#I hate shadows. I hate lighting. I hate angles. Defeated by the shadow of my hand and terrible camera quality.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

i'm desperate to know how many notebooks you have filled with these drawings. i must know, please, i'm on my hands and knees

Most of my comics are drawn on standard letter paper (8.5"x11"), and to date I have filled 23 pages! I usually manage to fit roughly 6-8 comics per page.

Mspaint recreation of the first page!

[bansurii]

Pen Pals

pair: sukuna x afab!reader

content: smut, stalking, threats, slight violence, dubious consent i think ?, profanity, choking, an impossible angle, sukuna is a serial killer but we never touch fully on that, reader is scared a lot, and idk what more is needed but just be careful proceeding MDNI thank you!

line dividers @cafekitsune

“So, what if your charming pen pal turns out to look like Quasimodo?”

“I have his picture! Besides, it’s not like we’ll ever actually meet. He’s serving life.”

Your friend gaped at you, her eyes widening in disbelief. 

The conversation had begun with your usual letter-writing ritual. What had once been a simple hobby had evolved into an infatuation with a man labeled as one of the world's most dangerous criminals. Despite his reputation, his letters had been nothing but kind, making your heart flutter with each new page. His picture revealed a ruggedly handsome man, his body adorned with tattoos that hinted at a dangerous past.

You had told your friend about him almost a year ago. Predictably, she responded with trepidation, urging you to choose a less notorious correspondent. 

“He’s still a person,” you’d argue. “Even the most hated need love too. And what harm could he do if he never knows where I live, let alone what I look like?”

However, his latest request had unsettled you both. He wanted a picture of you, something to remember you by during lonely times. Your friend was livid when you mentioned it.

“You cannot send him a picture! What if he has friends on the outside? I refuse to become a target because of your bad decisions!”

You laughed it off, continuing to write a diplomatic yet affectionate refusal. Your friend, exasperated, finally sighed in defeat.

“Well, enjoy writing to the serial killer. I’m staying at my boyfriend’s place for a while. If he gets out and comes after you, call the police first, then me.”

You reassured her with a laugh, promising to be cautious. She hugged you tightly before leaving. Neither of you noticed the grey car parked across the street, its presence having become so familiar it was easily ignored.

The following evening, a knock at your door startled you. Expecting your friend, you were puzzled to find no one there. Just a box. 

With a mix of excitement and dread, you approached the door. The box bore a note in handwriting you recognized instantly:

*Such a beautiful home. I thought you would enjoy a little gift from the other side…*

Your anxiety surged. You scanned the empty, unnaturally quiet street before retreating inside. The flickering streetlight across from your home seemed dimmer than usual, casting eerie shadows. A rustle in the bushes sent you scurrying back inside, locking the doors and setting the alarm with trembling hands.

The box sat ominously on your coffee table. Despite your curiosity, fear kept you from opening it. Instead, you holed up in your room, hoping sleep would come despite the dread gnawing at you.

In the dead of night, you jolted awake to the sound of metal scraping against metal. Someone was inside your home. 

Determined not to fall into the typical horror trope of investigating, you stayed put. But then you heard it—footsteps, slow and deliberate, ascending the carpeted stairs.

Panic gripped you. Clutching the bat you kept in your closet, you listened as the intruder approached. The door across the hall creaked open, and you steeled yourself for the worst. But then you recognized the sounds—muffled giggles and a familiar voice.

Relief washed over you. Your friend had returned, and apparently brought her boyfriend. You set the bat down, heart still racing, and fell back into bed, the adrenaline finally giving way to exhaustion.

In the morning, you would face the box and the mysteries it held. For now, you allowed yourself to sink into the comfort of your bed, hoping that sleep would bring a respite from the turmoil of the past few days.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow on your bedroom. Despite the terror of the previous night, you felt a strange sense of calm as you padded downstairs. The box still sat on the coffee table, its presence a reminder of the eerie note and the mystery it held.

Taking a deep breath, you sat on the couch and gingerly lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in a bed of luxurious velvet, was an object that took your breath away. It was a stunningly crafted necklace, the centerpiece a large, gleaming sapphire surrounded by intricate filigree work in white gold. The piece was elegant, expensive, and utterly out of place for something sent from a prison.

You lifted it gently, the gem catching the light and casting tiny rainbows across the room. For a moment, the sheer beauty of the necklace overshadowed your fear. How could something so exquisite come from a man behind bars?

Elated but wary, you turned the necklace over in your hands, inspecting every detail. It was flawless, and the craftsmanship was impeccable. This was no ordinary gift. 

Your mind raced. How did he manage to send something so extravagant? More importantly, how did he know your address? You felt a shiver run down your spine as you recalled your friend's words: *“What if he has friends on the outside?”*

The realization hit you hard. He must have outside help. Someone capable of acquiring such a piece and delivering it to your doorstep. Your elation was quickly replaced by a deep sense of unease. 

How long had he known where you lived? You thought back to the grey car that had been parked across the street. Was it connected? Had you been watched?

You set the necklace back in the box, hands trembling. The beauty of the gift now seemed tainted by the sinister implications. Your friend's warnings echoed in your mind: *“I am not going to die because of your bad decisions!”* You couldn’t ignore the danger any longer.

Reaching for your phone, you dialed your friend’s number. She answered on the third ring, her voice groggy with sleep.

“Hey, it’s me. You were right. We need to talk.”

Later that day, your friend arrived, her face a mix of concern and frustration. You showed her the necklace, and she gasped.

“This is... gorgeous. But it’s also terrifying. How did he send this?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice shaking. “And I don’t know how he found my address.”

She paced the room, glancing nervously out the window. “We need to call the police. This is beyond creepy.”

You nodded, knowing she was right. The thrill of your pen pal had turned into something dangerous, something that required more than just caution. As you picked up the phone to dial the authorities, you couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on you, the sense of being watched. The beautiful necklace now felt like a heavy weight, a symbol of the peril you had unwittingly invited into your life.

As you waited for the police to arrive, you couldn’t help but wonder about the man who had written such kind letters. Was he truly as dangerous as they said, or was there more to the story? Either way, you knew you couldn’t continue the correspondence. The price of your curiosity had become too high, and your safety was worth far more than any thrill or beautiful gift.

A few weeks had passed, and your friend continued to stay with her boyfriend, feeling guilty for leaving you alone but too scared to return. She called you every day, ensuring you were unharmed and feeling as well as could be expected. The police had stationed an officer outside your house during those weeks, but with no further incidents, they eventually recalled the officer. They advised you to call if anything came up, assuring you they would do their best to keep you safe. You had downplayed the threat, omitting any mention of your pen pal. Had they known the full extent, they might have placed you under witness protection.

Unfortunately, the eerie calm was shattered today.

The grey car had returned, and this time, you could make out the driver. He bore a stark resemblance to the picture you had seen of your pen pal, the world’s most dangerous criminal, now sitting outside your home, watching and waiting. But for what? What did he plan to do once you were alone?

You couldn't call out from work again, needing to maintain some semblance of normalcy. Steeling yourself, you put on your best intimidating face and walked to your car, though you felt more like a deer caught in headlights. Ignoring the piercing, watchful eyes of the man was harder than you imagined, but you managed to get into your car and drive away.

You knew it was foolish to drive to work, thinking he might follow you, but if he knew your address, he likely knew where you worked. At least at work, you'd be surrounded by people and security personnel. If he tried anything—which you doubted he would in such a public setting—there would be help nearby.

The day dragged on, dread gnawing at you. Your focus was shattered, and your supervisor almost reprimanded you until they realized how shaken you were. They backed off, giving you space to regain your composure. HR knew something was seriously wrong but couldn’t disclose details to anyone else, offering you a temporary reprieve.

But this day was particularly harrowing, and you barely made it through. As the workday ended, you practically sprinted to your car, seeking the relative safety it offered while there were still people around.

Home was a different story.

You entered, not realizing the door had been unlocked until you were already in the living room. Shock, dread, and fear flooded you as you saw him there, seated on your sofa.

He was casually examining a picture of you with your friend, family, and your old pet. He looked content, as if he belonged there, as if he were truly at home.

Panic surged. You wondered what he could do to you in such close quarters. Thick walls muted sounds from neighboring homes; no one would hear you in time. You felt paralyzed, unsure of what to do if he made a move.

He shifted his position, dropping one leg and crossing the other, all the while holding your gaze. He took in your presence, the real you, not just the image he had studied. You were no longer a picture, but flesh and blood, standing before him.

“Nice to meet you, [Your Name].”

You had never told him your real name, only an alias. Somehow, he had discovered your true identity, just as he had found your address.

“I hope you don’t mind my intrusion. I couldn’t resist, especially after a month of silence from you. I noticed you called the police. I'm quite impressed that you managed to keep my presence in your life a secret.”

You trembled, tears starting to well in your eyes and trickle down your face.

“Ah, don’t cry. I’m not here to harm you. What I have in mind will be much more pleasurable. For both of us.”

His words chilled you to the core. The beauty of the necklace, the allure of his letters, all seemed like a distant dream compared to the present reality. You stood frozen, unable to move or speak, as he smiled at you, his intentions shrouded in menace and mystery.

“I-I…” 

The tears began to slow, your breath evening out as a semblance of calm started to return. He watched you closely, giving you a moment to dry your face and find the words that had eluded you. 

But silence persisted. Your thoughts were in disarray, still grappling with the reality of his sudden presence. He seemed to sense your inner turmoil, knowing you needed time to process the situation. As he approached, his imposing figure loomed over you, each step bringing him closer.

Realizing his intent, you instinctively retreated, but his long strides easily closed the distance. Your back met the cold, unyielding wall, trapping you. You wished you could tear it down, burrow into an indestructible sanctuary, and escape the nightmare your life had become. 

His proximity was overwhelming, a blend of menace and fascination, as you stood frozen, unable to tear your gaze from his. The intensity of the moment hung heavy in the air, a storm of emotions threatening to consume you both.

He continued to close the distance, his presence suffocating yet electrifying. You could feel the heat radiating from his body as he drew nearer, until he was mere inches away. He raised his arms, placing his hands on the wall on either side of your head, effectively caging you in. The scent of him, a mix of cologne and something distinctly male, enveloped you.

"Is this what you like?" he asked, his voice a low, tantalizing murmur. His eyes bored into yours, searching for a reaction.

Your breath hitched, the proximity overwhelming your senses. The thrill of fear and an unexpected surge of excitement coursed through you, leaving you dizzy and unable to respond.

"Tell me," he continued, leaning in even closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "Is this what you've been waiting for?"

The intensity of his gaze, the warmth of his breath, and the sheer force of his presence made it hard to think, let alone speak. You were caught in a whirlwind of emotions, your mind a chaotic mix of fear, confusion, and a strange, unwelcome attraction. His dominance was intoxicating, leaving you both terrified and inexplicably drawn to him.

His hands remained on the wall, trapping you, as his eyes continued to hold yours captive. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with unspoken tension. In that moment, you realized you were at his mercy, and the realization sent a shiver down your spine.

The intensity in his gaze didn't waver as he spoke again, his voice a silken whisper. "Why don't you show me around? I'd like to see more of your home."

Your heart pounded as you nodded, feeling compelled to comply. Slowly, he dropped his hands from the wall, giving you a semblance of freedom, though his presence still dominated the space. He gestured for you to lead the way.

With trembling steps, you walked towards the staircase, feeling his eyes on you, a constant reminder of the danger and allure he embodied. The transition from the living room to the upper floor was surreal, the normalcy of your home tainted by his dark presence. Each step up the stairs felt like a journey deeper into an inescapable labyrinth.

You reached the top of the stairs and paused, glancing back at him. His expression was unreadable, but a faint, almost predatory smile played at his lips. You hesitated for a moment before pushing open the door to your bedroom.

"This is my room," you said softly, stepping inside.

He followed, his tall frame filling the doorway before he moved to the center of the room. He looked around, taking in every detail. The room, once a sanctuary, now felt exposed and vulnerable.

"Show me more," he instructed, his voice firm yet oddly gentle.

You led him to the adjoining bathroom, your hands trembling as you opened the door. The bathroom was small but neat, the shower glistening under the overhead light. He inspected it briefly, then turned back to you, his eyes locking onto yours.

"This will do nicely," he said, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of something more.

Your mind raced, the reality of the situation pressing down on you. "What do you want from me?" you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer, reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair from your face. "For now, just your cooperation. Tonight is just the beginning. After the night's activities, I might need a place to clean up."

His words sent a shiver down your spine. The ambiguity of "activities" left your mind reeling with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. You found yourself nodding, unable to do anything else.

"Good girl," he murmured, his hand lingering on your cheek. "Now, let's make the most of our evening together."

His touch was both reassuring and sinister, a stark reminder of the control he wielded over you. ��Take this off…”

You were shocked, appalled even, at such a request from a man you barely knew, despite the intimacy of his letters, the truths he shared, his truth. 

You hesitated, glancing up at him with a mix of trepidation and a spark of rebellion. 

He smirked slightly, as if he had anticipated your resistance. His hand reached out, but you scurried backward, clutching onto what felt like the last vestiges of your dignity. 

He wasn’t taking no for an answer, not from someone who had shown him such genuine kindness, such unguarded affection for the first time in decades.

It dawned on you just how monumental a mistake that kindness had been.

As you stood there, frozen in your shock, he moved swiftly. In an instant, he had closed the distance between you, his strong hands seizing your blouse. The fabric bunched under his grip, the force of his hold sending a jolt through you.

“Don’t fight it,” he murmured, his voice a velvet threat. “You and I both know this was inevitable.”

His words hung heavy in the air, mingling with the palpable tension that seemed to throb between you. His touch, firm and unyielding, ignited a tumult of emotions within you—fear, defiance, and a disturbing undercurrent of something you couldn’t quite name.

“You think you can just come into my life and—” your voice faltered, the defiance wavering under the weight of his gaze.

“I don’t think, I know,” he interrupted, his tone commanding and confident. His eyes, dark and intense, bore into yours. “You invited me in with every letter, every secret you shared. This connection we have—it’s real. And now, it’s time to face it.”

Your breath hitched as he pulled you closer, the proximity making your heart race. The air between you crackled with an undeniable energy, a mix of danger and an inexplicable pull that left you both terrified and entranced.

“You’ve got me all wrong,” you whispered, desperation creeping into your voice.

“No,” he replied, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “I’ve got you exactly where I want you.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, the reality of your situation crashing over you. The walls of your sanctuary seemed to close in, the room shrinking as his presence dominated. You were caught in his web, and the more you struggled, the more entangled you became.

With a final, firm tug, he brought you even closer, his breath warm against your skin. “Let’s see how this night unfolds,” he murmured, a promise and a threat woven into his words.

In that moment, you realized there was no escape. You were his, for better or worse, and the night was just beginning.

His deft hands worked quickly, yet with a surprising gentleness, as he pulled at your blouse. He was careful, mindful of not tearing buttons or threads, his touch respectful in its slow haste to undress you. Each movement seemed deliberate, as if he were savoring the unveiling of your skin, as if he knew the value of each delicate inch.

Once your clothing lay discarded, you stood before him in just your bralette and panties, exposed yet somehow still veiled in mystery. His eyes roamed over you, taking in the sight of a woman—a vision of beauty that left him breathless. He drank in every curve, every line, every delicate feature, his gaze lingering on each detail as if committing them to memory.

He had seen countless women in his lifetime, but none had captivated him quite like you. There was something about you, something ineffable and intoxicating, that drew him in, leaving him hungry for more.

In that moment, as you stood there before him, vulnerable yet unyielding, he realized just how much he craved you. And he knew, with a certainty that bordered on obsession, that he would stop at nothing to possess you completely.

You knew that begging would likely be futile, so you chose silence instead, allowing your gaze to wander anywhere but at him and what he was doing. But he seemed to revel in being watched, his ego swelling as he unveiled each layer of your clothing.

His touch was insistent as his index finger and thumb grasped your chin, forcing your gaze to remain solely on him. You felt a surge of defiance rise within you, but it was quickly quelled by the intensity of his gaze.

With practiced ease, he removed your bra, followed by your panties. The air between you crackled with tension as he exposed you completely, and you couldn't help but feel exposed and vulnerable under his scrutiny.

A low groan escaped him, barely audible but unmistakable. It was a sound of longing, of desire unleashed after years of confinement. You realized then just how long it had been since he had seen a living, breathing woman, and the thought sent a shiver down your spine.

You stood there, naked and exposed, feeling his eyes on you like a physical touch. There was something primal in the way he looked at you, as though he were seeing you for the first time, drinking in every curve and contour of your body.

You tried to maintain some semblance of composure, but it was difficult under his relentless gaze. You felt stripped bare, not just of your clothing but of your defenses, your vulnerabilities laid bare before him.

As he stepped closer, the heat of his body enveloping you, you knew that there was no turning back. The night stretched out before you, a vast unknown filled with equal parts fear and fascination. And as he reached out to pull you closer, you couldn't help but wonder what other surprises lay in store.

Your cheek pressed into the cold, quartz floor of your bathroom, every nerve ending alive with sensation. You could feel the weight of him behind you, his eyes drinking in the sight of your rear pressing against his hips. His blazer, shirt, and pants had been discarded, leaving him in just his boxers. Despite the fabric that still separated your bodies, you felt everything from him—his warmth, his strength, his desire.

He had positioned you in a neat arch, your body stretched taut, every muscle straining against the confines of your own submission. His command was clear: remain still, hold that position until he was ready to take you further.

You obeyed, every fiber of your being thrumming with anticipation and fear. The cold floor beneath you was a stark contrast to the heat that radiated from him, and the sensation only heightened your awareness of every touch, every breath that brushed against your skin.

Time seemed to stand still as you waited, your body poised on the precipice of something unknown. You could hear the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat, a counterpoint to the electric tension that hung heavy in the air.

And then, without warning, his hands were on you, tracing the contours of your body with a touch that sent shivers down your spine. His fingers were skilled, mapping every curve and dip with a precision that left you breathless.

You felt him shift behind you, his body moving with a fluid grace that belied the strength coiled beneath his skin. You were afraid of the movement, wanting to look behind you to see what exactly he was doing. And when you felt the tip of him nearing your heat, you redacted the beautiful arch he helped you to create for him and tried to squirm away.

Before you knew it, he had your hair twisted in his hand, pressing your head painfully further against the floor, his breath fanning over your ear. “Move again… and I will crack your skull over this floor and with this treasure I’ll summon something worse than death for you.”

And then, with a suddenness that stole your breath away, he entered you, filling you completely with a single, powerful thrust.

The sensation was overwhelming, a flood of pleasure and pain that threatened to consume you. You bit back a gasp, your body trembling with the effort to remain still as he took you further, deeper into the abyss of his desire. He was much too large to enjoy, your stretched muscles struggling to comprehend the intrusion.

And as he moved within you, each thrust driving you closer to the edge of oblivion, you realized that there was no turning back. You were his, body and soul, caught in the grip of a passion that threatened to consume you both. And in that moment, as he claimed you as his own, you surrendered to the darkness that beckoned, knowing that there was no escape from the depths of his desire.

By the time he was finished, you had orgasmed nearly six times. The final was barely an orgasm, he had edged you and slapped your ass. Breathy laughs finding your ears and somehow you felt yourself able to share his laughter. Your cunt clenched against his twitching length, a feeling he relished in.

Just when you thought he was finished, he pushed your legs apart as far as they would go, nearly into a split, pressing himself further into you, impossibly deeper. Your eyes bulged, hips tightened and your cunt contracted against his deep-seated length once more, your cervix contracting and relaxing in slow bouts against his tip. He lifted your hips, allowing him a new arch, fresh angle, and an even deeper reach. 

You wanted to sob, to beg him to stop, but you also wanted to see what he would do in this position. 

He reached one hand in front, taking your neck into his possession and he pulled back just enough to keep you stationary and choke you slightly at the same time, the angle would do the rest. 

And slowly, he pulled back, allowing just the tip to remain before he thrusts intensely inside of you, pressing against the spot he knew would drive you insane. 

And you cursed him, screaming out all sorts of obscenities and lewd things as he continued to abuse the same spot. His girth squeezed in and out of you with much effort, the tightened feel of your cunt in this position was the one thing that kept him grounded, eyes drawn into a focus on your connected bodies. 

He had cum so many times and this position had him dangerously close to blowing his load again, but he held back just enough. He wanted to cum with you again.

Increasing his speed, he pushed and pulled inside your pussy, watching as it sucked him and pushed him out simultaneously. 

“S’kunaaaa… Fuuuccckkk! Pl-please!”

He knew what you were begging for, screaming out his name for. And he was so close to giving it to you. He had to give you what you wanted since you had been so obedient for him all night. He was nearing his end, bringing his free hand down to your clit and rubbing dangerous circles and odd shapes into it, nearly ritualistic in his methods and just he groaned his approval, you squirted. Full-body quakes erupting, your eyes rolling back into your head. Anyone watching the scene would have thought you were having a seizure. 

But Sukuna knew. And you knew.

It was simply nirvana.

[detta-pica]

“Okay, enough stalling,” Satoru says, arms wrapped too tightly around Suguru’s neck. “I’m here for one reason and one reason only: to make Suguru look pretty for once in his life. Utahime, where do we start?” Just like that, their harsh words are forgotten, and they assess Suguru with twin predatory looks. What follows is an experience Suguru will never quite recover from. His pores get cleansed. His face is smeared with layers of funny-smelling, unpleasantly cold substances that he doesn’t trust, but isn’t about to say so and get accused of cowardice. His hands are moisturised, his cuticles tidied, his nails painted a glossy black. Suguru can’t stop looking at them, how they reflect the light when he angles them. The effect might be worth the discomfort of having cold liquid smeared over his nails and drying slowly. “Does he look pretty yet?” Shoko asks, grin shit-eating, even though she probably shouldn’t be bunching up her skin under her face mask. She’s on her second beer and the only effect it’s had on her so far is that she’s gotten meaner. Satoru, who has been watching Suguru watch his nails with the smuggest smile on his face, suddenly leans in close, almost nose to nose. Suguru recoils, but Satoru follows, until he’s all but straddling Suguru’s things. “I think,” he says slowly, chin held between his thumb and forefinger, “that we’re not quite there yet.” “Wow, thanks.” Suguru is leaned back against the bed so far that it digs unpleasantly into his spine. “If you hate my face that much, stop looking at it.” “That’s not it. Your face is fine, but I can see its hidden potential. We’ll make a hot girl out of you, Suguru.” Which is how Suguru ends up being subjected to more makeup products he can’t name. Why does his entire face get smeared with skin-coloured stuff? He doesn’t know, but at least it doesn’t smell or feel too unpleasant. The mascara he understands, and also the lip gloss. Then there’s rouge--he thinks--and eye shadow. It’s honestly nice to sit there, hair pulled back with a Cinnamoroll headband, eyes closed, and have Satoru’s hands all over his face. Also various brushes and stuff, those aren’t bad, either. At the end of it, Suguru feels a little ridiculous and a lot pampered. Shoko gleefully hands him a hand mirror, and--well. That sure is the general shape of his face. “Huh,” Suguru decides, and can’t stop staring. Mostly he’s shocked that Satoru hasn’t taken the opportunity to make Suguru look like a clown, literal or otherwise. But he hasn’t. Instead, the makeup is subtle and genuinely highlights Suguru’s better features. He could go out like this, he thinks, and only feel vaguely guilty about the indulgence. “What do you mean, huh?” Satoru whines, tugging Suguru’s headband up and snapping it against the side of his head. “This took hard work, Suguru! Appreciate it.” “No, I’m just--it looks good. Thank you?” Suguru doesn’t know the protocol here. “Do you want me to return the favour?” Satoru’s grin is blinding. “Hell yes. I love to watch you fail.” Suguru has no choice but to tackle him for that. The girls scramble out of the way as Satoru’s laughter fills the room, too loud in the small space. Suguru continues sitting on him as he applies lip gloss--and immediately gets stuck. He can’t come up with a reason to cover up Satoru’s perfect skin. Rouge would probably look nice, but Satoru’s natural, splotchy blushes are so much cuter. Mascara is out of the question--they haven’t bought any shades that would work with Satoru’s unreal eyelashes. Defeated, Suguru grabs blue eye shadow and uses it very conservatively. Satoru’s eyes already look bug-like from the wrong angle. There’s no reason to make them seem even bigger.

