. “I’ve only just met him. There are no hearts involved.”

“Mmm, you haven’t known Lancelot as long as I have. I assure you, there are.” He made Merlin take his arm and lead him back to the table where Lancelot was sitting. There was a blond knight standing beside him now, leaning in and murmuring something in his ear. “He falls so quick it’s a marvel he’s ever on his feet. But he’s loyal. I wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea if you mean to disappear.”

“What do you mean?” Merlin asked, stiffening, and Gwaine shrugged.

“I’ve never seen you before. Neither has anyone else I’ve asked. You’re passing through. Who’s to say how you got an invitation, but you’re not likely to return if you’re making no move to introduce yourself to everyone here. I’ve been a wanderer, I know the signs of someone who only intends to stay one night. If you’ve no intention to stay, I wish you’d leave him be.”

“It’s complicated,” Merlin said voice still tense.

“Everything is. My word stands.” They arrive at the table and Lancelot stands, pulling out Merlin’s chair for him, glaring at Gwaine.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I couldn’t get enough of our new friend. But he’s all yours now, Lancelot.”

Merlin takes a seat and is relieved for Gwaine to go. Lancelot looks him over like he’s afraid he might’ve been mauled. “Are you alright? I know Gwaine tends to be a bit… forward.”

Merlin laughed, a bit uncomfortable now after what Gwaine’d said. “I’m alright. He wasn’t too forward. Just a bit blunt.”

“Yes, he’s like that.” Merlin followed Lancelot’s gaze to Gwaine, and hoped that Lancelot did beat Gwaine on the training field tomorrow.

The honey cake he’d left is still there, and so he takes another bite. Things like this were so rarely afforded to him he had to force himself not to scarf it down. The cake was soft and crumbled easily in his mouth, giving way to a sweet, delicate flavor. The soft sigh of pleasure from the taste of it all drew Lancelot’s gaze briefly to his lips, and Merlin felt his face heat. “I don’t usually indulge.” He said, as way of explanation, and Lancelot smiled.

“I’m glad you’ve given yourself the pleasure tonight. Camelot’s kitchens are famous.”

“I can see why.” He says, taking another bite of the delicious cake.

“Perhaps they might entice you back.” Lancelot says with a hopeful look, and Merlin swallows.

“Perhaps.” He’s starting to think that maybe this is no good anymore. He’s playing with this man’s heart, pretending to be someone he is not. As much fun as this is, and much as he’s possibly developing a crushing love for Lancelot, this is wrong. They could never be, simply by the virtue of Merlin’s station.

A clock, somewhere far off, strikes and he jumpsin his seat. He checks the magic holding his mask and finds it worryingly close to breaking. He can’t let his face be seen here.

Luckily, he has a readymade excuse.

“Hell.” He murmurs, putting down the cake and being careful to use the napkin to clean his fingers. Had to keep up this act of nobility, no matter how much he’d rather lick the crumbs from his fingers. “I have to go.” He drops the napkin down and pushes his chair back, throwing Lancelot an apologetic look that is more genuine that Merlin meant it to be.

“What? It’s only midnight. Please.” He takes Merlin’s hand as he stands, stopping him from going any further.

“I have to go. My carriage will be waiting. I was suppose to be there ten minutes ago.” Merlin tugs on his hand, but Lancelot holds it, doesn’t let it go.

“Please, I can’t- It’s too soon.” His pleading hurts Merlin, but now that his anxiety has taken over, he knows it’s just a matter of time before the mask becomes a scrap of cloth and falls from his face.

“I’m sorry. I have to go.” He pulls his hand out of Lancelot’s and rushes as much as he dares to the door.

Sir Gwaine blocks his path just as he gets to the door. “Leaving so soon? Can’t I tempt you for another dance?” Merlin can’t read his face, is too worried to even think about trying.

When he looks behind him and sees Lancelot coming for them, he starts to truly panic. He can’t afford a delay.

He turns his face away from Gwaine and mutters a spell to drop a nearby server’s tray. This distracts Gwaine just long enough for Merlin to slip past him and out of the great hall.

He can hear Lancelot coming, calling after him, but he dare not look back. He mutters a second spell to slam the ballroom doors. This will serve both to slow Lancelot’s progress and hide which way Merlin goes goes.

And considering he’s going deeper into, rather than out of, the castle, it’s very important no one sees his retreat.

He slips through the halls, hearing Lancelot’s cries echo and then disappear as he goes toward the castle door, looking for him.

He’ll never find him.

Merlin swipes uselessly at his prickling eyes. He hadn’t wanted to leave Lancelot, but after what Gwaine had said, he couldn’t stay in good conscience. He swallowed hard to try and keep himself collected, and finally ducked into Gaius’ rooms, gracefully empty.

As soon as the door was closed he felt his magic break and the mask become a scrap of fabric. Camelot-red fell into his lap, and he stared at it, thinking of what might have been, and let himself cry.

[youarejesting]

hey bb💜 I got another request for you: Mafia!Yoongles, SFW, prompt: Bonnie & Clyde

Yoongi: Bonnie & Clyde SFW

Beta: @jung-hoseok-s-airplane

Word count: 3k

Warnings: paranoia, thriller, drama, terror, but soft and fluffy, and angsty. Talk of guns and multiple fight scenes, protect Yoongles at all costs.

Yoongi wasn’t the boss of a Mafia, he wasn’t even high ranking within the gang. He was just an underlying member of the outer circle. Why? All because of a stupid loan. One small sum of money he borrowed for his Tuition that has left him forever in debt.

Now he spent his days working earnestly to pay everything back, however, every year they added a ridiculous amount of interest. They did it to keep him stuck in a rut.

While working and making the payments he was able to open his dream music shop, where he taught children how to play and read music on the weekends.

Seven years passed and he was finally ready to close his accounts; he had saved up his last few thousand and the undoubtedly large interest he knew he would have to pay. They would come up with excuses like ‘account keeping fees’ or ‘providing him with insurance’ which he knew it was all part of the scam.

He would go on whatever “Jobs” the boss asked of him. Whether it was drug trafficking or to rough up some people who owed the boss money.

You had seen it all, broken noses and busted lips, remembering the first day he came home beaten with a purple swollen eye. He had tried to cover the eye with his hair, but you notice the change in his demeanor instantly.

Yoongi wasn’t a pushover, he never whined and never asked for help and it took everything to convince him to allow you to provide first aid for him. He stood in the bathroom as you provided him with medicine and tried to ease this pain and discomfort.

At his worst, Yoongi had returned home with several broken ribs, fingers and a serious shoulder injury. He refused to go to the hospital and you did your best to patch him up. His shoulder however never healed the same causing permanent damage. His face often became pained as he played the piano pinpointing the exact moment when it would start to ache. Yet he never broke and never complained.

“Yoongi, where are you going?” You asked, pulling on your sneakers ready for your ‘spin class’ at least that’s what you called it and what you told Yoongi you were doing. Looking up after securing your laces you saw him in a suit, never a good sign.

There were few occasions Yoongi wore a suit, and he had a different suit for all occasions. He had his beautiful recital suit with coat tails and bow tie your favourite. He had his wedding suit his business casual suit and then this one. It was black on black reminiscent of a funeral but you knew it was because it was easier to hide blood stains.

He was going to Mister Bang, the leader of the Gang. The uncertainty kicked in. Would he return home, if he did would he be injured?

“I am paying out my debt today” He gestured to the duffle bag with a grin. “I even have interest on top of the interest amount just in case, I am ending this today.”

His voice was firm, it baffled you how he did it, how he managed to keep his faith all this time. Always positive that this day would come. Of course, you knew and supported his plans of leaving, but he was finally doing it.

You gave him a quick kiss on the cheek wishing him luck, but he pulled you back kissing you firmly and passionately. You could feel how tense he was, there was so much weight on his shoulders.

“If something happens to me today, I just want you to know”

“I don’t want to hear it, you can tell me when you get home, I will order your favourite”

His soft smile brought with it a soft twinkle in his eyes, he seemed to be burning your image into his brain. Sharing a kiss before heading out to the gym.

When you got there you were met by Jungkook, a trainer in self-defense. Jungkook trained you to box using some elements of taekwondo to keep you strong. Jimin on Fridays taught you a series of mixed martial art styles and kept you agile.

You had spent almost all four years of your marriage with Yoongi working with these men to always be safe. It was after that first day when he came home hurt. Knowing you had to learn to protect yourself, so they could never use you against him. Never knowing what might happen to you or Yoongi.

Arriving home after your training you saw Yoongi alone in the dark nursing a whiskey bottle in his hand. Every step closer made your eyes prickle with a sad and angry emotion.

His suit was ripped and parts of him were discoloured or stained from blood and bruising.

“Baby, what happened?” You asked grabbing his face noticing the way he winced. His voice was so small and his lip shook eyes misting up.

“He took my money, he said “thank you for paying back your debt, but the only way you get out is by death” Yoongi sniffed, the tears spilling from his eyes dripping onto your hands as they held his cheeks.

It felt as if your heart was breaking at his words, never in your marriage had he shed tears like this. Sure one or two tears at your wedding, but that was it he never cried otherwise and especially not in fear.

“I said firmly that I was leaving and they beat me, when they finally stopped Bang told me to go home and when I come back I would be promoted.”

He hugged you arms wrapping around your waist and he cried against you. His body shook with uncertainty, his strength leaving him as he leaned on you. They had broken him and you weren’t going to stand for it. Pulling the bottle from him, you had a mouthful the burn in your throat and stomach much needed for what you were contemplating. Gently kissing the unbruised area of his forehead, you stepped back. “Go pack some clothes.”

“What?” He looked confused and you wanted nothing more than to tell him everything would be okay. But it was not.

“Yoongi trust me okay” His watery eyes locked on yours and he seemed to notice the fire behind them, sure he had seen the embers dimly lit whenever you saw him injured or heading out again but this was different. Two glowing orbs holding a pure and fiery strength he needed at this moment.

He watched you lift the floorboard and raised an eyebrow when you grabbed a collection of money stacks.

There were so many things you wanted to bring with you but you knew you could only take the essentials. That didn’t stop you from picking up your wedding album with shaking hands and having one last look at your happy life together. Yoongi stepped out of the bedroom room with a duffle bag in his hand, his expression turning soft.

“Bring it?” He smiled making a gesture to the book “If you want it, bring it. But I want you to know, I am here. Always, and we can have a hundred weddings if you wish.”

“We were so happy?”

“I am sorry, that’s all I ever wanted was for us to be happy and I ruined it my love”

“You could never ruin it Yoongi, you just made it more adventurous I have experienced things I never would have if I didn’t have you”

“You experiences things you shouldn’t have because of me”

Tearing out your favorite photo and slipping it into your wallet you looked around the room.

He sat in front of the brown upright piano, running his hands over the smooth and worn wood. He was saying his goodbyes before turning and taking your hand leading you out of the house immediately.

You traveled for almost two hours until you arrived at Cheongju. You both wanted to go further but it was late and you had to make a plan, driving around aimlessly wasn’t going to help.

So you stayed at a dirty motel using cash. Yoongi said it was better that way they could trace everything else.

Stepping out of the shower and laying on the bed; Yoongi was setting up a burner phone and trying to contact an old friend in his home town Daegu.

The two of you had drifted off to sleep for what seemed like an hour when there was a loud thudding on your hotel door. Sitting up and Yoongi swore, trying to reach for his gun but the door was beaten in.

“What do we have here?” One hulking man asked his gun halting your movements, he was sweaty and made you scrunch your nose in distaste. The other was thinner and taller he had a large burn on the side of his temple and you wanted nothing to do with them.

“Looks like two runaways,” this man pointed his guns at Yoongi, “Get out of bed!”

Hands in the air, you followed their orders stepping from under the warmth of the blankets. Walking cautiously to the middle of the room, Yoongi didn’t raise his hand but followed their orders, taking your hips and trying to move you behind him, you didn’t budge.

Jimin in many occasions had taught unarmed combat and how to use your body as a weapon, he also taught you how to disarm someone.

“You have to move fast. I cannot stress it enough, your small and female they won’t expect you to have the guts to do anything” he smiled “so you have the advantage, what I want you to do is take the weapon quickly and with the least trouble.”

Jimin showed you meticulously how to disarm up to three men, “any more than three and I don’t think you will come out of it unharmed”

Jungkook taught you the importance of the first strike and all the power behind it.

“You need to prove you won’t go down easily, when you strike, you strike hard and fast, don’t miss and don’t give them the chance to fight back”

They had trained you well the only problem was you had never experienced a real weapon in your face. “You made a big mistake Suga and you better realize we are leaving here with your wife, and only your wife, the boss doesn’t forgive desertion,” the gun turned on Yoongi and you couldn’t explain what came over you.

It was like someone had taken over your body, it surely couldn’t have been you. Disarming the first guy was easy and you were proud and thankful the weapon was no longer pointed at your husband. You turned fluidly from the now limp figure to throw a punch into the face of the other man, moving quickly flicking the gun out of his hand. A loud gunshot rang through the room, but it didn’t hit you so you must have done something right.

Knocking the second man unconscious, you took their weapons and turned to Yoongi. He was on the ground leaning against the bed, you raced over, “Yoongi!”

“I’m okay, it’s a graze” Yoongi laughed a disbelieving smile on his face. “You actually just kicked their asses!”

“It really is a graze love see” the wound was indeed pretty superficial so you trusted him. Collapsing into his arms crying and shaking. The adrenaline that had been causing through your body was plummeting, as the crisis was over.

“Hey it’s okay, I am so proud of you, come on we have to move” he said lifting your chin and wiping your tears. “I got somewhere we can go, grab your stuff” The two of you took precautions taking everything.

You drove while Yoongi bandaged his arm, he had gotten good at first aid, as was expected since he got injured often.

Deciding to ditch the car as the number plate was traceable you waited by a truck stop. Paying a man to ride in his truck as close to Daegu as he could.

Once inside the cabin of the vehicle you told Yoongi to sleep but he refused instead holding you to his chest and eyeing the driver. “You sleep love you had a big day”

You were woken by Yoongi who was tapping your arm, “Honey, wake up, the nice man drove us as far as he could?” You opened your eyes noticing Yoongi’s heavy Daegu accent had slipped through, he must have been angry. When you sat up you noticed Yoongi had a gun pointed at the man.

“What happened?” You asked looking between the two males.

“He tried to touch you and I wouldn’t let him,” Yoongi smiled but this wasn’t a friendly smile his eyes were full of anger. “Thank you for your help sir but we will be on our way?”

“Thank you for getting us this far, but if you even think of hurting someone, I will kill you,” you smiled and waved him off. “Yoongi we have to keep moving, it’s almost morning and we can’t have traces of ourselves on CCTV’s.

He nodded and while walking along you passed a small hairdresser, inside was a young man. You convinced him to give you a makeover. He seemed very excited to help you, “Yoongi, you are going first okay?”

“Whatever you say?” He smiled, the staff bleached his hair before dying it a mint green giving him contact lenses that were a grey color, He went off with the few male staff members who were going to dress him.

When he stepped out, it was a bit of a shock to see him in something a single twenty-year-old male would wear and not a married man in his thirties.

The owner smiled “hey don’t be nervous, Look at how handsome I am, I only make beautiful people, and you are already beautiful, so my job is easy, you know”

“Jin what are we thinking?” The woman said and he gave the woman some instruction.

She took scissors to your hair, giving you a straight-across fringe and removing several inches from your hair which you had kept long since your wedding. They gave you a blunt cut to your collarbones and began dying your hair. They had faded your hair from a caramel blonde/brown to a bright red.

There wasn’t much time to think as they did your make up and pierced your ears a few times. You looked quite youthful, putting on the clothes they provided feeling self-conscious. This wasn’t you, you felt naked, your legs were on show.

Wearing a denim skirt that stopped midthigh and a tight shirt wasn’t really something you wore at your age but Jin assures you that ‘if you act young, you will look young’. It was a strange notion, but he did look good for his age. When you stepped out Yoongi gave a small laugh. Unable to stop yourself from wondering what he might think, you shuffled your boots against the rug. “Does it look weird?”

“You look as beautiful as the day we met?” His eyes drank you up and down “Do you remember?” He opened his wallet and showed you a picture from your group mixer, “you looked not much different from right now”

“I don’t… look weird?” You said looking in the mirror and seeing the bright lipstick, you looked like you were styled by one of those idol girl groups.

“Hell no, you look like a dream, I love you no matter the style of clothing and hair colour you have. Cause you can rock them all” He smiled and thanked Jin explaining that the two of you never came in, before paying them an enormous amount of money and taking the bus to Daegu countryside.

When you arrived you were met with a tall man with golden blonde hair, he was what you expected a golden retriever to be if they were human. “What a look, you must be Yoongi’s wife” He had blue paint on his chin, the only blemish on his beautiful face, along with a matching green strip of paint through his hair and on the tip of his ear.

“Y/n, this is Taehyung,” Yoongi smiled leading you along after the charismatic young man, “an old friend.”

“I just picked up some paints, do we need anything else from town or shall we retire home?” He was walking backwards and you laughed at how happy he looked it seemed so odd how calm you felt.

Was it wrong to feel safe in this moment, your eyes darted around and the sick heavy feeling of paranoia set in. Could they see you? Were they watching? Waiting for you to let your guard down so they could strike?

Was Taehyung really on your side or had they already got to him and this was their plan. You grabbed Yoongi’s arm, “Can we really trust him what if he is leading us into a trap?”

“Trust me okay?” He said kissing your cheek and sighing. “We can’t turn on everyone without giving them a chance”

He was right but how could you not worry, this wasn’t a normal situation this was doorways some leading to freedom and others death.

It took some time, a bus, and a tractor before you finally arrived at a large farm. “Make yourself at home,” he smiled.

Three months had passed and things were going great, but you did something you shouldn’t have. You went into town that morning with a disguise and rang your parents telling them you were safe before quickly hanging up.

They were thankful to hear from you and you headed back to the farm shaking unable to stand the crowds.

For about five days you stayed awake at night trying to listen for any sign that someone was coming for you. Finally deciding that you may have just got away with it, you all were going into town for groceries.

The boys went off to look at farm supplies while you went through the shop. “Y/n?” a voice called you turned seeing a man in a suit and realized what you had just done.

His smile bloomed across his face, a sick sadistic grin. Your eyes flickering around for an escape. Slamming the trolley into his legs and elbowing him to the ground was your first move.

You tried to race passed him only to have him grab you by the ankle causing you to hit the floor. Stomping your foot into his nose until he let you go. Running down the street and into the supply store you began looking through the clothes rack for something to hide your appearance.

“What are you doing?” Yoongi asked confused as to why you were hiding in this store instead of buying groceries. One look at the fear on your face and he knew his answer, dropping the bag of birdseed Taehyung had asked him to carry. “We have been found?”

“Just me, you will be fine as long as you don’t get caught” You looked around “I just need to leave here without being seen” You looked around for another escape seeing a bloody nose man bossing around some other men point at shops to raid, Taehyung ran over. “I found these bags, the owner says we can fill it and he will weigh it and we pay what we get.

