#I think they just wanted Slate to look them in their remaining eyes and acknowledge what happened. without being defensive or avoidant

[white-hole-station]

[Headcanon]

The space program took a whole month off of development after Tektite's accident, so that Slate could have the time to perfect their leg. They'd already been working on articulated flaps for in-atmosphere steering for Feldspar's ship - conserves fuel to not use jets for that - and hey, an artificial ankle is just another type of flap to articulate, right?

Gossan wasn't so sure - especially with Slate's full-tilt approach to experimental engineering, at odds with Tektite's trepidation - but all of the founders agreed that the program could wait until their neighbour was back on their feet. And to Slate's credit, Gossan had never seen them show as much sheer methodical focus, before or since. This was somebody's limb here, after all: their ability to move of their own accord, their ability to get out and about in the community and do the things they love, their ability to still feel like their body is their own. Slate was hardly about to phone it in, or risk any wild experiments when it came to Tektite's comfort and requirements.

It took several iterations, and several difficult test walks around the town square gripping Slate's arm, but together the pair of them worked out a final model that's been serving Tektite well to this day.

(...Of course, the dedication and focus that so pleasantly surprised Gossan only made Slate's awkward avoidance of them after their own accident sting even more. Was it really that hard on their poor guilty conscience, to think about doing something similar for a friend, instead of darting their gaze away just short of Gossan's face?)

[trippinsorrows]

authors note: well, friends, after 85 years of ya'll patiently waiting for my slow ass, it's officially time to kick off book two of the ltye series. buckle up. it's gonna be an interesting ride.

note: this is a sequel to book 1, looking through your eyes. thus, you cannot read this unless you've finished ltye.

warnings: angst

words: 10k (and some change)

song inspo: 'i hope you dance' by lee ann womack

cast + masterlist + story playlist + taglist request form

There’s a common, popular belief that the new year brings in everything aligned and corresponding with the word “new.” That everything that occurred in the past remains just that—the past. 

And on one hand, Solana Reigns believes that. She welcomes it even, because majority of her past has brought nothing but heartache and pain. 

And yet, there’s many things, especially in the year prior, that have been quite the opposite. 

Starting with an arranged marriage. A union intended to bring about death and destruction but has birthed anything and everything but. 

Solana’s hand moves to her growing belly, that small, happy smile on her face as she thinks about her babies. Two beautiful little girls that, in a matter of mere months, she’ll be able to hold and love on.

Her daughters. 

Lives created out of the purest love with her husband. 

Roman Reigns. 

The man she met last year. The man she fell in love with last year. And so so much more. So, yes, while 2024 brought a lot of different things that were varying degrees of good and bad, unlike most, she doesn’t hope for a blank slate with the new year. 

She hopes for a continuation. 

“I take it you haven’t spoken to that husband of yours about the baby shower yet, have you?” 

Afia’s warm voice pulls Solana from her thoughts and reflection. Her sister-in-law works gracefully, gliding almost, from one end of the kitchen to the other. A combination of layering the plates with the snacks they just made and placing the dishes dirtied into the sink, spraying them with soap to aid in the later-on washing. 

“Not yet,” she answers, bitting down on her bottom lip, walking over to help. “I will. I just—”

“Solana.” Afia’s voice, much like everything else about her presence, especially over the past couple months, is nothing short of helpful. Beyond that. Kind. “I understand.” She nods, full lips turning into a bit of a smirk. “I just heard the last time you sprung a social gathering on him, he didn’t take it well.”

Solana chuckles. That’s a safe way to describe it.

What started out as chaotic ended infinitely more disastrous than she could have ever anticipated. 

And just as quickly as she was smiling, Solana is frowning.

Jey.

Thoughts of her husband's cousin, once like a brother���to the both of them—now a stranger. And with him, Jimmy as well. 

Naomi.

Afia is many things, perceptive being one of her many strengths. She turns away from the sink, drying her hands with the towel, already knowing where Solana's headspace has drifted off to. “You haven’t spoken to her yet either, have you?”

A simple, heavy answer. 

“No.”

Not from intentional avoidance. At least, that’s certainly not Solana’s intent. 

With them only being a week and two days into the new year, she's just been occupied with so many other things. She and Roman discussing wants for the new house, her long distance mentorship with Aurora and relationship with Paloma, designing and readying the nursery in their current home until the new house is ready, planning for their second wedding next month, and just preparing for parenthood altogether. 

Not to mention there’s still so much to unpack and process from the Coup.

Some of which Solana has gotten Roman to discuss with her. Most of which, he has not, which she works hard to respect while also acknowledging it has to be fully unpacked at one point or another. 

Not even including her own thoughts and feelings regarding all that, but the difference between herself and her husband is that Solana has talked about it. With Gail. With Trish. Afia. Bayley. Even him. Her entire support system that she’s leaned on greatly since…that.

She wishes she could say the same for her husband.

A gentle hand on her shoulder pulls Solana from potential overthinking. Afia’s grin comforting. “Give him time.”

Solana sighs. 

If only that was easier said than done.

“In the meantime, help me with the food and drinks, yes?”

An agreeable nod. “Of course.” After gathering her share of the trays of food and snacks, Solana looks over at Dulce who sits in her bed kept in the kitchen. “Come on, baby. Let’s go see daddy.” 

Solana’s sweet puppy doesn’t need to be told twice, hopping out of her bed, fluffy body swaying as she prances towards the steps, leading the way. 

Afia chuckles, commenting, “let no one say she’s not smart.”

Solana smiles, carefully balancing the tray of food. “Sometimes I think she’s smarter than me.”

“You? No. The average man? Probably.”

Shared laughter as the women make their way up the steps, Solana noticing the way Afia keeps darting her eyes over, as if watching and making sure she’s okay. It makes her smile but also evokes a teasing comment. 

“And here I thought Roman was the only overprotective one.”

Afia rolls her eyes, denying nothing. “Can’t help it.” She skillfully manages holding the tray of drinks with one hand, the other reaching over to feel Solana’s growing baby bump as they reach the top of the steps. “Many are waiting to meet these little ones.”

Solana doesn’t say anything, but truer words have never been spoken. 

Herself and Roman at the front of the line. 

And speaking of, it’s heard before seen. Obvious grumbling, arguing, and disagreement.

“Just hang up the damn phone. It’s been 45 minutes.”

“If I was gonna hang up, I would have done so about 30 fucking minutes ago.”

“He’s right, Roman. Doesn’t make sense—”

“What doesn’t make sense is—”

Afia and Solana arriving and standing in the doorway is all that’s needed to stop each man, mid conversation, three sets of eyes turning onto them and then Dulce who walks over to the big box that remains leaning against the wall, in the same spot Solana saw it in the last time she and Afia checked on the men.

Almost two hours ago.

Regardless, it’s a stark contrast to the other box that looks like it was practically shredded open, the contents of which are spread across the room. 

Again, very similair to how she left them.

“We umm—,” she starts, ignoring the mess, walking over to Roman who, even without saying anything, or him even needing to express as such, Solana can see is visibly and clearly annoyed. “We brought snacks.”

She can tell he’s about to protest, hence why she uses the still unopened box as a makeshift desk, laying down the tray and taking a plate. “Ro, you need to eat something.”

He manages to fit in that protest, scowling, “baby, I can eat when we’re done.”

“And just when is that going to be?”

Matteo, mouth full of food, mumbles something indecipherable at his wife’s question.

“We’re almost done,” Dwayne is the only one to offer an answer, Akara in one hand, homemade lemonade in the other. 

Solana looks around at the scattered pieces. 

“Are—are you sure?”

It’s only then that she becomes aware of what she’s sure Afia already noticed the second—if not before—they entered the room. The cell phone that lays on the window mantle, screen up and lit, revealing a duration of 47 minutes. 

And counting.

It makes her frown as she reaches for one of the Akara’s, leaning up on her heel to force feed her stubborn husband, if that’s what it takes. 

That's exactly what it takes. Solana with a small, pleased grin at the sight of him chewing while scowling at the same time.

Typical Roman.

“Who are you on hold wi—” Afia’s question is cut off by her question being answered. Just not by anyone physically in the room. 

“Hello, thank you for calling—” The poor soul on the other end of the phone, voice light, warmhearted, but deeply accented, has no idea what she—most likely—is set to experience.

Because Dwayne is quick to close the distance, snatching the phone and barking into it like a man on the brink of a crashout. “Yeah, listen here, we’ve been on hold for goddamn a whole ass hour when all we fucking need is you to email over a copy of directions for one of your products in Engl—”

Beep.

Solana’s jaw drops at the same time Afia covers her mouth and turns her head, that small smirk of amusement sneaking through her partially spread fingers.

“Son of a bitch!”

“Did she hang up?”

“No, the phone just randomly fucking beeped.”

Roman’s smart ass comment is silenced by Matteo running his hand over his face, muttering, “and this is why I said I should handle the call.”

Dwayne, however, couldn’t disagree more. “No one has the fucking time for you to pull that suave Casanova shit, Fabio.”

Matteo remains unbothered—as always—calmly countering. “Tell me then, how was your approach any better?”

“It was a waste of fucking time from the beginning,” Roman growls, Solana stepping closer, placing a calming hand on his chest. “We don’t need them anyway.” 

“I’ll just finish translating.”

“Because that was working so well before.”

Matteo’s second smart comment that earns a snort from Afia makes Dwayne stand ten toes down. He gestures to the half-brothers. “Well, I speak better French than you two fuckers.”

At that, Solana finally speaks up, looking between the men. “French?”

Roman answers, angrily gesturing to the ground where a booklet, edges torn and pages worn, stares back at her. “The fucking directions they included are in French.”

Solana makes a face, starting to say something in response. Only to stop herself. To keep it as a thought.

If you would have just let us get the cribs I saw at Target, maybe you wouldn’t be in this situation.

It feels a bit mean and too “I told you so” for her liking, hence Solana offering what she hopes is a helpful suggestion.

“Maybe you all should take a break. You’ve been at it for a while now.”

What she wants to say or even ask is for Roman especially to take a break. He still hasn't fully healed from his injuries sustained from the coup, partially due to the severity but mostly because while he's close to the end of his rehab, the taking it easy part of his treatment plan is just something he's clearly chosen to ignore.

Typical Roman.

But, what Solana intends to be hopeful and encouraging appears to come across as some sort of challenge what with her receiving various forms of disagreement.

“We got this.”

“They should be built in no time.”

“I’m not taking a break. We’re gonna get this shit built, and we’re gonna get it built today.”

Solana sighs. 

Though she’s had very little experience with the opposite sex, well, more negative experiences than anything, one thing seems to remain the same, regardless of individualistic differences. They’re all stubborn.

And her husband, his brother, and his cousin seem no different, if not the prime examples of this stubbornness.

And pride.

She readies to try another approach, seeing the stress building and settling on her husband’s handsome face. The way he stands, hands on his hips, mouth set into one of his infamous scowls. It’s a position, mimicked by the other two men, sans Dwayne who has the foreign directions in one hand and a cup of lemonade in the other.

Buy, it’s in looking in that direction that she spots something. Among the discarded, non-assembled pieces, a card, glossed with something so evident and obvious staring back at her.

Of course.

“Umm, Roman—”

But, it’s too late. He’s already talking amongst the men, the three having gathered once more in a sort of huddle. He waves his arm dismissively, too focused on the conversation at hand to even look in her direction. “Not right now, Sol.” 

She frowns. “Bu—”

“Solana and I are going for a walk,” Afia cuts in, her tone all the proof that it was an intentional interruption. That only makes Solana's frown deepen, the confusion multiplying when Afia sneaks a wink before clearing her throat. “The kids are all down for naps, so they should be good until we get back. Same for Dulce.”

Dulce, who has made a bed for herself out of the stretch film. Solana would go and grab one of her beds if not for her puppy already being fast asleep. 

“Sounds good,” Matteo responds, also deeply focused on the conversation versus what was said by his wife. He instead looks over at Roman, asking something in Italian.

Solana watches her husband roll his eyes, responding tersely in the same tongue. 

Dwayne then cuts in, English being his language, “that’s what the directions say, so it’s gotta be true!”

Solana sighs once more. 

Something tells her that the projected “no time” will end up being a long time.

“We won’t be too long,” she offers, realizing there is no use in trying to get through to them. To any of them. 

No reply.

She and Afia meet in the doorway, leaving behind the food and drinks they carried.

“Take security with you,” Roman calls out, his eyes finally meeting his wife's just long enough for him to issue his order.

Afia smirks from where she stands beside her. “She’s with me.” Solana looks over at the other woman. “She doesn’t need it.”

Solana doesn’t doubt that one bit. However, she also knows her husband. 

They can take a guard or two with them.

It’s not until they’re both out of the room and heading towards the staircase that Solana stops her sister-in-law to ask, “why didn’t you let me tell them about the QR code?”

The same QR code Solana is almost certain that none of the men realize most likely will bring them to the website with the manuals and other useful information.

In English.

Afia giggles, the sound soft and melodic, such a stark contrast to the vicious killer that rests deep within, always ready, willing, and waiting to be called to action when the occasion arises. “And take away the satisfaction of seeing such grown, powerful, and seemingly intelligent men struggle?” She shakes her head. “No. There’s no fun in that.” 

There’s something about her response that makes Solana smile, lightly chiding, “that’s so mean.”

“You call it mean. I call it entertainment.” Once again, Solana uses the bannister to descend down the steps, Afia keeping a watchful glance in her direction. “We were definitely right about one thing.” Solana stops to look at her. “Our husbands certainly have more in common than they probably realizes.”

Solana chuckles.

That, they do.

They most certainly do.

—————

Solana knows it’s a bad idea, or perhaps it’s less she knows it’s a bad idea, and more she suspects the fact that she’s doing so without telling Roman is what makes it a bad idea. She will. There’s no way she’ll keep something like this from him. Time and hard lessons have taught her that few good things sprout from her keeping secrets from her husband. And, vice versa.

However, she would prefer to have more to tell him than just his mother was reaching out to speak with her. Requesting an audience with her. Solana would like to be able to tell him what said audience was about, hence why she opted to skip informing him until after the meeting.

She can only pray it’s the right choice.

Solana walks into the rented out restaurant with her chin held high, flanked by personal security detail, Bloodline and Cartel included. Stephanie remains close beside her, eyes surveying and watchful. Always waiting and ready.

For anything.

Smoothing her hand over her dress, for a second, Solana wonders if should have worn something else. Perhaps something more modest, that doesn’t show as much of her ample cleavage, something that feels a bit more appropriate. However, just as quickly as that concern appears, it deflates almost instantly with the reminder that Solana doesn’t care about this woman. 

Doesn’t care what she thinks about her. Not even a little. A strange sentiment considering who she is, but ironically, it’s because of who she is that Solana doesn’t care. She’s heard not one good or nice thing about this woman in the few instances that her husband has spoken about her. But, truth be told, what he didn’t say spoke more than his words ever could. Solana could see the pain and distress simmering, buried deep within him, the hurt this woman caused him. Her own son. 

It’s a type of pain Solana knows all too well. The hurt and pain that comes from knowing a parent doesn’t want you. 

Doesn’t love you.

At the time, she tried to comfort him. Empty words holding little weight but what felt right to say at the time, because no one wants to believe that their parent cares little to nothing for them. However, deep down, Solana knew. She knew that Roman’s mother was just like Xavier. Incapable of loving or wanting a child they never asked for in the first place. 

Once painful, it stirs up more anger than anything. Anger that stems from not understanding how people can be so cruel. Anger that stems from carrying two children that she hasn’t even met yet but would do anything for. 

She just doesn’t understand.

So, a small part of her wonders, maybe more so hopes, that this meeting could give her some sort of clarification. A why. Something she knows Roman doesn’t give two shits about at this point in his life, and rightfully so, but something she’d like to know regardless. 

For her own sake.

Viviana Reigns is a woman whose presence is felt long before it’s seen firsthand. Solana recognizes this the minute the woman walks into the restaurant, surrounded by guards who wear the Cosa Nostra insignia. Solana stands from the table, looking her over. This woman. A ghost, but also not. Because seldom has Solana heard of ghosts donning designer suits that have clearly been tailored to fit and mold to every one of her soft curves. Viviana is neither tall nor short, some perfect space in the middle. Her figure slim and lithe, somewhat similair to her features. Features that, right off the bat, Solana can see Roman in. Can see the resemblance between her husband and his mother.

His mother. 

Viviana’s thin lips, bathed in rich red lipstick lift into a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. “Solana.” Her voice is light, deeply accented. Regal. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

If only Solana felt the same. 

“Mrs. Reigns….”

Viviana waves a hand in her direction, Solana catching a glimpse of the wrinkled, partially disfigured skin. Burn scars.

Similair to the ones cloaked beneath Roman’s tattoos. 

“Please. Call me Viviana.”

A small part of Solana doesn’t want to, for reasons unknown, but it’s not a hill she will die on. 

Not with so many other options for hills.

“Okay.” Nothing more. Solana taking her seat as Viviana waits for one of guards to pull out her own. 

And then, she smiles, leaning back in her seat. She says something. Not in English. Most likely Italian.

Solana frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh nothing.” She shakes her head, Solana briefly focused on the motion of her chestnut brown hair that brushes past her shoulders. Viviana shuffles with the tea cup and plate on the table in front of her, setting both to the side. “You’re just…not what I expected my son to go for.”

Solana’s frown only deepens.

What’s that supposed to mean?

“How far along are you?” 

Solana can’t tell if it’s an intentional change of topic, albeit somewhat strange considering they’re only having met minutes prior, but on some level, it’s appreciated.

“Ummm…” She pushes some of her hair back behind her ear, one hand naturally going to her bump. “5 months.”

Viviana doesn’t attempt to hide her surprise. “That’s it? I would have thought you were further.”

Sting.

“I’m having twins.”

There’s a spark in the older woman’s eyes, as she asks, almost excitedly. “Boys?”

“Girls.”

A small part of Solana wonders if she should be sharing as much. So much, in some ways.

Too much.

But, there’s a larger part of her that also feels like the sharing, at all, is about to come to an end real fast. Especially with the obvious disappointment on Viviana’s face.

“Both are girls?” She shakes her head, eyes dipping to the table, murmuring something in Italian before offering a faux smile. “Well, I suppose you can always try again. But, not too late. After all, Roman will be turning—”

“You’re confused.”

She pauses. “Excuse me?”

“I said you’re confused.” Solana doesn’t stammer nor stutter not once. “Clearly confused, because in no world, especially this world, my world, do you get to walk in here and speak to me like this. Disrespect me the way you have in the little time I’ve known you.” Time Solana has not appreciated nor enjoyed not one bit. 

“I—”

“Will remember who you sit in front of?” Solana readily and happily answers for her. “Yes....yes, you will.”

It’s a surprisingly easily role and space to slide into. Once upon a time, Solana would have sat there silently and quietly. Would have allowed this woman to say whatever she wanted, only having a bit of a response later that day. Only feeling her feelings about it after the fact.

No more.

No more will Solana allow anyone to disrespect her. 

Her new motto has become that if she wouldn’t want her girls receiving or putting up with it, then neither will she. 

No matter who it is.

“I see.” Nothing else is said, the older woman's nude nails tapping against the table. She clears her throat, moving around in her seat once more. “Well, I suppose we should get right to it, then, shall we?”

Absolutely. “Yes.”

Viviana’s smile remains. Nothing has ever felt or looked so cold. 

“Obviously, you, like my son, are aware of my….reappearance.” Solana offers nothing in response. The time and opportunity for sharing with her is well past gone. “As I’m also sure, he’s most likely expressed to you his….disinterest in speaking with me or even learning why I decided to make my still being alive known.”

Again, nothing.

Viviana sighs, clearly irritated with the lack of engagement. She starts shuffling with the folded napkins on the table that also now have the pleasure of her eye contact. “Well, I need you to speak with him, as he’s not returning any of my—” 

“No.”

Icy eyes dart up with inhuman speed. Viviana’s expression shifts so subtly that it’s almost unnoticeable. Almost. “No?”

Solana, however, remains undeterred. It was obvious Viviana wanted a response. Well, she’s got one now. “Yes. No.”

Silence. The woman sits across from her, gaze still unmoved, the tight smile on her face widening just enough, small age lines in the corner of her mouth pronounced. “I don’t think you understand—”

“I understand just fine.” An interruption conjoined with the shift of Solana’s body as she sits up in her seat, completely uninterested in the cup of tea that’s now gone lukewarm, a stark contrast to the conversation at hand that burns with flames lapping and rising on both sides. “You are the one who doesn’t understand.”

Viviana's calm facade drops. “Listen—”

“You are not the Faletua anymore.” A cold, necessary reminder, as Solana points to herself. “I am.” Her eyes travel to the team of security sat quietly but observantly behind the older women. Their movement subtle but noticeable, a shift forward just as Solana sat up, matched by her own set of security. Especially Stephanie. “And the wife of the Capo, which means they answer to me.” And without a second of hesitation, a simple, one word command. “Leave.”

Viviana stares and scoffs. Her expression shifts from enraged, to haughty, to enraged all over again as “her” security team stands and exits out without a single word of protest. She turns around in her chair, scoffing with disbelief, growing irritation evident in the way she narrows her eyes. “You—”

“You didn’t protect him.” A harsh but truthful statement. The underlying emotion that drives Solana’s determination—and anger—overtly present in this conversation. Viviana's lack, a catastrophic failure that resulted in so much pain and heartache for the man she loves. It deepens her resolve. “But, I will.”

Viviana’s gaze remains heated, boiling, rage simmering. “You think being married to my son for not even a year makes you better than me? His mother? That carrying his children means something?” She laughs, voice emotionless like the look in her empty blue eyes. “You’re a pretty girl but clearly naive as to how all this works.”

“It works the way I say it works.” Solana’s fist forms on the table, the other placed protectively over her baby bump, one of her daughter’s kicking. Sharp. As if also angered by the conversation transpiring. Lina. “Roman may be the one who sits at the Head of the Table, but make no mistake Viviana, I sit right there next to him.” Head tilted ever so slightly, the calmest, coldest question. “Where exactly is your seat again?”

Checkmate.

Viviana’s defeated expression says just as much, but so does her frustration. It’s palpable. The anger. 

Solana never flinches. 

“I’m not sure what you expected of this meeting, but if there’s anything you should leave today with knowing, it’s that no matter what, I’m on my husband’s side.” Then. Now. Always. “Whatever he wants or decides to do, I support, and nothing you say will change that.”

Ever. 

Viviana’s eyes remained narrowed, her upper lip crinkled, her mouth set in a way that indicates nothing nice is set to follow. 

Solana is ready for it. 

For her. 

Expect, that never comes. She’s instead met with a quiet chuckle. “Perhaps I underestimated you, child.”

“Your mistake.” Solana doesn’t miss a beat. “I wouldn’t advise you to do it again.”

Because if there’s anything Solana has learned over the past year, has become committed and determined to, a religion of sorts, it’s the refusal to allow anyone to mistreat or speak to her in a way she doesn’t deserve.

She’s spent the better half of her years being the mental, emotional, and physical punching bag of almost everyone in her life.

And, she’ll be damned if she lets that continue any longer.

Not after all the hard work she's put in.

But, even more. She has to lead by example. She wants her daughters to know their mother as an assertive and strong woman. Not the weak, timid, and traumatized girl Roman married. That girl is gone.

Forever.

Viviana’s smile remains tight. “Noted.” 

At that, Solana doesn’t wait for another response. She just moves to stand up, using the table to brace her. “I believe this meeting is over.” 

Whether she wants it to be or not. Solana is walking past her when Viviana’s hand shoots out, grabbing Solana’s wrist. Naturally, Stephanie and the rest of security jump, ready to intercede, only for Solana to lift her other hand, halting them.

Blue locks onto brown.

Reigns vs Reigns.

The calmest, yet eeriest of tones. “You should know, Solana, I’m a determined woman.” Her eyes flash with something, her smile faltering just so slightly. “I haven’t survived everything I have by sitting idly on my ass. If I want something….I get it. Always.”

Threatening. A part of Solana perceives the words, a supposed general statement, as threatening. Another part sees it as a challenge.

A challenge she’s ready and willing to take on. 

Roman has enough he’s dealing with right now. He doesn’t need anything else added to that plate.

She can take care of this. 

Gladly.

Solana jerks her wrist from Viviana’s hold, leaning over as much as her bump will allow, words simple but matching exactly the tone used.

“Then that makes two of us.” 

—————

Solana debates it. 

She debates telling him. She knows she needs to, but she also doesn’t want to.

Roman is already handling so much as it is. Continuing to monitor the Bloodline. Working closely with his representatives out in Italy for the Cosa Nostra. Handling negotiations with Domingo for the Cartel alliance.

Preparing for fatherhood.

She would like nothing more than to remove from his plate. Not add to it.

But, she also knows secrets in their marriage have never done either of them any good.

It’s only made things worse.

Thus, she knows what she needs to do. 

Later that evening, well after she’s prepared and they’ve shared dinner together, she finds him in the space both have occupied more than not over the past week, almost two weeks.

There’s minimal decorations up, as they’ve yet to pick up the major things like decor. It was just the cribs—both assembled, sitting on either side of the spacious room, that they saw online, and Roman really liked. Solana liked them, too. She just found the price a bit too exorbitant; however, Roman’s look of disgust when she showed him more affordable options on the Target website was all she needed to see to know he would accept no such thing.

Only the best.

The warmest smile on her face as she leans against the doorway, hand on her belly. He sits on the floor, shirtless, nothing but dark joggers on. Hair pulled up into a messy, lazy bun. Phillips screwdriver in hand as he tightens a screw in the rocking chair that he has on its side. It’s the same white wood as the cribs with pink outlines. From the same collection, but something he only needed to see Solana’s eyes light up at to know he had to get it for her.

“I take it that one was a bit easier to put together.”

He chuckles, not looking at her but also offering no visible sign of surprise at her presence. Expected. Roman’s attention to detail and his surroundings is unmatched.

“Having the directions in English tends to make assembly a little fucking easier.” Her smile wides as he looks up at her, tossing the screw driver in the bag. “I still can’t believe you saw that box shit and didn’t say anything.”

She giggles. “It’s a QR code, baby.”

“Yeah, well, whatever it is, it would have helped to have it three hours fucking earlier.”

She shakes her head. “I tried to tell you.”

“You could have text me.”

“True.” She’ll give him that. Solana plays with the material of her gown, sharing with a teasing smile. “But, Afia was right.”

His brow lifts. “About?”

She smiles. “It was kind of funny seeing the three of you react like that.”

He looks away, cutting his eyes, muttering, “I knew she was a bad influence on you.” Solana laughs, shaking her head as Roman moves to his feet, turning the chair right side up. His gaze falls over to her. “Try it?”

Solana doesn’t need to be asked twice. Pushing off the wall, she walks over to the rocking chair, one hand on her belly, the other accepting Roman’s as he helps her ease down into it. Instantly, the pink padding on the back and seat soothing her in the best of ways.

She releases a content sigh, as Roman moves to one knee, his watchful gaze staying on her. “Is it alright?”

The easiest answer as she brings his hand to her belly. “It’s perfect.”

The relief that flashes in his brown eyes makes her smile deepen. Solana reaches to cup his face, her smile faltering. “I need to talk with you about something.”

She hates the way his face drops, like he’s bracing for the worst. “Everything alright?” Naturally, he looks down at her stomach. “Are they—”

“They’re fine.” She assures, thumb brushing against his salt and pepper beard. “I promise.” They just had another follow up appointment that confirmed as such, but Solana also knows with everything that happened, he’s been a little more on edge regarding her pregnancy. 

Understandably so. 

“It’s—I—” She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to spit it out. “I met with your mom today, Roman.”

She didn’t expect the warmest reaction, but Solana can’t deny there’s a bit of sadness that imbues within her as his hand drops from her stomach. “What?”

Solana swallows. “She—she asked to meet with me.”

He stands up, Solana grateful he still offers his hand, helping her to her feet. 

“And you went?”

She won’t lie to him. 

“Yes.”

Roman looks away, but she doesn’t. She studies every movement. The subtle clench of his jaw, the way his eyes shut and open as he clearly works to gather himself. She sees it all. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t want me to go—”

“You were right—”

She sighs. “But, I also….I just wanted to know what she had to say. Where her mind is, Roman.”

“I don’t give a fuck about where her mind is, Solana.” She winces at the drastic shift in his tone. So harsh. “I don’t give a fuck about her.”

“I know you don’t, and I respect that. I do, but I—I wanted to know and hear for myself, because if she’s up to anything, I want to know. I want to know, so I can take care of it.”

He sighs, eyes shutting, voice softening. “Sol…”

“She’s done so much harm already, Roman….” Solana moves over to him, hands on his chest, grateful when he looks down at her. “I won’t let her hurt you.”

Not anymore.

Not ever again. 

He continues to calm down, hands moving to her hips, holding her against him. “I don’t want you worrying about me, Solana. I can handle this—”

“Yeah? Well, so can I, and I will. I did.” He eyes her, clearly curious and wanting to know what she means by that, hence her elaboration. “She….she wasn’t the nicest to me.”

His eyes darken. “Of course, she wasn’t. She’s a fucking heartless bitch.”

“But, I—I set her straight.” And did. “I made it clear who I am. My position. Along with the fact that whatever you decide to do about and regarding her, I support. My loyalty is with you.”

As it always will be. 

Her reassurance seems to chip away at his iciness. “What did she want?”

Solana presses her lips together before answering truthfully. “We didn’t get to the specifics, but I think she thought I could talk to you for her….convince you to talk to her.”

