#'like a break in the battle was your part/in the wretched life of a lonely heart'

[parttimesiffrinfulltimeproblem]

i wish i had literally any expertise with editing software bc in my head there is an unimaginably cool edit of mcwexler to back on the chain gang by pretenders. like just imagine it...

[thedgeoftheuniverse]

ROTTEN. | astarion

pairing: astarion x gn!reader

warnings: healthy dose of angst and self-loathing, mild sexual descriptions and references, wrote this in less than 2 hrs so give me a break, mainly astarion's pov idk it just happened that way

word count: 2.6k

For a moment, his voice tries to betray the weight of this confession, but he knows there is no softening the blow of this—of both a confession of love, and an admission of guilt, and he is unsure if one is enough to outweigh the other. He knows this is the end; he knows you will finally see him for the wretched thing he is, and he will once again find himself alone and lonely.

He's using you.

He knows he’s using you; since the moment he laid his eyes upon the weathered lines of your face, you were his newest target—the first one of his own choosing. He initially planned to kill you; you couldn't turn on him or drive a stake through his ribs if you were already dead, and he already had enough to worry about without adding additional fuel to the already burning fear he had for his life. Not to mention, he was hungry and getting worse by the minute. He planned to call for help—play the damsel like he did countless times before, catch your attention for only a moment, just long enough to get close enough, and slit your pretty little throat.

Every step played out perfectly. You approached him just like he knew you would—his pretty face has always granted him the illusion of being a safe person; you answered his calls for help, just like he knew you would. All you had to do was get close enough, and he would take care of the rest.

Though he was completely thrown off kilter when you offered to help him, rather than leaving him to the ‘things’ in the bush. In a split second, his plan changed. If you were willing to help a stranger in the mess that the pair of you found yourselves swept up in, what would you do for someone you thought was a friend? A lover? Perhaps the wizard of—at the time—unknown power, quite frankly threatening incineration, were his knife to continue its trajectory, did encourage a modicum of restraint and de-escalation on his part, though he will never give him such credit.

However, the most unexpected change in plans was the direct, albeit slightly painful, mental link shared between him and you. You were infected—same as him—by a Mind Flayer parasite, ready to take over your body and destroy your mind in an alarmingly short timeframe.

You were an ally—a useful one and tentatively worth sparing—so long as you could continue to benefit him.

So, he started with a simple introduction: “My name's Astarion.” Spoken with a dramatic flair and a sickeningly sweet undertone that could only be found after two hundred years of charming pretty faces and innocent minds. In the moments between his introduction and the offering of your name, while the words still clung to the empty air between, Astarion formulated a new plan. It was brilliantly simple and borderline foolproof. All he had to do was convince you to fall for it, and his safety was nearly guaranteed.

(He now knows that hindsight always paints a clearer portrait than the present, and he is a fool in more ways than any would dare to calculate.)

He started small, coated his words in honey, and never oversold the part—playing into the role of the mysterious charmer that he had perfected all those years ago. He was honest, reliable, and always came to your aid during battle; he made you believe he was someone that could be trusted, no matter what your instincts may have convinced you otherwise. He was charismatic. A stolen glance here, an accidental touch there, a subtle look in his eyes that betrayed far more debaucherous intentions than what a gentleman such as himself would ever dare voice in the presence of someone as pure as you.

Perhaps, though, he erred too close to the side of caution and played his part too carefully. Vampirism is no easy condition to conceal, and the lesser creatures he managed to feast on during the night were horribly unsuitable to sustain him in the midst of such a perilous—and quite frankly, exhausting—journey. He was in a rapidly deteriorating state and worsening by the minute; he needed an intelligent, thinking creature to sink his teeth into if he wished to be of any use. He could not imagine a universe in which he would be allowed to remain in the company if he could not pull his own weight in battle or the camp.

He obscenely and undeniably fucked up when he chose to attempt to sink his fangs into the supple skin of the pretty little neck he nearly mared just a few weeks prior. He could not identify exactly why he believed he could get away with such an act undetected; his extreme hunger could be to blame, though he could not deny that the sweetness of your blood caused an insatiable stirring in his gut—he could smell it from six feet away. It permeated the air around him, nearly making him dizzy with the want—no, the need—to taste you. If hunger had driven him mad once again, then you were to blame, and therefore you were responsible for paying.

All thoughts of your reparations, however, were thrown from his mind the moment your eyes opened and he remembered that you possessed the ability to end his unnaturally long “life.”

“Shit.” His mind was completely blank. “It- It’s not what it looks like. I swear.” He could only hope that his performance would award him a standing ovation and the momentary benefit of the doubt: “I wasn't going to hurt you. I just needed... well, blood.”

It was not the confession he hoped to perform for you. He was meant to come to you, fully conscious, and present the idea as his own—he would choose to come to and confide in you. (I feel as though you and I have a… strong bond. I believe I can trust you. I cannot bear to keep this from you a moment longer.) with pretty words and round eyes. Instead, he was on his back foot and practically begging you not to ram a stake through his ribs.

And that is where his brilliantly simple plan began to pay off…

For a time.

You offered your body to him in more ways than one, and he intended to take full advantage of them all.

The sex was easy; it came to him perhaps more naturally than his flirtatious demeanor. He gave you the performance of a lifetime—he fed you borderline godly pleasures on a silver spoon while you dug your nails into grassy forest beds and moaned his name into the treetops. He knew exactly what to do to your body; he hit every single pleasure point with beautiful precision, used his mouth in all of the right places, sprinkled in the perfect praises, and made you beg just enough to make you believe you had to work for the pleasure of being underneath him and you deserved to be rewarded for it. He made sure every little word from his mouth was almost as perfect as what his mouth could do to you.

(Gods, you're beautiful.)

(Tell me how you want it. Use your words.)

(It’s as if the Gods made you to ruin me.)

He did not mean a single moment of it…

He knows he didn't. He knows, without an unparalleled doubt, that he did not mean a single sugar-coated word when he spoke in those intimate moments. He knows how vile he felt before, during, and after; he knows the suffocating self-loathing that consumed him for days after your first late-night tryst and every single night after that. He knows that, deep down, he wants you to see him as more than a sexual being, though he is not sure what else he could possibly be if not this. He knows that his manipulation was calculated and intentional; you were meant to be nothing more than a means to an end. You would help him remove this cursed tadpole embedded in his brain; you would help him kill his former master; and you would help him grasp a power that has never before been held by another vampire. You would hand him the entire world because he convinced you that he deserved it, and then he would dispose of you, as he did with the rest of his victims.

It was a brilliantly simple plan, and yet it all managed to fall apart. He is sure he played out every step perfectly, and somehow, you managed to change his plans once more.

It was never more apparent to him than right now.

Right now, as he watches you saunter around the camp, offering various greetings and the most beautiful smile he believes he has ever seen in his two hundred years of life, he realizes that you are the most incredible being he has ever gazed upon. And never has it been more apparent to him that he is a rotten thing—nothing more than a bloodthirsty monster that pretends he can believably wear the mask of a man. He thinks this is the closest thing to love he has ever felt, and even now, he will never be able to show it to you in a way that means something.

How could he have been so stupid?

How could he not have anticipated this outcome?

How could he have been so ignorant of the pining in his heart and wound up in such a situation?

His inner turmoil must have been more obvious than he would have preferred, because when you approached him, your face screamed with worry. “Astarion?” You questioned, “You look... stressed.” He was unable to find the words to respond. Something about the light shining on the hard lines of your face, leaving a shadow that danced across your cheekbones, captivated him, and he lacked the strength to look away—he doesn't think he wants to. Perhaps he could spend one hundred years gazing on the wonderful imperfections and blemishes on your skin until he has memorized every detail through the end of time, so that when you are no longer breathing, he may breathe your life once again himself, so that when another one hundred years have passed and you are nothing more than ash in the ground, he will be able to recall every minute detail of your face.

“Are you okay?”

He is on another plane of existence until the sweetness of your voice walks him back into the present.

“I… I think we need to talk.” His voice betrays him, just as his face did moments before.

You respond as you always have—with care and concern and a compassion running so deeply through your veins, it would be impossible to fabricate: “Are you alright?”

And he realizes the answer is no. He realizes that no matter the intensity of his devotion (or perhaps, is this what love is supposed to feel like?), he can never undo the damage he has caused. He can never change the sweet little lies he whispered into your ear late at night as you exposed your body to him; he can never change the intentional manipulation behind his words as he told you of your beauty; and he can never remedy the fact that he took advantage of you. You—who is made of honeysuckle and mandarins, who he has grown to so deeply care for, who he will ruin in a heartbeat if he were to ever truly love you. And perhaps he will never be able to love you. Perhaps if you are not a target, then you will never truly be anything to him; he is far too damaged to ever love you in a way that is pure and without the promise of personal gain. Perhaps he has always been and always will be a monster and deserves such treatment. He will never be able to share your bed without feeling disgust and hatred for himself. He will never be your lover, no matter how desperately he now knows he wishes to be.

“No—Yes, I just… feel awful.” Your face tells him he owes more of an explanation. He knows you are owed it. “Look, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan—seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so that you would never turn on me. It was easy... instinctive.” For a moment, his voice tries to betray the weight of this confession, but he knows there is no softening the blow of this—of both a confession of love (is this what love is supposed to feel like? I think I would rather choose the stake.) and an admission of guilt, and he is unsure if one is enough to outweigh the other. He knows this is the end; he knows you will finally see him for the wretched thing he is, and he will once again find himself alone and lonely.

(He now realizes these are two very different states of being.)

“All you had to do was fall for it.” Your face is twisted into something resembling grief. “And all I had to do was not fall for you… which is where my nice, simple plan fell apart.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Your eyebrows are furrowed together, and your face has morphed into something entirely unreadable, but you almost seem relieved.

“I…” Another sigh: “You deserve something real.” He cannot bring himself to look into your eyes.

A heavy sigh escapes your mouth as your eyebrows relax. “I only want you.”

“Why?”

“I don't believe you to be the monster you think you are.” If he had a heartbeat, he is confident that would have stopped it. He cannot fathom a universe where he is more than what his master made him to be.

“You don't know me.”

“Then show me who you are, Astarion.” He isn't sure when you managed to get so close to him. “Let me be here for you.”

“You don't know what you're asking for.” He can feel the tears welling up in his eyes. He will never be able to give you what you’re asking for, yet you still seem to want him all the same. He knows that he is no good, that he will never be more than the image Cazador sculpted him in; he is capable of tenderness no more than the Gods are capable of answering his cries for help. And yet, here you stand—headstrong as ever, practically begging him to give this a chance, and he desperately wants it. “It’s rotten work.”

“Not to me.” Your hand reaches into the space between you to gently cup his face.

“I can't give you what you want. Being close to someone—any kind of intimacy—was something I… performed to lure people back for him. I know this is different; we’re different, but it still feels… tainted.”

“I already told you what I want.” His eyes met yours for the first time since you approached his tent. “You. Whatever it is you have to offer, I want it. It's not a dirty job; it's just you.”

For a brief moment, Astarion is able to lose himself in such a fantasy; your eyes shine as though galaxies were constructed in your irises, and he can spot no inkling of deception. Your hand is soft against his cheek as he leans into the warmth of your touch, and it does not go unnoticed that you choose to keep your hand placement modest—as though you were a gentleman dancing with a lady in a fancy ballroom while all the guests silently stared.

“I don't know what to do from here.” He places his hand over yours and leans into your touch even harder—he almost resembles a wounded dog, searching for any ounce of tenderness he can find in this midst of such an ugly world—”But I know that this... this is nice."

As you wrap your arms around his waist and nestle your head into the crook of his shoulder, Astarion believes that this is something he may be able to get used to. 

Thank u for reading !!! Prob making a part 2 that is more .... idk angsty and more "I'll take care of you" if yall want it

[my-chaos-radio]

Release: September 17, 1982

Lyrics:

I found a picture of you, oh-oh

Well, it hijacked my world at night

To a place in the past we've been cast out of, oh-oh

Now we're back in the fight

We're back on the train, yeah

Oh, back on the chain gang

Circumstance beyond our control, oh-oh

The phone, the TV and the news of the world

Got in the house like a pigeon from hell, oh-oh

Threw sand in our eyes and descended like flies

Put us back on the train, yeah

Oh, back on the chain gang

The powers that be

That force us to live like we do

Bring me to my knees

When I see what they've done to you

Well, I'll die as I stand here today

Knowing that deep in my heart

They'll fall to ruin one day

For making us part

I found a picture of you, oh-oh

Those were the happiest days of my life

Like a break in the battle was your part, oh-oh

In the wretched life of a lonely heart

Songwriter: Christine Hynde

Now I'm back on the train, yeah

Oh, back on the chain gang

SongFacts:

'Back on the Chain Gang' debuted on Billboard in early October 1982 and reached number 5 on the Hot 100, making it the band's biggest hit in the US. The song also peaked at number 4 on the Billboard Hot Mainstream Rock Tracks and number 17 on the UK Singles Chart.

The pounding sounds and Chain Gang vocals heard in the song's chorus are reminiscent of Sam Cooke's 1960 song Chain Gang.

Hynde wrote Back on the Chain Gang as an ode to her then-boyfriend Ray Davies before lyrically reinterpreting it as a tribute to the late James Honeyman-Scott. The song was written and recorded during Chrissie Hynde's strained relationship with Ray Davies while she was three months pregnant with their daughter. Their difficult relationship ended six months later.

She described working on Back on the Chain Gang with Honeyman-Scott. Just a month before the song was recorded, the Pretenders fired bassist Pete Farndon. A few days later, lead guitarist Honeyman-Scott died of an accidental drug overdose. Farndon also died of a drug overdose a few months later. Hynde recounted: "…two days later Jimmy is dead…all of a sudden it all went down the drain…I was traumatized by the loss of my two best friends…I had to replace two members of the band - for my best ones replacing friends…"

In a 1992 interview with Guitar World, George Harrison said that Back on the Chain Gang uses a chord he "made up" for the Beatles song I Want to Tell You: "It's an E7 with an F on top , and I'm really proud of it because I invented that chord… There's only one other song that I know of that someone stole that chord from - Chrissie Hynde and the Pretenders on 'Back on the Chain Gang'.”

The song was recorded shortly after Pretenders guitarist James Honeyman-Scott died of a drug overdose on June 16, 1982 at the age of 25. He died two days after the Pretenders fired their longtime bassist Pete Farndon over his drug problem.

Ultimate Classic Rock critic Matt Wardlaw ranked the song the second best song by the Pretenders of all time, saying that it "retains a deceptively upbeat tone, considering the subject matter".

[rocorambles]

What Is Love?

Pairing: Gojo x reader (Main), Nanami x reader (Side)

Genre/Warnings: Yandere, NSFW, Dub-Con/Non-Con, Rape, Sacrilegious, God Complex and Delusional Gojo, Somnophilia, Slapping, Choking, Humiliation, Coercion, Non-Con Infidelity

Summary: Gojo learns what love is and unfortunately, you're the object of his newfound affection.

A/N: Thank you as always for beta-ing @sawamooora and dedicating this to my dear @lets-go-datehoe. Thank you for sending this request, Yuli~

Love? Gojo Satoru doesn’t believe in love. Love is for hopeless, lonely souls. Love is for miserable pathetic wretches desperate to fill an emptiness in their hearts, in their lives.

When everyone in the world is already falling head over heels to serve him, to be with him, when he's given everything he's ever wanted and more on a silver platter, why would he need love?

Gojo Satoru is already at the top of the world, with or without love.

Now lust? Gojo understands lust.

Carnal pleasure is never unwelcomed and unlike his elders, his head isn’t shoved so far up his ass to deny that he adores the feeling of his cock inside a slobbering mouth, a sopping wet cunt, an exquisitely tight ass.

But more than that, his arrogance and ego thrives and swells as women throw themselves at him, the feeling of being desired only fueling the prideful monster inside of him, only fueling his borderline delusion.

Of course everyone wants him. He’s Gojo Satoru after all.

And so he lets himself be worshipped, lets woman after woman praise him, reveling in the way they chant his name like a prayer as he returns their devotion with thick sticky white blessings. He smirks at the way they kneel before him, staring up at him in reverence, their pretty mouths and throats stretched wide across his cock.

Gojo Satoru is a god, and gods do not chase after mere mortals. So when he meets and you barely give him the time of day other than a polite bow, he shrugs his shoulders.

You’re just another disbeliever. Another silly lamb he needs to convert. Nothing more. Nothing less. Definitely nothing to get worked up about.

It’s almost amusing how you’re playing hard to get, sinning by spitting such crude and crass remarks at a deity like him every time he tries to speak to you. And it’s almost infuriating how you turn your nose up at him, as if you’re qualified to have an opinion of him, let alone think of him as beneath you. But he hides the pleased smile on his face when he sees your gaze linger just a tad too long to be mere coincidence the first time he reveals his eyes to you, a look of awe slipping past your scowling countenance.

See? They all come around eventually.

And so he lays it on thicker, draping his tall figure over yours, letting his warm breath grace the back of your neck, murmuring coy words in your ear. His long fingers find themselves tangling in your hair, brushing against your hands, touching every part of you as much as he can get away with.

You’re so close. He can feel your walls slowly crumbling away, can see the unsureness in your eyes as you half heartedly nudge him away after unconsciously leaning into his touch. Just a little more…

Except something, or rather someone, stops him.

Gojo Satoru isn’t usually caught off guard, especially not by the likes of Nanami Kento. The ex-salary man is a good man, but just a man nonetheless, no matter how you dress it up. But Gojo grudgingly admits at least surprise, if not something more, when he hears you’re in Tokyo and decides to pay your apartment a visit, only to find the Grade 1 sorcerer’s tongue shoved down your throat, your naked bodies entangled in rumpled bed sheets.

He tells himself it’s just a one night stand...maybe a friends with benefits relationship at most when he happens to catch both of you holding hands in broad daylight, a carefree smile he’s never seen before stretched across Nanami’s face as he sits at a cafe table with you, watching you happily munch on some pastry his underclassman has purchased for you.

Nothing he can’t handle.

But if you were a bitch before, a snarling ferocious wildcat whenever Gojo was around, you’re even worse now. Your apathy, the nonchalance with which you politely smile and nod in acknowledgement at Gojo before promptly ignoring him for the suited man by your side, gets under his skin like nothing ever has before. For once, Gojo is at a loss.

Ahh, so this is what denial feels like. This is the rejection and emptiness that he’s seen drive others to madness. This is love.

Gojo Satoru experiences his first heartache, but he doesn’t break down into pitiful sobs, he doesn’t mope around in self-pity.

He laughs.

He’s lost the battle, but he hasn’t lost the war. And when others would have turned tail and fled, he stands his ground, icy blue eyes sparkling in glee at the prospect of a new challenge, the prospect of his sweetest victory yet.

Gojo Satoru is a dangerous man. You know that with all your heart and soul, so it only makes sense that your hackles raise anytime he’s in your proximity. Maybe you take it too far, disrespecting your senior to an extent that would bring shame to you if it were anyone other than the Special Grade sorcerer. But in hindsight you’ll wish you did more.

You’ll wish you hadn’t caught the attention of the world’s strongest sorcerer. You’ll wish you hadn’t found yourself mesmerized by his sheer power, by those damning, dazzling eyes. You’ll wish you hadn’t begun to be ensnared by his allure, a trap you’ve heard the consequences of far too often from your heartbroken and weeping fellow female sorcerers. Maybe you’ll even wish you had just let him have a taste of you, use you before tossing you out like trash, like every other woman who’s fallen in bed with him, instead of whetting his appetite only to deny him of his feast, only to have him fixate on you even more.

But like Gojo, you know love and lust are two different things. And when Nanami shows up in your life, like a knight in shining armor, you feel Gojo’s spell on you shatter, your heart fluttering and thawing the ice that had begun to creep up your body, trapping you in endless blue.

Love is blinding, and really, you should have known that normal boundaries don’t exist in Gojo’s world. But your adoration for your lover has you hesitantly, but politely, letting the cheerful sorcerer into your shared home with Nanami — even though your boyfriend is overseas for a mission, not due back for at least another week.

It would be a lie to say you’re completely relaxed and fine with the circumstance you’re in, alone with Gojo Satoru with no chance of anyone being able to help you if something were to happen. But for whatever reason, Nanami respects the man, even considers him a friend, and in turn you feel an obligation of sorts to at least be cordial. And besides, Gojo isn’t a good man, but he’s not a bad man…right?

You find it difficult to believe that Gojo didn’t know Nanami was out of town, that his pout is sincere when you tell him that Nanami won’t be back anytime soon. There are only so many Grade 1 sorcerers in Tokyo and even less that Gojo actively keeps in touch with. But what’s the alternative? Believe Gojo came to see you? Unlikely.

Gojo is a womanizer, a slut, whatever other word you want to use. But a homewrecker? Especially of a dear friend? Never. (Frankly, you think it would just be too much of a bother for the emotionally stunted man.)

And you’re glad to see that your theories are proving to be true as the night continues, wondering if maybe the white-haired man is just lonely.