You snatched the bag and looked at Taehyung, “Put me inside and let’s go we are busted,” Taehyung looked around spotting the manager and pressed a finger to his lips as you curled up inside he picked you up in his arms, Yoongi paid the man more than he needed and the three of you left the store.

You held still, barely breathing, as Taehyung walked to the bus stop Yoongi patted the bag softly trying to calm you. Soon you heard the bus, Taehyung carried you onto the bus, they gave you the all-clear to emerge from the bag but you waited an extra few minutes for the bus to leave the town before you busted out.

“How did they find us?” Yoongi hummed and you looked down feeling guilty, that you had ruined everything.

“I made a call in town,” you hung your head and Yoongi frowned, “we will have to leave dove,” his fingers brushed your cheek soothingly.

Taehyung had gotten in contact with a man who went by the name RM for his own protection, a man who made passports while you and Yoongi were busy changing your hair again.

The passports arrived after three days. “What the hell kind of fake names are these?” Yoongi facepalmed at his friend's stupidity, “Taehyung, I asked you to take this seriously.”

Glancing over Yoongi’s shoulder at the Passports you couldn’t help but laugh. Taehyung was an old ball.

In three days you would be boarding a plane as Bonnie Lui and Henry Clyde. A newlywed couple from an urban town in Busan heading to Gwangju. Where you would be meeting a young man named Hoseok in Jungnim-dong, a penguin eccentric village.

It was that night when Taehyung got a call from the neighbour, the ringing of the phone put everyone on high alert and Yoongi and yourself spared no time getting dressed. “Hey Tae there are vehicles coming towards your house, is everything okay?”

Taehyung sighed “thanks bob, keep your back door unlocked I will be there soon”

You looked at Yoongi and grabbed everything and took off through the fields.

You got to town and onto the first bus out of Daegu, as the sun rose you looked over at Yoongi his hair was dark and he was starting to grow a bit of facial hair. He looked handsome. He took your hand fondly, running his thumb against your wedding ring.

Before he slipped it off of your finger, “you should go, I can’t keep dragging you around because of my business. “You deserve a better life”

You snatched your ring back, tears falling. “Don’t you ever remove my ring again Yoongi I vowed in front of our families that I would live and die by your side no matter what and I meant it”

“You really want a life of paranoia, looking over your shoulder and wondering who around you is holding a knife ready to stab you in the back”

“Yes.” You said determined “if it means I am spending my life with you”

You were classified as missing persons and you tried your best to not get caught on your way to the airport. Once on the plane you relaxed significantly, feeling a breath of fresh air like you had done it.

Aiming to start a new life, to settle into a home again. For as long as the Bang mafia would allow you, of course, you knew one day you would have to move and you were ready. There were days where the paranoia took over, there were days where you saw suspicious figures.

One day you even woke up to men in your house, realising they found you again. But you were ready. You were always ready. You both did things you weren’t exactly proud of but you tried to stay pure given your situation.

It was just you and Yoongi against the world and you were in it for life, he was your ride or die and you really were the Bonnie to his Clyde.

[daimonhalos]

Oathkeeper

Read on Ao3!

Word Count: 7,541

Characters: Badboyhalo, Skeppy, Antfrost, Captain Puffy, Awesamdude, (others mentioned)

Warning(s): Brainwashing/mind-control mention, violence, major character death, memory loss, yelling, crying, blood. (Tell me if I missed anything)

Summary: There was nothing more to do. They weren’t going to sit and watch any longer, it was going to end. Once and for all. ✾ « Let’s give us seven days. » Bad had stood from the table he, Ant, Puffy and Sam had been talking at. « Seven days of preparation, to get anything we need. »

A/N: Before you read, this is not exactly canon compliant. I started writing this with a goal in mind: what if I gave an end to the Blood vines arc? I started it when the arc had been left off at the Egg being covered in obsidian, so there's that, also I changed a little thing about canon lives which wouldn't make sense canonically, so be mindful. Scenes in cursive are flashbacks. ANYWHO I'll give cookies to whoever is able to spot Kingdom Hearts references, other than that, read the warnings and enjoy the angst~ (Thank you to @max-is-tired for bearing with my ideas and sending me some of theirs ♥)

✾

❝ You're scaring us and all of us,

Some of us love you.

Achilles, it's not much but there's proof. ❞

If Puffy hadn’t been walking down the wooden path in long paces, feeling every muscle in her body move as she stared at her next goal, she knew she would’ve been fidgeting all along.

The nervousness that had been building in her stomach started rising with every passing second, reaching her heart and lungs, just a moment away from a slightly increased heartbeat and breathing; today was the day, as she had been reminding herself ever since the night before.

Really, she had never been one to betray friends, or something of the like, but, after all the discussions that had been made as of late, after seeing some of her friends getting hurt in different ways … there was nothing more to do.

They weren’t going to sit and watch any longer, it was going to end.

Once and for all.

She paced down the last few steps and was met with none other than Antfrost, whose tail immediately straightened at the sight of his friend.

He waved, not as excitedly as he would have on normal days. « Sam said he will be meeting us at the Church to gear up together. »

« Okay, » she looked around, arms crossed, as if she expected anything else to happen despite the beckoning of her friend, urging them both towards the last component of their party.

« Is Bad not coming? » her confused tone said it all: he was going to have to protect himself from the brainwashing and infection of the Egg during today’s arduous task, wasn’t he?

Ant frowned at that. « I know he isn’t right now, but he’s probably just distracting Skeppy as we get there. »

« So he will get the protective suits at some point, right? »

« Huh, » she didn’t like the uncertainty in his voice. « I’m sure he has it all planned out for himself. Just a different way from our own. »

« He better be. » she commented, checking off a few points of her mental list as they made their way toward the Church.

After all, what was going to be the point of their mission if he was going to get hurt?

« Let’s give us seven days. » Bad had stood from the table he, Ant, Puffy and Sam had been talking at. « Seven days of preparation, to get anything we need. We will always make sure one of us stays with Skeppy, so he doesn’t suspect anything. »

They found Sam standing right in front of the building, nodding at both of them as they got closer.

« Get the ones on the left. » they gestured, moving towards three sets of hazmat suits. « Those are the completely untouched ones so far, we don’t want to risk losing their protective power while we’re in the middle of our adventure. » they chuckled, trying to lighten up the concerned and insecure expressions on the other two.

« Right, » Puffy tried the gear on a couple of times to make sure it would sit comfortably, before putting it away. « So, these work against the Egg’s mind control? »

« Yeah. Bad and I had put them on a couple of weeks ago before taking off some of the obsidian covering it. I … still felt some eerie vibes coming off of it, as I had before, but neither of us were affected. »

Ant perked up at that. « That’s right, I joined a while after Sam did and I was completely fine around it, so this is bound to work. »

« Well, my friends. » Puffy gave a hesitant look out of the entrance, checking whether there had been any movements other than the three of them. « I guess we’re doing this. » she turned towards them, a smug smile of confidence finally worn on her face. « You ready? »

« Here’s the plan I thought of. » Sam had looked around his peers, checking for their total attention and focus, before continuing. He gestured towards Bad. « You can distract Skeppy, meanwhile the three of us are going to break every single remaining block of the Egg once and for all. »

« How were the experiments turning out, Ant? »

« The vines and the egg itself were made of the same substance, I’m a hundred percent sure nothing will happen if we destroy it. There’s one key detail, though: we must throw it all in lava as soon as we finish collecting the blocks. »

Puffy had rested her chin on her hands, elbows on the table. « What about this “red Skeppy”? Will he turn back to normal? »

« Well … » Bad had sighed. « That is the only thing we won’t know for sure how it will turn out. But, surely, you can count on me to keep him away from where you’ll be working. »

Everyone else nodded, nothing else to add onto their plans apart from when and where to meet up and a signal to give in case everything went downhill.

He wasn’t sure whether they heard it when Bad whispered under his breath.

« I do hope we get him back, though. »

« Wait! What are you doing?! »

That had been around the third time Bad had to pull Skeppy away from his new home’s door. Some part of him was convinced the other felt some kind of connection that made him feel like there was something wrong, something off, a signal of danger that had been trying to reach him as Sam, Puffy and Ant ventured towards the Egg in fully enchanted gear.

« What did I tell you? »

« I don’t know. » Skeppy’s dull voice always managed to hit a sour spot. It didn’t feel like his friend was there at all, at times. « What did you tell me? »

Bad sighed, not in withdrawal, but knowing that it was going to be a long day.

Oh, he had no idea.

« There’s going to be an abundance of mobs out, today. I think someone’s testing out something, so they told everyone to stay inside not to get into any danger. » he tried, for probably the fourth time.

Skeppy reached for the handle again. « I can take them. »

« No, you cannot. » his friend moved away his arm before he could do anything. « We need to stay inside, okay? Who knows, there could be fifty creepers blowing up all around you. You may not take all the damage, but it would destroy everything around here. You don’t want that, do you? »

He shrugged. « I don’t really care. »

As he turned back to the door yet again, he felt Bad’s hand tugging at his shirt.

« I’d feel better if we both stayed here. » Bad tilted his head to the side. « Could you do that for me? »

They exchanged a silent look that felt more like a staring contest, before Skeppy retired back in his room.

Well, that could have gone worse than that, right?

That also … could have been going better, in general.

Why did it have to hurt so much anytime they interacted?

He was about to give up in doing anything interesting to pass up the time, already sitting in the middle of the room until it was all over, when Skeppy disrupted the silence once again; he had opened the door leading to his room with a slightly perplexed expression on his face.

« Where’s Puffy? »

Ah, of course.

« I don’t know, she’s probably taking cover somewhere else. »

« This is her home. » he stated, quite obviously.

« Yeah. » Bad conceded, pretending to be pensive. « I suppose she didn’t make it here in time for the curfew. » his friend looked somewhat troubled about that. « I’m here, though! Aren’t you happy I’m here? »

For a moment, he was sure he had seen him hesitate, yet nothing else happened other than the usual stare down, before disappearing behind the door without a word.

Maybe he had been holding onto some kind of hope that the real Skeppy was still there when he convinced himself he was going to actually agree with him.

Bad let his face fall in his hands as he exhaled deeply, trying to shake off whatever unpleasant thought loomed over him.

And really, he didn’t mean to fall asleep.

He had jolted awake, rather shaken from something in his oneiric reality he had already forgotten: he blinked multiple times, the darkness adjusting to his vision, as the memories that had become mushier in his sleeping state slowly regained their original form.

The plan. The mission was taking place. Had he already missed it? There was no way that was possible, they would’ve come check on Skeppy, they would’ve woken him up.

Skeppy. Right.

He looked to his left and stared at the opened door of his friend’s room in horror.

Right.

Not even a minute passed before he heard it.

That heart-wrenching sound, possibly as close to a banshee’s screeching, echoing through the ambience, a disastrous shatter of one’s mind transmuted as the most tremendous shrieking.

Bad hurried to his feet and ran to the entrance, checking for the direction from where the deafening cacophony had come from: and then he heard it again, again and again, until his head hurt, and he unsheathed his sword instinctively.

It was as though he could follow the aura of both rage and despair that was coming off from behind a couple of blocks.

That was where he found Skeppy, hunched over himself, hands gripping tight at his hair, visibly trembling.

Bad let go of his weapon and crouched down, about to call his name and ask what was wrong, when he could barely brush the other’s arm that he heard him lash out immediately.

« Don’t touch me! »

He watched for a second as Skeppy sat back up, panic rising in his chest over the unknown of his future actions.

Was that time for the signal? What had he even been screaming about?

Why wouldn’t he just talk to him?

« I told you it’s dangerous here! » Bad hurried at his friend’s side.

Skeppy scoffed. « Oh, is it now? » it was then that the other understood his pretense had fallen, with no one else to fool anymore. « I need to see it. »

« It- Where are you going? »

« Go away. »

It took a pretended aimless wandering and Skeppy trying to make the other lose track of himself, unanswered questions and furor bubbling up at the same time, for them to eventually reach the other party.

More than half of the obsidian layer around the Egg had already been taken off; Puffy’s eyes widened as the duo made itself present in the room. Why hadn’t the signal gone off? Why did neither of the two wear the proper gear?

It was when they heard them yell at each other that the trio hesitated to continue on their task.

« What are you doing?! » Skeppy took some steps forward, scanning the place for any damage: he could see part of the Egg had already been broken, causing his head pounding to become even more intense with fury.

He made to sprint.

« Skeppy, don’t- »

And then he turned to face his friend.

Had he ever really been his friend?

He drew his sword and pointed it at him. « You lied to me! »

« I was just trying to protect you! » Bad had raised his hands in front of his chest.

« How are you supposed to protect me, when you knew this was happening! » he turned quickly towards the Egg, pointing at it. « This is the reason I can’t trust any of you. » he surged forward, weapon steadier. « You’re just trying to get rid of me. »

In the fraction of an instant, he had hit Bad enough to make him lose balance so to gain some seconds in advantage and rush to the Egg instead, trying to fight away the others from harming it; with every single block they destroyed, the bigger was the pain he felt and the grander his rage flew.

« Bad! » Puffy called behind her as soon as she saw her friend hardly able to fight against the Egg’s will seeping into his mind. She threw her helmet at him, then wore a determined expression when she saw him question her decision.

She adjusted the pickaxe in her hand and shared a look with Ant.

He looked at his side, where Sam had been fending off Skeppy’s attacks while Bad came to aid them, then back at where her helmet used to be. « Are you sure you can handle it? »

Surely, he was surprised when he heard her chuckle and smirk, breaking blocks with even more strength than before.

« For them? Absolutely. »

In a matter of minutes, Sam was back at working on destroying the Egg, while Bad had been able to distance Skeppy from it, still incapable of making the fight stop. There were multiple sword clashes with no result, nothing other than Skeppy gearing up with full armor, while Bad still refused to protect himself with anything other than keeping Puffy’s helmet to block out any unwanted brainwashing.

« How many times do I have to tell you, » Skeppy gained some ground. « That you have to leave me alone? »

« You know I would never. » Bad blocked another attack. « Not when you’re like this. »

The other’s attacks grew more tenacious. « Like what? I am just me and it sounds to me like you’re not accepting it. »

That was the first time he saw Bad hesitate, taking advantage of the upper hand to strike an actual blow on him: he watched as he retreated a few steps behind himself, sucking in a breath from the pain, then looked back at up at him.

« You wouldn’t do this if you were “just you”. » he regained his stance, shakier than his thoughts swirling in his head in that moment.

« Well, » Skeppy switched to his axe, hitting Bad’s arm with the handle so that his sword would clatter to the floor with a clear and loud repetitious clang. « It seems like you’re mistaken. »

Sam and Puffy intercepted each other’s worried glance, while Ant refused to look behind himself: they were still too far behind with their task, if they came to aid Bad, there was a chance they were never going to make it in time.

The three of them gritted their teeth and tried their best to ignore the painful fighting.

Bad tried to steady his breathing, staring at what was left of his friend’s bitter expression, something that didn’t leave any space for who he remembered he used to be, almost nudging him towards withdrawal.

He knew putting his hands up again was useless, when Skeppy had picked up his sword and thrown it way too far for him to reach in time.

He knew it was totally futile to whisper a “Please”, one that was broken and on the verge of tears, like his voice had been fragile glass shattered down on purpose.

And it did hurt. It did hurt when Skeppy shook his head ever so lightly, his eyes narrowed, one corner of his lips curved upward. It hurt when he purposefully interpreted his request to his own advantage, a resignation instead of the last burst of strength as he were gripping at a lifesaver.

« Gladly. » he said, his voice as heavy as someone stepping on that same glass that had already been shattered.

The axe swung and everything turned black.

One down.

It was also the annoyance he wore once Bad came back in his field of vision a few seconds after he had killed him, picking up his helmet and weapons. It was the cruelty with which he didn’t hesitate to strike as heavily as before, not letting the other regain his pace, throwing him right back into their fight.

Quite frankly, Bad felt like an Icarus launching himself towards the Sun, instead of mindlessly flying delicately under it, a conscious choice that would certainly lead to his annihilation instead of a merciless death under an offended deity.

It honestly made him furious.

Why did it have to happen? Why now? Why Skeppy, of all people? Why, in every given situation around that particular circumstance, he had to be the one to suffer most out of them all?

He had always done nothing but been kind, what malevolent deities decided to look down on him and laugh at his face, curse him by taking away the most important person in the world and mock him by bringing him back, his original consciousness completely lost?

There had to be some kind of reason, and yet there was none.

It was just the Fates’ work, the twisting and twirling of his life’s string, but oh, how long before they would decide to cut it? Were they having fun, ripping it apart with their bare hands instead?

Bad could barely dodge any of Skeppy’s attacks, only getting lucky by the other’s need to win that blinded his skills to the point of seeming more out of shape than usual.

« You know what? » he suddenly snapped out of those destructive thoughts. « I don’t believe you. » he fended off the blades that were thrown at him again, seeing him falter once he started talking. « I’m not mistaken, I know who the real Skeppy is. »

For a moment, Skeppy seemed to put his weapon down.

« Do you? » he chuckled, low and dark. « You really think lying to yourself is going to make you feel better? It won't. »

Bad shoved the weapon on the rocky pavement in frustration. « Quit telling me that! I know you’re playing with my head as much as you’re playing with his, and I am sick of it! » he stepped forward, as though nothing scared him anymore. « No matter how many times you kill me, I’ll never stop trying to bring him back! »

« Then die trying! »

He took another step towards him, expression firm and determined. « If that’s what it takes, I will. »

Skeppy stared at him, taking it as a challenge. « Checkmate. » he whispered, as he stabbed him right between his ribs, no regrets as he fell to the ground to his dismay, disappearing right after.

Two.

« Stop! »

Sam and Puffy’s breaths hitched as they turned to see Antfrost approaching Skeppy.

She reached for him. « Ant- »

« Why are you hurting him?! »

« How can you say that when you’re the ones hurting me in the first place? » Skeppy placed a hand on his chest to emphasize his words.

Both looked ready to fight, words unspoken still understood.

« Ant. » Sam beckoned, putting a hand on his shoulder, trying to ground him away from his anger.

The moment Bad reappeared, the trio went back to work, although with a sour taste in their mouths, the bitterness of their impotence.

Skeppy turned to face him.

Maybe one last time.

« Aren’t you tired? »

Bad let out a short laugh. « I don’t know anything about giving up. » he announced, maneuvering the hilt of his sword swiftly.

He had eyed the others, noticing they were almost done with their job, the Egg almost completely gone. He had to buy them time, whatever it took out of him.

« Remember when we used to spar together to learn how to fight better? »

« I don’t care about the past. » surely this pretended Skeppy had always been quick to respond.

Bad smiled, despite all. Not that he had anything else to lose. « This kind of reminds me of back then. »

« Consider this a lesson, then. » Skeppy quickly raised his axe and flung it, only for it to meet Bad’s weapon, so that the collision made them both retreat of a few feet.