His entire body stills, his voice calm but even. “Solana, you know I love you more than anything in this fucking world, but not even you could convince me to do that.”

The most unsurprising thing ever. 

She presses a kiss to his clothed chest, offering additional reassurance. “I know, and that’s why I’m not trying.” Nor would she try to undermine his boundaries like that. Not when he’s a major reason she even has any and knows how to set them for herself these days.

It would be such a slap in the face.

Her fingers move gently against the cotton of his shirt. “You know….if there’s anyone else other than Matteo who knows how or even a fraction of how you feel….it’s me.”

He doesn’t say anything, but she knows he understands where she’s coming from. What she’s referring to.

That part of her life that she also has to figure out. That, currently, non-existent relationship. 

And if she wants it to stay that way. 

But, one thing at a time. 

Solana presses her body against and into him, as much as her bump allows, cheek mushed into his shirt, voice soft but audible. “I’m sorry.”

Not for the meeting. 

For all of it that led to the meeting. All of the unhealed hurt and trauma this woman, the same woman who should have showered him with love and affection, has caused. Then. Now. Perhaps, always, to some extent. 

Again, Solana understands the impact of parental trauma more than anyone. As hard as she’s worked and as much progress as she’s made, some scars are too deep to be fully healed. 

Too painful.

Too permanent.

And, she knows her husband, sadly, has more than a couple of those scars.

Especially…especially after the coup. 

“Hey.” She looks up, offering a small smile. “Let’s go baby shopping this Friday.” 

That brief spark of something more hopeful, less heavy makes her chest flutter. “Yeah?”

She nods, pressing another kiss to his chest, “maybe just clothes and stuff. We can take a break from the furniture, since, you know, that was….a little stressful for you.”

“Solana.”

————

A few hours later finds the husband and wife in their bedroom, their puppy lounging in her bed, playing with one of her fifty million toys that Roman loves to complain about, despite him having purchased half said toys. 

Not that he’d ever own up to that. 

Never.

In comfortable silence that’s eventually interrupted by that. 

It’s the smallest thing, a simple sound, an indication of something that could very well be nothing, but Solana knows her husband well enough to know he’s too perceptive for that. It’s why he immediately halts his movements, hands still on the sole of her feet as he works to ease some of the discomfort that stems from the swollenness.

His eyes quickly scan over her, searching for the source of the sound. The cause. And then, “what’s wrong?”

It’s impossible to not smile. Small but warm. Moving. “Nothing, mi amor.”

A bit of a silly answer considering who she’s speaking to. “Solana….”

The sigh that tumbles out is accompanied by her reaching for him. “Come here.” A directive that doesn’t need to be repeated. Roman is soon causing the bed to creak under the weight of him joining her, beside her, Solana allowing him to reposition her body so she’s leaning at an angle into his chest. Hand on top of his, she guides it along her stomach before finding placement. “Right….there.” Solana chuckles, looking up to see that same almost transfixed expression she witnessed the first time she let him feel the girls moving around. “They’re active today…”

Roman moves his hand around her belly, Solana allowing hers to remain atop, traveling with him. “Does…does it hurt?”

“Not really,” she answers. Uncomfortable at some points, especially when Lina is kicking, but the blessing that is knowing her girls continue to grow big and strong inside of her is more than enough to outweigh any sort of discomfort. “Now keep talking.” Solana shifts her body once more, reclining further into his chest, eyes closing.

Even without her vision, she can feel his confused gaze on her. “Why?”

Another simple answer. Solana opens her eyes long enough to reach her hand to cup his bearded cheek, offering yet another simple explanation but one that tugs at the heartstrings of both, even if he doesn’t outwardly admit it.

“They’re most active when they hear daddy’s voice.”

And, she’s right. Roman’s eyes flash with something akin to appreciation, but because she knows her husband, she sees it. Feels it even. In the way that he drops his gaze, pulling away and repositioning himself to continue her massage. 

Solana sighs, deciding to share something she’s been sitting on for the past few days. 

Something she feels ready to share.

That she needs to. 

“Can you do me a favor?”

His answer is immediate. “Anything.”

She smiles. “Give me your phone.”

Roman doesn’t hesitate, pulling it out of his back pocket and handing it to her. Solana’s heart fills with warmth seeing his Lock Screen photo. So similair to her own. From their New Years Eve party. Her on his lap, arms around his neck, hugging him, face buried into his neck, his hand splayed protectively across her baby bump. 

That warmth multiples when she realizes just how similar it is to one of her older Lock Screen photos. From her birthday trip last year.

She sighs.

Every year with him just gets better and better. 

Solana unlocks the phone and navigates to Apple Music. She’d give anything for him to use Spotify, her preferred music app, but her stubborn, old fashioned husband rants about it being “too fucking complicated” and preferring the ease/simplicity of the phone’s native music app. 

Regardless, it’s hardly a hill to die on. Plus, it serves the purpose. Especially for the task at hand. 

Pulling up the song and saving it to his library, she hands him back the phone, explaining, “I just want you to listen to that.” 

Roman accepts the phone, looking at the screen, seeing said song, and then back at her. “Okay, and?”

She shakes her head. “And keep listening to it until you get it.” 

Naturally, he frowns, his confusion understandable but also something that makes her smile a little. “Get what?”

Solana takes his free hand, lifting it to her mouth, pressing a gentle kiss. 

“You’ll know...” 

—————

The past few weeks have proven to be some of the most challenging of Roman’s life. The closest to death that he’s ever come to, the closest to the end of it all, that almost had him by the collar. 

But, even with all that, all the deception, the lies, the death, none of it could have prepared him for this.

For standing besides Matteo, standing besides his brother, in front of the one person he would have bet his life on never seeing again.

At least, not on this side of life.

For a second, a brief second, he considers it. Considers if in the blink of an eye, he went from among the living to among the dead. If a bomb was somehow planted in his office, detonating and killing all of them.

Because death, in his mind, has always been the only way he would ever see her again.

See his mother.

She steps closer, gaze falling between the two of them. A part of Roman wants to back away, run away even. Just get the hell away from her. Out of there. His office suddenly becoming so much more claustrophobic than he remembers. 

She doesn’t stop until she’s in arms distance, her smile small and almost….emotional. 

That’s the thing that sways him, just slightly, from his state of shock.

His mother was—is—a lot of things, but emotional would never be one of them.

“Look at you two,” she breathes, taking yet another step closer. Roman closes his eyes. “My sons. My handsome, strong—”

There’s something about her words, laced with honey that doesn’t saturate, doesn’t penetrate him in any sort of way, along with her taking his hand in hers. Holding it. Thumb moving over his rough knuckles that does it. That breaks him from that trance of sorts. Snaps him back to reality. 

Roman jerks his hand back, aware of the way that Matteo looks at him, expression still filled with shock. The way he keeps his hand entertained with hers.

Viviana’s look of surprise at the action is contrasted with something else, something heavy, something almost…hurt.

She looks hurt.

If only he gave a flying fuck.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” It’s what he asks, but it’s not what he wants to ask. No, what he really wants to know is how and why the fuck she’s still alive. 

A lot of Roman’s memories around that time are blurry and unclear, but he’ll never forget the hours he spent at the cemetery the day of the funerals. Multiple. The funerals of his entire family. He’ll never forget the tears he shed, the last time, in years, that he truly allowed himself to feel. The way he sat in front of his mother’s coffin and murmured a quiet apology. 

How he apologized to all of them. 

For not saving them. 

For not saving her. 

For—

“I—I know this must be confusing for you—”

“Confusing?” Matteo is the one to speak, an undertone of anger in his deep, accented voice. “We’ve thought you dead all these years.”

She presses her lips together. “I know.”

“You know?” Roman’s voice is mocking and cruel, and he doesn’t give two shits. Because as shocked as he was before, he’s none of that, maybe some, but mostly just anger.

He’s pissed. 

“What the fuck do you mean, you know?”

“Careful the tone you take with your mother, boy.”

At that, both Matteo and Roman snap and turn to the other part that had completely lost in the midst of the believed dead returning to the land of the living. 

But, before Roman can address the man who is his grandfather in blood only, Matteo is two steps ahead. “There are no boys present in this room, but there will be a dead body if you don’t remember who the fuck you speak to.”

Roman’s gaze briefly flits to his brother, at the simmering rage underneath each word. Something deep. Something personal. Roman recognizes his own….complicated feelings towards that side of his family, but the level of aggression and rage in Matteo’s threat makes him wonder just what that relationship looks like for him. 

It’s something to explore. For sure.

“Please.” Viviana’s pleading tone drags their gazes back to her. “This is a lot. I recognize that—”

“You survived.” Roman has never been one for fluff. To beat around the bush. Moving past the haze of it all, it’s easy to come to that simple conclusion. Especially with her standing before them.

She swallows. “I did.”

How? He hasn’t the slightest clue. She didn’t come out unscathed. The burn scars—similar to his own—all the proof. But, right now, he can’t say he very much cares about that. All he can focus on is the fact that, regardless of how it occurred, she survived. 

She survived that night he believed he lost everything. 

She lived. 

And has been living all this time, only to now come out of the shadows. 

And, he doesn’t hesitate to express as such.

Especially when he starts to put more pieces together, factoring in what was said before he even saw her. 

“Given all that’s happened the past few weeks, we realized it was time—”

“You’ve been alive all this time and only decided to make your being alive known because you found out we weren’t dead, after all?” 

Even if she wanted to deny it, she couldn’t. Roman is too smart for that, but beyond that, he’s perceptive as hell. He absolutely catches the moment her eyes flash with something loud and clear. 

Guilt.

“It’s not that—”

“Go to hell.”

A simple, blunt, telling response and cut-off to whatever she was going to say. He doesn’t care. About her. About any of it. 

“Roman…” Matteo’s voice beside him doesn’t register. Not really. Especially not as Roman makes his way past her, jerking his arm away as she attempts to reach for him. To call for him. 

“My son—”

It’s that word, that fucking triggering ass word that makes him turn on his heel. He lifts his hand, index finger pointed, jaw flexing, the difficulty in controlling his emotions in this very second one of the hardest things he’s ever experienced.

God, he’d give anything to have Solana with him right now. 

Anything at all.

“I’m not your son.” He’s uncaring of any sort of reaction, she, they, any of them have. He doesn’t fucking care. At all. “And, I never was.” 

Solana shifting in Roman’s arms is the perfect distraction and route for escape from a memory he’d tried hard over the past few weeks to scrub from his mind. And, in a lot of ways, he had. Or, he thought he had.

But, Solana dropping that on him earlier, that she’d met her, revealed that for all his valiant efforts, he’d failed miserably. 

He looks down at her, soothed by the peaceful expression on her face as she sleeps, hand on his chest, her bump pressed against his side. Even the sound of Dulce’s light snores as she slumbers away in her bed on the side of their bed. 

It’s all comforting in a way he needs.

Roman meant what he said when he told Matteo, Dwayne, and even Solana, that he wants nothing to do with her.

Nothing at all.

She never added anything to his life when she was alive the first time around, and he has zero interest in seeing if that will change on this second go-round. 

And perhaps, it’s less she never added anything, and more she only added negative. Was only a detriment to him. A poison. 

A trigger.

And judging by his reaction since her reappearance, that hasn’t changed. Even after all these fucking years, almost forty fucking years-old, and that bitch still has some level of impact on him. 

He hates it. 

Fucking hates it.

But, what he hates more is the fact that she’s trying to loop Solana into whatever the fuck she wants. 

He’s not upset with Solana for going. A little upset at her about not telling him about it beforehand, but he also understands why she didn’t. She was absolutely right when she said he wouldn’t have let her go. 

He works hard to not restrict her of anything, to allot her as much autonomy as possible. But, the exceptions have always been safety, and that woman, for him, falls under the umbrella of safety concerns. 

Roman barely knew her then, and he definitely doesn’t know her now. Nor does he want to. 

But, considering she’s still in town, something tells him she has no plans on leaving anytime soon. That’s fine. If it comes to it, he’ll make sure that she stays gone. In the meantime, however, he has to set some ground rules. 

Boundaries, as Lita calls them.

Because going behind his back to speak to his wife, to try to manipulate Solana into talking him into speaking with her is one thing. Disrespecting his wife is something entirely different.

He’s killed for less.

And while Roman believes Solana when she said she set her straight—she’s come so far with that, with being assertive—he’ll be damned if anyone disrespects his wife, and he doesn’t put them in their fucking place. 

Or six feet under.

The latter is usually preferred but not exactly an option in this case. 

Not that it would make a difference anyway. 

Not even death wanted to deal with that bitch. 

So, Roman will suck up his pride and allow himself to be around her, in her suffocating presence long enough to make sure that she knows that was her one and only pass. Same for fucking Alicia, who she apparently left the message with. The message that she wanted to speak to Solana, said message that his secretary then passed onto Solana.

Regardless, while Roman will set Alicia’s ass straight too, it’s her that he needs to make clear on one thing and one thing only.

Stay the fuck away from his wife. Even more than that. 

His hand moves down their connected bodies, resting on Solana’s stomach. 

She needs to stay away from his family, and ensure to enforce that message, loud, clear, and unmistakable. He thought he had before, but clearly he hadn’t. 

No worries.

He’ll make sure of it this time around. 

—————

Months.

It’s been months since Solana was in this house. A place that holds the best and worst of memories. A combination of both. Which outweighs the other? She’s not entirely certain.

She’s not sure she’ll ever know for sure, truly.

“Leave us,” she directs the security, unsurprised to see them cast a questioning glance to Roman who promptly puts them in their palace.

“When she says to do something, you do that shit.” A set of downward, almost embarrassed countenances. “Leave.”

This time, there is no delay. One by one, they depart until it’s only herself and her husband. There’s a quiet that settles over them as she takes a look around the place she once called and considered home.

It’s never felt so untrue.

“Solana…” 

Roman’s voice registers but not enough to draw her attention. No, her focus is drawn on studying and observing all the details. The expensive Persian rug she can recall on numerous occasions, her mother was forced to stay up until the witching hour, scrubbing and working to get out the blood stains from an earlier beating.

Her blood. 

The same thing Solana would end up doing only a few years later. The wall opposite the same place where she was shoved into so many times. Choked against. Sometimes until she was unconscious. Sometimes to where she was hunched over, clutching onto her stomach, coughing up blood from the intensity of Wes or Xavier’s powerful punch to her abdomen. 

She looks over at the kitchen, only a few feet away, a place that held both wonderful and horrific memories.

The sound of her mother’s laughter.

The sound of her screams.

Solana’s soft singing as she worked to prepare meals.

And then her shouts and pleas for mercy as her face was held over the heat of the same pot that held food she slaved over but wouldn’t be able to consume. Just them.

Good. Then bad. Decent. Then horrific. A specific pattern, formula almost, that follows as she makes her way around the house, never saying a word, all the while aware of Roman’s close presence behind and near her.

A silence that’s only broken when they finally arrive at the sole reason she even asked him to come with her today. 

The reason she needed him to come with her.

He says her name again. This time, firmer. Concerned, almost. “Solana.”

And her response, somewhat to her surprise, matches his tone. “I have to.”

She doesn’t want to. God, she doesn’t want to, but something deep within her is pressing and pulling her in that direction. In the space that she once swore she would rather die than be exposed to.

Her childhood room.

The same room that not even a year ago, just the thought of entering would have dragged her to the pits of a mental breakdown. The room that the man beside her had to enter on her behalf, because she felt physically paralyzed by just the idea of it.

Of entering.  

The same room she’s about to enternow.

“Baby, I don’t think—” 

“I have to.” Same words. Stronger determination. 

Solana adjusts the shoulder strap of her purse and reaches for his hand, her fingers clasping around his. Secure. Her other hand goes for the knob, the coolness of the metal a stark sensation to whatever else burns within her. Something close to courage. But also fear. Anything and everything, the likes of which only multiplies the second she opens the door and walks in. Solana stills, close to the doorway, Roman directly behind her, their hands still clasped but wresting on her hip. 

Her other hand drops to her stomach.

She closes her eyes.

I can do this. 

Words of encouragement that loop in her head as she wills herself to open her eyes, vision instantly blurred by the unshed tears.

Quiet sniffles, the faint stale smell of the room that’s been unused for almost twenty years. Items untouched and left just as they were that night.

The signs of the horrors still visible. Nail marks, dried blood, the almost ominous aura. 

A violation. 

A death.

All of that remains true and firm but not enough to break Solana’s determination, to force the crumble of her resolve. No, she breaks away from Roman, releasing his hand as she walks over to the closet. Dated, worn edged stickers against the door that slides open, the scent of staleness maximized from a release that’s had almost twenty years pass since the last one.

Solana’s eyes take in the clothes. Her clothes. Hung up neatly, some folded on the white metal rack at the top of the closet. She sees the selection of shoes, also neatly lined on the also carpeted floor of the closet. That’s when she sees it. When her breath catches, a sob almost instantly rising and waiting patiently in the back. 

The shift in her disposition felt by her husband who steps closer, ready. For what, he’s not sure. Whatever she needs.

However, Solana’s request in that moment is simple. She simply needs his forearm, her palm wrapping around as a sort of bearing to support as she angles her body down, maneuvering carefully with her baby bump to lift the brown bag from off the floor. 

The minute it’s in her hands, Solana takes a deep, shaky breath. She can feel Roman’s gaze burning into the item that needs no explaining. The bold, black word written in the largest font compared to the other words speak volumes. 

Evidence

“Solana…”

She says nothing, the silent tears making their way down her cheek. She won’t open it.

She can’t.

That much she knows.

Just like she knows opening it isn’t the point of this.

Not even close.

The point is closing it.

Closing up one of the most painful chapters of her life. Of truly reclaiming back so much, if not everything, that was lost that horrific night.

And, that chapter could only be closed, Solana realized, by freeing herself completely of the shackles of her past.

Starting with anything that links her to that.

And, Solana can’t think of anything more fitting to destroy than the tattered, ripped, and bloodied remains of her clothes she wore that night.

The night she was raped. 

Walking over to her bed, still unmade, still reeking of those haunting memories, and places the bag in the middle. 

She takes a step back, Roman, as always, remaining nearby. He doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing for him to say, and she knows that he knows words are not what she necessarily wants or needs in this moment. 

His presence.

Him being here and with her, supporting, is what she needs. Why she asked him to come.

Everything else….everything else she has to do. 

By herself.

For herself. 

It’s what floats through her as she adjust the strap of her purse, bringing it in front of her and pulling out the tiny red, white, and blue box of matches.

She can feel her husband straighten up behind her. His stance that of a man ready to move at any second, if need be.

An understandable reaction, especially given where they are, what’s transpiring. Even her history. 

Solana, however, is not there. Not in that headspace.

No, she’s in the headspace that led to this very moment. From the second stepped foot in this godforsaken to even well before that. The way she dragged herself out of the house that night. The heaviness that consumed her when she was discharged from the hospital and forced to return to the same place that only held nothing but horrific, hellish memories. All the way up to the day where she walked in to retrieve her items, Roman right by her side, serving as her advocate and protector. A role she had no idea at that time would be permanent. 

That he would always be those things for her—and more. 

But, ultimately, it’s everything outside of this house that carries her into taking that life-changing next step.

Words, statements, sayings, experience, they all comes rushing and storming in with the intensity and force of a tsunami. 

It’s one thing though, one passage from a book she’d had for so long but only felt able and capable of using and reading once out of this place, did she embark upon it. The journey to heal.

The journey to love.

A section containing the thoughts and feelings of another woman who’d experienced the unspeakable. A survivor. 

"In spite of the horror, in spite of the

tragedy, in spite of the weeks of sleepless

nights, I'm finally alive. I'm not pretending.

I feel real. I'm not playing charades anymore. I wouldn't go back to the way I was for anything. I'm really like a different person. I'm where I am, and I'm making the most of it. I know I'm courageous now. I found out I had it in me to face this."

Solana closes her eyes.

Nothing has ever felt more relatable and real.

A final verbal declaration. Whispered. Hushed, but felt. 

Oh so felt. 

“No more.” 

With that, Solana doesn’t hesitate one bit to quickly drag the match head against the striker, a flame appearing at one end. And just like that, she tosses the match onto the bed, watching the flames spread to the sheets, to the bag. 

Done. 

Naturally, Roman steps forward, gently pulling her back into him, away from the fire. 

She takes his hand, squeezing gently, eyes watery.

“Let’s go.” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

Roman allows her to lead the way, to guide them out of that room and out of the house.

It’s not until they’re outside, that she breathes in the fresh, freeing air, eyes briefly shutting as she tunes out the sounds around her. Guards talking quietly amongst themselves, waiting for a command. 

And one is issued. 

Digging the matchbox out of her purse, she tosses it to one of the guards. One of the same ones who refused to heed to her command when she told them to leave before.

“Let it burn to the ground.”

Naturally, his expression is one of confusion. “Ma’am?”

“Till nothing’s left.” She doubles down, not offering any sort of elaboration. 

He’ll find out soon enough. 

Solana walks past him, Roman close behind, heading to the SUV where another of the guards opens the door for her. But, she waves him off, instead reaching for Roman. 

In seconds, he’s in front of her, holding her as Solana buries herself in his chest.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs into her scalp, hand to the back of her hair, the other on the small of her back.

Solana closes her eyes.

So is she. 

She only pulls back to look once more at it, at the house. Once a home, but never her home. A place with bits and pieces of love and life, the majority of which often stomped out by violence and trauma.

No more.

It ends today. 

“I’m gonna build one of the safe houses here,” she shares. Roman looks down at her. “For my foundation.”

The smallest smile on his face, one of pride and admiration. “Yeah?”

She nods, mirroring his small smile. “Yeah.” One more look. The final one.

With that, Solana allows Roman to help her climb into the SUV. In under a minute, he’s seated right beside her, barking at the driver to take them home. 

Home.

The word that settles and resonates with her, washing out any feeling of discomfort, grief, sadness.

Just the calm. 

Tucked into his side, holding onto his arm, as they drive off from then, straight into now. The sight behind her remaining just as it will always be from here on out.

Then.

She never looks back. 

[lyingontape]

A Plain of Stars (Chapter 2)

A/n: I wrote another part! I hope you all like it, I think I'll keep writing chapters for now- I have a storyline in mind based off the og one shot.

Warnings: Light cursing, arranged marriages.

Chapter 3

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Going back to school after the ball was nerve wracking to put lightly. Not only would you be facing the Hogwarts student body, you would also be confronted with Regulus. You had easily made it through the last several years avoiding both Black brother, if not only for the reason that neither of them seemed to want to acknowledge your presence

A deep hurt had shot through your chest the first time you looked at Sirius and he showed no recognition of who you were. It felt like a worse betrayal than his leaving, you could file that away as something bigger than you. This was personal, this was something between you and Sirius. But, never one to go out of your way for a simple confrontation, you let the hurt sink further and further down until it remained only a dull ache that set heavy over your diaphragm, stealing your breath each time his grey eyes caught yours. 

That same pain set a little heavier the first time you looked Regulus in the eyes. Maybe that was what had thrown you off so much when you saw him again for the first time after his disappearance, they were so similar. Those slate grey eyes made them look like inverses, two opposite ends of the same spectrum- although you're sure Sirius would shun the notion. 

You walked down the corridor connecting the girls dormitories to the Slytherin common room. The weather was changing as rapidly as the leaves fell from the trees. Autumn hung lightly in the air, bringing with it cold that settled especially deep in the dungeon of the castle. Being that as it was, you were wrapped in both your grey uniform sweater vest and an emerald green cardigan in an attempt to shake off the chill. 

“Morning.” The hairs at the nape of your neck stood and your shoulders tensed. Not in fear so much as pure annoyance and apprehension of what would come after the greeting. You weren’t fond of Barty Crouch, but goodness me was he fond of you- or at least he pretended to be for no other reason than to get on your nerves. He was lounging in one of the plush, velvet chairs with his legs sound over the armrest. “Goodmorning, Barty” You said, boredom and disinterest lacing your tone, “someone sounds grumpy, sleep badly, love?” He asked, turning his head in false interest. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” You responded, walking past him and to the great double doors leading out of the common room. You heard him shuffle behind you, rising to follow you. “I would actually,” he sidled up next to your and threw an arm around your shoulder, “I would also like to know why you insist on being so terrible to me.” His grin was wolfish and jeering, you shrugged your shoulders in an attempt to shove off his arm- no such luck. “I suppose you’ll have to keep wondering.” 

A staircase slid into place in front of you and the two of you began to climb. Suddenly it resumed movement, catching you off guard and causing you to stumble. Barty’s arm around you moved to your waist as he drug his hand down your body making you shiver in abject horror. The moment the staircase came to a halt you took a step back from the boy, who’d pressed his body to yours in the time in between. “You’ll have to be more aware of your surroundings in the future, love.” He said, taking a step back towards you, “Or you’ll ruin that pretty face of yours” Barty reached out then and flicked your nose, making you grimace and shove him away. “If that’s what it takes for you to stay aware of me I just might do it myself.” You snap at him and turn on your heel, trudging up the rest of the stairs. 

By the time you reached the great hall you still hadn’t calmed down, you didn’t notice the borderline march you settled into in your rage until you took your seat next to Pandora. “Someone is on a mission” She said, buttering her toast before handing you a blueberry muffin just as she had everyday for the last year and a half. You huffed and rolled your eyes, “I had the pleasure of being walked halfway here by Barty.” Evan choked on his orange juice, a hand came to rest on his back as he oscillated between a wet cough and wheezing laugh. In your whirlwind anger you hadn’t noticed Regulus sat in the spot next to Evan. Although the two were close Regulus had stopped sitting by Evan during meals some time ago. Had you been keeping track you would have noticed it was around the same time you came to sit with the twin, maybe Barty was right- some advances in perception wouldn’t hurt you. 

“And how was that?” Evan said, finally recovering from his fit and sitting up to look at you, clearly amused. “I hate him.” You deadpan and he lets out a high pitched giggle, “he loves you, though!” He squeals back, obviously happy with the little shiver you let out. “He does fancy you, he just has a gross way of showing it” Pandora confirms your worst nightmare, “And I’m supposed to be flattered?” 

As you and Pandora bicker back and forth about your encounter, Regulus remains stiff in his seat. Somewhere between your mentioning of Barty walking you to breakfast and Pandora’s claim that he fancies you Regulus underwent full rigour mortis, and had failed every attempt to relax himself. It’s now that Evan sets a hand on his shoulder. “Alright?” The dark haired boy snaps to attention, turning to his friend. “Hm?” He had heard exactly what Evan said, but Regulus had developed the talent of selective hearing in social settings, it was fantastic for getting people to leave you alone. It worked now, as it usually did, Evan simply hummed surreptitiously and went back to his breakfast. 

The day passed you by slowly, in the easy kind of way that often came with the seasons change. Everything seemed to slow down when autumn came over the castle, it was lovely. The very air seemed to take on an essence of calm and cosy. 

You were indulging in said cosiness on one the common room couches, curled up close to the smouldering fire with a mug of cider whilst brushing up on some reading for your Care of Magical Creatures course. Or you had been before a dip in the cushion next to you pulled you out a passage about Kneazles. As you looked up you had to draw back a bit as Regulus peered over your shoulder to get a look at the page. “You know some people keep those things as pets” He says, a little absent minded in his delivery. His eyes finally find yours, but you didn't hear what he said- too focused on how close his face was to yours. When your brain finally catches up to your mouth you respond, “Oh. Yes, I knew a lady who had one. They get quite large when they’re fully grown, it was nearly the size of her. Although she has quite old, it isn’t hard to think she might have shrunk over the years-” 

You snap your mouth shut, effectively end the rant about your elderly neighbour and her Kneazle. You have a tendency to ramble when you’re nervous, and the proximity of you and the boy next to you doesn't exactly set you at ease. You cringe in embarrassment, but Regulus is just smiling at you. It’s small, barely there really, just a small twinge in the corner of his mouth. But, for once, you notice. 

“Fascinating.” He says sarcastically, shattering what you had thought to be a sweet moment. You huff, rolling your eyes and turning away from him, “can I help you?” You ask when he remains next to you. “I’m bored.” He says, leaning his hand on his chin. “Okay?” You shoot a glance at him, only for him to cock his head to the side. “Okay?” He parrots. You close your book and turn to face him causing him to sit up and lean back against the armrest. “What could I possibly do to entertain you, Mr. Black.” You ask in a sing-songy tone. “Read to me.” He says lazily, waving a hand at your book. You gawk at him before closing your mouth abruptly and turning away from him. 

“No.” 

“No?”

“No, Regulus” 

“Why not?” 

“Because” 

Suddenly the book is snagged out of your hand, “Fine” He says, flicking through the book, “Although Kneazles have a feline-like appearance they are more closely related to the Nundu of East Africa…” You stare at him as he reads, fully expecting him to drop the bit and give your book back in some time. However, once he begins the next passage, going into more depth about the Nundu, you recline back into your seat with the realisation that he wasn’t playing a bit. 

The warmth of the fire and Regulus’ soft voice lull you into a state of such all encompassing comfort that you feel your eyes becoming unbearably heavy. Eventually you couldn’t keep yourself sitting up anymore and you curled back against the arm rest, wrapping your blanket over your shoulders. It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep afterward. 

When he realises you’ve fallen asleep, Regulus slowly closes the book and watches you for a moment, the soft pout of your lips and the steady rise and fall of your chest. You look so soft and comfortable in that moment, he could scoot closer to you, feigning that he too was lulled to sleep by the dull textbook.