He’s strangely pleasant as he keeps a respectable distance from you, no suggestive comments spewing from his mouth, even his obnoxious arrogance kept to a tolerable low. You feel your guard drop, your smiles feeling more natural, genuine laughs slipping past your lips as he tells you about his latest adventures and missions.

But as a yawn interrupts your conversation and you stare askance at how late it is before urging him home to get some rest, apologizing for keeping him so long, your heart drops as you feel an overwhelming presence caging you against your living room couch, long limbs on either side of your body.

“What do you see in Nanami that you don’t see in me?”

The question is so jarring you almost forget the panic rising in your chest, mouth moving soundlessly as you try to process the meaning of his words. But instead of an answer, all that bubbles out of you is a shaky plea for him to leave.

Gojo’s never been good at following orders or commands. Why would he be? Since when has a god ever needed to listen to mortals? And you’re no exception.

You whimper as you’re suddenly transported to the bedroom you share with Nanami, struggling to no avail as Gojo easily tears your clothing off, positioning you on all fours in front of the floor-length mirror that decorates the corner of the room. Bile rises in your throat as he takes his blindfold off, blue eyes seemingly piercing your soul even through just a reflection and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to imagine you’re anywhere but here, with anyone other than him, trying to grasp at every fond memory you have of your blonde lover. But Gojo has a point to make and you gasp, eyes snapping wide open as a large hand wraps around your neck, choking you until you’re forced to stare at your joined bodies on the mirrored surface.

“Look at how perfect we are together. Look at how perfect you are underneath me. You chose that instead of this?”

You sob when he twists your head and forces you to look at a framed photograph on your vanity, a photo Nanami and you had taken together when he had brought you overseas with him for a mission.You regret not insisting that you go with him this time around, wishing more than anything else that you were wrapped in his strong arms.

There’s something irritating about your wailing and blubbering, your little hiccups and sniveling only fueling something dark and twisted inside of Gojo. Maybe it’s the way he knows that you’d never act like this if he was Nanami. Maybe it’s the way he knows you’re lust incarnate whenever Nanami has his hands or mouth on you. Maybe it’s the way he knows that you despise him and his touch so much, that you’d rather die than let him have you.

Ungrateful bitch.

Well if you’re going to cry, Gojo might as well give you something to cry about. A crazed grin slices his handsome face as your screams reach an all-time high, a frenzy, as he shoves his cock inside your unprepped hole, his shaft twitching in interest when you desperately wail his name over and over again as if that would do anything other than have him intensify his pace. But as pretty as his name sounds from your mouth, he tires of your useless pleas for him to stop. Gojo uses one hand to shove your face into the floor, your garbled cries muffled by the carpet as he chases his end, moaning at how perfect your tight, gummy walls feel around him. He’s dreamt of this for far too long and with a grunt, he cums inside of you, draping over your body and pressing his lips against the back of your neck, affectionately marking and tasting you as he empties his balls.

Through the pain and shame, relief floods through you, hope that this is finally all over, that he’ll leave you and your battered body alone. And you play dead, letting him do as he pleases, only occasionally wincing when he leaves a particularly intense mark on your skin, momentarily cringing when he pulls out, thick liquid trickling from your abused hole.

But you should have known better, should have known this was just the beginning.

You weakly paw at the strong arms easily cradling your exhausted figure, trying to wriggle as much as your aching body allows you to, sobbing into his shoulder when you see the direction you’re headed in. You wonder how it’s possible to feel even dirtier as calloused hands lather you with soapy suds, as Gojo takes his time scanning every inch of your body, intimately caressing and mapping every line and curve. And you plead for forgiveness from Nanami when slick begins to pool between your legs, as Gojo gently kneads and experiments with your breasts, rolling your nipples, long fingers expertly circling your clit and slipping inside of you.

Your orgasm shatters you and you stand there like a rag doll, body convulsing and eyes rolling back in your head as you drench Gojo’s digits with your arousal, the sticky strands of betrayal staining his hand as he brings it to your mouth. He gently peppers your neck and shoulder with encouraging kisses as you submissively suck him clean, tugging you along as he dries you off before tucking the both of you in bed, holding you in the mockery of a lover’s embrace. It doesn’t escape your notice that he’s chosen to sleep on Nanami’s side of the bed and shame has you curling into a fetal position, has you burying your face in the bedsheets, hoping for at least a whiff of Nanami’s familiar scent, a reminder of his presence.

It works, and you let yourself fall into a restless sleep, your lips twitching every so slightly upwards despite the tears still trapped in your lashes as you think of a tall blonde man, a yellow spotted tie wrapped around your hands as you teasingly pull a spectacled face in for a kiss. You writhe and twist in your sleep, heavily panting as you imagine Nanami’s hands roaming on your figure, his lips tenderly kissing a bold line down your neck and in between the valleys of your breasts. And as you imagine his fingers carefully rubbing your clit, you sigh his name, only to be abruptly woken as a lance of pain shreds through you.

Eyelids still heavy with sleep, body still groggy from being so suddenly roused, you can’t piece together what’s happening, one of your hands instinctively cupping your smarting cheek. But you frantically claw and bat in the dark, knowing exactly who’s on top of you despite the fact that your eyes haven’t fully adjusted to the blackness, the way your body is ripped apart once more, a telltale sign of whose cock is penetrating you.

“It’s very rude to say another man’s name when I’m the one making you feel so good. Let me teach you the only name you need to know."

There’s something horribly intimate about the position you two are in, the way he’s tainting the very sheets and mattress Nanami had made love to you on countless times. You wish you could force yourself back to sleep, could gouge out your eyes as you begin to make out the man pistoning in and out of you. But it’s no use and you know even sightless, those icy blue orbs are branded in your mind.

You vow to at least not give him the satisfaction of hearing his name from your mouth, pressing and biting your lips until a copper taste assaults your tastebuds. But Gojo has always been talented at everything he does, those gifted eyes seeing far more than they should. You shake your head side to side in denial as a knot quickly begins to form in your gut, body tensing as you feel another wave coming over you, only to let out a confused whimper when everything suddenly stops.

“You get to cum when you say my name and the magic word.”

The playful lilt and childish tone have you seeing red and you sneer in twisted pleasure when a gob of your spit hits him squarely in the face, a litany of curse words and insults spewing from deep inside of you, uncaring of how you’re more like a raving madwoman than a victim.

But you’re not the first brat Gojo’s had to tame, and he just smirks condescendingly down at you before playing you like an instrument, easily bringing you to that narrow brink where even a single breath of air, or a simple flick of a finger seems like it would have you toppling over the edge, only to relentlessly snatch you right back before you can fall.

You don’t know how long he goes on for, your shattered and denied mind barely cognizant of the beginnings of daylight creeping through the window. But as the rays of light make it to your bed, you break.

“Gojo-”

You howl when he pulls out, hips wantonly thrusting in the air for more friction as he crudely slaps his tip against your clit, a frown on his lips.

“That’s not the name I want to hear.”

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. Where’s your fucking backbone? How could you even entertain the idea of screaming another man’s name in your lover’s bed?

But when he steps away, your eyes zero in on how his cock separates from the sopping wet mess between your thighs, an unbidding distressed whine clawing up your throat at the thought of being left high and dry, mind hazy with lust and arousal.

“Sa-Satoru…Satoru, please.”

There’s work to be done and he’s not entirely pleased by the note of hesitancy and reluctance he still hears despite the hours he’s taken out of his time to educate you. But a promise is a promise and fuck if he doesn’t love the way his given name sounds in your mouth. And with just a few more meticulously placed thrusts and practiced twists of his fingers, you come undone, your lewd sex-crazed appearance and dopey smile from finally getting your sweet release dragging him down with you.

But it doesn’t end there and Gojo makes good use of your empty house, of the week he has alone with you.

There’s not a single surface in your home, not a single hole on your body that isn’t used and marked thoroughly. And even he briefly wonders if he’s being too rough with you, a flicker of concern crossing his mind as he pouts at the idea of his new toy breaking so soon.

But you prove your resilience and a strange concoction of pride and irritation festers inside of him as you determinedly clamp your mouth shut, a spark of defiance lighting up those lust-clouded eyes whenever he urges you to say you love him back, despite the way you practically ride and hump his face as he kneels between your legs and eats you out in the kitchen, despite the way you slur and babble his name over and over again like it’s the only thing you know how to say.

You’re adorable and he wishes he had all the time in the world to break you fully without using his trump card, to see just how durable you really are. But time is ticking and Nanami is due back any day now.

“Say you love me.”

He coaxes you by gently holding you in his arms, peppering your face with butterfly kisses, endearingly observing the way you seek the little comfort you can get despite the fact that he’s the giver, so deprived of anything other than frenzied arousal. But steely resolve hardens your eyes and you turn your face away.

“I love Nanami.”

You brace yourself for a cock slamming inside of you, a hand wrapped around your throat, but you aren’t ready for the endless galaxy that suddenly surrounds you, and blood-curling fear washes over you.

Unlimited Void.

You’d have to be living under a rock not to know of it, and yet, seeing it in person, you can safely say the rumors and tales don’t do it justice. Gojo laughs at how you frantically cling onto him, your arms wrapping around him, your face burying itself into his chest, voice trembling as you beg him to release you, beg him to get rid of his domain expansion, beg him not to let you go. You’ve seen the aftermaths of his technique, seen curses and sorcerers much stronger than yourself reduced to brain-dead husks from mere seconds in his domain.

“Say you love me.”

The words are on the tip of your tongue, fear making you docile. But a flash of blonde, a glimpse of a tailored suit in your mind keeps your saving grace stuck in your throat. You tell yourself it’s okay, you don’t mean it, it’s just a means to save yourself, surely Nanami will understand. And you begin to open your mouth, only to break off in a scream as you’re roughly shoved away, your hesitation speaking volumes to the white-haired sorcerer who sighs in irritation.

Not that you really notice or maybe you notice too well. You aren’t sure. You are sure. You can feel your sanity rapidly slipping as everything and nothing slams into your senses at once.

“Satoru, I love you!!”

It’s barely comprehensible, a shrieked frantic wail muddied by anxiety. But it’s enough and you sob in relief when Gojo ruffles your hair like you’re a well-behaved pet, leaning into his touch and digging your nails into his wrist, keeping his contact on you still and steady, dry heaving as you come back to your senses.

You don’t even realize that the repeated mantra is still coming out of your own mouth as you fling yourself onto the sorcerer as his artificial universe fades away, curling up in his lap, heart pounding as you chant “I love you, I love you, I love you” over and over again like it’s your holy scripture.

Gojo is on cloud nine watching you finally come to faith, finally worship him and praise him. You were lost, and now you’re found. And he has no intentions of ever letting you stray again. It’s not like there’s anywhere else for you to go, anything else for you to do other than warm his cock anyway.

He crashes his lips against yours as he easily slips inside your well-used cunt, walls molded and shaped perfectly after countless rounds. It’s sinful how good you feel, how good you sound, and he can feel his balls tighten, his own end quickly approaching as you shatter to pieces over and over again around him, quivering walls milking him, clamping down on him as if you can’t bear the thought of being empty.

But there’s nothing to worry about. What god would leave his faithful disciple unrewarded? What declaration of faith comes without a baptism? And he cums inside of you, hot spurts filling you up, branding you, marking and claiming you as his, the sticky white trails leaking out of your stuffed cunt a public declaration of who you belong to.

There’s silence as he lets you collapse on top of him, grinning at how blissfully fucked out you look, cock already twitching in interest again as he spies the mess of tears and drool dripping down your chin. But there are matters of business to attend to first and he nudges you to look at him, cooing down at vacant eyes still hazy with pleasure.

“Nanami is returning tomorrow-”

Blinding pain shocks you as a large hand tangles with your roots, pulling your head back so far you think your neck might snap.

“What are you so happy about?”

There’s a lightness to his question, the silence before the storm, and you wipe the smile off your face, hissing as he tugs harder.

“I know you like me more, but I didn’t think you would be heartless enough to be so excited about breaking up with your boyfriend. Poor Nanami.”

Even through the pain, the unspoken weight of his words registers in your head and you snarl at him with a vengeance.

“I’m not breaking up with-”

Your throat goes dry as he relinquishes his hold on you, one hand raising to eye-level, pointer and middle fingers beginning to cross, and you go still, mouth snapping shut.

“Good girl. Now you’ve experienced Unlimited Void for yourself. What do you think would happen to Nanami if I left him in there for even a second? Do you think he’d ever be the same even if he were to somehow survive, even if he were to go through months of rehabilitation?”

The inquisitive tone makes it sound like just a bunch of theoretical questions, but you know better, know the ramble for the threat that it is.

Love is about sacrifice, and you’re willing to give it all up for the man whose contact Gojo is pulling up on your phone, whose number is being called. And as the ringtones finally stop and a familiar voice greets you over the speaker, you seal your fate.

[fanmoose12]

the devil you know

Сharacters: Hange Zoe, Levi, Moblit Berner, Zeke Yeagar, Armin Arlert

Genres: Action / Drama

Summary: Can you still miss a person, if everything you knew about them was a lie?

Сhapter 4/?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Every single night, she was tormented by the same nightmare. Every single night, the same memory replayed behind her closed eyelids. She saw that fateful night, the night when she had decided she couldn’t keep pretending anymore.

It was the night before the great battle, and, as always, Levi fell asleep in her bed, curled around her body, holding on to her almost desperately, as though he was afraid that should he let go even for a second, she’d vanish.

Levi thought that his embrace could keep her with him. Hange wished for it to be the truth.

Getting out of the circle of his arms was a considerable effort, he held her too close, too tight, and Hange… Hange didn’t want to leave that sweet embrace. Levi was wrapped around her like a vice, he was a poison ivy that had its twigs engraved so deep it reached to the very depths of her heart.

Hange had to cut it out, to cut him out. And, by gods, was it an unwanted progress.

But after a few moments of quiet struggling, of silent curses and pants, she slipped out from his embrace and their bed. That small victory was well-earned, but not enjoyed. Hange felt her heart break the moment Levi’s arms were no longer around her. Without him, she felt so cold. With every inch she put between them, the ice that began covering her heart continued growing.

Next, she packed her scarce belongings. She wanted to take more, she couldn’t do it. Everything she’d take back home – her uniform with Wings of Freedom splayed proudly on the back, her heavy notebooks with dozens of notes and sketches done by her beloved assistant, that book Erwin had once given her, the scarf Mike had knitted for her, the flower Levi had gifted her, the very same one she treasured just dearly as the memory of him confessing after the gift had been presented, - all of it was going to be looked at and thoroughly analyzed. By her Marleyan comrades, friends and possible prosecutors.

She could take nothing that could be conceived as dubious, but that jacket, the one that was shared by both of them and still held his scent and warmth— she wasn’t strong enough to leave it behind.

So she put it on, praying for it to give her strength.

A long way home was awaiting her.

And Hange couldn’t leave without giving him, the one man she truly loved, a goodbye kiss.

“I know you won’t,” she whispered against his brow, her fingers caressing his hair with a feather light touch, “but please try to forgive me. It was out of my control, Levi.”

It was his fault too. When Levi came, the ground had been kicked from under her feet. And a simple mission turned into a tragedy.

When she gathered enough strength to leave the room, the hallway was empty. Hange knew it would be, she was familiar with the workings of Survey Corps like the back of her hand. She strolled through the well-known hallways without fear, trailing her hand along the walls.

The Military Headquarters back at Liberio was better built than this building. Even Warriors’ barracks, despite being designed to hold Eldians, were built so much better. Those buildings were sturdier, more technologically equipped, much more comfortable.

But, god damn it, she was going to miss Survey Corps’ headquarters, this shitty building that was situated in the middle of nowhere.

Compared to Marley, everything in Paradise was ancient, outdated, useless. But it didn’t stop her from loving that fucked up little island. It didn’t stop her from loving people that were living there, despite them being branded as monsters by her nation.

She turned the corner, took the stairs, and, at the end of it, just near the exit Hange saw a shadow.

She meant to duck behind the corner, to run and hide, but the form of that shadow was all too familiar, and she was just as familiar to that shadow. Hange had no choice but to stop and surrender to another cruel twist of fate.

“Squad Leader!” Moblit ran up to her, smiling and endearing as always.

Fucking hell, and Hange thought that saying goodbye to Levi would be the hardest task. However, Levi, at least, hadn’t been awake.

“Are you nervous, as well?" he asked, curiously peering into her eyes. Was she nervous? That was an understatement. "Personally, I can’t sleep! I’ve been thinking and thinking, and I even wrote a letter to my Momma, do you remember her?”

Of course, Hange remembered Moblit’s Momma, the soft and caring Mrs. Berner, a far kinder woman than Hange’s Momma was.

“I told her about our mission and how proud I am for participating in it. And… I added a second part, the one that would be sent in case…”

“No.” Hange shook her head resolutely, her hands clenching into fists. No, no, no, she refused to even entertain that foul idea. Impulsively, she took a step forward, circling her arms around her sweet assistant. “No, Moblit,” she repeated, voice muffled by his shirt. If he heard the quiet sniffling, Hange didn’t care. Moblit never minded her eccentricities. “You will survive. You will survive this shit and the next one you will undoubtedly face. You will make your Momma and everyone else around you proud.” You will make me proud. “And you will leave a glorious, happy and long life. You promise me?”

“Squad Leader…”

“Promise me!” she demanded, bordering on desperation.

In that moment, the dream always divided from reality.

In reality, Hange waited until he had given her a promise, and then feigned exhaustion, leaving Moblit to use another exit. But in a dream, Moblit made her stay, coercing her to have a cup of tea with him. And in the candle-light lit mass hall, they met Erwin, then Levi joined their impromptu party, gluing himself to her side and blinking sleepily at everyone who had gathered.

In a dream, Hange never left. She stayed under Moblit’s care, was guided by Erwin’s wisdom, was surrounded by Levi’s love.

And that’s why that dream was a cruel, excruciating nightmare. It showed her things that could never be. It showed her the future she desperately wanted to come true. Escaping from the clutches of that fantasy was hard, painful. And if that was complicated….

Well, waking up in that bed was pure agony.

Every single morning, Hange woke up lost and disoriented, and had to spend a few long moments, making sense of it all.

Her first instinct was to stretch her arms, to yawn and reach out – to warmth and comfort, to loving embrace, husky voice and reluctant kiss. To him. To everything she had lost. To everything she never actually had.

But she was alone in that bed.

There was no Levi, lying next to her, complaining about her morning breath. There was no Squad Leader Hange, no four-eyes , who would smile and start singing in Levi’s ear.

There was only she, a broken, empty shell of a person.

A Marleyan who fell for an Eldian. A war chief that devised weapons for her enemies. A fool with twisted loyalties and convoluted goals.

She betrayed her homeland, she didn’t have a home.

She was abandoned by her fellow countrymen, was rejected by the people closest to her.

But, strangely, as pathetic as she was, as miserable and wretched, she was not alone. Even in her sorry state, despite her vile betrayal, she still had a friend.

He was by all means her enemy, a monster and a devil, and yet he saved her life more times than she could count.

Even now, when her lies had been discovered and her villainy uncovered, he remained by her side, continued to care for her.

If all Eldians were truly as monstrous as she had been told since her birth, then how to make sense if the existence of one extremely brave, inexplicably kind Moblit Berner? Hange, as genius as she was, couldn’t understand him, couldn’t explain why someone as good and bright as him had decided to stick with her.

“Good morning!” he walked into her room with a smile, carrying her breakfast on a plate.

He had been repeating the exact same routine every day for the past month. He had been doing this ever since Erwin had appointed him as her assistant.

In that room, that bed, nostalgia, memories and regrets were impossible to escape.

Hange tried telling Moblit that he didn’t have to this, didn't have to care for her as though she was still his comrade. But Moblit was relentless. And she was too lonely and miserable to cut off the only kind soul that remained loyal to her.

“I managed to get your favorite biscuits this morning,” he continued, moving around the room to put the cutlery down on a table and open the curtains to let the sunshine in. “Almost got in a fight with Sasha because of it.”

Despite herself, Hange snickered. Moblit always had that kind of an effect on her. He possessed the uncanny ability to cheer her up with a simple, but heartfelt and caring gesture.

There was only one other person who was better at it than him. But after everything that happened between them… the hell would freeze sooner than she would hear praise and a comforting word from him.

Waving those sullen thoughts away, Hange stretched her arms and rose from the bed. She followed the sweet aroma of biscuits to the table Moblit had set for her.

“Any updates on Gabi and Falco?”

That was the first question she asked every morning. And every morning, Moblit gave her the same disappointing answer.

“I’m sorry,” he ducked his head solemnly. “We didn’t manage to locate them yet.

Hange expected as much. And yet, the lack of news still troubled her. Where were fierce Gabi and adorable Falco? Were they—

She shook her head, pressing lips together. Of course, they were still alive. They were candidates, the best of all best. Mentally repeating that mantra a couple of times, she forced her mind flow into different direction.

“What’s our plan for today?” she asked through a mouthful of biscuits. “Are we going to work on a new uniform again?”