When I said I'm happily stuck writing fics for fandom events, I was so serious. This one's going to be for @switchmasinjuly.

I know absolutely nothing about makeup or proper skincare, and am going purely off of pop culture and things I learned by reading fanfiction. Feedback is welcome 🙈

[thefirstknife]

Lightfall quest is also really good. Seems to be something that will go on for a bit, I think, since the point was to get Golden Age files and we heard only one file. Osiris said there's more but that he needs time to decrypt them.

Files are Chioma Esi's logs! She is a voiced character now! Massive win for the lesbians. Osiris also directly mentions her having a wife, just in case there are people who wanted to be in denial until now.

But before that, really interesting dialogue between Nimbus and Osiris towards the end of the quest. I'll transcribe it and add a link to the video later when it gets uploaded by Destiny Lore Vault:

Nimbus: You know, ever since we defeated Calus, I've been wondering a lot more about the Veil. I think... I think we take it for granted. It's always been here. We always assumed that the Ishtar Collective brought it with them on the Exodus ship, but... Osiris: But now you question that assumption. Nimbus: Nezarec seemed to know something, didn't he? When we were inside the Vex network, he said something about... Savathun. Osiris: My memories cast shadows of Savathun's. Echoes of the time she and I were bound by her dark magic. The more time we spend here, the clearer the outline of those shadows become. The Ishtar Collective didn't bring the Veil here, Nimbus. Savathun stole it from the Witness and left it here... quite possibly for the Ishtar Collective to find. Nimbus: Why? Why would she do that? Isn't she our enemy? Osiris: She is. And yet, at times, she is our ally... when it is convenient to her, and in that convenience, we find common ground. Or as a friend once said, the line between Light and Dark... is very thin. Nimbus: [grunts] I kinda hate that. Osiris: As do I.

That's really good information and an interesting angle to understand the Veil situation better. First, Neomuni clearly don't even know how the Veil got there. They either assumed (as Nimbus said) that it was brought by the founders or perhaps the founders told everyone they did so, to keep the situation in control. It's easier to build a civilisation on this power if you tell people you brought that power here, rather than telling them that an alien entity placed it there during the time when alien entities were destroying the solar system.

But outside of that, ever since that time, people took it for granted, as Nimbus put it. They didn't really question it or wonder about it. The Veil is there, it's powering Neomuna, it was brought by the founders to make the civilisation, that's it. There's nothing really to wonder about for the average citizen. Not to say that they don't care about it, but they don't view it as something that has to be explained or pondered. As I've said before, the Veil to the Neomuni is a power source. They're not into it because of strange paracausal powers or whatever the hell is going on with it and the Witness. It's nice to see that reading was the intended one; to Neomuni, the Veil is a power source and one that is taken for granted aka isn't being actively researched. Meaning, they can't answer our questions about what the Veil is.

And now transcript of Chioma's first log (very VERY likely that more will be coming throughout the season, maybe on a weekly basis? They wouldn't voice her for one message is my main assurance). The log is accessed in the big room overlooking the Veil:

The log transcript (link):

Chioma Esi, personal log: incidental. Maya arrived yesterday with the Exodus Indigo. I should be relieved, but... in light of the current situation, I... I don't feel much of anything. We're presently en route from Hyperion to the terraformed surface of Neptune. I'm scared. I'm so scared! We don't even know what we've lost. Comms are dead. It's just silence everywhere. We might be all that's left. Maya was right about everything. The cult, the end... how we'll survive. [sighs] I hate this.

Some interesting points right away! Hyperion has been long established as a place where Chioma Esi was working. This is also giving us the Exodus Indigo route: Maya was on the colony ship which made a stop at Hyperion to pick up Chioma (and possibly other people). Shortly after they left Hyperion, the events of Winterbite lore happened where the colony ship was attacked by an unknown entity which left Winterbite in the hull.

Another neat point is that Chioma mentioned that a part of Neptune's surface was already terraformed. This gives us some crucial details; Exodus Indigo was going to Neptune on purpose and didn't just have to land there as an emergency escape. Going there was deliberate which also makes sense given that previously an ECHO ship crashed on Neptune. This makes it's more likely that Maya knew about the ECHO ship crash and about Soteria's possible survival and that Exodus Indigo followed that trail deliberately. The mention of surface being terraformed already also means that the colony was well underway of being established following the ECHO ship crash. Neptune was being hard-prepared to fit a colony.

This also means that Exodus Indigo was most likely a very well known mission and that Neomuna was not originally planned as something secret. They only went dark after making an assumption that they may be the only ones who survived the Collapse, which Chioma mentions in this log! Comms went silent and they had no idea what was going on; if they wanted to ensure the survival of the human species, they had to also assume that they're the only ones left and hide.

Chioma also mentions that "Maya was right about everything." She specifically mentions "the cult" which is Future War Cult, founded by Maya in the Golden Age. FWC was investigating something called the Device, a Vex-tech based machine capable of predicting the future. The cult would eventually regain access to the Device and use it well into the present day for the same purpose. Chioma also mentions "the end" as she muses about Maya being right about everything. Strange and possibly concerning. What exactly did Maya see through the Device?

This is some wild stuff, especially to me now after I've made a really long post about some curious connections between the concept of the history and mind of the universe and how it tends to be adjacent to Vex predictive technology. I mentioned Maya, Future War Cult and the Device in this post as well, trying to see if there's anything worth connecting in an analysis. Chioma alluding to the cult again the first time we've ever heard her voiced is intriguing. I'm not sure if this is something that will continue to be explored and if these connections are important, but it definitely felt like an important point to add into this fairly short voice line that specifies about Maya having been right "about everything," "the cult" and "the end."

I'm really excited to see if we'll get more and I assume we will. Osiris was very direct about us having to protect these logs and that there's a lot of them, but that he will have to decrypt them first. If we genuinely get more logs, it will be an incredible treat to hear actual voices from the Golden Age and the Collapse, of people who founded Neomuna and their first encounters with the Veil and possibly their original research into it.

[anika-ann]

BABE OR BABE TIME - You're about to cross the street, but you're listening to music, so absorbed in your favorite song that you don't notice a car speeding towards you. Someone yanks you back onto the sidewalk. One headphone swings out. He introduces himself - who is he? Andy Barber or Steve Rogers?

Hi 💖

Sooo, I'm late with these babe or babe, buuut. This is totally a Steve the hero scenario for me, Andy will forgive me. And hopefully so will you for being late...

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader

Word count: 1200

Warnings: like one swear word?

☔💧☔💧☔💧☔

Steve hates the new ages – he hates that people don’t pay attention to anything but their phones anymore; heads down in an angle that has to make their necks hurt, he’s sure of it. But that’s not what bothers him.

It’s that he always wanted to do the right thing and to fight for the little guy and—what has become of society that doesn’t even look up from the screens to notice that a little guy might be in a need of help?

Yeah. Forget neck pain – this kind of behaviour hurts the whole damn humanity. And yes Steve is aware that he is biased perhaps exaggerates a little – but it’s been barely a month since he woke up in the 21st century and everything is too much and not to make excuses, but he deserves to be cut some slack.

He looks around a lot when he’s out, but, if he’s being honest, he keeps his head own a lot too.

He keeps his head down now, drizzle falling into his locks, carefully combed into what is probably an out-of-date hairstyle. About as out-of-date as he is and it shows too – here he is, on the street in a rain, but despite the rain being light, barely anyone is on the usually busy street, people opting for staying shielded from the raindrops.

Despite having his gaze glued to the pavement, only glancing up to see if the light changed so he could cross the street, he sees it.

The human form, hunched over their phone, tapping on the screen, absently humming an unfamiliar tune. Peripherally, he sees her glance up briefly and start walking, ignorant to the fact that yes, the light has changed, but from her left, a huge shadow is speeding in her direction.

Steve’s feet and arms are moving before he even registers what’s happening – two steps and his hands shoot up.

As he yanks her back by her shoulders, she yelps, her back nearly crushing into his chest with the momentum he created – he forgot his strength in the heat of the moment.

And boy, is he heating up, a flare of anger in his chest, because that’s exactly that, not paying attention to what’s happening around and he wants to scold her so bad for being reckless and nearly walking into a damn traffic, even if the car was supposed to stop at the red light.

Her warm body is spinning in his embrace and he instantly lets go, a polite curse on his lips--- it dies in his throat.

She’s looking at him, all wide-eyed and lips parted in the prettiest embodiment of shock he has ever seen and for the first time in a month, Steve feels an unbearable itch to grab a pencil to capture the moment.

One of her earbuds fell out of her ear, dangling off her shoulder onto her chest, Steve’s enhanced hearing catching the playful tune and hopeful lyrics perfectly suited to the weather.

But there's one thing I know

The blues they send to meet me

Won't defeat me, it won't be long

Till happiness steps up to greet me

Raindrops keep falling on my head

But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red…

Steve doesn’t know if he believes in fate – but in that moment, he’d swear it exists. Instead of ‘what the hell are you doing’, something else entirely leaves his lips.

“Are you alright?!“

Her mouth does not close – if anything, her awe only seems to intensify as she blinks frantically, still staring at him without a word. Maybe he did pull her too harshly and hurt her?

“Ma’am?” he adds, mindful of softening his tone, eyes searching her face frantically, telling himself he does it because he’s worried and not because she’s… really pretty to look at.

She finally snaps from her trance, her hand landing on his right bicep, clutching briefly.

“Uhm, yes. Yes!Thank you!” she blurts out, letting out a nervous laugh, eyeing the road where she nearly met her fate – but fate sent Steve into her path, clearly to stop her from walking right there. “Wow. Thank you, seriously.”

Her eyes travel up and down his body and Steve suddenly feels self-conscious of what he’s wearing. He likes his checkered shirt and his high-waist pants, but he’s well-aware of the fact that once again, he looks entirely like the man out of time and it bothers him. Because a pretty girl – woman, a beautiful WOMAN – is assessing him and he finds himself wanting her to like what she sees.

He gulps, his cheeks probably dusting with pink – if feels like they are – and his chest warm for a different reason then anger. It’s a gentler feeling and one that seems so foreign. But a good foreign.

And the woman is looking at him expectantly.

“Of course!” he says quickly, his cheeks positively burning now, but it’s worth the quick smile that passes her lips. His fingers twitch as his brain reminds him that he needsto find a pencil and paper right now. “No problem. Glad you’re alright.”

“Me too. Obviously,” she replies, closing her eyes briefly and shaking her head as if chasing away an unpleasant thought. “This is really bold and I literally never do this, which I guess is what everyone says, but I really mean it, I never ever do this--- but maybe I could, uhm… buy you a coffee as thank you?”

Steve is so absolutely taken aback by the cute ramble and the proposition that it’s his turn to simply stare, the fact that they are probably blocking the pedestrian crossing slipping through his mind.

“Or tea! A cider, maybe? Or it can be a cold beverage! I just assumed that because of the weather— forget it, this is so stupid, I’m sorry-“

She spins on her heels, shaking her head and mumbling under her breath and almost darts straight into that damn traffic again, not even checking if the light is green.

Steve’s breath catches as he automatically grabs her again before the sweet babbling creature can be turned into a pancake.

She halts in her steps due to Steve’s fast reflexes, cars speeding three and half feet from her own feet and her whine of “oh my goooood” is somehow the most adorable thing Steve heard.

Perhaps the modern times and technology aren’t at fault here – it’s her. The woman is just a human disaster.

A beautiful disaster.

Steve’s not sure what possesses him to do it, where the boldness comes from – perhaps it’s the ghost of his cocky best friend, Bucky, whispering in his ear what he should say next. And Steve listens.

“I guess that’s twice now. A coffee and a pie then?”

And to his utter relief and awe, the woman glances over her shoulder, a hand she has covered her face with in embarrassment falling down, replaced by a brilliant smile.

“You got it, Mr. Coffee ‘n Pie…”

Steve finds himself returning the smile, prompting her to finally cross that damn street, his heart in sync with the tune of the song that is still playing from her fallen earbud… and for the first time in a month, it seems like the 21st century isn’t the worst thing that could have happened to him.

…Crying's not for me

'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complaining

Because I'm free

Nothing's worrying me…

☔💧☔💧☔💧☔

This just... happened. Oops.

thank you for reaching out💕

P.S. somehow the formating keeps glitching and I don’t know what to do about it, so sorry

[juicinmyjams]

talk to me about Overnighting at Terminal One!

ahh!! thanks for the ask!! sorry for the million and one years it took to answer it (adulthood + reading through everything I had written for this one and realizing I hated it lol)

the idea is steve having to fly home late for the holidays and a nice big storm rolling in cancelling all the flights out for the night. all the hotel rooms get snatched up/extremely expensive and rather than making the trek home and then back out again in the morning, steve decides to brave overnighting at the airport. eddie has the same idea. inspired by MY flight getting canceled.

here it is:

Steve jerks awake from his drifting. He sits up, the empty terminal greeting him, reminding him that he isn’t dreaming. That he’s made a stupid decision to stick out his layover with plastic seats instead of splurging on a hotel room. 

The terminal, not inviting during the day, is even worse at, he checks his watch, close to midnight. The lights are dim, holiday ribbons casting long shadows and the ornaments reflecting at odd angles. The music that had been playing over the speakers has long since shut off, leaving the place almost silent. Just the creaks and groans of the building as soundtrack. 

And then there’s a clatter, loud in the quiet. Just around the corner from his hideout. Steve sits, frozen, and listens on as the rattling continues. This is why he doesn’t like planes and airports and sleeping places that aren’t his house. It means he doesn’t have access to the baseball bat he keeps tucked by his bed, or the golf club he has stashed next to the stairs. 

There’s a small war going on in his head, if he should check it out, or stay put and hope whatever's going on won’t concern him and that whoever is out there will just go away. But Steve’s nosy and this person did interrupt his sleep. They deserve at least a stink eye. Steve’s pretty sure he can get a good bitch face going right now. 

He’s on his feet before he can think more about it and heads for the linoleum hallway and rounds the corner. 

“Piece of shit-”

Steve stops in his tracks. 

There’s a guy, locked in battle with a vending machine. He’s got both hands gripping the sides of it and shaking. It does more to him than the machine, sends his curly hair flying and leaves him out of breath when he finally gives up. Then, he sighs, defeated, and rests his forehead against the glass. 

“Please, baby.” He whispers, like the change in tactic will sway the machine. “C’mon, I paid you.”

Steve stares blankly at the scene in front of him. It doesn’t even occur to him that he should maybe back away and leave this guy to his vending machine fight. But he must make some kind of noise, or the guy just has a functioning sixth sense, because he notices Steve, lurking. Jumps out of his skin with it, more accurately.

“Christ, dude.” The guy says, looking at him full on now. “You scared the shit out of me.”

And Steve recognizes him now. They were sitting across from each other while they waited for the plane that was never coming to land. They’d made eye contact a few times, all with the feeling of ‘can you believe this shit’ as the loudspeaker announcements got more and more dire. 

The guy is still looking at him, with a lot more apprehension, and Steve realizes he hasn’t said a word, just lurked around the corner and done some heavy staring. 

“Sorry.” Steve offers, sheepish. “If it helps, you also scared the shit out of me.” And points to the machine.

[smellsfaintlyofvanilla]

Hey~~ could you write Annie x reader? What I had in mind was towards the end of s1 when Annie was trying to climb up the wall, could she try and take reader with her because they always talked about being together? Kinda like when Ymir took Historia in s2, and I really love your writings 💕 thanks~

TAsdfhjksfadh you didn’t specify whether Annie made it over the wall with the reader or not so uh I just kinda picked one lol hope you don’t mind

Also, sorry this is a little late, I've been feeling just a little sick for the past couple of days.

Prove It

(Annie Leonhart x Reader)

AU: Canon

Warnings: Season 3 spoilers

Category: Mostly angst, little fluff

Summary: When Annie was outed as the Female Titan, she didn’t have a lot of options on where to go. And, as the fight between her and Eren progresses, it becomes clear her best option is to flee. Yet, there’s just one thing she can’t leave without. And it seems the feeling’s mutual.

Words: 3.1K

That wicked laughter.

It rung through the empty streets of Stohess, abandoned specifically for this military operation.

The goal? To lure out the suspected Female Titan, Annie Leonhart. Your girlfriend.

At first, you were violently against participating in the operation. You weren’t going to incriminate her, that would be incredibly faithless. Really, you wanted nothing more than for her to be vindicated, and to prove the the world the the “heartless” Annie Leonhart is a loyal soldier, not the traitorous snake they started to make of her.

It got in your head, most certainly. Within hours of the first discussion, ‘Annie Leonhart’ and ‘Female Titan’ had become synonymous with each other, and you hated every bit of it. You always defended her fiercely, because you could only hear so much distasteful talk towards her before you started to broil over with rage.

So, you agreed. You were going to lure Annie down in to the tunnel and prove once and for all that she wasn’t a monster. You could clear her of suspicion, and the two of you would go back to your ordinary lives with each other.

And oh, if only that was what happened.

But you watched in horror as Annie refused to go down the tunnel. She laughed, laughed, when you pleaded with her to follow you, that all she needed to do was come along with you to be unshackled from the scrutiny and doubt.

But her feet remained planted in her rigid stance of defense.

“Y/n...” She slurred out, laughter finally subsiding. “I’m glad I could be a good person to you.”

The slope of fear seemed to lose it’s steadiness, and the drop-off into the pit of empty horror occurred when she held up her hand to her mouth, preparing herself for the bloodshed to follow.

“You’ve won your bet. But this is where my bet begins...!”

The signal flare fired, and the countless soldiers waiting in ambush jumped from all angles. You watched, wide-eyed and frozen, as they restrained her and gagged her, like muzzling a dog. But, it was no use. Her ring, the silver ring she never let you touch, sprung up a spike out of it’s side, and a quick slide of her thumb across the tip opened up a bloody gash in her finger.

And then came the lightning.

Mikasa had thrown her arms around you and Armin, dragging you down into the tunnel to get out of harm’s way of the transformation.

You knew she had finished her transformation when the thundering stopped, and chunks of debris rolled to a stop at your feet, stirred dust slowly settling itself back onto the stone ground. For a moment, everything stilled, and only the ragged breaths of Armin and the sheathing of Mikasa’s blades were audible.

And then something moved.

You weren’t sure what it was, until around the corner, the light was consumed by a large shadow, growing closer and closer and absorbing more of the sunlight until it rounded the corner.

A fingertip. Then the finger. Then the hand. An arm—and it was traveling down the hallway, fingers frozen in a pose as if it were trying to grab onto something, something it couldn’t see.

“Shit!” You let out a terrified yelp and took off running, Mikasa hot on your tail and Armin stumbling closely behind.

It sought after the three of you, until a distant thump could be heard. You whipped your head around and stopped running, noticing the hand—ever present, it’s finger stretched desperately in an attempt at grabbing something, but it was no use. You caught a glance of it’s upper arm, flush against the wall of the curve.

She couldn’t reach any farther.

You let out of a sigh of relief, falling to your knees and gazing at it. It’s shaking fingers stopped, finally, and went limp into it’s palm in defeat, before slowly pulling itself out. You had no clue whether it was trying to grab you, or Armin, or Mikasa, or if it was planning on killing you or not. Bottom line, it was unsuccessful.

But then more thunder.

It seems Eren finally got his cue, because the signature yellow hues of transformation shone even into the dark abyss of the wrecked tunnel.

The three of you took a deep breath and shared a collective glance. Before long, the unsaid instructions were followed, and the three of you scurried out of the tunnel to witness the action.

And action it was—the first sight you were greeted with upon exiting was that of Annie delivering a decisive punch to Eren’s jaw, sending him flying backwards into the streets of Stohess.

Eren returned to his feet as fast as he could, and let out a menacing roar as he charged at Annie, arms low like a football player preparing to pounce on something.

He charged, but her feet remained planted, arms bracing for impact.

You watched as the two of them brawled furiously. You didn’t even notice that Mikasa and Armin had left your side—you hadn’t moved. You couldn’t find it in your heart to fight Annie, but neither were you going to fight Eren. No, all you could do was watch, helpless.

The battle continued fiercely, absolutely wrecking the city in the process. Building were destroyed and crumpled, streets of stone completely upended as one or the other got helplessly tossed around.

It came to a head as the fight eventually progressed to a wide, open space of stone, and the two of them were fighting hand to hand, both of them looking worse for wear. You shot your ODM gear into the roof of a nearby building, watching the fight with a slacked jaw. You had no clue how Eren was even standing a chance to Annie, since you yourself had seen how skilled she was in martial arts.

Soon, though, a decisive kick to Annie shin sent debris and rocks flying everywhere. Annie lost her footing, tumbling to the ground with a thump.

And you had been so fixated on Annie in that moment that you failed to notice the debris, and it was headed right towards your face.

Something—rigid and powerful—collided with your head, and you fell to the ground instantly.

Your vision was already fading, and you watched as tiny streams of crimson flowed over the shingles and down the roof—no doubt stemming from the newly opened gash on your scalp.

The distant clinking of the rock as it tumbled down the slope of the roof was the last thing you heard, and the world around you faded to black.

---

Through the darkness, a memory flashed through your mind.

---

It was dark out, of course it was. Shadis would never let you have leisure time at all when the sun was up.

You leaned against an lone oak tree, fingers brushing through the soft grass idly. The air was cold and crisp, and a soft breeze flowed through the air, just barely enough to rustle your soft hair.

Annie sat silently next to you, shoulder brushing up against yours. Slowly, she slinked her hand over yours, hesitantly grasping at your hand. You entwined your fingers with hers, and she looked away shyly.

She often had bouts of insomnia, lying awake at night for hours, unable to get her body to relax. And, the first night she tugged at your nightshirt, waking you up to go outside with her, she fell asleep in your arms due to exhaustion almost immediately.

So, it had become an unspoken ritual from that day on. She couldn’t sleep, she’d wake you up, the two of you would go outside, and talk or busy yourselves until sleep inevitably caught up to her.

But today was different. For whatever reason, something had been keeping her up for a lot longer than usual. You knew something was weighing down on her heavily, but you weren’t going to pry it out of her.