Instead he places the book next to you, stands and goes to leave. What he doesn’t know is how light of a sleeper you are, every bump and stir wakes you- which is not ideal for a dorm room housing five teenage girls. You keep your eyes closed as he leans over you, pulling the blanket over your shoulders and brushing your hair away from your face. Perhaps you could get used to this.

[titan-fodder]

The Warrior Experience; ft. the Marley Warriors

Rating: Explicit; mdni

Pairing: Zeke, Reiner, Porco, Pieck x fem!reader

Word Count: ~5.3K

Warnings: mildly dubious consent (reader isn’t exactly there of her own free will but is still dtf), multiple partners, voyeurism, virgin Colt, rough blowjob, rough sex, unprotected sex, mentions of unpleasant contraceptives, lots of cum, clear bias toward Reiner

A/N: I don’t know what happened today. I just got possessed by the horny ghost. Enjoy~

It’s always Magath who retrieves you, the sour-faced General swinging open the door to your small room without any type of knock or warning. 

On most nights, he takes a look at you, frowns, then grunts the name of whoever is actually calling for you—requesting your “presence”. This evening, however, he remains silent, leaving it a mystery that keeps you curious as you make yourself slightly more presentable, pulling on a skirt, running a comb through your hair, just enough to look a little more human. 

You walk in silence down the hallways, your hands clasped behind your back as the older man struts in his usual militaristic fashion. As you near the Warrior quarters, you do your best to prepare yourself, but without an idea of who you’re meeting, it’s difficult. 

Because they’re all so different. Galliard, for instance, usually starts the nights off aggressively. He particularly likes slamming you into various surfaces, pinning you down with a bruising grip, but his demeanor changes as soon as he’s inside you. The once careless young man turns to jelly underneath you, gasping and groaning as his adrenaline wanes and he unravels. 

Always tired and slightly unstable, Reiner is soft. Even when his thrusts are deep and harsh, his hands remain gentle, calluses feather light as they dance up and down your ribs, over your breasts. His stamina varies. Sometimes, when he’s a little more out of his head, a little more haunted, he ruts into you for what feels like an eternity. Most of those instances, he doesn’t even come. You’re just there for a distraction— “A nice one,” he tells you quietly, gratefully, but you still know where you stand with him. 

There are nights when he’s desperate for release, however, taking you with quick, sloppy thrusts, spilling inside you within minutes then rubbing your clit until you squeeze him back to full hardness so that he can do it all over again.

Zeke is the hardest to predict, on far ends of one, sadistic spectrum: he either wants you to do all the work while he smirks up at you with a cigarette between his lips, occasionally blowing smoke into your face, or he wants to dominate you entirely. When he falls into the latter category, you’re in his bed for hours, sniffling or sobbing, biting your lip to keep yourself from begging him to stop—one, because he won’t listen, but also because it isn’t your place. 

The Warriors are honorary Marleyans which means they’re much more important and valuable than you are. Your opinion never matters, least of all in the bedroom. 

You’re more or less a toy for them to use, an Eldian plucked from Liberio and brought to the military base with no real say in it. The Warriors are all young and virile, after all. They have needs like anyone else, but despite their honorary status, they’re forbidden from sleeping with Marleyan women. 

So, you live here, at their beck and call with one purpose and one purpose only. 

To your surprise, Magath stops before you can get to the sleeping quarters you are very familiar with at this point. You stand outside of a closed door, raise an eyebrow at the General but don’t dare question him. 

“They’re in there,” he grumbles, nodding to the door before turning around and walking away.

They…

Raising a suddenly very heavy hand, you knock lightly then shift awkwardly until the door opens and reveals Galliard. His perpetual scowl is in place, but he nods his head in acknowledgment then moves to the side to let you in. 

Galliard isn’t the only one in the room—what looks like some kind of conference area with a sizable wooden table surrounded by chairs, a window on the far end displaying the night sky and twinkling stars. Nearly all of those chairs are full, one scooted back from the table that you can easily assume belongs to the redhead standing behind you.

Zeke is lounging comfortably, feet kicked up on the table as he puffs on a cigarette. Reiner is sitting in his chair backwards, slumped forward to rest his head on the wooden backing, though he lifts it to look at you with bloodshot eyes. Pieck, who you do not see often at all, is slouched with her arms pillowing her face, offering you a lazy smile that’s laced with something you cannot place. 

There’s one more person in the room, the vaguely familiar face of Colt Grice, Warrior Candidate slated to inherit the Beast Titan in a few years. You’ve seen him around the base, usually trailing closely behind Zeke, but haven’t gotten the chance to speak with him yet. 

You remain standing even as Galliard takes his seat again, nibbling on your bottom lip, waiting expectantly—nervously. The last time you were in a room with all of them at once was when you’d first been brought here, and that had just been for informal introductions. There had also been another Eldian with you at the time, a male to keep Pieck satisfied, but he’s… No longer with you. 

In true leader fashion, Zeke is the first to speak after taking a long drag from his cigarette, tilting his head back to blow it into the air and creating a haze over himself. 

“Glad you could join us tonight, sweetheart,” he shows a short, unconvincing smile, and that paired with the condescending pet name leads you to believe he’s in one of his more controlling moods.

“I’m just glad to be able to service the Wa—”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t need to do all that,” he waves you off. “I’ll cut to the chase.”

“Let her sit down first, Zeke, geeze,” Pieck murmurs before holding a small hand out for you, beckoning you to take the seat next to hers.

Never one to argue or disobey, you shuffle over to it and lower yourself, but you can’t relax, not with so many pairs of eyes on you. 

Galliard is twitchy, bouncing his leg up and down, pushing his hair back too often. Reiner, unmoving, just blinks slowly at you, expression flat. Grabbing your hand, Pieck offers a nod that isn’t the slightest bit reassuring while Zeke pins you with an icy gaze. 

“Colt here is gonna be a big boy Warrior pretty soon,” he says, motioning to the boyish blond in the corner who suddenly seems more interested in the floor than anything. “And, he hasn’t been given the chance to have the experiences he deserves. You follow?”

You nod, easily putting the pieces together. They want you to sleep with him, some sort of sexual initiation.

“As I’m sure you’ve picked up, Titan holders don’t have the longest lifespans, so I figure he needs to enjoy what life he has left.”

Another nod, then you start to stand only to be stopped by Galliard who asks, “What’re you doing? Sit back down.”

“Oh,” you plant yourself back in the chair, eyes growing as your stomach sinks. “I thought you wanted me to show Colt—”

Zeke laughs around his cigarette, adding even more smoke to the air around you, and shakes his head. “No, you misunderstand. You will be showing Colt a thing or two tonight, but in here where we can all watch and… Lend a helping hand if need be.”

Mouth going dry, you can’t stop yourself from frowning. Sleep with Colt… In front of all of them? You don’t fancy yourself much of a performer, doubt you’ll be able to put on any kind of good show under so much pressure.

But, you can’t protest. You can’t go against their wishes or complain. You should consider yourself lucky, being able to service the Warriors. It means you’re a half-step above the other Eldians—a devil but a halfway useful one.

“Um. Okay,” you consent.

Zeke claps his hands together. “Excellent,” then tells you. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Go rinse off, do whatever you need to do to get ready, then meet us back here.”

You don’t dawdle, doing exactly what you’re told. The restroom is obviously for multiple people, a few stalls with cheap curtains to block you from view. You make quick work of bathing so that you’ll have time to prepare yourself, starting the process of stretching yourself while under the spray. With no idea how large Colt might be, and taking into account that he might be completely clueless about female anatomy, you make sure to work three fingers into your cunt, moving them as best you can until you’re a little loosened up and wet. 

When you return to the conference room, you’re just in a towel, folded clothes under your arm and placed in an empty chair. 

“Easy access,” Galliard smirks. “Good call.” You squeak when he slaps your ass then sit on the edge of the table as you’re directed to. 

Most of them have shed their boots and jackets, looking a little more casual now. It doesn’t put you at ease—if anything, it makes you think the others will get a little more involved than Zeke originally let on, and the thought alone is enough to overwhelm you. 

It takes some prompting for Colt to muster the courage to approach you. The others scoot to the edges of the room, giving the two of you center stage. It's daunting, but you do your best to forget about them, to focus on the nervous blond in front of you. 

Spreading your legs, you pull him by the shirt to stand between them then look up at him through your lashes and ask, "Am I allowed to kiss you?" You can never assume. Everyone has different rules. 

When you're with Reiner, he has his mouth against yours more than he doesn't, Galliard will nip and suck against every part of you that isn't your mouth, and the closest Zeke gets to your mouth is prying it open to spit on your tongue. 

Naturally, Colt looks to his War Chief for answers, but Zeke just shrugs. "Your choice, big guy. You're the one calling the shots."

Colt contemplates for a little while but eventually nods and swallows. "Uh, yeah. That's okay, I guess."

He seems to feel just as awkward as you do about this whole situation, would also probably prefer for it to happen in private, but you imagine he's doing everything in his power to show that he's worthy of inheriting Zeke's Titan. He's basically in the same boat as you. 

Reaching up, you lace your fingers behind his neck and pull him to you, pressing your lips to his slowly, softly, trying not to spook him too much. 

After gaining as much experience as you have over the last year or so, it's rare for you to feel shy when getting intimate. Three of the other people in that room have seen everything there is to see about you, your most private of body parts, your most visceral, primal reactions. You have nothing to hide any more. 

Colt is stiff against you. His hands are still by his sides, lips firm but unmoving. 

He has no idea what to do. It's almost disappointing, knowing you're about to spend the evening teaching this kid, fresh faced, twenty years old at most and completely clueless. 

You're saved when a gruff voice makes you pull away: "Alright, this is hard to watch." Reiner sits up and rubs his eyes, then swings his leg over the chair to stand and walk over. "Grice, have you ever even seen anyone kiss before?"

Cheeks turning red, Colt moves out of the way, stuttering out "W-well yeah, but I never watch." 

The taller man takes the vacant space between your legs, and you inhale sharply when he slides a large hand to the back of your head, tilting your face even further upward. Reiner kisses you in a way that makes your head spin. He has that desperate taste he always has, and even without opening your eyes, you can tell he's frowning. But his hand is cautious, careful not to tug your hair just like he's careful not to knock his teeth into yours when he parts your lips with his. 

"There we go," Zeke laughs, clapping twice and cheering, "'Atta boy, Braun!" 

Reiner's tongue dances with yours in a heated back and forth for a few seconds before he pulls back. He doesn't smile, but he does sigh in a thoughtful manner before turning to Colt and pointedly telling him, "That's how you kiss a woman."

Reiner softly scratches the back of your head in a fond gesture, then steps away and motions for Colt to try again. 

He's slightly more confident this time around, starting off slowly at first but eventually pushing against you harder and harder until it's a little much, and you just barely push at his chest to get him to let up. He replaces pressure with tongue, probing and curious but not awful. 

"Undo her towel, Grice. Get a move on," Galliard demands. 

Colt reaches up with a shaky hand, breathing through his nose while keeping his lips attached to yours as he pulls at the loose knot just above your breasts. The material falls and pools around you on the table, and before he can be criticized again, you grab one of Colt's hands and place it on one of the perky mounds. You move your fingers over his, showing how you like to be massaged then guiding him to your nipple. 

"Oh, this is very romantic," Zeke drawls, snapping his fingers to get someone's attention then addressing, "Pock," who grunts in response. "You're a tit man, right? Your turn to show him how it's done." 

The sound of a chair scraping on the floor rings throughout the room, but instead of pushing Colt out of the way, Galliard stands on the other side of the table behind you, bends forward, then grabs you by the hair to pull you down. The breath is knocked out of you as your back hits the table, and you blink up at the redhead in surprise. 

Upside down, your face is about level with his hips, maybe a foot away from his pelvis, but before you can dwell on it, Galliard's rough hands are on your tits, groping, massaging, then pinching your nipples so that you arch and moan. 

"Know I probably shouldn't like it so much, but you sound so pretty, baby," he growls, flicking over the hardened buds then squeezing again. 

"We're all devils here. You can like it as much as you want," Reiner gruffs. 

"Justifying your own feelings?" Zeke snarks. 

You aren't able to see or hear Reiner's response, too busy whining as Galliard starts to slap your tits over and over, making the flesh burn and sting. 

Porco groans, "Mm, love that bounce," hitting them a few more times then stopping and allowing you to take a shuddering breath. 

Your body is hot all over, especially your chest, and your pussy is starting to throb. After playing with yourself in the shower, the heated kiss you shared with Reiner, and now the abuse Galliard just showered on your tits, you're starting to get restless, ready to be filled with something. 

"While I'm right here, m'gonna show you somethin' else, Grice."

Galliard grips your upper arms and slides you closer to him on the table, then undoes his pants and pulls his cock free. As soon as you feel the tap on your lips, you open up for him, relaxing just in time for him to shove his length over your tongue and into the tight sleeve of your throat. 

And, pride actually wells up inside of you. That hardly ever happens. 

There's no time to acclimate really, your only choice being to just lay and take it, so you do, choking and gagging around Galliard's cock as everyone else watches. Tears stream down the sides of your face, but you feel them get wiped away and open bleary eyes to find Pieck peering down at you, soft hands catching the drops as she coos, "You're doing so good, love."

You squirm on the table, start to rock your hips into nothing—no one—in desperate need of friction now. 

"You want something stuffed in that pussy?" Zeke calls out. 

The vibration of your responding whine makes Galliard curse and thrust into your throat until your forehead is pressed against his heavy balls. Strings of spit leak from the corners of your mouth. You try to slurp and suckle, but the steady pistoning of Galliard’s hips just keeps pushing more out. 

“I’ll take that as a yes. Colt, you wanna go for it, or do you wanna watch first?” Zeke questions.

“Um, I—I’ll watch first, I think.”

“Good choice. See how it’s done before diving in.”

You’re barely aware of the conversation around you, mouth full of cock, gentle hands on your face. Pieck must not be fazed by being so close to her comrade’s privates because she just keeps stroking and praising you, like she thinks you might break or lose it. 

There are fingers on your wet folds, spreading them apart, then the harsh sound of spitting before a glob of thick fluid lands in your pussy. Zeke smears his saliva over your clit, and you buck under his touch, moaning when two thick digits are pushed into your heat all at once. Your cunt spasms around the intrusion, getting used to it as he continues the job you’d started in the shower. 

“I don’t always do this sort of thing just ‘cause I like the way she feels all tight and tense on my dick, but if you don’t want her to whine as much, I’d advise prepping her with your fingers or mouth.”

You squirm and writhe, the glide of his fingers getting easier with every thrust as your hole drools slick onto the table beneath you. Zeke’s palm grinds against your clit, pressure and friction where you want it most for half a second before it disappears—comes back, disappears—until you’re forcing yourself down on his hand. 

He lets out one of his standoffish little chuckles as you slide up and down Galliard’s length and fuck yourself on Zeke’s fingers, but the delicious sensation disappears entirely when Zeke pulls out, probably to work himself out of his pants, then presses the blunt head of his cock against your clenching hole. He pushes the tip in only to pull it back out, tap it against the swollen bundle of nerves a few times, then finally pushes in all the way. 

You’re a little too far up on the table now, and Zeke doesn’t bother warning you or Galliard as he tugs you back down to better situate you on his cock, causing the other man to slip out of your mouth.

“Fuck man, I was getting close!”

Without a care in the world, Zeke shrugs him off, tells him, “Come on her face or something then, I don’t give a fuck.”

Your voice comes out hoarse as you moan for all of them to hear, teary eyes cracking open to see Galliard step back and lean against the wall behind him. His fist is tight around his shaft, but he’s pumping himself slowly, like he’s suddenly pacing himself despite just having fucked your throat raw. 

A rough pinch to your nipple brings your eyes to Zeke, blond hair hanging in his face, glasses slipping down his nose. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, but other than that, he’s basically fully clothed. He’s flushed from his neck down to his chest, jaw barely hanging open as his eyebrows raise. He’s certainly enjoying himself, and you can’t say you aren’t because the drag of his thick cock in your pussy is incredible. 

Your head lolls to one side and you find Colt staring at you with wide eyes, watching the way his superior sheathes himself in you over and over. It makes you blush, so you turn to the other side, see Reiner posted up in the corner, about half hard in his pants as he watches your face. 

Mouth dropping open, you shut your eyes, trying to will away the skin-prickling sensation of being watched. You raise your arms above your head, hands dangling off the other end of the table, and Pieck takes them, squeezing once before lightly running nimble fingers over your sensitive skin.

You’ve never been with her, not that you’d be opposed. She’s very pretty and seems kind enough. But you had guessed you weren’t exactly her type. Now, though, you second guess yourself since she seems more than content with touching you. 

The painful squeezes of Zeke’s fingers are batted away, replaced by the ghost of stimulation on your sore nipples. Pieck rubs over one so lightly you hardly register it, but it still shoots right to your pussy, makes you clench around Zeke. 

He’s holding you by the hips now, pulling you onto his cock, and it goes like this for a while. At some point, the wet sound of Galliard jacking off fades, but you doubt he’s come; he’s typically quite vocal when he climaxes. 

Zeke never lets up, fucking deep and fast and right over the spot that makes you leak until he suddenly pulls out and shoots strings of hot cum onto your thighs and the table between them. 

“You don’t… Inside?” Colt speaks up.

Rubbing his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, Zeke answers, “Never. That’s preference, though. I just don’t want any accidents to happen.”

You would remind him that you go to the medic after every encounter you have with the Warriors to get checked out, given an unpleasant medicine that leaves you sick for a few days, but it’s hard to think straight right now. 

Before Colt can move toward you again or any more questions can be asked, Galliard is rounding the table, cock in hand once again, shouldering Zeke out of the way so that he can bury himself in your pussy. He’s a shorter length than the man who was in you just moments ago, but a little thicker. Veiny and curved upward, Galliard always feels good inside of you. Unfortunately for you, he’s basically been edging himself since you were pulled from him, so he doesn’t last long at all. 

Unlike Zeke, Galliard has no qualms about coming inside of you. You feel his seed fill you, mixing with your own wet arousal and making you drip with it when he pulls out. 

“Couldn’t help myself,” he grins before giving your pussy a slap, making you push more of his cum out. 

You hear someone suck in a deep breath, and Colt slowly shuffles over to you. He stares at your throbbing cunt for a while, raising a timid hand to stroke over now messy folds, and you let out a mewl, a very soft, “Please…”

Pieck places a tender kiss at your hairline that makes your heart jump into your throat, such a kind gesture as she murmurs against you, “You’re doing so well for them.”

“Can I—” You blink up at her face, floating upside down over yours. “Can I do anything f-for you, Pieck?”

She shows another one of those smiles, the kind that’s hiding a little something, and she shakes her head, wavy, black hair flowing over her shoulders. “I’m just enjoying watching. You’re very pretty to look at.”

You bite your lip, unsure of how to respond, so you just let her keep touching you, keep cooing and doting. You’ll never say no to affection like this. 

Colt doesn’t have any trouble finding your entrance, which is a relief. He lines himself up and pushes in painfully slowly, panting the entire time and letting out one very satisfying, “O-oh, shit.”

“Feels good, doesn’t she?” Zeke hums.

Colt nods, arms beginning to shake on the table. He seems to be holding himself back, whether it’s from coming or fucking into you is a mystery, but eventually he bottoms out and stays still save for his trembling. It isn’t uncomfortable, but you do feel very full, his hips flush against yours, cockhead nestled right up against your cervix. If he was any longer, you would definitely be in pain. 

“Grice, you can move, you know,” Galliard jabs, but Colt just shakes his head. 

“One second. Lemme just…” He shifts his hips some, not thrusting as much as grinding into you, and you cry out when he presses against that far wall. 

You can feel Galliard’s cum leaking down the curvature of your ass, pooling with whatever of Zeke’s is left on the table. You’re so wet, noisy when Colt finally does start slowly pulling out and pushing in. The squelches echo in the conference room and make you cringe, but Zeke seems to appreciate it as he hums, “Listen to that sloppy pussy.”

“Like music to my fuckin’ ears,” Galliard adds.

Colt has trouble keeping an even pace, his hips stuttering often, but the ridge of his cock strokes over the sensitive spot inside you—the one that makes you drool and babble—almost every time. Your muscles clench around him, changing the sensation for both of you, and when that rhythm becomes even more erratic, you know he’s close.

“Fuck, fuck, I—”

“Just add to the mess. We’ll clean up later,” Zeke reassures him.

Colt’s eyes find yours for the first time since he started fucking you, searching for something like permission, so you nod and show a lazy grin.

“It’s okay, you can come in me.”

That sends him over, a strangled gasp ripping from his throat as he milks himself in your cunt. You can feel the pressure of building liquid inside you, pushing on your insides, but it wanes when Colt pulls out. 

You feel swollen and used at this point, but your core is still hot with the desire to come. There’s a chance you won’t, especially now that Colt has finished, but you can always get yourself off in the privacy of your quarters if need be. 

The freshly fucked blond receives a couple slaps on the back, some patronizing comments from his War Chief, and you take the time to just breathe and melt into the table, enjoying the way Pieck is stroking your hair now, smiling at the other Warriors. 

Your eyes are just about to close when you see Reiner making his way over. He stands between your legs for a while, just looking over the damage, the slight discoloration of your chest, your raw nipples, mouth swollen from Galliard’s cock, then finally your used pussy. 

His fingertips brush over sensitive skin, making you shudder, and you nearly cry when he asks, “You ready to get yours?”

You nod, sucking in an unsteady breath. Reiner mouths the word, “Okay,” then unbuckles his pants and pushes them down to his thighs, and the tears really do start to gather in your eyes now because Reiner is big, and you're already getting sore from three other cocks you've taken. 

He rubs his hands up your thighs, tells you, “Wrap your legs around my waist,” which you somehow manage even though they’re weak with numbness. 

Reiner doesn’t push in just yet, though you can feel his warm cock rubbing between your engorged lips. Instead, he slides his arms under your back and lifts you, turning so that he’s sitting on the table and you’re in his lap, ankles still crossed at his lower back. 

“Just go at your own pace.” His voice is quiet, his mouth hovering just over yours, and here, like this, you almost forget about the others. 

You lift yourself just enough to line his tip up with your leaking entrance then lower yourself onto his cock inch by inch. His girth stretches you, always burns just a little, even when you’re well prepared. 

Your spongy walls make room for him, sucking him in even as you whine at his size. He waits for you to get settled, for you to start rocking, and only then does Reiner start moving. His cheeks are pink, light brown eyes nearly taken over by blown pupils, but the shift of his hips is slow and deliberate, hitting just where you need him to.

He keeps one hand at your back to help you balance, but his other moves down to press on the puffy flesh at the apex of your cunt. It forces your clit to rub against the coarse hairs on his pelvis, and you throw your head back as you finally, finally get that friction you were craving. 

Reiner lowers his face to your chest, warm tongue laving over one nipple in a soothing manner as it pebbles against the muscle. He moves to the other and does the same, suckles on it softly so that you dig your nails into his back.

You leak with every shallow thrust, various fluids getting pushed from your wet pussy, and the closer you get to your orgasm, the worse it gets. You squirt first, a juice thinner than your slick arousal dribbling from you and coating Reiner’s thighs. 

“Fucking—” He cuts himself off by kissing you, obviously uncaring of the fact that you had someone else’s cock in your mouth maybe half an hour ago. He licks into you, holding your body tight against his as your muscles tense, thighs rigid around his waist. You climb and climb, gut hotter and hotter until you reach your peak and moan into his mouth. 

Your hips start moving on their own accord, a little faster as you squeeze the thick cock inside of you until your body grows tired enough to stop. Reiner keeps the same, slow pace, rumbles, “Just keep squeezing me, and I’ll come soon.”

So, you do, clenching around him and trembling the more overstimulated you become because you’re so sensitive and so swollen and so full. Every part of you aches. Every shift of his cock makes you whimper, but when Reiner finally spills inside of you, holding you down on his spurting cock, you sigh and slump against him. 

You breathe heavily, and so does Reiner, his chest, now damp with sweat, rising and falling against yours. His shirt chafes against your nipples, making you hiss, but you’re too exhausted to move.

“Is that what sex is always like with you two?” Galliard scoffs. “That was some soft shit. I’m a little disgusted.”

If you were a little more lucid, you’d consider calling him out and announcing to the room how wanton he gets alone in the bedroom, but your brain is functioning at minimal capacity right now.

“Oh, leave them alone, Pock,” Pieck chides, and you glance across the table at her with tired eyes to find another one of those smiles on her face. “Everyone deserves some softness, especially this little angel after the way you guys treated her.”

“Didn’t treat her any differently than I normally do,” Zeke says, voice slightly muffled as he speaks around a new cigarette. 

“In that case, I offer my condolences,” Pieck tells you, pulling a little snort from you. 

“S’fine,” you slur. “I’m just happy to service the Warriors.”

Galliard rolls his eyes. Pieck hums thoughtfully. Zeke smirks. Reiner lets his head fall to your shoulder.

And, Colt croaks out a honestly endearing, “Well, I, uh, appreciate the service,” which makes you and all of his superiors laugh. 

It’s not an easy job, this one you've been given. You try to be grateful for the opportunity, but most days end with you struggling to find your own self worth.

Tonight is different, though. It’s rare that you feel genuinely appreciated, but right now, sitting in Reiner’s lap with Colt looking at you in both embarrassment and gratefulness, you feel that maybe you're worth something.

[besanii]

shattered mirrors 73

[ set after #69 ]

He’s stumbling forward before he even realises he’s moving, knocking into the low desk with his foot and almost falling over if not for Lan Wangji’s steady hand around his elbow. His limbs feel like lead and his body moves as though wading upstream against a rushing river. His ears are ringing, his vision spotting at the edges, but through all of that he sees the person before him.

“A-Xian.” A sob bubbles up inside his throat at the sound of his name in her voice. “A-Xian.”

She too is stumbling towards him, arms outstretched and tears in her eyes. He wants desperately to fall into her arms, to bury himself in her embrace and let her warmth wrap around him and wash away the horrors of the last fourteen years. Pretend as though he is still Wei Ying, the ward of Yunmeng, her brother in all but name and blood, the little boy who had grown up as her second shadow.

Instead, he sinks to his knees at her feet and presses his forehead to the floor. Lan Wangji follows him to the floor, hovering protectively around him

“Your guilty subject pays respects to Gongzhu-dianxia,” he says. “I humbly beg Dianxia’s forgiveness for failing my duty to Yunmeng Jiang.”

There. He’s said it. The words that had been eating away at him all these years, the constant shadow of guilt lingering in the corner of his mind. His family had been tasked with the protection of Yunmeng and its royal family, it had been their job to gather intelligence and wield it in their defence.

He’d failed. And Yunmeng had fallen.

A strangled noise leaves Jiang Yanli’s throat.

“A-Xian, no,” she says. “No, A-Xian, there is nothing to forgive. Please, get up—”

She reaches for his hands, tugging at them to make him stand, but he remains resolutely prostrate.

“Gongzhu-dianxia, this guilty subject does not dare.”

Her hands tighten around his almost painfully for a moment before she sighs, her whole body sagging with the movement.

“You did everything you could,” she tells him. When he goes to deny it, she squeezes his hand again. “Look at me.” He reluctantly raises his head and sees her looking back at him with a tremble in the firm line of her mouth. “A-Xian, I would be dead—or perhaps worse—if not for you. You saved me.”

He presses his lips together in a hard line, his breath heavy through his nose as he struggles to keep the tears at bay.

“I could have done more,” he whispers. “I could have—”

“You did everything you could,” she repeats firmly. “A-Xian, there was nothing more you could have done. Not under those circumstances.”

A raw, wounded noise tears itself from his throat, through his tightly closed lips.

“I should have realised the reports were false,” he argues, hands twisting in the fabric of his robes. “I should have verified them personally, I—”

She takes his face between her hands, shocking him into silence.

There are new lines on her face, around her eyes and mouth, that hadn’t been there before; she’s older, he realises, and has had to fend for herself for many years. The Jiang Yanli before him now glows with health and vigour, dressed in the thick, coarse garments of the northern border tribes rather than the silks of the capital—a far cry from the sheltered princess from Yunmeng she had been in their youth. Her hands, still so small against his cheek, are rough and callused from hard labour.

“A-Xian, you did everything you could,” she repeats firmly. “It is in the past. Do not blame yourself any longer. Alright?”

He closes his eyes with a shuddering sigh.

And then he’s falling forward into Jiang Yanli’s waiting arms with an aborted cry, clutching at the back of her heavy cloak desperately. Her scent is different—the lotus blossoms replaced by something earthier and less floral—and the arms she wraps around him are stronger, the hug firmer than what he remembers. But the way her fingers run through his hair, the warmth of her body, the way she envelopes him in her embrace despite the difference in stature—there is no mistaking it. He would know it anywhere.

“Jiejie.” He’s repeating himself, over and over again, the way he has not done since they were children and it was still allowed. This is not a dream. “Jiejie, jiejie, jiejie—”

“A-Xian.” Jiang Yanli laughs, her voice thick with tears. “Oh, A-Xian, I’m so glad you’re alive. I’ve missed you so.”

He’s missed her too. There are no words to describe how much he’s missed her. So he just holds her tighter, buries his face in her shoulder as they sink to their knees in the middle of the study floor. He’s dimly aware of movement around them—the servants, perhaps, or Lan Wangji, stepping away to give them some privacy—but he doesn’t acknowledge them, overwhelmed by the fact that Jiang Yanli is here, in his arms, safe and sound after so many years.