Working on that project was fun. Having Mobllit as her assistant once again was fun. In the moments, when her brain was too occupied with an idea, she could almost pretend that everything was normal. That she was Squad Leader Hange, working with Executive Officer Moblit on a new project. Sometimes, Hange got so lost in that little game inside her head, she even expected for the door to burst open to let a grumpy Captain inside. But, of course, that couldn't happen.

These distant memories, they were comforting. They reminded her of the rare times in her life when she was truly happy. But the past... was in the past.

“Eh, you see…” Moblit raised a hand to his head, scratching the back of it with an apologizing smile. “Armin asked me to look into something. I was actually wondering if you would like to accompany me. I bet you’re getting sick of spending days in these four walls.”

She was starting to feel like a wilting flower, that was true. It would have been nice to go outside. However…

“Am I even allowed to leave this room?”

Moblit winced. “I’m not really sure about it… But I was assigned to look after you. I think it wouldn’t hurt if you go with me. Besides…” he sat on the chair next to her, looking at her almost pleadingly. Oh, Moblit and his perfect puppy eyes, Hange could never resist them. “I’d like to have your company. And, perhaps, your advice as well…”

“Advice?” Hange frowned. “On what? What is your task about exactly?”

“Don’t know if I can tell you,” nevertheless, Moblit leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “But they found out that one of the volunteers, Yelena, has been conspiring with Eren. They asked me to interrogate the other volunteer.”

“Oh?” that sounded both ominous and intriguing. Hange curled her lips into a grin and raised an eyebrow. “You want me to use my interrogating skills?”

“No!” paling slightly, Moblit frantically lifted his hands, shaking them from side to side. “No reaping out nails, please! No threats of bloody violence! Just… talk with him.”

She almost forgot how easy it was to tease and embarrass Moblit. Oh, how Hange missed him.

“Alright, I’ll do my best to control the violent urges,” she winked at him, laughing at his scandalous face. “And thank you for inviting me. It’s been ages since I saw the world outside that room.”

“There is another thing I have to ask of you...” Moblit cast his eyes down, playing with the sleeve of his coat. “Technically, I’ll be representing Survey Corps, so…”

Oh. Hange shifted her gaze to the wardrobe, where her old uniform was still hanging. That feeling inside her, she couldn’t quite identify it. Was it shame? Or trepidation?

She showed nothing of it to Moblit. As their eyes met, she faced him with an easy smile.

“Sure, I don’t mind. I do wonder if that thing still fits me.”

“It is. It always will.”

The remark was short, it could be read as meaningless. But Moblit’s voice was deep and gravely, full of conviction. Hange tilted her head, stealing a moment to study him more closely. He looked back at her, his hazel eyes honest and kind.

A lump in her throat was thick enough to make it hard to breathe. It brought tears to her eyes. Hange closed them tightly, to keep the tears from falling down.

“I need a moment,” she murmured, facing away from Moblit, “I’ll be ready in five.”

“I’ll be waiting in the hallway,” he said and let her be.

___

Walking through the streets of Sina was both pleasant and excruciating.

Feeling the sun on her cheeks and the wind in her hair after so many days of being confined to a one single room was enjoyable, enough to put a smile on her lips. And Sina, so very different from Liberio, was a lovely city with interesting architecture and narrow clean streets.

But these places were too familiar, the alleyways etched into her mind too deeply. And the uniform… the long green coat fitted her too well, and, at the same time, suffocated her. The shiny Wings of Freedom were burning her even through the clothes.

This proud emblem, it wasn’t hers. She wasn’t worthy of wearing it.

And the looks people had been given her, the awe and pride— fuck, Hange would rather prefer they cursed and flanged stones at her.

“Their smiles make me uncomfortable,” Moblit confessed. “They used to throw shit at us after every expedition. But now that Eren has killed a bunch of people, they suddenly decide that we’re heroes.”

“You always have been heroes.”

You, not we. There was nothing heroic inside of her.

“Remember that tavern?” Moblit’s cheerful voice and excited expression didn’t chase away the shadows completely. But the shadows took a step back, frightened by his light. “We had a glorious fight with MPs there.”

The fond memory brought laughter to her lips. “You almost got your arm broken in that fight.”

Moblit chuckled along with her. “Thanks to you I didn’t. I thought that punch of yours would get that guy obliterated.”

Hange touched her knuckles tenderly. Moblit was right, that was one hell of a punch. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel how the force of the hit had reverberated through her skin, tendons, muscles and down to the bones. Perhaps, that time, she had overdone it. She always had troubles reining in her anger.

“And remember that guy Captain Levi kicked? I see him around from time to time. Because of his broken jaw, he still has trouble speaking clearly.”

Ah, Hange remembered that guy as well. He was red-headed and had an ugly moustache. He also left a nasty bruise on her cheek. Levi’s kick to his jaw was a payback for that.

“Those were the times, huh?” Moblit nudged her, offering a kind smile.

Hange averted her eyes, feeling her lips quiver. Yeah, those were the times. Distant times, now they seemed more like a dream. A dream Hange wouldn’t want to wake up from.

Sensing her discomfort, Moblit steered them to the side, taking their conversation in another direction as well. “Speaking of Captain Levi, I sent him the new uniform. He wrote back that he liked it.”

The uniform she accidentally created with Levi’s size in mind. It was in no way intentional. She thought of Survey Corps’ soldiers when she was making a design. And in her mind, the perfect example of the scout was Levi. She was surprised she still remembered his size. Although, considering how much time she had dedicated to studying his body…

The new uniform was a sudden project, a product of the abundance of free time on her part. She wasn’t going to show it to anyone. Even Moblit found out about it by pure accident, when he stumbled upon her crude drawings. She was surprised he liked it. She was surprised Levi liked it. Did he really, though?

“He actually wrote so?”

“Well, he wrote that it could be useful, and in his words…”

Oh. As high praise as one could get from Levi.

“You write to him?” truthfully, that was another surprise for Hange. She didn’t remember Moblit and Levi have any sort of relationships, especially this close.

“We talk a lot,” Moblit shrugged, looking anywhere but at Hange. She was starting to wonder why, but his next words quickly unveiled the mystery. “Technically, we’re the only adults in Survey Corps, and after you left, we… found that we have a lot in common.”

Well. At least, her betrayal had one good outcome. It gave birth to a new friendship. And destroyed several old ones. Hange winced at the last thought.

“Oh, look where are we!” Moblit once again pulled her out of the abyss with his clear, loud voice. The wonder, added to it, however, seemed a little bit too faked. As smart and sharp as he was, Moblit could never excel at lying and pretending.

Not like she did.

Forcing these thoughts away, Hange followed the direction Moblit was pointing at. She couldn’t help but smile at what came into her sights.

Sina’s pastries. The best bakery in the city. In Hange’s humble opinion, the best bakery in the whole damn world. The one they had back at home, on the corner of the street in Liberio, right next to her apartment, didn’t even compare.

Just looking at the sign made her mouth fill with saliva.

“Moblit,” she grasped at his sleeve, her hold desperate. Her eyes were still trained on that shiny sign made in cursive. “Moblit, I know I’m asking a lot—”

He grinned. “Want me to get you that cherry pie you loved so much?”

Oh god, yes. Right now, Hange wanted it more than anything else.

“I understand it if you can’t. I mean, I’m a prisoner from a foreign country. Isn’t buying pies considered to be treason in this case?”

Moblit chuckled warmly. He looked at her, and his expression was kind and gentle enough to make the saints weep. He curled his hand around her shoulder, and from the place where he touched her, warmth spread through her body. “I wouldn’t mind committing treason for a friend.”

Fuck. Hange felt it once again. Her heart squeezing painfully, her throat constricting, tears welling in her eyes. She had to shut her lids to keep them from falling down her cheeks.

Her eyes still closed, with her voice cracking, she asked, “Would it be weird if I give you a hug right now?”

“Don’t know. Is it weird that I really want that hug?”

Her sob turning into a giggle, Hange surged forward, falling right in Moblit’s waiting arms. He pressed her close, his palm patting her on the back. Hange buried her face in his chest and relaxed against him, inhaling his faint scent of citrus and cinnamon. Sweet and pleasant, just like Moblit.

What was she doing all that time, without him at her side?

Moblit smiled at her as they separated. Hange meant to smile back, but in that exact moment— her stomach gurgled. Loudly.

She cringed.

“So… about that pie?”

“I’m on it,” Moblit promised and darted to the bakery.

___

Perhaps, it was fate. It was destiny, divine intervention, that led her to this moment. To the wooden bench in the park, to the bird’s singing in her ear, to the sweet, heavenly taste in her mouth.

The pie was perfect, so much better than Hange had remembered. It was soft enough to melt in her mouth, leaving a pleasant aftertaste. It was sweet, but not sugary, the cherry toping adding slight bitterness.

Fantastic, the pie was fantastic. If Hange could, she’d stay in that bakery until the end of her days, devouring those phenomenal pastries until she exploded. Ah, what a happy death that would be…

Moblit observed her with an amused grin. “Did they not feed you at all in your Marley?”

“Not like this.” Hange managed, despite her full mouth.

Food in Marley was more diverse than on Paradise. They had more resources, they had a bigger variety of products and ingredients. But Hange was a soldier. She either ate at barracks or she cooked for herself at home. Food, made by army cooks, was nourishing, but lacking in flavor. And the dinners, prepared by her, almost always consisted of something quick and extremely simple.

The only place where Hange could eat to her heart’s content, where food was made out of the best, freshest ingredients and prepared by the most skillful chefs, was the official events, organized by the brass. And as the leader of the research facility, one of the most recognized war chief and the only child of her father, one of the Marleyan’s biggest heroes, Hange was always a welcome guest on these events.

But they were so boring that not even a promise of good food could make her sit until the end of them.

“Well, wait until you try Niccolo’s food. He is a true master.”

“Already did,” her stomach once again gurgled, this time the embarrassing sound was provoked by the memory of Sasha and Connie treating her to some of the maestro’s masterpieces. Sasha certainly was a lucky girl. “I ate so much, I thought I was gonna puke.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” bashfully, Moblit rubbed his neck. “The first time he made food for us, I was eating like the man starved. I was so ashamed, but then I looked around,” he chuckled lowly, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “And realized I wasn’t the only one.”

“I see you had a lot of fun,” she said, swallowing the bitter taste in her mouth. She wasn’t one of them, and never was. The suddenly appeared sadness was foolish and unwelcome. She had her own friends back home. Perhaps, they still thought about her. Perhaps, they still cared. “And what about that guy you need to interrogate? Is he also an amazing cook?”

“No, he is a soldier, he taught us so much about your technology! He was the one who was in charge of controlling the airship we used to get to Liberio.”

So their new friend was a pilot? And, apparently, a skillful one at that. Navigating through Liberio during all that chaos was certainly a challenge. Hange wondered if she knew him.

“So what is the name of that ace pilot of yours?”

Moblit lifted his chin, something close to pride appearing in his gaze. "He really is amazing. His name is Onyakopon."

Hange's jaw dropped. Her precious pie almost dropped as well. Hadn't she misheard? Onyakopon? The same Onyakopon who had spent almost a year as her understudy? Who taught Hange how to pilot the plane? That Onyakopon?

Could it really be? Could they really meet here, after so many years, on Paradis of all the places? Or was it some other Onyakopon who also happened to be an ace pilot?

"Hange-san?" a worried crease lay between Moblit's eyebrows. "Are the two of you—"

"Don't know," she shrugged, promptly finishing the last of her pie. "Shall we go and find that out?"

Moblit nodded resolutely. Hange felt something like nostalgia stirring up inside her.

___

For a man who was supposedly under a close watch and a possible suspect, Onyakopon had the nicest of accommodations. Much better than Hange's single room.

The house was small, but cozy, surrounded by pretty garden and vast green fields. If one were to ignore the lonely guard who was munching on an apple in the shadow of the tree, the front yard possessed absolutely no flaws.

Hange immediately shared her observation with Moblit, telling it to him in a faint whisper.

"Let's hope Onyakopon isn't a traitor and we won't end up dragging him from this heavenly place," he answered her.

If their Onyakopon was the same Onyakopon Hange knew, they wouldn't need to take the drastic measures. He was a smart, honest and good man. And, judging by Moblit's set expression, he knew that too.

As they approached the house, a man came in their sights. Dark-skinned, tall and handsome, he was reading a book on the porch, a look of complete concentration on his face.

All doubt left her mind. It was the same Onyakopon. The bright, curious young man who wanted to learn from her and who taught her something in return.

At the sound of their footsteps, Onyankopon looked up. And recognized her too, from just one glance. As their eyes met, his grew in size, almost comically. So he didn't know she was there as well. Strange, Hange would have thought he overheard the commotion she had caused on their trip back to Paradis.

But, perhaps, Onyakopon was too focused on piloting the airship and keeping all of them alive.

"Hange?" his voice was no louder than the wind's song. Hange nodded swiftly, having troubles finding her own voice. She wasn't sure it would obey her. "Oh I'll be damned!" Onyakopon jumped to his feet and all but ran to her. He squeezed her elbows, peering into her face in disbelief. "I'll be damned, Hange! I've heard the talks about some Marleyan soldier, but I could never guess that it was you! No one told me that you were captured."

Well, captured might be a strong word to describe what happened to her. Levi didn't capture her, he simply caught her - unaware and unprepared. Hange saw the face that was haunting her dreams and didn't even think of fighting against him.

She thought that Levi came to kill her then. She was almost ready for him to do it, to finish it once and for all. Being killed by the humanity's strongest - was there a greater honor? Being killed by the man you loved so dearly - was there a bigger joy?

Gently, Hange pried Onyakopon's hands off her. "It's a very long story."

"I have—"

"You don't," Moblit took a step forward, partially hiding Hange behind his back. "We need to talk, Onyakopon. I'm sure you've already guessed why."

"Yeah. Your friend here," Onyankopon threw an accusing glare at his guardian who was enjoying the afternoon shade, not disturbed by their conversation. "Already warned me. Alright," he let out a defeated sigh, "Do you guys want tea or coffee? Maybe, some snacks?"

Moblit gave him a tight-lipped smile. "We've already eaten, thank you."

"I— I'll bring some tea anyway."

He disappeared inside the house without another word. Hange and Moblit watched him go, then, when he vanished from their sight, they shared a look.

"He doesn't seem nervous," Hange remarked.

Moblit seemed to be of the same opinion. "He looks rather disappointed. I really hope he is innocent. But..." he shook his head and mumbled, more to himself than Hange, "I was always bad at figuring out liars."

Ouch. If after everything she had been through, Hange still possessed a heart, Moblit's words would have dealt a fatal blow.

Alas... She felt but a small pang. It didn't make her wheeze with pain, only forced to cast her eyes down.

___

Onyakopon returned after a few minutes, carrying a tray with three cups on it. Jerking his head into its direction, he led them to a table on the backyard.

Once they all took their places, heavy silence hanged over them. Onyakopon was the one to break it.

"So, no offence," he tilted his head to the side, his gaze slowly switching between Hange and Moblit. "If this is the official business, then… why Hange is here?"

"It's a long story," Hange said at the same time as Moblit claimed,

"Hange and I have been working together before."

"Wait..." a frown appeared on Onyakopon's face. It was almost immediately taken over by the look of shock. "Are you telling me that the famed Marleyan spy I've been hearing so much about, the one who spent five years on Paradis and almost became the Commander of Survey Corps, is Hange Zoe, one of the brightest minds of Marley?"

"Something like that, yeah," Hange took a cup of tea in her hands, hiding her embarrassment behind it.

"Wow... that's certainly... a lot to take in. I heard so many things about you."

"Nice ones, I hope?"

The corners of Onyakopon's lips slid down. "Not really."

"Ah... Understandable, I guess."

"But if you're the famous betrayer, why are you here? Are you—"

"We've been working together for a long time," Moblit repeated. "I trust Hange's judgement."

"I have an exceptional talent of picking out bullshit. And," Hange grinned, the curl of her lips just this side of being feral. "I'm a master of reaping fingernails out."

Onyakopon promptly chocked on the tea he was drinking. Sending her the most disappointing of his looks, Moblit jumped out from his seat to help the other man to cough it all out. His panicked face did awake a bit of shame in Hange.

"It was a joke," she hurried to assure.

"A very bad one," Moblit grumbled, softly patting Onyakopon on the back.

"I see nothing has changed about you, Hange," after returning his breathing under control, Onyakopon raised his eyes, giving her a joyful smile.

Hange wasn't sure if his words held any truth, personally, she hadn't felt like her happy, curious and driven self from years ago, but, nevertheless, she answered his smile with the one of her own.

"Now, let's talk about you," Moblit returned to his place, sitting down on the opposite side from Onyakopon. His back was straight, his expression relaxed but solemn. He grew, Hange noted absentmindedly. He was no longer that timid, shy man she had met all these years ago. "Do you know what happened with Yelena?"

"I understand that she is in the same boat as I am right now."

"Not quite," Moblit retorted. "We've recently found out that she has been talking with Eren behind our backs."

Onyakopon put the cup down, his hands a little more unsteady than Hange remembered them to be. "I... didn't know about any of this. Do you know what they were discussing?"

"Commander Pixis and the others are attempting to make sense of it as we speak."

"And in the meantime you decided to interrogate me." Onyakopon's demeanor changed, his eyes flashing. "Have I not done enough, Moblit? For you and for the people of Eldia? Haven't we helped you enough? And yet, you still don't trust me. You come here with—" his gaze shifted to Hange, but whatever Onyakopon wanted to say didn't leave his mouth, Moblit's hardened expression stopping him.

"You know how hard it is to earn trust," Moblit spoke calmly. "Especially now. Personally, I don't think that you're involved in Yelena's dealings. But I have to make sure of it. Wouldn't you do the same, if you were in my position?"

"Besides," Hange chimed in, "Even Eren is imprisoned. Do you really blame them for not trusting foreigners?"

Onyakopon took his time before answering. His jaw clenched, as he fixed his gaze on the wooden surface of the table.

"Maybe, you're right," he said at last. At his admission, Moblit relaxed. But Hange knew that Onyakopon wasn't finished yet. "But I risked my life to help get Eren back. Doesn't that count for something?"

"Yelena took part in that mission as well." Moblit reminded.

"I'm not Yelena." Onyankopon harshly retorted.

Moblit scowled. Onyakopon was glaring back at him, hands crossed on his chest. Hange decided it was time to intervene once more.

"Are we thinking of the same Yelena?" she interrupted their staring contest, easing the air around both men. "Tall, blonde and absolutely crazy?"

Not taking his eyes of Onyakopon, Moblit nodded. "She also has a strange obsession with Yeager brothers."

"Ah," yeah, Hange knew her. How could she not? Yelena was... "A lovely girl. Even I get chills from her. I doubt that Pixis would be able to get something out of her."

"That what worries me," Moblit confessed, rubbing his temples. The gesture was familiar to Hange - Moblit always suffered from headaches when under stress. "The Queen is coming back soon. If we don't secure the capital..."

"Historia is coming back?" Hange wasn't aware of it. When she asked Sasha about a little girl that once was called Christa and then grew up to become a Queen, Sasha said that she was also getting ready to become a mother. Was bringing her to the capital a good call then? With everything in such state of disarray?

"It was her decision, not ours," Moblit explained. "When the Queen learned what is going in, she deemed it necessary to intervene."

"Hopefully, the Queen is loved more than Eren Yeager."

Yeah, that would be the best case scenario. For everyone - even Marleyans - involved.

"In these uncertain times..." Moblit hanged his head with a deep, weary sigh. "Hope is all we have. Thank you for your time, Onyakopon. We'll be heading back now."

Having said that, he stood up. Hange meant to follow his suit, but at the last moment, Onyakopon stopped her, catching her sleeve between his fingers.

"About what happened in Liberio," he stiffly began. "Marley destroyed my hometown," Hange solemnly nodded. She was forced to take part in that particular operation. She hated every second of it. "I can't and I won't forgive them for that. But..." his voice softened, his thumb rubbed comforting circles around her pulse point. "Liberio was your home as well. So I know what you're going through."

Taken by surprise, Hange blinked a couple of times, gawking at Onyakopon. She expected anger from him. In the worst case - pity. But he offered her only his understanding. She was grateful for that.

“Goodbye, Onyankopon,” she smiled sweetly.

“Hopefully, that wouldn’t be our last meeting.”

Hange could very well agree on that.

___

When they were back in Sina, the sun was already setting, painting the streets and buildings into shades of orange, red and pink. While walking through the town, Hange was once again reminded of how beautiful it truly was. The abundance of trees and flower bushes, the shiny cobblestone and petite houses added to its charm, making Sina look almost magical.

“Pretty as a picture,” Hange had once called it, during a walk through the town with Levi by her side. Her fascination, that careless mishap almost got her lie uncovered.

“You look like you’re seeing it for the first time, four-eyes,” Levi had thrown that line carelessly, but his had narrowed ever so slightly and his frown had deepened. “Didn’t you say that you have grown up in the city?”