Deciding to break the tense silence, you squeezed her hand gently, getting her attention before you spoke.

“It’s nice out, isn’t it?” You observed. You weren’t talking about the weather per-say, but the thousands of white speckled stars that dotted the sky, and the bright, full moon that illuminated the grass and dirt beneath you.

“It’s cold.” She said bluntly.

You chuckled softly, her bleak attitude was so characteristic of her.

“I guess that’s true.”

More silence.

And then she sighed, bringing your hand into her lap to cusp it in both of her palms, clinging onto it as if it were grounding her.

“What do you plan on doing later in life, Y/n?” She huffed, leaning her head backwards against the back of the tree and gazing up at the sky. “You don’t possibly plan on staying in the military your whole life, do you?”

“No, of course not.” You sighed.

“Then do you have plans afterwards?”

You paused for a minute. She raised a good point, you didn’t really think of anything after the military. Deep down, perhaps you understood that by joining the Cadet Corps you didn’t have much ahead of you. You can only survive so many brushes with death before it’s your turn to go.

“I guess not...” You hesitated, deep in thought. You swallowed a lump in your throat before changing the subject. “Why, do you?”

Even through the darkness, you could feel the shrug of her shoulders against you.

“Not really.” She muttered. “Just... stay with the MPs, make a living wage, retire somewhere in the interior, and... relax. I just wanna... find somewhere to relax.”

She paused for a second. Clearly there’s something tugging at her mind, something she wants to say. So, you sit back and wait for her to find the confidence.

“Do you promise me that... sometime, after a while in the Scouts, that you’ll come back to be with me?”

The future between the two of you was always painted with uncertainty—whether the two of you could ever truly stay together. It would be difficult, between soldiers, to be able to settle down and stay together no matter what, especially from different regiments. But you could always try.

She exhaled shakily, struggling to get the words out of her throat.

“I just can’t imagine living the rest of my life without you. ‘Cause... if anything ever happened to you in the Scouts...” Her voice trailed off near the end, and you assumed she was trying to plan out her next words carefully, until you heard a small sniffle pass her lips.

Surprised, you turned to face her. She was trying to fight off the tears at the corners of her eyes, lip trembling as she struggled not to cry. It wasn’t until now that you realized just how tightly she gripped your hand.

“Annie- Annie it’s alright.” You stumbled, trying to comfort her. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was upsetting her—she was scared of living a life without you.

You hooked an arm around her lower back, pulling her closer to you and putting your other hand on the back of her head and guiding her to your shoulder.

“I promise you, no matter what, I’ll live. And one day, we can spend all our time together. I’ll go wherever you go, I swear.” You ran your hand through her hair, undoing the bun she kept it in and evening it out over her shoulders.

“You promise?” Her voice sounded shaky and weak, a vulnerability to it that she rarely showed. “No matter what happens to me, you’ll trust me and stay with me?”

“I promise. Of course I do.”

---

Warmth.

It was the first thing you noticed upon waking up. The second was darkness. You sat up, noticing how wet the surface beneath you was. And how how fleshy.

Your face paled in realization. You were in a titan's mouth.

You raised your arm up, cringing at the trail of saliva that connected you to her tongue.

Immediately, you searched for a way to get out. You didn't plan on leaving her behind, but you'd rather not be stuck in a place as slimy and dark as this either. However, your efforts were pointless, since her jaw was clamped shut, her teeth caging you in and preventing you from escaping. Your heart dropped a little, wondering if she didn't trust you not to run away.

Suddenly, you felt a large thump, the unexpected movement causing you to grab desperately at anything that would keep you grounded in one spot.

But then, another thump. And another, and another. It felt like running, almost, but far too slow. You pondered it for a moment, before you realized what was going on.

She was trying to climb the wall.

But then, the thumping stopped. She wasn't falling, thank god, but all movement has seized.

Hesitantly, her jaw started to open, giving ample space for you to squeeze through. A sudden thought came to you—she needed your help.

With no hesitation, you drew your blades and burst through the skin of her cheek, not even waiting for her to part for lips. Adrenaline pumping through your veins, you immediately search for the source of the problem. And you found it in the brute of a soldier, Mikasa Ackerman.

The girl was perched on Annie's nose, staring down at her. A quick glance to your side and you realized, with horror written all over your face, that Mikasa had cut off almost all of Annie's fingers—one more and Annie would easily lose her grip.

You understood, as soon as Mikasa drew her blades towards Annie's hand, you only had one option.

You shot your ODM gear towards her, not even caring when the hook dug into Mikasa's shoulder, causing her to yelp in pain as she turned to you.

She wasn't even given a moment to process as you came hurtling towards her, colliding with her shoulder and sending both of you flying through the air and towards the ground—fast.

Despite the small voice telling you that it would be easier to just ditch Mikasa, to release your ODM gear and let her fall, you shot the other hook into the wall, and your momentum halted to a stop.

She peeled her arms away from their protective guard around her head, processing that the two of you had stopped before looking up to you in surprise. You looked back down at her, an expression of sorrow in your eyes. It hurt you to betray her, and all of your comrades, like this, but you knew as soon as Annie placed her trust in you by opening her mouth that you only had one choice.

"Y/n what are y—!"

"I'm sorry Mikasa!" You yelled, trying to put aside your emotions for the time being. "I can't... I can't leave her, I promised I wouldn't!"

You took a deep breath, positioning on your finger on the trigger, preparing to release Mikasa from your ODM gear's bloody grip in her shoulder. "I'm sorry..." You muttered, before pulling the trigger, watching Mikasa tumbled towards the ground, her betrayed expression still glued helplessly on her face.

You decided that it would only hurt you to look at Mikasa—engraining that image into your head would certainly plague you later on.

You finally turned to look back at Annie, and your heart picked up a couple paces at the sight.

Her head was turned to you, watching—waiting—for you, her hand outstretched in your direction. You smiled, firing your ODM and flying into the palm of her hand, quickly climbing up onto her shoulder to allow her to finish her ascent up the wall.

You turned back one last time, looking over at the destroyed city, and the furious and betrayed faces of your comrades. You sighed, turning back around. That's in the past now, you thought. It doesn't matter. I... made a promise to Annie, I can't betray her. I can't...

---

The line of trees in the distance grew closer and closer as Annie jogged forwards, having made it over the wall and all the way to the forest inside Wall Maria.

She slowed down to a walking pace as she neared the trees, kneeling on the ground before releasing herself from the nape of her titan. Steam flowed from her body as she immediately collapsed forwards, and you instantly lurched forwards to catch her exhausted body in your arms.

"Grab on." You instructed, waiting for her to securely wrap herself around you before you flew through the air and onto a tree branch, making sure you were safely out of the reach of any mindless titans before you let go of her.

She took a deep breath, leaning against the wooden trunk of the tree to recollect her strength. After all, even as a titan, the fight had done numbers to her body.

You sat there in comfortable silence for a little bit, waiting for her to catch her breath while you idly readjusted the straps to your ODM gear.

Finally, she reached over to take your hand, grabbing it in both of hers just like she had during your conversation with her years ago.

"I'm so glad..." She sighed, voice weak and wavering. "I was so scared when I opened my mouth that you would just... run off without me."

Slowly, she shifted, wrapping her arms around your neck and leaning her entire body weight on you. You could feel some of the tension leaving her body as she sighed against you, burying her nose in the crook of your neck.

"I was terrified that if you found out my real identity, you would just leave me. I don't know how I would've handled it. I was just..." She took a shaky inhale as she continued, and you felt a few wet tears against your neck. "Scared. So... So scared..."

You set a comforting hand on her back, hugging her tighter in an attempt to sooth her.

"Annie..." You cooed in her ear. "I promised you, remember? I would never leave your side. I'm gonna stay with you for the rest of my life."

Her breathing started to calm against you, your words managing to ease her worries.

"Yeah," She sighed, pulling away from you. "I shouldn't have doubted you, sweetie."

You smiled and placed your hands on her shoulders, bringing her in for a quick kiss before wiping her tears with the back of your hand.

"It's fine. Just remember," You leaned in and hugged her, exuding a warm feeling that made Annie's heart swell with love. "I'll always be on your side, no matter what."

"God, I love you so much, you dork." She muttered, heat rising to her cheeks with a content smile.

You chuckled, "I love you, too."

MAN THIS IS ASS

This is what happens when you force yourself to write with a headache whoops haha

[lucyintheskywithxanax]

Fangs

Pairing: Wilhemina Venable x Fem Reader

A/N: so this piece can either be read as a oneshot or as a sort of sequel to “Get Me To Church”, but in a different style. Basically I got obsessed with the idea that the Outpost residents could stand up to Wilhemina and question her rules and you guys, the POTENTIAL FOR ANGST. As always, English isn’t my first language, so expect a few weird sentences. x

Word count: ~ 8 200

It started small. One morning Venable smiled at you for no reason and Coco saw it. Coco raised her eyebrows teasingly at you and poked your shoulder. Innocent, playful, amused.

You didn’t understand that smile at first, for it was so unlike Venable. It didn’t go with the rest of her. She was all sharp angles that scratched and made the skin bleed, rough edges, snarky comments, bites and claws. Not kind smiles shared in corridors. So you wondered, and Coco raised her eyebrows.

You couldn’t forget it, her smile. It haunted you, followed you like your shadow. It had been beautiful. You wanted so badly to see it again. So you tried making jokes when you knew she could hear them. Not-so-very-clever jokes, corny jokes, that made Andre and Kyle laugh but left Venable’s face completely blank. You stared at the floor and pinched your arm.

Then one evening when you were so, so bored, Andre and you danced to that silly song that played every day over and over like the reminder of a curse. He dipped you, and you laughed, and met Venable’s eyes. Her face was upside-down, but you saw it. That smile again. You recognized it at once because it bore none of her usual coldness and sarcasm. It was genuine. It was fond. It made your heart swell.

Probably there were a few surprised glances shared between the others. Maybe Coco raised her eyebrows again. You did a clumsy pirouette and took a bow as the song came to an end.

One morning Venable told you you looked good today. No sarcasm. No mockery. As if she genuinely meant it. Kyle was nearby, and he heard her. Perhaps he even saw the softness in her eyes. Perhaps he didn’t. But he heard her, and that was enough.

They were whispering when you walked into the music room. Coco gestured for you to sit next to her. She leaned over your shoulder and whispered into your ear, “Watch out, Y/N. We think she’s into you.” Gallant nodded solemnly and said, “Good luck. Scream if you need help. We’re a team. In this together. ”

The day after that was when things really did change. You snapped at Venable in front of the others. Actually snapped at her, questioned her rule about copulation, said the two Greys she had had shot for loving each other had not deserved death. Coco and Gallant looked truly impressed. They also stared at you as if it were the last time they were seeing you alive.  

You wondered that night whether you had given up on life the day the world ended. You waited for someone to come get you and shoot a bullet through your brain or throw you out of the Outpost. Nothing happened. So the next morning when you sat down for breakfast, the others fell silent. They stared at you. You stared at them. None of you really understood why you were still here. Then Gallant’s mouth opened, just a bit, as if he had realized something. He was about to speak when Venable walked into the room and announced you would now have board games nights. For fun.

That was her first mistake. Part of you knew it, even then, but that part was obliterated by the tidal wave of joy and hope and love that swelled inside you and crashed all over your heart, sprinkling fragments of light and fragments of shining blue everywhere.  

Andre snapped at her. Rose to his feet to confront her. No one had done it before but you, and you had gotten away with it. So why not him?

Something quaked slightly when Andre rose. You told yourself it was the ground. You knew you were wrong.

All Venable had to do was stand her ground and scowl for Andre to relent. He took a step back and lowered his head in defeat. And you saw the spark of victory in Venable’s eyes, saw the satisfaction and pride. You admired her. You feared her.  

Later that day you made small talk with her. Just to get to know her better. What did she like? What did she dream of? were questions you tried to smuggle in. You assumed a nonchalant expression and pretended to study your nails. You almost forgot what she had done to the two Greys when you met her eyes and sank into the black. It was black spattered with light, like stars in the night sky.

At one point you reached out with the intention of playfully poking her shoulder. But your hand froze midway, and you pursed your lips, pretended you had meant to sweep the dust off the arm of your chair.

“I do believe we should vote for our leader,” Gallant said one evening. “Aren’t we still a democracy?”

“I’m not sure we are,” Andre sneered.

“What the hell you guys, we’re not,” Coco stated.

“Well, as I said, we should vote for our leader,” Gallant repeated.

The idea wasn’t mentioned again for a few days, but it hid in the silence and the shade and never disappeared.

And you saw them scowl at Venable’s back. You heard them whisper to each other when she wasn’t there. Again, the ground quaked.

**

Late one evening, you were startled by a knock on your door. You were in your pajamas, and your hair was still wet from the shower, but you figured it must be Coco visiting you out of boredom. She was your friend, and you didn’t mind not looking your best with her.

It wasn’t Coco. It was Venable.

There was a very, very awkward moment as she ran her eyes up and down your body and you tried hard not to blush.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said eventually. Her face was completely blank.

“You’re not bothering me,” you mumbled. “I wasn’t doing anything at all.”

You couldn’t read her. You couldn’t see through her façade. Was she amused? Nervous? You shifted your weight from one foot to the other and folded your arms on your chest.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

Your mouth fell open. What kind of question was that? Never in your time at the Outpost – months that had felt like years – had she ever taken the time or the trouble to ask any of the residents how they were doing. And now – first there had been her smile. Then the board games nights, trying to keep you all entertained. And that question.

Was she actually… trying to be nice?

Silence stretched as you processed her words, until she snapped defensively, “What?”

“Oh, uh.” You fumbled for the right words to say. “Fine, I’m doing fine.” You tried to laugh. “I mean, I’m very bored. Like, all the time. But everyone is. Except you, I guess,” you added uneasily. “Because you’re so busy running the place. And all that.”

“Is there anything you can think of that could help you pass the time?” she asked.

A make-out session would be nice, said a voice in your head. You glanced at her lips.

“Well,” you said,” I’ve run out of things to read. I did pack a few books before coming here, but not enough as it turns out.”

“I can help you with that. I’ve got quite a few of my own.”A pause. “You can borrow some. They’re in my room.”

“In your room?” you heard yourself repeat.

Venable nodded. You glanced at her lips again. When you met her eyes, you thought maybe they were a bit darker than before.

“Ok,” you breathed.

It was her second mistake, even though you didn’t realize it at the time. For Gallant saw you. Barefoot and in your pajamas, walking into Venable’s room. He saw how her hand almost brushed your back but didn’t, as if she were too afraid to touch. He saw her close the door behind you.

**

Venable lent you two books you had not yet read. You held them to your chest as if they were a treasure, not so much because of the escape they promised you, but because they were hers. Her fingers had touched those pages, her eyes had read those words. You opened one book and buried your nose in it, hoping her perfume had lingered on the paper.

You spent the next day reading and ignoring the other residents. Your head was buzzing with words by the time you made your way back to your room, so you didn’t see Venable coming from the other end of the corridor until she stopped mere inches from you.

Her gaze locked with yours. You were vaguely aware of the smile that bloomed on your face – a grin, really, that you could feel tugging at the corner of your lips. The world around you vanished. Venable titled her head on the side, and her mouth twisted as if she were holding back a smile of her own.

For a long moment none of you spoke. You just stood staring at each other as if waiting for something to happen, until Venable’s smile spilled on her lips and you thought you saw a faint blush adorn her cheeks. But maybe it was just the candlelight.  

“Hey,” you finally blurted out. You brought a hand up to your hair nervously. “Uh, I wanted to tell you – to thank you, really. For the books.”

Venable gave you a nod. “You’re welcome.”

“And also for the board games nights. They’re really fun. They help making those dreadful evenings, well, a bit less dreadful. Everyone loves them.” That was a lie. Coco and Andre hated board games nights, even more so as they had been Venable’s idea. Kyle and Ash didn’t care much for them, either. But they meant the world to you. They were the proof that somewhere deep behind the cruelty and the sarcasm, kindness lay shy and hesitant in Venable’s soul.

Silence, as you racked your brain for something else to say. You didn’t want her to go just yet.

“Uh, you know,” you eventually spoke, “I was thinking, if you want to borrow some of my own books while I have yours, well, I wouldn’t mind.”

Was this a stupid offer? It sounded stupid to you. You lowered your gaze, biting the inside of your cheek.

“I’d love that,” Venable answered. You looked up at her. She smiled, fond and kind. You melted.

“Okay, great, uh, okay,” you laughed nervously. “Okay.” A pause. “Uh, if you’d follow me?”

You led the way to your room and fumbled with your key for a while. As Venable walked in, you couldn’t help but feel self-conscious. Your room wasn’t near as neat and tidy as hers. Clothes that had been carelessly taken off lay like dead bodies on the floor. Your bed wasn’t made.

Venable’s eyes scanned the room, but she refrained from making any comment. As she sat down on your bed, though, she automatically reached out to rearrange your pillows.

“You sure love to keep things in order,” you teased.

Venable hummed. “Order’s the only reason why we were able to make progress as a species. There’s nothing more valuable. That, and control. If you cannot control other people, they’ll destroy you.”

You frowned as you considered her words. “I’m not sure I agree with that.”

“Well, think it over. People are essentially rabid dogs. Loosen your grip on them and they’ll jump on you and tear off your throat.” There was no hesitation in her voice, no room for doubt. She looked up at you as if she thought she had just entrusted you with some secret universal truth, and she expected you to behave accordingly.

“I’m not sure I agree with that, either,” you replied.

She narrowed her eyes at you.”Well then, you’re a fool.”

You shrugged. “Maybe I am. Or maybe one day you’ll allow yourself to trust someone, and you’ll realize trust and kindness are more efficient than control.”

You opened your wardrobe to avoid meeting her gaze. You could still feel it, though, leaving marks like burns on your face. Your books were in a suitcase in the bottom of the wardrobe. You picked it up and set it on the bed.

“Here,” you said, still avoiding Venable’s eyes. “Make your choice.”

You sat down on the bed, keeping a safe distance between her and you. You let a moment pass before you dared glancing up at her. She was busy studying your books, not paying you the slightest attention. So you relaxed, and stared at her.

You wondered what she would look like in the sun. Would her eyes be of a lighter brown, her hair a brighter red? You wanted to see her against the blinding flickers of light on the sea waves, and what she looked like when she was staring up at the stars, or when she was lost in a storm with the wind messing up with her hair, her eyes bright, her cheeks red.

She glanced sideways, met your eyes. You immediately lowered your head and cleared your throat.

“You should take this one,” you said, nodding at the book she was holding – you had no idea which one it was. “It’s very good.”

“Oh, it is,” she answered – was that laughter you could hear in her voice? “The main character, what is he again, a surfer? And the descriptions of the sea are the most beautiful I’ve ever read.”

“I know, right? Unparalleled. So very poetic.”

Venable bit down on a smile as she raised the book to show you its cover. The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter. You almost burst out laughing.

“A surfer,” Venable smiled, shaking her head.

“Ok, you got me.” You turned your head away from her to hide your reddening cheeks. “I had no idea which book you were talking about.”

“Um. Seems you were staring at something else.”

Why was the room suddenly so hot? Had a demon just barged in and brought with him fires from Hell? Your face was burning.

“I actually really like it,” you said to change the subject. “The book, I mean.”

You risked another glance at her. She was flipping through the book, a dreamy smile on her face. It was the first time you were seeing her so relaxed. She looked almost at peace. And younger, freer and wiser, as if she had finally set down a heavy burden. Was this what she looked like when her walls were down?

You wanted to see her with her hair down and no make-up on.

She found a passage you had highlighted, read it, blinked, read it again out loud. “The way I need you is a loneliness I cannot bear.” Her eyes met yours. “Who knew you were such a romantic,” she teased. Your eyes flicked to her lips.

She picked up another book – Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse – and flipped through it until she found another highlighted passage. “With stars in her eyes and veils in her hair, with cyclamen and wild violets…“She paused to glance to you. You leaned towards her. “Stepping through fields of flowers,” she read on, “and taking to the breast buds that had broken and lambs that had fallen; with the stars in her eyes and the wind in her hair.” Her voice had become a mere whisper. She ran her finger down the page, a gentle caress, as if it were a lover.  

After a moment she cleared her throat. “I think I’ll take this one,” she said.

“Very good choice,” you whispered.

She turned her head to look at you. And perhaps it was the wild violets. Perhaps it was her face, or how big her eyes were, as if they wished to suck up the whole world and you with it and perhaps you were a bit too eager to lose yourself in their depths. You leaned in, dropped a kiss on her lips like a flower.

It was short, merely a peck. It ended before you even knew it had begun. It lasted forever, made the stars fall from the sky, the oceans sweep over land. It irremediably shattered your heart and made it whole again.

You had absolutely no idea how Venable would react. You were half expecting a slap in the face. But instead she gripped your wrist and planted a sweet kiss on your lips. Like payback. It stole all the air from your lungs.

She pulled away, made as if to lean in again; hesitated, as one about to dive into the ocean from a cliff pulls up short at the very last second. Craving the fall, but too afraid the impact would hurt too much.

You chased after her with a “Trust me” falling from your lips, but she tilted her head away from you.

Venable let go of your wrist and sat up. She closed the book. One of her hands came up to play with her earring.

You drew in a shaky breath to try and clear your head. Your heart had gone mad and your body felt like it was about to dissolve into liquid and spill down the bed to form a pool of rosewater at her feet.

“Thank you,” Venable said, lifting the book. “I’ll take this one.”

You smiled. “Try not to fall too hard for Mrs Ramsay.”  

She hummed absentmindedly. Hand tugging at her earring. You held your breath.

“I should go,” she said eventually. She grabbed her cane and stood up.

At the door she paused. “I, uh,” she said. Her eyes when they found yours were hopeful. “Thank you,” she repeated. “For the book.”

You nodded, and grinned at her.

**

“Watch out, here comes the dragon,” Coco whispered as Venable entered the music room.

Everyone looked up at her, but you were the only one who dared meet her eyes. She gave you a small smile and walked towards Coco.

When she spoke, her voice was more amiable than you had ever heard it, but there was a strain to it, too, as if she were unable to fully hide her contempt. “How have you been adjusting to your new life at the Outpost?” she asked Coco.

That drew everyone’s attention. You frowned in surprise.

Coco stared at her. “Are you considering a new career as a therapist?” she retorted.

“It is part of my job to make sure everyone here is doing as well as they can,” Venable replied in the same amiable voice.

“Terrible,” Coco blurted out, “it’s been terrible. I’m starving to death, I’m so bored I’m losing all my wits, and if I don’t get to lie in the sun very soon my complexion will turn grey.” She paused to take a breath. “But you know what would make me happy? To wear normal clothes. And don’t you have more of that meat you cooked for us once? Oh and for the love of God, why don’t you let me orgasm one more time before I die?” Her voice oscillated between anger and sarcasm. When she stopped talking, her eyes widened a bit, as if she couldn’t quite believe her own boldness.

“None of those things are negotiable,” Venable answered, most of her amiability gone now.

Andre let out a mirthless laugh. “What a surprise,” he said bitterly.

“Those rules were made to ensure your survival,” Venable snapped.