“Fourteen years…” She pulls away, running her hands over his hair and face as she does, drinking in the sight of him. “A-Xian, you’ve lost weight.”

He shakes his head and laughs. “I’m alright. Don’t worry about me.” He leans into the hand resting on his cheek. “You look good, Jiejie. You haven’t changed at all.”

It’s her turn to shake her head, falling so easily into their familiar banter as she admonishes him for lying.

“Nonsense. Look at me.” She sits back on her heels and raises her arms to show off the travel-worn garb beneath her heavy cloak. “I’m just a humble farmer’s wife now.”

At the word ‘wife’, Wei Wuxian is suddenly reminded they are not alone. His attention is drawn to the doorway where Jin Zixuan stands with his arm around a boy of no more than ten. Gone are the fine, embroidered silks and gilded jewels signature to the Crown Prince of Lanling. Instead, both are dressed in the same thick, northern-style robes as Jiang Yanli, both with the same broad shoulders, sun-kissed skin and matching vermilion marks between their brows. Jin Zixuan offers him a nod when their eyes meet.

“Wei Wuxian, it’s been a while.” After a moment, he hastily corrects himself and bows. “My apologies, I did not mean any disrespect. Jin Zixuan greets Hanguang-wangye, Hanguang-wangfei.”

“Taizi—Jin-gongzi.” Wei Wuxian corrects himself quickly, returning his greeting with a short bow. “There is no need for such formality. It is good to see you all well.”

He is surprised to find he means it sincerely; there was no such goodwill the last time they had crossed paths, young and foolhardy as they were. But those days are long past. Gone is the spoilt young prince who had spurned the woman he regarded as a sister, buried beneath the cold ashes of a war that took everything from them in one fell swoop. This Jin Zixuan is a husband, a father, who had done the unthinkable—renouncing his claim to the throne of Lanling to search for Jiang Yanli without knowing whether or not she was even alive—and had been rewarded for his devotion.

Jiang Cheng, ah, Jiang Cheng, Wei Wuxian thinks. I think even you would hold a bit of respect for him now.

Jin Zixuan’s eyes shift to Lan Wangji, standing silently behind Wei Wuxian, and offers a deeper bow, which Lan Wangji returns with an incline of his head. Jiang Yanli follows suit from where she is still on her knees with Wei Wuxian, bowing low at the waist.

“Jiang Yanli greets Hanguang-wangye, Hanguang-wangfei,” she echoes. “Thank you for taking care of A-Xian. Yunmeng owes you a great debt.”

Before either of them can react to dispute her claim, she turns to beckon the boy—her son, Wei Wuxian’s heart leaps with realisation—closer with one hand, dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of the other. She draws the boy closer, turns him to face both Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji with a warm smile and a comforting hand on his back. The boy looks up at them with something akin to awe in his eyes.

“A-Ling, come and pay respects to Wangye and Wangfei,” she tells him. “They are our family’s benefactors. Without their help, we would not be here today, so we must repay this debt however we can.”

“Yes, A-Niang.” Jin Ling steps away from his mother, squaring his little shoulders in a way that reminds Wei Wuxian of his father when they had first met, trying to put on an air of importance despite his small stature; he clasps his fingers in front of his chest and performs a textbook-perfect bow from the waist. “Jin Ling pays respects to Hanguang-wangye, Hanguang-wangfei.”

Wei Wuxian looks back at Lan Wangji, helpless in the face of their collective insistence, and sees the corner of Lan Wangji’s lips twitch. He sighs in defeat.

“Jin-xiao-gongzi,” he says, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Your mother’s family took me in when my parents passed, kept the roof over my head and the clothes on my back. Without them, I would not be here today. Whatever debt there is between us, let us wipe the slate clean now and start anew.”

He sees Lan Wangji incline his head in agreement, eyes soft as he holds out a hand to help him to his feet. His arm is warm and steady around his waist, his hand firm in his, holding him upright as he works to calm the storm of emotions warring within his chest. Finally, he gives the hand in his a brief squeeze and turns back to their guests with a bright smile.

“Now, let’s dispense with all this formality,” he says. “You must be tired from your journey—you must stay with us, here in Hanguang Manor. In fact, I insist upon it.”

Jiang Yanli exchanges a quick look with her husband.

“We do not wish to—” Wei Wuxian clears his throat pointedly, and Jiang Yanli falters mid-sentence, pauses and acquiesces with an amused sigh. “Then it would be impolite of us to decline such a generous offer.”

--

Translations

Gongzhu-dianxia (公主殿下) - Your Highness, the Princess

wangfei (王妃) - consort to the Duke, his legitimate wife/spouse

--

Notes

Approximately a billion years later!!!!

WWX called JYL jiejie as a child, before they got older and it was inappropriate to do so, after which he sometimes called her shijie in private, but mostly addressed her as Gongzhu-dianxia in public.

Any errors or inconsistencies will...be addressed at some point. It’s been a while and I need to revisit some things to remind myself what’s happened >_>

--

buy me a ko-fi!

more shattered mirrors fic | verse

[kirschteinsj]

Another life

Genre: angst, (dazai x male reader)

warnings: mentions of blood, guns, language, death

word count: 1.2k

summary: y/n and his last moments with his ex lover

a/n: hi !!! This is my first time uploading something here!! this is a short bit I wrote that I kinda liked !! I'm not too great at this yet, but i hope to post more since its kinda fun !! i hope you enjoy it !! ^_^ !! 

The boy sat there, crutched against the cold, concrete wall, wincing in pain. Blood pouring from his abdomen, how long had that wound even been there? It didn’t matter, he knew his precious days were soon to be over and there was no energy left in him to fight. Eventually, Dazai would catch up to him and find him here in his vulnerable state. Either his old lover would kill him or he would bleed to death in this grey, empty garage.

His eyes felt heavy and begged to be closed. But he couldn’t get them too. A part of him wanted to wait until his last breath for Dazai to find him. It excited him, the latter discovering him there bleeding to death. Perhaps he could put him out of his misery.

Dazai’s quick footsteps echoed in the empty hall, he’d found him. Y/n’s head jolted upwards, a sly smirk plastering his face. He was just on time. The agent made his way over to y/n, gun extended before him in case of any surprises

Seeing the tall, slim man’s face made him reminisce about the tender moments they spent together in the past. How his lips felt against his, how his frail hands grazed his skin under the moonlight. The sweet nothings they shared and the witty banter exchanged. He’d missed him, but knew things were better off without him.

“You’re alone.” He croaks, blood trickling at his lips. Dazai’s expression changes. His face which once was a stone-cold emotionless slate was now washed over with a soft expression topped off with a fragile smile. The brunette huffed and lowered himself to y/n’s position and sat on his knees, gun still in his hand.

“I suppose I am. I told Kunikida to stay back and watch over the entrance. Thought I’d spend some alone time with my favourite person, hm?” He teases, placing a curled finger underneath the boy’s chin, tilting his head up towards him.

Dazai looked into his tired eyes, lids hanging low. He too realized he didn’t have long, he was becoming colder.

He recalls the nights he stayed up with him, talking about all the things they wanted to do, how their days went, shit-talking Chuuya. He missed him just as much. But after Dazai had left the mafia, things changed. What once were mutual admirers were now bittersweet enemies. Though, whenever Dazai saw him, he could only think of the y/n that was his lover. Why did it have to be this way?

Y/n’s expressionless eyes bored into Dazai’s. He wanted to tell Dazai everything about the way he had felt for his ex but knew that if he did, the words would trail off his slick lips and end short. He felt as though he’d run out of air and end things unfinished.

“Dazai,” he spoke, gasping for air, “I missed you, you bastard.” Earning a chuckle from Dazai. The lover raised his hand to y/n’s forehead and pushed wisps of his hair away from his eyes, clearing his face so he could see him better.

“You’ve never been keen on pet names, have you?”

“I haven’t. Some things never change.”

Dazai pouts, “You know I wouldn’t mind being called ‘baby’ every now and then.” He whines, rolling his eyes facetiously. Y/n coughs up a laugh and clings onto his stomach, concerning Dazai. He noticed the wound and felt rage, for some reason. Though his mission was to stop y/n and kill him, he felt infuriated at the idea of someone attempting to hurt him. What kind of sick and twisted way of love was this?

“Ouch, that looks bad, who did that to you?” He posed, moving his gun to the opposite hand, gently lifting the boy’s shirt to examine the wound.

He looks down at Dazai’s hands and then averts his eyes back to his slender face, “I dunno, I just noticed it. It’ll kill me pretty soon.”

The older boy sighs, bringing down the shirt. The injury would kill him, yes, but within a few hours to say the least. Truthfully, Dazai was disappointed, he didn’t want to be the one to kill y/n. But leaving him to die here wouldn’t be ideal either. He’d be found and saved, something that Dazai couldn’t let happen either. If y/n was to die, it would have to happen right there and then. The tension on Dazai could be detected from a mile away, y/n caught onto this almost immediately.

“Dazai, I’ve done some horrible things.” Y/n grunts, attempting to sit up straight. Dazai lends him a hand and the boy leans his head against the wall, closing his eyes.

“I know you have. We both have.” 

“But you’ve become a better man.” He insisted, “Dazai, if I asked you to do one last favour for me, for old time’s sake, would you?”

The tall man was curious yet hesitant to hear his request. But nonetheless, Dazai agreed to hear this favour. Perhaps he could fulfill a dying man’s wish.

The frail boy opened his mouth and spoke in a near whisper, “Dazai, I want you to shoot and kill me. Right here, right now.”

Dazai felt his stomach drop. He’d killed people before and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again if it meant protecting the lives of others. Though in this case, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to.

“What, are you too afraid to die slowly and painfully like this?” The man smirked as he pointed at the wound, teasing him in an attempt to calm himself down. Y/n let out a soft giggle.

“Maybe I am. But in all honesty, I don’t want to be saved. I think I’ve lived an eventful life, don’t you think so? I think,” he pauses to cough, “that it’s time for me to go.”

Closing his eyes, Dazai leans his head back and inhales. Though he still loved y/n, he knew he’d have to do this before anyone else could. He had to end things here.

“Okay. I’ll kill you. On one condition.”

“That is?”

The tall brunette remained silent, and leaned into y/n’s face. He set the gun underneath his chin, allowing it to hold his head up and slowly, he closed the empty space between the two, lips interlocking. Kissing back with whatever energy was left, y/n hoped this moment would last nearly forever. Was this what heaven was like? He wouldn’t know and wasn’t destined to either. Dazai released from the kiss with a tsk, y/n’s blood resting faintly on the latter’s lips. Gradually, he stood up, towering over his lover. Raising the barrel of the gun to y/n’s head, he looked at him one last time, remembering their lives together. Acknowledging that this was the last time he’d see y/n alive, he exhaled in sadness.

“I missed you too. I’m sorry it had to be this way, y/n.”

“So am I, Dazai. So am I.” 

“Maybe we can meet again sometime soon. For old time’s sake.”

“Perhaps, in another life.” He smirked, cocking the gun.

A deafening silence took over. With all his might, y/n opened his mouth to whisper his final words, eyes brimming with tears.

“In another life.”

And with that, Dazai’s gun fired.

[haztory]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬

--nanami kento x gn!reader; hurt, comfort, minor character death, established relationship, death from a disease

--summary: Death is part of the process, Nanami Kento learns early on. He's no stranger to it nor the quiet that follows it. But when it plagues you like this, he finds himself at a loss.

a/n: I don’t know where this came from. it just happened. have I mentioned I'm a huge nanami simp as well? something about capable men just gets to me hehe. anyways, enjoy!

i listened to ‘clouds’ by luke faulkner while writing this

(w.c. 2302)

Death is part of the process, Nanami Kento learns early on.

It’s not one he has to particularly enjoy, but it would be advantageous in the resting of his conscious to make peace with it. Rather than let death ruin the few hours of sleep he can manage a night, it’s significantly easier to never let it weigh too heavily on his mind, never let its stay linger for more than necessary in the space of his thoughts. His occupation demands a certain air of nonchalance from him, requires the detached, almost stoic acknowledgment of the situation. Eventually, familiarity will settle in the depth of his recollection and death becomes something one needn’t blink twice towards. 

It’s not an aspect of the job he likes, per se, but it’s significantly better than the alternative. This seemingly apathetic conception of human life is unfortunately an evil requirement. Instead of festering over the lives he didn’t save, he can focus on the ones he has yet to protect. His slate may be tainted with copious amounts of red— inky, dark, bleeding red; the kind that looks black as it accumulates— but in true Kento fashion, he’ll wipe it clean. Gently, with a clean rag and with slow, circular motions, he’ll wash away the evidence of his failures with as much respect as he can, regardless of how exhausted he may be and how much easier it would be to just run his body, suit, and knife through the stream of water.

The victims may no longer be of this earth, but their last physical embodiment lay wickedly upon his person, his weapon, and his soul. Where he couldn’t save them, the least he can do is lay their last parts to rest with as much kindness as one can muster: with a slow wipe and a silent prayer. 

Death is part of the process, but, if one allows it, it can also be the fuel towards excellence. A drive that settles in after the brief misfortune, kickstarting the desire for improvement; A need to do and be better. To work harder and save more people. But that’s all it must be. No residual guilt, no lasting regret, only fuel. That’s what Nanami Kento learns early on.

What he learns rather recently, though, is that death is much different when it’s inevitable. 

When there is no amount of slashing, no amount of fighting, no amount of improved skills that can prevent it. Even worse, when you know it’s coming and preparation can do very little in settling the grief. 

Death is part of the process, but how can one rationalize it when it doesn’t come from the immediate life or death situation he so often faces? When it doesn’t come from the hands of maniacal cursed spirits or the wickedness of greedy men, but instead, from the unforgiving nature of nature itself? How does one reconcile the inevitability of death when it happens to someone so young?

Cancer. 

She was only eleven.

Death is part of the process, Kento used to think, but as he stands amongst the sea of black on this fitting day of grey, he can’t help but notice how incredibly unfair this all is. Her mother stands a few feet away, silent as they scatter her ashes by the river she used to play in as a child. She stands flanked on either side by loved ones, and yet, the abysmal look on her face betrays any ideal that she may be comforted by the closeness of others; Hardly even cognizant of the fact that they’re there. He’s seen that look before, once on himself.  

It’s the face of vicissitude, the kind that casts someone past the rocks of sadness and out onto the sea of loneliness and despair. A place that no one can follow.

Spouses are called some variation of widow, children are called orphans. What does one call a parent who’s lost their child? No doubt the lack of a label only helps to contribute to the loneliness of it all. Suspended in pain without even the decency of a customary societal title attached to one’s name. Left with nothing but the echoing emptiness of a broken heart.

Grief personified. A hollow shell of a being. Just another person who lost someone they loved. Nothing more, nothing less.

Kento is used to death, but this? This has heartache weighing heavier on his shoulders than he’s used to, forcing his impeccably straight posture forward with a sag of tragedy. The silence of the fellow attendees forces him to maintain some morsel of composure, in fear of disturbing the serene devastation of it all that’s composed so fragilely. So delicate that even a sigh will break the glass of still anguish. As her ashes are scattered to the river and the priest begins the common prayer, the image of her weak smile in her last moments plays vividly behind Kento’s tinted glasses. He can hardly swallow the lump that tightens his throat.

He can hardly imagine how her mother feels. Can hardly imagine how you feel. She was your niece after all.

His eyes trail towards your figure. Standing to the right of your sister, dressed in the customary black, and hand held tightly in hers in solidarity of the magnitude of the loss. Kento didn’t mind standing towards the back, away from the bubble of intimacy that surrounded the two of you. It would’ve felt like an invasion of the sanctity of family to stand anywhere near. A foreigner, he’s always attributed himself to be whenever accompanied with your family— not out of their refusal to accommodate him, but rather his own voluntary maintenance of separation from their sphere of loving connection that was more or less absent from his own life— and any meager effort to share sentiments of sorrow would feel, more or less, inauthentic. At least at this moment.

So he waits, towards the back of the gathering. A far enough distance to ascertain his separation from the immediate family, but close enough to where, should you require him at any point, you need only turn around to seek him out. And he will come to you, as fast as his legs may go, regardless of the people that may be in the way. For his hand has been twitching this entire time with the need to physically comfort you and his eyes continuously dart back to your figure in watchful consideration.

The priest ends his prayer and the last of the ashes are sent off and silence once more encompasses the gathering. The aching kind, the one that wants to be disturbed so badly, but remains untouchable. The kind of agonizing mute that has surrounded his life since you received the fateful phone call a few days before.

Kento is no stranger to quiet. It’s his preferred method of life, not the kind of person to find delight in unnecessary, boastful noise, nor the kind to entertain it often. But this is the kind of quiet he finds greats distaste in. Especially since it’s deprived him of his favorite kind of din— yours.

The life that is so intricately intertwined with yours has held virtually no recognizable clamor in four days. No low chatter from the television, no raucous laughter induced from one of your social media apps, no prolonged discussion of each other’s days or interesting points of conversation. Only silence has filled every gap and crevice as you two packed bags and made arrangements to head to your hometown in preparation for the funeral. Lamenting silence filled the space as you sat side by side on the train towards your destination. Mournful silence encompassing the home of your sister upon your mutual entry into the area. Silence so thick yet so delicate, so long and so void that any attempt to dismantle it feels boilingly uncomfortable.

He doesn’t like the wall it has unintentionally placed between you two, wanting nothing more than to tear it down with his bare hands and have you back within the safety of his arms. But he knows better. 

Death is part of the process, and he must let grief run its course. He’ll just remain in the shadows as a beam of support, intent to provide the space and time you need, but always keeping a trained eye on you.

That’s what love is, he supposes. It’s an odd thing to think, especially as solemness surrounds him as it does now. The drag of sadness competing with the surge of love that overwhelms his veins. It’s burning, and intense, and while his is mostly in consideration of you (as most things in his life nowadays are), it’s peculiarly indicative of the moment. Poetic, almost. 

Bleeding affection borders this ceremony of gathered friends and family in a proper send-off, love encapsulated in the silent tears trailing down faces and memorialized in the air of stagnance. Pouring in every direction as they all gaze sadly at the traveling ashes of the young girl down the steady waters of the river.

It’s grief, yes, but also love, for what is grief but love with nowhere to go?

The ride home is like all the other days, incredibly hushed. Inaudible. He can barely hear your breaths. He wonders, and not for the first time, if when he dies, this is how you will grieve. In this tragic quiet, moving with such stillness that was he not watching, he wouldn’t know you moved at all. A vacant soul wandering just to survive. Jujutsu sorcerers unfairly make their peace with dying early on in their tenure, and maybe he’s committed you to a life of tragedy by involving himself so intimately with you. 

When he dies, and he will— this life that he has chosen spares him no luxuries, not even false beliefs— he will condemn you to a brutal reality that he could have spared you from were he not so selfish. He hates seeing you like this. Hates it with every fiber of his being.

Death is a part of the process. He understands that. He just wishes it wasn’t so collateral. A prolonged state of your affliction that resulted from his hand would surely be a more painful fate than any gruesome death.

Your parent’s home is warm, in sharp contrast to the events of the day. And while they stayed with your sister, Kento insisted you return to your place of stay to wash and change if only to give you a moment alone; So he can check on you in the sanctity of privacy, grant you a brief respite from the unrelenting tide of sorrow, cherish you in these sparing instances that he can never take for granted. 

You bathe alone, he gives you that. He makes tea the way your mother taught him how, even though you quite like the way he makes it and has it set on the table upon your return. Dressed in comfier attire and seated blankly at the table, he settles in beside you. His shoulder touching yours hoping to convey in this minute action that he’s here. 

He doesn’t need the words to say it. Just his presence. 

His hand too, as you settle your own silently in the space of his large one, gripping tightly onto the rough skin. He rubs his thumb along the back of your hand, bringing it to his lips as he placed two long kisses on its surface. You’ve made eye contact all day but this is the first time you’ve really looked at each other. 

Where he can see the pain swimming in the pools of your irises behind the film of unshed tears and you can see the unrestrained sympathy and worry in his. 

“She was eleven,” you whisper, unable to speak any louder.

He doesn’t say anything. There’s not much he can say, only press his lips harder to the back of your hand.

It’s the only moment you’ve had alone together since arriving, and while he was so desperate before to hear something, anything come from your mouth, he finds that the inactivity the fills space once more is rather appropriate. One that he doesn’t want to disturb. Not when there isn’t anything he can say that can heal this wound, nothing he can do except love and care for you when you’re too weak to do it yourself. 

He places a hand behind your head, tilting you forward as he places his lips upon your forehead and smoothing the stray hairs that have displaced themselves from your formal hairdo. Fingers travel down the back of your neck and rub gentle circles on your shoulder, healing any aches with his touch. 

“Drink,” he murmurs against your temple, and you do. A sign of progress that he relishes in. He’s more than eager to see the slow trek back to a state of normalcy, but he knows it’ll be different from here on out. There’s a hole in your heart and it will take a while to heal. 

But he’ll be there. For as long as he can, whenever he can. Because that’s what love is.

Death is part of the process, but he finds it’s infinitely more manageable with you. He knows you feel the same way when at the end of the day as you lay side by side in the guest room of your parents’ home, you take comfort in the safety of his arms and finally, fill the air with something other than the prolonged silence and let him comfort you. 

Death is part of the process, and he knows the inevitability of his own part in it. But in this moment with you, he’ll let himself indulge selfishly in your noise. It’s his favorite sound, after all. 

end notes: come shoot me a message! i love hearing from yall. 

[meowdymista]

For my first RDR2 event, I was paired with @sunspott / @polybigbang. Their art was for a playlist on spotify called Going’s All We Know, and I’ve tried to incorporate the mood of the playlist into my first impression of the art.

You can read my submission on AO3 or follow through with the read more :)

Still No Rest

Feet are itching again, plus it ain't like we can stick around much longer. Going is all we know, even if we ain't got nowhere else left.

Things had been too steady of late. They had been too safe, had slipped away far too easily, had pulled moneybags out of places that should have fought back but hadn't even batted an eye.

Arthur pushes back his hair, greasy and long, off his brow. The clouds above are smoky and dark - a storm, just as anticipated.

Maybe he jumped a little too far too fast today. Maybe if he hadn't been so on edge waiting for something to go wrong, they could have deescalated the situation. Maybe lives could have been spared, but it’s not like the guilt isn’t scratching the ridges of his brain like a dusty gramophone needle.

What makes you any different? You who's always scraping for a scrap of some sort. Them trying to do the right thing and crossing your path to do it. Better you than them, right? Like Daddy always said, if they didn’t want to die they should mind their own business.

A new start: isn't that what they had promised themselves? A new state, a new town, a new camp: a clean slate that he had managed to bloody in a record three days.

Every bullet that screamed past his ear left his bones ringing with that too familiar dull tired ache. Every blade that snagged his clothes instead of his skin embittered him. The tiniest of voices hummed with the thought that maybe, maybe, he should fight that craving for carelessness and even tell someone about it… but the beast he’s become scowls and reminds him with a low growl that then they would stop him. They would take him off the front line, teach the gangly adolescent John - who is a far worse shot - to replace him.

It's not even jealousy really, he reasons as he slips his journal away and stretches into a stand. They need him. Need his gun, his eye, his blade. Worrying them isn’t an option, especially right now. He doesn’t need to make them doubt his reliability, or question whether they’ve misplaced their trust. He knew in his heart that if anyone in the gang confessed the same, he would refuse their gun, even if he needed it - and afterwards? In the weeks, months, years to come? He would always pick someone else. Someone less vulnerable. Someone he never doubted or needed to protect.

Which is how he ended up going out with the feller Dutch had picked up when they were up North. He’s had a few too many close shaves under Hosea’s watchful eye of late as he struggled to conceal the beast's rearing head. The old man was onto him, his brown eyes still boring into him, even after Copper found his way to him.

Bill, on the other hand, is always game for a ruckus. He has as much of a temper as he does, and can match him drink for drink. Some of the stories he lets slip prickle him - like the beast recognising a party equal, a fellow host. He says nothing. Doesn't validate them, doesn't acknowledge them or aim to empathise, he just accepts the added weight of tar and grudges home with another bottle.

“Arthur?”

"M'tired," grunts Arthur, walking past Hosea, boots scuffing the dry red earth beneath them. “Besides, you know how it is. Sometimes bullets fly no matter what you do.”

Hosea doesn’t dignify his excuse with a response, and despite the poker face, Arthur can feel the guilt twist a little tighter in his gut as he sets about washing his arms and face in the barrel by the food reserves. He knows nothing good would come from trying to explain the truth of the situation... How a glimpse of a little boy in his peripherals is as sure a sign of upcoming thunder as lightning flashing in the distance. His not-brown-not-blond tussle of hair brushing the wind with fat drops of rain… rain that never came, leaving Arthur to water the ground with blood, like somehow it could make him feel less like he’s drowning in the driest desert outside of New Mexico.

He pats his pockets for the cigarette he had rolled earlier, until, retracing his steps mentally, he sighs in disappointment. He had been about to light it when it all kicked off. Or rather… it had been in his mouth whilst he tried to align yet another match to the tobacco when he had caught the eye of another patron and decided to swap the nicotine for some adrenaline.

His fondness for Bill always grew at moments like this. Bastard heard one cross word and his guns were out before he found his balance.

Deflated, he uncaps a beer instead, emptying it, tossing it aside and grabbing another, before spotting the girl devouring a bowl of stew a stone's throw away.

"Who's she?" he asks before Hosea can try to raise the day’s events.

"Your new ward."

Arthur stops, scoffing, growing angry when the elder doesn’t back down. "Nuh uh! No way! I just got rid of Johnny! Get Williamson to do it!"

"You'd trust him with her?"

"Sure! Why not?" He glances back at the girl despite himself. His index finger is itching again. "Or get Marston on it. Ain't like he's doing much else."

"John is still learning how to take care of himself, and Bill…"

"He ain't gonna beat up a little girl." Restless, his feet shuffle beneath him, his beer swapping hands before touching his lips again. "And ain't like he's gonna have interest in her."

"You think he wouldn't do it just to prove a point?" Their eyes meet briefly before Arthur's gaze drops. "People who are insecure are far more dangerous than those comfortable in themselves, never forget that Arthur. Besides, I'd rather not expose her to the prejudices she can get any day of the week. She ought to feel safe here, don't you think?"

He finishes the dregs and tosses the bottle, preferring to change the subject than admit he’s right. "Where’d she come from? She got any family?"

"She left her cousin back east. Came this way looking for her mother but she’d passed meanwhile."

"So… what’s the plan? We taking her back east?"

"Sure as shit you ain't!"

The girl has stepped around the table, legs planted apart, hands folded across her flat chest, her hair as free and untamed as her temperament. She is glaring something fierce, making the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end in a fight or flight instinct.

Hosea chuckles softly, eyes bright with pride. "I reckon she's one of us now."

"Well, does she have a name?" asks Arthur, incredulous.

"Jackson." She jerks her heart shaped face in a defensive greeting. "My name is Tilly Jackson."

"Well, Miss Tilly Jackson, you always so fierce?" He stalks the couple of steps to the nearest crate of whiskey and pulls one free.

"You always this stupid?"

"Hey now, Miss Jackson," interrupts Hosea before Arthur can bark. "We don't talk to each other like that here."

"He started it!"

"And you’re sitting with Mrs Matthews when you’re done so she can keep an eye on you!” He ushers her towards Bessie to keep her out of harm's way before turning back to his first product of adoption with a raised brow.

"You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

"Try coming back just half soaked some time. Might make them go easier on you."

Arthur scoffs, his rebuttal dying in his throat. He dampens the ash with another swig.

"I want you to take her with you when you go out."

His scoff is solid. "No way."

Hosea straightens up, watching him, using his body language to ask the questions.

"I ain't taking her out. You want her shot?"

"You intend to shoot her?"

"No, course not-"

"Then what's the problem?"

Arthur's eyes roll in exasperation, his finger flexing around the neck of the bottle like it's a button that will win the argument if he squeezes tight enough. "The problem is other people shooting at us."

"You intend to get shot at?"

"No, but-"

"Then I see no problem."

"That don't mean we ain't gonna get shot at!"

"Why would you get shot at?"

'Cause that's what I set out to do most days, he wants to counter. And if I ain't likely to get shot, I'm likely in jail or black out drunk in a saloon someplace.

Instead he closes his mouth, any excuse dead before it passes his lips.

"I'm not asking you to take her with you to rob a bank, Arthur." Hosea's tone is firm but still soft - a talent of his. "But while you're out looking for leads, or even looting a homestead or something… She's nifty."

"Hosea, I-" He trails off, distracted by the clip of notes Hosea is picking through, and downright thrown when he passes him the thinned out clip. "What's this for? I gettin' paid to be a nanny now?"

“This-” Hosea holds up a couple of notes before putting them in his pocket. “-is for arguing with me. This is for the box, as it seems you’ve forgotten to pay the camp's share, and this-" He casually holds out the last few dollars to the side like he’s ashing a cigarette. A small brown hand slips it away as both Hosea and little Miss Tilly regard him smugly. "Is for a mark well scammed."

"You mean-?" He checks his pockets, ears growing hot. "You son of a-"

“Ah-ah! Language!” Dutch swaggers up with a smirk like he has been watching the introduction unfold in its entirety. “C’mon, Arthur, you have to give it to her. She’s talented!”

“Might finally have picked up a smart one, eh, Dutch?” winks Hosea. Arthur scowls and turns on his heel, leaving them laughing and praising their newest addition.

****

Arthur remains cool and calm the next few days, hunting local and sticking close to camp. Every time he approaches his horse, the little girl is waiting, watching him with her fierce brown eyes.