In that moment, Hange had almost started panicking. She could almost see it too – Levi finding out the truth, Levi dragging her to Erwin, Erwin getting everything he could out of her, him, Mike, Nanaba, Moblit, Nifa, Keiji, Abel, Levi and countless of others feeling disappointed and betrayed. The story would have ended with her standing on the gallows.

Perhaps, this end would have been more merciful. But that day, her joyful, only slightly forced laughter and a meaningless ‘Don’t you know me, Levi? I always have my head up in the clouds?’ had saved her from the early demise. And doomed her to many years of torture, heartache and self-hatred.

“Hey,” a gentle hand on her elbow broke her out of the internal misery. Hange looked up, meeting Moblit’s hazel eyes. “It will take some time until we reach the headquarters. Can we talk in the meanwhile?”

“Sure,” she shrugged. “What do you wish to talk about?”

“I actually want to ask a question. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but…” Moblit trailed off for a moment, pressing his lips in a line. Hange smiled faintly, she knew that expression too – he always wore it when he was contemplating his next move. As soon as his mind was set, it vanished, the usual kind face returning. “I would like to know why… you came here in the first place.”

That was it? Hange almost exhaled with relief. She thought he was going to ask something truly awful.

“Didn’t I tell you already? Just like Hoover, Leonhart, Braun and Galliard, I was sent to retrieve the Founding Titan.”

“But you didn’t do it. You had countless opportunities to take Eren from us, and you never acted on any of them. So why did you really come here?”

That was… a question more complicated than Hange was ready for. She didn’t know what to tell Moblit, how much she was willing to share. She had never talked about this, not to a single soul. Her comrades and friends from Marley would never understand her anyway. But Moblit wasn’t Marleyan, he didn’t possess the same mentality. Perhaps, he wouldn’t judge her. Hange was counting on that.

Without another second spent on doubt, she began her tale,

“My father was a hero – a soldier, brilliant tactician, an even better politician. He was resolute, fearsome and absolutely merciless to his enemies. No surprise that many considered him to be an ideal Marleyan citizen. And I was his only child. Naturally, everyone expected me to be as brilliant as him. I began my training at the age of five, and by the age of twelve I was already a perfect soldier. However, that’s not who I wanted to be. I wanted to explore the world, to travel to distant lands, but as the child of my father, I had my whole life controlled by him, and then, when he passed away, by the expectations everyone had for me.”

Taking a pause, Hange chanced a look at Moblit, expecting him to be disgusted or annoyed by her whining. She had everything given to her on a plate, a bright future guarantied, and she still yearned for something more. It was pathetic, wasn’t it? She was pathetic. However, Moblit… didn’t seem to share that opinion. At least, his face didn’t show the signs of it. Instead of the outrage Hange had expected to see, she was met with sympathy.

It made the pain in her chest grew tenfold.

Nevertheless, she forced herself to continue.

“I could never decide for myself, my whole life was controlled by my father’s legacy. I wanted to break free of it, by whatever means necessary. So when I heard about the mission to retrieve the Founding Titan, I latched onto that chance, convincing the brass to send me there with the kids. But I’ve arrived earlier than them, and we got separated. And so… I decided to use that time to do what I always wanted. To study and explore.”

It was the most brilliant of her adventures. She loathed being a soldier and having to kill countless enemies of Marley. But there was no war at Paradis. The only enemies were Titans, and as much as Hange felt for their struggle, she managed to convince herself that she was killing them for their own good. That she was freeing them from their never-ending curse.

“No one knew me here, and I could be whoever I wanted to. And I liked being Squad Leader Hange, because Squad Leader Hange was allowed to be as weird and curious as I wanted. People here accepted me. For the first time in my life, I felt like I found the place where I belonged.”

Of course, that wasn’t true, a mere fantasy, a delusion on her part. She was a Marleyan, a child of the man who condemned thousands of Eldians. She had no place in their world. And yet, Hange was happy. It was the bitter truth she was afraid to admit for so long - she loved the persona of Squad Leader Hange. So much more than the persona of the Professor and war engineer, Hange Zoe.

But nothing could last forever. And when the time has come to return to Marley, Hange was devastated. She lost herself in playing her own game.

“That’s it, I guess,” she said, rolling her shoulders. Looking up, she saw they were almost by the stables where they left their horses in the morning. So deep inside her own head, she failed to notice how much time had passed. “I ran away because I was sick of my life back home. And I spent five years pretending to be someone else.”

“Were you really?” Moblit watched her, his gaze inquisitive. “Were you really pretending to be someone else, Hange-san? Or did you finally allow yourself to release your true self?”

That was… a scary statement. And much more loaded than Hange could deal with in that moment.

“I could be wrong, though,” Moblit shot her an innocent smile. Hange cursed under her breath, a true devil, that’s what he was. Getting her to admit to so much of her insecurities, Moblit surely had a talent for it. And to think he asked her to help him with interrogation. He seemed to be pretty adept at it himself.

“Stay here, I’ll bring our horses,” he started walking in the direction of the stables, but at the last moment turned away, and, meeting Hange’s eyes, added, “I’m glad that you took that mission, Hange-san. And I’m glad that I got to meet the real you. All of us are.”

Hange snorted, watching Moblit go. Perhaps, her father was right about something. Devils, all of them were. How else to explain the ease with which they wormed their way into her heart?

Her shoulders dropped as soon as Moblit had disappeared from her view, and she turned to stare at the setting sun. Certainly, it was one hell of a draining conversation.

But as her thoughts were still scattered in disarray, her heart felt so much lighter. She never shared this part of her with anyone, was afraid to admit it even to herself. But now she was glad she had finally done it. Perhaps, she should have done it a long time ago. Her life could have been easier then, the amount of regrets considerably lesser.

She swept her gaze around the plaza Moblit left her at. With the day coming to an end, not a lot of people were there. As far as Hange could see, the only ones still present were a happy mother with a two children, who were feeding the pigeons on the bench at the far side of the plaza, an elderly couple, and—

And a girl that sat at the edge of the fountain. The short stature, slumped shoulders, that luscious long black hair were familiar to the point of setting Hange's heart ablaze.

She couldn't see the face, was afraid to, but even so, Hange denied what her eyes saw. Surely, it was her imagination, her mind conjuring things that weren't there. This girl, she was—

A shadow, fathom. It couldn't be— it couldn't be her. Even the possibility of it was raising the hairs at the back of Hange's neck.

It wasn't Pieck, just a random girl. Hange was wrong, simply seeing things. Those familiar traits belonged to someone else. Pieck wasn't here, in Paradis, Pieck couldn't be—

"Hange?" she jumped, and whirled around so swiftly her head went dizzy. Before her stood Moblit, his eyebrows knitted together worriedly. "Everything alright?"

She exhaled with relief. "Peachy," she answered with a smile she didn't feel. Her eyes shifted from one side of plaza to the other, searching for the figure she had seen. But like all shadows do, she simply vanished.

"I brought our horses," Moblit gestured for her to follow him. Hange did, not looking back even once.

Even so, she felt someone's gaze burning into her back all the way to the headquarters.

___

"Sorry," Moblit stood at the threshold of her room, shifting his weight from one foot to another. "I need to report to Zacklay and Pixis."

His expression was nearly apologetic. Hange patted his shoulder, touched by his not so subtle concern. "Stop worrying so much, Mob. Nothing would happen if you leave me for one evening."

Moblit kept frowning, looking as unconvinced as ever. "I'll tell Sasha and Connie to bring you dinner,” he nodded to himself. “And if you need anything, just tell the guard to call for me."

"Alright, alright. Now go!" Hange gave him a forceful push. "And make me proud!"

She didn't get an answer out of him, but she did see a faint blush appear on his cheeks. That was enough for Hange to chuckle victoriously.

Once Moblit had disappeared around the corner, Hange shoved the door closed and leaned against it. It was an exhausting, eventful day. She wanted nothing more than to rest. She headed towards the bed to fulfill that exact goal.

But no sooner than she had seated down, she heard the knock on the door. Albeit quietly, it was repeated three more times.

Sighing, Hange stood up again and walked back to the door. She swung it open, expecting to see Sasha and Connie. She was hoping to get a warm meal inside while gossiping with the two teenagers. A second later, the door stood open. And Hange's throat was closed up.

On the other side of the threshold— there was no Sasha, no Connie. Only Pieck.

And so the shadow finally took form.

Pieck was dressed similarly to her, in the dark green uniform. Her hair was gathered in a low ponytail, a smile was playing on her lips. The subtle differences in her attire only added to the sense of disbelief.

At the sight of her lovely face, all air left Hange's lungs. She desperately tried to take a breath, opening and closing her mouth rapidly. She wasn’t sure for how long she would have continued gaping like a fish fresh out of the water hadn't Pieck taken the matters in her own hands.

"It's been a while, Hange," as always, she spoke in a quiet, sugary sweet voice. Usually it calmed Hange down. Now it was sending shivers down her spine. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"Pieck," Hange meant to sound leveled, controlled. But even a single word came out shaky and unsure. "Pieck," she tried again, this time with more success. "What are you doing here?"

Pushing past Hange, Pieck walked inside the room, heavily sliding down on a chair. "Serving my country. Something you have forgotten about."

Pieck stared straight at her, hands folded in her lap, a picture of friendliness and innocence. But the smile Hange always found so endearing, now seemed almost chilling.

"Tell me, Hange, is this the part of your plan? Have you decided to use your old history with these people to destroy them from the inside? Or," Pieck paused, tilting her head to one side. She didn't look angry, or disappointed. If anything, she seemed simply curious. But the atmosphere in the room was tense, air electrified with trepidation. Hange knew Pieck all too well, she knew how dangerous the shifter girl could be. "Have you already forgotten what they did in Liberio, in our city? How they destroyed it? How killed thousands of men, women and children? These monsters almost killed Reiner, Porco," her voice wavered at the names of her dear comrades. But even then, she didn’t drop the unassuming façade. "And do you know what happened to Udo and Zophia? Have you seen what become of them?"

Stunned, Hange could only stare at Pieck. The words left her, her mind unable to come up with anything she could have used to explain herself.

Indifferent to Hange’s internal struggle, Pieck continued.

"Do you even care, Hange? About Marley, about us?"

"Of course, I do." How Pieck could even doubt that? Udo and Zophia, those bright, adorable children Hange couldn't quite imagine them being gone. "Pieck, you misunderstand, I've been captured, I'm not—"

"Don't make me laugh." Pieck interrupted curtly. "You have your own room, you walk freely through the town, you wear their uniform. Is this how they treat all of their prisoners? Awfully kind of them then, considering the monstrosities these devils committed."

"Pieck, listen—"

Pieck didn't want to.

"You always were a strange one, Hange," gracefully, the girl stood up, taking a step closer. With her hands behind her back, she started pacing, circling around Hange. "I could never understand what was going on inside your head. I still can't. But, naively, I thought that I knew you. That after years of fighting side by side, we grew close enough. And after the disaster at Liberio," she picked up a sheet of paper from Hange's desk, gave it a quick once over before disregarding it in favor of focusing her eyes on Hange once more. "I kept looking for you. I was so afraid to find your body under a fallen building or see you with a hole in the head. But you were nowhere to be found. Everyone was worried sick, the brass was livid - the devils from Paradis killed the Warhammer, took our Beast and now our brightest mind was missing as well. And then I remembered what I have seen during the fight. A short man approaching you, the same one who nearly killed Zeke, that Ackerman. I thought he had captured you, I thought you needed saving. Seems like I was wrong about that, huh?”

Even now, Pieck was keeping her calm. Despite the harsh accusations, her voice remained gentle, almost soothing. The smile was still in place, and her head was tilted up, peering into Hange’s eyes.

Hange did everything she could to escape that unsettling gaze.

“I also came to because I needed you,” Pieck continued. “I thought you would help me with my mission.”

Would she? Should she? Hange didn’t know. She knew what Professor Hange Zoe would have done. She knew what Squad Leader Hange would have done.

But what would she do?

“I guess it doesn’t matter. Whether you help us or not, the outcome will be the same. Paradis will fall, Hange. Consider it my only warning. If you wish to witness its demise alongside these devils, I won't stop you. But," without looking at Hange, Pieck laid a hand on her shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. "If your decision ever changes, I'll be happy to fight by your side."

After that, Pieck left the room, closing the door softly on her way out. Hange, however, didn’t move, remaining frozen in one place, too stunned to follow after Pieck and demand a more thorough explanation.

However... what was there to explain? Paradis will fall. Plain and simple.

Right now, Hange couldn't quite believe it, although she was supposed to expect it. What could possibly happen to that little island after Eren's desperate rampage? But even before that, Paradis was already doomed. The events that transpired at Shiganshina proved to the outside world just how dangerous the Eldians could be. And Shiganshina was simply a plant that had grown out of the seed of Grisha Yeager's crimes.

There was no hope for Paradis. There never was.

Paradis will fall.

What could she do to save it? Could she do something, anything at all? Could she help them, expose her nation's plans? Could she betray her motherland like that? If she shared the truth with people of Paradis, would they even believe her? Would her people forgive her?

Hange didn't know. Her mind was in frenzy, her thoughts flying from one horrible outcome to the other. It was in that catatonic state that Sasha and Connie found her.

"Hange-san? Is everything alright?"

Hange looked up, meeting their bewildered gazes. In that moment she realized - she didn't want these kids to die. She didn't want for them to suffer any more than they've already done. And the others - Moblit, Levi - Hange couldn't bear the thought of them in harm. But—

She didn't want for her fellow countrymen to die as well.

Fuck. Why was everything so hard these days, why it was so damn complicated? When would her heart stop tearing into two pieces? Why was everything out of her control?

It was always an issue of hers, the lack of control. This time was no different. Caught between crossfires, Hange didn't know which side to choose. Perhaps then... she shouldn't choose at all.

Perhaps, she should take the back seat. Let everything transpire the way it was supposed to be. Let them fight, let someone win.

And so, with a heavy heart and troubled consciousness, Hange came to a decision. She would not alert Paradis about the threat hanging over them. She would not help Marley in their fight.

But there was another side to all of this. Another warning, another trouble that couldn’t be ignored.

There was a danger of Marley invasion, but equally disturbing was the events transpiring inside the Walls. Something was brewing, a storm ready to swipe everyone in its path. And Hange had a nasty feeling that at the center of it, two figures stood – Yeager brothers.

Nothing could be done about Eren, Hange had doubts that even his closest friends had a single clue of what was going inside the boy’s head, what dangerous ideas were forming there. But Zeke, Hange knew how to deal with Zeke. She also knew someone who could deal with him in the most efficient way.

She didn’t know what Zeke was planning. But she was confident that Levi would be able to find out.

She just needed to give him a little push.

“Sasha,” Hange smiled at the girl, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “If you would be so kind, tell Moblit to visit me before he retires for the night.”

Moblit had mentioned that he was corresponding with Levi. The time has come to use this detail to her and the world’s advantage.

The world as they knew was changing, perhaps, it was already at the brink of collapse, horrible destruction. What did Moblit say? In these uncertain times, hope is all we have?

In that case, her only hope was Levi.

[adrieunor]

to both eat well (1/?)

Pairing: Din Djarin & Original Mandalorian, Din Djarin/Nice things. (F)Mandalorian Reader (but largely GN in this narrative.)

Rating: T+ (may change in the future) 

Word count: 2.4k 

A non-linear, paint by numbers friendship. Can friendship be slow burn? It can now. A gratuitous excuse to lore build Mandalorian culture, with a side of speculation on Din Djarin’s place within it from the perspective of another Mandalorian.  Narrator is an apprenticed armorer (fool) who ends up making all those whistling birds Din Djarin uses (in excess, she’d argue.) 

Completely disregards S2, and picks and chooses what it wants from canon lore. I strongly think Din Djarin needs a friend who will look at his crusty, bachelor life style and go, “bitch, you live like this??”

Does revolve around a faith (The Way), what would constitute cultural practices for a fictional group, and food-- so if food-talk is not your thing, I won’t mind if you skip this one. No beta, because fuck man, just take it. 

******************

The beroya has a name. You know it, that knowledge floats somewhere in the back of your mind, as light and as useful to you as dust and fine spiderwebs. His name holds little distinction, as memorable as the names of the rats the foundlings catch and train for pets; the same level of import to you, which is to say: very little. 

Vizsla speaks it, more than once. But you always remember Vizsla’s cadence more than his words. The barely hidden sneer in his voice. 

There are many who consider Vizsla too rough, his bulk as intimidating as his temper. 

Succinctly: an asshole. 

Which, to be fair, you don’t deny. But you also think he’s just got a lot of –ness to him, with no place for it to go down below in the tunnels. A heavy infantry like Vizsla is meant to win wars, but there are no wars to be won and the tunnels only stretch so far for his presence. 

You understand, at least in part; if you were displaced outside your forge, tossed above ground where the expanse is simply unending, you’d be an asshole too. 

A tunnel baby like you has no place above ground, leave it for the infantry like Paz Vizsla or the hunters, like—

Well. Anyway. 

So you like that about Paz Vizsla, for all his –ness it’s the right kind of stuff; his intentions are in the right place, most of the time, even if his words are as blunt as his fists. 

Which might be why you end up, out of all the mando in the tribe, to sit beside him at meal times. 

Which also means you end up, out of all the mando in the tribe, to listen to him gripe.

Paz does not suffer in silence, he’d sooner let someone else suffer the brunt of his frustrations. The tribe has learned to let it be you, as Paz would only dare to raise a hand at one of the few individuals who knows how to service his armor.

He speaks it again, spoken lowly in the gathering hall, his helm ducking in deference to the old matron who serves tonight. You know better than to hold the line up, serving Vizsla a generous helping, two and a half ladles, before passing the ladle to him.

“A quarter,” you say, and he hesitates—“I’ll get more after this.”

That’s enough that he obliges. The ladle’s handle is so small, dainty, in his hand as he scrapes its lip against the rim of your bowl to catch the drips before returning it to the pot. You eye it for a moment—it was good enough, but it could be better.

(A tribe the size of yours hardly needs two blacksmiths at once in the forge; you wouldn’t dare voice it to your teacher, but you’re growing bored.)

You finish your thanks first and, before he’s lifted his head from his own, you’ve already placed the small bowl of red flakes by his hand. Vizsla grunts, rapping his knuckles against the table—my thanks to your consideration.  

You tilt to your right, letting your helm brush against his arm—you’re welcome—before your hands move to lift it from your head. The soft release of a valve and Vizsla’s buy’ce settles besides yours on the table.

The beroya had come that day, dropping off another fistful of meager credits to Teacher. Paz, because he was Paz, had shouldered into him in the entryway to the forge. Words had been exchanged, blades had been brandied, and your Teacher had, once again, interrupted another fight between two grown men.

And now Paz was taking it out on his food, which, by its glaring color, had already seen a generous fistful of spice in the kitchens.

“You don’t like him.” It’s not meant to be more than a passing comment, your thoughts more tangled with the fragrant, savory grains before you, but you’ve gone and poked the bantha—sigh.

Who had cooked today? Vox? Roe? Either mando always took to heart heat when it was their turn. Too far, maybe, but you’d be teased mercilessly if you voiced this. It’s been years since you ate from the children’s pot.

(You spare a thought for the considerably lighter, fragrant stew that had bubbled next to the adult’s. It had looked good. You like a savory, sweet porridge, but you like preserving your pride more.)

Your fork scrapes against the wooden plate. Could you sneak another drink, or would it be too telling?

“He is arrogant,” your vod grouses. “He’s been on the surface too long and thinks himself above the rest of us.”

The bite of his words is lessened by his sniffles. You pass your cloth to him, and he blows into it messily. You won’t be asking for that one back.

“A mando who will not sit to sha’kajir does not consider us tribe.”

Speak of ill tidings and they will arrive. No, you amend, that’s not very fair, is it?

The beroya enters the room and, like hands clasping over little ears, the voices of the hall lessen to a murmur. If he cares, he doesn’t show it, not in the tilt of his buy’ce or the set of his shoulders.

He walks a straight path towards the simmering pots over the fire; no one gestures to him in greeting and he makes none. He serves himself, bypassing the Matron who had stood to regard him. A single ladle of hot grains, a comically small portion compared to your companion’s own serving.

He turns. No one moves to offer him seating, though there’s plenty.

The beroya strides out, his cape flutters before he disappears around the doorway. Not once had his unadorned helmet bothered to look left or right.

A beat passes before the hall returns to its rumbling conversations. You fold your hands into your lap, meal forgotten, as your eyes slide from the empty doorway back to your plate of yellow and orange.

“Is it arrogance? Or devotion?”

Vizsla breathes in sharply. You’re not sure in response to your question or to clear his sinuses.

You press on, fingertips to fingertips as you speak to your plate, “Is it not our Creed? Perhaps he holds what is sacred only to an audience of himself.”

Even from your own mouth, you find it a lonely notion.

You’ve heard outsiders think that never means never—but, then, how would you eat?

What stronger way for warriors to grow closer, outside of battle, than this? Your weapons forged in fire, the food that fills your belly warmed by the same flame.

How could one build and solder and mend bonds if not through the intimacy of eating well? Bare one’s proverbial neck and trust that your company would protect you at your vulnerable, commune with you to eat and be strong?