In former days, her snapping would have been enough to drain the fight out of Andre. In former days, Venable only had had to glare for protest to die down. She was a born tyrant, Kyle had said once. Naturally gifted to instill fear in others.

But things were different now. She had been willing to show kindness. She had smiled at you and her smile had been genuine. She had loosened her grip, just slightly.

“Bullshit,” Andre growled. He stood up.

Something flicked across Venable’s face you had never seen before. Something that looked exactly like fear. Andre saw it.

He took a step towards her and raised his voice.”I think those rules are bullshit. And I think you know it. Why should we follow them if you don’t? Gallant saw you,” he spat out. ”He saw you open your door to your little pet the other night.”

For a moment there was only silence. You leaned back into your seat, trying to make yourself as small as possible. And then Venable raised her left hand and slapped Andre in the face. Hard. The sound echoed off the walls.

Andre stumbled back and deflated. But he had set an example, and the others were only too eager to pick up the torch. As a line of soldiers advances when the first has succumbed, Ash spoke out.

“Why don’t you come to my room and spend the night, Kyle?” she said, proud and confident.

“Now you guys, wait a minute,” you heard yourself say, “we didn’t –“

“I’d be delighted,” Kyle cut you off. He grabbed Ash’s hand and bent to kiss her knuckles.  

“Andre, my bed’s all yours,” Gallant said in a singsong.

Coco let out a loud laugh. “Party night!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. “Let’s all be disgusting sinners tonight!”

Venable tapped her cane on the floor. Loud. Threatening. Coco stiffened and fell silent. And Venable almost smiled, because she still had so much power over them, so much control, and she would be damned before she let it slip through her fingers –

Gallant charged at Venable with his hands clenched into fists as if he meant to hit her. He had almost reached her when he changed his mind, stopped dead in his tracks, and scurried away from her. But his voice thundered, “What are you gonna do, uh? Shoot me? I’m royalty! I’m wearing fucking purple, babydoll!” He opened his arms and grinned like a mad man. “And anyway we outnumber you, bitch! Don’t you ever fucking forget that!”

And with that he left the room.

The others scowled at Venable for a few seconds before they, too, one by one, got up and left. Coco stopped in the doorway and turned. “Come on, Y/N,” she called.

You met Venable’s eyes. They were as unreadable as ever. You waited, hoping for something, some emotion, that would give you a reason to stay. But she merely glared at you, standing tall and confident as if nothing had happened. Just the way she had looked when she had sentenced those two Greys to death.

You lowered your gaze, stood up, and followed Coco out of the room.

**

“What the hell just happened?” Coco laughed nervously.

Gallant was jumping up and down like an excited child. “The end of an era!” he exclaimed triumphantly.

You stared at them. They were your friends. You were a team, in this together. Coco draped an arm around your shoulders and grinned at you.

“Man, that felt good,” you heard Gallant said. He shook his head and shoulders as a dog does to get dry.

A team, you reminded yourself. You were in this together. You gave Coco’s hand a squeeze.

**

“We’re going to hold an election.”

Venable raised her eyebrows contemptuously.”An election?” she repeated, as if it were the most ludicrous thing she had ever heard.

Gallant nodded. “A vote. To choose who will lead us.”

Venable let out a short, incredulous laugh. Her eyes went from one face to the other. “Excuse-me,” she scoffed, “you must have gone mad, or else I didn’t hear you correctly.”

“We’re holding an election,” Gallant enunciated, “to choose who will lead us.”

Venable’s face hardened. “No you’re not,” she said.

“Try us,” Gallant growled.

“And how exactly are you going to run this place without knowing anything about the Cooperative’s plans?”Venable sneered.

“We’ll figure things out. We’ll be better at it than you ever were.”

“My work here has been more than excellent,” Venable snapped. “It’s the only reason why you’re still alive.”

“Tell that to Stu,” Andre interrupted. “And to those two poor Greys you killed.”

Venable’s eyes flicked to you, almost questioningly, as if she were asking for advice. You were too ashamed to hold her gaze. You stared down at the floor.

When Venable spoke again, her voice dripped with the same strained amiability she had used when addressing Coco the day before. “If you’d like, I could go over my reasons for such a punishment.”

Andre let out a low growl, baring his teeth. Venable didn’t flinch, didn’t let out the slightest sign of alarm; but you did, because you knew what she was doing, and you knew it would fail. You were the one who’d told her to try. Be kind. Trust in other people’s kindness.  

You opened your mouth to speak, but before you had time to let out more than one word, Andre barked at Venable. “We will hold an election. Tomorrow, in this very room. And you will be held accountable for the three people you ruthlessly murdered.”

“Soon to be four, you can count on that,” Venable spat back.

She was brave, you had to give her that. She glared right into Andre’s eyes as he yelled at her and frothed at the mouth, and Coco and Gallant and the others closed in on her like a pack of wolves. She didn’t blink, didn’t falter, didn’t seem the least bit scared. She simply waited for their wrath to subside, for the jaws to slacken and the muscles to relax.      

It did subside. It always does. Andre stood panting at a loss for words, and Venable tapped her cane on the floor.

“Is your pitiful tantrum over?” she gibed. She took a step forward, and he leaned away from her.”Now you hear me out. There will be no election. You wouldn’t last a day without my management and deep down in that useless, childish brain of yours you know it.” Venable smirked. “Now back off.”

Andre hesitated, clenched his teeth, took a few steps back. Venable’s eyes swept the room contemptuously. Her gaze lingered on your face a second too long. Those were the same eyes that had smiled at you and sparkled with stars and softened at the mention of cyclamen and wild violets. Now they were pitch black and so frighteningly cold.

Contradictory feelings were waging war on each other in your head. Too many successive victories and defeats, Guilt crowned winner and the second after stabbed to death by Anger who was immediately dethroned by Love, betrayed by Fear banished by Regret with the help of Guilt murdered by – it was too much. You could have banged your head on the walls and painted them red with your blood.    

You prayed for numbness. You walked down a corridor, up a staircase, down another corridor, completely oblivious to your surroundings. Andre and the other residents would not relent, you were certain of that. But neither would Venable, and she had half a dozen armed minions under her control. But what if the Purples asked the Greys for help? A few words and promises exchanged behind a closed door would be enough to constitute an army. Guns wouldn’t matter, then. As Gallant had said, Venable and the guards would be greatly outnumbered and easily overthrown.

And what were you to do? You didn’t like Venable’s rules, didn’t think they were fair but you had seen her. Caught a glimpse of her and loved what you had seen and knew you would never tire of it just as you’d never tire of sunsets. There wasn’t a single universe in which you’d be okay with her getting hurt.      

Someone grabbed your shoulder and shoved you against the wall. You winced in pain, tried to push them away, but an elbow dug into your collarbone and kept you in place.

“Why, hello there,” Venable hissed in your face.

“What the –“

“Are you and your little friends having fun?” She gave you another shove, and your shoulders slammed into the wall.

“You’re hurting me!” you cried out.

“Good,” Venable snarled, but her grip on you loosened.

You met her eyes, shivered at the anger you saw burning in them. Fear washed over you, but was soon replaced by something else, something much worse – guilt.

“Look,” you mumbled, “I –“

“I expect you to answer me when I ask you a question,” Venable growled. “Are you and your friends having fun?”

You fumbled for words, tears springing to your eyes. “I’m not – I didn’t –“

“You didn’t what?” she snapped, cruelty ringing loud in her voice. “Think? Meant for anything bad to happen? Aren’t you the most feeble-minded moron I ever had the displeasure to meet!”

She waited for an answer, but you couldn’t give her one. Your tongue was too thick, your mouth too dry.

“Damn it Y/N this is all your fault!” Venable cried. And this time there was no cruelty. This time you heard her voice waver, and saw the fear spill into her eyes.

It felt like the floor had vanished from under your feet. Without Venable’s grip on your shirt you would have collapsed.    

“I know,” you whispered brokenly, tears dropping from your eyes. “I’m so sor –“

“Oh, Ms Venable,” she mocked in a high-pitched voice, “you should really try and be kind. Oh, Ms Venable, trust me Ms Venable.” She gave you another push, but it was weak. “Well I fucking did and you walked out of that room with them!”

Her voice broke. It seemed to surprise her, for she recoiled and winced. And then her emotions were back under control, eyes hard and cold, voice colder still.

“As it turned out I was right,” she snapped. “Show kindness and the dogs come barking.”

You shook your head, let out a sob. Please no. You hadn’t wanted any of this, hadn’t meant to hurt her, to put her in danger. You’d encouraged her to put down her sharpest sword, her largest shield – and she had been willing to try, only to see her efforts backfire and blow up in her face. And you – you had walked away. You had left her to deal with the aftermath. You had irremediably broken the hope that’d shone in her eyes the day you had dropped a kiss on her lips.

You had no idea how to make things right again. And why on Earth was she even taking the trouble to talk to you? Why hadn’t she had you shot yet, made sure to get rid of you for good? Why had she ever smiled at you?

You wanted to hug her. To wrap her up in your arms nice and tight, kiss her cheek, promise her you’d keep her safe. You would wish it with all you had so it would have to come true. She would hear the honesty and the love in your voice and everything would be alright.

You couldn’t see very well through your tears, but it seemed to you her arm twitched, as if she wanted to reach out, as if she, too, was craving touch. She bit her lip, and looked away, and her eyes were too watery so you lifted your hand to stroke her cheek. Her breath hitched and she batted your hand away, her fingers slamming into yours.  

“Don’t you dare,” she warned, a quaver in her voice; her eyes looking everywhere but at you, her shoulders bending, and you tried to reach out again so she gave you another shove, and another, and another until she let out a noise like an angry, broken cry, leaned in and pressed her forehead against your chest.  

She gave in for three seconds, maybe five. Then she sighed and pulled back, and you were left with only a memory of her warmth and scent, your hand up where her head had been but your fingers threading through nothing but air.  

**

You tried to sleep that night but couldn’t. At one point you dozed off, and when you opened your eyes next your body was covered with sweat and your heart was beating too fast. You tried reading one of the books Venable had lent you. Five minutes later you were curled up in a tight ball and crying your eyes out.

The morning after you met with the other residents in the music room. Gallant was in a very good mood. Ash and Kyle were exchanging suggestive glances. You thought maybe Coco told you a story about something that had happened to her in her youth. Maybe you had half a food cube for breakfast. Then at one point Gallant raised both his arms and said something about voting. He had barely finished talking when Venable sauntered into the room and someone gasped, and then someone else shouted in alarm and you didn’t understand why until you saw the gun in Venable’s hand.

And her eyes were piercing, and her face was completely blank, and her hand wasn’t shaking when she pointed the gun at Gallant’s head.

But that’s not what happened. It couldn’t be, could it? Rewind.

Coco had stopped in the doorway and called after you. You had pretended not to hear. When she had called again, you’d stood up and planted yourself defiantly beside Venable. And Coco hadn’t even looked that surprised.

That night Venable had kissed you again, longer, bolder, giggling into your mouth. You had seen her with her hair down and no make-up on. In the morning she had counted the freckles on your shoulders. And you two had lain in bed staring into each other’s eyes, that beautiful, fond smile of hers creeping up her lips over and over again.

Better, so much better. Please, rewind.

Venable – Wilhemina now, Mina, darling – had made peace with the other residents. She had agreed to make some of her rules more flexible, and they had renounced holding the election. Coco had given you a pat on the shoulder, for she was your friend. You were a team, in this together. Venable had reached out for your hand, laced your fingers together.

The colours drained from Gallant’s face. He took a step back and held out his hands.

“What the fuck is going on?” Coco cried out. She made to scurry away, but she bumped against a chair and grabbed hold of your arm to steady herself. Her grip brought you back to the present.

“Wow wow wow, hold on,” Andre shouted.

“Ms Venable”, you heard yourself say.

She didn’t seem to hear any of you.

“Ms Venable,” you repeated. (Wilhemina, Mina, darling)

Venable blinked and looked at you, her gaze surprisingly calm and confident. You held out your hands and took one step towards her. “Please,” you begged – your hands were shaking – “please, put the gun down.”

Venable redirected her attention to Gallant. He whimpered, and Venable smirked.

“Ms Venable, put the gun down,” you tried again. She ignored you. “Wilhemina, please.”

Her eyes met yours, and you saw part of her resolve falter, but then her face hardened again as if to say, If I do, what then? This, is not a gun but the last rope tying me to safety. This is me holding control back before it runs away and hides where I can’t reach it. Would a shipwrecked sailor puncture their own lifebuoy to drown in the sea? And pray, she asked you, what do I have to lose if I pull the trigger? It’d be nothing compared to what would happen if I don’t. Safety would be ripped from me, safety not only from physical harm but also and most importantly from prying eyes and sneering mouths, from judgment, pity, disappointment and mockery. Pray, what do I have to lose if I pull the trigger?

Me, you answered boldly. You’d lose me. Maybe it’s not good enough a reason, maybe I’m just being pretentious, but you’d lose me and away with me would walk love, and care, and recovery. And I am sorry. I am crawling at your feet pouring apologies. I am braiding promises and dreams into your hair. I am smearing words of devotion on your mouth and saving the truest, the most rapturous of them – I adore you – to be whispered to your heart so it can mend itself. Tell me, darling, can I be enough?

Wilhemina’s arm was shaking. Stone-faced and afraid, she looked at Gallant, saw the hope in his eyes and the anger behind the hope that promised he would be cruel. Her aim lowered from his head to his chest. Gallant’s shoulders straightened. Two seconds passed, and Wilhemina’s eyes veiled over as she put the gun down.

It seemed everyone in the room released their breaths at the exact same moment. Coco’s grip on your arm loosened. The room itself grew brighter.

For a moment Gallant was too stunned to react. Then something like a smirk but uglier twisted his face and he ran his eyes up and down Wilhemina’s body. You saw her stiffen.

She raised her eyebrows arrogantly. “Consider this your lucky day,” she snapped.

Gallant scoffed. Before he had time to move, you planted yourself protectively in front of Wilhemina – she was holding a gun, you were completely defenseless, but at that moment you would have taken a hundred bullets for her without a second thought –, clenched your fists and glared.

“Back off, Gallant,” you warned.

Gallant frowned at you. “We’re getting rid of her, Y/N.”

“Like hell you are.” You took a step forward, casting angry glances at everyone. “Ms Venable’s the only one here who can run this place. We know nothing about nothing. All we do is whine and laze around while she makes sure we have something to eat every day. Everyone else is dead. All the other Outposts have been overrun. Have you ever asked yourself why we’re still safe and alive?”

You paused to take a few short, angry breaths. Coco, Kyle and Ash lowered their eyes and stared at the ground, but Gallant and Andre still looked mad. “Please, guys. Think this over.” Another pause. Gallant’s gaze softened. “We’re all in this together,” you tried. “The only way we can survive is if we stick together.”

“She fucking killed Stu,” Andre barked. “She’ll pay for that.”

“Stu was contaminated,” you retorted. “His very existence threatened ours.”

“Bullshit,” Andre growled, baring his teeth. ”And deep down, Y/N, you know it. She’ll kill us all if we don’t take action first.”

“And we’ll die without her anyway,” you countered.

It went on for what felt like forever. Andre and you, snarling arguments at each other and you thought it would never end. But there was too much at stake, so you pushed on and on rephrasing the same ideas until Kyle lay his hand on Andre’s arm. Then it was him and you against Andre, who eventually deflated and backed off with a mean, angry look in his eyes like a wounded predator.  

You turned to Venable. She had not uttered a single word since she had lowered the gun. Her face was inscrutable. Now she made a few snide comments and left the room. You gave Kyle a grateful smile and hurried after her. Damn the others and what they would think of your behaviour. Let them talk. Let them natter and speculate.

Venable walked down the corridor as if she owned the place, hips swaying to the rhythm of her cane. You followed on her heels, now and then glancing down nervously at the gun still in her hand. The candlelight glinted off it.

To your surprise, Venable headed to her bedroom. She opened the door, turned, and looked down on you haughtily. “And what do you think you’re doing?” she asked imperiously.

That threw you off for a second. You straightened up and studied her face. “May I come in with you?”

Venable’s face was unreadable. You had no idea what was going on in her head. Silence stretched for so long, her gaze so intimidating that you were about to give up and avert your eyes, when she stepped aside to let you in.

You pretended to look about the room as Venable put the gun away in the drawer of her bedside table and sat on the bed. You shot her a sideways glance, noticed her hands were shaking. She was staring straight ahead of her, eyes hard and brooding. You bit your lip, trying to think of something to say. “And I thought it was boring here,” is what came out of your mouth.

Who could blame you, really? People use humor as a shield all the time.

“That’s because you’re a hopeless moron,” Venable snapped. She sounded a bit breathless. You cast her a worried look.

“I,” you started, but then you fell silent. You didn’t know what to add after that.

Venable grabbed her cane to stand up, but her hands were shaking so badly now she dropped it. Her next breath came out with a wheeze.

“Wilhemina,” you called worriedly.

She held out one hand. “Don’t,” she panted.

She tried to stand up without her cane, almost made it; her face contorted with pain as her legs buckled and she fell back on the bed. You ran to her.

“Don’t,” she hissed again, arms twisting to avoid touching you.

“Alright, take a deep breath –“

“I said don’t!” Her right hand slammed into your chest to push you away, but then her fingers clutched your shirt to keep you close. She heaved for breath, her eyes meeting yours in alarm.

“Hey,” you tried. You laid a comforting hand on her arm. “It’s okay, you’re okay. I won’t let them hurt you.”

A breath out, painful and short. Her eyes were wide with fear.

“I won’t,” you repeated, almost a growl.

Wilhemina’s free hand shot up to her chest. “I can’t –“she gasped, fingers tugging at her lace collar as if it were trying to strangle her. “Please, I can’t –“

She was losing control. Entirely. Not only of the situation but also of her body, her oldest, worst enemy. And you saw the terror in her eyes, felt her fingers clutch your shirt so tightly you thought she would tear it.

“Please I –“she repeated, voice small and breaking.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.” Your fingers wrapped around her wrist, thumb rubbing circles to try and ground her. Gently, you pushed her hand against your chest. “Can you feel it rise and fall? Can you breathe with me, darling?” Her shoulders relaxed slightly at the last word, so you said it again, staring into her eyes as you tried to give her a smile. “Just like that, darling. You’re doing so well.”

She sucked in a breath, let it out shakily. You whispered words of encouragement as she copied your breathing, your thumb still rubbing circles on the back of her hand. Her eyes were wide, silently asking for help, seeking reassurances that she would be alright, that this pain would not last. That she would get to hold the reins again and be safe.

When she interlaced her fingers with yours you smiled again, and this time it reached your eyes. “There you go,” you congratulated her. She gave you a smile in return, small but true.”Take one last deep breath for me?”

She did, shoulders rising, gaze softening. You brought her hand up to your mouth and kissed her knuckles.  

“God,” she whispered with a shiver, “I hated that.”

You laughed softly. “It’s called freaking out,” you teased. “It happens to most people.”

She rolled her eyes at you and poked your arm. For a moment she gazed at you dreamily, then she sat up, and smoothed her hands over her skirt.

“I already miss giving orders,” she said. Her voice was playful, but you heard worry in it, too.

You hummed, considered her words. “Well, I’m here if you need someone to boss around.”

You almost regretted your words when you saw the malice in her eyes and the smirk that slowly crept up her mouth. But all she did was bite her lower lip, glance down at your mouth and whisper, “Kiss me.”

You kissed her cheek, soft and hot, to promise her tenderness. You kissed her eyelid, fluttering closed, to promise her protection. And at last you kissed her lips, home, to seal the promise of love.

When you pulled away, her eyes had that same peaceful, relaxed quality you had first caught a glimpse of when she had sat in your room and flipped through your books. It softened her whole face, pastel colours of a summer sunset succeeding to the vivid white and yellow of the afternoon. You grinned at her, drunk with love.  

“Kiss me again,” she breathed, voice barely audible, eyes half-lidded. You eagerly obliged, dipping your lips in hers, the sweetest, most intoxicating of liquors. It burnt its way to your heart and lit up your whole body with desire.  

“I think,” she whispered into your mouth, as her hands slid up your waist, “I think I might amend one of my rules.”

You groaned and sucked gently on her lower lip to taste her. “Please,” you rasped.

“I meant the one about the dress code,” she smiled. You scoffed. Banter seemed so easy and natural to her behind closed doors, and you loved that about her.

One of your hands came up to stroke her hair. Your fingers found a hair pin, tapped on it wistfully.

You pulled away just enough to look her in the eye. “Can I…“you whispered. She raised an eyebrow, not quite catching your meaning. Your finger tapped on the hair pin again. She did understand, then. For a moment she looked uncertain, and almost shy, but then she nodded.

Reverently you pulled on the pin and buried your hand in her hair, combing your fingers through it to pull it free. Your other hand came up to remove the bumpits on top of her head. Her hair tumbled down her shoulders and back, rough and fiery red just like the rest of her, ends perfectly trimmed somehow even though she had been living at the Outpost for months. You twisted a strand around your finger, stared at her in awe.

She tried to hold back a smile, failed; her eyes were bright, and the softest of pinks was blooming on her cheeks. “You’re so beautiful,” you breathed.

She raised her eyebrows doubtfully. “You are,” you insisted, cupping her face. “You look like the sunset. Red and purple and pink.”

“Pink?” she questioned.

With a smirk you poked her cheek. “Um, yes. You’re blushing.”

Her brow furrowed. “I’m not.”

“I’m afraid you are,” you chuckled.

“I’m not.” She bit her lip. “Kiss me again,” she ordered.

**

You pulled on her hair, hard, and planted open-mouthed kisses up her neck. You felt her throat vibrate as a moan escaped her.

“Easy now,” she hissed, raking down her nails down your back, a glorious sting.”Don’t get too bold.”

In lieu of an answer you sucked on the soft clammy skin just below her jaw and smirked as she shivered against you. “I’d never dare, Ms Venable.”

She groaned and unceremoniously pushed you onto the bed. You stared up at her, hungry and predatory, and opened your legs. Her eyes flared. She sucked in a breath, stroke her hands up your thighs. Her nails dug into your skin where your legs met your hips. “Kiss me,” she ordered.

You bit down on a smile. “No,” you whispered, meaning to tease her just a bit, to give her the opportunity to exercise her authority and to show her control was still well within her grasp.

Her thumbs were massaging the inside of your upper thighs. You were soaked, burning, and entirely too ravenous for her. “Kiss me,” she repeated.

You brought a hand up to her cheek and gently stroked it. “No,” you taunted.

Her eyes flared again. She slapped your stomach. Your hips bucked, your teeth sinking into your lower lip. “I said, kiss me.” A low growl, so ferocious and threatening you would’ve felt uneasy if it hadn’t been for the fond, grateful expression in her eyes. But you frowned slightly, and she noticed, and smirked.

And she was beautiful, cheeks flushed, red hair tousled and the skin of her neck and shoulders adorned with your love marks.

She lunged at you, tongue darting out, to lick up your throat, wet and hot and entirely too enticing. You squirmed under her, your fingers burying in her hair as she nipped the skin along your jaw.