"Where we goin', Mr Arthur?" She asks as soon as he's within earshot. "Do I need anything bringing?"

Every time he offers to pay double what Hosea has offered her, and every time she refuses to discuss the terms of their negotiation. Every time he curses everything under his breath, keeping his language savoury for the child nearby. Every time he scowls, and every time he gives her a grunt of "naw, we ain't going far" before mounting up and lifting her onto the rear.

"I can ride myself, ya know?" She shoots one morning as Arthur leads his stead into a trot away from camp, heading towards the softer, greener terrain that’s barely visible on the horizon. "Properly. Not side saddle."

"Good for you."

"If I had a horse I would show you."

"And run off with the money we got, huh."

She bristles. "I ain't no snitch."

"Sounds like somethin' a snitch would say." He pops the cork from a half full bottle of rum and takes a swig. Replacing the bottle, he notices her scrunching her nose in disdain. “Got a problem? I can take you back to camp.”

“You sure don’t drink much water,” she comments drily. “You ain’t worried ‘bout heatstroke out here?”

“Liquor’s hydrating,” he scowls, pushing the horse into a canter.

“Pretty sure it ain’t, but you do you. Besides, I got dibs on your things. We all gotta start somewhere, right?”

Arthur snorts angrily, adrenaline prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. “You sure as hell do not, princess. I ain’t going nowhere!”

Miss Jackson hums sarcastically. “Sure you ain’t. You don’t eat, don’t drink anything under forty proof, don’t talk to no one-”

“If you don’t like it, I can drop you right here!”

“Go ahead.” Her tone is defiant, but it doesn’t escape his notice that she grips his sides a little tighter. “Mr Matthews was pretty explicit about what he’d do to you if you tried.”

He stews the next mile or more, not speaking up until he finally dismounts for a break at the change of terrain.

Wide open spaces always helped to ground him, even though it could make vanishing into thin air difficult. To some extent, it forced him to not be so careless. In others, it made it easier to kid himself that he had never crossed the threshold into civilisation, let alone crossed a kind faced waitress.

Listening out for creeping cougars and restless rattlesnakes, he crouches down by the water’s side and splashes his face, washing off the worst of the sweat and dust that’s caked itself into every pore available. The girl makes no move to dismount, so he takes it upon himself to refill her canteen as a gesture of goodwill.

“You don’t got to stick to us, you know.” She turns her big brown eyes from the sky onto Arthur’s face. He shuffles his feet awkwardly, focusing his attention on brushing out the biggest clumps of dust from the horse’s mane before they continue. “If you need me to take you somewhere-”

“And what’s a girl to do then? Hit the road with a couple dollars?” She fixes him with a look that is too old for her face. “Naw, I think I’ll stay with youse a little longer.”

“That’s alright, but we’re gonna have to be moving on real soon.” He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to ignore the unspoken reminder that it’s because of him and his actions. “It ain’t like we can promise to be back up this way any time in the near future. If you change your mind-”

“I won’t change my mind about them, Mr Morgan.” She shivers in a breeze that only seems to touch her. “No, sir. They had me bound real good for real long, but I don’t need ‘em. I won my freedom, Mr Morgan, an’ I ain’t going back.”

He risks a glance, curiosity getting the better of him. Her eyes are sparkling as bright as the water's surface, but her jaw is clenched tight. He debates riding further, doing what he can to get them set up at the fishing spot Hosea had heard about as they moved through the state to their current set up, but the child looked too old. Too tired. Too existentially exhausted.

Plus, when you get low enough, it's like some things will follow wherever you go.

“Let’s stop here a while.”

As predicted, Miss Jackson double takes. “Don’t you want to get to where we’re headed?”

Arthur shrugs. “Ain’t like there ain’t food to be foraged here. Nothing to come raising any hell or bother us into raising it for them. Reckon this spot’s as good as any.”

He turns his back to her as she dismounts warily, focusing his energy on starting a small campfire they can add to.

"I ain't goin' anywhere if you wanna swim." He grimaces as his words come out gruffer than intended. "I got clean clothes in the saddle bags here if you want 'em for the trip back or to swim in even. Can't imagine that skirt is the lightest when it gets wet."

"You ain't wrong, Mr Arthur, sir. Thank you for the offer but I think I'm just gonna stick to paddling for now."

"Sure."

It's not his first choice. This land is a little too dry for his liking, but that's what comes with being so close to the desert. Money means nothing to nature, besides she provides everything and more than what shops and butchers supply. Who needs civilisation when there's the wilds to retreat into? When there is wild carrots and rhubarb aplenty, fresh meat, shelter, all for the low cost of taking what you need as you need it?

The fire started, he sets out to look for fuel and food. Crouching down to check dung and disturbances in the foliage, he finds the damage is minimal. He swears again, taking a swig of whiskey from his satchel.

He doesn't really remember a time he didn't drink, but he knows this is different. He knows this isn't a choice on his behalf. The demon demands fuel as a child demands milk, and like the fool he is, he provides without much hesitation. Anything for a glimmer of peace from the screaming child in his mind.

He scoffs at himself and straightens up, looking around on the off chance some animal is dumb enough to be caught out in the open - and as luck would have it, a pronghorn buck is grazing a stones throw away.

He inhales deeply, taking aim with newfound focus, and fires.

The pronghorn bolts, but it's no contest for the bullet soaring his way. A mournful cry bleats through the undergrowth as it flees. He follows, as loud as he likes given the rip of the shot would have blasted a warning to anything within earshot. Breaking through a wall of cacti, he spots Miss Tilly aghast in the shallows as the buck splashes into the lake he had washed up in on their arrival.

He keeps going, realising the buck is heading for a wet escape. Shedding his guns as he runs, he wades in after it, shouting.

The buck is swimming in deep water, leaving behind a trail of blood behind with every baleful bleat, leaving Arthur with no option besides taking a spur of the moment swim or going home with an empty stomach.

"C'mere!" he cries, breaking into breaststroke. The buck is slowing, every cry growing more lamenting and mournful. "Stop! I can make it stop, just come a little closer."

It's crying weakly by the time he manages to reach it. He throws an arm over its neck and fumbles for his hunting knife, but the blood proves too thick and one small fumble sends it disappearing into the depths.

"C'mon," he grunts, tugging the wounded animal with him as he kicks his way towards shore. "You ain't gonna get any lighter."

He struggles towards shore, gasping assurances every chance he gets. When his boots finally scrape the bottom, he whistles for his mount with the last of the air in his lungs.

He finally releases the animal, using both hands to search for a knife or a pistol - something to end its suffering quickly. Drowning the thing felt too callous, too slow, too-

"Will this be enough?"

Arthur, still gasping for breath, hair dripping into his blue eyes, pauses, surprised. A small hand is proferring a flip knife, her small face reflecting the distress of his own. Recovering, he nods quickly, thanking her as he takes the tool from her and advising her to look away and cover her ears. Obeying doesn’t lessen the heart wrenching last cry of the animal, but on opening her eyes again, she decides it is less painful than watching the poor thing struggle as it drowned.

Arthur is holding the animal, counting, as though held to some strange code to make sure it is dead before removing the tool of choice. He shakes the knife under the surface and folds it up, passing it back to her with a grunt of thanks. She takes it, still in shock at the unexpected show of violence.

He pushes the carcass out of the water, promising to be back soon before swimming back to where he caught the animal. Watching his head disappear under the surface, she is left with the silence of the cooling body nearby. It looks strangely peaceful staring off into the east.

Arthur swims back, pushing back the sodden mop of brown hair as he wades out with sopping boots and a shiny carving knife he must have dropped earlier. He advises her to leave him to it if she’s squeamish, and she refuses up until the animals guts plume onto the sand.

From a distance, she watches him carry them away from their makeshift camp, covering them up with some leaves and branches to disguise the worse of the mess but leave it readily available to the creatures due a feast. Returning to the body, he begins to carve with care, piling steaks onto canvas. He wastes as little as possible, even wrapping the exposed neck of the head in canvas before tying it onto the horse. He turns to the water, notices her watching and walks over.

“Reckon we’re almost done here,” he calls as he gets close enough. “Just gonna wash up and we can get going.”

“You always butcher your kill before going back?” she asks.

He huffs, a twinkle in his eye. “Sure, when I don’t plan on walking back. Figured you’d rather hitch a ride than straddle a dead deer.”

She shudders, making him laugh as he kicks off his boots and setting them aside to dry from earlier. He doesn’t remove his clothes, just pulls a bar of soap from the saddlebags and asks if she minds if he doesn’t dry off. She herself finally admits internally that she feels grubby. She had washed and washed and washed, and eventually came to accept the grime was not going to wash off her. Too much dirt, too ingrained, too repeated to ever shed properly…

She follows him, still keeping her distance. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps scrubbing suds under his nails, over his forearms, into every fibre of his shirt. When she finally feels brave enough to speak up, she takes a deep breath, and on a whim decides to splash him.

He turns around, frowning, before picking up on the giggles and grinning himself. His arms are stronger, thicker, longer - the retaliation engulfs her with a responding tidal wave that leaves her gasping for air. In the small glimpse she makes of him, she notes the guilt and the apology on his lips as he believes himself having gone too far, but she’s too quick. She pushes him in the chest and tries to swim away as quick as she can, squealing the whole way.

Their laughter disturbs the birds in the branches, and they take flight, not that either of them notice. They play until the sun lowers to kiss the leaves around them. They share the bar of soap, and Tilly takes refuge in his disinterest. He lets her wash. She lets him wash. Both of them keep their distance when appropriate.

“Perhaps we oughta ride back in the morning,” Arthur muses when he notices how much she is shivering. "It's only gonna get colder, and at least we've got a fire going here."

“I don’t mind making the ride.”

He chuckles, eyes soft. “Miss Tilly. You’re dead on your feet, and sure as hell will be dead in the saddle. I can fall asleep just about anywhere if you’re alright with the tent and bedroll? Hell, it’d make a nice change to waking up to Susan and Dutch arguing, huh?”

“You ain’t wrong...” She is still hesitating. Arthur tried to shake the thought of what she must have been through and instead tells himself that it's standard practice to be wary of new folk. She could feel safe in camp because there were more people to keep tabs on one another. Out here, it was just him, her and the stars, and since when did the stars ever do anything to help?

“Listen. Choice is yours. I’ll ride through the night if that’s what you want, but I promise you’re safe with me.” He checks the barrel of his revolver, counting the six bullets nestled inside before snapping it in place and holding it out by the barrel. “Here. I can’t give you both in case we get jumped, but I’ll stow the long arms on Wyn if that makes it easier.”

She sits in silence for a long while before nodding slowly.

“Alright then. You get to eating your fill while I set you up for the night.”

*****

She wakes up, well rested and warm. She takes a few minutes to lay there, watching the shadows of the flies buzzing on the canvas above before finally crawling out in search of fresh air.

Owain is grazing not so far away, but Arthur is nowhere to be seen. His long arms are still stashed, the fire just ash now. Panic rises in her throat, torn between the fear of him being jumped and him abandoning her willingly.

She frets, pacing, checking their reserves. No, she has no clue where the hell he has taken her so she doesn’t know where to even start on trying to return to Mr Matthews and Mr Van der Linde. She curses him for being so spoilt as to be threatened by a little girl.

“Mornin’, Miss Jackson.” She flinches, immediately retreating from the greeting. Arthur is frowning under the brim of his hat as he dismounts the small bay coloured horse. “Everythin’ alright?”

“I thought you left me,” she admits, still choked up. He seems surprised, then bashful, trying to hide it by patting the neck of the horse he has with him.

“Naw. There was a herd moving through here early this morning and I remembered about you wantin’ a horse of your own.” He gives her an awkward nod. “Whaddaya reckon? She rides pretty nice. One of the smaller one, but she seems friendly enough. If you wanna keep her, I’ll set you up on mine until we can get this one broke in properly if tha’s alright?”

“Sure.”

“Awesome.” He begins to pack their things away, tacking Owain and bribing both steads with sugar cubes.

“We going hunting again?”

Arthur puts away the brush and pats his horse’s neck. “Naw. Today we’re headed to Greyhound Station.”

“Why?”

“Boring stuff. Check to see if anyone’s tried to write us. Check for bounties and that we ain’t most of ‘em. See if there’s any jobs goin’, keep an ear to the ground in case there’s money to be had. You know, standard outlaw stuff.”

“I ain’t ever been on a wanted poster yet,” she muses. “That I know of anyhow. Knowing the Foreman Brothers, they’ll be tryin’ to frame me for something.”

“The Foreman Brothers?”

“The… gang. The ones I was with when Dutch and Hosea found me.” Arthur hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t press it. It’s like he knows it’s a big bruise still there after months of riding with them. “They was wrestlin’ to hang me or bury me alive. Never did find out which since I managed to wriggle off the wagon without them noticin’. So much for family.”

“Y’all were related?”

“Yeah.” She spits off the side. “Good riddance to ‘em.”

He hums. “If anybody tries to pull that with you again, you lemme know. I’ll get ‘em before they blink.” He rummages in his saddle bag and pulls out a glass bottle of clear liquid. She frowns as he takes a greedy few gulps before offering it to her.

“I ain’t much a fan of the bottle, Arthur.”

He throws her a look of befuddlement over his shoulder before understanding befalls him. “It weren’t my first choice, Miss Jackson, but I’ve yet to learn how best to store water if not in a bottle of some kind.”

“Water?”

“Water,” he repeats with a shake of his head. “Whiskey’s the other side if you want some.”

“I’m good for now, Mr Morgan,” she smiles, raising the bottle to her lips, squinting at the sunburned strip that’s the back of his neck. “Maybe some other time.”

[diosefm]

ATONEMENT: the demise of diose valey

there’s a new revolution, a loud evolution that i saw born of confusion and quiet collusion of which mostly i’ve known a modern day woman with a weak constitution, ‘cause i’ve got monsters still under my bed that i could never fight off a gatekeeper carelessly dropping the keys on my nights off

tw: death, alcohol, paranoia, violence, kidnapping, murder, torture

                                                    TIME OF DEATH: 2:13 AM

trigger free tl;dr

FRANCIS FOREVER — i don’t know what to do without you, i don’t know where to put my hands. i’ve been trying to lay my head down, but I’m writing this at three am

3:08 AM

Sleep evades you. It’s a recurring thing now.

Wine doesn’t help. You’d think it would at least make you tired enough to lie in bed and empty your head, but all it does is give you a headache that can only be cured with more and more glasses. And you think too much. Hyperaware of everything going on around you. 

And even if you can’t sleep, you still have nightmare. You’re wide awake when you swear someone is banging on your window, but it’s just the rain. The sun comes out, hits your eyes and forces you to close them as you get used to the light. Then your door opens. 

You’ve lost count of how many times the avoxes there to serve you have been victims of your latest tirades. You lash out. Scream and shout as you destroy your suite because it’s all you can do. Hysterical, that’s what you are. So you drink more. Slur out a  poor attempt at an apology. It doesn’t matter. Next morning it’ll be as if nothing happened and you will snap again. 

Sleep could help, but you’re no longer used to not sharing your bed with someone.

Days and nights blur together. There is not an end nor a beginning to your days. You’re lying on the floor, at the brink of passing out with a glass of wine in your hand. For weeks, you’ve feared someone will slip something in your drink, poison you. Little did you know, you’re already doing all the work for them.

You can’t remember the last time you ate, nor the last time you slept. You’re delirious. Weak after spending the little strength you had yelling at the avox with the black hair. That is why when your door is opened, you don’t bother to look up.

Your bruised cheek rests against the floor of your suit, the coldness making some of the soreness go away. Someone approaches you, kneels down beside you and runs their hand through your messy hair. 

“Pista?“

Incredible how despite everything, you are still able to hold onto the smallest glimmer of hope. If he is there, maybe you can stand up. Do better. Be better. You promised. 

Your eyes are tired, but even despite how blurry your vision is, you can tell it’s him. Desperate, you prop yourself up with the help of your arm and cling onto him, allow him to lift you off the ground. It’s not until you breathe in his scent that you notice his smell is different. 

Frightened, you take one look at his face and realized you’ve been tricked. It’s eerie how much this man looks like him. Has all of this been done on purpose? Flight or fight. You manage to get him to let you go, but your body is nothing but alcohol at this point, you stumble and fall onto the ground. He calls you a bitch, which you think you deserve. Grabs onto your hair before you can flee, tugging so hard you feel he pulls part of your scalp with it. 

You’d yell for Slate to move save you like he’s done before, but he is gone. And soon so will you. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him pull something out of his pocket. He jabs a needle into your neck, and you finally get to sleep.

SEVEN DEVILS — seven devils all around me, seven devils in my house. see, they were there when i woke up this morning. i’ll be dead before the day is done

8:42 PM

The faint scent of expensive perfume stirs you awake. Your body is sore, and your head pounding. But your outer appearance doesn’t show how terrible you feel. You catch your reflection on a glass table and marvel at what you see, because you swear you’ve never looked more beautiful. 

The dress you are wearing is very familiar. It takes you a few minutes until you realize it’s one of your projects, one that had been sitting in your studio for months. They’ve been at your home, invaded your privacy, gone through your things.

Hair is freshly dyed, perfectly styled to frame your face and the gorgeous job the makeup artists did. No matter what your circumstances have been, you’ve had the ability to always look magnificent. Still, they’ve done a masterful job showing your full potential. 

No wonder so much people have always been desperate to be you, with you, or they just want to end you.

As your eyes get used to the light, you notice you’re sitting in the middle of what appears to be a television set. Your first instinct is to explore it, to leave the pristine mint green couch you’re sitting on, but you notice the shackles around your ankles, essentially holding you in place.

You’re not alone for long. Far away, you notice your father’s assistant woman. A petite woman with a fiery red mane of hair and much younger than you. You know very well she’s his latest conquest and a social climber you managed to spot the second you first set your eyes on her.

 Cherry, you think her name is. Tacky, just like her. But as much as you hate her, she seems to be your only hope. You call out her name, but she ignores you. Long gone are the days of her begging for your attention. Now you’re the one desperate for her to even glance your way. 

This is only the start.

Slowly, more people start arriving,, all of them with a job to do. And despite being surrounded by a crowd now, you’re ignored by everyone. It’s the first time this has ever happened. It doesn’t matter how much you’re glowing, you’re no one to them.

Despite your screams and your pleading, no one tells you what’s happening until a man arrives. You’ve seen him already, you just can’t remember. It’s his scent that clues you in, and you go feral. But you can’t move. the shackles are noisy enough to get everyone to look at you, but he is the only one focused on you, telling you that you need to shut up and avoid making yourself look bad because you will have all of Panem’s eyes on you soon. He adds a threat to his spiel, he brings up Sage and shows you her icture and you instantly press your lips tightly together. 

Caesar arrives shortly. Does’t greet you, doesn’t acknowledge you. Whatever fake yet cordial relationship existed between the two of you is now gone. He is there to do his job, that’s it. He shuffles his notes, deep in thought. The show should commence shortly. 

Prime time TV, here you come.

YOU’RE ON AIR

The title card is gorgeous. But how could it not, given who seems to be behind all of this. First thing you see on the screen behind Caesar is a slide announcing the following show will be a mandatory viewing all across Panem. Odd, so you keep watching.

Next, you see your father’s name on his signature font and golden lettering following by his title as executive producer. It only adds to your confusion, brows furrowing as your eyes remain fixated on the screen. Your father is an all-too powerful media mogul whose name is attached to anything related to the games, but you still don’t understand why you’re there.

At least not until you see the name of this TV special. Inside Panem: Framing Diose Valey

What happens next is a blur. Two hours filled with memories you thought you had forgotten or wish you could forget. The list of little tidbits and scenes the people of Panem are presented with are as followed:

It all starts with your more than humble beginnings. Images of the run-down house you were born in are shown. You find out who your real parents were along with the rest of the country. A butcher and a seamstress. Both starved to death after after the Capitol left Ten with almost nothing to eat. all to celebrate Snow’s birthday. Your father doesn’t show it that way, but you are able to look past his tricks and propaganda now. 

He is an artist, painting the image of a perfect family. Her parents are heroes, saving a child from an imminent death and giving her a life she could have never dreamt of. If you didn’t know any better, you’d be touched. But you are that child, and you’ve grown up and realized you were nothing but a pawn. A tool to up their social standing, to improve their public image. Not that it matters now. Your father has done an incredible job making himself look like father of the year. And maybe a long time ago you genuinely believed that, but the more of this you watch, the less you’re inclined to give him or your mother the benefit of the doubt.

You grow up, flourish into a poised and beautiful young lady. But you’re still a child. Barely into your teens and already perfectly groomed to be just like your parents. It’s the Valey way. Why bother with a normal childhood when you ought to be busy aiming for greatness. Everyone loves you, lauds you. Great things are coming for you. 

Your debut  is a complete success. The younger stylist in the history of the games, it’s a great honor and your parents couldn’t be any prouder. From the get go, you demonstrate how talented you are. Despite your age, your creations are the best in the entire lineup. Many stylist didn’t want you there, thought you had only gotten a spot in the team due to your name. You proved all of them wrong. 

You are a child forced to grow up too fast, but why does that matter when you have a successful career and a thriving business. 

To you, the next scene doesn’t come as a surprise. More of your accomplishments are shown before you are forced to see a summary of the 55th games. You look away, not wanting to see Aven and what they did to Caspian, but your head is held in place by someone behind you. Your eyes begin watering as you see him take his last breath, covered in blood, his face unrecognizable. A makeup artist is ushered in and she pats your face with a tissue and fixes a makeup. Someone orders her to stay by your side, telling her that will happen again. That sounds like a warning. Not directed at her, but you.

Showing what became of Caspian right at the start is something you think was done on purpose. It makes it hurt more when images of you two appear on screen. Laughing, talking. Your father’s collection really has everything; he’s kept a close record of every single thing you’ve ever done. It enrages you when you replay your first kiss in the middle of a private fitting, the way Caspian caresses your cheek and promises he is coming back for you. It’s pure evil that you are forced to watch all of this, but you think it’s even worse every personal detail of your life is now being used to keep others entertained.

 Your father, always so careful about his image, does not show how he refused to keep him alive. Your mother’s punishment after his death is not mentioned either. Your trauma doesn’t matter.

After more images of the rest of your teenage years, your introduction into adulthood is shown and there is a shift in the tone of the program. Your innocent is now long gone. You’re a woman now, one that is perfectly aware of how to use her womanly charms to get what she wants. What your mother encouraged is now a bad thing. Unbecoming of a high society lady. Your behavior is a product of your own trauma, a combination of your mother meddling with your unresolved issues, using them to toy with your head and turn you into something cold and calculated. Having her tell you tears weren’t a woman’s only weapons was a recurring thing all through your life, but given that she is supposed to be the perfect mother, Panem doesn’t see that. 

Tiberius was a constant in your life for years. Not in the same way Slate was, obviously. You never shared your bed with him. You never schemed with him to cheat and favor your tributes. You never plotted to have nuisances murdered. Tiberius was the brains behind everything but the Capitol won’t let such a beloved figure like him see his legacy be tarnished, especially by the likes of a newly disgraced figure. Everything is blamed on you. Diose tricked him. Diose forced him to do this. Diose seduced him. Tiberius is innocent. It’s all bullshit, but you’re not innocent either. If there is something your father has proved so far, it’s that the best calumnies are spiced with the truth. 

You’ve left a sizeable list of victims. Some are dead, some were luckier, having only suffered by seeing their own reputations ruined by the great Diose Valey. This was something else your parents encouraged, but not it’s being used against you. You could argue that things are being taken out of context, but you did all of those things. You lied, you cheated, you killed. Not directly, but does that matter now? You’re heinous person, the worst Capitol has to offer. Why someone wanting to do good and change the system you’ve upheld and taken so much advantage of would trust you is a mystery. 

Your accomplishments are presented along with more of your escapades and intrigues. Death, suffering, greed. Diose Valey is nothing but an evil woman, a harlot desperate to amass as many power and money as she could No one saw it before, but thankfully this story has a hero. Minos Valey is here to open everyone’s eyes. He’s proved no one outside the Capitol should trust you, potentially destroyed the few alliances you’ve made, what else could he do?

Rebel sympathizers have more than enough reasons to hate you now that it’s been shown you’re the shining example of the sins and crimes important Capitoles have incurred in. They’ve always know they’re bad, but now your name is at the top of the list of the worst of the crop. 

Cut all ties. Despite everything, you’re not the only one with skeletons in her closet. There is still people out there stupid enough to forgive your sins because they don’t know any better. Everything you’ve done so far could be excused by saying you did it to continue protecting the values and principles of the Capitol. People have done worse and still came out of top, you could do it. Or could have, had it not been for the train.

You see Pista and you start screaming again. Caesar glances at you before he asks someone to gag you, your screams won’t let him focus and you’re giving him a headache. As per usual, the editing is top notch. Diose Valey, the perfect Capitolite, is now a heinous traitor. More of your words are taken out of context, a narrative crafted to make it all seem that your change of heart happened because you wanted to benefit only yourself. You were willing to destroy the people that gave you everything and turned you into what you are now. Murder can be excused, disloyalty and treason cannot.

Neither you or Pista did anything to hurt any of the Peacekeepers that stood in your way. Did you threaten them? Absolutely. But it was done to protect the man you forced to help you. An image of you attempting to intimidate a peacekeeper by telling them they don’t know who they’re messing is shown. You remember that. It happened. But the next bit revealing the bloody remains of the Peacekeeper you confronted was not your doing. Thing is, who would believe you at this point?

You’ve switched teams, seem content plotting against your current government. The sensitivity that came with your new goals is nowhere to be found. According to your father, all you’ve done after the train has the only intention of benefiting you. Selfish, entitled, spoiled. You will never change. 

He doesn’t misses the chance to embarrass you even further by letting the whole country be a witness to your outburst at the wedding along with you supposedly mistreating your poor mother after some heavy drinking. There is a new narrative line he is following, one you don’t quite understand until it’s explained how unstable you are. You’ve been kind enough to give him more than enough material to work with in the past few days. The awful behavior caused by your paranoia has been turned into a montage of Diose Valey’s worst moments. You’re an unhinged drunk now, an unruly and hysterical woman that can barely function because the weight of every bad thing she’s ever done is eating her up. You think she is being poisoned, people are ought to get you. The terrified faces of the avoxes tasked to care for you are shown in between shots of you screaming and destroying your suite. No mention of Slate’s disappearance and it being the cause of most of your lunacy is made. 

It should be all over now. The screen goes black, no one is talking. They’re all too busy looking at you in pure disgust. You’re given a three minute break before you have a camera pointed straight at your face. Another threat is made. The same man who’s been silently torturing you ever since he took you from your room shows you more pictures. Virgo, Robyn, Slate, Pista. That must mean he is still alive, but you’re not given any time to process this information. He doesn’t have to say anything for you to understand. You know how it all works. If you don’t comply, others will pay. A nod is given before the makeup artist fixes your makeup.

 The show is back on and a clearly glum Caesar comments on what all of you have witnessed. Everything is a shame, it’s all so sad. You were a role model, what happened? Please, as if this isn’t nothing more than a punishment. You’re being framed by your own father and every person in that room is a willing participant.

The interview part of the special doesn’t last very long, because it’s not actually an interview. It’s your father’s own clever way forcing you to confess. You get the privilege of being the final nail on the coffin you will be buried in. that is, if you ever get that. 

You blackmailed Tiberius, forced him to be part of your nefarious plans. Yes, you meddled with the games. We got a list of people who passed due to your doing, can you confirm it all being true? Fine, that one you can’t deny, even if everything is not what it seems. 

I cheated, I lied, I killed, I destroyed many families. You hate that you’ve been beaten at your own game, but there is nothing else to do. It’s either this or seeing those you love suffer. You tired of seeing people be affected by your actions, so you lie again let them pin every single bad thing that’s ever happened on you. 

Everything is almost over. You’re quite proud of yourself or avoiding crying. You were warned about having to look perfect, and you’ve complied with them again and again. No one else is getting hurt. Only you. But you’ve accepted it. 

Caesar goes on a spiel about your recent actions, questions your mental stability, though he is not talking to you, but to the camera. Another announcement is made. His voice is soft and sympathetic as he explains that given how clear it is you’ve gone beyond dangerously teetering on the edge of insanity and have clearly crossed it some time ago.

Do you agree? There is no answer from you. Well, as we all care so much about you, certain measures have been taken. Diose Valey, all your assets will be seized, put under your mother’s name.

Some more is said, a proper explanation is given in order to give viewers some context and explain what all of this means, but you stopped listening the second you understood you now have… Nothing. Your home, your business, your money. Without people to trust that was all you had to rely on, your only way of protecting yourself, but now you’ve got nothing. 

Your credibility is shattered. The alliances you’ve made on both sides, you fear, are certainly ruined now. All the information, connections, and secrets you’ve gathered throughout the years and could be used against them now are unusable. The Capitol has shown you the house always wins.

Everything is over and you’re dragged away. You’d scream, but it’s pointless. You’ve come to terms of what’s coming next. Because, there is nothing else they could do to you. Death, that’s it. You’ve been shamed and humiliated, tortured one last time before they get rid of you for good.

YOUNG & BEAUTIFUL — will you still love me when i’m no longer young and beautiful? will you still love me when i got nothing but my aching soul?

1:51 AM

You didn’t notice you were put to sleep again. You don’t understand why you’re still breathing, nor why you’re naked and tied to a table face down. Everything is pitch black until you manage to spot a very faint and orange light near you. You can’t make up what it is, not until it’s almost dangerously close to your face you can feel the heat whatever that thing is irradiates. 