With every clash in their fight, yet another block of the Egg disappeared, as it was passed around and thrown into lava right after; if it had an effect on Skeppy, it surely wouldn’t have shown. Rather, it seemed liked all the indirect inflicted pain only aided in fueling the ever-growing acrimony that paired up well with his current color.

He looked like the personification of wrath itself: the closer you got, the more you could see the fire burning in his irises.

By then, it was only Bad to carry both of their aching, as he kept their memories safe in hopes of a breakthrough. How much more could he have resisted in his denial state before the realization he couldn’t have possibly made it by himself would strike him?

Or maybe … he had already given up and sunk deep into the knowledge.

Maybe that was why in a matter of seconds he was already on the ground, arms bruised by the friction with the stone, looking up at someone he now failed to recognize.

« I see you haven’t learnt a thing. »

Looking back at it, there wouldn’t have been a single way to make it painless. So maybe … maybe sitting back and letting go …

He needed to help his friends.

Was Skeppy his friend, right then?

Bad looked over to Sam, Ant and Puffy, about to head over the last remaining blocks.

So close.

« Don’t pretend like you actually care. » Skeppy scanned his expression, pointing his trident at him. « You’ve made it clear from the start. » was that his voice breaking? « One thing different about me and suddenly you were whining about wanting the “other” back. You know what? I’m done feeling like I should be replaced because of others’ liking. » he pushed the weapon towards his chest. « Which means I’m done with you. »

He couldn’t really explain it, but as the tips of the trident tore apart his skin, Bad could’ve sworn relief had filled his mind, it was as though the other had stabbed right through all of the hurt that had been pooling inside, leaving some kind of exit for it, a way out so he could finally, finally put a stop to that endless doleful sufferance.

He wished to forget any of that ever happened, he wished they could have erased the emotional scars the moment he came into the deities’ sight, he strove to get the burden off of his back so that, the next time he returned, they could’ve left him alone.

So that they couldn’t have hurt him anymore.

Yet they only teased him, they released him of his struggles, only to put him right back in the middle of the chaos, right in under the eyes of the beast, right between the harpies’ claws; he’d been Prometheus and losing everything that had mattered for him was his eagle, tearing him apart day and night until it was satisfied with the result.

A ghastly portrait of endurance, brought to an end in the worst way possible.

No one can save you now.

« You know I love you. »

What a useless little anchor, isn’t it?

« Oh, no. » Sam watched as their pickaxe disappeared in their hands. « No. » he looked over to Puffy and Ant, still working in opposite sides of the room, way too far to reach in time. Just one block, one more block. His eyes fell on Bad and Skeppy and widened in realization. « No, no, no, no- » he turned back to the last red remain of the Egg and took a deep breath, before protecting their hand with a piece of armor and trying to break it with every last piece of strength remaining in him.

Skeppy lifted his trident again, the first rivulets of blood started flowing.

« You wouldn’t have done this if you did. »

And it had looked poetic, really.

The way Sam had broken the last piece that granted their win just as the Fates decided to rip the string in little pieces, both of them burning their treasure so that neither could’ve ever come back.

And three.

« See? » Bad held up the bucket full of water towards his friend. « Wasn’t so bad, was it? »

The other kid gasped and inspected the colorful fish swimming quietly inside it as though that had been the most wonderful event he’d ever witnessed. « That was actually really, really cool. »

« Thank you! »

« Do you think we’ll be ever able to use a trident? »

Bad giggled in all his young innocence. « Who said we need one? » he pulled up his sleeves and started observing the fishes’ behavior in the lake right in front of them.

Skeppy did the same, a determined smile on his face.

They both intercepted a carp that had stopped swimming right near them.

« One. »

« Two. »

« Three! » they both launched themselves forward to catch it, only that Skeppy actually dived in, jumping into the water by mistake with a flip. The moment he resurfaced, the two newly found friends had stared at each other for a second with a blank expression, Bad had snorted right after and subsequently both had burst into the most genuine and limpid laughter.

It wasn’t until a few minutes later that they had finally calmed down, lying in the grass while gazing peacefully at the sky, a sort of comfortable boredom washing over them.

« Hey, could you imagine if, one day, we got to have our own land? » Skeppy had perked up after zoning out on clouds shapes.

« Huh, that would be nice. We could have … mh, we could have a whole mansion! »

« Yeah! And we could get some pets, we could actually be the richest people in the world! »

Bad had laughed. « I don’t hate the idea. »

Skeppy’s expression turned pensive. « What could we call it? The entire property. »

The other kid seemed to think about it for a bit, before gasping and hitting his palm with a fist. « We could call it the Badlands! »

« Wow, that sounds very self-centered. » Skeppy joked, gaining a “hey, that’s not true!” from his friend.

« Doesn’t it sound super cool, though? »

He chuckled again, resting his head behind his arms. « Yeah. » he agreed, fantasy already traveling far. « I guess you’re right. »

Skeppy wasn’t sure if the scream he heard was his or someone else’s, he was sure of one thing only, on the other hand: a white vastity. His body was burning so much that it actually felt cold, his eyes squeezed shut and everything else blocked away from his perception.

The next thing he knew, he was kneeling down over nothing.

He blinked a few times, intaking the deafening silence, as three figures walked slowly towards him, so slowly that he believed they had been dragging their feet on the pavement instead.

He looked to his right.

The sight of blood on his trident worked like a trigger.

He let the weapon fall like he had just touched a sizzling object, letting go of his pyretic madness altogether.

What have you done? What have you done? What have you done?

Where was he? Why didn’t he come back yet? Did he get lost?

He was joined soon by the others, who sat down before him.

Puffy was seemingly the only one able to talk without bursting into tears. « Skeppy …? »

« We have- » he looked at his hands and saw blue. « We have t- The red is gone, see? We have to show Bad, right? Where- »

« He died three times, Skeppy. » her voice cracked towards the end of the sentence, to which she raised a hand to cover her mouth.

No, he didn’t. Yes, he did. He didn’t, right?

He couldn’t be possibly dead. He would’ve never hurt him, not to that point.

Right?

When Ant broke down, all hope seemed to be lost, kind of like a lightning bolt striking down right on a tree and setting it on fire.

Skeppy hadn’t realized how long he had been holding his breath until he choked on a sob and felt his lungs hurt; it all came back to him, the Egg controlling him, the fight, the way he had tried to scream his way out of the hold the infection had on him, how he yelled at it not to hurt his best friend.

He looked down, exhaling sharply as the pavement got dotted with tears.

He didn’t even have anything to mourn on.

Not a single ounce left, something to hold on to so he could remember, remember, remember.

Like he could even forget what he’d just done.

How could he live with that? How could he keep on bearing the burden of such a loss? How could he look at himself and pretend nothing was wrong about him? How would others even be able to face him? His mind raced as no solution could come up.

How did heroes rise up again after the worst-case scenarios?

Everything was way too loud in their quiet aching, so loud that they did not hear steps echoing through the room.

« Oh! »

The four looked up simultaneously, ripped away from their crying: if the voice had come from afar and all of them were sitting right in front of each other, then …

They stood up at once and were met with a figure standing right at the entrance of the room, making their way towards were the egg used to be, coming closer and closer, enough to notice the utter resemblance with Bad they had.

Still … not quite.

« This place looks a little messy. » they chuckled. « I wonder why. »

And sounded like him.

« Bad …? »

He turned. « Oh, hey! What, are you guys having a party without me? » he walked over them quickly and was met only with the widest eyes.

Like they had seen a ghost.

« What- » Sam wiped at his face as the others processed the scene. « What happened to you? »

Bad tilted his head to the side and furrowed his brows. « What do you mean? »

« You … » they stared at him one second: his skin was no longer black, but white, while his outfit had been replaced with white clothing and arctic colored stripes at the edges. His eyes, on the other hand, were as dark as coal. « You just look different. »

« Oh, that? » he waved his hand as if to brush off the topic. « Yeah, that doesn’t matter. I feel great! »

« Great? » Puffy’s voice trembled a little.

« Mhm! » he looked over to his best friend and beamed. « Hey Skeppy! »

How could he face him?

Before Skeppy could say anything, he walked towards him to embrace him in a tight hug, unable to approach him in any other way.

Three tries was all it took him to realize.

Somehow, every time he tried to wrap his arms around his chest, they just seemed to go through his friend's body; was that all a fever dream?

« Oh, yeah. » Bad laughed it off. « You can't exactly hug ghosts, can you? »

The other four's breathing seemed to stall at once, all of their eyes wider than ever before. Puffy raised a hand towards Bad, uncertain. « You're … you're a ghost? »

« 'Course I am, didn't it click when you saw my new style? » how could he smile through all of this?

« Hey, uhm … what do you remember last? »

He wore the most imperceptible frown as his faulty memories tried to piece themselves back together, humming as though he had just woken out from a complete blackout. « We were hanging out, like we always do. » he started walking towards the entrance, leaving the others behind in disbelief.

He made a comment about how they had gone overboard with the decorations upon seeing the obsidian decontamination room, before motioning for them to follow him and disappearing up the stairs.

« Guys- »

« What in the fresh hell? »

« Guys he doesn't remember the Egg … he doesn't remember- »

« He doesn't remember I killed him. »

As silence fell into the room, Ant took the opportunity to excuse himself and keep Bad company, buying them some time to elaborate and process the information just obtained.

« It wasn't you who did that, Skeppy. You know that. » Puffy tried, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Yet, his expression and motives didn't seem to change. « I still blame myself. » then, barely above a whisper. « I will always blame myself. »

Sam and Puffy exchanged an apprehensive look. « Holding a grudge against yourself is not the way to work through this. It won't help you or Bad, either, it will only inconvenience both of you. »

« Exactly. You know if you hurt, he does too. »

Sam nodded. « And there is no reason for you to pin it against yourself. You cannot hold yourself accountable for something your body was being used for. »

Skeppy didn't seem convinced by that answer either, he shook his head and narrowed his eyes. « You think I don't remember fighting you? Or Ant yelling at me? »

« I assure you Ant knows that wasn't you he was talking to! He was just in emotional distress, but he doesn't hold anything against you. He was angry the Egg was making you do all that against your will. »

The three of them sat on the concrete, too emotionally and physically tired for that conversation still unloading.

Sam put a hand on his shoulder. « And I only kept it from making you erase our progress, I didn't fight you because I hated you, dude. »

Puffy had sat in front of him and bent her head to search for his eyes. « You were fighting alongside us ever since. We know this. We cannot even imagine how awful it must've been to witness everything and being impotent at the same time. »

It was when he saw her compassionate smile devoid of aggression, the way Sam's hand rubbed his upper back in comfort, it was then that he allowed himself to break down the defensive wall and let the emotions run free, as well as the tears that had welled up in his eyes minutes prior.

« You know how Bad always carefully goes over what we should do in general, how he plans things. How he's powerful and skilled, he wouldn't have let you fight him without it being a conscious choice. » Sam's voice tried to sound as soft as possible. « He's always known how to fend for himself, which means he wasn't out of control of the situation when he started losing. He knew what he was doing. »

« You didn't hurt him. He let the mind-control make you hurt him and you, too, know that is entirely different. » Puffy offered her hands out. « Okay? »

He hesitated before taking them and murmuring an “okay” back, at which the other two took the opportunity to embrace him in a comforting hug.

It surely wasn't easy to not address anything that happened for the sake of Bad's spectral integrity: who knew what would've happened if they told him the truth immediately? Would they have made his state of mind worse? What if they damaged him beyond measure and lost him for good? There was no reason for them to risk it.

Most times they made sure Bad was never alone, especially walking around before they could have removed all the remaining wandering vines or talking to people who had no clue what had happened to him.

There was one day in particular where the five of them had been hanging out together, catching up on different events throughout the weeks, as the tragedy of L'manburg, how Dream had been imprisoned, the prison duty itself that Sam had been carrying on his shoulders as well as a construction site opened with Tommy, where Puffy seldom visited.

One could've said everything was going okay, Skeppy was even letting himself heal, despite how difficult it still was to keep everything from Bad.

Eventually, the only real and effective method to shake off the guilty feelings would've been hearing him say he was free of fault.

Until then …

« You know, I've always thought your ghost form has just reversed colors from your, well, alive one. » Ant had been lying on the beach right at the feet of the mansion, still able to see the top of the prison from his position. « Yet it doesn't click how red became blue. Shouldn't it have been, like, green or something similar? » the color of healing?

« Why do you think? »

« I mean, if you put the primary colors together and you take away red, you will get green out of blue and yellow. Isn't that how it works? »

« Huh. » Puffy examined the colors as well as Bad tilted his head in confusion. « Hey, it kinda looks like Skeppy's skin color, actually. »

« Oh. » Skeppy stretched out his arms to compare the two very similar tones.

Sam nodded. « Oh, they do look very much alike. »

« Right? »

« That's weird. »

« Maybe it's because Alive-me liked Skeppy so much that it affected me as well! » Bad laughed it off and pretended he didn't see his best friend flinch visibly right beside him.

Ant bit the inside of his mouth as he exchanged a concerned look with Puffy. « Oh Sam, didn't you let someone into the prison for visits already? How did it go? »

« Ah, technically there was a small difficulty with the lava, but one can never be too sure of how much you need around the actual cage with genius hazards like Dream. » they sighed. « But it did work splendidly, both for the visitor and the- »

« Could you guys leave us alone for a second? » Skeppy stared at Puffy, Ant and Sam with a trembling determination and, as much as the trio did not want to leave them alone to have that one particular conversation, they couldn't decide for him and chose instead to leave them some space for themselves.

« Is everything okay? »

Bad's concern, somehow, made him feel even worse. Yet, he had to just rip it off his mind like a band-aid.

He looked him in the eyes and, just like that …

« I was the one who killed you. »

… he did it.

And he couldn't stop. Not one second to look at Bad's expression, to look at the happy-go-lucky mask fall, the one he had been wearing up until that moment ever since he had walked down the decontamination room's stairs, the moment he had promised himself he would've wiped his own memories forcefully if he had to do so. If that was going to stop the hurt, he would've pretended.

« I took all of your three lives, all of them. I tried to just stop, but I swear to you it wasn't me, I wasn't in my right mind- »

« Skeppy. » Bad's voice sounded firm, but not enough to stop the other from spilling out words and confessions he had veiled behind shame.

« I couldn't seem to act on my own free will not matter how much I tried, how much I tried to scream, but the voice in my head, the one controlling me, it was so much louder, way too much, and my brain decided to follow it instead of me- »

« Hey. »

« And it hurt, it hurt so bad, you have no idea. I never gave up, I was- I was just never strong enough and I'm sorry because I know you would've probably expected better of me, especially as your best friend, but maybe I'm not fit for it, maybe- maybe I should just- »

« Skeppy, listen to me. It's okay. »

« How is any of that okay? What if I do it again? »

Bad took a deep breath and joined his hands together. « It's okay because I know. I already know what happened. »

Skeppy narrowed his eyes and blinked multiple times before he was able to speak again. « What? »

« I didn't forget a single thing, Skeppy. » his tone grew more exasperated, he then held his head in his hands. « No matter how I pushed the thoughts away, before and after dying, every single detail of everything that happened while I was alive remained engraved in my memory like a curse I had been trying to get rid of for centuries. » he wore a sad smile as he looked back at his friend. « It's like they keep mocking me even in death. »

« You … you lied to us? »

He shook his head, fixing his gaze on the sand instead. « I didn't lie to you. I lied to myself. » he explained. « I tried, you know? I tried to forget so I could feel better, so that all of you could also get a burden off your chests and never think about that topic again. But I failed, of course I failed. »

Seeing the persistent ache in him, Skeppy couldn't really hold it against him for trying so hard to make it all better in the wrong way. Rather, he was reminded of Sam and Puffy's words.

« Bad, one of your fatal flaws is that you tend to go through deep denial states. But you know that repression isn't good right? It's not the way to get through a bad time and nor is holding a grudge against yourself. » he played with the sand next to him. « That's something I was probably going to do if they didn't stop me. I still don't feel good about it, I probably won't be for a while. But if I were to apply what you're doing to yourself, I would just drive myself insane. And you, as well. I know you don't want to do this as much as I don't want to take you down with me in a negative spiral that would only drive us apart. »

There was a moment of silence as Bad intook all of that. « I guess … I guess you're right on that. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, I really thought it was the best idea. »

« It's fine, it's not like I wouldn't have tried for the wrong choices either. » a beat, and then. « Wait, how do you not hate me right now? »

« Hate you? How could I, I am happy that we got rid of that monstrous thing. Plus, it's not like we can't hang out like before, right? Here we are having a beach party with all of our friends- »

Skeppy shook his head in exasperation, still wearing a small smile on his face. « This isn't a beach party, Bad. »

« We're having a beach party and there is nothing you can do about it. »

« Oh my god. »

Hearing laughter coming from them, the others decided to join back and were filled in on the situation.

And, of course, they carried on with their beach party.

That was the first night they could spend in peace.

Well, almost.

Skeppy had paced down a blackstone flooring in the heart of the night, his steps echoing through the massive construction.

He was met with familiar eyes staring him down behind a creeper mask. « Are you sure you want to do this? »

Skeppy said nothing and stared at the lava under the bridge before him before he started crossing it; after the bridge retracted, he was let in the cell in the middle of that incandescent pool.

He looked straight ahead of himself, a serious determination in his eyes.

« Hello. » he said, eyeing the silhouette of a man sitting miserably at the back of the cell. « Long time no see, Dream. »

❝ Hurt and grieve, but don't suffer alone.

Engage with the pain as a motive.

Today of all days, see:

How the most dangerous thing is to love.

How you will heal, and you'll rise above. ❞

[belladxne]

i will see you where the shadow ends | chapter 5

[see notes for ao3 and ff links]

part of the put your faith in the light that you cannot see series AU: Breath of the Wild pairing: KiriBaku word count: 6,400

chapter 5: i will hold on hope, and i won’t let you choke on the noose around your neck

Eijiro wakes the next morning to Inko having laid out two simple white shirts and a pair of trousers for him—he can tell as soon as he runs his fingers over the shirts that unlike what he’s wearing now, they’re made of soft and comfortable material. It feels sturdier, too, but that may just be because anything’s bound to feel sturdier than clothes left to rot for a hundred years. Beside them are a padded doublet, clearly designed for warmth, and a pair of thick gloves.

He looks up to see Inko humming as she merrily gathers food for breakfast—eggs and rice. He’s relieved to see she looks none the worse for the wear after losing out on her bed for the night.

“Where did you get these?” he asks, curiously. It’s… not exactly like there are any merchants or tailors able to get up onto the plateau. Inko hums, distracted, before she glances up and seems to remember what he’s talking about, and a bright smile crosses her face.

“They’re old. They were all too big for me, so I took some time last night to tailor the shirts and trousers to something I thought might fit you better.”

“Oh,” he says, looking down at them. He’s focusing real hard on not having a repeat of yesterday—he’s so immensely thankful, but he’s gonna try not to get emotional about it. Well, too emotional about it. Well, okay, he’s already really emotional about it, but he can at least try to not get choked up. “I—thank, you, so much, I really don’t know how I can—”

“If I hear another word about repayment out of you,” she scolds teasingly, but Eijiro can tell she doesn’t have any sort of threat to actually finish the sentence. Still, he gets the message, laughing softly.