Sha’kajir is trust, is sacred no matter how plain the fare. To eat with your tribe is to be loved and protected, and to love and protect in turn.

Thank you for attending to my needs, thank you for letting me grow strong in your company.

You probe, cautiously, “What does it mean for a mando to eat in private—where the only time he can remove his helmet in the company of others, he abstains?" You break decorum, plain words sound best now, when you wish to speak plain truths: “Isn’t it… isn’t it lonely, don’t you think?”

(Who does he thank if alone? Who lets him grow strong, if only just him?)

“Then he thinks his own company better than his kin,” Paz decides, pushing his plate away.

You turn your head, and you don’t need a mirror or a visor to know your own expression is pitying; the love you hold for the Way is made from the same sinews and muscles that love your people—your eyes, no doubt large and dark the way Paz despises, go to his jaw, his ear. The intimacy of looking into his eyes—the thought of it alone!—you wouldn’t dare in such a communal space.

“You don’t believe that.”

“I do.”

You watch the ear twitch as the jaw clenches and your eyes slide away, downwards.

The beroya walks an adherence to the Creed stricter than even your own leader, adherence unheard of to the point of isolating—alienating, ostracizing. It scratches at your thoughts in a way your vod are unwilling to address (how strange for normally direct people!).

“What should make him sacred only makes him more profane in your eyes, then.” Your stomach turns, the food does not agree with you. And you’re not sure you agree with your own thoughts.

Your rumination is broken by a snort, Paz folding his own large hands in front of his empty plate. “You sound like your buir.”

You recognize it for what it is: conceding. Your friend will not push this with you, not when you’ve barely touched your food. Your hand comes to hover over your forgotten spoon, and you murmur the words that always come when nothing else is enough. “This is the Way.”

“Eat,” Paz says, nudging you, “Eat and be well, vod.”

******************

Paz Vizsla is gone now.

Away, somewhere. To the winds—if he lives.

If he’s gone—no, you squash the thought before it continues. You did not see his helmet among the piles, no sight of a dark blue cuirass fallen by the wayside of the tunnels.

He would not like you so unsure.

You need to be strong.

******************

Teacher grasps the back of your helmet, bringing your foreheads together in a bruising clunk. 

“Ad’ika,” she says, and she hardly gives time for you to suck in the shuddering, wet and wretched gasp that tears from your throat, “Go, go with him.” 

This isn’t your teacher, nor your armorer. This is buir—her voice as familiar as hammer to anvil, for all that it wrecks your heart into a mangled heap now. 

“No, no, no.” You shake your head, scraping temple to temple, beskar to beskar, but you do not break her grip. You cannot, for how tightly her leathered hands grasp your helm. “I will not leave you—I’m not finished—” 

“Ad’ika, you are mine—”

There’s a ringing in your ears and someone is crying, like a lost foundling. Like a child. It might be you. It can’t be. You haven’t been a child in so long now. Not since your first blade, your first kit-- you’re spiraling.  

You cannot hear all that she is saying over your own protests. 

“—made you in my image, and you will not end here.” Buir snarls, fisting the thick weave covering your shoulder, “You will listen to me, I command it.” 

“I don’t want to go-”

“I unname you.” 

Three words so cleanly severing you at the neck, you nearly buckle to the ground if not for her hold. 

Buir breathes, one great breath of calamity and resolution. 

“I release you. Your hammer your own. Your fire your own.”

She taps her helmet once more to yours, gentle despite her fierce grip, before her fingers loosen. 

“Leave me.” 

******************

You climb into the boat, limbs stiff and spirit shaken. Shock. You must be in shock. Nothing else can describe surely the ice that’s settled into your stomach. Your beskar has never felt cold before, not once, not ever. 

It freezes you now, despite the heat that surrounds you. 

Your mastery should have been spectacle, celebrated by your covert. 

Your severing – your exile – should have been private, the end of your bond held in silence. 

Instead, it was witnessed by outsiders, who awkwardly shuffle and part way for you. Ignorant to what they’ve witnessed, blind to the turmoil that nearly burns you inside your own armor. 

Din Djarin will not look at you. 

The only thing that stops you from jumping into the lava is the dishonor it’d bring to your beskar. 

******************

Later, later, later: 

He only asks, once. When it’s just you and him, awake. The foundling, asleep. Turning in his seat, he looks at you for the first time. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been held in his attention, not once, not ever. His fingers flex, like they’d rather hold a blade or a blaster than whatever conversation he’s ramping up to speak. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“With you?” 

The unembellished helm tips forward. 

You turn your head. “No.” 

He doesn’t ask again. You stand from your seat and go down below. 

******************

You don’t remember what you do. 

It’s only with a jolt that you find yourself staring at an open panel, plainly marked boxes of rations stacked neatly side by side. Wherever your spirit had gone, its dumped itself back into your armor. 

The Razor Crest moves underneath your feet. It must be subtle, but for someone who has lived their entire life below in the tunnels, it’s jarring enough that you feel unsteady. You bite your cheek and brace yourself, this will not be what breaks you.

There’s no way to tell the passing of time on the ship, but your helmet’s display tells you hours have passed since your narrow escape. 

You should feel hunger, feel something, but you’re hollowed out and only routine keeps you climbing up the ladder to the beroya—Din Djarin.

The foundling coos at the sight of you, but his father shows no other sign than the tapping of his fingers against the ship’s controls.

“We need to eat.”

Seconds pass and you think he’s choosing to ignore you, before his voice breaks the silence. “There’s food below.”

“Yes,” you say, tilting you head, “I found it. Will you… Will you share food with me?”

The words sound awkward, stilted out of your mouth.

“Take what you need.” Djarin lifts a hand, a wave, and you press your lips tightly together—you’ve never…you’ve never had to ask before, like this.

“You misunderstand.” Your fingers curl into your palms, but you will not clench them, despite the roiling in your stomach. Hunger or nerves, you’re lightheaded. “Will you sit and eat well with me, vod?”

Djarin stills in his movements, as if he was not already so still before. You imagine it has been a very long time since anyone has called him so familiarly, not with the wide berth he is given below. He turns, slowly, and regards you.

You don’t know him well enough to read him; you can’t decipher what the tilt of his helm means, or the way his fingers flex before he looks somewhere to your left.

“I’ll… I’ll eat later.”

Oh.

Your stomach twists, painfully, but your mouth is dry as ashes. Okay.

Any longer in this shared space, in your humiliation, and you might fold—and you are not brittle, you are not made of weaker metals.

You turn, dismissed.

No murmuring conversation. No crackling flame. No gentle hiss of helmets being placed respectfully side by side. Just the one, just your own, set beside you.

Sitting on the floor with your legs crossed, in the hull of the ship—the belly of a beast that takes you farther and farther away from all you’ve ever known—you are, for the first time in your life, alone. 

Fingertips to your lips, you close your eyes. If your eyes prickle, sting, you can pretend it’s from the spices you’re imagining.

When you open your eyes, vision only a little blurry, the meal is still the same. The reconstituted food is plain, the portion meager and colorless. You think of the mandalorian in the upper deck, and you recognize, now, the hesitancy in his voice at the offer you’d extended.

Din Djarin who has, to your knowledge, never taken his helmet off—eating alone, being alone, surrounded by a community but still singular. Still solitary.

Still strong, in spite of it all.

Lonely, but devout. Profane, but still Mandalorian.

(Firm in his hold to protect a foundling, but unsure of whether he trusts you, when you call him kin.)

You can respect that spirit, even if you don’t fully understand.You must, if you want to live. 

Above in the cockpit, you know he can’t hear you--let alone your thoughts.

You thank him, anyway, and eat.

******************

Notes: Likeeee...I just don’ttt buy that a terribly tight, secretive community of people who consider being warriors and caring for your clan a core tenant wouldn’t eat together. I think there’s SO MUCH TO UNPACK FROM s1 Mandalorian culture glimpses we get that go totally unexplored in s2. I also fucking love the parallels between jedi and mandalorian, who TALK FUNNY (FORMALLY) and have their OWN mysticism whether they wanna admit it or not. The ARMORER? RIDICULOUSLY cool character that goes unexplored. My solution? Here’s a fanatical apprentice mandalorian who loves nothing but beskar, beskar, and the work. 

I don’t think a ship is gonna work out here. I genuinely think my little beskar goblin is too obsessed with her forge and, now, the wellbeing of the only other clan mate she has to even consider bumping uglies with anyone. She is...a workaholic and obsessed with her calling. Songbird will shake herself out of stupor soon enough to curse Djarin for his negligent maintenance of his most important weapon-- his body! 

So yeah, come talk to me about my own headcanons for why Din doesn’t remove his helmet among his own kin, when they likely do among themselves. If this has piqued your interests at all, let me knowww and I’ll add you to the tags. 

[project-ohagi]

Keigo Takami ღ Hawks x Reader 1/4

Buy me a coffee!! <3

[A/N]: Light spoilers for anime-onlys.

Trigger Warnings: Anxiety/Depression, Mentions of Self-Harm and Attempted Suicide.

-----

Parts 2 / 3 / 4

You said 'Forever'. The gentle dripping of tears was being drowned out, not only by your depressive thoughts, but by the music playing full-blast. Was that all just a lie? Did I ever really mean anything to you? Was I ever truly special? Was I just being used?...Did you throw me away?

Songs proclaiming solitude, misery and heartbreak were echoing off the walls, while in desperation, you hoped and prayed that they would be enough to block out your desolate cries. They resonated as the wretched sobs of angels, as you tried urgently to grapple the truth, to understand where…and when, everything collapsed around you. It is often claimed that the gods bequeath the hardest battles to their toughest soldiers, but your fragile soul was shattering under the weight of their expectations. Couldn’t that be any more obvious? Or were you supposed to splinter, further and further, until nothing was left save for a few, worthless pieces? What was anyone to do with them? The man who had swooped up your heart, fancying to toy with it, yet unwittingly becoming invested…the one who always cherished you, even amidst the darkness - the emotional storm…he was finally gone. You wondered if all the special events, birthdays, Valentine's…did he ever hold them dear?...Or were they replaceable, just like you?

You wondered if he had discovered a new adventure, whether he was bedding another, or had been, behind your back…The anguish dulled your usual, bright sparkle, your passion for life…everything. You wished so badly for a second chance. What had you done to warrant such blatant disregard, such ignorance of your very existence? What had you done? If only he would whisper those much-needed words…even if you must strain to hear them…you would launch yourself at any opportunity to remedy this. Whichever of your actions he disagreed with, you could make it right.

You could make it right…together!

There was no-one else - no family, no friends. Without Keigo, you had nothing, and nothing mattered anymore. Both of you harboured issues, pertaining to trust and otherwise, so despite a two-year relationship, you still lived apart. Although, items reminding of him littered nearly every inch of your apartment. He always spoke so earnestly of wanting to relocate you, but life…personal problems…there was forever something blocking you, like…the very fabric of your beings would unravel if you got too close, too…intimate. As the dirges struck your ears, almost managing to muffle completely your incessant cries, you found a couple of his old shirts - ones he had gifted to you, so you wouldn’t be too lonely in his absence. Of course, they weren't anything compared to him and his warm, loving embraces, but they retained his scent…and it was heavenly.

You couldn’t resist, as much as your mind fought to, wrapping yourself once more in his fragrance…his memory. You savoured it, and your dormant self-loathing started to attack, more ferociously than ever before. Why did he leave? Well, wasn’t that obvious? He despised you, even more than you did. It wasn’t difficult for your mind to believe, but your heart…

…Your heart was a different story entirely.

It remained true to him. It stayed loyal, in spite of the agonising pain. It just couldn’t fathom how…why…He had no reason to up and leave, without so much as mentioning it. Every call forwarded straight to voicemail; he never picked up, never contacted you back, never made an effort to reach out. You couldn’t help worrying for his health, for his safety, but you were breaking. He was your whole world, and he just…disappeared. You hadn’t even seen him flying around the city, although you knew he was there. So, he was simply avoiding you. Hawks…the extraordinary, wonderful man, to whom you owed your very life…He had long become your hero - the only hero you required.

He was your saviour, your knight in shining armour…the one who lifted you from the chasm of self-doubt, of…anxiety and depression, in a way. He never failed to shield you from your demons, even at their most potent. But…he didn’t see the manifest torture, the harm you inflicted upon your skin. He couldn’t make the time, nor the energy. You disguised them so, incredibly well…He just couldn’t have noticed. He couldn’t have possibly comprehended the extent of your dark ideations…everything you wished to achieve.

Rather…the endgame. The method to the madness, the reason for all the pain, all the suffering. It was death. Of course it was death. You certainly didn’t expect anything less, but Keigo…would he be horrified, if he eventually returned, hoping to make amends, only to discover a corpse…the lifeless shell of his former lover? Would he feel regret? Loss? Sorrow? Or would he rejoice, that he was no longer shackled to such an expendable person, such a burden on his dreams? He desired to fly freely, unimpeded, right? Well…maybe you would grant his wish. Or maybe the universe would. Either way, he wouldn’t be obliged to love you anymore, to cuddle with you, share his snacks, or lie awake at night, listening intently as you described how horribly the world had treated you.

"I guess this is goodbye…Keigo." You muttered, staring at the piles upon piles of shirts, trying desperately to hold back the floodgates.

If only you had been clued in on his mission to infiltrate the League of Villains…if only he was allowed to send a message. But he wasn't. They refused it. They stressed the dangers, manipulated him at his weakest - when you nestled at the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t risk getting you involved, couldn’t risk…you being tortured, killed, or something worse. But…informing you of his absence, instead of simply leaving…why wouldn’t they permit that? It should have been safe. Just a note...something! He understood their hatred of you, but it was unfounded, petty. You never once dragged him away from them, from his work, so why? Why did they resort to such underhanded tactics, to split the two of you apart? Out of everyone they could have selected for this covert mission…why did it have to be the guy with so much to lose? You served as his guiding light, the one thing keeping the officials at the Safety Commission alive, and clear of his wrath.

Why were they so blind to that? It was always something new - you were spotted with another man, lip-locked and living it up, or you were being irresponsible, partying every other day, with three men on your arm. Their tall stories were ridiculous. They tried to convince him that you embodied some vile, evil seductress. They said you wouldn’t remain faithful, that his time was wasted on you.

Could they have been any more wrong?

Cursing under his breath, he whispered, "Wait for me, angel. I promise, I'll be with you soon. Just, please…wait for me."

How was he to know that nobody caught you, nobody saved you? That they all just watched, as you fell…? On who would he place the blame? Civilians, whom he protected at any cost? The Commission, who raised him, who brainwashed him into becoming what he was? Or, would he blame himself?

Only time would grant the answer.

[Word Count: 1202]

[sick-tunes]

“I found a picture of you, oh, oh. Those were the happiest days of my life. Like a break in the battle was your part, oh, oh, in the wretched life of a lonely heart. Now, I'm back on the train, yeah, oh, oh, back on the chain gang.”

[goldrun]

Built on glass

A/N: I drabble no one asked for? You got it! Spreading some Dwalin love. Also, there’s gonna be a part two, since that’s the only way for me to keep on writing.

Taglist: @nerdbirdsworld​ @daydreamer-in-training​ @dreams-of-wander​ @bluemirkwood​

Pairing: Dwalin x Reader

Word count: 1807

Warnings: Mentions of sex

Dwalin was known as the grumpy and gruff dwarf but, beside everything he was a true fighter. He fought many battles and the scars were still visible. He may looked tough, but every warrior has a soft spot. Living in the Blue Mountains, he found himself in the forges everyday. Working hard and breaking many a sweat. Dwalin was a lonely dwarf who never wed. Not that he never wanted a wife, he just thought it wasn’t something for him. He could never picture himself with a wife and children. He was alone and he was content with it. Something Balin could never understand. But there were times Dwalin had needs as well. 

Tonight Dwalin stood in front of a brothel. Someplace he’d always promised himself to never turn to, but tonight he did. He despised himself for it. It was located in a dark alley, a secluded place far from town. In front of the entrance hung a thick red velvet curtain. He looked nervously around him, praying he wouldn’t see someone familiar. Two sparsely dressed dwarrowdams walked past by him closely, as they heard them whisper something to each other, words he wished he’d heard. The two women disappeared into another alley. Dwalin looked up to the sky, it was a full moon and the air was cold. He was attempting to sort his thoughts, but he couldn’t. He took a deep breath as he stepped towards the red curtain and pulled it away. 

He stepped into a small room, with in the back a wooden counter. There were dwarrows everywhere he could look. The usually tough and burly dwarf never felt smaller and more insecure than in this very moment.

An older dwarrow welcomed him. “Goodnight master! How may I help you?” She asked politely. 

“I-I’d like a room please.” He answered nervously. Was he really doing this? 

She looked questionable as she furrowed her eyebrows. “Very well! Tonight is not very busy, so we have enough girls to assist you.” She smiled. “Is there anyone of your liking?” 

Dwalin took a quick look around. Sure they were all beautiful but none of them really caught his eye. And then his gaze landed on you. You wore a blue robe, made of a see through linen and left almost nothing to his imagination. You made him think of a warm breeze on a summer evening or a red wine with with hints of peaches and plums. 

“Her.” He said without breaking eye contact with you. “Marvelously!” She said joyful. “Y/N will you take it from here?” 

You nodded and without saying a word you walked up the dark wooden stairs as Dwalin followed you. Walking past by three other doors you reached yours. You didn’t even had a key. When you opened the door you let Dwalin in first, you followed after. Your room was small, and only contained a bed, a couch, a wooden chair and a small cabinet for your belongings, which weren’t many. 

He sat down on the end of the bed while you stood in front of him. “What’s your name?” You asked sudden and you looked into his eyes. You heard the fire crackling in the fireplace behind you. “Dwalin.” He answered shortly as if he wanted to keep it a secret. “Well, I’m Y/N.” He hadn’t shown any reaction. “Is this your first time here?” You wondered when you turned your head sideways a little. He nodded. “Do I need to explain how this works?” You said as you stepped closer to him. Your hand reached for the buckle that kept your robe together but then you felt a large hand on your upper arm. “Don’t.” Dwalin enjoined. “I’ll pay you so you’ll be not getting in trouble.”

“W-why? Am I not what you expected?” You startled and took a step back.

“No no you are. It’s just…” He paused. “It doesn’t feel right.” He said and took a glance at you.

You felt relieved, not understanding why. You’ve done this many times. You put on your grey robe, which covered most of your body now. Dwalin sat down on the old couch and you sat down on a dark brown chair at the opposite of him.

“I have heard about you. You’re well known in the Blue Mountains.” You acknowledged. 

Dwalin chuckled softly, it sounded more like a grumble. “Positive things I hope?”

“Yes, about your battles. How many you’ve won.” You turned your face to him. “But I never expected to meet you in a place like this.”

“Me neither.” He chortled. “What about you?” He questioned.

“I have worked here ever since I was young. I really don’t know anything better than this.”

“Was it your own choice?” He questioned. You shook your head while staring at the wall.

“The lady downstairs, I assume she’s your boss. Does she treat you well?”

“She is, and she does, in her own way.” You shrugged and lied. Dwalin nodded.

“I have a ten-year* old daughter, her name is Mera.” You revealed. “I really don’t want to let her grow up in this wretched place. I hope one day we can escape this. I’m saving every coin I can.” You looked down while fiddling with the fabric of your robe.

Dwalin sighed, his heart was swelled with sympathy. He couldn’t believe he was going to ask this. “Would you like to move into my house?” He asked, glaring at you. 

“Do you really mean that? I’m not sure if I can accept such an offer.” You said surprised. Dwalin nodded. If any other man would’ve asked you this you would’ve definitely said no, you could already guess their intentions. But something about him felt…reliable.

“This is no place for a child to grow up.” He paused. “My house, it’s not big, but it’s decent.” You didn’t know what to say. “You can find a job in town and find your own place for you and your daughter when you’re able to.” He continued, sharing a glance. You could even see a twinkle in his eye.

“I don’t want to seem like as if I’m taking advantage of you.” You said. “I would love to come with you, but aren’t you afraid of what people are going to say?” 

“Couldn’t care less about what the folks may think.” 

You smiled. “Alright, I’ll just go grab my stuff.” You walked towards the drawer as you pulled out a large bag and started to gather your most important stuff. The last thing you packed was a stuffed animal, a rabbit, for Mera. 

“I’ll go fetch Mera.” You said. She was with your friend, Bronn, on the top floor, where the living space was located. “Yes, just take your time.” Dwalin said. 

You walked out of your room, heading towards the stairs and then Bronn’s room when you knocked on the door. “Amad!!” You heard a high pitched voice scream. The door flew open. “Sanûrzud!” You said lovingly as you picked her up, her little arms around you neck. “Shouldn’t you be asleep my dear?” You asked curiously. “No Bronn let me stay up!” You smiled at the chemistry they had.  “No I didn’t! She just didn’t want to sleep!” Bronn chimed in as you laughter followed. 

But then your face turned serious. “Bronn I need to tell you something."