ЯOTIAЯT

You’re so out of it. But then, you remember seeing those things before. Your father owned a customized branding iron he used to mark all of your horses with the Valey family logo. Everything clicks into place and you start screaming again just as more people come into the room, one of them holding you down as the tool is pressed against the back of your right shoulder. It’s past 2 am by that point.

All you remember is the smell of burnt flesh  before you pass out due to the pain.

4:29 AM

Beaten. Bloodied. The wound cauterized itself and that’s enough for them to be done with you. They’ve done a number to your face, and body. You can feel it in the soreness affecting you from head to tie, but you’re not concerned with that. It’s your shoulders that is killing you. You can still smell the burn flesh as well as the dried blood stuck to your skin all mixed in with the putrid scent of the garbage all around you. You don’t know what time it is, whether if the darkness you see is due to the time or being inside a garbage bin. 

You attempt to get out, but the pain on your shoulder is unbearable. It renders you unable to move enough to be able to do much. And when you attempt to use your hands, you notice them going numb, refusing to follow your orders.

Maybe you ought to stay there. Maybe now that they’ve taken your money and the allure that drove people to you, you’re finally right where you belong.

[mermaid886]

In which a heavily pregnant Lily divorces James and leans on Severus, the two work through their problems as adults to come together as one. ❤️

Loving Lily: A Snily Story

Severus Snape was devastated when Lily Evans ended their friendship during their fifth year at Hogwarts.

Severus Snape continued to watch Lily from afar.

He felt the knife turn in his heart when he learned of her relationship with James Potter.

Lily was seeking a way to hide from her true feelings, her feelings that she dared not acknowledge, her feelings that had nothing to do with James.

James was handsome, athletic, wealthy, and popular.

Everyone convinced her that it must be true love.

At graduation, it seemed that Severus and Lily had both immersed themselves in the false truths they were so desperate to believe.

Lily committed herself to James.

Severus committed himself to acting as the Dark Lord’s most trusted agent and he buried himself in his master’s ideals.

At least, he tried.

As he stood one evening, in the aftermath of a Death Eater raid, Severus listened to Voldemort while he made a grand speech, praising his followers’ success and enveloping them in his vision of a world free from all mudbloods and muggles.

As Voldemort spoke, Severus’s eyes were drawn away to a vibrant mass of red hair that peeked out from some unfortunate woman who lay lifeless behind the ruined tavern's wooden counter.

Severus’s stomach clenched in sympathy for the slain and his heart skipped a beat as he realized one undeniable truth.

All mudbloods and muggles……

All.

Severus understood then what he had been too blind to see when he had sworn his allegiance to the Dark Lord’s cause.

If Severus continued on his path, if Voldemort wasn’t defeated, then one day…...one day that mass of red hair would belong to Lily.

—————————————————————

It was easy for Severus to betray Voldemort in favor of protecting the one he loved.

He discreetly returned to his old school grounds and presented himself to Dumbledore, which surprisingly, resulted in multiple job offers.

“Your time will be filled, Severus.” Dumbledore nodded at the young man in front of him, “Slughorn is retiring….I’ll need you to serve as the new potions Professor and also as my informant. Do you think that you’re up to the task?”

“.......Surely I’m too young to be a staff member, sir?” Severus blinked incredulously.

“Such decisions remain in the headmaster’s hands, Severus. Slughorn told me he's never seen a student with such a natural aptitude for potions such as yourself.” Dumbledore asked as he looked over his spectacles and asked once more, “Besides, will Tom not be thrilled to have one of his men employed here?.........What do you say?”

Severus’s black eyes flooded with determination as he gazed at the headmaster.

If it meant protecting Lily Evans, there was no task that Severus Snape was not up to.

—————————————————————

The next months passed by in a hazy blur.

Severus was trying to maintain his positions with both Dumbledore and Voldemort while he gradually learned how to be an efficient teacher.

It was a show of his great cunning that Voldemort never discovered he was secretly working for Dumbledore.

The look that Severus wore on his face for the entire week after he found out that Lily and James had married left Dumbledore certain that he would never have to doubt Severus’s loyalty.

Dumbledore was no fool.

Severus Snape belonged to neither him nor Voldemort.

Severus Snape belonged to Lily Evans and that kind of devotion was as stable and as unchanging as eternity itself.

—————————————————————-

“We’re eagerly trying to contact the Longbottoms and get them to safety. However, I need your help with the rest of the matter, Severus.” Dumbledore said to his spy as the two men spoke in his office late one evening, “I’ve been advised there are two magical children slated to arrive in the time frame that the prophecy referenced.”

“How can I assist, sir?” Severus asked in a low whisper, barely moving his lips.

Dumbledore tried not to let his eyes shine as he opened his mouth to speak.

He had spent days thinking the matter over and he saw no better approach to the issue.

“I’ve had scouts searching for safe houses, but I’m confident that there’s not a more secure location for the expectant mothers than Hogwarts. I need you to collect Lily Potter and bring her here.” Dumbledore nodded.

Severus’s jaw dropped, “L…...Lily Potter, sir?”

“Yes, Severus.” Dumbledore nodded, “I’ll provide you with the Potters’ address and don’t worry, I’ll let her know to expect you.”

Severus felt like he had been patted on the head and slapped in the face.

He was going to see Lily again!

But she was……she was…...with child?

James’s child…..

“What about…….?” Severus began. He was grateful when Dumbledore finished his thought, “James Potter will not be with her. Only Lily, Severus.”

Severus was curious to learn more about the situation, but Dumbledore’s clarification of his assignment felt like a breath of fresh air.

Only Lily, Severus.

Only Lily.

—————————————————————

Three days later, Severus found himself walking up to the brick house that Dumbledore had instructed him to visit.

He looked up at the building with his brow furrowed before he walked up the front steps and stood on the stoop.

As he lifted a hand to knock on the door, he scowled as he heard something from inside.

It was a sound that Severus had encountered often as a boy, shouting, arguing voices battling angrily with each other.

Severus rapped sharply on the wood in an effort to drown out that horrible noise.

Silence followed, then footsteps came stomping towards the door and at last, it swung open.

Severus’s black eyes widened as he found himself face to face with Lily.

Once the pleasant surprise wore off, his heart soared into his throat before it plummeted into the soles of his feet.

Lily was just as beautiful as he remembered, her hair full and rich, her kind eyes a deep green, her face so lovely and……

Red.

The reddened skin around her blood-shot, wet eyes bothered Severus even more than her rounded belly as she quickly tried to wipe away her tears. She flashed him a nervous smile, as she greeted him politely, “Hello, Sev!.....It’s been a while!”

Lily spoke as if the events of the past had never happened between them and he answered her in a similar manner.

“Hello, Lily…...Yes, it certainly has.” Severus replied with a frown. Behind her, from inside the house, he heard something slam and she wiped away more tears as Severus broke the silence and went on, I’m here to escort you to Hogwarts. Dumbledore mentioned that he would tell you I was coming?”

Lily laid a hand on the side of her belly and Severus followed the motion as she nodded and smiled, “Right, let me just get my things. Wait here a moment…..”

Lily carelessly left the front door open as she turned and hurried away.

Severus loitered on the porch while he blinked after her with a scowl.

Severus could be a rather nosy person by nature, and he was more than intrigued to find out the circumstances behind why James wasn’t coming with Lily and why the face of his happily married, pregnant friend was drenched in tears.

Severus looked into the house from the open doorway, but he dared not enter, wanting to respect Lily’s wishes.

That romantic notion was abandoned when he heard a shriek ring out from the house’s interior, followed by a thud.

Severus would have recognized James Potter’s voice anywhere as he heard him shout, “LILY!”

Severus was off of the front stoop and over the threshold so quickly it was almost unnatural.

He dashed through the darkened, vacant living area and towards the only light he could see, shining from the back of the house.

As he passed by, he couldn’t help but notice the stacks and stacks of packed boxes that sat around the room and littered the staircase to his left.

Severus came bursting into what appeared to be James and Lily’s kitchen in a swirling torrent of his black robes flying and in an instant, his wand was in his hand.

Severus saw Lily lying on the tile floor, unconscious, as James crouched over her.

His black eyes narrowed as a horrible scowl clouded his face.

“You’re a monster, Potter! A monster!” Severus shouted as he accusingly stretched his wand out towards James.

As James hovered worriedly over Lily, he looked up at Severus and raised his hands defensively, “I…...I didn’t touch her! She slipped….she’s fallen! I didn’t touch her!”

Severus stared at his old nemesis with the utmost loathing as Lily started to stir.

The only thing that kept James Potter alive in that moment was Lily and her rounded abdomen.

A groan issued from Lily’s throat as her eyelids fluttered and Severus stepped closer while James bent over the redhead and cried, “Lily! Lilyflower! Can you hear me? Can you hear me?!?!”

Severus tried not to vomit when he heard James use that disgusting pet name but he murmured, “Don’t shout at her, Potter. You’re only going to startle her more.”

“Yeah…...I can hear you…..James.” Lily groaned again as she opened her eyes and slowly sat up.

James frowned in worry and laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder as Severus boldly approached and knelt down a very short distance away.

Lily put a hand to her head while Severus and James watched her tensely.

“Lily….” Severus began but Lily’s hand trembled slightly and she swallowed thickly.

“It’s alright.” She whispered, “I fell…...it was my fault. It was an accident.”

“Are you having any pain?” James asked anxiously, “Are you alright?”

Severus hissed at James through grit teeth, “No, she’s not alright, Potter! Does she look alright to you, you-“

“-I’m fine!” Lily snapped with a ferocity that surprised them both.

James and Severus both reached out to help her as she pulled herself to her feet, but Lily ignored them and used the kitchen cabinets for support instead.

She turned away from James and looked at Severus as she said, “Sorry, my trunk’s there, behind the table…….I’m ready to go now.”

“You need to get to a healer!” James shouted, “Let me take you!”

“It’s none of your business what I do, James!” Lily shouted back as Severus glided over to the table and retrieved her trunk.

Severus ignored James’s sneering face as he looked down at Lily while she begged him, “Please, Severus, get me out of here.”

“Don’t worry, Potter.” Severus sneered as he let Lily clutch onto him so they could apparate, “I’ll have Madam Pomfrey tend her immediately as soon as we arrive.”

Severus had to actively suppress the triumphant grin that threatened to break out across his face when he saw the defeat in James Potter’s eyes.

————————————————————

Lily was quiet while Severus helped her up to the hospital wing of Hogwarts.

He sat quietly at Lily’s side while Madam Pomfrey meticulously examined her.

“Do you remember how long you were out?” Madam Pomfrey asked Lily while she shined a bright light in her face.

“I…..no, a few seconds maybe?” Lily stammered.

Severus scowled at the reflexive way that Lily’s hands slowly came up to her face as she tried to block out the light’s unwelcome assault.

“She was unconscious for a moment or two.” Severus honestly answered Hogwarts’ healer.

“Probably nothing more than a mild concussion, then.” Madam Pomfrey asserted once she finished her exam, “The child seems fine.”

The child.

Severus’s black eyes flickered to Lily’s belly as Madam Pomfrey helped her patient stand from the examination table.

Severus hurried over and let Lily lean on him as Madam Pomfrey instructed, “A bit of rest should right her. Monitor her closely, though. When she wakes in the morning, make sure she has her wits about her.”

“Of course.” Severus nodded.

Careful to support Lily, he helped her from the hospital wing all the way to his personal chambers.

“You don’t have to have me here……” Lily said groggily while Severus helped her sit down on the sofa.

“I can watch over you more easily if I have you nearby.” Severus said very matter-of-factly as he thoughtfully placed a pillow behind Lily’s head, “Give me just a moment…..”

Lily’s eyes started to close as Severus hurried away.

Severus hadn’t anticipated having Lily as a guest in his own rooms, but when Madam Pomfrey stated she needed to be watched, he saw no better place for her.

Severus walked into his bedroom and quickly changed his bedsheets, fluffed the pillows and threw on a clean duvet before he walked back to the sofa.

When he saw Lily slumped over uncomfortably, sleeping with her neck crooked, he frowned.

He didn't wish to disturb her or injure her further, and so, he was extremely gentle as he gathered her from the sofa, lifted her into his arms, and carried her down the hallway.

Severus laid Lily down on his bed and cocooned her in the sheets as tenderly as if she were made of glass.

He pulled the duvet up to her chest, but he blinked in surprise when she grabbed his hand and cracked her eyes open, “......Thank you….Sev.”

“You don’t need to thank me, Lily.” Severus replied.

He knew Lily was in no state to talk of such matters, but in that moment, he couldn’t resist saying to her, “I do hope that someday you’ll realize…. I truly am sorry…….for what I did, for what happened.”

“I’m sorry for what I did, too.” Lily said with a bitter smile as her eyes opened more and she gazed up at Severus.

Severus furrowed his brow and looked down at her as he replied, “.....What are you talking about? You haven’t done anything. It’s important for you to rest….Close your eyes and sleep.”

“I abandoned you when I should have stood by you.” Lily said as she squeezed Severus’s hand tightly and more tears welled in her green eyes.

The raw emotion in Lily’s voice shook Severus down to his core and his mouth fell open as he listened to her speak, “I should have…….been there…..more, for you. I should have…...I should have……”

Severus frowned as Lily broke off with a loud cry and placed her hands over her face while great, heaving sobs wracked through her body.

“Oh, Lily……” Severus rumbled in his low voice.

She reached for him and he didn’t dare turn her away.

He sat down on the side of the bed and let her cling to him while she wept.

He even reached out and placed a comforting hand on her back.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could have promised that he felt her lean into him.

“There’s no need to apologize, Lily.” Severus whispered, “The past can’t be changed…I’m not angry with you…....Besides, you and James have a lot to look forward to.”

“James……” Lily whimpered. Severus was frightened that she was calling out for her lover until she sobbed again in a breath that wrenched itself from her chest, “......James and I are divorcing!”

Severus’s dark eyes widened when he heard that statement.

Suddenly, everything regarding the evening and Dumbledore’s instructions made much more sense.

In the silence that followed, Severus gently rocked Lily back and forth in his arms while she continued to cry.

He didn’t enjoy lying to her, but he certainly wasn’t sincere as he whispered, “Well…..I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“It’s my fault…..” Lily whined quietly, “I….I made the wrong choice.”

Severus’s heart raced as she laid her cheek against his chest and listened to his heartbeat for a moment before she took a deep breath and sighed, “It should have been you, Sev. It should have been you……”

When Severus heard Lily’s words, he felt as though he would rise from that bed, sail through the sky, and collide directly into the sun that would rise in a few hours.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33703366/chapters/83766274

[thespookyintrovert]

When beauty calls

1,294 words ● Canonical, post S11 ● Just a short little scene ● Notes at the end ● tagging @today-in-fic

I hope this makes you smile and sigh as you read, just as it made me smile and sigh as I was writing it. I don’t pronounce it to be good, but I’m happy I wrote it. 

____

There is an exalted kind of beauty. It’s the beauty of starry nights, whether painted by divine hands or composed of swirling strokes on canvas. It’s the beauty of woodnotes, a natural symphony which exists only for the attentive ear; and the beauty found in a concert hall, made up of haunting notes rolling into a crescendo.

Then there is understated Beauty. It seldom reveals itself, choosing instead to remain enshrouded in banality, brushing only against those who dare call it by name. That diaphanous Beauty belongs only to the commonplace, weaving itself with ease into the everyday movements that make up the course of a lifetime. It is there, if only one knows where to look.

“Mulder, this is ridiculous.”

Ah, if couches were ever rewarded for being the silent witnesses to so many of these domestic disputes. If only the reliability of worn leather was ever a consideration to couples such as this, mindlessly counting on its strength to hold up their bodies and their words. But alas, an ode to furniture was the farthest thing from Dana Scully’s mind this chilly night.

She was focused on one thing with steady intensity, and that was ending a stalemate that had been going on for months. Ever since they had discovered the tiny human currently dancing around her womb was a girl, she hadn’t known a moment’s peace. It should have been simple enough to choose a mutually satisfactory name, but it turned out to be a matter in which they both had strong opinions. Opposing ones. With a sigh, she contemplated how the world kept turning and turning and some things never changed.

“Nag on me all you want, Scully, I’m not backing down.” Mulder’s smile was impish, his tug on her toe fond. She remained, however, unmoved. The bulging stomach between them, currently obscuring her own feet from view, was but one reminder that they had four weeks left to come to an agreement. Aching back, swollen ankles and perpetual indigestion added to the effect of a generally less than sunny disposition. She was no longer in her thirties, and every year of her 54 was felt this pregnancy.

Still, her fingertips traced adoring circles around her belly button, every kick to the ribs met with a grunt and a smile. Yet she kept it to herself, leveling on Mulder the stern gaze he had claimed from her as his own over twenty years ago. She did not want to let him do away with the argument this time. 

“Do you know why it was so easy last time?” He gave her a mock skeptical glance before turning back to his Sasquatch documentary, but it didn’t deter her in the slightest. “Because I picked the name, and you couldn’t argue with me about it.”

He actually laughed a little. “Scully, I’ll go out on a limb here and say that given our family histories, the chances of William having a different name were slim to none.”

She held back a longing sigh and proceeded to ignore him. “My point stands.”

A quiet snort, followed by the gentle clasp of his fingers on her swollen foot. “No, it doesn’t.”

She felt less inclined to argue as she savored the feeling of his fingers massaging the aches away, but still refused to surrender the attempt. “Don’t think you’ll distract me from this. Mulder, I’ve already proposed a perfectly reasonable solution: I get the first name, you get the second name; everybody’s happy.”

His look was wry. “Or I get the first name and you get the second name. Admit it, Scully, the second name only exists on paper, no one will even know it’s there.”

Her head fell back against the couch, for a moment fancying herself a long-suffering saint singing her frustration to the heavens. If only age had softened Mulder’s stubborn edge as it had softened the angles on his face; it was unfair, wrestling with the spitting image of his thirty-year-old self when she wasn’t even sure she’d recognize herself from twenty years ago. “Sure. Fine,” she said, head still stretched back, “you can tell your daughter whose fault it is that she doesn’t get a name until her 18th birthday. Assuming we both live to see it.” The last part was a dry murmur, meant only for God.

“Mhmm.” She felt his lips on her stomach, then, curving around its roundness with the stretch of a smile. Her gaze didn’t acknowledge him, but one of her hands landed amidst the softness of his hair, sweeping off any residual harshness with gentle strokes. This was their rhythm — the never-ending cycle of verbal spars that was as comfortable as it was challenging. No matter which one came out on top, in the end they knew their places to be side by side; with every smile and every touch the slate was once again wiped clean, no scorecards kept. Beneath the frustration, her whole being still hummed to this tune that was all their own.

And thus came Beauty, summoned by the unwitting siren call of a heart that chose love.

Finally lowering her eyes, the scene before Scully seemed to stretch until it wrapped around her entire world. She saw Mulder, face on her belly, alternating between nuzzling with his nose and sending whispers to the baby in a hushed baritone; they were not meant for her, but she basked in the vibrations of his voice, watching every crinkle on that beloved face as it shifted and pressed words into her skin. She saw her hand in his hair, noticed how it felt the same between her fingers as it did twenty years before. She saw past and future entwined around her finger in gold, glittering as it ran between strands tinged with grey. 

She drank in every detail as if at any moment she might be called upon to paint it from memory. Never before had that corner of the world seen such loving gaze; never before had the night breeze found fingers gentler than its own, or the cackling fire eyes that could match it in warmth. They were all silent witnesses to the most mundane of miracles; they, who had beheld for roughly two thousand years these rippling echoes of another miracle, one even more singular in its lowliness.

She knew they’d be arguing about this again tomorrow. She also knew they’d be lying like this again tomorrow, after all had been said and done, chasing away small everyday annoyances on the leather couch. Mulder raised his head to look at her, hooded eyes smiling, and her own lips melted into a soft curve. At the end of the day, their life together was all the more dear for being made of all these little contradictions, the seams an ever-present reminder that they were two individuals bound together by choice as much as fate.  

Perhaps it had taken them over twenty years to find their place in the world, to craft a life dictated by will instead of circumstance. And perhaps many, upon looking in through any window of the little house, would have concluded that the life they chose didn’t amount to much. But as blue met grey over the belly that protected this second chance they never thought they’d get, they both knew it amounted to everything.

Beauty left a little piece of itself in that unremarkable little house, nestling inside two hearts determined to see it in the little things, to call it by name, to touch it with the hands of love. It swept into the creaky floors and through the drafty rooms, kissed each smiling face on the mantle — each of them precious, so many gone. It blessed the little white crib and the old rag doll lying expectantly upon it.

______

Notes: 

1. I chose not to address the whole William mess because a. CC doesn’t deserve my efforts and b. this was really not supposed to be complicated. 

2. Let me know if you caught the little easter eggs sprinkled in there!

[nekojitachan]

Okay, so, the urge to write this hit me (maybe in part because of the new fic). Though I’ve been thinking of it off and on since I wrote it... two or three years ago? I finally got back to it. Raven!Andrew soulmate fic with Raven!Neil (Nathaniel). First part can be found here (I managed to find it).

Uhm, warnings for the Nest (vaguely) and for threats of non-con (that are not carried out). Mention of Nathan, too.

******

Andrew felt a manic, medicated smile spread across his face when Aaron chose not to sit next to him in the Intro to Biology class they’d both signed up for; he was tempted to throw a pen at his twin’s head before he slumped down in his seat and barely paid any attention to what was a blow-off class for him. As soon as the bell rang, he was out the door and waited in the hallway for Aaron to come out. When his brother cautiously stepped outside, he grabbed onto Aaron’s left arm and dragged him aside.

“What, no brotherly love today?” Andrew asked with a bright (false) grin. “Do I stink? I swear I showered after morning practice.” The other students gave them a wide berth, especially when they caught sight of Andrew’s black and red track jacket that all the Ravens had to wear outside of the Nest.

Aaron cursed beneath his breath as he shook his head, then switched to German. “Look, it’s for the best, okay? Just leave me alone.”

“Why?” Andrew’s eyes narrowed as he thought about Riko. “Did someone say something to you?”

Aaron ran his right hand through his hair, which was shaggier than Andrew’s (than his ‘nice’, Raven-styled haircut). “Do any of the other students talk to you? Sit next to you?” When Andrew scoffed at that, Aaron scowled. “It’s not because you’re an asshole, but because everyone here leaves the Ravens alone, it’s like you’re part of some special clique and they don’t like anyone messing with the status quo even if they’re a Raven’s brother. So just… call me or something, maybe we’ll get together on the weekends someplace away from campus, but I can’t chance losing this scholarship. I’m sorry.” Aaron gave him a casual wave as he walked away.

Andrew stood there for a minute as bitterness filled him at how easily Aaron cast him aside, focused on himself as always. It didn’t matter that Andrew had crossed the country for him, had risked his own life to get rid of Tilda for him, had joined the Ravens… well, partially for him.

The asshole hadn’t even managed to get hold of any alcohol for him yet.

He was late to his next class, an American History one, but the professor didn’t bat an eye at his arrival even though she’d chewed out another student last week for doing the same thing. Andrew barely paid attention to what was being said again, confident that he’d pass everything like he always did.

Once the class was over, it was time to head back to the Nest, what joy. He ran into Ben on his way to the stadium and basically ignored his ‘partner’ the entire time. Ben was long used to it by then, and appeared happy when they came across other Ravens, ones who would actually talk to the sophomore.

They spent time before afternoon practice working on their class assignments, which never took long for Andrew to complete. He spent the rest of the break reading through the ridiculously long email Nicky had sent him (why did his cousin bother now that he was back in Germany) and glancing through the stats on the Northeastern Huskies, the team the Ravens were to play that Friday. The Huskies weren’t in the overall top three for the NCAA Division I, but they were for the Ravens’ region so it was considered an important game.

Well, by everyone but Andrew.

Practice was the usual ordeal, was Riko acting as if he was the boss of everyone as he barked out drills and plays, as he expected to be thrown the ball as if he was the only striker out on court. It was Tetsuji watching everything with his emotionless, beady eyes as if he was a starving vulture, quick to lash out with his cane at the slightest mistake. It was Nathaniel acting as if Andrew didn’t exist at all.

Andrew was so tempted to say to hell with them all and head off campus to find the nearest liquor store, but he wouldn’t risk Nathaniel showing up the next day beaten again, or Aaron losing his scholarship.

(He didn’t care about Riko or Tetsuji fucking with him, was more than strong enough to handle whatever they threw at him, but refused to let others be punished in his place.)

Instead, he remained in the goal and blocked almost all of Riko’s shots on it just to annoy the asshole.

(He thought he saw Nathaniel smile once when Riko stalked off in anger, but the expression was gone a moment later.)

The rest of the week was spent with Tetsuji and Riko pushing the Ravens to be perfect (or damn near it) by Friday’s game, to memorize the Huskies’ stats and previous games. Considering that it was only the second game of the season, Andrew took to glaring at the soul mark hidden beneath his left armband; he didn’t believe in regret, not exactly… but he had some rather negative thoughts over Riko and Kevin bringing Nathaniel with them when then came to recruit Andrew.

The campus was festooned with black and red (remove the latter and it would fit Andrew’s mood perfectly), with students wearing Ravens jerseys. Most wore Riko’s and Kevin’s, but Andrew rolled his eyes when he saw Aaron sport his; the moron gave him a brief wave and a nod in acknowledgement, then went to sit with a group of what appeared to be new friends.

How nice for him.

Andrew felt his lips twitch then tug back into a mirthless grin when the loose sleeves of the black and red jersey that Aaron was wearing revealed that the black mark on Aaron’s left forearm was still a shapeless blob, that his twin hadn’t found his soulmate yet. Ah, so only Andrew had been inflicted with that particular curse as of yet, though Aaron was like Nicky and actually looked forward to finding his ‘other half’.

The fool.

Soon enough it was time to return to the Nest, to suffer through yet another recap of the Huskies’ players and probable game strategy (which he’d long ago memorized) before a quick lunch and then ordered to get ready for the game. Andrew noticed that Nathaniel wasn’t with the team for once, and managed to hold on to his curiosity until he noticed a man who appeared similar to the young backliner (his soulmate) stride along the outer ring; he was dressed in an expensive suit which was tailored to fit a muscular build, his dark red hair stylishly cut short (and lacking any type of curl), his eyes the same arresting pale blue as Nathaniel’s. Yet they were utterly lacking of emotion when they glanced out at court… and seemed to linger in Andrew’s direction for a few seconds.

Andrew nudged Ben’s left foot. “Who was that?”

Ben appeared stunned that he’d been asked a question. “Eh? Who?” He glanced in the direction Andrew nodded and frowned. “Oh, that’s Nate’s dad, he shows up now and then, usually on a big game day. Comes before the game starts and always leaves right after.” His frown deepened as he gazed at his racquet. “I don’t think they get along well, Nate’s always withdrawn after his visits and….”

Andrew did some frowning of his own. “And?”

Ben jumped a little at his question and pitched his voice lower. “I wouldn’t say anything, but you’re his soulmate. You’ve seen his scars.” Andrew’s jaw clenched at that statement. “Sometimes after his dad visits, he has a new one.” Ben pointedly looked away after that.

It took a minute or two for Andrew to get the urge to go after the man and bash his head in with his racquet under control (the fact that the abusive bastard had been followed by obvious bodyguards helped just the tiniest bit).

(It also raised the question of who the hell was Nathaniel’s father, what was he doing at Castle Evermore, and why Tetsuji allowed him to abuse one of his most talented players?)

Andrew was distracted from thoughts of violence by Tetsuji ordering the Ravens to warm up and participate in drills as Evermore slowly filled up with eager fans. That wasn’t entirely true as he did feel inclined to smash his racquet into one preening Riko Moriyama, busy mugging for the cameras and fans, and yet again wondered just how incompetent the doctor was who put him on his ‘lovely’ meds.

Maybe Aaron could get a nice lawsuit out of him eventually ‘snapping’ when the inanity of it all finally drove him to bash everyone’s heads in.

A boy with a heavy stick, a ton of issues and forever increasing anger management problems could dream, couldn’t he?

He was actually grateful for the damn game starting, just because it meant that soon it would be over. Andrew was slated to guard the goal in the second half, and so got to sit bored on the bench while a bunch of idiots ran around on the court.

At least, until a Huskie sub striker (#17, Donaldson, junior) seemed to grow annoyed at Moreau blocking him from the Ravens’ goal and swung his racquet into the backliner’s side, right below where the protective padding ended. Part of Andrew nodded in approval of the nasty and effective blow while another was annoyed that he wasn’t the one to land it.

Oh, and that it delayed the game’s end while Moreau was checked and carried off the court.

It was clear that the Huskies hoped to take advantage of the Ravens losing their number one backliner to an injury, but the team was composed of some of the best Exy players in the division. Hebig and Federov managed to do a decent job of defense in Moreau’s place, so Andrew didn’t have to work too hard once he was out in the goal; he only let a couple shots through, with the final score being 12-7.

The stadium erupted into cacophony when the final buzzer rang out, with the Ravens smug over their victory and the Huskies disgruntled. Andrew didn’t give a damn, he merely wanted to shower then sleep, done with Exy for the time being.

Riko and Kevin were expected to do their preening for the camera bullshit, but Andrew noticed how an excited Federov went up to Riko before the asshole left and talked to him, a huge leer spreading across his face when Riko nodded.