“I’ll say it one more time,” she growled into your skin. She raised her head to meet your eyes, her teeth grazing your skin. “Kiss me.” Categorical, peremptory. So fierce the very ground quaked. You gazed at her in awe.

A smile. A finger slipping under her chin, pulling her to you. A kiss on her lips.

[tales-unique]

FAULTS OF THE HEART  II

Chapter 2

That night is, quite possibly, the worst night of your life, so far. No matter how you try to position yourself you manage to aggravate your wound, rendering any progress towards sleep null and void in a matter of seconds. You hiss in frustration, sitting up after what feels like hours of fighting, deciding that there was no sense in trying while you were so wound up.

You decide instead to sate your curiosity about the place you have been brought to, starting with the room you’re in. It’s bathed in iridescent moonlight, the fire having long since burnt out, which gives it an almost ethereal glow. In its prime it must have been such a beautiful place to read and study but now it sits abandoned, a sad echo of former glory. All the books, though dusty and stained with age, look to be in good condition and, despite your fatigue, you untangle yourself from your makeshift bed to peruse them. As you edge towards them the wood creaks beneath your feet and you freeze, listening for any signs of life other than yourself in the building. When you hear nothing you release the breath you had been holding, gazing in awe at all the different books before you. Some of the names you couldn’t even understand, their beautiful cursive calligraphy written in a language that was foreign to you. Perhaps the man of the house was an avid collector of interesting books? You gently trace your finger over the spines, ignoring the burn of protest in your shoulder as you move away towards an old desk that sits under the bare window. The wood is chipped and covered in a layer of dust just like the rest of the room, the items scattered about its surface also buried. Your hand disturbs a stack of papers, the paper parched from years of exposure to the sun, to see if there’s anything you can gleam from them, but the ink is so faded that you barely make out the words. You frown at the inkwell that sits near a stack of books, some of which look like writing journals, the quill stuck inside the dried up ink. The feathering had mostly vanished, decomposed until barely any were left to cling to the brittle spine. This was someone's private space once, but not any longer. All at once the feeling that you were an invader hits you like a tidal wave and, with one last somber look, you back away from the desk to look at the door. For all you knew the man could have locked you inside, to curb any possible excursions without him knowing. The thought sent a spark of fear shooting through your system and with a brisk pace you came face to face with the door. It’s old, just as the rest of the room is, and the ornate handle is a deep brass colour under the layer of dust and grime. You hesitate, your hand hovering over the handle, sucking in a deep breath to try and calm yourself. Quickly, you tell yourself, before your fear petrifies you. The grip you have on the door handle is so tight you barely register how your knuckles are turning white, or how your shoulder aches in protest at the awkward angle you're bending at, as you peek out into the dark hallway. After a cautious once over you tentatively step out, careful to tiptoe your way down the hallway so you wouldn’t alert anyone to your presence. But it was already too late for that. The man, the lone inhabitant of the abandoned place, was already awake and wandering himself when you decided to leave your room. He had been angsty knowing there was someone, a human no less, in his castle, and so, like you, sleep evaded him. Your movements were easy to trace, the vampiric blood that flowed through his veins heightening his senses to an alarming degree. Hidden in the looming shadows he follows you, all while you are unaware, to see just what it is you’re doing wandering around at such an hour. At the end of the hallway you find a grand staircase and a hazy memory clouds your mind. You remember being swept up these stairs in the arms of your nameless rescuer, the receding image of the almost comically tall doors receding as your vision grew darker, your consciousness slipping in and out. There was even a trail of drying blood leading up to where you had been left, noticed only now that you were actively looking at the floor beneath your feet. You grimace, making sure to descend on the other side of the stairs. Once at the bottom you come to stand in front of those large doors, ever imposing, and a sense of apprehension settles like a lead weight in the pit of your stomach. Although you had no idea where you were the danger of leaving while still injured with no means to protect yourself loomed threateningly, and that alone made you hesitant. Swallowing your fear you gingerly tread towards the doors, careful in opening them lest you further injure yourself. Whatever you had been expecting, or not , when you stepped out into the night, you could have said with certainty that it wouldn’t have been impaled corpses . You freeze, your blood like ice. Corpses. Impaled. On spikes . Any and all doubts you had about the dangers outside being greater than the ones inside were now none-existent. The man who lived here, the one who had saved your life , was the same man who had done this to these people. A rational person with a sane mind wouldn’t willingly do this to someone, right? No, which meant you had to leave, and quickly, or you could be next. But, oh God , how would you get past them? You barely had time to register that they were more mummified than fresh, having been there for a while, since you were back-peddling as quickly as your legs could take you. Until your back hits something solid and more alive than the doors. You let out a scream, partially from shock and from the pain sent rocketing through your arm, twisting sharply on your heel to see the doors cast open wide and none other than the man standing there, blocking your path. “You’re up late,” he speaks with a casualness that unnerves you more than anything, his gaze solemn. Your chest heaves as you stare at him with wide eyes, panic surging through your veins. Inside you're a mess of emotions that will not be tamed. Utter chaos and turmoil. When you don't respond he lets out a defeated sigh, a weary sound that betrays how worn down he has become. "If you wanted to leave you could have just said so," he muses, frowning when you recoil away from him when he moves to pass you. He stops to look at the corpses that frame the entrance but there's no feeling there. Not anymore. His hate and anger and pain has faded into nothingness, a void he had hoped he would never fall into. You watch him like a hawk the entire time, body tense. At any point he could turn on you and you had to be ready . But the moment doesn't come. There's just him, standing illuminated in the moonlight, broken. "Where would I even go, if I could leave?" The words are quiet but you can't stand the stifling silence any longer. "You could go anywhere," he answers easily, resolute. You scoff, brushing your fingertips over your bandaged wound. It stings and you wince with a hiss. "And do what? I have no money, my arm is useless right now. I'd be dead in a day or two. And that's if I don't get found by the Baron's men first." It's true that the Baron was still a threat to you, even more so now that his hunting party had been cut down, so blood would be demanded. Just not yours if you could help it. "Who are you, anyway?" You ask, changing the subject. There's so much you want to ignore at that moment so you focus on him. There's a moment of silence before he finally responds and his voice has an edge to it that you can’t quite place. You get the feeling that he’d much rather remain nameless to you, but out of politeness he must give in. How quaint. "Your people call me Alucard," he replies, turning to look at you expectantly. You quickly stumble out your name, suddenly feeling like a caged animal under the starkness of his golden gaze. They almost glow in the light, giving him a predatory air. "Well," you clear your throat, quickly stepping past the, ahem, decorations , to stand next to him at the top of the stone steps, "thank you, Alucard. I'd have died if you hadn't helped me." It's the truth; you owe him your life, and he knows it. "You are welcome," he responds slowly, awkwardly, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes before they turn heavenward. "A beautiful night, isn't it?" He's trying to ease the tension and even though it doesn't help much you appreciate the sentiment. "Yes, it's nice," you answer softly. Looking at him as he is in that moment you find that he doesn’t seem so intimidating as you had first thought and you feel ashamed for having judged him so harshly so quickly. Not that it doesn’t diminish what you have learnt from your little excursion outside the castle. After all, there were dead bodies on his front step. Maybe there was more to this than first met the eye, maybe not, but you were determined to discover the truth.

[apiratewhopines]

Thanks again to @teamhook for the artwork and being the muse for this one! You wanted a movie fic and I did my best 🙂

Midnight

Chapter 7 — The Slipper

Summary: In which our heroine resets the clock

Chapter 7 on AO3 (That’s all folks!!)

“You’ll never know

How many dreams I dreamed about you”

-It’s Been a Long, Long Time, Bing Crosby

It was receiving the invitation to Arthur and Guinevere’s second wedding that did it. Emma’s fairy godfather stayed in touch after their weekend in the country, offering investment advice for her windfall and acting for all the world like her adopted brother. She knew he felt guilty for finding his happy ending at her expense. Despite her reassurances she messed up her chances hours before he came on the scene, maybe months if she were really honest.

Three months ago, she left the estate a little more scarred, a little less hopeful, and much more wealthy. She paid back the money stolen from Granny but couldn’t bring herself to buy a place in the city like she originally planned. Instead, she took the remainder and invested it per Arthur’s overbearing instruction. She doubled it in a week and tripled that figure by the end of the month.

She still wasn’t satisfied, though. Dreams of a certain blue-eyed man haunted her, his last words whispering through her mind like a mantra and a curse. So she found Neal’s trail again and spent the next couple of weeks looking for him in the shadows and muck. She found him mooching off his mother of all people.

All the hate, anger, and embarrassment she buried deeply at the end of their relationship dissipated the moment she saw him. Why had she given him so much real estate in her mind, allowed the ghost of him to rob her of her sanity and potential happiness?

It was with satisfaction at a job well done rather than his impeding downfall that she turned him over to the local authorities and headed back to the east coast.

By the time she arrived, she was richer and even more lonely.

She was listless and finding no reason to stay, Emma accepted Arthur’s latest proposition that she needed to see the world. Using his numerous estates as a guide, she flitted across the globe, experiencing all the world had to offer and looking. Always looking.

It took her longer than it should have to realize she wouldn’t find what she was missing in the new people she met or the natural wonders she explored. The whole time her mind and soul were calling out for a more familiar setting and a dearer face.

Lancelot was right. She was running scared, and the only thing it was going to get her was absolutely nothing.

The handsome, almost homewrecker had not attempted to reach out since their quiet conversation on the beach, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know what he was up to. After calling it quits, he realized the US hadn’t been the best place for him. He returned with great fanfare to France, where he took on the daily running of the family business. He was said to have the Midas touch, working with the locals to improve the processes and products they offered. His vineyard was becoming the trendiest tourist destination in the country.

Not even a month after his departure, the press reported on the fairytale romance of the champagne millionaire and his widowed neighbor, Belle French. The pair’s engagement announcement ran in every major newspaper in the world.

It was quick work, even for Lancelot du Lac. She couldn’t begrudge him, though. He was never truly a bad man, just a regular one who made bad decisions. She could certainly relate.

Cutting her trip short, she returned to the city where it all started, to a tiny loft apartment she rented on a month-by-month basis above Granny’s diner. There didn’t seem to be much point in seeing the world when the only world she was interested in was centered about four hours away.

The news of Killian was more challenging to come by than the other people involved in her charade, but that only made it more precious. A charity fundraiser here, a life saved there, the ever-present and never changing picture on the hospital website she checked so often it was now saved as her homepage. She thought glimpses and scraps were all she was entitled to at first. However, the longer she tried to resist his pull, the more she started to think maybe she did deserve a chance.

Maybe she wasn’t too late.

Staring at the thick cream-colored invitation with scrolling words waxing romance, dates, and times, she came to a decision and packed her bags.

—

—

It wasn’t hard to find the exact location of their meeting. It was burned into Emma’s memory. Their initial encounter cemented as one of those moments that seem routine when they happen but take root in your fate and grow, threading through every aspect of your life until all traces of happiness are tied to one serendipitous second in time.

After departing from Arthur’s estate in a chauffeured car all those months ago, she had returned to this spot and found her Bug right where she left it. Someone, probably the Prince Charming she was determined to break, had filled the tank with gas. So, she bid adieu to Arthur’s employee and drove off into the sunset all alone. Like she did everything.

Nothing had changed about the place in the intervening months. It was thirty minutes to midnight. The dark sky was clear, stars twinkling from space and the moon a tiny thumbnail above the evergreens. She would wait all night if she had to, but sooner or later, she would catch her quarry.

Emma Swan always got her man.

Unfortunately, she didn’t always get him on her first try. She waited for a couple hours the first night, but no black BMW could be seen cresting the hill. Admitting defeat, she went back to her hotel and vowed to try again.

She knew she could have sprung an unannounced visit on him at his job. After all, it wasn’t difficult to pick out his dark sedan in the parking lot when she cruised by the hospital several times a day. Nor would it have been difficult to track down his address and ambush him one evening when he returned home. The idea had a lot of appeal since his place lived in a variety of fantasies involving oversized shirts and pancakes.

Deep down, she knew after she had robbed him of his choice so many times in their brief acquaintance, it would be wrong to show up and act like nothing happened. She needed to allow him to invite her back in or send her away.

God, she hoped he invited her in.

It took three nights, but eventually, she saw headlights. Smoothing down the hem of her black tank top over her skinny jeans, she took a cleansing breath and stepped out into the middle of the road.

She had no doubt it was him, the cautious pace slicing through the night at exactly the same time as before. She could even tell the precise moment he spotted her in the bright lights of his high beams, the luxury car swerving slightly into the other lane. It was less than a minute later he rolled to a stop about ten feet away.

Then, nothing. The silence of a door not opening was deafening.

Maybe this was her answer.

She wished she could see past the glare and through the windshield. Look into his eyes at least once more and tell him everything she figured out over the past couple of months. The same things he had tried to say to her before he left.

Finally, a lifetime later, she heard the door open. She felt every footfall in the far reaches of her heart, each measured step in time with the rapid beating in her chest. She was lightheaded with longing, her eyes frantically trying to adjust between light and dark and make out Killian’s beloved form in the nighttime.

“Fancy meeting you here, Captain.”

There was another long pause and then he stepped into the narrow, car-sized area of light. He was even more handsome than she remembered. The static, professionally staged photo on the website never did him justice in the first place. “Emma, when did you get back?”

She heard the question for what it really was, ‘Emma, why are you here?’

Smiling past her nerves, she took a step closer. He looked like the proverbial deer in the highlights, like any sudden movement would cause him to turn tail and run. She did this to him. It was her fault her cocky Prince Charming looked spooked. “A couple of days ago. I need a ride to Misthaven. I’m late for an appointment.”

“An appointment? It’s almost midnight. I’m getting the strangest sense of deja vu.”

“You see, there’s a man. He’s actually the best thing that ever happened to me. But I felt like I didn’t deserve him, like I didn’t deserve anyone, really, so I ran. Several times. And even though I pushed him away and ruined everything, I need to let him know that he was never nothing. His feelings were never nothing. As a matter of fact, he’s come to mean everything to me, and I wanted to tell him I was sorry it took me so long to say it.”

Taking a step forward, he stood nearly toe to toe with her. His hair was sticking out at odd angles, his face twisted in thought, hands hanging in fists at his side. “Is that so?”

Reaching out, she placed her hands on his shoulders and she looked up into his eyes, whispering, “I’ve loved you since you let me have all the bites with whipped cream. I was just too scared to admit it.”

She waited when all she wanted to do was pull him closer and bury her face in his neck, inhale his intoxicating scent again and taste his skin. She had said what she needed to say, but it didn’t give her the right to waltz back into his life if that wasn’t what he wanted. “Killian, I—“

Her words were cut off by his abrupt kiss. He grabbed her like he was drowning and she was the only thing that could save him. His chest heaving and lips brutal in their quest. He hitched her up slightly, settling her against the hood of his car. He half leaned over her as he continued to explore every neglected inch of her mouth, every lonely corner of her soul. When he finally broke off his passionate embrace, his breathing was ragged and his voice harsh with emotion. “I have big plans for you and whipped cream, love.”

Laughter filled the inches between them, his forehead resting against hers. Peppering his face with soft kisses, her fingertips tracing the line of his jaw, she teased, “Prove it.”

—

The trail of clothes leading to the bedroom remained untouched for days. They survived the early days of their relationship on pancakes, whipped cream, and borrowed shirts.

Over the years, people asked her when she knew Killian Jones was the one. Her answer was always the same.

At the stroke of midnight.

Every night for the rest of their lives.

Note:

Midnight — Info about the movie

@teamhook @kmomof4 @jrob64 @stahlop @xarandomdreamx @xsajx @motherkatereloyshipper @klynn-stormz

[fanfoolishness]

five denials and a truth (The Mandalorian)

Written for @fake-starwars-fan, who suggested this idea.  Five times Din Djarin denies he is a father, and one time he doesn’t.  Canon-compliant, spoilers for seasons 1 and 2, and gets angsty as hell. I’m so sorry, Din.  Featuring Din, Grogu, Omera, the Armorer, Peli Motto, Ahsoka Tano, Boba Fett, and Cara Dune.  3800 words.

***

i.

The sun fell beneath the crowns of the trees, leaving them awash in blues and golds, and the insects sang their chorus in the growing shadows.  Din Djarin sat at the edge of the fire, watching the child play with the other children.  Wariness hummed in the back of his mind, long years of training deeply entrenched despite the seeming peace of Sorgan.  Still, though, it was hard to remain battle-ready here, as the children laughed and played their silly games.

Omera sat on the log beside him, waving a hand to her daughter.  The girl took off eagerly to join the others.  Pinpoint flashes of light sparkled around the children as they played, the evening lightning-beetles taking wing.

“The children love your son,” she said, turning back to Din, her eyes aglow in the firelight.  “I’ve never seen a youngling like him, but they’ve truly taken to him.  My daughter’s quite envious of his frog-catching skills.”  She chuckled, voice sweet and warm.

“He’s not my son,” said Din in polite, careful tones.  He shifted slightly on the log.

Omera tilted her head.  He found her direct eye contact discomfiting, but he did not look away.  “Because he isn’t human?”

He shook his head slightly.  “No.  That has nothing to do with it.”

“Then what?  I see the way you watch out for him.  You’re watching him now, making sure he isn’t getting into trouble,” she said lightly.  “Every parent does it.”

“There are terrible people after him,” said Din, feeling uneasy in a way he couldn’t pin down.  Imps, bounty hunters, who knew what else?  The less said about it, the better.  “I’m just trying to protect him until I can find a safe place for him, that’s all.”

She arched an eyebrow as the child toddled over to them, holding a squirming lightning-beetle in his small hands, its green-gold light pulsing between his fingertips.  “Looks like he has something to show you.”

Din bent down, reaching out to take the child’s hands.  “You, uh, you caught this?” he asked gruffly.  “Huh.”  He’d seen the other children trying to do the same and failing, the agile beetles getting the better of them.  Despite himself, he was impressed.  

“Good for you.  Just don’t  -- no!  Drop it!”  He pulled the squirming beetle out of the child’s mouth and tossed it aside, watching it flash up into the sky.  The child looked at him with big eyes, ears sinking down to his shoulders.

“Oh, they’re perfectly safe to eat,” said Omera, laughing.  “We eat them now and then if things are lean.”

“Oh,” said Din.  He felt his mouth form into a smile, a reflexive action beneath the helmet.  “Uh, sorry,” he said to the child.  “Maybe next time.”

The child took another step forward, then leaned against Din’s leg, small arms curling around his shin.  Then he was off again, toddling back to the children and the waiting lightning-beetles.

“If you aren’t his father,” asked Omera, “what’s stopping you?”  She gazed at him, her face kind, her eyes questioning.  

“I’m not what he needs,” Din said.  He turned away from her, staring off into the forest, where the bandits waited.  “That’s all.”

***

ii.

The Armorer watched Din Djarin carefully, grateful that another member of the Tribe had survived.  Of course, he and his actions were the reason so many had fallen, but the Creed was unflinchingly clear.  Death in the service of protecting another Mandalorian or a foundling was the noblest end to a warrior’s life.  The price had been paid, and paid again, and she bore him no anger for it.

She asked to see the child, to see the one whose protection had merited the fragmentation and destruction of the Tribe.  The creature stared up at her, clearly tired and frail, but its eyes held a spirit she understood.  This one had seen suffering.  It was always written in the eyes of those who did not hide their faces.

She saw, too, the way Djarin angled himself toward the child.  She had heard of how he had protected it, blaster, body and beskar, against the storm that drove him from the planet.  And she remembered the tale of the enemy that had helped him defeat the mudhorn.  She began to understand.

She explained to Djarin what he must do, what the Creed demanded.  No matter that the child was linked to the Jedi, nor that Djarin knew not where to find them.  He was a resourceful man.  She had faith that he would fulfill the Creed.

The others pressed him to leave, their urgency clear.  The Imperials were coming, as they had come upon them before in the night, and she understood their fear.  They knew not the Way of the Mandalore, the honor of a warrior’s death.

Djarin dissented.  “I’m staying.  I need to help her, and I need to heal.”

His desire to assist was welcome, but she knew that this was not his path.  His path was clear. It lay in the child’s wide eyes, in his small hands, in the way Djarin spoke of the foundling with a measured distance she knew he did not keep.  The truth could not be hidden.  A Mandalorian could fool an outsider, but she was the Armorer, and the depth of his feelings toward the child was laid bare in voice and stance.

“You must go,” she said firmly.  “A foundling is in your care.  By Creed, until it is of age or reunited with its own kind, you are as its father.”

You already are, she wished to say, but she did not.  He was not ready.  Not yet.  Denial showed plain in the set of his shoulders.

“This is the Way,” she said instead, voice brisk.  “You have earned your Signet.”  Her hands were swift and precise upon his pauldron, affixing the gleaming mudhorn to its rightful place.  

There it was, the emotion she knew lay deep within him.  “Thank you,” he said, and she saw the warrior’s heart within him gentled, humbled, made vulnerable.  “I will wear it with honor.”  

There were certain truths she had long known.  The best warriors did not harden their hearts.  Too hard, and they found their deaths too quickly, the potential glory of their sacrifice fading into a meaningless waste.  Yet those that succumbed to the pain of the world could be too soft, losing the will to fight and turning to the follies of pacifism.  

The finest warriors, the truest, walked wounded through the world.  It was their battles that burned brightest in the minds of their people, their struggles that most honored the Way of the Mandalore.  

She watched Djarin and the child leave with the others, and she waited, her hammer at the ready.  She would protect the beskar and buy time for those of her Tribe to escape.  She knew she would not fall this day.  

Beneath her helmet, she smiled.  For she believed Clan Mudhorn would earn their place in legend.

***

iii.

Din returned to Peli Motto’s shop, laden with supplies from the market.  Ammunition, food and water for himself and the kid, a few more packs of bacta patches.  Wouldn’t do to head out into the deep desert unprepared, and he wasn’t sure this mining town Peli was talking about really still existed.  He unloaded the supplies onto the ramp into the Crest, and turned to look for the kid.  He’s fine, he reminded himself, but he still hated how hard it was to leave the kid sometimes, how he always felt like something was missing when the kid wasn’t in his sight.

As expected, Peli was in her office, the kid in her lap.  She was having an animated discussion with him, judging by the way his ears quivered.  As Din drew near he picked up some of their conversation.

“So there I was, fighting an infestation of womp rats the size of banthas, and this no-good nerfherder shows up wanting to know why his ship’s not ready.  I tried telling him the droids were overrun and that I’d already busted one blaster trying to shoot the damn things, and he had the nerve to -- Mando!  Back from the market, huh?” Peli asked, looking up at him.  

The kid let out an excited squeal and reached towards him.  Reluctantly, Peli lifted him up, and Din took him into his arms.  The kid settled down in the crook of his elbow like he’d been there all his life, and Din finally relaxed.

“Not the best selection I’ve ever seen, but I got what we needed,” he said.  “Thanks for watching the kid.  He’s gotten me into trouble with more than one vendor.  Sticky fingers.”  And having the ability to move things with his mind, while impressive, wasn’t exactly a good recipe when combined with a youngling who was hungry all the time.  Din tilted his helmet down to look at the kid, his mouth tugging invisibly into a grin beneath the beskar.