"What is it?" She said when she sat down on her bed. Her long brown hair fell in waves over her shoulders. You sat down next to her with Mera on your lap who quietly snuggled into you.

"We're going to leave tonight." You paused shortly. "Permanently."

Bronn needed to process it all. "Where are you going?"

"I had a client tonight. We didn't do anything, he even gave me money so i wouldn't get in trouble. And he offered me to go with him." You told her.

"I understand, I would've done the same. You want the best for Mera." Bronn acknowledged. 

Tears welled up in her eyes. "I'm going to miss you two girls so much!" She said, hugging the both of you. “We’re going to miss you too!” You said as you embraced her. “We will meet again, I’m sure.” Bronn nodded, almost crying. 

You stood up while carrying Mera on one arm, she fit in perfectly. Bronn walked you towards the door and embraced you once more. “Take care.” She said at last.

While walking down the stairs and towards your room, you felt a relieve. None of these rooms you will ever see again. 

“We’re ready.” You said while standing on the sill and Dwalin rose  from the chair and smiled when he noticed Mera in your arms, who couldn’t fight the battle of sleep. “So this is Mera.” He said, looking delighted, mimicking your expression. You chuckled. “Yes, this is my little ball of sunshine.” His gaze softened. 

You looked around your room, as if you we’re saying goodbye.

“I’ll take your bag.” He said, when he picked it up from your bed.

“You ready?” Dwalin asked. You nodded slowly as your gaze turned to his. 

“Ready.”

Miss Vogur, your boss, looked up disapproving when she saw you walking towards her counter. “And where do you think you’re going?” She never took a liking of you, and when you became pregnant she treated you even worse. No matter how hard you tried to be nice to her, she always found something on you to pick on. “I’m leaving for a better life.”

“A better life.” She almost choked on her words. “You should be thankful to me for taking care of you all these years you ungrateful girl.” Miss Vogur said with a mocking voice. It made you shudder. 

“You were born a whore and you will always be a whore!” She spit the words in your face as you took a step back, in shock. 

“That’s enough!” Dwalin chimed in and stood in front of you protectively. “You’re nothing!” Miss Vogur was the last thing she managed to say when Dwalin led you towards the exit of the building. The sudden quietness and the cold air outside immediately calmed  you down. “What a wretched woman.” He said. “Trust me, I’ve met women worse than her.” You answered with a glance.

You looked down at Mera, who managed to sleep throughout the entire argument. This was really for the best. For the both of you.

“This way.” Dwalin said and gestured towards an alley. You let out a soft sigh as you walked next to him.

This was your way to a new life.

Translation:

Sanûrzud – perfect (true/pure) sun

*5 years old in human years

[breezingby]

Pretenders ~ Back On The Chain Gang (1982)

I found a picture of you, oh oh oh oh What hijacked my world that night To a place in the past We've been cast out of? Oh oh oh oh Now we're back in the fight We're back on the train Oh, back on the chain gang

A circumstance beyond our control, oh oh oh oh The phone, the TV and the news of the world Got in the house like a pigeon from hell, oh oh oh oh Threw sand in our eyes and descended like flies Put us back on the train Oh, back on the chain gang

The powers that be That force us to live like we do Bring me to my knees When I see what they've done to you But I'll die as I stand here today Knowing that deep in my heart They'll fall to ruin one day For making us part

I found a picture of you, oh oh oh oh Those were the happiest days of my life Like a break in the battle was your part, oh oh oh oh In the wretched life of a lonely heart Now we're back on the train Oh, back on the chain gang

[shirokaneki]

364 Days of Winter (Hatori x Shigure Comission)

I am currently doing writing comissions at £10 for 1k, £20 for 2k, £60 for 8k. Yes, I will do NSFW, come message me for details and examples of that and I’ll discuss pricing. I will also write about your OC’s, main fandoms i can do are fruits basket, tokyo ghoul, fate series, evangelion, madoka, pokemon, but whatever it is come discusss with me. Reblogs appreciated!

A figure stood alone in a world devoid of colour, consumed both inside and out by an empty void of white.

Wind howled like a lone wolf. Ice belted from a blank sky, punching holes into his chest like showers of bullets.

This wretched snowstorm had lasted for days. And there was no spring in sight. Nor even any water after the ice. The state of his feelings were unchanging; stuck away in limbo, smothered – as they had been for years. His love was unrequited, and gradually the feeling gnawed away at him, just like the world gradually drowning in a frenzy of ice.

Even lighting a single flame was a struggle. Cigarette in mouth, lighter in hand, he made a futile attempt at kindling something warm. A wisp of heat ignited the bluish night, however, the ruthless wind brutally blew it away, cold assaulting his shivering body like the sunken fangs of a wild beast. The flame was blown away by the hollow gust of wind.

It felt as though he could summon no emotion within him without wretched ice demolishing him somehow.

He’d never needed a cigarette so much in his life. On this particular New Year’s Eve it looked like they might get snowed in overnight – his worst nightmare, really. Part of him hoped he wouldn’t turn up, say the snow was so bothersome and stay at home. Yet, part of him was almost excited that he would. It was such a stupid, childish feeling that he loathed. It seemed so futile, all of it – his unrequited love, his need for a cigarette, yet, he had no choice but to continue attempting trying to spark a flame– such a cold existence needed to smoke. He needed the warmth to suck the life out of to keep his heart from completely freezing over.

His love for Shigure was like his addition to cigarettes: a cancerous, one way burn that was killing him slowly. Yet, he needed it to survive. Hope that he’d somehow get his fix kept him battling the storm. Snow swirled and blasted, wind wailing as it reared for another assault on him. It hit him like the voracity of a quickly broken heart, painting the world in a growing limbo of nothingness, just like the ice gradually freezing his heart.

His heart seemed to be freezing over at such a rate that he depended on the cancer-sticks like an injection of heat into the insides. It was an effort, for sure, but somehow he managed to light a tiny flame. Literally as well as figuratively; using his burning hands as a shield, and turning his back on the snowstorm, a meagre flame flickered weakly inside his hands, spreading a weak, yet pleasant heat like the withering hope inside him that anything good could ever come of this emotion. Even if by some slim chance it worked out – which it wouldn’t – Akito would be furious. These daydreams were purely that, – just fantasy.

Everyone knew how it had went when he’d incurred Akito’s wrath before.

His body shuddered at the thought. Cigarettes seemed to be the only thought keeping him going through the night. If any of the zodiac couldn’t make it to the banquet, Akito would be furious. Thinking about it, he drew on the cigarette like his life depended on it. As he blew out the smoke it weaved and spiraled into a shape somewhat similar to a dragon before withering away to the clutches of ice.

What a fun night it’s going to be, he thought bitterly.

“Haa-san!” came a faraway voice, filled with such vigour and perk that his heart soared before plummeting back down with his usual pessimistic dread.

“Shi… shigure?” Hatori replied abruptly, realising he’d shown way too much emotion in that instant. He really hadn’t expected him to be here, especially running towards him at full blast over ice. He didn’t like people seeing his emotions – especially when they were filled with a gross, girlish crush unbefitting a grown man, so he cleared his throat, replying in a lower, deadpan voice. He let his sleek black hair fall across his expression so it was hidden once more. “Good to see you. I didn’t think you’d be making it tonight.”

Shigure stood before him and beamed. “Looks like there is going to be quite a few of our zodiac missing tonight. Many are snowed in. It’s going to be an interesting night, so I made sure to bring lots of alcohol!”

“Shigure,” Hatori muttered slowly. The wind made his hair wisp, revealing that scarred eye which he quickly hid with a down-turned head.  ”You live out with the Sohma land, the farthest away of us all, yet you’re the one still here. You did something, didn’t you?” His hand clenched as a fist by his side. “Did something happen between you and Akito?”

“Oh, Hatori.” Shigure stepped into the shelter of the Japanese style roof, shadow passing over his features. Hatori just knew there was malicious intent from a certain darkness in his gaze, but what he could not tell. “You know I’ll do anything to break the curse and draw distance between the zodiac and their God.” He smirked.” I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Hatori felt like one of the only people who knew of Shigure’s true nature. It was selfish. He’d use anyone to get what he wanted. Yet, somehow, he still loved him despite this, and for that, he had no reason why. It was hard for him to make new relationships, so perhaps instead the heart was clinging to the nostalgia of an old one, remembering all the joyous moments him, Ayame and Shigure shared. The heart wanted what the heart wanted, he supposed, even if there was no fathomable reason why.

“Oh, Haa-san, by the way,” Shigure retaliated in a sing song voice. A complete flip in two sides of the same coin – as was usual for Shigure. “Your partner for the traditional dance this year has dropped out. I figured you wouldn’t want to do it yourself, so I’m offering myself up instead. Since we haven’t rehearsed  anything traditional together, I figured we should do some sort of easy ballroom dance you see in hollywood movies instead. Look!” He rummaged the bag in his hand and unfurled a long, pink ballroom dress. “I even had this dress made especially for you!”

Hatori walked away and slammed the door in his face. There was a click of a key being locked.

“It was a joke, a joke Haa-san, this is one of Ayame’s dresses!” Shigure whined, pounding on the door, “please don’t leave me out here to freeze!”

***

Eventually, someone took pity on Shigure and let him in. But it was just as cold on the inside as it was out. The atmosphere hung over them with a heavy sense of dread. There was a banquet: bright, colourful and overfilled with food. Yet there was hardly anyone to eat it. There was just Hatori, Shigure and a falsely bright Ayame trying to lighten the mood.

Akito could hardly be considered to be considered a presence. They just sat in the corner, silent, crossed armed, hair fallen over their face, poisoning radiating from them that tainted the air. Shigure was cheerful – too cheerful;  this definitly had something to do with him.

They began drinking hard. That much was needed.

Something battered at the house. A gust of wind howled ominously loud like an impending storm, and everything went black.

All the light was gone once again.

“Looks like the power has gone out. Do we have any candles?” Ayame said lightly, attempting to brighten the mood, but there was a definite sense of unease in his voice.

Akito didn’t answer. They remained silent, brewing like the storm outside.

“We have them. I’ll get them from the kitchen,” Shigure replied.

They sat in both silence and darkness, awkwardly waiting for Shigure to return.

Fwoosh.

Upon his return, there was light again. Shigure lit candles in the room one by one. Sparking light was beyond an easy task for him – much unlike how it was with Hatori outside.

“Hatori.” Akito’s voice was like a light airy breeze, soft, yet hollow sounding, despite the clear malice bitten back within. Hellish flames danced on their skin. They had been plotting, scheming something to cause a scene, and it looked like now it was finally time. “Do your traditional dance.”

Hatori hung his head. “However, my partner…”

“Partner?” Akito looked head on at them for the first time that night, those empty gray eyes bulging with malice. “Don’t make me laugh, Hatori. You will dance the dance alone – like you always are. It should be natrual for you, right?”

Akito’s words were like an icicle straight through his chest. Not that there was any trace of it on his face; his expression was still, stoic, not even a flinch of surprise as his heart was pierced. As an older man, he thought it was place never to cry, never to show anything beyond the professional business man charade he put on.

He didn’t blame Ayame and Shigure not for standing up for him. Even after all these years, living their lives as best friends there was an unspoken rule – never must the zodiac challenge the word of their God.

However…

“Come now,” said Shigure in a low voice. “It would be far too embarrassing for Haa-san.”

Hatori looked up quickly, the candlelight casting a warm sparkle in those cold, grey eyes. Promptly he looked away, hiding an eye behind his hair. The atmosphere suddenly became volcanic; Akito’s teeth snarled with an oncoming eruption of rage. Their eyes bulged with the wrath of a vengeful God but Hatori stood up quickly, sedating the oncoming eruption that had been building all night. A fearful shudder passed though him – he knew of God’s wrath all too well.

“I will do the dance,” he said in a quiet voice.

Akito bit their lip. The rigid, dangerous stance of their body loosened somewhat. They smirked.

If I have to be the crux to prevent my friends from being hurt, so be it, Hatori thought to himself.

He made his way to stand in front of everyone with awkward, ungainly steps – unbefitting of a man with such a cool, powerful aura. He retreated into himself, fingers curling to fists, lip being bitten. Normally, the traditional new year’s clothes were a bright, extravagant affair, exploding with colour and detail. However, Hatori’s were a plain black, long and sweeping the floor, – as per Akito’s request. They were long, dark, and devoid of colour – just like the hollow emptiness of his heart.

He kept his gaze firmly on the floor, hair streaming over his face. Akito laughed.

But something happened as he looked up. He caught Shigure’s eyes, looking striking with the hot light dancing within them. His hand rested on his palm with a small smile of encouragement on his face, unbearably handsome looking and, well…

The flickering flames casting Hatori’s body with incandescent hues of oranges melted the crutches of ice gripping his heart. It was such a minor thing to speak like that to Akito, but it was something he wasn’t sure any other of the zodiac could do. Maybe not even he, for he still lived in fear after that day he was blinded by Akito. That was day the world had lost its colour, and ice began to solidify his heart.

But at that precise moment, he felt a great amount of love for Shigure. The feeling melted the ice within him, igniting his bloodstream with the warm, static tingles of butterflies. His frozen heart was temporarily thawed, and it blossomed like the first flourishes of cherry blossoms from Winter into Spring.

Perhaps this was the alcohol taking, but he decided to call upon it. To channel those smothered, pent up feelings through the medium of dance. It was his only hope of relief. The only way he could express his love in a way that didn’t leave a path of destruction – never could it be voiced aloud.

He tore his eyes away from Shigure, closing them, and started out small. His knees bent, body hunched up and curled with his arms clutching at his shoulders as if fighting away the cold. He thought about Kana. How the incident had snatched the ability to freely love without the vices of fear and left him cold. Then, he thought of Shigure. The thought brought such an expression of pain on his face. Never would his feelings be returned, but, as the candles painted an aura of warmth over his usually pale skin, steadily, he began to grow. Love ignited him. It gave him the warmth he needed to keep going and let him feel things again, no matter how painful they were.

The love was agony. As was told by the slow, tepid movements he made. This wasn’t anything remotely close to what he’d rehearsed but that dance couldn’t be done alone anyway. Akito wanted to humiliate him. And so he would humiliate himself, expressing that gross, disgusting love that made him feel as though he’d implode if he locked it away any further.

Steadily, he began to grow from his hunched position. Slowly. Cautiously. Quivering in a way that he could not tell was cold or fear. But he thought of that heat on his skin, the newly grown flame warming his insides, and drew upon it like a phoenix rising from the ashes of an old love into the blaze of a new one. Brow furrowed in pain, steadily, his limbs began to unfurl like fiery wings in the candlelight. His body grew in a slow, steady manner, like the trees that signalled spring, and his fingers unfurled gracefully like flourishing cherry blossoms. He opened his eyes. Amour painted them, their usual colour warmed by the feeling of love, and, helplessly, he found himself gazing at Shigure. Shigure’s eyes were wide, bedazzled looking, lips parted in awe. Quickly Hatori looked away, turning his back on him.

He panted and retreated back into himself. His heart rioted in panic. Had Shigure sensed something? Could he tell he loved him just from that single look? No. There was no way. He beat himself up internal for succumbing to such a vile feeling; gentlemen didn’t go around expressing love in girlish dance.

Still. All eyes were upon him. He could feel their burn – even Akito was suspiciously silent. He had to continue. He had to humiliate himself further, otherwise there would be hell to pay from their God.

Slowly he turned his head. The long black fringe of his hair obscured his face. It flashed like a halo as he turned to face his audience face on – it had to be a quick movement, otherwise he may have never been able to face them again. He couldn’t look Shigure in the eye. So instead, he reached to the candle sitting on the shelf behind him above his head. The light, the warmth he craved, was out of reach. As he stood, sucking all the light into him with the vanta black of his robe, only a faint outline of gold glowing behind him, his arm slowly outreached. It shook ever so slightly at the thought of what would happen if he ever caught the light. But he’d never know. Streams of gold slipped through the cracks of his fingers.

“That’s enough, Haa-san,” said a voice in a low, gentle lilt.

Hatori flinched, fear of what Akito might do overriding the blossoms of static coursing from his fingers, but he couldn’t pull away.

The light may have escaped his grasp. However, much to his shock – and horror – the real thing was in his fingers. Shigure’s fingers had closed over his own, sending waves of heat and static blossoming over his fingers.

“You needn’t dance alone.”

Such dread caused him to plummet back to the real world that he almost wretched as Akito stood to their feet.

[satire-please]

My Teeth Are Like Swords - Part 4

Summary: Tim’s in a sticky situation because of...Ra’s. Therefore sacrifices have to be made.  Personal ones.

Part 3, Part 2, Part 1

Ao3 Link

There are few things out in the world that can startle a drake.

Ra’s al Ghul is one of them.

In fact, Tim would like to put the Demon Head near the top of that list. Especially when the villain morphs into the edge of his peripherals at another charity event the Waynes are required to attend. Guess who’s the lucky token Wayne this time?

Yep. Apparently being a dragon doesn’t increase your luck when pulling straws.

Tim manages to repress a flinch when he spots the flash of gold and green. The surprise makes his heart pound in the most unpleasant of ways. Ninjas do that after all.

“Please excuse me, gentlemen, we’ll have to continue our conversation later,” Tim smiles with charm towards a throng of investors.

He takes his drink in hand and carefully makes his way to the wall...where Ra’s watches the crowd. No, that’s not right. Where Ra’s watches him, and Tim can feel that gaze rove over his form like dirty fingers as his stride become a more purposeful march.  At this museum, Tim vaguely and spitefully compares the man to the mess of artwork around him. Flowing, unironic, stupid cape arranged over a well-tailored suit, Surrealism matches the feelings the criminal provokes, a gnawing infestation under his skin. Tim’s wine glass moves to hover in front of his chest, over his core instinctively.

The man is dangerous.

He’s the type that scratches and digs to find what you hold dearest and wait for the right moment where destroying it would hurt the most. The kind with patience, the kind with knowledge, the kind that Tim knows would just love to hunt down a mythical creature of his own. Ra’s could make a poacher very...very happy and wealthy.

Tim can take him.

“Good evening...Timothy.”

“What are you doing here.” It’s not a question, it’s a demand. Tim’s face might be stuck in a pleasant countenance for their surroundings, but his voice is more frigid than the Arctic.

Ra’s gestures grandly with a hand around them, “Why to admire the innovative talents that Gotham has to offer.” A crooked smirk begins to cut across his face. Sharper than any blade. “The possibilities are astounding.”

“Huh, somehow I doubt you’re here to support our talented artists for the Wounded Warrior Project.” Tim’s lip curls into a sneer, “Instead of protecting veterans, you tend to sacrifice them instead. Isn’t that way your recruitment rate is so high?”

Ra’s uncoils from his relaxed pose against the wall. “How rude, Detective. My fallen are honored, especially when they give their all to my purpose. In fact, the esteem, the respect, the glory they earn is never retracted. Tell me, is the notion the same with the Bat’s broken little boys?”

It’s a jab against Jason. Maybe even against him. Tim’s smile fractures in the corner of his lips, a fang scraping the inside of his cheek and he sets down his glass harder on passing tray than he needs to. A deep breath, two. It would be a paparazzi dream come true to capture the money shot of Timothy Drake-Wayne socking an unknown foreigner in the face. But he’s no fairy godmother. “Why don’t we take this fascinating discussion elsewhere? Somewhere more private if you want to know what else can break.” Like your face. Or his arm, Tim’s not really picky. “That way you can be out with it. You’re not here just to trade quips to piss me off. You want something.”

“You would be correct in your deductions. I require something in this cesspit, a diamond in the rough so to speak. For me to claim success, I must have your assistance.” Ra’s tilts his head in agreement. “Yet for more precise details, lead on.”

“Great, let’s go. I can’t wait to tell you no.”

Tim storms off, Ra’s following leisurely behind them as they part through the crowd. His hackles raised as he’s forced to give the assassin his back. The two make their way past the less inhabited exhibits, then into the hall towards the back offices where new art pieces are received and cataloged.

“Oh, Timothy, I am sure you know why few have dared to refuse me. Yet before our business, I must inform you, Nyssa sends her fondest regards.” Tim jerks at the whisper brushing his ear.

He twists on his heel to snarl at the looming man. Obnoxiously tall man.

“Tell her mine are not as much and next time she wants to try for free ‘seed,’ she should take the guy out for dinner first.”

Ra’s simply waves a hand for them to continue forward, “Perhaps uncouth, unconventional, and yet–”

“She chained me to a wall.”

“–Yet what a vision you must have been. Helpless, bare and dazed from the blow…truly a sight wasted when it could have been shared.” Ra’s expression turns way too salacious and Tim’s knuckles itch with possibility. “Still no matter how forward perhaps, she regrets how short your time in her clutches was. It is unbearably unfortunate your knight in shining black armor appeared so early.”

“Well, Black Bat is always to kick a rapist’s ass anytime, anywhere.” And if the criminal tries anything like that again it won’t be just Cass, it’ll be a full-size dragon ready to fry the Ghul into ash. Really, it’s just self-defense, maybe Bruce will understand.

“Some battles are worth any wound for the prize.”