Something about that expression made Andrew’s skin crawl (it wasn’t the sweat drying on it or his drenched uniform); it sunk in when he was in the shower scrubbing clean.

Federov’s expression resembled Drake’s when he’d come into Andrew’s room at night.

By the time he rinsed the soap away, dried off and put on clothes, Federov was nowhere to be found. Andrew didn’t see any of the male Ravens missing (other than Riko, Kevin and Moreau), so that left the women and… and Nathaniel.

Shit, Nathaniel, whom Federov would stare at from time to time. Whom Federov would try to talk to, but Moreau always interrupted him and pulled his partner away. Andrew thought it was just Moreau being a dick, but now….

He broke into a run towards Nathaniel’s room, and was grateful for once that there weren’t any locks on the doors in the Nest as he threw the door open.

Federov had a struggling Nathaniel pinned to the bed, hand raised to hit him (hit him again, judging from Nathaniel’s bruised face and bleeding lip). The bastard looked up in time for Andrew to punch him on the cheek, which knocked him aside, and yelped in pain as he was hauled off the bed and thrown to the floor, where his ribs were stomped on twice. Hard.

“Stah- ah! Stahhp,” the bastard screeched as Andrew kicked him once more for good measure, only to find himself pulled off balance by Nathaniel.

“Stop it,” Nathaniel said, his voice weak and a bit slurred from the split lip. “You’ll get in trouble.”

“Like I give a shit.” Yet Andrew found himself unable to look away from his battered soulmate, from the hopelessness in Nathaniel’s eyes and the blood on his face; while he was distracted, Federov scurried out of the room like a four-legged crab and slammed the door shut behind him. Andrew clicked his tongue at the thought of having to track down the bastard to slit his throat before he returned his attention back to Nathaniel. “Why’d you stop me?”

“Because Riko would be mad,” Nathaniel said as he slumped back on the bed. “It’ll just make things worse.”

“Worse than someone raping you?” Nathaniel flinched at that but didn’t say anything, just closed his eyes and huddled into a small ball, his black sweatshirt torn to reveal some of the awful scars on the upper right part of his chest, including one which looked like an iron burn on his shoulder.

Andrew felt something turbulent scour through his chest at the sight, felt it rail against the drug in his blood, and spun around on his left heel then stalked into the small bathroom attached to the room where he wet a couple washcloths with cold water and grabbed a towel. When he returned to the bedroom, Nathaniel watched him with a wary gaze as he approached the bed.

“For your face,” he said as he held out the washcloths. “You might want to do something about the swelling.”

Nathaniel was still for a few seconds before he uncoiled enough to accept them. “Jean will-“ He winced when he must have realized that his partner was stuck for the night in the medical department.

“Will what?” Andrew prodded as he smiled, jealousy and anger straining at the chemical chains the damn drug forced upon his impulses. “What’s he gonna do, hmm?”

“Yeah.” Nathaniel wrapped his arms around himself and appeared younger than seventeen years old. “There’s… there’s icepacks in the minifridge.”

Andrew glanced around and found the fridge on the other side of the room, by what he assumed was Moreau’s desk; when he opened it, he found it stocked with a couple bottles of water and several icepacks. Huh, seemed they were prepared for a few booboos, how interesting.

He went back to the bathroom and grabbed a couple hand towels to wrap the icepacks in, and returned to the room to find Nathaniel gingerly wiping the blood from his face. Once it was cleaned up, he handed over the icepacks and got up to grab the large sweatshirt (Moreau’s) which was draped over the back of the nearby chair and threw it on Nathaniel’s bed. “I’m spending the night here.”

Nathaniel’s eyes (well, the right one, the left was swelling shut) widened at that. “I’m fine! You can-“

“I’m not leaving in case the asshole decides to come back,” Andrew stated as he dropped down on Moreau’s bed. “You willing to be smacked around some more?”

That earned him a virulent glare. “You’re the asshole. And how do I know you’re not gonna… gonna take his place, huh?” For all of Nathaniel’s harsh words and nasty looks, his slender fingers plucked at the sweatshirt he’d draped over himself as if it was a safety blanket.

Someone didn’t have a lot of faith in him, did they? Andrew didn’t blame his soulmate, not with everything he learned about the Nest with each passing day. “Because I’m not like anyone you’ve met before,” he said as he kicked off his sneakers and stretched on top of the duvet.

Nathaniel scoffed loud enough that his throat had to ache. “They all say things like that,” he mumbled as he pulled on the sweatshirt, his gaze downcast. “That they’re special, that they’ll treat you nice, that it’ll be wonderful.” He rocked back and forth once the shirt was on, his eyes unfocused as if he was remembering something and the words sounding rote as if they were someone else’s. “It’s nothing but lies.”

Andrew remembered Nathaniel’s father, the man with the emotionless eyes, and wondered if Nathaniel’s parents were soulmates as well. He wondered if they were one of the pairs who served as cautionary tales, as reminders that not all soulmates had happy endings.

He wondered if that’s what Nathaniel had been talking about when he accused Andrew of being just like ‘him’ when Andrew had let his frustration slip, back in the breakroom.

(Why Nathaniel was so comfortable with a man who wasn’t his soulmate.)

Andrew once again struggled with his drug-addled emotions, with the urge to break things, to stomp out of the small, black-walled room and the Nest and Edgar Allan, to carve off the damn soul mark from his arm and… and the thought of leaving Nathaniel defenseless stopped him cold. Instead, he clicked his tongue and rolled over onto his side until he faced the wall. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

Nathaniel muttered something in Japanese, but got up a few minutes later to go into the bathroom, and several minutes after that shuffled back onto his bed and turned off the light. Andrew lay on the bed and finally relaxed when he heard his soulmate’s breathing slow about half an hour later.

He didn’t get much sleep that night, not when he waited for Riko or Federov to break into the room to take Nathaniel from him.

Nathaniel gave him an incredulous look in the morning when all he did was climb off Moreau’s bed, go into the bathroom to take a piss and then leave, desperate for coffee and his medication (not necessarily in that order). He stopped by his room first to take a pill and was on his way to one of the break rooms for caffeine when he had the dubious joy of running into a smiling Riko.

Warning bells went off immediately in his sleep-deprived head, because if Riko appeared happy about something? It rarely was good for anyone but Riko.

“Good morning,” Riko all but purred as he blocked Andrew moving down the hall.

“Not until I have my coffee,” Andrew muttered as he stared toward the break room, determined to walk past the asshole.

“Ah, not quite yet.” Unfortunately, Riko was nimble of foot and one hell of a determined asshole. “I want to talk to you about last night.” When all Andrew did was grunt in response, Riko’s left eye twitched and his smile slipped slightly. “You may be pleased to know that Jean has been declared fit to play in this Friday’s game, after a couple days of light practice. That’s good because Lev will need a few days to recover from your… disagreement last night.”

Andrew focused his attention on the manipulative asshole. “From me ‘disagreeing’ with him raping Nathaniel?”

Riko’s nose scrunched as if he’d heard something disagreeable. “You’re new to the team so you don’t understand how certain things work. And that’s how if someone does very well during a game? They get something nice as a reward.”

Rage flooded through Andrew, made his hands twitch to wrap around Riko’s throat at that ‘reward’ bit despite the latest pill; he only resisted as he thought about Aaron. “Nathaniel isn’t a ‘reward’,” he forced past teeth clenched tight.

The look bestowed upon him was one of immense pity. “There’s so much you don’t know, rookie, including how wrong you are about that.” When Andrew’s hands clenched into fists, Riko wisely took a step back. “But that’s not to say that he can’t be your reward, right? After all, he’s your soulmate,” Riko taunted.

“I don’t-“ About to spit on Riko’s offer, something in Andrew made him stop. “What do you mean?” Was this a way to keep Nathaniel safe? Out of Federov’s reach?

Riko’s smile took on a predatory edge. “I’ll admit, I was skeptical when Kevin claimed you were this amazing goalkeeper, but I’ve seen your ability.” Now the smile was wiped away by something resembling annoyance. “When you bother, that is. So here is what I’m proposing. You shut down the goal while you’re out on court during the game? Nathaniel is yours.”

Andrew was quiet as he thought about that, as he thought about his soulmate being safe. “I can’t always guarantee a complete shutdown, not against some teams.” When Riko opened his mouth to argue, he held up his hand. “Up to three goals, and only during the top three teams,” he bargained. It meant he’d have to push himself, would have to work for it (dammit)… but if it meant that Nathaniel would be safe….

He was such an idiot, wasn’t he? No matter how smart he thought he was, how he’d learned his lesson the hard way, here he was willing to bleed out for a pretty face and wide blue eyes.

(For someone who might be as fucked up as him.)

(For his other half.)

“Two goals,” Riko countered, “and Nathaniel is all yours, no one else is to touch him.” Then he laughed, the sound more cruel than amused. “Well, by a Raven at least.”

“He’s mine,” Andrew bit out as he stepped into Riko’s personal space.

There was a flash of fear in the asshole’s eyes before he flashed his usual wide grin and stepped back. “There’s pre-existing claims on our dear Nate, best get used to it.” Riko gave a mocking laugh as he walked away. “You’re so out of your league, Doe.”

Andrew brushed aside the reference to his previous life as he stared figurative daggers into the asshole’s back (oh for them to be real). Once Riko was out of sight, he headed to the break room for a much-deserved mug (or three) of coffee.

It was when he was on his second refill when he realized that he desperately needed answers, and that they most likely would only come from one of his least liked Ravens – Moreau.

*******

So now I’m trying to figure out - is the Perfect Court 1-10 or 1-9???? Obviously when I wrote this, I thought it was 1-9, but I’ve seen so much artwork since then that shows Andrew as ‘10′ so....

Probably back to the new fic unless another prompt/old fic snatches my attention. Though I’m sure I’ll get back to this at some point because ANDREW AND JEAN.

[prettywordsyouleft]

10 Dates | The Obstacle Date

Summary: Kim Junmyeon was the epitome of a perfect catch - he was successful, handsome and everything you currently didn’t want in a man. Yet after agreeing to his request to give him 10 dates in total to change your mind, you realised you might have been looking for someone like him all along.

Pairing: Kim Junmyeon x reader

Genre: dating au / romance

Warnings: none

Preview | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

The confessions in Italy only weighed heavier once back on home soil. Although you tried not to let it bother you, it did. There was so much more to Junmyeon than you had even expected. And whilst it was rather innocent and came from a genuine heart, you were uneasy.

Not by him, but by yourself.

Did you always have this habit of jumping into things too fast? You admitted to him that you were falling in love. Now over something small, you were backtracking as if those ardent confessions didn’t mean anything.

Because they did. You weren’t joking about feeling what you did for him.

However, Junmyeon was right. You should have waited. There were moments in the relationship thus far where you could tell he wanted to tell you that he had liked you for so long. You were certain it would have naturally come out at some point and in the right setting you probably would have been touched.

To some point, you were now, even if you couldn’t quite comprehend it.

“He’s liked you since forever?” Ayla asked after you explained to your best friends what had happened for you to return home and not gush a mile a minute about how fantastic everything was.

Nodding slowly, you looked to Kelsi, waiting for her to pipe up about how Junmyeon was still the dream man. Instead, she looked puzzled. “If he liked you so much, why didn’t he just do something about it?”

“It was when I dated Kyungsoo in high school so it kind of occurred around the same time.”

“Yeah but you just said he crossed paths with you more than recently. He’s an adult, he could have approached you now,” Ayla mentioned and Kelsi nodded along.

You sighed. “I know. But I can also understand why he didn’t. It’s rather odd though, don’t you think? Junmyeon and I are adults yet a lot of this relationship has been built on juvenile things like my plan to escape if necessary. Those first few dates were definitely a mess.”

“Yet, he still liked you,” Kelsi offered but Ayla scoffed.

“Yeah because he’s liked Y/N forever. He’s living out his teenage fantasy right now. How long will that last?”

“He’s genuine,” you grappled at a defence for the man. You didn’t appreciate hearing it from your friends like that, even if you had thought it all yourself. “He’s been nothing but a gentleman. He never forced me to do anything, and he never rushed a thing. It’s me who did. I think I’m the one with the problem. Each person I’ve dated, I would tell them I loved them and then something would come up. I don’t wait long enough to understand what is really love and what is just lust.”

“You live in a fairytale over romance, you always have,” Kelsi explained. “That’s why I thought if I sent a prince your way, maybe you’d snap out of that way of thinking. Kim Junmyeon is a great man and it’s uncanny that you both have a history that wasn’t clear from the start. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be your happily ever after if that’s what you want, Y/N.”

“The problem is, I don’t know what I want. I confessed to feelings that maybe were too premature and now it feels like a mess. Everything was going so smoothly.”

“And now you have an obstacle to face,” Ayla concluded, staring at you carefully. “It’s in every story, Y/N. It’s up to you whether you think you can get passed it or if you should give up before you try.”

Lowering your head, you didn’t know what the right answer was anymore.

You were thankful for your return to work. It kept you busy during the day and with a new team project, you were able to extend it into the nights.

Still, you knew you couldn’t avoid Junmyeon either.

“Hey,” you spoke into your phone as you leaned back in your work chair. It had been a few days since you last talked and you swallowed back the distance you felt pushing in between you.

“Hey.”

“How’s work?” you started, cringing silently at how ridiculous that was to ask. Spinning around in your chair, you clamped your eyes shut and tried to think of something better to say whilst Junmyeon gave a generic answer. “Ah, that’s good. Do you think we could meet up tonight?”

“Tonight would be good,” he agreed, sounding more earnest than usual. You wondered if he was anxious like you were too. “Should I cook?”

“No I’ll bring something on my way over,” you replied and after arranging a time, you hung up and stared at your office wall for an immeasurable moment.

It was hard to remain focused on your job for the rest of the day and you were grateful when it was an acceptable time to leave the office, stopping by one of your favourite sushi stores before taking an Uber over to Junmyeon’s home.

He answered the door with the smile you had missed seeing every day, and for a moment you grinned back, stepping inside his home and carried the food over to the table in his kitchen. Junmyeon helped you out of your coat and then lingered at your side.

“I don’t know what I am allowed to do or not do,” he admitted, his arms loosely outstretched towards you.

It was enough of an invitation for you to step into his waiting embrace, inhaling deeply to ground yourself. It felt as if it had been years since you were last here, not mere days. Feeling greedy, you didn’t step away at an acceptable time, remaining embedded into his side until you were certain you’d forget all about why you came over tonight.

Maybe that would be best. If you could just forget about all of it, you could go back to loving on Junmyeon in the way you had begun to. However, the hours you had spent overthinking everything required attention and you finally shifted back, your cheeks pink as you tried to gesture to the food.

“I got sushi since I know you like it.”

“Should we eat first then talk?”

You nodded with a smile. “Food should never have a part in any deep discussions.”

And so you both chatted. You heard about the recent shareholder’s meeting Junmyeon had attended for his company and praised him for securing another big deal. He was equally interested in your new project proposal and asked how things were with your friends. It was all amicable and yet, you could both feel the burning questions lying just underneath the shallow ones, waiting to be exposed.

Finally, once seated in the living room, it was time to do so. Junmyeon ran a hand through his hair agitatedly. “Are you wanting to break up with me?”

“I can’t say it didn’t cross my mind a few times,” you responded carefully, playing with the bracelet on your wrist. You smiled sadly. “But I also know it’s the last thing I want to do.”

“Really?”

“I wasn’t hurt by what you had to say, rather with myself,” you confessed, angling yourself on the couch you both sat upon so you were facing him. After tucking your legs up underneath yourself, you nodded softly. “I told you I was falling in love with you.”

“Does it feel different now?”

“Every relationship I’ve had, I’ve always wondered where I went wrong. I would try to meet people who I thought matched me well, and every time it would end with me feeling as if there was no growth, no excitement. None of the initial flutters remained and so I believed I grew complacent and fell out of love. After meeting you, I don’t think that was the case at all.”

Junmyeon merely waited for you to continue, his expression curious and encouraging.

“I told people I was in love with them before I could truly feel what love was. I did the same with you too. The difference is, with you, I know I can reach that feeling. Whatever I feel right now, I know it will only deepen and become more powerful the longer I’m with you.”

Junmyeon couldn’t stop the smile that spread over his lips. “Well, that’s a relief to hear. With how everything ended on our trip, I was convinced you’d be coming around to end things tonight with me.”

“That would be the easy way through navigating the obstacle that has arrived in our narrative, right?” you mentioned with a heavy breath. “We could both decide what we had was amazing, but too much of a dream to continue. Or we could pretend nothing came up for us and continue with the loving words we expressed. Worse even, we could opt for a clean slate and start afresh.”

“Are they our only options?”

You shook your head. “I choose option four.”

“What’s that?”

“We acknowledge the way we got together wasn’t always ideal. I for one had no hope for us and reacted rather juvenile towards you. Equally, the rush I began to feel carried me too strongly into a realm that I’m not ready to fully commit to. I listened to my friends at times when I should have been listening to myself or to you. I wasn’t fully present as myself and myself only until the fourth date.”

“The real us date,” he murmured with a fond smile and you nodded, scooting along the couch, closing the distance between you.

“Let’s just be real with each other. So you liked me for years. I don’t know why you didn’t do anything about it, life is mysterious like that. However, you can tell me. And I’ll listen. I’m not prepared to let go of what I discovered in Italy with you. We’ve come too far to have a clean slate, to pretend anything. I want to be real and raw with you. You told me to wait to tell you that I felt something for you, and so now, I want to do just that. I want to grow with you until the moment I can no longer keep those words in and they scream out from every part of me. We’ve only just begun this adventure together; it’d be a shame to stop journeying like this.”

Junmyeon cradled your face in his hands, nodding as he ran a thumb over your cheek gently. “I want to go with option four as well. How long do I have you here tonight? I want to discuss as much as I can with you.”

“Well,” you mentioned slowly, trying not to let yourself come across as too eager. “I was kind of hoping you’d have room for me in your bed and time in the morning to drop me off at work or a subway station?”

Leaning in and kissing you slowly, much like your very first kiss, Junmyeon then pulled back only enough to rest his forehead on yours. “I was kind of hoping that would be your answer too.”

_________________

Part 9

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[abizarreyodelingincident]

Ridiculous Optimization: The Art of Finding the Right Tool for the Wrong Situation

Chapter Four: Stronkman be stronk

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Link in need of an item must first ask Legend about it. No one could really agree on the rest of the saying, beyond concerns about hoarding and getting a thick skin to survive the possible onslaught.  

Strictly speaking, Wild did not need this item. His arsenal fulfilled all his exploration-itch, with the occasional pyromaniac impulse and even the companionship, though the slate's wolf-summoning function had been on the fritz roughly the same day he had met Twilight on two legs. He was however very much the type to be attracted to the shiny, and Legend had a lot of those.

Slowly, Wild reached for the golden bracelet he saw litering the ground at Legend's hip. It reminded him of Gerudo craftwomanship, the way they imbedded magical gems in the jewelry they sold. The ruby in this one glinted just a little more than it should when the sunlight hit its center. Magic, he knew.

“Soooo,” Wild began, rubbing a finger over the gem, “what's this for?”

"Power bracelet," Legend explained dismissively, "you can take it. I've got half a dozen lying around. For some reason, there's one or two of those in every region I've gone through. Pretty basic as far as items go."

Four, who had been polishing some of his arsenal, looked up and nodded.

"I have some of these too. They're good for clearing heavy obstacles. Didn't you have anything similar?"

Wild looked to the side, wondering if the way he used his Sheikah Slate counted. The little voice in his head that sounded like Twilight (and thus was often boring and ignored) sadly replied that no, it didn't count.

"Well, mostly, I just climb over them. Or use Stasis and some bombs."

Legend massaged his forehead, mumbling something about how that explained a lot. It certainly didn't for Wild, but who was counting?

“Take it if you want. I'm good. Already wearing a pair anyway.”

“Really? Sweet! Thanks, Legend!” And with that, he ran back to the rest of the camp, his new treasure firmly in hand.

Wild, however, did not put on the bracelet.

***

"For me, Cub?" Twilight asked, nonplussed by the sudden present. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the attention, but he was certain he hadn't forgotten an occasion and they had spent the last three days journeying through the wilderness.

Also, he was pretty sure that bracelet had been in Legend's bags an hour ago. Was this a prank? Was he the prank or the prankster?

Wild grinned. “Yeah, Legend lent it to me.” - Well, that eliminated the worst case scenario. - “But really, I thought you should have it.”

With a pensive frown, Twilight picked up the bracelet and examined it under the light. “Why a strength bracelet? I don't really need one.”

“Precisely!” Wild piped up, the spark of his inner gremlin coming alive.

His outburst caught the attention of a few other Links, who stopped their various activities in favor of listening to what might be the prelude to a disaster. It paid to be attentive when Wild got creative.

“What?” Twilight contemplated putting a hand on Wild's forehead, just in case his protege was running a fever.  

“You're already freakishly strong. Like, remember that landslide you helped clear out?”

Twilight grimaced. “I better. I felt it in my back for the rest of the day. Where are you getting a-” he trailed off, the pleading look on Wild's face hurting his soul. “No. I know where this is going. You can't rope me into stupid ideas if I don't give you rope.” Wild hung his head, missing only the cold rain to express his deep depression. “Tell him, old man!”

Sky, who had been strumming his harp by the base of a tree, shot an uneasy look to their unofficial leader.

Unfortunately, Time lifted his lips from his ocarina, a glint in his one good eye. "Can't say I'm not curious, pup."

Twilight gaped like he'd been stabbed.

“I really don't think I should d-”

“You heard him, Twilight!” Wild clapsed the bracelet over his big brother's wrist.

Then, the little traitor bolted and climbed up to Sky's branch. Probably figured that Twilight wouldn't harm the innocent in a sudden quest for revenge. Unfortunately, he was right, and Twilight was a firm believer in retribution for the guilty and the guilty alone.

They waited with bated breath for his next reaction. Some a little more tense and flightly than the others. For a man that did not appreciate the spotlight and eyes on him at all times, the attention got a little on his nerves.

First, he flexed his fingers, trying to get a feel for the magic, the difference in strength if any could be found. Urgh. This was about the farthest from his specialty as it got.

“What do you even want me to do?” he asked the others.

“Lift something heavy?” Hyrule shrugged.

The tree didn't stand a chance.

Legend hummed, examining the uprooted plant. “That's sort of a level two bracelet result.”

Twilight held back a sigh. “... Really?”

Unfortunately for his peace of mind, Time smirked. “He's right, Pup. I have something that lets me lift about a pillar of stone over my head.”

Twilight didn't say anything. In fact, his expression remained remarkably blank. His eyes searched and found Wild, who looked both awed and a little scared but the result of his thought experiment. Upon being focused on, he squirmed a bit, giving Twilight a thumbs up that cemented his decision in time and space.

Wordlessly, Twilight marched out of camp and down the hill they'd passed. Followed by the others, he marched right up to a small plateau in the terrain that hosted a few rock formation, the largest of which looked mostly buried underground.

Wild's stomach sank. “Wait, that's not a boulder! That's a Ta-”

Twilight stood, and the stone monster lifted with him. The rest of Wild's warning turned into a strangled squeak. The 'feet' of the miniboss dangled in the air like its lesser counterparts.

“-lus.”

Deep in the shadow of the rock monster he lifted, Twilight grinned and let the feral darkness inside slip just a touch. By the many flinches around (and yes, Twilight did see that, Old Man), he succeeded.

“And now, I yeet!”

The Links watched as the giant monster arched through the air, passing the clearing it had made its home in and started to fell over the abrupt drop off that split the terrain in two. The Talus' mournful cry resonated all the way down the canyon, echoing for every violent impact it made with the cliffsides, and many of them happened on the way down.

Wind, ever curious, ran right up to the edge and pulled his sister's long view.

“Oh man. That's one way to make silver moblins pancakes.”

Bonus:

Time contemplated the hole left by the Talus' untimely demise, then the normal bracelet on his pup's wrist, then the golden gauntlets he wore. With slow, deliberate purpose, he began to pull one off.

Legend slapped the offending hand away. “No, that's too much power, Old Man!”

Double Bonus:

“… Say that again?”

A hushed silence crashed on top of the heroes' camp at the restrained violence dripping from Twilight's voice. One, because for many, that was a voice that preceded flashbacks to darker times. Two, because it was Twilight and he got angry about as often as Sky did. They counted. So, with just those three little words, that innocent sounding question, all activities in the camp grinded down to a halt in favor of mentally preparing for damage control between Twilight and his target, a nonchalant Legend refusing the power bracelet back.

“You need a power bracelet to lift a pot?”

“Huh… yeah?” Legend replied, frowning. “Why? That a problem, country boy?”

Violence made way for hysteria. “A pot.”

A vein twitched on Legend's forehead, but it was less attention grabbing than the faint blush creeping up his neck. “Why do you care?”

“Show of hands, who needs a power bracelet to lift a pot here?”

A cricket chose that moment to fly through camp, cricketing all the way. Even the non-religious Links considered that one of Hylia's sign. Legend, looking thoroughly annoyed, deliberately crossed his arms over his chest despite insistant staring.

From seven other heroes.

His ears twitching, Twilight eyed the suspiciously flipped over pot and glared.

“Cub, stasis Legend.”

“... Why?”

“I need to go 'patrol' for a minute and see where our wayward Four's gotten to. Then, we're starting a training regiment." Even as he disappeared through the woods, his grumbling carried over. "Can't lift a fucking pot!”

[some-cookie-crumbz]

Little One Prompt 41 with Kacchako plz!

I knew what I wanted to do with this one almost immediately!!! Also, a bit more of a Bakugo-centric fic but I think it’s still a fun little read!

Also, mentioned of KiriMina in this because that ship is super cute and I wanted to.

It was all Shitty Hair and Raccoon Eyes’ fault, as far as he was concerned.

He’d come home from a hard day of patrolling to find the two settled in the living room with Ochako, the two women sipping on tea and chatting animatedly while Eijirou was stretched out on the ground playing with the kids, Yoichi and Tsubaki. He scowled as his wife’s attention remained on something the other woman was showing her, releasing these excitedly little coos, instead of at least acknowledging that he was home. Suddenly, a little blonde head snapped over and an excited shout of “Dada here!” filled the room. In a matter of seconds, his two-year-old daughter had darted to him, jumping from foot to foot in front of him with her little arms held up expectantly.

Despite being tired, he leaned down and picked her up. His kid was the cutest little shit in the world so who was he to deny her?

Ochako lifted her head and grinned at him brightly. “Oh, Katsuki! Come here, come here!” she said eagerly, motioning him over. He huffed slightly as he approached, carefully adjusting Tsubaki in his arms as the tot squirmed to snuggle up against him. Mina preened up at him as she turned her phone to face him, revealing what they’d been fawning over. He came face to face with a picture of little Yoichi, dressed to the nines, in a dark red shirt and little black vest. Paired with it, was a very loud and off-putting neon pink leopard printed tie and his black hair was slicked back with a headband to match it. He was all smiles, showing off his sharp teeth, and his little black and yellow eyes were gleaming excitedly.

“Doesn’t he look adorable?” Mina crooned giddily.

Katsuki had some opinions about the outfit, but opted to keep them to himself, because he had promised to try being nicer since Tsubaki was born. "Huh, it's… interesting," he trailed instead, adjusting his daughter so she was more comfortably perched in his arms.

"I can't wait to see what you two decide on putting like Baki-Boots in!" she cooed.

"Don't call my daughter by that nickname! It sounds stupid!" he barked out, eyes narrowing before he looked down at the sound of a little giggle. Big brown puppy dog eyes stared back up at him, so full of excitement and glee just over him being there. He forced himself to relax a bit, flashing her a small smile, before looking back up at his wife and friend. "And what's that mean?"

Ochako frowned slightly. "Katsuki, we talked about this in the group chat the other day! Don't you remember?" she asked. Oh, yeah, he forgot about that thing since he'd muted it. A couple weeks back, Dunce Face had spammed the chat with pictures of his kid while Tsubaki was trying to nap. The constant chime of his phone had woken her up and sent her into an absolute fit, so he’d muted the whole chat. Seeming to read his blank expression for what it was, she let out a small sigh and shook her head.

"Since the class reunion is going to be held at a fancy resort hotel in a few weeks, we all decided to go all out. And, since we're all bringing our kids and we already know the press is gonna be swarming the place, we're gonna dress them up in our colors!" Mina explained happily, bouncing a bit in his seat.

He stared for a moment, the conversation briefly popping back up in his head. He remembered Ochako telling him they'd be doing formal attire for the event - and remembered thinking that was really fucking stupid, since it wasn't like he had anything to prove to these nimrods - as well as her excitement at getting to find something for Tsubaki to wear. "Oh, that," he said simply before turning to head to the kitchen. On his way, he swiped a flowery purple sippy cup off the floor.

"You could put a little bit of enthusiasm into it, you know!" Mina called after him, sounding slightly offended.

He shrugged as he set Tsubaki down on the counter and opened the fridge door. "She had water in the sippy cup before, so you can keep using that one if you want to give her something else," Ochako called out to him. He called back a thanks while their daughter kicked her little feet happily as she waited. He pulled a water bottle out for himself, then poured some milk into her sippy cup.

Kirishima wandered in, Yoichi in his arms and a Crimson Riot themed sippy cup in one hand. "Mind if I get some of that for the little man here?" he asked with a huge grin.

"Knock yourself out," he said, setting the carton of milk down just out of Tsubaki's reach and screwing the lid back on to hers.

Her eyes lit up as she took it from him. "Tanks, Dada!" she squeaked before eagerly taking a huge swig.