“This angel?” Peli scoffed.  “I don’t believe it.”  Din simply looked at her, and she relented, “Okay, okay, he ate half my lunch when I wasn’t looking, and tried to eat a sand roach when I was.  I get your point.”

“I told you to be good for Peli,” scolded Din.  The kid let out a small, sad burble, and he sighed.  “I know, I know.  You didn’t mean it.”  He reached up, fingers cuffing gently against the kid’s cheek.

“You guys should do more business on Tatooine,” said Peli, leaning back in her chair and taking a long drink of caf.  “Always a pleasure.  It warms my sandblasted heart, seeing you two.”

Din nearly choked.  “Excuse me?”

“You know what I mean!” she said, waving her hands.  “Mos Eisley’s got some pretty nasty dealings in the back alleys.  Orphaned younglings, drunks, slavers looking for easy marks…   It’s just nice to see a dad actually taking care of his kid for once.”

Din was still.  The kid grabbed his thumb with one small hand, holding it tight, and reflexively he curled his hand closer to the little one.  He didn’t speak.

Peli raised her brows, looking concerned.  “Did I say something wrong?”

“I…”  He swallowed.  “I’m not his father.”

“Well, I don’t know what exactly you look like under that armor, but no shit, Mando,” she said.  “But dads aren’t just a blood thing.  I thought -- I mean, the way you take care of him, and all.  You’d do anything for this kid, or I don’t know a damn thing.”

“I would,” he said slowly.  “Do anything for him.”  The kid brushed his hand against his cuirass, his claws making tiny ting noises against the beskar.  

“But you’re not his dad.”

If you aren’t his father, what’s stopping you?

You are as its father.

“He’s a foundling,” said Din, and he fought to keep his voice steady.  “I would die for him.  This is the Way.”

Peli held out her hands skeptically, face shifting into clear confusion.  “And again, you’re not his dad?  I’m not getting the distinction here.”

He looked down at the kid, whose ears quivered with curiosity, his mouth slightly open as if asking a question.  

Red robes, blaster fire, the smell of smoke, the sound of screams --

Until it is reunited with its own kind --

“It’s complicated,” he said, turning away from her.  “Thanks again for watching him.  We’d better get a move on before it starts getting dark.”  

He headed back out toward the ship and the speeder, her indignant voice following him.  “It’s noon, but whatever you say, Mando!”

***

iv.

Mist lay heavy in the secluded forest, muffling the sounds of the grazing beasts in the distance, the township far away.  Din stared out at the falling darkness, his stomach twisting.  It was nearly time.  Time to fulfill his quest, to deliver the child.

Time to say goodbye to Grogu.

His feet felt heavy, so heavy, though the distance to the little sleeping area from the hold was only a few steps away.  He stood in the doorway, watching the child sleep in the small hammock.  He’d picked up the cloth in a small market on a forgotten world.  He remembered asking the shopkeeper if it was soft enough for a youngling, remembered taking his glove off to make sure the fabric wasn’t itchy.  He remembered the kid -- Grogu -- cooing to himself that first night in the hammock, remembered how well the kid had slept.  

He remembered how he’d laid awake half the night, missing the kid curled up on his chest.

Din raised his hands.  They trembled.  

This is what I came to do.  This is for him.

“Wake up, buddy,” he said, voice breaking.  “It’s time to say goodbye.”  He reached a hand into the hammock, brushing against Grogu’s chest.  The kid made a small, sleepy sigh, a sigh he’d heard dozens, hundreds of times now, a sigh that had become as familiar and homey as the engine’s hum.  He lifted him carefully out of the hammock, but Grogu just yawned, smacking his lips, and closed his eyes again.

Din sat down, leaning against the wall with Grogu on his knee.  He looked at him.  Really looked, though his vision blurred.  I have… I have to remember.    

He drank in the sight of those long, delicate ears, soft with thin white fuzz on the edges, the inner skin shell-pink rimmed with mossy green.  He memorized the curious ridges and bumps on his forehead, between his eyes, remembering how they crinkled when the kid was happy and flattened when the kid was being obstinate.  He looked at the mouth that had eaten a horrifying number of frogs and spiders, and nearly laughed despite himself.

Grogu’s hand twitched, curling over Din’s fingertip.  Din shifted his thumb to cover the back of his small hand, and the kid blinked sleepy eyes at him.  Those eyes, so wide, so curious, so expressive.  He would never forget them.  

“You’re gonna love being a Jedi,” Din whispered.  “You’ll learn how to use your powers.  You’ll get even stronger.  You’ll see.”  You won’t need me.

Grogu’s weight on his knee was so light.  

Funny, then, that Din felt so crushed.  

He bowed over the kid, arms curling around his small body.  Grogu leaned into him, and Din held him, and he told himself that it was time.

He was never sure, looking back, how he piloted the ship safely back to the town and landed it without a hitch.  He only remembered walking down the ramp, seeing the Jedi Ahsoka waiting for them, and going cold, cold, cold.

They regarded each other for a moment.  The Jedi’s eyes were sad and distant.  She gazed down at Grogu, nestled in Din’s arms.  

“You’re like a father to him,” she said finally.  “I cannot train him.”

His legs felt fuzzy and weak.  He straightened up, forcing himself to stand firm.  He had to try again, for the kid’s sake.  “You made me a promise, and I held up my end,” he accused.

The Jedi spoke.  Part of him held onto her words, kept them safe, directions to a planet, another option to find more Jedi.  He could do this.

The other part of him was dizzy, punchdrunk, even as he held the kid safely in his arms.  You’re like a father to him echoed, and somehow the words struck deeper than they ever had before.  He ached with them, ached for them to be real -- weren’t Jedi supposed to be noble?  Weren’t they supposed to tell the truth?

But he knew he couldn’t be that lucky.  

He thanked her politely for the information, and set a course for Tython.

***    

v.      

“We’re coming up on Nevarro,” came Fett’s voice in his ear, and Din jerked awake.

It took him a moment to get his bearings.  This wasn’t the Crest.  This was Slave I.  This was Boba Fett.  Fennec Shand was down below.  And Grogu was… gone.

His head reeled. Gone.  Not safe in the arms of a Jedi, no future secured and sheltered.  He’d been stolen, been lost.  Under his watch.

“You still asleep?” Fett asked, glancing back.  His helmet rested beside him, half-cleaned of its scorch marks and scars.  Fett had been busy while he was sleeping.

“No,” said Din, trying to clear his head.  He lapsed into silence.

“It’s a fair plan,” said Fett.  “I hope it works.  For the sake of the child.”

“You didn’t have to --” Din started.  They’d been through this already, though, and he knew it would be insulting to keep up his protests.  “I’m… grateful for the help.  Thank you.”

Fett shrugged. “We tracked you for a while, you know.  Before Tython.”

Din stared straight ahead.  He didn’t care about that.  But he realized in the waiting quiet that Fett expected an answer.  “I didn’t know.”  

There; the man should take it as a compliment.  Din knew he wasn’t easy to track.

“I saw how you were with the child.”  Fett’s scarred face was thoughtful.  There was something complicated there behind the older man’s eyes, but Din couldn’t read it, unsettled and numb as he was.

“I was to return him to the Jedi,” Din forced out.  “I failed him.”

“You took care of him,” Fett pointed out.  “I saw it.  That’s not nothing.”  

“He was a foundling,” he said mechanically.  “Any Mandalorian would have done the same.  The Creed demands --”

Fett sighed.  “You can keep your Creed.”  The words still sounded so wrong -- to view the Creed as a myth, it was sacrilege.  Still, though, he’d seen the chain code, and he knew Fett’s claim was valid.

Din watched the other man cautiously, but was taken aback by the next words Fett spoke.  “You were a father to him.  That much was clear.”

Din chuckled, a brittle, awful sound.  It hurt his throat.  “People keep telling me that.”

“Are they wrong?”

He thought of Grogu taken, held captive by droids’ arms harsh and cold.  He thought of him in a cell, thought of tests and needles and experiments, thought of the little youngling toddling after him and laughing sweetly about cookies.  He thought of standing there helplessly on the rocky slopes of Tython, watching the world end.

He was grateful, not for the first time, for the helmet shielding his face.  “Does it matter?” he gritted, and Nevarro loomed before them.

***

vi.

Cara Dune caught up to him, about six months later.

He’d been half-expecting her for some time.  Knew that rumors of his doings would reach certain ears.  Knew that she’d put two and two together.  Even if he no longer wore beskar, he knew the patterns would be noticed.

She found him in a scuzzy bar on an ocean moon, where the damp seeped into everything and the cold never faded.  She sat beside him, tossing a few credits onto the bar, and was rewarded with a sea-brewed ale.  She drank about half before she finally turned to face him.

“Hey, Mando.”

He didn’t look at her.  Didn’t want to see the pity in her face.  He could hear it well enough in her voice.

“I knew I’d see you again,” he said quietly.  “Galaxy’s never as big as it seems.”

“No,” she said.  “I guess it isn’t.”

In the silence, water dripped, dripped, dripped behind the bar, a constant rhythm.

“I know it was you,” she said presently.  “The Imperial bases on Corux and Raethe.  Two cruisers downed, the troops dead long before the ships crashed.  Imps dead in the streets of a dozen backwaters.  And a lot of high-ranking officers found in pieces.”

“A lot of people hate the Empire,” he said.  He took a drink of his ale.  He hated the taste, and hated the burn more.

“Not a lot of people hate them like you do.”  Lightning-fast, she twitched aside the cloak hanging over his hip, revealing the Darksaber hanging like an anchor at his side.  He ignored her, covering it again with his cloak.  “Let’s just say you have a signature style these days.”

Din glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.  She looked different, hair a little shorter, upgraded armor, a new insignia on her shoulder.  And sympathy etched in every line of her face.  He looked away, shaken.

“So what?” he asked.  “Don’t tell me the New Republic has a problem with fewer Imps running around.”

“They don’t.  They’d probably give you a medal, if they knew who was behind it,” said Cara.  She finished her drink.  “I have a problem with it.”

He nearly snorted into his foul ale.  “Really.  You’re worried about the Imps.”

“I’m worried about you, Din Djarin.”

He froze.  She’d never used his name before.  Slowly, he turned to stare at her, fully aware that his naked face was on display.  “Stop.”

Cara flushed.  “I was on the ground at that Maelstrom-class cruiser.  I saw what you did to them.  It wasn’t…”  Her mouth twisted.  “Killing Imps doesn’t bother me.  You know that.  But that was… brutal.”

“Again,” he said defensively, “you’re worried about them?”

“About what it’s doing to you,” she said, her voice flat.  “Mandalorians… I thought you were known for noble kills --”

“I’m not a Mandalorian,” he spat.

She pounded a fist into the table, a sharp crack that left a mark on the flimsy surface.  “You’re torturing yourself about letting him go.  This isn’t you, Mando.  And I think a part of you knows it.”

The weight of the last several months loomed.  It pressed.  It shattered, a shield failing, a dam breaking.  He saw the Darksaber flaring, scorching, searing, amputating, saw his bare hands on the hilt, saw the bodies piled.  He remembered enjoying it in a way that felt sick, felt dirty, an insult to the Way of the Mandalore, but he’d already burned that bridge, hadn’t he?  Already bared his face to the child, to the Jedi, to all of them; already desecrated his beskar; already severed his clan of two into one, alone --

“I know,” he said hoarsely, ashamed.  “I know it’s wrong.  I -- I broke the Creed --”

She reached up slowly, rested her hand on his shoulder.  She waited, her eyes soft.  

He bowed his head, shaking.  “And I gave him up,” he whispered, burying his damp face in his hands.  “I lost my son.”

My son.

The truth he’d hid from so long flared white-hot, burning through him.  Denial had done nothing for him; all it had done was rob him of the chance to tell Grogu how much he loved him before it was too late.  It hadn’t saved him from this agony at all.  The pain roared, a howling void opening up within him, a darkness he could never hope to see through.

“I was his father,” he choked.  “What am I now?”

Cara’s hand was firm on his shoulder, steady, kind; but she had no answers for him.  In the end, the only sounds were his broken breathing and the drip, drip, drip behind the bar.

[akasgisrightsactivist]

Bloodied Lips

[Akaashi x fem!Reader] [Hurt/comfort] [Word count: 4.3k]

What do Akaashi’s bloodied lips taste like after he fought for your honor?

Warnings: mentions of violence, blood, injuries / wounds, strangulation / asphyxia 

A/n: This happens somewhere between his first and second year of high school. I think everyone loses their cool at some point, and I wanted to explore that situation for Akaashi. This ended up being more autobiographical than I expected.

You found him hiding in the darkness of the club’s locker room.

As the opening door let in the light from outside, it revealed the bloodied lip, a red stain trailing down his chin. That detail was enough to make your heart rush inside your chest.

You’d heard rumors and you had run to find Akaashi. But it was the confirmation of such murmurs that made your head dizzy, unable to believe that your beloved friend had gotten in such a rough fight.

He was calm and collected. He never lost his cool, never lost sight of his goals —or so you thought, because the image of the guy in front of you sitting on the floor, knees pressed against his chest, arms hugging his legs, eyes lost in the void… that image told you a story you wished you’d never witnessed.

Akaashi averted his eyes as soon as you came into the room. After all, it was a story he also wished he’d never written with his own bloody hands.

Yet, you refused to run away. There was no way you’d abandon a friend in need, and you wanted to hear the story from his own lips —surely a different tale from the ones you’d heard around the corners of the school.

It was hard to find the proper words. What could you tell a friend who had just beaten the shit out of a guy? It had been a surprise to everyone —his volleyball teammates, classmates, teachers— how Akaashi, apparently inferior in physical strength to the guy from the soccer club, had destroyed him. One of your classmates had told you about the fire in Akaashi’s eyes as he had punched the soccer player in the face repeatedly —a frenzied expression that had terrified the witnesses.

Maybe you should be afraid too, but the Akaashi in front of you wasn’t that furious beast anymore —he was a meek and ashamed shadow of his self.

You eventually chose the diplomatic option:

“What happened, Akaashi?”

He buried his face into his knees, muffling his reply:

“You already know what happened.”

His voice was almost a sob, a plea for mercy. You entered the room, shutting the door, and you crossed the space in two long strides, finding the window under which he was sitting. You opened the blinds to let the natural light get inside, but his body remained hidden in the shadows, and you squatted by his side.

There was no angle from which you could see his face, but you could now spot the several bruises over his hands, arms, and even the neck, with bloody scratches here and there.

It had been a brutal fight.

“I want to hear it from you, Akaashi.”

You saw his head shake as a negative, his shoulders announcing a sob. Unconsciously, your hand found the space between his shoulder blades, and he winced —unworthy of your touch.

So you stood up, and crossed the room all the way back to the door. He held a sob, listening —expecting you to leave now.

But instead you opened the first-aid cabinet that hid behind the locker room door, and got out cotton, alcohol, and band aids.

As you made your way back to his side, you imagined the steps that had taken him all the way here. He had gotten in that fight until someone had called a teacher. He had then been taken to the vice principal for the corresponding scolding, followed by a punishment —knowing the gravity of the issue, you suspected that Akaashi had been suspended for a couple of weeks, completely unexpected from someone as polite and nice as him. Suspension included not participating in club activities, a big hit for the entire team and everyone’s reputation. And yet, Akaashi had hidden in this locker room… probably to avoid going back home, where his parents would be extremely displeased to learn about his behavior.

It was a huge mess he had gotten into, and you still hadn’t found out why.

You took his arm, poured alcohol on a piece of cotton, and warned him:

“This will sting.”

As you pressed the cotton against his first scratch located near the wrist, he hissed, raising his head and shooting a surprised look at you.

But he didn’t say anything, not after seeing your serious expression, your tightly pressed lips. He let you work on his wounds, no matter how uncomfortable it was for him, and he clenched his jaw to push through the pain —probably believing this to be another punishment for his actions.

The truth was that, in reviewing all the steps until he had hidden in that room, you knew that nobody had tended to his wounds. Surely someone had healed the other guy, but not Akaashi.

“So… Tell me what happened,” you insisted, emphasizing your point by pressing the alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the wound on his elbow.

He shut his eyes tightly, biting his already bruised lip to deal with the sting.

“Nakamura from the soccer club,” he muttered, as if the name itself explained everything.

“Aha. And?”

You knew Nakamura from the soccer club enough to suspect what had happened. He was a beefy guy with an inversely proportional muscle mass to brain cell ratio. You weren’t prone to classifying people by stereotypes, but this guy truly was the brainless athlete who gloated too much about his skills and insulted anyone he didn’t deem strong enough to compete against him.

You suspected he had insulted Akaashi, but your friend wasn’t the kind to fall for taunts.

It surprised you when he instead said:

“He said something very ugly about you, y/n-san.”

Your hand stopped mid-air, the cotton ball hovering a scarce inch away from his next wound.

“Did you get into this much trouble for me…? Akaashi, you didn’t have to, I don’t mind empty insults, I—”

“He called you a whore,” he added, a flame lighting up in his eyes again. “I couldn’t take it, I simply couldn’t.”

“Akaashi…”

“It wasn’t just an empty insult. It wasn’t just a word he said. He was attacking your honor and your dignity for no reason,” he explained, words rushing out of his mouth in a stream he couldn’t control. “He said you were a whore because you had become our manager just to be surrounded by guys, to get into our pants. I couldn’t stand it, I couldn’t stand hearing another word, so I shut him up.”

He caught his breath as you remained silent.

Surely it was a hurtful insult, an unprompted one. You weren’t that kind of person, but you also knew how stupid Nakamura was, so paying attention to him was pointless.

Then again, it was time someone ended up punching him after offending everyone who had the bad luck to be around him. You just wished it hadn’t been Akaashi, of all people.

He could lose everything he had fought for —his reputation in front of the teachers, his good grades, his future as a college student, his spot in the volleyball club… all of it because of an insult to you.

The worst of all was the thought that Nakamura looked innocent to the eyes of the teachers, a kind of martyr.

“You’ve risked it all for me, Akaashi. You shouldn’t have…”

“I couldn’t help it.”

You pressed the cotton against a big scratch on his neck and he hissed.

“You are not like this.”

“Am I not?” He replied. “Maybe you don’t know me. Maybe—”

“Stop playing the edgy boy, it doesn’t suit you. We both know you aren’t like this, and you lost the game when you fell for his taunts. He wasn’t even targeting me when he said that, he was targeting you.”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah. That guy has always been jealous of your poise and your athleticism. He might have muscles, but he’s never had the skills or game intelligence that you have, Akaashi, and now you’re suspended from the volleyball club. Who’s won, huh? You never fall for those things.”

He let a deep breath out of his nose, an acknowledgment to his defeat. You circled his body to tackle the wounds on the other side.

“And he destroyed you, let me tell you,” you added, pointing at the bruises.

“He got worse.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re in serious trouble.”

“It was worth it,” he replied, a childish pout on his lips.

You gave him a sad look.

“No, it wasn’t.”

Your reply made him bury his face in his knees one more time, and it made you wonder if maybe you had been too harsh at him. Yet it didn’t feel right to lie to a friend and tell him he’d done the right thing when it wasn’t the case. Nakamura had won the mental fight, he was the victim in the eyes of the world, and Akaashi could potentially lose everything he didn’t deserve to lose.

But he was probably aware of it. Facing the reality of how much he had risked in an inexcusable fit of anger, his only way to cope was to try to find a reason to justify it and make it worth it —a pure lie to himself.

You didn’t know how to comfort him, other than healing the wounds that nobody else had paid attention to. Arriving to his right hand —his weapon of choice— you inspected his purple knuckles, the prints of his vicious attacks.

“I appreciate that you fought for my honor, but I can’t stop thinking about how much you might lose as a consequence. You shouldn’t burn yourself to protect others,” you said, fingertips circling his knuckles and travelling up and down his exhausted fingers. “It isn’t fair.”

All you heard was a sigh as a reply.

“Let me check your neck.”

He reluctantly tilted his head enough to give you space to heal the wounds in his neck. There were red and purple marks that made you wonder if Nakamura had tried to strangle Akaashi, and a knot closed around your own throat.

“Do you hate me, y/n-san?” Akaashi asked in a timid whisper.

You surveyed the storm of emotions inside your mind, the conflicting feelings fighting each other, but it was hard to find anything that resembled hate.

After all, you found it impossible to hate someone like him, not even after such an unexpected but human reaction. Who wouldn’t get angry at such an unfair insult towards a friend? Had you been the one witnessing such a humiliation aimed at Akaashi, wouldn’t you have jumped for Nakamura’s throat?

“Of course not.”

And in the dim light, Akaashi tilted his face just enough for a tear in his eye to catch the light of the afternoon as it filtered through the window.

Your fingers found the space under his jaw, and you raised his chin towards you, examining his face. It was a party of bruises and scratches like the rest of his body, but what truly caught your attention was the broken lower lip, a red trail cascading down his chin.

The single tear dropped down his cheek and you caught it with your thumb.

“But I’d hate if something like this happened to you again.”

With your free hand, you pressed the cotton to the corner of his eyebrow.

“I hate to see you get hurt,” you added. “I don’t want you to lose everything you’ve fought so hard for.”

“I’d do it again for you.”

“No. It’s not worth it. It hurts to see you in this situation.”

You slid the cotton down the side of his face, all the way to his jaw.

Remembering the purple marks on his neck, knowing how brutal Nakamura could be, the image crossed your mind of Akaashi being strangled.

“I don’t want to see you hurt ever again,” you insisted, your thumb caressing his face.

“I can take it,” he argued.

You imagined Akaashi gasping for breath, failing to get air to his lungs. You imagined his life slowly slipping away from his body under Nakamura’s hands.

“If you got hurt again… if I were to lose you…”

You couldn’t find the words to describe the pain you’d feel. There was no other way to shake away the terrible images in your mind, or to describe the emotions inside your chest.

There was no other place in his face that wouldn’t hurt him, so you chose the bloodied corner of his lips to place a kiss, to land your feelings, to dissipate his pain.

You noticed the way his eyes widened as yours closed for a brief and eternal second before you softly pulled back.

In the following silence, his eyes looked into yours for answers.

It took a while to convince Akaashi to go home, and you only succeeded when you took his hand in yours and guided him out of the locker room, where his presence was banned, and promised to walk all the way to his house and speak to his parents.

You were afraid of the consequences he’d face at home, and you thought he’d already faced enough punishment. He regretted his actions, his body was full of wounds, and he got suspended two weeks from school. Aside from that, teachers had lost respect for him and the future of his grades was a big question mark floating in the air.

It was enough punishment for a mistake, you thought.

Upon arriving to his house, he stopped at the entrance, his legs paralyzed by the fear. Surely the teacher had already informed his parents, and he found no excuse around the incident. Telling the truth was the only possibility, and he dreaded the consequences.

After all, he had always been the quiet guy, the good student, the almost perfect kid. His parents weren’t used to this kind of disruption —they didn’t expect it at all from their only child. The destiny of his family relied on his shoulders, and he had betrayed the surname he had always carried with responsibility and effort. You knew all of this, and feared the consequences as much as he did.

You knocked on the door for him, aware of the terrified look in his eyes. Promising that the sooner he went through this, the sooner the pain would be gone, you stood in front of him at the doorstep, waiting for his parents to open the door.