Tim manages not to gag. Barely. Instead, he decides not to give Ra’s the pleasure of a response. He goes to open a door only to find it unlocked. His fingers bite into the doorknob, how many rooms did Ra’s men make available for this...meeting? How long did Ra’s plan this?

The pause gives Ra’s a chance to prompt, “A penny for your thoughts, Detective?”

“Only the one I wish I crushed you with.”

“Our first meeting was truly memorable. It is not every century, a giant piece of currency attempts to take my life.”

“Regrettably, you have this terrible habit of dodging.”

“What a wretched inconvenience I am to you,” Ra’s purrs. Though in the Detective’s favor, the experience was quite the introduction. The memory still strong of being absolutely stunned, as this pale wraith of a child maneuvered an enormous slab of copper to split him from the Bat.

“I know, right?”

“Then it is only fair for me to return the favor.” He herds the Detective into the small office. The shelves are full of covered paintings and bookkeeping litters the lone desk in the center. The smell of dust and resin permeates the air.

“You didn’t answer my question, why are you here, Ra’s?” He watches the way Ra’s prowls around examining their surroundings and Tim carefully puts the heavy desk between them. He’s not afraid. Not even nervous. Honest. But there’s no harm or shame in placing obstacles in a monster’s path.

Ra’s hums and rests his hands in the small of his back, he arches an eyebrow at the Detective. “To declare that perhaps I was too quick to judge the city of Gotham.”

“What? No,” Tim draws out sarcastically, “You think?”

“After all, why allow this filthy cesspit my presence long enough to evaluate it in full?”

“I’m surprised more people don’t punch you in the mouth whenever you open it.”

“Power, my dear,” he says absentmindedly, “However, now I see the error of my ways. I was too quick to strike, though I still long to destroy this hell, wipe it off the face of the planet like the divine fires of Gomorrah.”

“Is this the way you ask always for help? Because you suck at it.” Tim folds his arms across his chest.

A dark chuckle, “Oh, Timothy, I never ask for assistance. I demand it. Yet allow me to get to the point. Before Gotham meets its predestined fate, it may possess something of value after all.”

Tim arches a brow at him, this close from rolling his eyes.

“It is a thing...most precious. Something that must be recovered by the League at any cost, by any means possible.”

“I’m not a mind reader, Ra’s. Spit it out and get out of my face.”

“A creature. Behold these are the marks of a creature with certain properties I find...desirable.”

Yeah sure, I freaking bet.

Ra’s tosses a sheaf of papers. No. Photos. In pretty black and white, they hit the top of the desk and fan out before Tim’s eyes.

Ice.

‘Ice,’ the wraith of his mother whispers, Tim feels the memory of her nails digging into shoulders. The way she’d spin him to face the mirror and press her cheek to his. ‘Be as ice. Let the blue of your eyes harden for why should they know any intention of yours?’

Her old lessons crack like an egg over his brain, drip down his veins and out of his mouth, “Am I supposed to ooh and ahh over grappling hook marks?”

Ra’s picks up on photo to thumb the edges.“Ah. It is true they do appear similar, do they not? Yet not, Detective, such grooves are not made with any tool,” he says.  

Tim’s heart starts to pound.

“Nor can these distinctive charred marks be any coincidence.”

“To what? This is Gotham. Home of unusual and burnt up buildings everywhere. I’m still not following, spit it out.” Before he does. Tim’s mouth floods with nitroglycerin, it’s thicker than saliva and coats the back of his throat. A viscous layer ready at a moment’s notice, all it needs is a spark. All it needs is a reason to burn. He swallows it down roughly. He needs to prevent any evidence, not create it, remember?

“Forgive me, you know how much I love to build up the suspense.” Ra’s crooked smile widens and he pulls something heavy from his jacket pocket, “Allow me to lay out my conclusion.”

Between his fingers is a scale.

��Somewhere in Gotham is a dragon.”

The only thing that keeps Tim breathing is that the scale isn’t black...it’s white.

“A what? You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Tim keeps the thread of arrogant disbelief strong in his voice. Mother would be proud. “Aren’t you too ridiculously old for fairy tales?”

“It is not a simple tale for the bed weary child,” Ra’s loses his patience. His obsessive greed bleeding through as he forces the scale into Tim’s hands. “This piece of evidence is authentic as the pit itself.”

“It just feels like a spray-painted piece of the batplane.” Tim carelessly taps it on the side of the desk. “Like a mix of plastic and alloy.”

“Be careful with that!”  

Tim hits it harder against the surface. Just to hear the man growl. The keratin in the scale is weak. Seems like the dame he fought once upon a time wasn’t just stupid but malnourished as well. Scales are like nails, they show health and the brittle nature of it gives the detective more than enough to work with. In fact, if he jumped on it at a certain angle, he might be able to snap it in two.

Ra’s rips it from his fingers. Spoilsport. “That is quite enough,” he hisses through his teeth and tucks the scale protectively back into his stupid, melodramatic cape.

“So whoop-dee-doo, the Demon’s Head believes in Dungeons and Dragons. Is there a point to this lame show and tell?”

“Because I require the services of a Detective.”

“Oh goodie, I think this is my favorite part in our conversation so far. How about a Hell No?”

Ra’s hands slam against the desk caging Tim in. Tim doesn’t flinch, perhaps berating himself for not noticing Ra’s getting into range yet he stares dead straight into those jade eyes.

‘Be stone.’ Janet’s voice reminds, ‘Give them nothing to predict, nothing before you strike.’

“You forget your debt to me, Timothy,” Ra’s says venomously.

Tim tilts his head to the side eerily. There’s a coil of unease winding inside him. The word debt is a serious concept to a dragon and the instincts around it are hard to shake. “What debt? I owe you nothing. Though if you mean that lovely kick through a window, I could totally repay you for that. This art museum has a lovely roof, let’s go.”

Ra’s presses in, Tim reaches behind himself to grab his own wrist. His nails are becoming too long for his liking. A flash of desire, of digging, of gouging, of letting the intestines fall as they may. Ra’s isn’t wearing any armour...probably. “I gave you resources when you had none. When all thought your grief had turned you mad, only I believed your hypothesis that the Bat remained alive. Only I gave you that validation.”

“Fuck you, I didn’t ask for your help. I would have been fine.” His nails draw his dark blood under the sleeve of his suit.

“Your future was to be a bloody corpse on a cheap hotel bed if not for me.” Ra’s grip on the desk behind him creaks.

Tim could headbutt Ra’s, doesn’t know why he’s continuing to hear him out.

“Which wouldn’t have happened in the first place if it wasn’t for your war on the Council of Spiders. The one you gave no warning or intel for. Technically it’s you that owes me a spleen, I wasn’t the Widower’s original target after all. I was a bonus kill.”

“Come to the pit then if you are so keen for the organ’s return.” Ra’s hovers above him with malice, with interest at the notion.

“And go crazy like you? No thanks.”  

“Regardless I provided aid for your quest, now it is time for you to take your aid in mine. Furthermore what better than a Drake finding a drake?”

“Drake-Wayne, remember.”

“And what would the other dear Waynes think of our past association.” Ra’s finally leans away from him, his hands trailing on the wood before gesturing behind them. Ah, so that’s Ra’s real angle, blackmail. Go figure. “The Bat may think that our interactions were justified for your noble cause, yet somehow I think otherwise. I admit I am beyond curious for his reaction to those lovely months we spent together.”  

Tim could rattle off a thousand reasons why that rationale was a pile of shit. That, okay. Fine. Bruce would glower, brood, and never trust Tim again, but, hey, after the Boomerbang incident maybe that ship has sailed to the Bahamas and back. Plus, if B can’t weigh the definite pros to the whole knocking out the Council of Spiders and taking Ra’s down a peg as a decent notch on his vigilante belt, well...Tim is a big boy anyway.

A big dragon.

Pieces of your hoard don’t have to trust you anyway. They just need to stay alive and safe.

Safe. Wait, oh.

“You’re such a bastard, Ra’s.” Tim grits out, but he’s going to take this deal. Not for Ra’s ‘debt’ and how the term makes his inner wyrm burn. Not for Bruce’s sensibilities. But for the most important thing, his mother drilled into his head over and over again.

The safety of control.

His face is cold, but his belly is hot. “Where do we start?” This is a mess to clean, his show to run, and his plan is solid.

Ra’s smiles.

So does Tim. He can’t wait to see the assassin’s’ aspirations go up in flames after all.

***

He manages to keep the Bats uninvolved for a record of forty-eight hours. It’s an accomplishment Tim should take note of really.

For example, he managed to scramble Barbara’s cameras subtly, though he’ll a semi truck of gourmet coffee to get back in her good graces when she finds out, just so Ra’s can show off various pieces of evidence his men have found around the city without surveillance. Tim had dutifully nodded during lengthy monologues only to innocently suggest that wouldn’t it be better to catalog all their data in one place? It’s so easy to convince Ra’s to have the marked roof tiles and stones removed, so easy to retrieve them later. Mother would scold him for how clumsy he had been. The least he can do is exterminate the crumbs that a wolf took advantage of.

Meanwhile, he throws out other morsels to divert and distract, “Looks like your ‘dragon’” Tim mockingly uses finger quotes. “Hasn’t been here for long. Maybe two months at most.”

“Oh? How can you deduce that?” Ra’s crouches down to trail his fingers over the grooves where Tim had stupidly filed his claws weeks ago. Stupid hygiene.

“The lack of erosion. Gotham has had a rainy year. Notice the iron embedded here and here next to the mark?” He points at the orange strain spreading over the bricks, “If made last year, the rust would bleed into the scratches yet note the chunk lacks any of that.”

Ra’s purrs, “Clever, Detective. So our drake must be new to the city. What a godforsaken place for it choose for its migration.”

“Not if it has the ability of camouflage.” Tim shrugs. The wind ripping through his cape as he eyes the security camera trying to turn their way and glitching. He has another three minutes before Babs catches on.

“In bright hues of white? I think not,” Ra’s scoffs.

“You said that dragons have powers beyond your ken. Is it really out of the realm of conception? If moths can do it, why can’t fire-breathing imaginary creatures?”  Two minutes.

“What an excellent point. It would give a reason for it to stay as well. My resources tell me that old cities provide the best nooks and rubble for one to hide their trove. Plus, the larger the city, the more ease the drake has to blend in.”

“Blend in?” Tim parrots. Shit.

“Why, of course. Not only does a dragon have strength and intelligence, but over eons, their best defense is to hide in plain sight.” Ra’s straightens to stand and looks to the night skyline. Tim thinks about the scales that not even makeup can hide behind his ear. The black iridescent ones that dot his collar bones that Dick once poked at and cooed before smothering him without another blanket. 

Heat regulation is still a bitch.

“Gotham.” Ra’s draws out the name. “Full of blind spots, full of soft brick and lead to dig through, full of abnormalities that over time each turns into a just another mundane occurrence to the public. Yes. I can now see the appeal that could persuade a drake.”

He sounds so much like his mother that Tim’s posture becomes still and rigid. His fist clenches on his knee. She always did mention that this was the perfect breeding ground for similar reasons. Even when he was young, she’d encourage him to stalk the city instead of stay in the mansion, her hoard, just in case. Even to the point of taking him into an alley since he was five, turn her face into one wall and slowly count to twenty. His record in evading her? Three hours.

If Tim wanted to disappear, really disappear into Gotham’s underbelly? He could.

He knows how to hide.  

“It seems we have been discovered, my Detective.” Ra’s smiles at him from the side. “What a pity. Our progress to this point has been phenomenal.”

But there’s always a time and place to hide and when the clock hits forty-eight hours and fourteen minutes, Tim doesn’t bother to make any move against the flash of a cape in his peripheral. “Not your detective, Ra’s. Have your men collect the rest of the samples and we’ll  reconvene once I analyze the possibilities of your fairytale whereabouts.”

“Very well. Oh, and do tell your mentor that I find myself sorely disappointed at his waning skills of concealment. A true agent of the night would never be drawn from the shadows so easily.”

Tim mutters, “He’s doing on purpose. If he didn’t want you to see him, you wouldn’t see him.” It’s more of Bruce waving a goddamn flag of ‘I know you’re in my city, get out of my city.’

“Besides every hunter knows how to distract dangerous prey,” a new voice says disdainfully.

They turn to the slight figure who managed to sneak only a foot or two away from them. One steel-toed green boot (a present from Jason) tapping the roof impatiently. Crossed arms over the Robin uniform, Damian Wayne has mastered the art of glaring with a domino on. “Grandfather, must your ninjas multiply like ants?”

Ra’s huffs through his nose, “Many hands make light work, Grandson. Farewell, Timothy. I await your every enlightenment.” And like a true magician, he throws his gaudy cape over a shoulder and disappears into the night.

Tim’s shoulders release, but he notes that Damian’s do not. Oh. He’s mad at him. Though to be fair, that is Damian’s default emotion to anything.  

Damian begins his hissing tirade, “I should submit you to Arkham myself. Such displays of insanity, must you attempt suicide in the most ridiculous of complex fashions? Why else would you positively associate with my grandfather?”

“One, I know what I’m doing. Two, there is nothing positive about it.” He gets up and away from the building edge before Damian gets the magical idea to shove him off it. Again.

Damian gets closer, one finger stabbing in his direction, “Why does video evidence say otherwise? You are clearly working in tandem with his aims. To think that father would even believe that you are being coerced is beyond my ken. Do you wish to die, Drake?”

The name is emphasized more than normal, and Tim gets his implication immediately.

“I have this under control, but thanks for worrying, brat.”

“Worrying? Why would I be worrying? You must be insane, yes, this is further evidence that padded walls would suit you.”

“Padded walls are flammable,” Tim reminds him.

With his thumb, he makes a small gesture and Damian’s breath hitches minutely. Even Tim can smell the Demon Head’s men. He can hear them. Their rabbit-like heartbeats underneath the awning are enough in his limited range. “But you’re right in a way, I am going along with Ra’s for a bit. For as long as it suits both our purposes. Though why he would willingly work with someone who double-crossed him before definitely needs the lesson of, ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” Tim then hums in the back of his throat. “Actually, he’s probably already expecting that. It sounds like just the game he loves to play.”

“But is it one that you are assured to win?” Damian grabs his wrist to tug him along. Grayson wants him home immediately. The moment Oracle sent a live feed of Tim’s current companion to all the Bats, Robin wondered if he would have to take measures to aid his mentor through a panic attack. It was not pleasant. Grayson is very...concerned over the welfare of his brothers.

Tim snorts, “Please, who do you think you’re talking to?”

“A fool.” Ouch, Babybat doesn’t need a katana to cut him in half. The grip on his arm tightens, even as they descend into the alleyway where the Batmobile waits. It sits with the top already open, eager to trap Tim so specific overprotective brooding vigilantes can sit on him.

Lame.

Somehow telling the Bats of his true nature has multiplied every unnecessary precaution by a factor of eleven.

Damian shoves Tim into the vehicle. B moves in the driver seat to stare at him. A lot, not bothering to twist back to look out the windshield, just pushing the button for autopilot in a very pointed manner.

Damian presses the com in his mask subtly. So anyone on the line can hear his interrogation. “Now tell us. What shall you do in the matter concerning my grandfather? This is beyond a simple threat against your very person.”

Tim thinks of the scattered white scales he scraped off the dame. How they must litter the sand on that beach like sparkling stones. He thinks of the trail he could plant, not that he can just point the League of Assassins in her direction, not even when the offensive white plastic bag of a dragon deserves it. No, he needs to create the perfect dead end to Ra’s little expedition. But how could he–

The light bulb comes on and blood fills his mouth as his fangs drop. Can he really?

“Oh, you know what? I’m going to give him exactly what he wants, Damian.” Tim decides grimly, “I’m going to find him a dragon.”

***

Tim is going to throw up.

The stalactites drip around him, the sound that was once soothing but now every drop that hits the wet floor makes him want to retch. He shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t be here.

Not in this particular network of caves.

“Are you sure the creature will be found here? The opening is far too small to accommodate their size,” Ra’s demands. The band of his men are few, only the chosen may aid him in this task to witness what the Detective has wrought. They have traveled approximately twenty minutes, yet with every second his appetite grows at the possibility, at the results of Timothy’s work. The boy is clever. However, the tunnel narrows here and there, scraping their chests as the rock practically hugs their forms.  

“Stop doubting me. You said dragons are shapeshifters right? So why couldn’t they transform back and forth to crawl in here and hide? I’m only going off of the intel you gave me, Ra’s. The beach where you found the scale is not far from here. Plus look at these.” His boots make a hard crunch in the dim light of a torch.

Ra’s is a traditional, dramatic egoist, of course. A freaking torch.

“Prey,” the assassin breathes out. His eyes glittering in greed. It makes Tim want to shift forms, to roar at this filth entering this place with such hunger. Under their feet, stretching for a good thirty feet is a cemetery of bones. Most of the skeletons clearly intact with white and yellow rib cages on display.

“There must be at least a hundred of them,” Ra’s declares.

There are not. There are only forty-three. Tim does not correct Ra’s though.

The antechamber begins to widen until it has about a fifty-yard radius. The light flickers, yet the shadow of Ra’s’ hand gives an obvious signal, “Spread out. Search. This area appears most...promising.”

Tim wanders among the wet stone in a pretense of looking around as Ra’s men discrete this place with their presence. He avoids the west side of the chamber. His gloves running their hands on a wet large skull or two. Kills he had been proud of once upon a time. Those kills he had been sure would entice his–

“My lord! We have found something!”

–his mother to eat.

“No.” A voice roughly snarls. “No!”

On the ground, a few white scales lie in patches next to a giant boulder that stretches alongside the back cave wall. The details of long limbs and a tail are obvious and simple.

Tim’s fingers come up to squeeze the backs of his elbows, hugging himself for a moment. His inner core fluctuating, his heartbeat loud but he manages to repress the urge of curling up by her.

“This cannot be!”

What would mother think of him? To use her corpse as a diversion like this? To give Ra’s an empty platitude of what he wants? Would she be proud?

Yes.

Ra’s fury and despair gets loud, “I have only just found you! Why? How could I be too late?”

Janet always scolded Tim for his soft sentimentality. A tool is a tool. A resource is a resource. It is truer to their nature to use any means to fulfill their objective.

“The dead are dead, my pet,” Mother reminded him whenever she took him hunting, the claws of her painted nails sweeping delicately under his eyes when she found him sniffling over the wild kill of a deer. “They do not feel your tears. Our long memories exist to never forget what was. Now eat, the meat will soon grow cold and you make a mockery of the life by wasting it.”

No, Tim never got the ‘stop playing with your food! You should be grateful, some people in China are starving’ approach to picky eating. And Mother always kept him fed one way or another.

Tim comes up behind Ra’s, “So this is your dragon. Huh, is it supposed to look like that?”

Ra’s twists to snarl at him. “No, it is not. Not unless it is–”

“Dead?”

Tim admits Ra’s is rocking the look of utter anguish right now. If he wasn’t steeling himself, keeping his voice and expression blank he’d be howling with bitter victory.

“What happened to it?”

Ra’s reaches out to pet rough features of a jaw morosely. “The legends say that once the lifespan of such a beast ends, they naturally calcify into stone.”

Tim very much wants a copy of those legends. Too many things they’ve gotten right. “I thought they lived forever?”

“No,” Ra’s says, schooling his grief into something more palatable. “They do not, yet they can live on for several centuries.”

“Like you,” Tim points out. “With the help of the pit that is. Why do you want a dragon anyway?”

Carefully he steps around the man, trying to angle his cape a certain way.

“Why does any man seek power and beauty? Such things are what drive and keep the human race alive. With a dragon, I would be absolutely unstoppable.”

“You are already pretty unstoppable, how about you give the rest of mankind a fighting chance? You got power, check. You got the ultimate green regimen against aging that every older woman would gladly beat you to death for, check. Maybe you should just stick with trying to rule the world bit instead of chasing magical creatures.”

A chuckle. How interesting that the Detective can sway his despondent mood so easily. Oh, how he longs… “Even I need a pet project, Timothy. Besides do you not think the years would pass more gracefully with such a companion, such a specimen by my side?”

“Somehow I think the specimen would be more inclined to end your years rather than spend them with you.” In fact, Tim is sure of it.

“Ah, but what is life without the thrill of surprise? Whatever bond we forge will never be without fire.”

Tim snorts. Well, that’s an understatement. Still, he lifts a glove to trace the stone closed lid of an eye. Just like he did so many years ago, he’s positioned himself well. Maybe they won’t find his–

“What do we have here?” Ra’s pushes past him with an air of curiosity.

Gosh, how many times will Tim bite his lips raw tonight?

“Lift that up.” Ra’s motions his men to hurry. True the beast would be far more preferable breathing, but he can still catalog the proof of their existence. Plus even this is a find. The body is wedged tightly between the stone paws but any resistance is solved with a strong pull. “Come, Detective, you must see this.”

Reluctantly Tim stands near the new find.