“Okay, okay,” he relents, “I just—I really do appreciate it.”

She knows, of course. He’s just glad he’s said it enough to make it clear.

After they finish the omurice Inko’s made, the two of them both get ready for the day. Eijiro’s got a few plans, but his main priority is finding somewhere private and getting this scratchy hell shirt off of himself.

As Inko’s tugging on her boots, she makes a face, more confused than bothered. She pulls the offending boot back off, turning it upside down and giving it a shake, and a familiar-looking seed comes clattering out onto the stone floor. Inko doesn’t pay it any mind, but Eijiro blinks.

“Is that a Korok seed?” he asks, thinking of the five he's collected so far. He hasn’t seen any seeds just loose before—they’ve all come directly from the hands of a tiny forest spirit, delighted to have been found in their odd little hiding spot.

“Hm?” Her tone is distracted, but when she follows his gaze realization crosses her face. “Oh, yes.”

“You see them?” He’d thought—the first Korok he’d met seemed so surprised when he’d seen him. Eijiro thought most people couldn’t…?

“Oh, no, not very often,” Inko replies as she pulls on her other boot and stands, straightening her clothes out. “I think they have more fun playing their games and causing mischief if they keep themselves hidden. But they do seem to like me an awful lot; they’re always leaving me funny little gifts. The seeds only started about a week ago. Why, would you like it?”

Huh. She talks so casually about it, like she has no idea how out of the ordinary it is. Of course, he thinks if he were a Korok, he’d probably think Inko was great, too, but still. It’s a little odd, but it doesn’t take much of his focus as they both carry on with their day. He’s in too much of a rush to find someplace to change to dwell on it.

The verdict when Eijiro does find a more secluded area and get into the new clothes is oh, thank the gods, this is so much better, holy shit. His pants actually reach his ankles. The plain, undyed shirts she’s given him are probably better suited to being undershirts, worn under a tunic or something, but they’re so much better than something itchy and falling apart at the seams.

He might burn the old one, honestly. Or he guesses he could keep it as a rag. Cutting it up could be cathartic.

With that out of the way, Inko had suggested he try fishing, and he at least wants to make sure he leaves her something to have for lunch before he spends all day hiking up cliffs and mountains and undertaking trials. He knows Inko has banned all talk of paying her back, but he figures this is the easiest and sneakiest way to make sure she gets something for her troubles.

He’s just a little proud of how crafty he feels, concocting this plan.

Eijiro finds himself aware of three different facts by the time he’s returning to Inko’s house with two freshly-caught Hyrule bass in hand, and he’s not sure how many of them should have already been obvious.

One—Koroks really are absolutely, ridiculously everywhere. He accidentally found one in the water while he was fishing, and there’s even one hiding out on top of Inko’s house. She must not have been wrong when she said they liked her. He’s genuinely not sure how it took him so long to start running into them yesterday, because it feels like he’s stumbling into one every other step now.

Two—the longer he spends around the plateau, the more he’s forced to realize… there’s something odd about Inko. Like, really odd.

For one, she’s everywhere. Almost every time he’s turned around on this plateau since yesterday, she’s been there. Every time he’s been anywhere near the campfire outside the Shrine of Resurrection, she’s been at the campfire. Every time he’s been anywhere near her house, she’s at her house. When he raised the tower, suddenly she was at the tower. When he did his first shrine trial, she was at the shrine. She pops out of nowhere sometimes, and more than once he’s thought she moved awfully quick for her age.

Then there’s the odd amount of information she knows—and that’s just including what she’s told him. She’d said she didn’t know much about Sheikah buildings, but she’d seemed to know that his slate had been what activated the tower—and then she’d pulled out all sorts of information on his slate, too. And fast travel! She’d also been able to tell him the shrine only started glowing at the same moment the tower had risen, but she’d come from the opposite direction of the shrine.

And there was the day before, too… she’d been so frazzled as soon as he was going to the shrine surrounded by the old machines, and just as much so afterwards. Like she’d known what he was going to run into—why else would she be so scared for him with that shrine, but not the other?

He thinks maybe he’s just being paranoid, like when he’d jumped to the conclusion that he’s dead, or been fully convinced he’d gotten possessed, but he can’t shake the feeling that there might just be more to Inko than she’s admitting. It’s not like it matters, though—he can’t mistrust her, even if it is true. She’s done too much to help for him to ever be able to believe she could be untrustworthy.

And three—his little scheme to repay Inko right under her nose was doomed from the start.

He was going to just leave her the fish and go forage something for himself that he won’t have to cook to take up the mountain, but the second he offers her the fish, she puts him to work. She’s not letting him go up the peaks at the southern end of the plateau unprepared, she informs him very adamantly, and so instead she takes the next hour and then some to walk him through the recipe and cooking processes of several more dishes.

She tells him all about how when spicy peppers are cooked right, they make the body run warmer—and makes sure he sees how she does it when she cooks them into a meat and seafood fry with the last of the fox meat from last night, and an abundance of seafood rice balls. She wraps them all carefully in parcels made of paper, to keep them until he needs to eat them.

He’s a little afraid his mouth won’t survive the dishes, with all those peppers cooked in, but she swears that between them and the warm doublet and gloves she’d given him, he’ll be comfortable for as long as he has to spend on the snow-covered cliffs. He’s grateful, but he’s also been foiled as she uses all of the food that he’d meant for her to help him.

He’s going to do something nice for her to make up for this all, he’s really going to. Eventually he’ll find an act of kindness she can’t counter!

As much as he wishes he’d been able to get away with his little plot, he’s barely five minutes up the path behind the Temple of Time before he’s so glad for the spicy dishes. The padded doublet she’d given him didn’t cover his arms, but he thought he’d been smart about accounting for that—as much at it had pained him, he’d put his first, awful, itchy shirt back on and then layered both of his new shirts over it.

Unfortunately, the layers only did so much, and he could feel the wind whipping through them and biting at his arms. But Inko had had his back—so he’d pulled out the meat and seafood fry, torn the paper back, and gone to town on the meal as he walked along the riverbank.

Yes, his mouth was absolutely on fire like he’d feared, and he might be crying, like, just a little bit, but he’s sweating within minutes. He’d be kept warm as long as he hurried and was smart about rationing the food, exactly as she’s promised. If that came at the expense of looking ridiculous as he walked along with his mouth wide open in hopes the frigid air would soothe his burning mouth, then so be it.

When he reaches the bridge he’d seen on the map, he has a problem. He hadn’t noticed that the bridge is collapsed—the supports are all still there, but most of the planks on his side of the river have fallen through. He spends just enough time despairing over the prospect of having to go all the way back to try and go around the river the other way to feel frustration welling up intensely, but then, of course, he remembers.

He can fucking do magic now. He had to walk past the giant, ruined metal doors of a collapsed gate just beside this bridge to even inspect the damage—after the hour and a half he’d spent puzzling out every potential creative usage of the magnesis rune in the shrine yesterday, he can’t believe it takes him as long as five minutes to think of laying the two massive doors over the gaps in the bridge.

It’s not the neatest job, or the most stable, but it gets him across safely enough. He does allow himself to be a little proud of his problem solving.

He’s all over the southern side of the plateau for the next few hours. The worst of his difficulties are over after the bridge, and the path to both shrines are mostly straightforward apart from a couple of surprise Koroks—seriously, even in the cold, high altitudes? They’re forest spirits, where’s the forest here?—and a handful of monster camps.

At Keh Namut Shrine, Eijiro spends over an hour figuring out all the applications of the cryonis rune—which allows him to make solid pillars of ice erupt out of any source of water. Even if his water source is shallow, barely ankle-deep, the pillars are always at least eight feet tall, and the great blocks of ice will even erupt sideways out of waterfalls. This… he thinks this one might be the most useful yet.

He can use it for a vantage point, for cover, to get to things out of his reach, to lift things out of the water, as stepping stones or bridges… and, if Inko’s idea to get him off the plateau doesn’t work, he might just be able to use it to hop down the waterfall that spills off the plateau, pillar by pillar.

He finally feels like he’s made tangible progress.

Owa Daim Shrine, across the plateau, isn’t so simple to reach. He’s left with only one spicy seafood rice ball by the time he’s painstakingly scaling down to where the shrine rests, halfway up the cliffside, but he’s relieved at least that the temperature becomes more bearable on its own the lower he goes. He can save the rice ball for the return trip and move quickly.

Inside the shrine, the pattern holds, and he’s gifted another rune: the stasis rune. The description the slate gives him of this rune takes longer for him to puzzle out than the others—it uses phrases like ‘storing kinetic energy’ and ‘stopping an object in time’, the first phrase confusing him for lack of surety at its meaning, the second confusing him for lack of ability to visualize its possibility.

Thankfully, the trial the shrine offers, just like the others, is nothing if not a perfect set of puzzles to allow him to figure it out. The rune has a wide range of uses—securing safe passageways from moving or unstable objects, halting oncoming projectiles and other dangers, and making temporarily immovable obstacles for others to traverse, to name the ones he grasps quickest.

The most important use, however, is the one where the stored energy comes into play—it takes him a little to work it out, but once he does, he’s able to send even the most giant of obstacles flying out of his path. And to use them as projectiles. Even large, heavy stones can be moved by something as insignificant as arrows shot from a distance, as long as he hits it with enough of them for the force to compound. It’s awesome, and it gives him the same giddy delight that the magnesis rune had.

When the last of the monks hidden away in the shrines on this plateau fades to nothing, Eijiro can’t really deny that this spirit thing they keep doing to him is really getting to him. He might not be possessed, sure, but the bizarre feeling that’s overtaken him after each ‘gift’ has only gotten stronger with each instance, and it’s not fading.

There’s—something, he’s not sure, an energy maybe, that feels like it’s thrumming under his skin and the sensation is so unsettling. It’s supposed to be the strength of their spirits, or whatever they’d said, but he doesn’t feel stronger, necessarily, just—just—just very noticeably affected!

He can feel whatever it is and it’s distracting. He’s not sure how it’s supposed to help him.

It’s late afternoon by the time Eijiro emerges from the entrance to the shrine, and he’s confronted with the obvious evidence that his most worrisome of theories is true. Inko is not a normal old woman; can’t be.

She can’t be, because there she stands, on the wide ledge that houses Owa Daim Shrine, and there’s just no way a simple old woman could be here. There’s no possible explanation for it. She’d either have had to cross a wide chasm behind her house and then scale the cliffside up to reach him, or hiked the unforgiving eastern slopes of the plateau and then scaled the cliffside down. Neither is a reasonable task for a woman of her age.

So—so there it is, then. He knows now. There’s something odd about Inko, something she’s been keeping from him about her nature. He’s obviously not so surprised as he could be, but it’s still—it’s still—hard to process that the woman who’s helped him so much has been lying to him. All he can manage is a quiet, “Oh.”

“Hello, Eijiro,” she greets him, but her heart is clearly not entirely in it. There’s something in her tone—she obviously knows as well as he does that this marks the end of—of whatever simple and easy experience they’ve been having together so far. A change is coming whether she chooses to explain what she’s been hiding or not, and they both understand that.

“So, you’ve finally explored all the plateau’s shrines,” she notes, a gentle and rueful smile just barely touching at her features. Eijiro can only nod as he shuffles his feet, watching her with equal parts expectation and dread. “You worked hard to reach them all. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” he manages, tone barely audible.

Inko sighs. “That means it’s time, I think, to finally give you an explanation. I can’t keep shielding you from the worst of it forever, and I think you’ve more than earned the right to hear… well, everything.”

Eijiro doesn’t know how to respond, there’s too much going through his mind—he opens his mouth to say—to ask—something, anything to grant him some clarification, but the words get caught in his throat. He stands there with his mouth opened somewhat helplessly, but it seems Inko wasn’t intending to wait for a response.

“Meet me at the temple of time,” she requests gently. “I’ll be waiting for you there, and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“Why—” There’s so many questions he needs to ask that all start with that word, that they all tumble over each other before he can sort them out, but the most pressing of them is, of course, why can’t you explain it here? He wants to ask, but Inko smiles apologetically, and she—

—she just fades.

It startles him, when he suddenly realizes that he can see through her, just a little bit—and then just a little bit more, and then all at once he almost yelps as she starts to glow and eerie flames spring up around her. It’s not like watching the monks turn into motes of light that disperse up and away; she stays in one piece, but the light emanating off of her and the color of the flames hovering near to her are the same otherworldly blue-green glow.

Shaken, Eijiro stares blankly at the spot where she disappears for a few moments after she’s gone, before slowly he sinks down to sit on the surface of the shrine. It’s only a minute, that’s all he needs, but—but he closes his eyes and uses all of that minute to try and process, and work through as much of what he’s seen since awakening as he can.

The temple somehow seems more daunting when he emerges onto the path that leads from it, rubbing at his arms.

He takes a steadying breath, eyeing the decayed machines that dot the front of the structure around its entrance, and then shifts his gaze to the side of the building instead. On the side facing him, one of the massive, soaring windows that reach the entire height of the temple is empty—both of glass and the metal bars that make up the decoration and frame of the other windows.

The temple is huge, so with the window being one of the ones nearest to the back of the structure, it’s a good distance away from the closest machine. And Inko hadn’t said he had to come in the front door of the structure, so—he doesn’t feel any shame in beelining towards the window, hoisting himself up, and toppling with at least some amount of grace into the sweeping structure.

The space is incredibly open—not just due to the high, vaulted ceiling or the lack of walls in the giant structure, but because a massive hole has been ripped out of almost the entire front half of the opposite side of the building. He only barely notices that, though, because the feature that claims his attention—nearly all of it—

—is a stylized, towering winged statue of Bakusatsuo that dominates the space. It’s stationed to his right, against the back wall of the temple, and it must be fifteen feet tall, at least. And it’s glowing. Faint, iridescent light seems to be shining straight up from the bottom and Eijiro just… is drawn to it.

He hasn’t even looked around for Inko yet, but his feet carry him towards the figure without him really having to think about it. It’s a crude and simple likeness of the god in the way all the shrines to him across the country are, not proportioned in such a way as to actually resemble a real being, and the statue’s hands are spread out to its sides, palms up. The expression isn’t incredibly detailed, but Eijiro thinks most people would see it as calm, if not quite serene. But Eijiro—he swears its eyes follow him as he approaches, and he would swear the look carved into its face was almost tender.

He climbs the steps that lead up to the statue and instinctively drops to one knee before it, though he doesn’t bow his head in prayer. He keeps his eyes upturned to meet the figure’s gaze as the faint light at its feet seems to flare, almost like it’s reaching for him, and Eijiro swears he feels something like fondness radiating off of the statue, towards him.

You’ve done well, comes a faint whisper at the edge of his mind, and it—it sounds so much like the voice in Hyrule Castle. It’s so similar but—but it’s not quite the same, and Eijiro feels his jaw drop.

A warmth settles over him that somehow feels like the voice sounds, and that bizarre energy he’s felt humming under his skin finally dissipates. It’s not exactly like it goes away, more like it—like it finally settles, almost. It feels like the strange force that’s been lingering there finally seeps into him fully, and finally feels like it’s part of him. He realizes, when it finally happens, that he does feel stronger. Heartier, like Inko had said. Some of the aches and soreness that have built up in the past couple of days fade, just a little, as he stares at the statue in awe.

Go, and bring peace to Hyrule…

Like that, the glowing fades, and Eijiro almost feels like he imagined it all. That’s… he’s pretty sure Bakusatsuo just spoke to him. The god. The patron god of Hyrule. Beloved of the Three Goddesses and protector of the entire realm, and he’d spoken to Eijiro. With clear affection in his tone. It’s… unreal.

“Eijiro!” Inko’s voice hails him, startling him out of his moment of shock. He stands, the motion stiff with his distraction, and it takes him a few moments to locate her once he’s turned around. Of all the places to spot her, it turns out she’s peering down at him through the gaping hole in the partially collapsed roof.

“You’ll have to meet me up here, I’m afraid,” she calls down to him, before both her luminous figure and the tongues of blue-green fire that hover around her retreat out of his sight.

Eijiro stares at the spot he’d last seen her and he gives a shaky sigh. He doesn’t know what’s coming, but he wants to, very badly. So he’s going to find out.

There’s a ladder that runs the height of the building.

Even though it stands just beside the collapsed temple wall—on the far end from the machines, thankfully—it remains intact. Stable, even, though he figures out about a third of the way up that he needs to let his dragonscales overtake his hands if he doesn’t want to get splinters.

Inko is visible immediately from across the definitely unsound and precarious roof, waiting in the tower of the steeple at the front of the temple, still emitting that eerie light.

Balancing his way across the peak of the roof, he pulls himself up the rubble into the steeple to meet her, and despite having all this time to figure out where to begin, he’s—he’s still at a loss for words. Inko seems nearly as unsure how to start as he is—or simply reluctant. Either way, she heaves a mild sigh and attempts a sad smile.

“You’ve done so well since waking up, Kirishima Eijiro. I hope you know that,” she says, voice emphatic if a little quiet and somber. He startles at the full name—it’s—he hadn’t even given thought to whether Eijiro was his given or family name, let alone what the rest of his name might be. He’s had so much else on his mind. And this whole time—this whole time, Inko has known it? And not said anything?

“You don’t know me,” she continues with her eyes downcast. “At least—not very well, my son only brought you around a few times, and we never really spoke. But my name is Midoriya Inko. You should know, Eijiro—I know I’ve told you some, but the kingdom is not like it was when you entered your slumber. The Kingdom of Hyrule… it doesn’t exist anymore.”

Eijiro swallows, but he nods when her eyes flick up to gauge his reaction. The ruins everywhere—the monstrosity enshrouding the castle—the scarcity in meeting or even seeing other people—it all points to the same conclusion. He doesn’t remember much—anything, really. He can’t say if he’s ever been to any of the ruins that dot the landscape as far as the eye can see, can’t say if he ever knew anyone that lived in any of them—but he can say that he knows, knows deeply and inherently the wrongness of it all, to see or even think about.

The kingdom, or lack of it, isn’t how he’d remember if he could, and he knows that.

As Inko speaks, a transformation seems to come over her—she looks the same, and yet, there appears another version of her like a second image overlaid atop. Decades younger, maybe only forty or so.

“The Great Calamity was merciless when it swept out over the kingdom. There was nothing in its path that it didn’t devastate a century ago. I was one of the few who were lucky—the Sheikah village was remote and hard to reach, and well out of the Calamity’s focus. I lived a long, full life after it was said and done, but I couldn’t bring myself to move on, because… well, I’m getting ahead of myself.”

Inko heaves a sigh once more, and the look she gives Eijiro is apologetic. “There’s a lot I haven’t told you, but you have to understand. What you’ve been through—it was awful, Eijiro, and it would traumatize anyone. It would have been unfair and dangerous to overwhelm you with too much horrible news so soon after you woke, with your memory still fragile. I’m sorry.”