Bakugo let out an amused snort as he opened his water bottle and took a sip of his own. He side-eyed the other man as he filled his own kid's cup and handed it over, both kids plopped on the counter and sipping their drinks happily. "So, whose bright idea was the matching outfit thing?" he asked.

The other grinned wide. "Yaomomo suggested it! Honestly, though, I'm kinda pumped for it!" he said excitedly. Katsuki didn't bother prompting what for since he knew the other well enough to know he'd say it anyway. "I mean, me and Yoi are going to be dressed identically, since I found a matching headband in my size. And Mina's gonna have a dress that matches the headbands, but also found some red ribbon and heels to go with her outfit! How awesome is that? We're all gonna be representing!" he beamed.

Katsuki's eyes hurt just thinking about what a loud amalgamation of mismatching colors and patterns their family was going to make for. "It'll certainly be something," he said mildly. That was a nice way to imply they'd look fucking ridiculous, right?

"Aw, thanks, dude!" Apparently he'd been too nice, or maybe Shitty Hair was just choosing to ignore the implication of his words. The other grinned at the two tots babbling at each other. "Any ideas what colors you two are gonna put Tsubaki in?"

He shrugged before reaching to pick her up, the other man following suit. "I really don't care. I mean, you can see her. She'll look adorable in whatever the heck we put her in," he scoffed. The two headed back to the front room, settling on the couch and watching the toddlers as they scooped some of their toys up to scamper around and play excitedly. They chatted mostly about workout sessions and on-the -job bullshit.

The visit, though, was the catalyst for the next three weeks of frustration.

Ochako decided to go with pink and orange for the colors on her outfit. On her days off - and even on a handful of his own - they started on the hunt to find a dress for Tsubaki. They'd found a few dresses that were close to what they were looking for, but they were never in her size. And the dresses that were in her size were never in the right colors. They’d tried going to department stores as well as actual boutiques. At the boutiques, they’d anticipated having to pay a bit more for customization, but the boutiques wouldn’t even consider taking the job in the first place. The Hero's Gala was slated for a few weeks after the class reunion, so all alteration appointments were booked solid.

Katsuki had seen how each rejection had hurt his wife. Even if he didn’t really get why it was such a big deal that they get a specific dress for Tsubaki, he could tell it meant a lot to her. “Maybe we can find something in just one of the colors, then?” she relented sadly, two weeks before the reunion. She had another store’s inventory pulled up on her phone, browsing through it while Tsubaki dozed off in her arms, little head slumped against her shoulder.

He scowled before walking over. “Was there any specific dress that you liked?” he asked while peering over the edge of her phone screen. She had another webpage pulled up, shifting though, before perking up. She scrolled down and selected one, holding it up to show him. He nodded. “Send me the link. I’ll get it figured out.”

“But this one’s out of stock in every color,” she said worriedly. Against her shoulder, their daughter whined and shifted, rubbing her little face against her before going slack again.

He settled down in the seat beside her on the couch before holding his hand out for her phone. “Like I said, I’ll figure it out. Just trust me,” he said evenly. He sent himself the link and then handed her phone back over to her. While she went and tucked Tsubaki into her crib, he sent out an email to see about setting up an appointment.

Which was how he ended up sitting in a lobby of a grand building a few days later, his daughter settled in his lap, with his phone pulled up to some animated video for babies to keep her calm. He hadn’t wanted to have to come when they did, as it cut close to her usual naptime, but it was the only time that he could get the favor applied to. She squirmed in his lap and let out a small huff, pressing one hand to his phone and pushing it away.

He scrambled to keep a grip on it, nearly fumbling it to the floor, then glared down at her. She had her arms crossed over her chest, pout complete with closed eyes in place, and turned her head to the side. “‘Ey! Who do you think you are?” he growled lowly.

She said nothing in response. Instead, she merely released another little harrump and turned her head in the other direction, little blonde pigtails bouncing with the force she did it with. He snorted a bit at the sheer audacity of this small child. He wasn’t sure where she got this level of sass from or how she managed to keep it contained inside given how small she was.

“Oh, I see how it is. You’re just a lil’ brat, aren’t ya’?” he scoffed, turning off the video and stuffing his phone back into his pocket.

That seemed to set Tsubaki off as she whipped around to face him, standing with her little feet on his thighs and her hands gripping at the lapels of his jacket, hoisting herself upright so that she could look him right in the eye. “I no brat! I cute!” she declared.

He smirked at that. “Yeah, you are cute. A very cute little brat,” he drawled.

Her cheeks puffed out and flushed, looking so much like her mother whenever Katsuki teased her. “Oh, no way, Dada!” she declared back.

He threw his head back and laughed before reaching out to pull her close against him and start tickling her. “Oh, really? Do you know who you’re talking back to right now?”

She squealed and shrieked in delight. “No, Dada!” she giggled, little hands slapping at his wrists to try and make him stop.

“My, you really have grown up, haven’t you?” a new voice mused, causing him to stop and his head to snap up. He hadn’t even heard the damned door open, which was embarassing. He was supposed to be a fucking Pro Hero! He shouldn’t be getting distracted like that! "Sorry if I interrupted the conversation you two were having. I take it this is your child?"

He stood up, adjusting Tsubaki in his arms to face the older man standing a few feet from him. Even with the splotches of grey in the other's blonde hair, those green eyes were still hyper-focused on him with an acuteness that made him feel like he was being seen through. Even all these years later and settling comfortably into retired life, that same strict and authoritative aura seemed to roll off of him. If not for the weight of his daughter settled on his hip, he might mistake himself for being 15 years old and preparing for his first internship again. "Yeah, this is Tsubaki," he said, lightly bouncing her.

At being addressed, she looked from the old man to her father, before ducking her head into Katsuki’s shoulder shyly. That earned an amused smile from Jeanist. “Ah, she becomes so bashful all of a sudden,” he mused lightly.

“She’s a bit shy when it comes to new faces,” Katsuki said, flashing a small, reassuring smile at her. She peeked up at him briefly before nuzzling back down against him. He reached up and gently stroked her back before clearing his throat. “Anyway, let’s get this going. She’s got a nap to take and she gets really feisty if she gets kept up to late.”

Best Jeanist hummed and nodded, pushing open the door behind him and allowing them back. “Of course. My own children tended to get rather unruly if they were not allowed their rest at that age,” he commented. Once Bakugo was past him, he started leading him down a long corridor to a room at the end of it. “Now, this shouldn’t be a terribly long appointment. I had the chance to look over the dress in the link you sent. I will not recreate that dress perfectly, but will instead use it as a reference for what style you are looking to put your daughter in. Are there any specific other details or specifications you’ll be needing?” he asked as he opened the door and allowed Katsuki inside.

“As long as it’s the same style as the one I sent, and it’s got a pink and orange color scheme going, it should be fine. I trust you aren’t going to put my kid in something gaudy,” he scoffed. Inside the room was a small platform, a lounging couch, Jeanist’s desk, and shelves covered in various fabrics.

“Something gaudy?” he asked with a raised brow, heading over to his desk and rummaging through a drawer.

“Some morons I know are putting themselves and their kid in bright red and pink leopard print,” he said flatly.

Jeanist paused in his search to blink slowly. “That’s certainly… unique,” he trailed hesitantly as he finished pulling out the items he was looking for. He walked over with some measuring tape and a clipboard. “Now, if you can just get her to stand still long enough for me to get her measurements, this shouldn’t take too long.”

In the end, Tsubaki only ended up wandering away while trying to get her measurements taken three times. Once that was done, Jeanist drafted up a rough draft design of what he had in mind, they discussed accessories, finalized fabric and color choices, and Katsuki was out with a relatively composed toddler in his arms. Once they got home and she was settled down for her nap, he called Ochako to let her know he had gotten the dress situation figured out and it would be ready for pick up the afternoon of the event. Ochako had been stunned but tickled pink, excitedly gushing to him about how great he was.

And if that put an extra pep in his step leading up to the event? Well, that was his fucking business and no one else’s.

He had to be careful in how he proceeded that day, wanting to keep the whole ensemble a surprise from his wife. He’d taken an earlier shift so he could get off in time to pick the dress up himself and then pick Tsubaki up from the Uraraka’s. When he got home, he took a nap with her but made sure to get up in time to be alert and awake before Ochako got home. He was just finishing up in the bath when she got home.

“Oh! Look at you two, getting all nice and clean!” she giggled, reaching out to lightly pinch their daughter’s cheeks from where she sat on the counter as Katsuki toweled down her hair.

The little girl perked up and beamed at her mother. “Mama here!” she squeaked excitedly. She then looked at her father, bouncing in her seat. “Dada, Mama here!”

He snorted at her. “Yeah, Mama here. Now sit still,” he said lightly, setting aside the towel he’d been using on her hair to bundle her back up in her towel. “Can you hold her while I get dressed really fast? I’ll take her and get her ready so you can take the chance to get yourself put together.”

“Of course! But, I wouldn’t mind getting her dressed for you real fast,” she offered, scooping her up off the counter and leaning down to press kisses to her cheeks. Tsubaki squealed and giggled at the attention, little hands curling into her cotton t-shirt. He watched them from the corner of his eye as he moved past them to the bedroom, unable to resist a small smile. Ochako was just a few steps behind him as she started to get himself put together. “I’m dying to see what her dress looks like! I still can’t believe you managed to find it!” she said excitedly.

“I want you to see her once she’s all put together. Get the full effect,” he chuckled as he buttoned up his slacks. She pouted at him before he offered a small smirk, leaning over to gently rest his forehead against hers. “I can tell you that you’re going to love it, though.”

“Now you’re just making me want to see it more!” she whined, puffing up her cheeks at him. He laughed lightly as she fluttered her lashes at him. “Please, Katsuki? Just a little peek?”

“You can have all the peeks you want once she’s all decked out,” he hummed, stepping back to finish getting himself dressed. He made sure to be quick to keep her from sneaking a peek. As he finished getting his shirt and vest on, she headed to Tsubaki’s room to at least get her in a diaper for her. When he headed back out, she had their daughter in a diaper and was working on brushing her little teeth. This was no easy feat, since she had a bad tendency to try and lick the toothpaste off the brush. Once she was done, she handed her back over to him and headed off to take a shower of her own.

He set Tsubaki back on her changing table before heading over to her closet, pulling out the hanging garment bag and heading back over to the table. He got her in her little stockings first before opening the garment bag and pulling the items out. Getting her in the dress itself was easy enough, but then it was getting her to stand still so he could loop the decorative belt around her waist. The promise of Baby Shark was enough to get her to stand still and let him get that, as well as the gloves, on her. Next, he put her in the little mary janes he’d gotten her and settled her in his lap in the rocking chair. He put on the promised toddler video and set to combing through her hair, being mindful of combing through the little tangles and knots. Having her hair pulled too hard was one of the few things that could trigger her into an absolutely ferocious temper tantrum.

Just as he finished getting her hair all finished and her headband put into place, Ochako appeared in the doorway. “How are things going in-! Oh!” she gasped, eyes wide with delight as he set Tsubaki down.

The little tot immediately surged forward, giving a little twirl. “I cute Mama?” she asked happily. In the end, he and Jeanist had agreed that softer colors would be a good choice for Tsubaki. The dress itself was a peach color, as it would give the orange tint they were looking for without being too loud, with sleeves that only covered her shoulders and a skirt that reached to her knees. The skirt portion itself was poofy with several tiers of a transparent lace overlay with a flower embroidery along the very edges. Around her waist was a pastel pink belt that cinched into a bow at her left hip with four little pearl beads sewn along the edges of the little bow portion. The last two items to complete the look was a pair of opera gloves and a little headband with a camellia flower on it, both items in the same hue as the belt. He had settled the headband so that the flower would be on the right side of her head as a nice little compliment to the bow being on the left.

Ochako walked in and scooped her up, eyes glossy with happy tears. “Oh, you look absolutely adorable, sweetie!” she crooned, voice cracking a bit as she tried to keep the tears at bay. He blinked and tilted his head a bit, suddenly understanding why the dress had been so important to her, as he watched she and Tsubaki. His heart swelled at seeing the two of them in the light orange and pink hued dresses they were sporting, the colors popping on Tsubaki and seeming to highlight the parts of her that she had inherited. It wasn’t about the colors, he realized, but showing the world that they were family, that they all belonged to one another. She looked up at him, eyes still watery. “This is amazing, Katsuki.”

“Well, I called in a favor. Had to make sure we stepped out and showed up all those losers we went to school with,” he scoffed, walking over and adjusting the necklace she was wearing so the hook wasn’t visible. It was a simple heart made with pink diamonds that he’d gotten her for their first wedding anniversary. “And stiffen up that lower lip and keep the waterworks from starting. You’re gonna smear your make-up if you don’t.”

[signs-of-the-moon]

Moon Rise: Chapter 39

Warning: this chapter features depictions of an illness that may be considered similar to Covid-19, and could potentially upset those effected by it. Reader discretion is advised

Swiftcloud awoke early the next day, emerging from the shelter of the warrior's den into the crisp morning air. The clearing was shrouded in darkness. The sky above was nothing more than a depressing gray slate. Snow still fell upon the meadow, turning everything powdery white. Even the ground underpaw was covered. Swiftcloud shivered as a chill started to seep into her pawpads. She skipped over towards the shadow of the Tall Stone, where less snow had settled. Even here the ground was as cold as stone, but it was better than standing ankles deep in the white substance.

Other warriors stood within this small clearing. Chicorynose sat above the rest, atop Tall Stone's peak. It appeared she was ready to send out the dawn patrol.

"This morning we will be prioritizing our border patrols over hunting," the deputy began, "it'll be harder to catch anything while the sun's barely risen, especially with this snow. For now, let's ensure all of our scent markers have been freshened up. Shadowfang, lead a patrol to the Twolegplace border. Cloverpetal, you'll take a patrol to the Forest Patch. And Cowpatch will lead one to Mountainclan. You three may choose whoever you want to join you."

Instantly Shadowfang turned to acknowledge his mate. "You already know I'm having you join me," he remarked to Swiftcloud.

"You'd better," Swiftcloud warned teasingly, "someone has to be around to make sure you don't go fighting any more kittypets."

"That was one time! I was young. Besides, how was I supposed to know that kittypet would one day become the love of my life?"

Swiftcloud let out a flustered mrrow of laughter, batting at Shadowfang's whiskers playfully. "So who else are you going to take on your patrol?"

"How about Bumblethroat and Sheeptail?" Shadowfang suggested

"Good idea," Swiftcloud agreed, turning. "Let's go find them." 

"No need, I've already found you." Bumblethroat came padding over to the mates, tail held high in greetings. "I was just about to ask if I could join you two. I need a good jog. My chest's feeling kind of heavy today and I'm hoping the morning air will do me some good."

"Why don't you see a medicine cat about that?" Swiftcloud prompted, lifting a paw to lick warm. 

"I'm sure I'll be alright. It's nothing to bother Goldensong and Mistyleaf over. How about I grab Sheeptail for you, and we'll meet you two over by the brambles?"

"Sounds good," Shadowfang agreed to the plan. "We'll be waiting. Try not to take too long." 

***

The sun slowly creeped overhead as the patrol made their way across the snowy meadow. The land was still dark, the fields hard to navigate behind it's flurry curtain. But the four warriors had been this way dozens of times; by now they didn't need their sight to know where they were headed. When they'd arrived, three out of the patrol wasted no time remarking the border. One cat, however, was straggling behind. 

Bumblethroat came hobbling over to the others, wheezing. His breathing came out more as a ragged pant as he settled beside his clanmates. Despite concerned looks, the tom insisted that he was fine. Shadowfang and Sheeptail chose to believe him, but Swiftcloud was skeptical.

Later, as the patrol made their way along the edge of their territory, Bumblethroat began to cough. The cough didn't appear to be a mere tickle in his throat, nor was it a one off instance throughout the rest of the mission. It became more of an upsetting, reoccurring nuisance. By the time the dawn patrol was concluded, the tabby looked as though he'd run across the whole meadow and back.

"Bumblethroat, you really should go see Goldensong," Swiftcloud insisted as they entered the camp. Bumblethroat whimpered a little, then nodded his head in defeat. The white and black patched molly watched as her clanmate made his way over to the medicine den. She stared onward for an extra couple of heartbeats to make sure the tom would keep his word. Satisfied, shr turned her attention elsewhere for the remainder of the day. 

Two days passed. Many of clan awoke to the sound Sheeptail wheezing. Swiftcloud sat up in her nest to study the white tom, still a groggy from sleep. Sheeptail's head was bent and back arched, jaws parted in a pant as he tried to catch his breath. Around them, despite how late into the night it was, every cat was on edge. Swiftcloud's denmates slowly crawled away from Sheeptail, like he would lash out and kill them at any moment. Swiftcloud didn't understand why they were all making such a fuss. She stood, padding towards Sheeptail to check on him. Certainly no one else would.

"Swiftcloud!" A pair of jaws clamped around her scruff. The patched molly turned to look into the worried eyes of her mate who began to drag her back with all the might he could muster. Swiftcloud promptly pulled herself from Shadowfang's grasp, turning to face him, awaiting an explanation.

"Don't go near him. I don't want you getting sick, too," Shadowfang mewled.

"He's not sick," Swiftcloud insisted, though she was clearly in denial. There's no way a third cat could be sick. Rosebloom was isolated yesterday. The greencough couldn't possibly be spreading. Could it..?

"Can't you smell it? Sheeptail is ill, Swift. Or getting there. Bumblethroat and Rosebloom have already been confirmed to have something. It's better we be safe than sorry," Shadowfang insisted in return. Swiftcloud huffed, sitting down. Shadowfang came to stand in front of her, as if he could protect her from the possible disease with his body. 

"Sheeptail, dear, why don't you go and have a little chat with Goldensong?" Quailbelly suggested to the tom, shielded behind the large form of Frostfeather.

Sheeptail lifted his head weakly. He nodded then rose to his paws, practically dragging himself out of the warrior's den. Swiftcloud's denmates let out a collective sigh once the senior warrior was out of sight. They moved back to their usual nests, tension still heavy in the atmosphere. Shadowfang shook out his pelt to rid himself of his nerves.

"I'm sorry about that. But we can't risk you catching whatever he may have," the black tom mewed, bumping his head against Swiftcloud's chin. Swiftcloud nodded in understanding, licking Shadowfang on his muzzle before settling down with him in their shared nest.

More coughing erupted outside in the morning when the warriors awoke once more. Slugsnout and Snailear were paired together, herded by concerned clanmates over to the medicine den. At a safe distance, of course. And in the days to come, more cats would follow. Meadowcall, Ladybugbite, Boulderfall, Seedpaw, and a few of the clan's kits were among them. Too many cats to house in the medicine den. A decision was made to move all sick cats to one location. Anyone with even the slightest cough was isolated in the elder's den, sending the displaced elders to live with the warriors for a while. After all, the den was halfway vacant.

Things stayed pretty contained, or at least for a few days. Then another case of greencough would make itself known, and Whitestar would begrudgingly have to order another cat to quarentine.

Grassclan's warriors were dropping like flies, and at the worst possible time. Leafbare fully settled upon the Land's Star; most prey had gone into hiding or hibernation for the season. The snow remained ever present on the meadow, making the world seem that much bleaker. Cats were hungrier now than they'd been in previous moons. And that drove the remaining healthy warriors to work themselves to the bone, as they tried to provide for the rest of the clan.

Swiftcloud was no different. Sometimes, she'd stay out long into the night trying to find a bite to eat. And when she'd catch something, the prey always went right to the queens. She made sure to that.

Three quarter moons had passed since the first cat had been diagnosed with greencough. By now it'd been two days since Swiftcloud had anything to eat. Her belly ached, so badly that she felt as if she were dying. She had no idea why she felt so awful. She'd grown used to hunger by now. Despite the risk of going, she decided to take herself to the medicine den. Maybe the medicine cats would have an herb that would cure the knawing pain in her intestines. Luckily no sick cats were in the den at this time. Mistyleaf and Snowfrost sat within the tree trunk's confines alone, shuffling through a pile of herbs.

"Do you think there's enough here to provide everyone a dose?" Mistyleaf asked. Snowfrost twitched her whiskers.

"Hardly," she admitted. "Hopefully enough to at least dull their symptoms. Adding in chickweed might help. Oh- and we'll need to add some tansy to Rosebloom's mixture today. She's running a fever."

Swiftcloud felt bad for pulling the healers away from their work, but she was desperate. "Um, excuse me?" She meeped.

"Swiftcloud!" Mistyleaf perked up. "What's wrong? You don't appear to be sick. How are you feeling?"

"My stomach hurts. It feels as though my insides are missing," she explained with a grimace.

Mistyleaf stepped away from her task, sniffing her friend. "Hm. When was the last time you ate?"

Swiftcloud blinked. The thought of food had barely crossed her mind recently. "Ate..? Um...well, I can't remember honestly. All the prey I've caught I've used to feed the queens and kits."

"But you didn't think to save some for yourself?" Snowfrost snorted.

Swiftcloud shrank in her fur. "The Code says queens and elders eat before the warriors."

"And you didn't think that the Warrior Code may want you to save at least a mouthful of food for yourself? You're a adult, Swiftcloud use your head!" The medicine cat snapped. Snowfrost gave her head a shake, putting her focus back on her herbs. She muttered to herself as she sorted through her supplies, clearly agitated by Swiftcloud's ignorance. "Warriors and their pride, I swear it's obnoxious sometimes."

"Snowfrost has a point," Mistyleaf agreed. "I'm sure the reason your stomach feels so bad is because you've been starving yourself."

Starving..? That was a concept Swiftcloud hadn't been familiar with before. In her life she'd barely known hunger, yet alone something so severe. A luxury, perhaps, she was granted due to being born a kittypet. Swiftcloud had known of starvation, but never realized it would make her feel so hollow. For a brief moment, Swiftcloud thought back to the day she had been invited to join the clan. Whitestar had warned about the dangers of Leafbare. The fierce cold, the lack of food. And yet, despite facing it all now Swiftcloud had no regrets. She would always be happy to be part of Grassclan, even if she had to go hungry.

"You need to go have something to eat." Mistyleaf's voice cut into Swiftcloud's thoughts. "Consider this a medicine cat's orders. And if anyone should gripe at you about it, tell them they can come speak to us."

Swiftcloud nodded weakly, eyes wide in shock at the stern tone Mistyleaf had acquired. She was too stunned to speak, in too much pain to even think. Instead, Swiftcloud turned herself around and brought herself out to the fresh-kill pile. The pile was the smallest that she had ever seen it. Swiftcloud knew a hunting party had recently returned home. Yet there was only a half sized mouse and a scrawny vole to choose from. Swiftcloud didn't care which she ate, all she knew now was that she needed this food. Just the smell of it alone reminded her of how hungry she truly was.

Out of desperation she gave into her temptations. Swiftcloud quickly snatched up the vole, pulling it close to her chest. The first bite she took was glorious. The flavors sang loudly on her tongue, and her stomach begged her to eat more. Swiftcloud consumed the rest of her meal in a matter of heartbeats, the delicious meat of the vole disappearing inside of her all too soon. For a moment, Swiftcloud felt satisfied. But the sight of the mouse still sitting there on the icy ground was calling to her. Well...I haven't eaten in a while. And Mistyleaf did say to eat, so... Swiftcloud got back to her paws. With claws extended she gripped the mouse up and pulled it towards her. As she was about to settle down to eat again, Rabbitstorm appeared through the bramble tunnel. His eyes were sunken, his expression miserable. In his grasp he held nothing, despite returning home from hunting. The lynx point tom practically dragged himself over to Swiftcloud, slumping into the snow as he sat beside her. Swiftcloud resisted the urge to whimper. She hated seeing her friend so defeated. Since Heatherwing had died, Rabbitstorm hadn't been the same. He was more work driven, and a bit snappier with others. It was almost as if he'd reverted back to an apprentice again; in personality at least. Although Rabbitstorm had become a bit clingier. When he wasn't doing work, he was spending time with his mother or siblings. And when they were too busy, he'd come to spend time with Swiftcloud. She was honored, honestly, that Rabbitstorm found comfort in her company. At least she thought he did. It was hard to tell. Regardless, Rabbitstorm's constant presence reassured her at least that the bond they had formed hadn't shifted back with his attitude.

Despite her stomach growling at her, urging her to go back to eating, Swiftcloud refused to do so. Instead, she pushed the mouse over to Rabbitstorm, showing him a soft smile. "Here. I think you could use this more than I can right now," she meowed. "I know it's not much, but-"

"Thank you," Rabbitstorm interrupted with a sigh of relief. He lowered his head, taking small bites of the prey in front of him. He leaned his larger body against Swiftcloud's, warming her with his long fur. Swiftcloud felt grateful for the tom's presence, and was happy to have a friend like him. In the beginning, Rabbitstorm had hated Swiftcloud. The two were practically rivals, insulting each other, playing tricks on one another. But after many moons they were finally getting along. Sure on occasion the two would pass on snarky remarks, but now it was all in good fun. Rabbitstorm wasn't such a bad cat. And Swiftcloud hoped that he thought the same of her.

Rabbitstorm let out a satisfied sigh as his mouse became nothing more than fur and bones. He purred, turning to groom Swiftcloud's shoulder. In return she cleaned his. For a few moments the pair shared tongues, comfortable in the silence that had settled between them. But a gust of cold wind blew through the camp, making the warriors jump to their paws. In silent agreement they walked with each other to enter the warmth of the warriors' den.

Here, the remaining healthy warriors of the clan were taking shelter. Most had been out not long ago, finishing patrols and returning empty pawed from their hunting parties. A gloom seemed to hang heavy in the hollowed stone den. Swiftcloud saw depression in some cats eyes. In one way or another, every cat was connected to the ill or starving. If they weren't among those directly suffering.

Quietly in the back of the den, Swiftcloud could see Cloverpetal crying. She hadn't eaten in nearly a quarter moon, and Swiftcloud knew the other molly was reaching her breaking point. But still, she refused food. She wanted everyone else to eat instead. Cloverpetal was a quiet, kind soul. She would never complain about anything, and would give someone the fur off her back if they needed it. But Swiftcloud thought the pale calico molly was being foolish. Still, she wouldn't say anything. Not long ago Swiftcloud was doing the same exact thing. She knew she had no right to judge.

In the center of the den, the clan's two remaining elders laid. Tornface was grooming his pelt, possibly trying to warm himself. While Smokesnout lay curled in a ball, his son Shadowfang beside him. The two toms were not very close, but Shadowfang still respected his father. In this trying time he was determined to provide the elderly tom some support, especially since he was the only family Smokesnout had left. Swiftcloud admired that in her mate. He cared, even if he didn't have much reason to. Smokesnout wasn't much of a father; he never showed the same compassion for his kit as Ashwhisker, the dam of his litter, did. But Shadowfang wouldn't hold it against him. Some cats weren't cut out to be parents.

Swiftcloud touched her nose to Rabbitstorm's ear gently as she tiptoed towards the center of the den. She settled by Shadowfang's side, giving his cheek a good rub with her own. Shadowfang purred a little from her affection, a warm glow in his eyes. But the glow swiftly dimmed as he turned his gaze back onto Smokesnout.

"He's gone," Shadowfang whispered only loud enough for his mate to hear.

Swiftcloud blinked in confusion. "W..what?"

"Smokesnout," Shadowfang clarified, licking the dusky elder's still shoulder. "He's dead."

Swiftcloud felt her heart drop into her paws, a ringing dulling her hearing. "What do you mean he's dead? H-how? When...?" She stammered, voice low.

Shadowfang sighed, looking melancholy. "A little while ago. I noticed he stopped breathing... But he's so peaceful, I don't want to take him from his nest yet."

"Shadowfang..." Swiftcloud pressed herself into her mate. "I'm so sorry.... But, we shouldn't keep him here anymore. The clan will want to know he's gone; they'll want to mourn him."

"I know," Shadowfang sighed once more, rising to his paws. He bent his head, griping Smokesnout's body by the scruff. Swiftcloud stood to be with them. At once, the focus of the entire den fell upon them. Every cat's eyes were dark; a knowing look passing between each of them. Shadowfang tried not to pay attention, wanting to ignore the pity that would soon be passed onto him. Rabbitstorm came over as the mates began to take the elder out of the den. He moved to Smokesnout's free side, helping Shadowfang carry his father. The three warriors emerged into the windy Leaf-bare evening, placing Smokesnout's body in the center of camp. Here he would have an easier time traveling to Starclan, and here the rest of the clan could come to properly say goodbye.

"I should tell my dad," Shadowfang realized. "Im not sure if he'll come out right away, though. Pigeon's isn't doing well... But, I know him. He'll at least want to send Smokesnout off with a prayer." With his reasoning voice, the sleek black tom turned, stalking to the elder's den.

"I'll go inform the medicine cats," Rabbitstorm decided, heading off in the opposite direction.

Swiftcloud sat alone in the cold empty clearing, awaiting the arrival of others. She stood there, in the whistling wind, staring at the body in front of her. Smokesnout's fur ruffled in the breeze, the only movement to come from the elderly tom. Shadowfang had made sure to lay him down nicely. The old tom appeared as though he had fallen asleep. It was almost eerie.

This was the first casualty of many to come, Swiftcloud realized. The knowledge of that filled her with a terrible sense of dread. She knew things would only get worse from here on. And yet, there was still a small glimmer of hope left inside of her. The gathering would be soon. Maybe Grassclan could ask for prey and herbs from some of the others. The chances were slim, Swiftcloud knew, but she had to keep her chin up. If she gave up hope now, what else would she have?