How long did it take for him to swallow his grief? Just to pull off stealing his dad’s corpse? To crack open the heavy mahogany coffin and wrap the rotting remains carefully in a sheet. The fabric soiling quickly with the putrid oozing bits. It wouldn’t do to have flesh remaining, not on the body of a mate, but the cave bugs and open-air took care of that. In fact, Tim only had to wait a  month to adorn the skeleton befitting of his worth as a dragon’s husband.

With the sockets clear, Tim worked in two egg-like sapphires the same shade of his eyes. A border of pearls and pink stones for a nose. He weaved fine chains of gold as a delicate filigree in and out of ribs. Each piece back then gave a sense of calm. Tim always knew this task would fall to him one day, never so soon, but, hey, that’s death for you. Final. Inevitable. He's most likely bound to do it for his brothers, for Bruce as well.

There’s a final piece attached to the hips in braided silver; the first “discovery” Janet and Jack Drake found on an archaeological dig together. A saber sword almost appearing of Assyrian origin. Mother may have recounted the story a few times to send Tim to sleep. How adorable, her mate looked waving around one of her fangs excitedly like that. How easy it was to convince him to display the treasure in their private home, right above their bed. How quaint to watch the man fondly as he stoked the sword before bed when her dear had no idea what it really was.

It had been one of Tim’s favorite bedtime stories. Where sleep took him fast at the warm purr in Mother’s voice.

“This is a meager compensation, but it will have to do.” The Demon Head yanks the sword from Tim’s father’s bones. It cracks both the radius and ulna of the arm and Tim sees red. “It would be a shame for a treasure such as this to waste away here. A fang. A real fang, my dear Detective.”

“Are you done playing graverobber? It won’t be long before Batman catches your trail.” Tim manages to bite out. His eyes narrowing under the cowl. His eyesight too clearly taking in the breaks in the stone and bone, the footsteps that mock this place, the way the ninja crawl over his mother like black maggots.

He needs them gone. Now.

Ra’s eyebrows raise, “Our trail, Timothy. Yet why waste this moment of limited triumph? Allow me at least to bask in the sight of the creature.”

“Bask later.” There is a second of tension. Where all ninja in the cave go still, ready for the command to attack. Their bodies tighten. Tim casually turns on his heel and walks towards the cave opening. Then with a roll of the Demon Head’s shoulders, a minuscule tilt of the head orders the ninja to concede to the vigilante’s wishes. Besides, Ra’s sweeps his gaze over the beast and plans. They require more men, more tools to recover this...treasure. So he follows after Timothy, to the edge of the cave and back into the dark, one hand almost hovering over the small of his slim back. His fingers twitch when the boy says, “Is this the first time you’ve seen one?”

“No, it is my third.” Tim’s face pinches at that. “The first happened in my earliest centuries, capturing the sight of one in flight. The second during a war campaign, in human form.”

Ra’s eyes slide over Tim’s body. “Did you know they look exactly like us, Detective? Almost identical in every conceivable way. If not for a few errant scales here and there hidden under their clothing.”

Tim’s own tender scales itch under the suit. “How could you tell?” Tim asks.

Ra’s smirks, “Drakes reveal themselves in times of high emotion. They are easy to rile. Then it is quite simple to observe their flashing eyes and other tells.”

Janet Drake could be milliseconds from ripping off his head with not a hair out of place, Tim can be, will be the same.

The skyline reflects over the water as they emerge from the narrow opening in the rock. Each building’s light almost looks like a star in the smoky haze. Under their feet, except for the lapping waves, the beach is quiet as not one of the party makes a sound.

The silence breaks. “Are you finished? Did you get what you needed?” Tim fiddles with something in the pouch over his chest.

“Never. Not until a drake’s heart beats in my own chest. Yet my eyes have seen another fine specimen, my suspicions have been confirmed...and my trophy is adequate.” Ra’s caresses the dragon fang sword now adorned at his hip. “I am done with Gotham for a season.”

“Good.” And Tim lifts his hand showing the detonator.

Ra’s eyes go wide, his mouth opens to shout.

Tim presses it.

His eyes remain glaciers while his back feels the rush of heat and smoke from the explosion behind. It bellows around him as the earth shifts violently, shudders and settles. Ra’s ninja bend over to protect themselves from the blast as Ra’s himself coughs over and over into his fist.

Tim doesn’t bother. He doesn’t turn around either.

It’ll hurt too much if he does.

‘The dead are dead, my pet.’

“Detective.” Ra’s face is contorted in a grimace of rage.  

“What’s wrong, Ra’s? You said it, not me. You were done. Now I believe I’ve repaid any debt to you in full, a mystery for a mystery and gosh don’t you think that’s enough sightseeing of Gotham for you?”

“I could have sent teams to investigate those remains further. With the discovery of such a preserved creature and you–”

“Graves are for the living. The dead don’t care,” Tim says with a chilling smile, “Maybe I grew tired of watching you break and fondle old bones.”

“You destroyed the cave! The incredible wonder. How is that preferable to my actions?”

The crumbling rock should be enough to cover up the nearly-silent sounds of boots, of Gotham’s shadows taking their final positions twelve seconds after the explosion as planned.

Through the haze, Red Robin smiles white in the night, “It’s preferable because I get to piss you off. Now get out of my city, I promise you the only drake here is me.”

“And I promise you, Detective. The destruction of your city will be just as quick and ruthless as that cave.” Ra’s storms towards him, but the shadows take shape, and the yellow insignia comes through the dusk, the glint of the red helmet, and maybe a little blue and black mixed in, all the colors of the night flaring out over Red Robin’s shoulder, a heavy hand, gloved and gauntleted, ready for the fight, gives a brief squeeze of encouragement.

“You heard my son, Ra’s. it’s time to leave our city.”

But Nightwing gives a laugh, twirling one escrima stick through his fingers, “Nah. I think you should stay a while. This would make good fighting terrain. How many ninjas do you think made it out of that blast again?”

There’s a snort through synths and Red Hood nudges Robin, who’s standing next to him, “Gotta say, I don’t think it’s gonna be enough to keep the five of us interested for long, you feel me here, Baby Bird?”

“Tt, we were promised a sensational final brawl, Drake, and here you have failed to deliver.”  

“I’m not Santa Claus, Robin. How was I supposed to know Ra’s men would be so lame?”

“I had expectations that your plan would yield better results.”

Tim’s lips twitch. “Pfft. Next time, you can plan the bad guy takedown, and I’ll go get roof tacos with B, N, and Hood. Deal?”

“I think for now,” B interrupts the witty banter, moving with a swish of his cape to stand by Red Robin’s side, putting them shoulder-to-shoulder, “we’re going to say it one. Last. Time. Get the hell out of our city.”

And the depth of B’s voice is the thing that makes him the most feared man in the city. It’s enough to make Ra’s al Ghul pause and narrow his eyes over at Red Robin.

“Touche, Detective. As always, you never fail to disappoint during one of our little...games.” And even if he doesn’t move any closer, doesn’t even tighten his hold over the fang, Tim feels a shiver run down his spine. “Enjoy your victories for now, Timothy, but one day you may see this very fang again, and your blood will sate it.”

And even if it’s just way overdone, Ra’s gives barely a twitch of his fingers and the shadowy assassins leap away, running as they’re bid, and Ra’s himself turns sharply on his heels, clutching the fang by his side.

The Bats all take a collective breath.

As one, four heads swing to the vigilante in the middle, arms crossed and toes tapping.

“Okay, so not my best plan maybe, but it’s been one hell of a night. Can we just call it and go home?” Red Robin looks again at the rubbled remains of his family’s burial site, the space in his chest hollow even with the victory.

“I’m pretty much on board with that plan,” and because B knows about pain like this, sharp and biting when it comes to things that can never be regained. He pointedly grips one of Red’s shoulders, turns him gently away from the remains. “Besides, we have a meeting tomorrow and I need you to make me look like a rich idiot, remember?”

The returning laugh is tinged with sadness and B gives him another pat before leading the way back to the Batplane waiting for them all.

“We’re riding with Timmy!” Nightwing calls, already wrapping himself around one of Red’s arms. Hood lays a hand on Red’s other, giving a gentle squeeze.

Robin chuffs at them and leaps into the cockpit with Batman, waving them away to the plan Red came in to meet Ra’s.

Hood takes over, warming the plane up to fly while Nightwing hangs in the back with Red, pulling off the cowl so Tim couldn’t hide.

“Tell me really, are you okay, Baby Bird?” Dick gently tugs his brother into his body, taking in how he sags into the hold.

“I’m...fine.” Tim grips the arm half around his neck, careful of his claws under the gauntlets. “I just, you know, destroyed the grave of my parents. Let the most disgusting man walk away with my mother’s fang. I just–”

“Ensured your safety by leading Ra’s around by the nose.” Bruce finishes through the comm link in the planes. “The Demon Head will never suspect your nature now. When he returns it’ll be for your head, not your heart...we can work with that.”

“Yeah, death is just so much easier to work with than being hunted, captured like a pretty pet and trained as one,” Tim mutters.

“Plus Bats never stay dead!” Jason yells back in an ugly fashion.

“Seconded,” is Dami deadpanning in the back.

“I’ll worry about it when the day comes. Until then, I’m going to be very glad my secret is safe.” But Tim sits heavily, head dangling between his shoulders, so fucking tired. A hand reaching back pats his calf while Jay stays at the controls, and Dick flops beside him, already wrapping a long arm around his ribs.

“You’re safe,” Dick says low in his ear, low enough that the plane’s microphones can’t pick it up. “That’s what matters. You’re safe with us, and when that day comes, we’ll be here, Tim. We. Will. Be. Here.”

After the reassuring squeeze to his calf and the vigilante crushing his spine, hearing the low purr of B and Robin’s engine through the comm link, knowing Alfred is at home waiting with coffee and food and bandages, all of it makes him feel that much better.

“Our love is a terrible thing,” his mother’s voice whispers from memory. “But take comfort in this, you are mine. Now, until my last breath and forever.”

Tim...can work with that.

[the-music-dealer]

(Ginger’s Song of the Day : March 2nd, 2019)

The Pretenders - Back on the Chain Gang (Learning to Crawl)

“The powers that be That force us to live like we do Bring me to my knees When I see what they’ve done to you But I’ll die as I stand here today Knowing that deep in my heart They’ll fall to ruin one day For making us part I found a picture of you Those were the happiest days of my life Like a break in the battle was your part In the wretched life of a lonely heart.”

[coollyinterferes]

I found a picture of you, Those were the happiest days of my life

Like a break in the battle was your part, In the wretched life of a lonely heart

[merrylittlehogwartsrp]

Happy Holidays, Taylor! We are thrilled to “invite” Ginny Weasley (fc Luca Hollestelle) back to Hogsmeade for a little forced Winter Cheer. We particularly liked the references to Tom Riddle’s past possession and are looking forward that nuance in game. You requested change has been approved and will be included in Ginny’s updated bio (to be posted shortly).

Please pack your bags and send in your tumblr. Additional information can be found here!

OOC DETAILS:

NICKNAME: Taylor

AGE (must be 18+): 27

PRONOUNS: She/Her

ACTIVITY ESTIMATE: Moderate - full time job, holidays - but I have a week off for Christmas coming up soon :)

CHARACTER DETAILS:

FULL NAME & NICKNAMES: Ginevra “Ginny” Molly Weasley. Some of her friends call her Gin.

BIRTHDATE: August 11th, 1981

BLOOD-STATUS: Pureblood

* GENDER IDENTITY: Cisgender Female

* GENDER PRESENTATION/PRONOUNS: She/Her

* SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Ginny’s sexuality is bisexual.

CHARACTER SITUATION:

OCCUPATION: Chaser for the Hollyhead Harpies

HOUSING: Hollyhead Harpies housing - not every teammate lives together, but a bunch of the single women stay in a team owned house - much like a sorority.

SOCIAL STANDING: Born a pureblood, poor upbringing, but now that she’s rather famous she’s making a good income and helps out her parents and other family members should they need it.  

CHARACTER CONFIGURATION:

TALENTS/WEAKNESSES -

Talent: Quidditch & Athletics, Hexes, Impressions

Weakness: Potions, Sleep Paralysis (she’s been getting it since the Diary), Focus on anything she’s not committed too (her grades in 6th and 7th year are absolutely wretched - she’s lucky she graduated)

STRENGTHS/FLAWS - two or three of each (personality not skills!)

Strengths: Loyal, Protective, Hardworking, Accepting, Patient with certain people, Funny

Flaws: Obsessive, Can shutdown to protect herself emotionally, Grudge holder, Hot-headed with certain people, Judgemental to non-misfits (Fleur, Cho, Slytherins, anyone she thinks might have it a bit too easy she’s a bit harder on)

CHARACTER HISTORY: please write one short paragraph for each. (I’m so sorry. What is short?

FAMILY BACKGROUND

Growing up, Ginny’s life was ordinary. Well as ordinary as it could be for a lower-income wizarding family of nine, in which she was only special because of her gender. It was a novelty, being the only girl in a gaggle of vivid ginger boys, whom all had a booming personality that internally struggled to shine amongst each other. That being said, Ginny’s childhood was happy. Loving parents who had come out of the first war with themselves intact and enough love to go around their large lot. One by one, all of Ginny’s brothers turned of age to attend school, making the months between September and May lonelier, until it was only her and Ron. It was due to this that she had grown a kinship with the boy who was only a year older. Mud puddles and pretend, debating whether the Harpies or the Cannons were the superior team (obviously the Harpies!). That is until Ron turned eleven and everything changed. Harry Potter returned to the wizarding world, and invaded their lives as Ron Weasley’s best mate.

It was safe to say that Ginny was immediately infatuated. The first celebrity she’d ever had the pleasure of meeting with just a simple smile at King’s Cross, followed by a lonely year alone. It was spent mostly using the Bill’s old broom he’d left behind in the shed to practice quidditch and counting down the days until she was at Hogwarts with her brothers, making friends, and chatting with the Boy Who Lived.

Except that wasn’t what happened. Ron had moved on, found a kinship with Harry and Hermione that didn’t have room for her, and instead she was left to figure it out on her own. But she wasn’t alone. No, she had found a friend in a book, only a week before school and he had twisted it’s grip into her heart and fed on all of her insecurities. Isolating her from those that were her age, with every heartfelt secret she gave him, the more pull Tom Riddle had until he was finally controlling her completely. It was truly terrifying. Missing moments, blood on her hands, her peers turning up petrified as a villain whispered in her ear. How was it that someone could tear a person apart while still making them feel like he was the only one that understood or cared? A master manipulator, it took her months before Ginny tried to get rid of the diary. At first she suspected she was going mad, but it had fallen into Harry’s possession and in her first act of Gryffindor bravery, she had to steal it back.

But regaining the diary simply gave Tom her power again, allowing him to use her as a pawn to draw the “Boy Who Supposedly Destroyed Voldemort” into the Chamber. It was her life-force that almost brought Tom Riddle back into his youth, but when she awoke she was free. Free to confess to Harry what had been going on for all those months, and it was with him she returned from the chamber.

After Tom, she was left to pick up the pieces. Over the years she found a friend in Hermione, who urged her to be herself. In Neville, who accompanied her to the Yule Ball just so she could take part, and in Luna, who was intuitive and open-minded. She dated people who saw her as more than just another Weasley and killed it on the quidditch pitch after all those years practicing alone. Dark times arrived, Ginny stepped up, becoming one of the original members of Dumbledore’s Army and even helping to suggest it’s infamous name. Rebellion is in her blood after all, and when Harry, Ron and Hermione planned to flee for the Ministry in order to save Sirius, she fought to follow along.

It was as if she was finally being seen. Not only by her family and peers, but after that by Harry as well. She could feel his gaze when she entered a room, heard it in his laugh that his heart was a little lighter when they smiled about the same stupid thing. She knew that that she didn’t know everything, and that peace wouldn’t last, but when he caught her in his arms that day in the common room and kissed her in front of everyone Ginny felt like she might explode with happiness. Finally she was out of her shell, absolutely vibrant and it had gotten her what she wanted all those years ago.

And yet their relationship was short lived, not because they didn’t want one another, but because duty called. Dumbledore left Harry a nearly impossible mission and the world fully knew the danger that was about to embark. Her eldest brother’s wedding proved that, as chaos reigned on Bill and Fleur’s guests. Another reminder that they were at war, as Ron and his friends left without a word. Ginny left to pick up the pieces once again.

LIFE DURING THE WAR

Ginny held her own during the war. Returning to school with Neville and Luna, they started up Dumbledore’s Army and housed students who needed safe-keeping in the Room of Requirements. She was headstrong and defiant, breaking rules and refusing to hurt anyone that didn’t deserve it. This caused a lot of problems.Sometimes only for Ginny, or the other DA leaders, who would take the punishment tenfold knowing that no one would follow someone who had cursed them earlier that day. Sometimes for the student that they were told to torture, who would then have their caster replaced by someone much more malicious. Someone who wouldn’t dare take it as easy on them as another DA member.

It’s Ginny who remembers the Sword of Gryffindor though. Remembers Harry killing the Basalisk with it, the first “Fuck you” to Tom she could associate anything with. It ended up with Snape finding them, not knowing what to do except hurt them (though less so then the Cruciatus) and send them off to detention for the next unknowable future. Except it’s Hagrid she’s with, and at least she’s out of the castle. Anything is better than the castle.

When Luna gets ripped from her arms by Death Eaters though she thinks it might be over. Her and Neville end up crying alone when no one else is looking and she feels like her whole body is being ripped apart. Her best friend! How could this happen?!

Eventually the Weasley name is too much danger though, her association as Harry Potter’s love interest - even after the break up - forces her into hiding and Neville’s left on his own, though he insists. She hugs him goodbye so tightly she’s forced away from him by her father and off to a safehouse they go, only to return for the battle of Hogwarts at the end of the school year.

LAST THREE YEARS

She lost a brother in that battle. Lost so many friends. The whole summer is funerals and mourning, and she hates how much her mother cries. She’s almost relieved to go back to school and nurse her heartache away from her family, away from Harry whom never really comes back to her. And yet with the castle rebuilt and the Death Eater’s gone, nothing is right. She barely goes to class (which has Hermione a tizzy) and spends almost all of her time on the Quidditch pitch - a golden Captain’s pin on her robes. She gets good. Really bloody good, better than anyone else in school. It’s the only way she gets to sleep at night, exhausted from running drills and practicing til her pale body is littered with dark bruises and her muscles are sore. She likes the ache though, the fact that it’s self-inflicted instead of being given to her as punishment.

She gets recruited at the end of the year by the Hollyhead Harpies, and after graduation she moves from the Burrow to the Harpy House with the other girls. It’s her first time in a sisterhood, her first time surrounded by women who understand her, the first time she’s seen as really fucking good at something and she loves it. Loves the distraction. Loves the whirlwind nature of the job, loves the fact that she can send money back to her parents so they can live comfortably (even with one less son). Loves the fact that she has her own room, and when she wakes up at night unable to move there’s no one there to judge her, no one there to notice that Tom looks at her from the corner of the shadows. Loves the fact that it’s nowhere near Hogwarts at all.  

HOLIDAY DETAILS:

Just dinner with the family, opening presents to reveal her mother’s homemade knitted sweaters, and listening to Celestina Warbeck warble through the Burrow. Her family isn’t religious, but they celebrate Christmas every year as an opportunity to spend time together. While Ginny doesn’t go home as often as she should these days, she never misses a holiday - she couldn’t do that to her mum. It’s been a bit odd ever since Fred passed, but it seems they’re getting somewhat used to it. Minus George… they’re all pretty sure George won’t ever get used to a Christmas without his twin.

OOC SUPPLEMENT:

SHIPS: I’m a total sucker for Hinny, but up for anything really.

CHANGES: Ginny doesn’t torture anyone while in school. She’s more likely to defy orders from the Death Eaters in school and make everything worse, or take the punishment herself. I firmly believe that her, Neville and Luna doesn’t harm any of the DA due to believing that no one would follow them if they did. Their purpose in Hogwarts was to try and be a safe space and protector, as well as mess things up for the Death Eaters. I think, while sometimes it would be the logical choice to just do it and go easy on the other students, the proud Gryffindor in Ginny would flat out refuse no matter the consequences.

FACECLAIM: Luca Hollestelle or Rose Leslie

[lipstick-tactics]

Back on the chain gang- Morrissey

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I found a picture of you, oh oh oh oh

What hijacked my world that night

To a place in the past

We've been cast out of? Oh oh oh oh

Now we're back in the fight

We're back on the train

Oh, back on the chain gang

A circumstance beyond our control, oh oh oh oh

The phone, the TV and the news of the world

Got in the house like a pigeon from hell, oh oh oh oh

Threw sand in our eyes and descended like flies

Put us back on the train

Oh, back on the chain gang

The powers that be

That force us to live like we do

Bring me to my knees

When I see what they've done to you

But I'll die as I stand here today

Knowing that deep in my heart

They'll fall to ruin one day

For making us part

I found a picture of you, oh oh oh oh

Those were the happiest days of my life

Like a break in the battle was your part, oh oh oh oh

In the wretched life of a lonely heart

Now we're back on the train

Oh, back on the chain gang