“I...” Eijiro manages, but his voice is weak. Overwhelmed is exactly the word for it, so he understands, but he only has more questions because of the time spent keeping things from him. He just wants to know already. “It’s… it’s okay.”

“Such a sweet boy,” she echoes the sentiment she’d told him last night quietly, before seeming to steel herself as she turns away to face the view of the castle through the steeple’s window. “But you’re ready, now, I think, to hear what happened one hundred years ago. All for One… that horrible monstrosity we can see from here—the stories said that long ago, that demon king was born into this kingdom, before he transformed into… into that.”

“I… I remember the legends, I think,” Eijiro tells her honestly. “That… that he’d barely been more than a fairy tale, a scary story people told, but—but didn’t really believe until… more recently.”

It’s so frustrating, what he does remember and where the blanks are instead. He remembers the tales, remembers that there’d been a shift from them being treated as fiction to being treated as an impending reality, but he doesn’t remember when or why.

Inko, for her part, nods, and seems to pick up on his frustration. “There was a prophecy,” she informs him, “Maybe twenty years or so before the Calamity came to pass. We knew it would be coming back, but the prophecy also promised a way to stop it, lying dormant beneath the ground. The Sheikah, the royal family—the entire kingdom came together, to try and find the aid the prophecy mentioned, and they were quick to find several ancient relics made by the hands of our distant ancestors.”

“The Divine Beasts,” Eijiro supplies, though his tone isn’t certain. But—but he knows this information, he thinks.

“Yes. Four giant machines, to be piloted by warriors,” she says, affirming the information that he thinks he has in his mind. “And, later, we discovered creations our research eventually taught us were called Guardians.”

The lifeless robots, decaying and overgrown with nature, which dot the plateau flash into his mind as his breath catches and his fists clench. As soon as she says the name, he’s sure of it.

“They were meant to be an army of mechanical soldiers, that fought autonomously to aid us. We realized—in the ancient legends we’d heard echoed so often, many of them told of these machines. That meant all of the legends—the prince with a sacred power, and his appointed knight who was chosen by the Sword that Seals the Darkness, who were the only ones who could truly seal All for One away with the aid of the relics we were discovering—all of it must be true.”

Yes, he knows those legends. Everyone knows those legends—there were far more of them than simply the ones centered around these ancient creations.

“One hundred years ago, there was a prince who would come to wield that power,” Inko continues, before she turns her head to meet Eijiro’s eyes, “and a skilled knight who fought at his side. The path laid before us was obvious, even without the prophecy. There were too many legends that echoed it all. So four Champions were chosen from across the kingdom to pilot the Divine Beasts, and together with the prince and his appointed knight, we were so sure we would be able to turn back All for One’s assault the moment it began. We had—we had all the pieces in place, after all.”

With that, Inko’s voice suddenly breaks. She turns away from Eijiro once more, with her hands pressed to her eyes. “We didn’t know—we couldn’t have—we never realized, All for One had spent all of those thousands of years plotting to—we never imagined it would appear from below Hyrule Castle itself, or take control of the Guardians and Divine Beasts. All that time spent restoring the machines to—to protect, and—”

Eijiro’s heart breaks with how devastated she sounds, and he stumbles forwards a few steps, reaching out a hand to—to—he doesn’t know, but he just wants to help. He wants to fix this, though he knows there’s no changing what’s already happened. He doesn’t remember any of this, but it hurts to hear, hurts to imagine.

“The Champions were killed, so many in the castle, in nearly every town nearby—and the appointed knight nearly lost his life in protection of the prince. He almost didn’t survive his wounds, he was in no shape to continue the fight. If the prince hadn’t survived, and returned to the castle with—with another chosen of Farore—if they hadn’t gone to fight the beast, alone, there would have been no hope for those who survived.”

Taking a shuddering breath, Inko chokes off the beginning of a sob, and Eijiro stumbles the last few steps forward to place a hand on her shoulder. It’s little comfort after everything, but she sags with the gesture.

“Eijiro, that other chosen of Farore… he’s my baby, my Izuku, and he’s risking his life to help Prince Katsuki hold All for One off. And the courageous knight, the one who kept Prince Katsuki safe until the very end, so that he could make it there at all…. Oh, Eijiro, honey, it was you. You were so brave, you did—you did so well, but even you couldn’t endure such an onslaught.”

Despite the tears still flowing freely down her face—and, shit, he realizes now that his own cheeks are wet, though he doesn’t remember any of this—she lays her hand over his on her shoulder, and the gesture somehow feels comforting even though he was the one trying to comfort her.

“You were carried here, to the Shrine of Resurrection, and spent one hundred years healing. I couldn’t rest with my Izuku still trapped in the castle, and I couldn’t bear to think of you awakening here alone, with no one to turn to, so my spirit settled here naturally when I died. I’ve been looking after you as best I can. And… and the voice you’ve been hearing, guiding you since you woke, that’s Prince Katsuki himself.”

Eijiro’s eyes pull from her face, and he finds himself looking out towards the castle with a feeling of desperation. Katsuki. That’s the name he can put to the voice. Katsuki, fighting with Izuku. Katsuki, who asked for his help.

“He’s still there, with my baby, fighting to restrain the Calamity, and—oh, Eijiro, honey, you’re so young to ask this of you, all three of you boys, you’re all so young—but they won’t be able to hold out for much longer before they’re going to need you. You’re—you’re the only one who can help them stop the Calamity from consuming all life left in the land. It’s so unfair to ask this of you, I—I can hardly bear to, but please save my son. Please bring my Izuku home, and destroy All for One before it can destroy anything else.”

Clearing his throat and swallowing roughly, Eijiro manages, “I will. I’ll—I’ll do it.”

This only makes Inko cry harder. “You shouldn’t have to. I’m so sorry.” She turns and embraces him suddenly, and the feeling now that she’s revealed her nature as a spirit is odd. Somehow warm and cold at the same time, but it doesn’t matter—he wraps his arms around her tightly. When she speaks again, her voice is muffled against the doublet she’d given him.

“You can’t go to the castle yet. Even Prince Katsuki wouldn’t expect that of you. There are things you still need to know, and—and All for One still has control of the Divine Beasts, and all of the Guardians. Please, please promise me you won’t make straight for the castle.”

“But...” Eijiro’s voice is still wobbly, and his hands are still too occupied to try wiping at his eyes. “I have to help them. Where else...”

Inko pulls back as he trails off, and she does her best to draw to her full height and look stern through a faceful of openly flowing tears. “You won’t be helping them or anyone else by charging off towards certain death before you’re fully recovered from your slumber. You should make for Kakariko Village, down the eastern road that cuts between the Dueling Peaks. The young man who leads the Sheikah, Aizawa, was an advisor to the Prince, and he’ll be able to give you counsel on the best steps for you to take. You’ll want to speak to him.”

Eijiro’s brow furrows, and he casts a look at the castle. Katsuki needs him, had asked him to hurry. “How long do I have? Before they run out of time in the castle? Do you know?”

“Long enough,” Inko says firmly, though the effect is somewhat undermined by the sniffle that follows. “Prince Katsuki would expect you to be smart about this, and he would know that will take time. Meet with Aizawa.”

Every fiber of his being wants to charge off, but… as painful as it is to promise, he tears his gaze from the castle to meet Inko’s eyes, and nods numbly. “Okay. I will.”

Relief floods Inko’s features. “Thank you. And you—you’ll need these.” She turns, then, to grab something he hadn’t noticed before; a pack that’s considerably less aged than his current one, with lots of different compartments. Flapping one such compartment open, she withdraws what she’d been seeming to work on the night before, and holds it out to him.

What he’d mistaken for a blanket, he now sees could never have been one—it’s too small, and the fabric is more like canvas, though it’s not quite as stiff. Still, he can tell that air won’t flow through the fabric easily, and even water would have a hard time soaking the material. He takes it from her, noting two wooden handles that run the length of its sides. “What’s…?”

“It’s a paraglider,” she informs him, managing a small smile. “It will support your weight and let you glide down from the plateau. And this bag is enchanted by Koroks. It belonged to my son, but he didn’t think… he didn’t think he would need it, to go to the castle. Each of its compartments can hold much more than it should, and it will be nearly weightless.”

He looks up from the gifts to meet her eyes once more, and the tear tracks on both their cheeks are still wet as he breathes, “Thank you. For everything.”

Inko’s smile grows, and she begins to fade once more as she presses the bag into his hands. “The best way to thank me is by staying safe. Take care, Eijiro. I’m so proud of you.”

Fifteen minutes later sees Eijiro standing at the very eastern edge of the plateau. The sun is setting, and the wise thing to do would be to rest for the night and set out in the morning, so he isn’t traveling in the dark.

Eijiro can’t wait. Impatience hums in his veins, making him twitchy and full of restless energy. Katsuki needs him, Inko’s son needs him, and he needs to be doing something. He won’t be able to stand the wait. So Eijiro takes a deep breath, new bag strapped to his back and paraglider clutched tightly in his hands.

And he leaps.

[spine-buster]

Alone, Together | Chapter 40 | Morgan Rielly

A/N:  200, 505 words later, Morgan and Bee’s story has come to an end.  In all honesty, what can I say?  This has been an absolute whirlwind and I cannot believe how much love and support and engagement this story got.  Like...you guys have no idea.  I want to thank each and every single one of you for reading, commenting, liking, reblogging, and for sending in all your canon asks for this world I have created for Morgan and Bee.  This story would not have been as successful if it weren’t for you guys.  I hope you guys enjoyed their journey.  

Like I’ve been saying, there WILL be epilogues (right now there’s four) of varying lengths detailing/outlining their future.  Keep an eye out.

My new Fred story will be launched after the epilogues.  Check out my Masterlist for the title and quick description!

“You look beautiful Bumblebee,” Morgan said softly as he watched Bee adjust her dress in the mirror of the elevator, patting it down and straightening it out and running her hands through her hair one last time.  She looked so elegant and stylish and Morgan couldn’t believe how good she looked in just a black turtleneck and tweed dress.  

“You think so?” she asked absent-mindedly.  “I made sure the dress--”

“Bumblebee, you look great.  So elegant.  You always look great,” Morgan reiterated.  “You could have worn a burlap sac.” 

“Um, Larry Tanenbaum is going to be here.  I don’t think he’d appreciate me showing up in a burlap sac,” she quipped.  She had to take a day off work for this.  She was so lucky Mark was a hockey fan and let her do stuff like this without question – if it was anybody else, she probably wouldn’t be able to afford the luxury.  

“You’ve met Larry Tanenbaum before.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know he was Larry Tanenbaum.  I thought he was just some old guy.”

Morgan snorted.  “I think her prefers that, to be honest.”

Bee took a deep breath, trying to collect herself and her thoughts.  “I just…do you…do you remember New Year’s Eve?”

“When you asked me ‘Do you like me more with all the nice clothes?’” Morgan asked, knowing automatically what she was talking about.  That night still stood out to him, all this time later, as a night they had really progressed in their relationship and their trust in each other.  Bee had expressed insecurity about her new situation; Morgan helped boost her confidence to get her through it.  That confidence kept growing and growing.  Now, she stood before him as a self-assured woman, mostly confident in her place in the world.  Mostly, because nobody was ever truly fully confident.  But she had learned.  She grew.  She adapted.

Bee nodded her head.  “I was so…different back then.  I thought there would be two different Brionys.  I thought there was like, poor and rich Briony.  Cheap Briony and…you know, old Briony and new Briony.  I never considered that like…Briony – me – I can be a progression,” she expressed.  “I don’t have to be stuck to my old self.  I don’t have to be stuck to my old thoughts or old habits.  I can be a progression.”

“Of course you can,” Morgan nodded his head.  “You can be anything you want to be, Bumblebee.”

“I want to be a progression,” she reiterated once more, her voice more confident.  “I want to be Briony McTavish who was once nervous and thought she didn’t belong, but is now confident in meeting and interacting with people as rich and influential as Larry Tanenbaum.  I want to be Briony McTavish who is confident in making her way around the room.  I want to be Briony McTavish who is confident in her position, in her job…in her life.”

Morgan smiled down at her.  He couldn’t help but lean down and kiss her as she finished her thought.  “You’re the bee’s knees, Bumblebee,” he mumbled against her lips.

Before Bee could say anything else, the elevator pinged and the doors opened, and John and Aryne appeared on the other side.  John, like Morgan, was wearing a smart suit, holding Jace in his arms who was sporting baby jeans and cardigan style top.  Aryne wore a beautiful wrap style dress, covered somewhat by a spit-up towel resting on her shoulder.  John’s and Aryne’s faces lit up when they realized Morgan and Bee were in the elevator.

“Hey strangers,” Aryne smiled.

“Hey Captain,” Bee winked, causing John to smile from ear to ear.  “Have you gotten used to it yet?” she asked.

“No chance,” he shook his head.  “My dad started sobbing on the phone when I told him.  Mom too.”

“Looks like the investment in those Leafs sheets paid off, huh?” Morgan smiled at John.

“You have no idea, buddy.”

They rode the elevator up together to the Platinum Club, where Bee assumed Kyle, Brendan, Mike, and Larry were all already waiting for their arrival.  Larry and Brendan had arranged the lunch so that the leadership core – captain John, and alternate captains Morgan, Auston, and Mitch – could talk about the expectations they had for the team this season, their leadership roles, what they envisioned for the team and their futures with the Leafs.  After their lunch – and what Bee assumed would be a relaxed afternoon – the rest of the team was coming for a cocktail and hors d’oeuvres reception.  

The season began tomorrow.  There was an excitement in the air that Bee couldn’t describe.  

When the doors opened, Bee could see Brendan Shanahan, wine glass already in hand, speaking with someone that looked extremely familiar.  As everyone exited the elevator and approached him with smiles on their faces, Bee’s breath hitched in her throat when she realized who it was: Masai Ujiri.

John greeted Brendan first, who pretended to ignore him playfully in favour of paying attention to Jace, cooing at him and pinching his cheeks like he was Jace’s grandpa.  Brendan gave warm hugs to Aryne and Morgan, who then went on to greet Masai Ujiri like it was no big deal, before focusing his attention on Bee.  “How’ve you been, Bee?”

“Good, thank you,” she smiled warmly.  “Thank you for having us here, Brendan.”

Brendan moved to gesture towards Bee as he faced Masai.  “Mr. Ujiri, this is Briony McTavish,” Brendan introduced them as they shook each other’s hand.  “She’s part of the Maple Leafs family.  Her partner is our assistant captain Morgan Rielly and she’s a junior financial analyst at Scotia--”

“Briony McTavish…Briony McTavish!  The girl who wrote me a thank you note,” Masai smiled at her warmly.  “That’s a good practice you know – thank you notes.”

“Oh, thank you sir,” Bee replied nervously.  She thought there was no way that, after everything Masai went through this summer, he’d remember her silly little thank you note over everything else.  This was a man who helped the Raptors win a championship; a man who was one of the focal points of a parade attended by over two million people; a man who finally brought a championship to Toronto – a feat not accomplished since the 1990s.  There was nothing special about her, but everything special about him, and he was the one remembering her thank you note.

“It was the only one I received,” he winked.  That explained it, she thought, although she still didn’t believe it.  She was convinced this was one big elaborate joke.  “I put it up in my office on a bookshelf.  The art of writing one is being lost and I think you’re the one who’s going to bring it back, Ms. McTavish.”

She laughed, still nervous but trying to calm down.  She had to remember what she just said in the elevator.  She could be confident.  She could fit.  “I was just trying to be polite after you gave us the tickets to the playoff game,” she tried to explain herself – as if she needed to.  “I don’t need to tell you that Raptors tickets weren’t easy to come by so I just wanted to thank you.”

“I know!  And any girl who writes a thank you note is one worth keeping,” he winked at Morgan, elbowing him playfully.  “Did you have a good summer, Morgan?”

“Oh, yes sir,” Morgan nodded his head.  “Briony graduated with her Master’s in Financial Economics from U of T, and we went back to Vancouver for two weeks.  Even spent some time up at a cottage.”

“A Master’s in Financial Economics?  Congratulations, Briony.  That’s quite an achievement,” Masai commented.  

“Thank you sir.”

“Are you excited for the upcoming season?”

“Very much so,” Bee and Morgan said at the same time, causing Masai and Brendan to laugh.  

“We have a gift for you once Mitch and Auston get here,” Masai revealed, turning towards Brendan who smiled and nodded his head once.  “I think you boys will be very excited.  A gift from us at the Raptors, if you will.”

Once Auston, Mitch, and Steph arrived, the waiters and waitresses began bringing out charcuterie boards as appetizers and decorated the tables with more wine bottles and even champagne.  After some chitchatting, Masai left the room and re-entered holding a ball.  It was a championship ball, he explained, from one of the Raptors’ games against Golden State.  Used during one of the championship games.  He was giving it to the Leafs as a gift.  To motivate them.  To drive them.  To let them know that they could achieve that success too.  That with hard work, they would be rewarded too.  The boys went nuts for it.  They were calm, but Bee could tell they loved every minute of it and were silently freaking out.  They held the ball in their hands so delicately, as if the ball would break.  They decided that they’d give the ball to the player of the game for every game they won.  Babcock would start it off.  Then the player would choose the next.  Motivation.  Drive.  Achievement.  Reward.  

Eventually Masai had to leave, which was the cue for everybody to sit down at the table and formally begin their lunch.  Bee ordered the pistachio and sunflower crusted lamb shank.  The waitress poured her a glass of wine and chilled champagne.  Once all the food came, there was a toast.

“To the MLSE organization,” Larry began the toast, holding his champagne glass up.

“To the leadership core,” Brendan said after him.

“To the Toronto Maple Leafs hockey club,” Kyle followed.

“To the best administration currently running a hockey club,” Mike Babcock followed.

“To the greatest fans in the NHL,” John said.

“To home,” Aryne said.

“To Scotiabank Arena,” Steph said.

“To Hall and Oats blasting through the speakers,” Mitch said.

“To a second home,” Auston said.

“To the greatest hockey city in the world,” Morgan said.

Everybody looked at Bee.  She took a deep breath.  “To the Toronto Maple Leafs family,” she said. 

Brendan and Kyle smiled.

***

Trying to seem so classy with that dress…everyone knows you’re trash!

That dress looks so good on you!  

U caption that pic ‘family’ but everyone from Aryne Tavares to Brendan Shanahan knows ur fake and only with Mo for the money.  Can’t believe they invited u and u had the audacity to show up!  Are they really ur family when u had to push ur way in?

Cute caption, cute photo <3 I’m so jealous of you.

You’re just showing off now.  We know you’re a WAG.  Get over yourself honey!

Notice that ur beside Jennifer Spezza and one person away from Aryne instead of being right beside her like u always are…I bet u guys already had a falling out.  She probably saw right through ur lies.

Do you really have to force Mo to cling on to you like he does in every photo?  It makes you look so desperate for attention.

Hi Bee you look very nice I bet ur happy there’s no more Cassie!!!!!

Did you buy that dress yourself or did you make Mo buy it for you?