When the wooden panel in front of you revealed the face of Akaashi’s mom, you stood firm, back straight, shoulders back, hands resting in front of your lap, a serene look in your face.

She was angry, but she politely greeted you, even if your presence disturbed her plans. Surely she had gone through the future conversation in her mind over and over, trying to organize the sermon she would throw at her son once he got home.

You were an unexpected event that disrupted the flow in their lives.

“Good evening, y/n,” she said, and her eyes flew to your friend standing behind you. “You’re very late, Keiji. There’s no excuse for you to get home this late after everything that has happened. We need to talk.”

Even if your presence only served for Akaashi’s mom to soften her angry words a bit, it was already worth the walk, but you couldn’t just stand still and let Akaashi suffer more.

He was in enough pain already.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you, and I apologize for Keiji’s late arrival,” you explained. “It was my fault. I was talking to him, telling him that what he did was wrong, and tending to his wounds.”

Her angry eyes returned to you, and for a brief second you spotted a shadow of sadness in her expression before she forced herself to return to her stoic demeanor. After all, it was her job as a parent to not crumble in this situation.

“Keiji, get inside. Thank you for bringing him home, y/n.”

Akaashi walked past you, his fingers lightly brushing your wrist as he whispered “thank you, y/n-san” before he went inside and you lost sight of his shape.

In a desperate last attempt, you said to his mom:

“He made a mistake. It was a bad mistake, but he’s aware of it. He has faced the consequences. He was only defending me.”

Now that Akaashi wasn’t there, her face dropped all signs of anger, only leaving behind the pain of disappointment in her expression.

“I know, but some actions are inexcusable, y/n. Please go home, it’s late already.” She bowed at you, and you returned the gesture, bowing deeper. Before she closed the door, she whispered: “You won’t see him in a while.”

And as the door slammed closed, her words hit you deep in your gut.

In the end, there was nothing you could do to help him.

You didn’t see or communicate with Akaashi in two weeks. The despair of his absence made you take the decision of speaking to the teachers and the vice principal, not to revert Akaashi’s suspension but to put in a good word for him, explaining to them how much Akaashi regretted his actions. Some teachers were more understanding than others, and you hoped you could at least help them trust Akaashi again.

The volleyball club wasn’t the same without him, and you could feel the heavy atmosphere as a manager. The members of the team were displeased at Akaashi’s suspension, but after the first days you noticed that most of the guys were in favor of what Akaashi had done.

After all, Nakamura was a pretty unpopular character at the school, and Bokuto in particular had a hard time every time he saw the guy around the hallways.

Two weeks went by painfully slow, and then one morning Akaashi showed up at school again. He had changed, his demeanor even more stoic than usual, his eyes more serious. There was little trace of wounds on his body anymore, but you noticed a tiny scar crossing his lower lip.

Your first chance of talking to him was during lunch break. You sneaked into his classroom, finding him at his table minding his business. It was clear how careful he was in his actions now, afraid that any tiny slip-up would cause his downfall.

Finding a seat in the empty chair right in front of his desk, you shot him a smile.

“Hey, Akaashi. Nice to see you around again. How are you?”

Your stomach dropped when he didn’t return the smile. He continued eating his lunch as he said:

“I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay,” you replied, your happiness now gone.

“It’s hard to earn people’s forgiveness,” he explained, eyes focused on his lunch box.

“Are you angry at me?”

“Of course not.”

You sighed, resting your arms on the back of the chair, and pressing your chin against your hands.

It was hard to read Akaashi, a guy who wasn’t fond of letting his emotions seep through his face. But it was as if the punishment he had received from both the school and his family had hardened him even more.

What if he didn’t like you anymore? What if the feelings you had expressed two weeks ago in the locker room had no validity to him anymore?

“What did your family tell you?”

“They’re extremely disappointed. I know they don’t trust me anymore,” he replied with an apparent detachment that you found unusually painful to listen to.

“Keiji…”

You caught him off guard —chin raising, eyes abandoning the sigh of his food to land on your face. You had never called him by first name before.

“y/n.”

“I’ve missed you.”

He swallowed.

“Me too,” he whispered, almost as if it was forbidden to him to confess his feelings.

“The volleyball team has missed you too. They’re dying to play with you again.”

You leaned forwards, entering the space of his desk, trying to bring some semblance of normalcy and positivity back to his life. You couldn’t imagine what he had gone through in the last two weeks —he would never tell you about the words his family had scolded him with, or the phone talks he might have had with his disappointed teachers, or the empty and lonely nights thinking about how much he missed the school and his friends.

All you could do was to try to push those feelings into the past and help him move forwards.

He opened his mouth to reply when a voice disrupted your conversation. You turned your head to the source of the interruption, finding an arrogant Nakamura standing next to you.

“Well, look who’s back!”

Silence spread around the classroom, followed by the murmurs of classmates surrounding you to witness the scene.

Akaashi cast a glance at the unwelcomed visit, but before you could dread a second fight, your friend returned his attention to his food and to you.

“It was wonderful,” he told you. “I had to do homework, but nothing out of the ordinary. I skipped classes and slept until late. Then I had time to play videogames in the afternoon.”

You blinked at Akaashi. He spoke nonchalantly, picking a rice ball from his box and munching at it, talking with his mouth full. Your eyes widened as he kept explaining the wonders of his daily routine during suspension, and you couldn’t hide the shock at what was clearly a lie —yet Akaashi explained it with a spontaneity that almost sold it to you.

Nakamura tried to interrupt him, speaking louder and louder, only to get ignored consistently by Akaashi.

As if his enemy didn’t exist at all.

You were afraid that the soccer player would get so mad that he’d punch Akaashi, but surprisingly it didn’t happen. In a fit of anger, the guy kicked a desk nearby and eventually left the classroom.

A soft chuckle left Akaashi’s lips.

“He knows he can’t attack me, or he’d get suspended, and he has an important match coming.”

“You’ve changed, Keiji.”

“I have simply learned and evolved.”

He put the remaining of the rice ball into his mouth and licked his fingers. You sneakily removed a single grain from the corner of his lips.

“Did you really sleep until late and play videogames?”

“Of course not, but he doesn’t know that. So… the guys are dying to play with me again, you said?”

“Oh yes. And I am looking forward to seeing this evolved version of you play in an official match. They have a big storm coming.”

It was the first time you saw a genuine smile in Akaashi’s face after the suspension.

“I’m free on Sunday, by the way. I’m not grounded anymore, so how about we meet? My lips hurt so much lately and I need you to fix it.”

A rush of heat climbed up your chest and all the way to your face, which you buried into your hands.

Yes, Akaashi had changed. And you couldn’t believe how blunt he had become.

BONUS (end of first scene)

In the following silence, his eyes looked into yours for answers.

You had just kissed him —there was no room for doubt. Akaashi’s brain functioned at 3000 revolutions per minute, considering every possibility, discarding any that didn’t fit his hypothesis.

It was strange, the location you had chosen to land a kiss. The way your thumb caressed his chin would fit the romantic category better than the platonic one, yet every romantic movie he had ever seen had the couple kissing in the center of the lips.  Unlike the traditional kiss, you had found the corner of his mouth instead, but the angle of your lips against his, the surface of your mouth that had come in contact with his… it was undeniably a kiss in the lips, not a kiss in the cheek.

Could this mean what he thought it meant? Could this be a confession of sorts? A revelation of romantic feelings on your part?

As unexpected as it was, it didn’t shock him. He couldn’t say he didn’t see it coming. He had considered this possibility in the past, the chances of this happening only increasing as your friendship with him became more intimate.

Heck, when he had punched that Nakamura guy in the mouth, he hadn’t even felt like a friend protecting another friend’s honor. He had almost spat a “don’t you dare insult my girlfriend” at Nakamura, and he was thankful he hadn’t embarrassed himself in front of everyone during the heat of the fight, for you weren’t his girlfriend —as much as he wished you were.

But if getting in so much trouble had brought about this sweet moment to him, he wouldn’t pull away from it now.

He wasn’t projecting his wishes onto your actions, no. This was a kiss in the lips, there was no doubt about it. This wasn’t a byproduct of his imagination.

Thus, there was only one possible answer.

One second later, his hands cupped your face, pulling you closer, and he kissed you back —a true kiss, as it should be, right on the center of your lips.

And then he felt it, the pang of pain crossing his lips, a groan escaping from his throat as he pulled back.

“Your lip is broken, you idiot,” you chuckled, examining the wound on his lower lip as he hissed in pain. “Or why do you think I kissed you on the corner of your mouth?”

You coiled your arm gently around his shoulders, bringing him closer against your body, and you buried your face into his cheek, placing another kiss at the end of his lips.

He still felt the sting, but he smiled.

The pain was worth it.

TAGLIST

@hqxreader​

[libraryofloveletters]

Dancing In The Rain

You grew up hating each other, for absolutely no reason. He has always been a pain in your ass but was a thunder storm and dancing the answer to your life long headache ? 

Luke Alvez X Reader 

Warnings: fem!reader, good old enemies to friends, fighting, swearing, name calling (nothing overly dramatic)

Category: Angst, fluff at the end 

Word Count: 1.7k

Author’s Note: A tik tok audio made me think of this idea :) 

--------

To say you and Luke despised each other was the understatement of the year. Your fathers went to university together and remained close friends afterwards. The two of you grew up together, seeing each other at holiday events and summer vacations but the hatred remained as you aged. You loved Luke’s parents but you couldn't stand him at all. 

Every year since the 2 of you were children, all of you take a trip to the cabin. This year your father asked you to head up there a few days before to tidy up and see what needs to get done before they join you there. He had failed to mention to you that Luke would also be going there. 

Your parents knew the way you felt about Luke and his parents knew how he felt about you, and they were constantly trying to fix it. You weren’t sure if this was their attempt to fix it, but an ambushed weekend at the cabin with your least favourite person on the planet wasn’t the way to do it.  

---- 

Luke was chopping wood for the fire when you arrived. You sat in your car watching him for a minute, debating if you should just turn the car around and go home. He was wearing a button up that was unbuttoned (totally defeating the purpose of a button up, but whatever) with the sleeves rolled up, you hated to admit it but he looked so good. You got out of the car, slamming the door shut, pushing your sunglasses into your hair

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You looked at him, squinting from the sun. 

“You literally have sunglasses on your head and you’re struggling to see, you’re a dumb ass” He dropped the axe near the pile of wood. 

“Why are you here?” He questioned you again. 

“My father sent me to open up” 

“So did mine” 

You groaned, why are they still trying to fix your relationship with Luke? You were just about ready to get in the car and go home, either way you knew you couldn’t. You promised your dad that you would get the cabin ready, and you knew Luke wasn’t capable of doing it by himself. You headed into the house to see what needed to be done, leaving Luke outside to do the yard work. 

------

It was Friday afternoon and the parents should be arriving tonight. You had cleaned every room in the house, doubling checking that they were spick and span. Luke spent the last day and a half doing yard work, fixing broken doors and windows, changing light bulbs and checking supplies. You sent the list of supplies needed to your parents, begging them to hurry up because you couldn't spend another night alone with Luke. 

You had just gotten out of the shower when you heard his phone ring, only being able to pick up on bits and pieces of the conversation. Walking into the living room, Luke had a very visibly unpleasant expression on his face. “What’s up your ass ?” you flopped onto the rocking chair. He groaned at you “okay don’t fucking tell me then bitch” A flash of lighting lit up the room, thunder following it and shortly after the rain started pouring again. 

“That’s what’s up my ass” He leaned back against the couch and looking out the window, your brows furrowed “the rain is up your ass?” you looked at him, confused causing him to shake his head. 

“No stupid, the rain washed out the road to come in here. Our parents won’t be here until tomorrow afternoon”

“What? Are you serious ?” You turned your attention to him. 

“No I'm fucking with you” he rolled his eyes, causing you to throw a pillow at him. He caught it and threw it back, hitting you square in the face. “You’re so fucking annoying!” You got up and stormed outside, slamming the door behind you. You did have a bit of flare for the dramatics but either way your statement still stands, Luke was so fucking annoying. 

Sitting on the steps of the pouch, your legs stretched out letting the rain fall onto them. You took a deep breath in, taking in the smell of the rain and the outdoors. 

This was your happy place 

-------

You hadn’t realized how long you were outside until the porch light turned on. You blinked, rubbing your eyes with your palms to see that it was dark out but still raining. It was so peaceful. 

Luke came out and sat beside you. “What were you doing out here for 5 hours?” 

“I don't know” 

“Yeah, you’re dumb like that” 

His comment made you roll your eyes. The two of you sat in silence for a few minutes before either of you did anything, this was probably one of the nicest moments you’ve ever had with him. He took his phone out and turned on one of your favourite songs. Your eyebrows raised at the sound of it, you didn’t even know that Luke knew this song. 

He stood up and walked directly into the rain, you watched him and wondered what was going on in that strange head of his. He swayed to the beat of the song, he smiled at you. 

This was the first time, in your entire life that Luke Alvez has smiled at you.

He stuck his hand for you to grab it. Looking around, you saw no one else around so he had to be talking to you. “Me?” you looked at him, unsure at what angle he was playing here. He let out a loud laugh, one unlike you had ever heard before. Any other time Luke had laughed around you was because he was laughing at you. 

“Yes, you. Dance with me” 

He grabbed your hand, pulling you into him. His chest against yours, faces inches apart. His hand found their way to your waist and the other was holding your other hand while your hand rested on his shoulder. He spun you around the front lawn while the rain poured down on the two of you.

“This is my favourite song” you whispered to him, as he pulled you closer during the slow part. “I know, I remembered you mentioned it last summer” he whispered back to you. You didn’t know he paid attention to what you said, especially enough attention to remember your favourite song. You just wanted to stay in this moment a little longer, it felt like the two of you were finally at peace but you couldn’t do that. 

“What did I do to you Luke? I just want to know and then we can go back to hating each other” You leaned back in his arms to look at him, his hands now on your lower back. He took a deep breath in and sighed. “You stole my father from me y/n, that’s what you did” 

You were stumped, how did you steal his father? His words replaying themselves in your head. You looked to him for an answer. 

“He’s always liked you better. From the moment he met you, I could see the joy in his eyes, he wanted a daughter and well, I’m not that. I constantly felt like I was in your shadow my entire life. Not only did you have your own parents’ love but you also had my parents’ as well.” 

Never in a million years did you expect this, your heart broke for him. “Luke...” you wanted to say something but you weren’t sure what to say. “Y/n, stop. It’s stupid, I don't need you to pity me and try to make me feel better.”

You looked at him, pulling yourself together to tell him how you felt. “Luke I'm sorry I made you feel that way our whole lives, I didn’t mean to do that. Your father loves you, that's very clear. I know he wanted a daughter but the bond that the two of you have can’t be replaced, not even by me.” 

The two of you stood there, silent other than the rain that was still falling. Both of you were fully drenched, Luke’s arms still around you and your hand on his shoulder. 

“That’s why I hated you. You took the one thing I really wanted” He glanced at you but looked away quickly. You pulled him into a hug, you felt so horrible that you were the reason he felt that way. 

You only disliked him because he was on your ass all the time and he wouldn't leave you alone. Now that you think back, it makes sense. All those times he should try to show off or try and get his dad to do things with him while he was with you, it all added up. 

“Luke, I'm sorry. You know, I never meant to make you feel like I was taking your dad from you. We were just kids” 

He didn’t say anything, he was clinging onto you like his life depended on it. He whispered to you “I know, I'm sorry too” 

“Are we okay now? If that was the issue, maybe we can fix it and try to get along ? Now, I’m not saying let’s be friends but just try and be civil” 

“I think I can do that” Luke untangled himself from you, leaving you feeling empty. He put his arm over your shoulder as the two of you walked to the door. 

You had a good feeling that things would work out for the two of you. 

[foiblepnoteworthy]

[ID 4 images. First is of Jon and his Nan holding hands and walking, then sitting together both looking away. Second is of Jon and Gertrude, backs to eath other bit watching each other from across the room. Third is of Jon and Gerry painting each others nails. Fourth is adult Jon in a large pink cardigan.

Extended ID under the cut. I recommend that you check it out even if you don’t want to read the full analysis and reasoning, as it points out the parts of the drawings that mean things, if that’s what you’re into yanno.]

I am once again talking about @polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup’s fic nature has taught her creatures to hate bc i am on a crusade to get everyone to read it (i do not know how i will accomplish this but i shall).

Anyway latest chapter had a few lines that made me feel things and a few lines that made me think things and then i started thinking about how i design Jon’s outfits for this au again and now i have to talk about it a bit under the cut.

Okay, so - first up i made a lil’ mistake with the first drawing - which was inspired by the line, ‘”They smell like home”’ in reference to Jon smoking cigarettes (from chapter 9). Naturally my first thought was his Nan, which is what inspired the above drawing, until I re-reread chapter 2 today and noticed the line ‘Nan hates smoking’, which rather suggests she wasn’t the person Jon was referencing. 

This is fascinating because, up until now, I had assumed that all of Jon’s wishes to ‘go home’ were wished to see his Nan. Clearly this isn’t the case when it comes to the cigarettes. However, later in the new chapter there came a reference to my canon-smoking dead gay goth son, Gerry. I have concluded that Jon has changed his definition of home to Gerry at some point. 

In a way I can’t quite articulate, I feel that there is a connection between Jon’s starving chain-smoking, his only connection between his home and his friend, and the line ‘”I’m more like me, like this”’ (in reference to his statement starvation). With the way smokers will often smoke to reduce their appetite, I think that smoking serves as a pseudo-anchor for him; that by attaching himself to Gerry as much as he can, he is trying to hold onto an identity he can barely recognise. 

The point of these drawings was to try to analyse Jon’s identity and self-expression. Naturally, how Jon presents himself is something I think about a lot in relation to this series because if i didn’t i would never get anything done. So far there haven’t been many canon descriptions of him, but the smaller details paint an interesting picture, and the missing gaps are just a playground for me I guess. 

Aside form references to how exhausted he looks in general, the first description of Jon, as i recall, came from Gertrude, describing Jon after what I believe was a few years under Elias’/Wright’s ‘care’. She mentioned his ‘short neat hair’ and his ‘clean white shirt’, (or something to that effect), which did not match the Jon I was more familiar with - with tiredness sagging his shoulders and the bags under his eyes; and feminine clothing and hair - but it did match Elias rather well. Elias would never have allowed Jon to look like anything other than his model son, a shrunken mirror image, so the long hair had to go. 

Gertrude, I don’t think, was ever unkind to Jon. He felt her eyes on him often, and their conversations were never more or less than cordial words between strangers, but they spent years in each others company, shackled to the same rooms and man and god. Her little kitten knick-knack still sits in pride of place on his/her/their desk, and Jon never could clear out the spare clothes that smelled of burning buildings and insulted the dress code. 

During the brief months or years he was allowed Gerry’s company, Jon would naturally have picked up on the other kid’s famous talent for self-expression. At this point he began to re-grow his hair out, tying it up in a bun in an imitation of his old style; of how his Nan wore it. Gerry wore skirts for their gender and Jon wore his for his Nan (putting a pin in the gender thing for a spare day that would never come). Gerry walked around in a cloud of rebellious smoke, sheltering Jon under their wing and smiles, and when they were gone Jon puffed out a cloud of lonely fog in an imitation of their company. 

Extended ID

[ID 4 images in a rough wavy chalky style. This style doesn’t lend itself well to close detail, so no faces are rendered. In all drawings Jon is depicted with brown skin and dark hair. 

First is of Jon and his Nan. There are two drawings in this image, first the two of them walking together, holding hands and looking away from each other. Jon is looking at his book, which has a red cover and cream pages, and Nan is smoking a cream cigarette with a glowing red end. 

Their outfits are matching: Jon’s trousers and Nan’s blouse are both a pale blue; and Jon’s top and Nan’s floor length skirt are red-pink. Nan’s colour palette is more washed out than Jon’s, but the resemblance is clear. They both have long hair up in buns and where their hand link they blend together seamlessly. 

The background for the first image is pale, but gets darker going down the image (think ‘colour of the sky’). In the second part of this drawing Jon and Nan both sit on the floor, back to back. Nan is curled up tight, her face buried in a book; her shoulders are tense, up to her ears. Jon sits turned away from the viewer, a lit cigarette in his hand, the slump of his shoulders and the limp hand signifying defeat. Once again their colours and hair match each other.

In both of these images the signature is in bright red, encouraging the viewer to look at the shared cigarette and book, the link and the downfall. 

The second image shows Jon and Gertrude. Gertrude has short grey hair in a perm, and wears a pale blouse and long purple skirt. She is surrounded by vague smoke. Jon wears pressed slacks and a neat buttoned-up shirt, and his hair is short and neatly combed. A spider hangs, unnoticed, from his elbow. They’re both turned away from each other, a statement in hand, each at a three-quarter angle. The light source is between them, meaning that the farthest side of each of their faces is in shadow. In that shadow shines a green eye, which watches the other. 

The third image shows Jon and Gerry together, sat on the floor next to some empty shelves. Gerry is dressed in almost all black, with a black trench coat and skirt and long black-brown hair. They also wear silver piercings, fishnets and a pink crop top. Their skin is pale. In one hand they hold a purple nail polish brush, and in the other they hold Jon’s hand. A lit cigarette hangs between their lips, smoke filling the upper quarter of the image. 

Jon sits against the wall. He wears a pinkish skirt an blue blouse, similar to his Nan’s clothes in the first images. The sides of his dark hair hangs to his chin, while the top is help up in a small bun, which is close to collapsing. The hand that Gerry isn’t holding is wrapped around his knees, which are pulled up to his chest. He leans forwards, intent on Gerry.

On the shelf next to them there are three bottles of nail polish. On the floor beside them are their shoes - Jon’s neat brown oxfords and Gerry’s chunky steel-toed platforms - and a red and cream packet of cigarettes. 

They are turned towards each other, something tender in the faceless looks they give each other, in the gentle hold Gerry has on Jon’s hand with it’s freshly painted purple nails. 

The fourth image shows Jon on his own. His hair is up in a bun, and he wears a long red skirt. He wears a long pink cardigan that used to belong to Gertrude, half off the shoulder as though it doesn’t matter .He has platform heels, purple painted nails, a metal band t-shirt and a cigarette in his mouth. 

[dustofbrokenheart]

The Lost Boys: Exhale

Dwayne x Reader

Word Count: 3,384

Summary: My attempt at a sad, spooky fic featuring Dwayne, key word being attempt. I hope I was able to do him justice. Partially inspired by Stephen King’s writings. 

Ocean waves lapped at the sandy shore, coaxing you to try and open your eyes. Despite knowing you needed to get up, you struggled to keep your lids from fluttering closed again. They felt heavy, like they were caked with cement.

You cleared your throat and tried again.

When you finally managed it, you propped yourself up and took in your surroundings. The moon was full and luminous, sitting high in the sky. A few bits of shadowy cloud drifted by in tangled clusters.

Obviously, it was late into the night but you had no clue what the actual time was which made you nervous.

How long had you been passed out here?

There wasn’t anyone around you at the moment, the next closest bonfire was a small spec in the distance, but that didn’t mean it had been that you had been alone the whole time.

You checked yourself and didn’t feel any injuries, nor were your clothes ripped, so you breathed easier knowing that you likely had not been assaulted. However, you did discover that you were missing our wallet. You cursed and got up on shaky legs, brushing the sand off of you.

So, it was nighttime, you weren’t sure how you got the beach, and your wallet was missing… great.

Crossing your arms, you walked towards the sounds and lights that beckoned to you from a ways down from the part of the beach you found yourself at. As you got closer you saw a set of stairs that led up to a bunch of shops and rides.

The Santa Carla Boardwalk sign was lit up nice and bright. Everything on the boardwalk, shop and ride alike, was decked out in spooky-themed décor.

You spied a large banner that read, “Halloween Monster Bash / OPEN LATE / Sat. Oct. 30th” and a lightbulb went off in your head.

That explained how you probably ended up passed out on the beach—you probably partied too hard for the bash and wandered off after you had had too much to drink. Not a bright move on your part, but plausible.

You promised to try and be on your best behavior for the foreseeable future. Given that it was a Saturday night, and a Halloween promotion at that, the boardwalk was teeming with people who kept bumping into you. Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if you had some bruises tomorrow.

You ended up by the carrousel, which had a much calmer surrounding crowd compared to the other areas, and sat down on a metal bench, watching the lights on the ride as it made its slow revolutions.

Suddenly, a group of long-haired boys muscled their way onto the carousel. One in particular caught your attention and you couldn’t take your eyes off of his leather jacket. A big, yellow cat with bared fangs and claws was stitched on the side of it.  

The cat, and by extension the boy wearing it, was rugged, yet sleek, dangerous, yet beautiful.

He must have sensed your focus on him because his head snapped in your direction, his soulful eyes making your throat itch and close up. With no other reaction besides the eye contact, he left his group, gliding to the edge of the moving ride and smoothly stepped off.

He sat quietly next to you on the other side of the bench, neither of you willing to speak up. It turned into a battle of wills to see who would break first. After an extended period of silence, he gave in and accepted his defeat with a snort.

“What’s your name?”

Nervous, your hand crept to your neck and his intense stare followed the movement. “Y/N,” you answered. “Who are you?”

“I’m Dwayne.”

“I like your jacket, Dwayne. The stich work is stellar.”

His lips curled upwards into a slow, easy smile. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

You opened your mouth and froze when you suddenly remembered. “I’m meeting a friend. His motorcycle broke down and I told him I would give him a lift home.”

“Hmm. So where is he?”

“I’m not sure. I-I was on the beach for a while,” you admitted more than a little embarrassed. “He probably thinks I’ve forgotten about him—I hope he hasn’t left yet.”

“Let’s take a walk. I’m sure we can find him together.” He stood up and offered his hand to you.

You were conflicted. On one hand, you had just promised yourself to make smarter decisions; on the other, there was something about this boy that drew you in. He gave you another small smile that sealed the deal.

You placed your hand in his and he led you around the boardwalk, the picture of a perfect gentleman. If gentlemen wandered around in public with their toned chests and abdomens exposed.

Dwayne and you kept your eyes peeled for your friend, but he also persuaded you to stop at a few booths along the way and brought you some food to try. You took a bite of the soft pretzel he handed you. You chewed thoughtfully before giving your review.

“It’s okay. The flavors aren’t out of this world though.”

“Not possible,” he said stealing the pretzel back. “This is the best snack this place has to offer.”

He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re not feverish, so I guess that rules out being sick. But you do feel chilled.”

Dwayne stared you down, his eyes looked like they were searching for something. You weren’t sure if he found what he was looking for. The two of you slowed down and you leaned against a wooden rail near the entrance to the boardwalk. As much as you wished your friend would turn up or that you could continue walking with Dwayne, you recognized that it was incredibly late and decided to call it a night.

He also seemed reluctant to let you go. “Will you be back tomorrow?” he murmured. “You can keep me company for Halloween.”

You nodded enthusiastically, glad that he had enjoyed your company as much as you enjoyed his. The two of you made plans to meet back at the carousel again the following night. Halloween night. He stroked your wrist and bided you good-night.

You turned on your heel, feeling the energy within you pulsing as you walked away.

  _______________

The next night, you found yourself sitting on the same metal bench near the carousel. This time you felt more grounded and much less flustered. You jokingly thought to yourself that you must be channeling strength from Halloween.

Dwayne joined you on the bench a while later, this time coming without his friends entirely.

“Hi,” you said lamely when he looked at you. “Would you rather sit or walk?”

He chose to walk and you were eager to see where he would take you this time. He shouldered his way through the throngs of people and you followed closely behind, gripping his jacket tightly. The crowds thinned out significantly as you walked down to the beach, the noise further drowned out by the ocean.

Dry sand crunched under your shoes as he moved further away from public view. Eventually, Dwayne came to a stop by a low burning fire which he stoked back to life.

You looked around in surprise. “Hey, this is where I was last night. What a crazy coincidence!”

His dark eyes peered at you from where he sat opposite of you on the other side of the bonfire. But he didn’t comment. Instead, he asked you questions.

“Did you ever get ahold of your friend?”

“No,” you admitted, feeling uncomfortable. “He probably hates me right now. Something was wrong with the bike engine, which is why he needed the ride.”

“That’s cool that he rides.”

“His bike is pretty cool. The body is dark red, and he has wheel covers on it, plus there’s an antenna on the back end.”

Again, he didn’t say anything. He just stared. The mood turned uncomfortable once more, so you tried changing topics to bring back the fun you had the previous night.

“I’m actually passing thru Santa Carla on my way to L. A. More specifically, Englewood. To pursue my dream,” you revealed, splaying your fingers in a jazz hand fashion. That seemed to perk his interest and his lips twitched slightly.

You drew up your legs and rested your chin on the tops of your knees. A happy tingle started in your chest and ran down the rest of your body as you remembered back to another time in your life. Back when you were a small child and made a friend.

You told Dwayne the story of how your grandmother used to be involved with one of the local food pantry groups in your home city. And how you often used to tag along with her when she volunteered because your parents worked a lot. One day you were sitting under the tables and bored out of your mind, you started to doodle on the filed floor. You were not expecting another kid to join you and you jumped when they introduced themselves.

You guys were around the same age and started to seek each other out whenever you went with your grandma while she volunteered. Soon, you were even hanging out when you weren’t at the food pantry.

“People used to freak out when they saw us together in public. It was so stupid,” you ranted. “It wasn’t their fault they were on the streets. Most homeless are in that position for reasons beyond their control. I never judged my friend for doing what they had to do to survive—”  

Next thing you knew, you were knocked backwards onto the ground, your head taking a particularly hard hit.

In a miraculously fast move, Dwayne had launched himself across the fire to tackle you. It happened so fast, you hadn’t been able to track him. He moved like a menacing shape, striking with the accuracy and speed of a viper.

Your body locked up from where you were pinned and you gasped for air.

Dwayne crouched above you, his knees dug into your thighs to keep your legs spread apart and his claws gripped into your wrists like a vice. He had taken you by surprise and made sure you were completely immobile and unable to fight back. But that wasn’t even the most terrifying part.

The once smooth planes of his face had changed into raised, sharp angles along his brow and cheeks. His hair hung down over you, like a black curtain, so you had no choice but to look at him. Light from the nearby fire casted shadows where it filtered through the strands of hair, making him appear even more menacing.

He leaned down and clicked his fangs right in your face.

Your heart, which had been hammering like a freight train, stopped beating entirely. The jarring stillness within you made you think that you were having a heart attack.

“Quit playing games, Y/N,” he said darkly, his lip curled up in a snarl.

You were so frightened that you couldn’t respond even when he shook you.

“You’ve been toying with me for two nights now, just give it up. We both know you are not what you claim to be.”

You tried to articulate your shock but you couldn’t must a single sound. He growled gutturally and time slowed down. Was this how you were going to die?

A blinding pain ripped through your head, robbing you of all your senses as everything turned white.

  _______________

You hummed and bopped your head to the song that was playing on the radio in your aging car. The sun had set some time ago, so you read the green road sign with help from your headlights.

Santa Carla, ten miles.                

That should be a good place to spend the night to spend the night. According to the map you were consulting, Santa Carla seemed like a decently sized city that should have your choice of motels to pick from.

You entered city limits and as you turned a corner you noticed a motorcycle parked on the shoulder of the road. A boy with dark hair sat crouched next to it. Debating with yourself, you ended up slowing down and rolling your window.

“Hi,” you called from the driver’s seat. “Do you need any help?”

He turned and you instantly saw how attractive he was. He stood, wiping his hands on a rag that was tucked into his pocket.

“Something’s wrong with the engine. I don’t want to drive it, in case it gets worse.”

No stranger to car troubles, you felt empathetic.

“Get in. I can take you home, or to a mechanic, if there’s a garage still open.”

He accepted the offer and settled into the passenger’s side. You apologized for not having room to bring the bike with and he reassured you that his friends would take care of it. He asked you to take him home, but first he directed you towards a place called the boardwalk so he could buy you dinner as a thank-you.

Your empty stomach couldn’t refuse food.

When you got out of the car you noticed his jacket for the first time. “Stellar stitching,” you complimented.

He ordered tacos to-go from one of the food stands. “Come on, I know a better spot on the beach where we can eat in peace.”

The spot was isolated, which made you pause with doubt, but the food smelled delicious and Dwayne had been nothing but nice, so you ignored the little warning bell.

Having good food after being a car for most of the day was satisfying and you moaned when you took the first bite of taco. To fill in the silence you explained to him that you were moving down to L.A.

“Just passing through?” he questioned.

“Just passing through.”

You told him about the job offer that had convinced you to leave home and how excited you were to work with the homeless women youth there. “Most of them are in that position for reasons beyond their control. I never judge them for doing what they have to do to survive.”

Dwayne looked at you with surprise. “You mean that?” He sounded almost conflicted.

You assured him that you most certainly did.

The next hour or so passed quickly, you chatting away with Dwayne jumping in here and there. Despite not being talkative, he did a good job putting you at ease even though you barely knew one another. When you yawned while in the middle of a story and realized you needed to sleep.

You told Dwayne it was time to get him home so you could sort out your motel situation. He turned away from you and grew even more quiet. He didn’t move nor make a single sound which worried you.

“Dwayne?”

Then he whispered, “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

He turned around and his face looked monstrous with his protruding forehead and blazing eyes that swirled with red and yellow. You covered your mouth.

He flew at you, pinning you into the sand. You fought your best to dislodge him, screaming shrilly, but it would have made no difference had you not fought at all. You were no match for his inhuman strength.

He wrenched your chin back, his hands clawing into your face to expose your neck. By that point you had defensive wounds all over and one of your forearms had brittlely snapped.

Dwayne reared back, his fangs on full display. The last thing you saw as the beautiful boy with the cool jacket tore into your throat was the wide expanse of black sky dotted with twinkling stars overhead.

  _______________

You came back to the present with a terrible moan rattling from your lips. You were still supine on your back, but Dwayne was no longer on top of you. He sat a few feet away with his face still in its vampiric state, somberness radiating from him.

Numbly, you reached for your neck and felt wet, mangled flesh under your fingers. And you knew that if you looked down you would see your blood-soaked shirt and your crippled arm. You dragged yourself into an upright position which was a shaky process as one of your arms did not match the other.

“You did this to me,” you whispered. Dwayne nodded once.

“What—” your voice cracked so you tried again. “What am I?”

“Something was different about you from the start. You didn’t have a pulse, your skin was cold,” he said matter of factly. “But I wasn’t sure exactly until you started talking about your job.”

“What am I” you said more strongly.

“We met for the first time in February…”

“Am I like you?” you asked.

He shook is his slowly denial. You tiled your head upwards and took in the sky, moon, and stars. There was only one other option, the option that was the hardest to admit out loud.

“I’m dead, then.”

“You’re the only person I’ve killed that’s ever come back,” he said unsurely.

Now that you remembered everything, and your ghostly status was brought to light, other things started making sense too. How your sense of taste was dulled at the boardwalk and you weren’t sure where you slept last night, if you slept at all.

It seemed that your earlier joke about drawing strength from All Hallows Eve was too far off from the truth.

“You’re the friend I was looking for. Was your bike even really broken back then?” Trails of thick blood leaked from your open wound.

He couldn’t bring himself to meet your gaze which was all the answer you needed. “It’s a con I use to lure in meals sometimes,” he finally sighed.

“I never made it to L.A. either… Oh, Dwayne. There was so much I wanted to do.”

You started choking up and he inched forward awkwardly, which you allowed.

“It won’t change things, but it wasn’t personal. I needed to feed and you were the first one I found.”

His candid confession unleashed your tears (looks like ghosts were still able to cry) and the moaning returned. He eased you into his lap and hugged you. His hands rubbed up and down your back in an attempt to soothe you.

You accepted that you were dead and you didn’t hate Dwayne for what he had done. That didn’t mean you didn’t mourn what you lost. You cried miserably for a long time before the tears ran their course and dried up.

What a mess you must have looked like with your swollen eyes and fatal wounds, your hair likely littered with sand. That got you thinking: how come you didn’t look like this until now? Hmm. Maybe you had could control our appearance. Or you had to remember the truth first.

And another thing, “What happened to my stuff?”

“We scrapped the car for metal and parts. We kept the cash and trashed the rest.”

That was a little annoying. “Donate next time you need to get rid of belongings. I’m sure there’s a lot of people who could use it.”

“Noted,” he promised.

“How much time do you think I have left?” That was an unpleasant realization, especially since you weren’t sure where you would go next.

He gently lifted up the arm that was broken. You gulped. Your fingers were flaking off into bright blue pieces, drifting in the air before fizzling out. You were slowly disappearing.

It started in your hands and creeped up your arms and legs. Dwayne watched it happened alongside you. You weren’t in any pain, but you were glad that he was there with you.

“I’m scared,” you admitted. “Will you hug me as I go?”

He tucked your head into his chest, his hug comforting. Soon your limbs had completely gone and all that remained was your center. A final release of energy that felt like the final exhale let you know that this was it.

“I forgive you, Dwayne,” you said softly. You smiled and closed your eyes in anticipation.

Dwayne watched as the last of you floated off and dissolved into the night air. 

“Good night, Y/N,” he murmured.

I hope that I was able to make Dwayne threatening, but compassionate, like I was aiming for. The Umbrella Academy gif is what I had in mind with the scene at the end. I’m actually a little nervous to post this, so thanks to anyone who takes the time to read!

[mc-doppomine]

Day 20 Bonus: Bad Ass Temple vs Matenrou

I’m just going in order of the battle dates at this point. And I’m just going to go from the music to the character stuff again because I feel it would just get long again. Look, I wanted to go for Bad Ass Temple. Sometimes you want to hope for an underdog. However when it comes to style...I just couldn’t get into BAT as much. Which is a shame because they have the same foundation of their team as MTR and going in the fight a similar way. But in terms of the individual songs, they’re actually pretty even. I didn’t have many songs that I really liked from either side besides One, Two, Law and Black or White. 

I feel this is also the time that I have to say, with music a lot of the time, I’m basing it only as music. It’s lyrics and the like are secondary and mainly used to like inch any song forward if I was truly stuck. So sound wise, it’s been all over the place. Between having flashbacks to high school with Jyushi and feel like I’m being taken to church by Jakurai...it’s been a time. But of course the ones I like are the ones that are ultimately the ones about more mundane stuff I guess? 

And with the group songs...I had to grow to like Kaigen. It’s just a personal thing with slow build up songs, I don’t usually have patience for them which is why I usually like fast paced songs over ballads (there’s always exceptions). But when you get to it though, it is good. I won’t deny that. (Yosh, Jyushi part and then him going off, is such a fuck yeah moment!) Well, Kirei, Kaigen is more fast paced than Tomoshibi, what gives? There’s always exceptions. One is that Tomoshibi doesn’t have as slow a build and that it caught my heart without me knowing what’s going on. Like a lot of my initially crying over Tomoshibi was over how it SOUNDS, not their lyrics. Also it’s slow but not ballad slow. 

Which then brought us to the actual battle. And they would not make us wait. I was gut punched when they let Jakurai and Hitoya go from right out the gate. Anyone else notice how they mirrored each other’s final line of defeating the other with everything they have? Shivers! I initially wondered why these two were put together to fight but it makes sense after Light & Shadow because they have essentially the same ultimate desire of finding safety and growth with their teams but how they go about it is very different. Neither of them are wrong but it’s a matter of the clash between those difference. 

If I had one thing that threw me so thoroughly in this battle though was Hitoya. Like I bet he was the real threat of BAT and I don’t feel I was wrong. But his angle was way different from what I was expecting. Like it seemed like his perspective changed before the 2nd DRB happened. Which ends up coming up really strange, at least for me, in this battle. Because HE is the one that initiated a fight with MTR by challenging Jakurai and was determined to take him down. Not that he still isn’t but he’s already had his chance of reflecting and changed why he’s fighting Jakurai from wanting to drag him down from his high horse to wanting to do this as a challenge against himself. Which isn’t bad, it just makes for a strange dynamic when it felt like it was set up for settling this grudge and he settled it himself before even getting on stage. 

As for the rest of the battle, I don’t have as many memorable lines as they go so fast in this one. It’s a lot easier to lose them but considering this track was designed like a final boss encounter, I guess that’s to be expected. But overall...I just felt like Kuko and Jyushi were too...not that they didn’t take it serious but too green to this kind of scene? Like it reminds me of Jiro and Saburo in War War War except I think Kuko and Jyushi delivered some great lines such as ‘you’ve been so shaved off by society, there’s nothing left of you.’ But they also didn’t seem to hit with me? Although I guess there is a small bias there as like...I feel weird hearing them say ‘middle-aged men’ when I’m not that much younger than Hifumi or Doppo. And know that it’s really not that old...it reminds me of my younger sister.

Lyric wise, it felt like they were fighting two completely different ways and I don’t know how it worked out honestly for me. Like I’m really glad for the sound because a lot of it...wasn’t nonsensical but just didn’t feel like they were going at the same thing. Like MTR didn’t even seem to really focus on beating down on their opponents whereas BAT did. And it makes for such a weird confrontation. So I basically defaulted to what I usually do with the music and go with how I feel from the music and I felt MTR through it. To me, I felt more passion from their delivery and also I’d be lying if I I was living through Hifumi’s haughty laugh, Kuko’s roll of words and Doppo’s screaming (how does Itou-san do it???). 

So yeah, MTR got me with music. 

I said I did the character thing because it’d be shorter to do the music...I didn’t realize I had to so much to say about the music until I was writing. I’m so sorry that this just ends up being super long as I add the character/story aspects...which honestly I guess would be shorter because in the grand scheme both BAT and MTR just have a lot less to lose of going against other teams. Which could be argued is their charm but I don’t know if that alone could save them from future shenanigans to happen in this DRB. But let’s get to the team stuff

BAT vs DH would have to be the most even chance music wise for both teams because they’re new to this battle season. Although I am absolutely terrified of what kind of sound would come from mixing their sounds together. I’m sure all the talented folks behind the DRB music can do it...I just can’t imagine it. I can’t really think of the conflicts here since for the most part they don’t know each other outside of Kuko and Sasara being in MCD for a time. 

BAT vs BB would be a chance to make the ‘koi yo Bad Ass,’ ‘Ou yo Bus Bros’ from Division Battle Anthem+ come true. I’ve hung onto that direct call out since I’ve heard it. There should be answers to their fall out. Ichiro didn’t forget it and feels like Kuko had to have some kind of revelation with it. This would be the chance to resolve this. Meanwhile I also entertain that this iust good hearted fun of like Ichiro, Kuko, Jyushi and Jiro all being around the same age and just being boys having fun. All the while, Hitoya is groaning as he pulls out another set of adoption papers. 

BAT vs FP...I can’t think of anything really since they haven’t had any real connection outside of Ramuda--and I think it was OUR Ramuda--thinking Kuko was too irrelevant for his plans. What a kick that’d be for Kuko to be like ‘so, I heard you were talking shit!’ 

BAT vs MTC, I also have a problem seeing as much of an issue. Outside of Hitoya trying to not have a whole ass conniption. He needs to bring like most of these bastards to court. And also dadtoya because he would not want to drag Kuko and Jyushi around these guys. I fear of Jyuto eating Jyushi alive. Although there could be a slight chance of anger from Samatoki towards Kuko because he’s one of the few people that know the extent of Kuko’s abrupt departure left with Ichiro and even if he doesn’t forgive Ichiro, I don’t think that erases that nasty taste in his mouth. 

And then to reverse around with MTR vs DH, I still think of it being more light-hearted of Hifumi and Doppo being like an accidental rival manzai to Sasara and Rosho. And just ending up petty over it. Watch Hifumi insult Sasara’s suit, ohmygod Hifumi can you not--And meanwhile I’m pretty sure Rei knows that Chuuoku is trying to use Jakurai’s rap ability and I can’t tell if he’s interested in how it goes or if he’d stop it. Because Rei I feel has less hesitance in doing extremes to eliminate what’s in his way. Be that incapacitating Jakurai’s ability or Jakurai himself or ruining Jakurai in a way that he can’t help...that’s all doesn’t seem outside the realm of possibility for Rei to me. 

MTR vs BB would also be a lighter affair as it just seems like bros just going against each other as I don’t know, I think MTR has a softer spot for BB than all the other teams. And to BB it’s like going against dad because I will die on the dadkurai hill. 

MTR vs MTC is rematch REMATCH. DEATH RESPECT PART II. Let’s get it. But yeah outside of sore feelings from last time, I don’t think it’d be as bad as last time. It’s really a ‘nothing personal but you’re in my way’ sort of thing. There is a meeting for the anti-Honobono club that goes on, maybe? Maybe there could be some bad blood if Samatoki knew about Jakurai thinking of helping Chuuoku with perfecting the thing that, at least for a long time in his head, took Nemu from him. 

But unsurprisingly most that would happen is if they did MTR vs FP. Because on one hand, it’s a REMATCH and one I’d personally love because their rap battle was my favorite. But they have the most story threads. I glossed it in the previous but it’s a chance for collaboration or using the other team if Honobono came up. Such as FP throwing MTR at her to distract her from getting Ramuda. They’re cutthroat enough to do it. Or if they could see past their rivalry and work together to save both of their sides from this mutual threat. I think this would be a time for Ramuda and Jakurai to REALLY go at each other. 

Because despite their disdain of each other, I don’t think they hate each other as they like to proclaim. Chuuoku seems to know this feeling on Jakurai’s end as they dangle Ramuda’s well-being in front of him time and time again. Even if he can’t get along with Ramuda, he sure as fuck doesn’t want him DEAD. And it seems to get forgotten but Ramuda IS Jakurai’s MENTOR, the person that taught him to survive in the new direction of the world. Even if this was orchestrated, that bond still exists. And it’s not one-sided because I can’t imagine Ramuda being pleased with Jakurai willingly going with the bitches that made his life hell. He’d be pissed as to how Jakurai could roll over to them (as he might perceive) and his effort to keep Jakurai from them failing. 

Phew...done...with the thing. But yeah in terms of like story/character....mmm, yeah that would have to go to MTR too. I really don’t feel like it’s BAT fault. I just think they’re at a disadvantage for coming new to a battle season.