Why didn’t the wags take a big group pic?  R u guys not getting along?

***

Bee’s cheeks were flushed red from the wine all the way back home.  She was getting antsy in the back of the taxi, but she knew she had to keep her cool.  Morgan, for his part, was also antsy.  They had been around people all day, and while he enjoyed their company, there was nothing he longed for more than to be alone with his girlfriend.  

Bee had met many new faces that night, and perhaps the friendliest – at least the faces she spent the most time with – were new Leaf Jason Spezza’s four daughters, all who were clamouring for Bee’s attention.  Morgan would watch as she interacted with them, complimenting them on her dresses and following them around the venue hand-in-hand, approaching various people, and he couldn’t help but smile.  When the entire group posed for a picture, Lucia even clung on to Bee’s leg.  She was asleep in Jason’s arms by the end of the night, which was good since she probably would have cried if she saw Bee leave.  

When the taxi finally dropped them off, they walked hand in hand into their building and up the elevator to their apartment in silence.  Bruce greeted them at the door, meowing happily at his owners’ return.

“Hi Brucey,” Bee cooed as she bent down to pick him up, cradling him against her chest.  “Did you miss us, Brucey boy?”  Another loud meow escaped him, and Bee chuckled.  She heard Morgan set his keys down.  “We missed you too Brucey!”

Morgan bent down slightly to kiss Bruce’s head, and Bruce raised his own head to smell Morgan and boop him with his cold wet nose.  “I think Brucey should get a treat for not tearing apart a curtain while he was alone.”

Bee chuckled.  “That’s a good idea.  I’ll grab one for him.”

“I’ll be in the bathroom.”

As Morgan made his way to their ensuite, Bee quickly gave Bruce a treat before retreating back into their bedroom.  She stood in front of their armoire, looking at herself in the mirror.  Her hair was still perfectly curled, thankfully.  And her body was still flushed.  She had the liquid confidence of the wine still coursing through her, and she knew she needed to act on it.

“Mo, baby?” she called out as she heard the water from the faucet stop.  “Can you come help me with my dress?”

There was silence from the bathroom before she heard the door open.  She was taking off her earrings, watching him through the mirror as he walked over to her slowly, eyeing her up and down.  “Your dress?” his voice was low.

“Do you think you can help me take it off?” she asked.

She watched as Morgan stopped all movements momentarily before understanding what she was implying.  “I can do that.”

“Okay,” she smiled at him through her reflection in the mirror.  “Go sit on the bed.”

He did as he was told, sitting at the foot of the bed, his white shirt and suit pants still worn tight on his body.  She took her time making her way over to him, eventually standing right in front of him, between his legs, as she looked down on him.  “Did you have fun today?” she asked, resting her hands on his shoulders.  

“Of course I did,” he said, his voice low as he felt her begin to massage his neck and shoulders.  “Did you?”

She nodded her head.  “I can’t believe I got to meet Masai.”

He smiled.  “I can’t believe he gave us a ball.”

“Maybe I’ll write him another thank you note.”

Morgan giggled slightly, running his hands along the backs of her legs as she continued to massage his shoulders.  “You’re so good, Bumblebee,” he whispered, putting his hands over hers.  “I’m the luckiest guy in the world to have landed you, you know that?”

Bee smiled at him.  The warmth of his hands overs hers was so comforting.  “You wanna unzip me?”

Morgan nodded his head.  Bee turned around so her back was towards him, and she felt the fabric of her dress shift as he undid the top button and zipped all the way down.  He made sure to be gentle.  To take his time.  When she turned back around to face him, he peeled it off her.  She was wearing a skin tight black turtleneck underneath – the next thing he had to deal with – but as he pushed the fabric past her hips and it fell to the floor, it revealed a lingerie set and garter holding up her pantyhose.  

There was a sharp intake of breath.  “You had this on the entire time?” he asked, his voice low.

“Mhm,” she nodded her head, the smallest chuckle escaping her.  

“The entire day?”

“It’s not like there was any opportunity to change.”

Morgan bit his lip, taking in the black lace panties and pantyhose before him.  “Jesus, Briony.”

“You like?”

He looked up at her, playfully rolling his eyes at her question.  “Come on.”  His hands wandered around her hips and the lace covering them.  His fingers hooked into the hemline momentarily, feeling her skin there, before unhooking and continuing their wanders.  “I am so.  Fucking.  Lucky,” he mumbled to himself, feeling the curve of her ass.  “Can I take off your sweater?”

“Of course.”

Again, he took his time.  His hands traveled from her hips to her stomach as he leaned forward and began kissing her there, dragging his tongue along her skin as he pushed the fabric up and over her breasts.  It wasn’t until the sweater was tugged off, leaving her curled hair a bit dishevelled, that Morgan took in the lace push-up bra – obviously matching – that she was wearing.  “Jesus fucking Christ Briony.”

She bit her bottom lip.  He was already going to go crazy.  “Relax, baby.”

“How can I?”

“Shhhh…” she put her finger over his lips.  “Relax.  Let me take care of you.”

“Let me take care of you,” he grabbed at her ass.

“You liked what I did in Kelowna, right?” Bee asked, her voice holding the slightest amount of nervousness.  The Adam’s apple in Morgan’s throat bobbed as he nodded his head.  “Let’s change the rules a bit.”

“How so?”

“Touch me this time.”

Morgan’s heart stopped beating.  A low, hearty chuckle escaped from him as Bee turned away from him.  “Oooh, Briony…”

Bee began to sway her hips back and forth slowly, not wanting to wait any longer.  She placed her hands on his thighs, steadying herself, before moving forward to shove her breasts in his face.  Almost immediately, he licked and bit the skin above her breasts before she quickly pulled away.  Turning around, she swayed again, feeling Morgan’s hands squeezing her ass.  She looked over her shoulder at him, winking.  “Better this time now that you can touch me?”

Morgan didn’t answer; he was like a man transfixed.  As Bee continued to dance, she heard him unbuckle his belt.  She flipped her hair over her shoulder again to look at him.  He was pushing his suit pants down hastily, trying to free his cock from his underwear.  “Need some help?”

“Keep dancing,” he ordered.  

A shiver ran up Bee’s spine.  She did as she was told, moving her body sensually, gathering her hair in her hands or flipping it over her shoulder.  When she finally turned around again, she saw Morgan with his cock in his hands, his pants down around his ankles.  She couldn’t help but smile.  “Couldn’t wait, could you?”

“Not when you’re dancing like that,” he admitted.  “You have no idea what you do to me, Briony.”

Eyeing his hardening cock in his hands, Bee smirked.  “Oh, I think I do.”

“Be a good girl and keep dancing,” he said, using his free hand to grab at her hip.  

As she continued to dance, they couldn’t keep their eyes off each other.  Eventually, she leaned forward to kiss him, and began to unbutton his dress shirt.  She pushed it off his shoulders, but instead of throwing it across the room, she kept it in her hands.

“What’re you--”

“It’s not your jersey, but I guess it’ll do,” she said as she draped it over herself, slipping her arms through the sleeves to wear it.  She ran her fingers through her hair before posing for him playfully.

Morgan chuckled lowly, throwing his head back as he continued to stroke himself.  “You’re a little minx, you know that?  A fucking tease.”

“You fucking love it though,” she said with a devilish smirk.  She replaced his hand with hers on his cock and knelt in between his legs, using her free hand to scratch down his thigh.  “Now let me be a good girl and suck your cock.”

“With pleasure,” he wiggled his eyebrows.  

She gave him one last look before taking him in her mouth, twirling her tongue around the tip as she heard him grunt.  She bobbed her head up and down, taking him deeper into her throat each time.  Morgan brought his hand towards her and gathered her hair, tugging on it slightly so he could get a better look.  “You look so sexy with my shirt on you,” he mumbled, inhaling sharply as she took him deep.  “And with my cock in your mouth.”

“Does it look good with the black lingerie?” she asked quickly.

“Fuck yes.”

“Good.  Because this is all for you,” she said, licking the underside of his cock before kissing the head playfully.  “All for you.  Always.”

Morgan pushed her head down so she could take more of him down her throat.  She moaned in response, looking up at him with her beady eyes, causing him to throw his head back and close his eyes so he wouldn’t cum in her mouth right then and there.  As she sucked him off, his breathing got heavier, his chest heaving more and more.  Eventually, he felt his head hit the back of her throat, and his hips bucked at the sensation.  “Briony…”

“Cum down my throat, baby.”

“N-No--”

“Please Mr. Rielly, I want to taste you so bad,” she begged.

“Briony--”

“I wanna be your good girl Mr. Rielly.  Please please please,” she begged before taking him deep into her throat again. 

Morgan huffed, unable to say anything else, too hot and bothered to deny her what she wanted to do.  The second she gagged slightly and he felt his cock hit the back of her throat, he was gone.  The noise that escaped him was guttural as he felt himself shoot his load down her throat.  Bee sucked every last drop from him greedily, keeping her eyes on him as he locked eyes with her.  He felt like the luckiest guy alive – he knew he was the luckiest guy alive.

“C’mere,” Morgan huffed, pulling her up by her arms so she was now sitting on his lap.  They gave each other sloppy kisses before Morgan bit his way down to her neck and breasts.  “You wanna be a good girl?”

“Yes.”

“I asked if you want to be a good girl,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said louder.  “Yes Mr. Rielly.”

“Then be a good girl and make yourself wet on my thigh,” he practically demanded, gripping the flesh on her thighs and ass.  

Bee looked at him with wide eyes.  She said nothing more – instead, she began grinding against his thigh, keeping eye contact with him as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.  His hands stayed firmly gripped on her hips, and the feeling of her hot pussy rubbing against his thigh got Bee all hot and bothered.  Her breathing became more erratic, and whimpers left her mouth as her body flushed with heat.  

“I love you,” she mumbled between heavy breaths, her voice sweet but barely audible as she kept rocking back and forth.

“What’s that?”

“I love you, Morgan,” she said, only slightly louder.

Morgan smiled softly.  It was an intimate moment that brought a warmth to him that he wasn’t expecting.  “I love you too, baby,” he said, his voice equally as sweet as hers was.  

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she continued.

“You’re my whole world,” he responded with the words he always followed with whenever she said that line.  Kissing her passionately, he moved his hand to start rubbing at her clit.

A whimper left her as her lips left his.  “Fuck,” she sighed out.  “I’m so close, Mr. Rielly.”

“Make my thigh wet baby, come on.  Be a good girl,” he encouraged her.

It wasn’t long before her body started shaking and she began screaming his name out.  Morgan could feel her juices on his thigh, and at the sound of her screaming his name, he couldn’t take it easy anymore.  Bee barely finished riding out her orgasm before he picked her up in his arms, kicking off his pants bunched at his feet.  

“Mo – baby --” Bee tried to figure out what he was doing as he picked her up.  “Morgan, what are you d--”

He practically threw her onto the bed.  “Spread your legs for me,” he ordered, his white shirt still draped over her body.  

Bee did as she was told.  Morgan wasted no time diving between her legs and moved the lace material of her thong to the side to eat her out like he was a man starved and she was the last meal on Earth.  Sucking at her clit, he brought his arms up to keep her hips down so she couldn’t squirm like she usually did – again, putting her pleasure in his complete control.  As she had barely come down from her previous orgasm, it took no time at all for her to cum again, covering his face in her juices.  He lapped up every last bit as she could barely squirm from the pressure he was exerting on her hips – she grabbed and tugged at his hair instead, needing to release some pressure elsewhere.  

“Again,” Morgan mumbled against her lips.  

“Mo--”

“Again.”

“Morgan, I c – I – oh shit,” she swore as she felt him push two fingers inside of her.  “Mo-Morganmorganmorgan,” she cursed him.

“Be a good girl, Briony,” his tone was strict with her.  “You got to taste me.  I want to taste you again and again.”

“Mo--”

“Are you going to be my good girl?”

She huffed, her chest heaving.  “Y-Yes,” she nodded her head, her voice soft.  “Yes.  I’ll be your good girl Mr. Rielly.”

Morgan continued lapping at her, curling his fingers inside her.  With only one arm holding her down now, she could squirm a bit more easily, but it was still tough and her pleasure was still mostly in his control.  Between his tongue and his fingers, Bee quickly came again…and again…and again…and—

She began to lose count.  At times it felt like multiple; at times it felt like just long and continuous.  Her throat was already dry from how much she had screamed Morgan’s name, huffing and puffing and trying to gain some semblance of sanity.  “Mr. Rielly – Mr. Rielly please, I want…I want…”

“What do you want?”

“I want your cock inside me,” she breathed out.

“Do you?” he asked between licks, ignoring her request.  

“Yes.  Yes…please Mr. Rielly.  I want to feel you buried deep inside of me,” she was on the verge of begging – what she knew he wanted her to do.  “I want you to fill me up with your big cock.”

Morgan practically manhandled her as he flipped her over on her hands and knees on the bed, spanking her ass and causing her to yelp out.  It had been long enough – after eating her out – that he was able to get an erection again, so he grabbed his cock and teased her entrance momentarily before filling her up, causing her to cry out.  

“Fuuuuuuuuuck Mr. Rielly,” she breathed, looking over her shoulder.  

“That feel good?”

“Your cock always feels good, Mr. Rielly.”

She felt him tug at her hair and pull her up to his chest.  Almost immediately, his free arm snaked around her body, his fingers attaching themselves to her clit again.  His other arm held her up and cupped her breast through the lace of her bra.  “You like it when I fuck you from behind?” he asked, biting down on the skin of her neck.  

“I love it,” she breathed out.  “Fuck Mr. Rielly, you fuck me so good.”

“Your pussy always feels so good for me,” he whispered in hear ear, pounding in and out of her.  “Always such a good girl for me.”

“I always want to be your good girl Mr. Rielly,” Bee breathed out.

Bee felt the waves of pleasure wash over her again as Morgan pushed her head gently back down onto the mattress and continued to fuck her, his grunts and expletives and mumbles of her name adding fuel to the already over-stimulated experience she was having.  She lost count at how many orgasms she’d gone through.

When she was least expecting it, Morgan pulled out.  She felt an emptiness that she didn’t like.  She wined at the loss and looked behind her.  “What are y--”

Morgan manhandled her again, flipping her over so she was flat on her back, and used his hands to pry open her legs, moving in between them.  She wrapped them tightly around his torso before he slipped into her again, her breasts almost spilling out of the lace bra.  His dress shirt still adorned her body and made him crazy with desire.  Before she could wrap her arms around his shoulders, he took one and pushed up the sleeve, finding the Cartier bracelet he’d given her.  He placed a delicate kiss on the skin of her wrist right above where the bracelet was before putting it around his shoulder.  

He leaned down and smothered her with kisses as he pumped in and out of her.  As Bee’s whimpers and moans got louder, he looked her in the eye.  “I love you Bumblebee,” he mumbled, using her nickname for the first time in this sort of setting.  “I love you so much.”

Bee brought one hand to cup his face.  “I love you too, baby.”

“I’m always gonna be yours, Bumblebee.”

“And I’m always gonna be yours.”

He made sure they were looking each other in the eye as he came inside of her, her eyes eventually closing from the pleasure of feeling his hot cum inside her walls.  Slowly, he collapsed on top of her, trying to catch his breath as his body engulfed hers.  With her legs still wrapped around him, he settled onto her.  

She began running her fingers through the tufts of his hair at the nape of his neck.  “I love you forever, Morgan,” she whispered in his ear.  

***

Bee felt like she was James Bond as she manoeuvred through the hallways at Scotiabank Arena trying not to get caught in enemy territory.  There was media and cameramen everywhere because it was the start of the season, the home oepneer, and although many didn’t know who she was, she was already wearing her Rielly jersey.  All it took was for one of them to snap a picture and she could see the blogs going crazy.

Not that it mattered.  What mattered more was the person she was going to meet.

“Hey sweetcheeks,” Tyler’s familiar voice echoed down the hall as Bee saw him walking with outstretched arms.  “Get over here.”

She practically skipped over to him, hugging him tightly in his workout clothes.  His arms wrapped around her tightly as he picked her up off the floor.  “I miss you,” she said as he set her down.  The hallways must have felt so familiar to him; except now, he was in opposing territory.  The visitors instead of the home team.

“I miss you too sweetcheeks,” he said, taking a look at her jersey.  “How angry would Mo get if I gave you a Senators jersey with my name on it?”

Bee snorted.  “It could go one of two ways.  He could burn it or he could ask me never to wear it in front of him.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Bee laughed as she shook her head.  He always had a witty comment or joke up his sleeve – it’s what she loved most about him.  “Have you settled yourself in Ottawa?  Do you have a place?”

“I do.  Near the Byward Market, actually.  It’s a bit far from the arena but it’s good to separate the two,” he informed her.

“Is your fridge stocked?”

“Yes mom,” he rolled his eyes.  “How’ve you been since your birthday?”

“I’ve been good.  There was a big team dinner last night and--”

“No, Bee,” he interrupted her, looking her in the eye.  “How have you been since your birthday?”

Bee took a deep breath.  She knew what he was really asking.  She should have been better prepared, because even though they spoke all the time over text, it was different than speaking to someone in person.  “I’ve been good, Tyler.  I mean it,” she said, grabbing his forearms to assure him.  “It was all…solved.  Without media fanfare, which was a miracle.  Brendan and Kyle are wizards.  It took a while for me to feel okay again, but I do now.  I don’t feel so…I don’t know, violated anymore.”

“I maintain what I said to you on the phone,” his tone was serious.  “If I need to murder someone in cold blood, I will.  They’ll never suspect it was me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she smiled.  “You watch too much true crime stuff, Tyler.”

“I’ve moved on to podcasts now.  All I have to do is listen.”

“I’m going to convince Morgan to go to Ottawa during the by-week.  We have the same one,” she changed the subject to something lighter.  “Would you be up for that?  Or have you already booked flights back home to Edm--”

“I’ll set up the spare bedroom now,” he said, nodding his head excitedly.  “I’ll go shopping for Egyptian cotton sheets.  I know how picky Mo is.  Little diva.”

She punched him in the arm.  “You are honestly the worst.”

“Morgan loves me.  I’ll have Trailer Park Boys on for him when you arrive.”

Bee hugged him again, burying her face in his neck.  To say that it was going to be weird seeing him in a Senators jersey, on the opposing team’s bench tonight was an understatement.  To her, he would always be a Maple Leaf.  It may not be that way for everybody else, but for her, that was the case.  “I’m going to miss having you around so much.  You don’t even know,” she mumbled.  

“I’ll always be here,” he said, squeezing her tighter.  “Remember what I told you.”

“I won’t feel pain if I never truly lose anything,” she recited.  

“Exactly.  And you’ll never lose me.”

***

“You wanna go back to mommy, Jace?” Bee looked down at the little baby in her arms, sucking on his pacifier and looking up at her with his big eyes.  She looked over to Aryne, who was ready for him.  “It would be a bit awkward for me to be holding the baby, especially if they pan to you after the announcement.”

“Definitely,” Aryne nodded, grabbing Jace and holding him against her chest.  “They’re going to release that video they filmed right after.  Everybody’s gonna realize a three week old baby knew about the captaincy before any of the media did.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” Bee winked, Aryne winking back at her.  

From beside her, Angie shuffled past Monique and Steph to take her seat in between Mason and Bee.  “I didn’t miss anything, did I?” she asked.  “The line for the washroom took forever.”

“You’re good.  They’re literally just about to start,” Bee said.

As if on cue, the lights dimmed.  Scotiabank Arena, packed to the brim with people, erupted in cheers and applause.  The pre-game ceremony began, with the arena MC narrating everything.  The entire team came out one by one as their names were called out.  People cheered for their favourites and clapped for everyone.  Once the regular players were completed, Bee knew it was time to announce the leadership core.

She looked over to Aryne.  “Are you ready?” 

“As ready as I can be,” she said, rocking Jace back and forth.  “This is the moment he’s been waiting his entire life for.”

“And now, your captains!” the arena MC belted out.  “Alternate captain, from Thornhill, Ontario…number sixteen, Mitch Marner!”

Bee could hear Steph scream a few people down, and looked over to her with a giant smile on her face.  Steph was filming it on her phone, jumping around giddily as his name was called.  Bee clapped and wooed, knowing that – despite an eventful summer of contract negotiations – Mitch had been dreaming about this his whole life too.  The crowd cheered loudly for him, thankful that the hometown boy stayed.

“Alternate captain, from Scottsdale, Arizona…number thirty-four, Aaaauuuustoooon Maaaatthews!”

Bee cheered as Auston skated onto the ice, raising his stick in appreciation of the fans cheering for him.  She knew it had been a tough couple of weeks for him – and Lord knows she gave him a piece of her mind too – but she was truly proud of him and what he had accomplished.  The most skilled player on the team, he was the central franchise player.

Her heart began to beat quicker knowing what was coming next.  She was trying not to get too emotional, especially because he had been an alternate captain for years now, but she couldn’t help it.  She was so proud of Morgan – her Morgan – and she couldn’t hold back.  She felt a stray tear fall down her cheek but wiped it away quickly.  

“Alternate captain, from Vancouver, British Columbia…number forty-four, Moooooooorgaaaaan Rielly!”

Bee screamed at the top of her lungs.  The arena cheered and applauded too, thankful that somebody like Morgan – one of their longest tenured players now – was named to this position.  A lot of people would have preferred him as captain – she knew that – but that didn’t matter to her.  What mattered was that he was recognized for his commitment to the team, for his leadership role during the tough years until now, for the responsibility he took for the defensive capabilities of the team.  He was happy with the alternate captain title.  He wore it with honour.  He wore it with pride.  He wore it with courage.  He wore it knowing that this team was a part of his heart a soul.  He wore it knowing that he was the foundation upon which everything else was built.  In some ways, in being the foundation, he was the most important part.  

She was so proud of him.  And loved him so much.  

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the twenty-fifth captain in franchise history.  From Oakville, Ontario…number ninety-one, Jooooohn Taaavares!”

Bee screamed at the top of her lungs again, as did Aryne, and the entire arena erupted in the loudest cheers of the night.  John Tavares.  25th captain of the Toronto Maple Leafs.  The hometown boy who came home.  In every account except for biological, her big brother.

There was nothing better.  

Bee thought about the last year.  She thought about how she met Morgan under mysterious circumstances.  She thought about how they took things slow at first, not wanting to put a label on it, because she put her schooling first and Morgan respected that.  She thought about cooking Thanksgiving dinner and Morgan telling her he couldn’t wait anymore and her agreeing.  She thought about the break-in.  About the girls rallying around her and helping her recoup everything and more.  She thought about Naz and Ashley letting her stay in their empty apartment.  Christmas.  Bumblebee.  Auston making out with her cupcakes.  She thought about landing her job at Scotiabank.  She thought about going to Vancouver for the first time, whale-watching and telling Morgan she loved him.  She thought about her mom dying; about the sense of relief that washed over her more than guilt or grief.  She thought about Valentines Day and Morgan’s birthday and giving her utmost trust to him in their most intimate of moments.  The slur.  Moving in with Morgan.  Game seven.  Holding Morgan as he cried.  She thought about the cottage, about graduation, about going to Vancouver for a second time and feeling at home.  She thought about Naz being traded, about holding baby Naylah in her arms at the hospital.  She thought about Tyler, about Jake, about Cassie.  She thought about visiting Aryne and holding baby Jace.

And that was all just the beginning.

As she looked out onto the ice at Morgan, standing solemnly for O Canada, she couldn’t help but feel excitement for what was to come.  She knew that whatever that was, they’d get through it together.  The highs and the lows.  The mountains and the valleys.  She wouldn’t have to experience anything alone anymore.  She wouldn’t have to go through life wondering if she’d be alone forever.  Instead, it was she and Morgan.  Against the world.  

Together.

She was ready.

[notgoing]

The power of cycling shorts? Immortality. When I see pictures of Diana in hers I forget that she is no longer here, that she left 23 years ago, is not experiencing the lows and lows of 2020 along with the rest of us. Because, how else to explain why we are currently so sartorially in step? 

Diana wore her cycling shorts high, bright, tight paired with oversized logo sweatshirts and the clumpy sports trainers we’ve since nicknamed “Dad Shoes”. Which is exactly how we’ve been wearing cycling shorts in 2020. High, bright, tight, baggy on top. A uniform for our stalled lives. They have become the go-to item to ride out the pandemic. Whether you’re wearing them on a much needed daily run. Underneath your work shirt so you feel sneakily comfortable on a video call where your colleagues cannot see your bottom half. Or around the house as you try to get anything done. 

Putting them on helps me summon the energy I need to wrestle productivity from another day threatened with stasis. They give me active intent. But also, if I do not succeed at doing anything at all then I at least remain comfortable. They are the perfect combination of active and lazy wear. 

Diana Spencer, the once future Queen, was destined to become a style icon. Though initially only in the most suffocating sense of that term. Immensely popular when she became a member of the royal family -- she was young, tall, blonde, had a body type that would take to being styled easily and make dressing well seem effortless. And so we cooed at her in crinoline, sighed at how wonderfully she slipped into 80s silhouettes. Her choices were fitting for a royal woman, only ever a tad adventurous. 

Then came, the revenge dress. The night Prince Charles confessed to his affair with Camilla Parker Bowles in a pre-taped interview on ITV, Diana attended a Vanity Fair party. She wore an off-the-shoulder, above-the-knee, figure-hugging Christina Stambolian black cocktail dress. It was an instantly iconic item, though Diana hadn’t yet ascended to that status. 

In a 2013 interview with Glamour Rihanna said of Diana’s style: “She killed it. Every look was right. She had these crazy hats. She got oversize jackets. I loved everything she wore!” Rihanna is referencing post-divorce Diana. This is the Diana that did away with royal proprietary and drew influence from celebrities as she increasingly became one. This is the Diana that hung out with the Versaces. This is the Diana we take much of our inspiration from. The Diana of blazers and one-shoulder dresses, of two-toned and military-style suits. The Diana of nude-coloured outfits, of jumpsuits, sheath dresses, white jeans and of course, cycling shorts! 

Few of us listened to the cycling shorts siren call a couple of years ago when the Kardashians were singing from the sportswear items’ hymn sheet. Athleisure is for sure the livery of these end times but the problem the Calabasas crew had convincing the masses to partake is the same problem they have with everything they wear: addiction to sexiness. They put it into whatever they put on. Pairing their cycling shorts with crop tops, high heels or thigh-high boots. And sure cycling shorts can be sexy — they let you show off your legs, draw attention to that expanse of thigh and also keep it hidden. But sexiness isn’t their point. Practicality is. 

Diana’s cycling shorts were practical first - worn to and from the gym. Diana in cycling shorts had somewhere to go and something to prove. It is in this spirit that we don them today. 

For most of my 80 days in Covid quarantine I dressed up, not down. In my smartest dresses, tightest pencil skirts. I also relied on an old work from home hack suggested to me by a friend when I first became freelance: I donned heels. Their click-clack on my kitchen floor, the mild discomfort they forced onto my daytime feet kept me alert. 

1 June I was allowed out for the first time since time stopped and without thinking I threw on a pair of cycling shorts. What was I trying to say when I re-emerged? What did I want the world to know about me? I think I was trying to reassure myself, that in spite of all that time spent inside I was ready to move — immediately. That being confined had not diminished me or my physical abilities. That I intended to be as active a participant as possible in this strange, new, sick, sad world. 

I wear them every day now in the house and on meanders through my neighbourhood. What story am I telling myself as I do? That global illness be damned, I have purpose, somewhere to go, someone to be. That no matter how scared I become of sickness, of my own “extremely vulnerable” body. No matter how anxious or incapacitated I am made by Covid living, that some part of me will always be on the move, is striving to live forever.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ @sasuhinabigflash2020​​ || Day Sixteen: Showers ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Hyūga Neji, Uchiha Itachi ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: Divine Light ] [ AO3 Link ]

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Not every night is fit for travel.

Hooves gives muffled thuds along the well-worn dirt road. Above the pair of riders, a clear night sky has slowly been clouding, blotting out the stars as the weather subtly shifts. The summer evening is cool, a breeze winding its way through the trees that line the path.

“Another mile or so, and we’ll be upon the inn I mentioned,” the lead rider announces, glancing over his shoulder to his companion. “A suitable place to rest for the night.”

“Must we stop?” is the quiet counter question. “Surely we can make it by daybreak if we press on.”

“We may, but then we will be exhausted and sore from so many hours in the saddle. It’s best we take the time instead to give ourselves a well-earned respite. A few hours will make little difference. The day will be the same, and we’ll not need to waste daylight on sleeping.”

Lips slightly pursing, Hinata nevertheless offers no further argument.

“Besides,” her cousin then offers, glancing skyward as a few leaves begin to bounce around them. “I believe we are in for some showers, lady Hinata. It won’t do for you to get drenched and catch cold.”

“...very well.”

Urging their mounts to a swift trot from their steady walk, the pair hurry the last stretch before reaching the inn. Horses tethered in the adjoined stable, they step in and breathe sighs of relief.

Within, the main floor is largely taken by a tavern. Though the hearth is empty of flame, the atmosphere is still warm and pleasant, the lighting a cheery glow from lanterns and candles. Tables are filled with boisterous patrons, many indulging in spirited drinks before conceding for the night. At the opening of the door, several glance up but offer no greeting, returning to their own conversations once curiosity is sated.

“It is not...entirely suitable,” Neji mutters, eyeing the common rabble a bit warily.

“It will do fine. Not everything must live up to my father’s expectations,” is Hinata’s gentle counter, stepping further in as her cousin follows. “We are warm, dry, and will soon have full bellies and a place to sleep. There’s little else to ask for.”

Not looking as convinced, Neji nonetheless keeps to her side, his wary expression making it more than clear he won’t tolerate any interference as they approach the barkeep.

“Have you any free rooms?” Hinata inquires, ignoring Neji’s hawkish gaze behind her.

“Aye. Have y’need of one, or two?”

“Two,” Neji cuts in, earning a roll of Hinata’s eyes at his prudishness.

“Would you not feel better keeping a close eye on me?” she counters, glancing to him.

“Two rooms,” is his simple insistence.

She sighs. “...two, please.”

The keep then slides as many keys across the bar, each engraved with a number. “Take a seat anywheres y’like, and you’ll be served. May be a tad slow - the weather seems to be swelling our walls this evening.”

“It’s no trouble - thank you.” Pocketing the keys, Hinata heads for an empty table along a wall, settling primly on her seat. “...do you need to be so tense?” she then chastises Neji. “You’re attracting more attention than you’re s-scaring off.”

“Common places make me nervous.”

“It was your idea we stop here. I thought it better to press on.”

“I’ll not have you nodding off tomorrow when we meet the other dignitaries,” is his rebuke. “Even if it means going without rest myself.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine. Honestly Neji, you can be so -”

“Begging your pardon my lord and lady, but...have you need for these extra seats?”

Both Hyūga turn to see a third figure standing at the edge of their table, gesturing to the empty chairs opposite them. Just beside him is a fourth. Both of raven hair and ruddy eyes, Hinata can quickly tell what they are.

Thankfully she recovers from her surprise faster than Neji, and smiles at the pair. “We’ve no need, no - empty chairs are vanishing by the moment. Please, sit.”

Even as Neji glances to her incredulously, Hinata ignores him and watches the pair of young men. The latter seems to be about her age, the other a few years older. “Much obliged,” he offers with a smile of his own.

Hinata offers a nod in return.

“Forgive me, but...I could not help but overhear your conversation. Are you by chance headed to Salustia as well?”

In spite of herself, Hinata blinks. “I...yes, we are. I am vying for a position under Auquiana. Are you…?”

“Ignitrios,” he replies. “Our family has direct ties back to the original blessings. My father insisted we try our hand. Speaking of which…” He holds his out. “Itachi, of the Uchiha. And my younger brother, Sasuke.”

“Hinata of the Hyūga. And my cousin, Neji. Forgive his expression, he is...wary to be so far from home.”

“As are we...we have rarely left the city of our birth. But such a chance could not be passed by so easily.”

“Precisely. Perhaps we can make the last leg of the journey come morning together? Given we’re all headed the same place.”

“An excellent idea. I must admit, it’s comforting to introduce ourselves in a more...secluded venue. I suspect the meeting proper will be quite daunting. Knowing we are not completely isolated will be a comfort.”

“A good point!” It’s then Hinata looks to the younger brother curiously. “Are you vying for a position, or…?”

“I’ll be content either way,” is his reply, tone low and soft. “If I’m chosen, so be it. If not, I’ll still be an attendant for my brother.”

“That is Neji’s hope: to be my aide should I be chosen. But that all remains to be s-seen, of course. I’m sure I will be far from the only hopeful.”

“My brother is heir - I have little doubt he’ll take the role,” Sasuke replies, and she can’t help a smile at the pride in his tone. “He’s far better suited for politics, anyway. I’ve not the patience for them.”

“They can be quite daunting, yes. But I am eager to try and make a difference. My clan has long been divided, and...I have hopes of unification should I be accepted.”

At the idea of division, Sasuke’s brow furrows in obvious curiosity. But before he can ask more, a server finally finds them and asks for their orders. The group then fall back into easy conversation, Neji soon finding a conversational partner in Itachi as Hinata speaks to Sasuke.

“Have you ever been to Salustia?”

“Once, when I was very young,” Sasuke replies with a shrug. “I remember little of it.”

“I’ve never been...but I’ve heard it’s breathtaking. So much white marble and beautiful architecture. And the statue of Luxeria…! I cannot wait to see it with my own eyes.”

“That’s about all I do recall, admittedly. It’s far larger than you imagine it to be. And looks like it could leap to life at any moment.”

“Wow...I’m all the more eager, then! And I’m glad we won’t arrive alone. I’m fearful we’ll get lost…!”

“The castle sits atop a knoll and overlooks the entire city. If you ever get lost, just head there and reorient yourself. It’s where we’ll all be for the majority of the time, anyway. All roads eventually lead to it. At least that’s what my brother says - he recalls more than I.”

“Another wonder to behold, I’m sure.”

“We never got that close, so I can’t tell you. But it was beautiful even from a distance.”

Sinking into daydreams, Hinata rests her chin in a hand, watching rain slither down the window beside her. She can’t help but hope the weather will be clear when they arrive - to see the capital in anything less than a sunny day will surely be a grave disappointment. Hopefully Luxeria will bless the day with sunshine...with a little help from Ignitrios, of course.

Maybe it’s fate she’s met some of the hopefuls under the banner of fire. Still...she’ll pray to Auquiana to stop the rain nonetheless.

...but at least it helped drive them all here.

Once full of both food and gossip, the four part ways and head to their rooms until morning. Neji, as always, gives Hinata stern instructions to best protect her space.

“I’ll be fine,” is her weary insistence. “Besides, you are right next door. Should I scream, you’ll be a moment away.”

“Damn right I will be,” is how he leaves it with a grumble, bidding her goodnight before shutting the door.

Readying for sleep, Hinata sits for a time atop her bed, listening to the rain with closed eyes. For a moment, she can pretend she’s home in her room in the familiar showers of her coastal city. But the ambient noise beneath the rain is still too telling to ignore.

She thought she’d be more nervous, but...maybe meeting a few others and realizing they’re just as human as they are has helped quell any unease. It’s a big day, but...she has faith it will go well. At the very least, even if she isn’t chosen to represent her element, she’ll have an experience of a lifetime. Seeing the Luxerian capital, meeting so many other el’ven people…! Something she’d never get to do under her father’s thumb back home otherwise.

And maybe, just maybe...she’s already made some friends to hang onto once it’s all said and done.

     I will admit, I am...not sure what this is, plot-wise xD I was at a bit of a loss for what to write. Not much actual ship content, my apologies. Seems I’m not as entirely over my burnout as I’d hoped, eh heh~      Anywho, just some fantasy verse nonsense, really. Uchiha and Hyūga crossing paths on their way to the same destination~ I doubt I’ll ever do a full fic of this crossover since I’m already doing one that’s more OC-centric. Got plenty of other ideas anyway, once I’m in a better place to sit and do so :’D      Buuut it’s late, I’m wiped, and better call it a night. Thanks for reading~

[theplumsoldier]

PREMIERE NIGHT

Request: Anonymous asked: So if you have time and motivation and like my prompt could you write a fic where y/n joins the Avengers cast to play young Black Widow maybe? and she’s in her early 20s but she’s got this massive crush on Chris Evans but is too proud to make the first move because she’s scared of rejection but he likes her too, and then there’s a party with all MCU members - maybe the Oscars or A4 premiere afterparty, where they get drunk and make out in front of everybody and then maybe smut ensues? Please xx

A/N: i cant see endgame until tuesday i hate myself. the people tagged are from various captain america or chris evans taglists of mine, hope none that did not want to be tagged were and if so, feel free to dm me so i can remove you from the list (:

Pairing: chris evans x reader

Word count: 2478

Warnings: smut, explicit scenes, vulgar language.

His admiration for you was enormous and quite difficult to describe. Before the fourth and final Avengers movie, you had only ever done small theatrical shows and minor close to dispensable roles, so when you were cast to play a young version of Black Widow it was utterly impressive you came and stole the show with your undeniable skills, even if your overall screen time was just about 10 minutes.

However, even with no more than little screen time, you had to undergo an insane training program and take ballet classes—even if that had been your own decision. Your dedication to make your time worth was evident and you took all the advice you could, always listening to directors and coworkers to make the best of your performance. This was one of those “once in a lifetime opportunities” people always spoke about and considering you had never attended any acting schools for it was a miracle you had even landed the role, and at the ripe age of 23.

Set was amazing in spite of the long hours as the dynamic was beyond magical. There was no question whether these guys were professionals, which should have put you off and feel a tad out of place, only they never failed to make you feel part of the MCU family—one man in particular.

It was nonsensical to think just two years ago you had been at the verge of giving up on acting and went to carry on the family business. The flower boutique had always been like a second home but in your final years of school, you had sworn if you were to spend another minute in that godforsaken place you would blow it up and your head with it.

Now instead with no hands nor brains in your ablaze childhood home, you stood with a drink in your hand and a huge grin on your face, greeting Scarlett Johansson for the first time since your last on-set encounter.

“So, what will our next movie be?” asked she and you grinned at her overt hint.

"Well, Feige has yet to turn down a Black Widow solo, soo. . .” responded you, dragging out the ‘so’ for obvious reasons. Nudging her lightly, you earned a laugh and she lifted her hands as if to say “one never might know,” but her sparkly eyes told you otherwise. One might know. “You have no idea how nervous I was when my faced showed up on that screen.”

“Oh, you had no reason to be,” dismissed Scarlett with a wave of the hand. “This is about the best family you could have landed yourself in.”

“I know that now! But, you know, the fans are so dedicated and I figured that would mean either they would love my portrayal, or like—absolutely fucking hate it, you know?” chuckled you nervously and sipped from your drink, eyes scanning across the room.

Scarlett laughed, “well, all I have to say is that I’m glad about the casting director’s choice, getting a new face. I cannot tell you who you were up against, but—trust me when I say, you trumped her in every way.”

Your eyes lit up with both joy and curiousness. “Oh, now you have to tell me!”

Hours had passed and you had never been showered with more compliments and good wishes in your entire life, the fact that they all came from successful personas made you think this was not the last the world had seen of you.

On several occasions had you had your shot at doing something about the immense crush you had on the infamous man of your dreams, however, both worry, perturbation and pride took away what courage the alcohol had built up the entirety of the evening. All you had ever managed to come up with, was your gratitude which was more modest than self-assured as your usual kind of flirting would sound.

Your weak knees and flushed skin was nothing that made you wonder; you knew very well why you were vulnerable to such, and you could only think that the man exposing you to the affection, knew it as well. At least, when your cheeks would burn red at his comments or touch, he seemed pleased with himself.

It was an unusual feel and one you did not like much, contrary to the butterflies fighting in your stomach telling you otherwise. His mere voice took away what confidence was only habitual to your customary tone and the scrunch of his nose when he would laugh never failed to take away your breath. The stunning suit he was clad in assured that even if you managed to hide your uncertain stance, you would show in other ways and some that made you shift just a bit too often. How you should have worn a pantsuit rather than a dress.

Some had kids and some had families, others had varying excuses but the truth was you had nothing awaiting you at home. You did not even have a home to return to for you were going straight back to your hotel after this. However, you did not mind, the thought of sharing a life with someone was nice, surely, only the truth was you did not long to leave. The night had been filled with such happiness, which to you was not wonted; how could you want to leave that behind? If so, it was for the reason to take care of your untamed amorous state.

Troubled with your own thoughts, you had yet to recognize it had been Chris to move beside you until he spoke up.

“No one to go home to?”

You could recognize the kindness in his eyes anywhere. With a soft chuckle, your finger traced the stem of the wine glass and blinked at him. “That should only be if room service's waiting for me. If not, then sadly, no.”

His eyes glistened in the dim lightening from the bar, the bright ones behind his head contributing to the lit glory hovering above him. With a smile, Chris sat down, the halo vanishing as he did. “You’re still checked in on the hotel?”

Nodding in affirmation, you raised the glass to meet your lips, your eyes never leaving his blue ones. It was funny how they seemed prettier than ever in this uncertain state. Against common sense and acumen, your judgment decided upon speaking freely, picking what topic you never would have thought yourself to feel confident enough to. Whether it was because you had had enough of being lonely or it simply was the alcohol taking a toll on you, allowing more candidness than needed, you did not know. However, you felt a sudden urge and the words escaped.

“You know I like you, right?”

Chris’ face remained its joyous, laid back look, only the corner of his mouth puckering up. He could not say he was surprised. At least not with your admitted feelings, however, your frankness was something else. Undeniably, he was aware and saying those particular feelings were not reciprocated, would be about the fattest lie of the evening.

“You only say that because you’re drunk.”

“Yes,” drawled you and confessed. “It’s still true though. I shouldn’t have drunk this much.”

“You have been nervous tonight—why?” wondered Chris, thinking of the observation of the night. Whenever spoken, talked or even as little as share momentary eye contact from opposites sides of the room, you had taken another sip from your glass.

With a sudden puff of discomfort, you felt all the more self-conscious. Now, this was awkward.

“I haven’t. Or I have—but, uh. . .” You had no idea how to respond, and from his insoluble expression and soft, awaiting eyes you were forced to find the right words. “I’m not usually like this. Drunk—I, it’s really your fault—”

“That you’re drunk?”

“No—that’s my poor sagacity. You make me nervous,” divulged you, not finding the courage in you to look up for the reaction you so longed for. Instead, your head fell back, sucking in a deep breath and you found him through the corner of your eye. “I guess I wanted to build up the courage to. . . I don’t know, I was afraid this was the last time I would see you.”

“Nonsense. You’re in the Marvel-family now—”

“I know, I know and it’s great, I just—I really like you.”

Silence imbued, the tension you felt pent up completely locking out any signs of the ongoing party behind you. Good thing you were sat on a stool otherwise you might just have fallen to the ground as you knees were about as weak as your sense of vaunt. This man shot you all the way back to your high school years and for making you all hot and bothered, you tried to convince you did not like him. But truly, what was there not to like. With a heart of gold and always decent presentation, sense of humor and bearing soul, he was the one.

“So if I kissed you right now, you would not mind?”

One of your eyebrows bounced in surprise and Chris stifled his chuckle, how glorious you looked tonight. “Right here?”

Giving you no time to contemplate, he leaned in and in a split-second, your lips were connected in a sweet kiss. Being what you had only ever dreamed of, you melted under his enchantment. He tasted sweet and fresh, his cologne lingering to your nostrils and you could only worry of what strong liquor he might sense. But it did not make him stop and careless to what eyes might lurk from behind, he pulled you closer by the neck and parted his lips, deepening the kiss. At his touch, his large hand forcing you closer to him, you hummed into his mouth, reaching up to rest your hand by his beard as you allowed his tongue to dance with your own. Sweet with a pinch of sourness, you lost track of time and only departed when you had completely abated the intensity of your surroundings.

Retreating, you distanced yourself with only a minuscule amount of space left between you, catching your breath.

“Perhaps this is not the best place to do this,” admitted you, a grin playing on your lip and a glimpse flashed in your eye.

“So we leave then,” proposed he and stood up, almost to fast and your eyes grew big for a moment, knowing what he implied. Was this real?

Holding out his hand, you did not hesitate for more than what seconds the stun took and you were then on your way. Pace steady and moderate, something you could keep up with in your heels and you held your head down as you exited and cameras flashed. Out of instinct, you went to retrieve your hand, thinking Chris, too, was not keen on being seen like this. But he did not let go. His grip even tightened and casting a fleeting look across his shoulder, he offered you a sincere smile.

Up in your hotel room, little time was left to settle or even wriggle out of your dress, for the second the door was closed, your lips were once again touching. Chuckling to yourself, you were pleased to know you had not been the only one longing for this moment.

Reaching behind to fondle with the zipper, you managed to pull it down and with the help of Chris, you were freed from its clutching grip on you. Pooling down by your feet, Chris' hands slid up the backside of your legs. On his knees, he peppered kisses, trailing up, closer and closer to your sex, ensuring you would drip the second he removed your panties.

With a final flicker of his eyes, he found you watching him closely with soft and lustful eyes, bottom lip tugged between your teeth and how the pleasure pulled at your features only made him harder in his pants. Taking the encouraging hum you emitted as consent, he rid you of the remaining garment. Licking his lips, he pushed you back to sit on the bed and adored the sight of you. So wet and all for him.

Moving his hands back down your legs, Chris lifted them over his shoulders and dug right in between your legs. His tongue blending with you arousal was enough to elicit a dulcet sound from you, moan after moan escaping as he took care of you.

His facial hair nuzzling where you were most sensitive as he licked long strokes, draining you from what you could offer, you knew he would have you shaken in a matter of seconds. Aching for more friction, his hand came to the rescue, thump grazing past your clit, earning an upward thrust from your hips. His other hand came around you and retiring for just a moment you bucked up to find what sensation had become vague, but when he inserted two fingers in you, the wait was worth it.

At a modest pace he began, just enough pleasure for you to adjust to his two fingers pumping in and out of your cunt, and when first the velocity increased, Chris’ tempo was adequate to make you cum hard right then and there.

The room resonated with your moans and you had to cover your mouth in order to quiet yourself, slightly embarrassed he had you wrapped around his finger like that. But soon his hand removed your own, wanting to hear you more than anything, desperate to hear what he did to you. It had been all too long since he felt this powerful and you gave him everything you wanted by allowing him to eat you like to the likeness of a starving animal. The vibrations, the shameless, guttural groans, the tremors—it was all in the mix of pushing you over the edge and your clawing in his hair as he continued drawing moans from you.

Upon your culmination, you finally released on his tongue, mellow same as wanton sounds escaping you in the process. Riding out your orgasm, you ground your sex against him, pulsating around his fingers and when you finally came down from your high, but Chris did not yield. Continuing, he merciless rammed into you, groaning loudly at the feel of you clenching around his fingers.

Cleaning you with his mouth, Chris relished in your juices and first then he parted from you, only to stand tall before you and his hands fiddled with his black tie. Dark eyes and glinting beard, loosened knot and then the sound of his belt clanging rang in your ears. He nodded down at you, a desiring shade peaking behind the blue in his eyes. “Turn around for me.”

TAGLIST: @patzammit @derekxsammy @woodworthti666  @littledeadrottinghood @littlemissirish @figure8ght @metalarmlover @athiestangel @ihclipse @denzmallows @crist1216 @tinageekandtraveler @mustbeaweasleyginger @feysandmaraudersdramatic @marshyymello @astrid345 @schilj79 @idiosadeoro @justtrynasurvivelife @pixiehex1985 @writing-parker @exuberantqueer @sodonutnutnut @lilymdonaldson

[rayveewrites]

So as a simultaneous end of the year/ completion of Golden Echoes/ launch of Buried Gold celebration, I thought it would be neat to go through every chapter and post my favourite line/phrase/sentence/paragraph/etc from each. Why? Is this a genuine celebration? Do I think I’m funny and laugh at my own jokes? Am I actually just procrastinating? Yes. (Very obviously spoilers for the entire fic.)

Prologue: Lost  Darkness, pierced by the faint glow of sunlight through the holes in the ceiling. The sound of dripping water, pooling in the centre of the room.

Prologue: Found It remembered a time of life and colour, when it danced and played and sang, when children flocked around him and fed off its happiness and energy and gave him their own. Would it ever experience that again?

Prologue: Name  Old, brittle bones grinded. Rusted metal sounded against the tiled floor. Colourless eyes softly glowed silver.

Returned ...whoever thought it was a good idea to create a horror attraction out of the actual murders of actual children needed to have their heads readjusted. Forcefully. With a mask full of crossbeams and wires.

Exploration ...servos and circuits, they had been at this location for an hour and Freddy was already having a terrible day. Also it was 10 AM. The location operated at night. Why.

Darkness  So young, and left without a voice. I ask you now to make your choice. Clean the tiles of blood and tears? Or let them suffer with their fears?

Void He called up a memory, of turquoise eyes and golden fur, of whispers in the night that meant nothing and everything, of a feeling of happiness, that nothing would ever change, because the world was already perfect. 

Balloons Of course this place has wonky physics.

JJ “So let me get this straight. A potentially dangerous supernatural rabbit wants me to take a cryptic message to a potentially dangerous animatronic rabbit, and then somehow convince the other potentially dangerous animatronic rabbit and his potentially dangerous animatronic friends that the first potentially dangerous animatronic rabbit is not, in fact, the definitely dangerous child-murdering serial killer who’s...somewhere else. Have I got all that?”

Rabbit Part of his mouth twitched, as if he was trying to make a facial expression, but couldn't. 

Arcade The Void was not cooperating.

Parts Things had always seemed much brighter when they were two.

Guard Whatever came to one or the other's mind, in the breaks between people coming through and Sam playing creepy sounds over the speakers because 'a couple of teenagers are smooching on cam six, do they you realize I can see you, jesus christ, why are you even snogging in a horror attraction anyway, I really don't get the appeal, I swear to god-' or something along those lines, anyway.

Adventure Peace wasn't a feeling the ghost had had for a very long time.

Notes ...it had been a handful of wild yellow daisies a little girl had found, and he’d woven them into a ‘flower crown’ (actually more of a flower bracelet- the girl had picked as many as she could hold, but children had small hands) and put it on Fredbear’s hat when his partner wasn’t looking. Fredbear had promptly worn it all that night and the next day, daisies and all. Spring hadn’t been sure if he’d noticed or not, but either way, it had been very cute.

Cupcakes If the kid wanted a dinosaur, the kid should get a dinosaur, as far as he was concerned. Clothes were clothes. Why did people kick up such a stink about it sometimes?

Tapes “Uh, hello? Hello, hello! Uh, there’s been a slight change of company policy concerning use of the suits. Um, don’t.” “Oh gee,” JJ muttered, “imagine. It’s almost as if they were giant metal deathtraps.”

Talk ...she didn’t need to understand every aspect of Springtrap's life. That was Springtrap’s job, and he was apparently terrible at it.

Performance “It smells like something crawled in there and died.” 

Gold Fredbear had been Springtrap’s heart and soul; as much as he loved the children and gave each performance his all, his real reason for living was in the bear who sang beside him. Springtrap remembered singing on stage, a guitar in his hands and love in his soul. He remembered stolen kisses in the night, waltzing on cool tiles with music nobody else could hear. He remembered stealing Fredbear’s hat dozens of times, running off wearing it and giggling like a small child himself. He remembered quiet nights, when the only sounds were his guitar and Fred’s soft humming, sometimes the same tune, sometimes not, but neither of them ever cared. He remembered curling up together, watching stars twinkle in the night sky beyond the walls of the little diner, and truly believing that the time they had together was infinite. 

Stage He was holding something. He looked down, opened his hand and saw a gleaming purple microphone, accented with gold. It had been years, decades, since he had last seen it, but he recognized it. He knew what it meant. "Even after everything, I’m still with you." 

[Note: this is also the chapter that contained Springtrap’s poem. I’m quite proud of that one, despite how much of a pain it was to write. So, honourable mention]

Notes [Note: wait, crud, there’s two chapters named Notes? I’m gonna have to change one of those later.]

Maybe she just needed to hit something.

Knife [Note: I forgot to actually title this one in AO3. Welp. Better fix that later]

It was slightly strange, a Freddy’s-related crime that was just… basic burglary. It was always the unusual crimes that happened- murder, manslaughter, OSHA violations (so many OSHA violations). But theft? That was new.

Shadows

They lapsed back into silence for a moment. “So, this place… is it real?” In a fashion. It was created from your memories of what is gone. “So… if Fredbear isn’t here…” He is unreachable. “Where?” I cannot tell you. “You don’t know, do you.” The Shadow-Bear was silent, telling Springtrap all he needed to know. 

Puppet RWQ… Yes? Stop tormenting the rabbit. You’re no fun. Puppet? She hissed at the purple bear. Stop tormenting the rabbit. “And why would I listen to you?” Because, Shadow Freddy said as the Puppet was slowly levitated up into the air, all four limbs flailing, he’s needed. And also, you are being, as Springtrap so eloquently called RWQ earlier, an asshole.

Voice Specifically, it was more a mixture of blood, rotting flesh, and whatever other bodily fluids lingered in William Afton’s partially mummified decomposing head and was accessible via Springtrap’s mouth, without opening said mouth to the point where someone would notice said partially mummified decomposing head.  [Or] Springtrap was displaying remarkable self-restraint. First, he hadn’t punched the Puppet in the face for threatening his friend’s life. Then, he hadn’t punched the Puppet in the face for implying he had a problem with the golden bear. Now, he wasn’t squeezing the life out of JJ in a hug.

Ghosts “No. The thing is, I’ve never had a name I felt truly fit before it. I can’t be Bonnie any more; the Classic model has taken that name, and he is welcome to have it. Spring Bonnie was the name the Man Behind the Slaughter used; I never truly referred to myself with it. Some employees called me Golden Bonnie, to fit with the whispers of a Golden Freddy, but that was never truly a name either, although I suppose I could have gotten used to it eventually. But Springtrap? It lets me keep my past, and it lets me have a future. Sure, it’s a little odd, but I don’t mind. I kind of like it. It’s unique.”

Humans Oh, Spring has a key. That explains where the spare went! When did he get that? Jake’s been looking for it for ages. Not that it’s my business. He says he technically works here, so it’s not stealing. Cheeky. He’s right though.

Henry “I’m not sure whether I should be pissed about the weird way he’s been constructed, or impressed he hasn’t collapsed yet. What the hell is holding him togeth- wait what the hell is that.” Springtrap winced. He knew he should’ve warned them beforehand, but he still tended to hide the rotting corpse. It was instinctive, a sort of habit- born from the fear he would be scrapped is the workers found out, and increased by the fact he was being blamed for murder.

Sound No matter how bad Springtrap’s eyesight could get, no matter how often his joints locked up, Springtrap had always had his rabbit hearing. It had saved his life several times, back when the Classics were hunting him. He had figured out a basic method of echolocation for when his eyes were useless. He relied on his ears, and now they were letting him down for the first time in his life. It scared him.

Doors “Freddy! We have a problem!”

Attack He did. He needed a hand. God, it hurt. Where was his arm? Was that his arm? No, it couldn’t be. He was gold. Not green. Or maybe it was. It was hard to think. Thinking. What a strange concept. The Greeks had invented thinking, hadn't they? Why would they do that?

Rest There were voices. Voices. His voicebox had lungs. His lungs were in his spine. His spine was being held together by lungs. His spine attached to his legs. He had no legs. He heard voices. He couldn’t hear. The grass was nice. Cool. Soft. Green. Like his eyes. Not like his eyes. Like his fur. He had no fur. Like his plush. His plush was green. Or gold. Or red. Or brown. He couldn’t remember which. Maybe it was all of them There was a breeze. It was nice. Warm. Hot. It was sunny. The sun was a star. He liked stars.  Stars meant Fredbear. And dancing. Where were his legs? He wanted to dance with the stars. Or with Fredbear. Fredbear. His Fredbear. He missed Fredbear.

Epilogue: Box Smeared down the plaster, it started about six feet up, and grew thicker toward the ground. It looked like Springtrap, or the Purple Guy, had slid down the wall until they were sitting. The tile beneath was stained heavily, and Freddy marvelled at how much blood was in a human body.

Epilogue: Opening ... no killing. That was the new rule. It was a strange one, for Master, but he supposed Master knew what he was talking about. He had changed, too; he had scratched behind his ears a couple days ago and it had felt so good.

Epilogue: Spark He remembered a time of life and colour, when he danced and played and sang, when children flocked around him and fed off his happiness and energy and gave him their own. He would experience that again.