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unholyhelbig · 7 months

Note

Your Oversight story is so amazing, I’m obsessed truly. I need some domestic fluff with Nat, reader, and Ronnie. Like making cookies for Ronnie’s class or something!!! Thank you for feeding my mafia boss obsession!

Title: Little Marksman [An Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Natasha's mother makes an impromtu visit to the United States, sending Natasha and Yelena into a sprial about how their mother will react to their partners.

Warnings(PLEASE READ): None, I think, just fluff!, and horrible grammar

[a/n: This isn't exactly the fluff you requested, but I think it's pretty fluffy! Thank you all for the oversight requests, I promise, I'll get to them soon!]

Check out the full Oversight universe

Natasha Romanoff did not often allow herself to indulge in the simple things. Sleeping in had long been a thing of the past, she’d spring up at the first chirp of an alarm and spend her mornings in a ritual of freshly pressed coffee, a long run that would coat her in a sheen of sweat, and then finally sitting down to attend to the boring side of business.

That, of course, had changed when she welcomed you into her life. You were decidedly not a morning person and would grumble until you found her alarm clock in the dark, shutting it off and pinning Natasha down with your dead weight as you fell back into a deep slumber. She hadn’t the heart to move you.

Then, when Veronica had gotten her own room there were some nights when Natasha would stir from her vigilant sleep. She’d startle, really. Your daughter was mostly silent during the day and happened to be worse at night. She would stand at the bottom of the bed, contemplating waking you.

It only ever bothered you after you watched the ring for the first time. After that, you would sense her presence and it seemed like Natasha was the same. She sat up and blinked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Hi baby,” Natasha croaked, “are you alright?”

Natasha saw the silhouette of Ronnie shake her head and the woman looked sparingly at you. Light breathes escaped you, dead to the world. She heard the little word, barely a whisper. “Nightmare.”

It tugged at Natasha’s heart to the point where it was almost painful. She wanted to wrap her up that first night, pull her close until she wasn’t afraid of whatever had plagued her in her dreams. Tentatively, she scooted to the far side of the mattress and patted the space she’d created between the both of you.

Veronica snuggled under the blankets, shivering as her cold began to ebb away. Natasha felt stiff for a moment, lying on her back. She could feel your daughter’s body heat against her, and made the conscious choice not to move closer.

“You can talk about it, if you want.” She eventually whispered. “I’m here to listen, Ronnie, malen'kiy strelok.”

Little Marksman. Her father used to call Natasha the same, despite her not being the greatest shot. But, she was better than Yelena and that’s all the mattered at the moment. The term of endearment rolled off her tongue like honey and shocked her in the process.

Veronica didn’t say anything, she often didn’t, but she wrapped her tiny, strong arms around Natasha’s arm and buried her cheek into her, reveling in the close contact. She softened instantly and found herself staying awake until Ronnie’s breath evened out.

Neither her alarm, nor Ronnie stirred her this particular morning. Instead, it was a frantic knocking at her door. The sun streaming through the blinds indicated that she had been given the chance to sleep in, and if that wasn’t enough, you had left a little note on her side table: Get some sleep, I’ll handle the morning meetings. Love you!

It was close to noon, from her estimate, so you had kept up your end of the bargain. Natasha groaned into the silk pillow and pulled her way to the door. She glowered at the woman that stood on the other side.

“Did someone die?” Natasha grumbled, “Because you’re about to.”

“You are incredibly grumpy in the morning, has anyone ever told you that?”

Yelena shoved her way into the room. She was holding an envelope that had yet to be opened. There was a specific floral scent, almost like roses. Natasha crinkled her nose; she knew that smell. It had been a constant soothing presence throughout her childhood and beyond. Sometimes, she would walk into random rooms and catch a whisp of the spectral scent.

She snatched the envelope from her sister. It had already been crudely ripped, despite Natasha’s name being on it. This was a federal offense- but most of the stuff that this family did was, so it bothered her surprisingly little.

“Mama is coming for a visit.”

Yelena spilled the words out before Natasha could process the neat Russian writing. Her stomach dropped. Melina and Alexi had moved to a small far just outside of Moscow years ago. They stated that they wanted to get out of the city, but really, Alexi couldn’t keep his hands out of the business if they stayed in the city.

They would call every once and awhile, but were mostly solitary. She’d get a call on Christmas, and her birthday and sometimes the anniversary of her first kill. That one was hit or miss. Rarely- never- had Melina decided to drop by.

“I may have let it slip that you have a girlfriend.”

“Yelena!” Natasha shoved her roughly “Why would you do that?”

“It just came out! She was grilling me about Kate, and I panicked. You know yours is more put together than mine.”

“You threw me under the bus.”

Yelena had a genuinely sad look on her face, one that was borderline pouty. Natasha growled through clenched teeth and finally got a chance to read her mother’s writing. She’d be here tomorrow, and there was too much to do. Natasha’s head started to spin.

In fact, you weren’t more put together than Kate. The two of you seemed to feed off of each other’s chaos. It was fine to deal with on a regular basis, but Melina was like a bloodhound. She would smell fear, and she would play into it until you both were reduced to a crushable size.

Oh, this was not good.

Natasha must have paled noticeably because Yelena took a tepid step closer, creasing her fingers against the empty pink envelope. Melina would be flying alone. She’d be here in two days and that didn’t give either girls much time to process the invasion at all.

Though her father was a stern man in practice, he was much easier to impress than her mother. They balanced one another out, and that was something that would be sorely missed during this visit.

She took a steadying breath, running her fingers over the dented familiarity of her mothers perfect script. There was nothing to worry about, right?

Despite Natasha’s multiple text messages to her mother, insisting that she would send a car to pick her up, Melina took a cab from the airport, not bothering to let either of her daughters in on the fact. She knew the address of her pervious home like the back of her hand, knew the deep green grass of the landscaping and the stretching view of the harbor.

Natasha had been pacing the length of the family room for most of the day. Yelena was draped over the loveseat, her limbs hanging over the sides, making her look nearly lanky compared to the furniture.

“Natasha, please, you are going to wear a hole in the carpet.”

“How can you be so calm?” She halted her pacing, cutting her sister a deadly look.

“I am not calm. I simply mask it better than you.”

The muffled sound of a car door closing made Yelena shoot up from her lounging position, she was standing next to Natasha now, both of them staring wildly at the large oak doors. You and Kate had been sent out with a massive grocery list and it was much too early for the two of you to return with Ronnie. In fact, you usually stopped for some ice cream, or a small lunch as a reward for the tiny girl.

Natasha deemed it better not to inform you, nor Kate, about her mother’s visit. It could be considered cruel, sure, but knowing you the warning would do nothing but send you into an immense panic and that would simply spur her mother on.

Melina had arrived with nothing more than a half-packed duffel bag. She always packed light, using the key on her ring to open the door to the place that was once her home. Natasha and Yelena lingered by the curved entryway, watching as the woman, perfectly sculpted and entirely unchanged, smiled softly at the décor.

“Do not just stand there, girls, come give mama a hug.”

It was an order that Yelena folded in on first. She was stiff at first but at the floral scent that her mother carried like a vice, she melted into the embrace. There was nothing like a mothers hug, and that was evident by her body language.

“Aw, sweet girl” Melina pulled back and squished Yelena’s face between her hands “you are much too lean. Is this Kate girl not feeding you?”

“Mama, prekrati eto” She grumbled, batting the woman away.

Melina narrowed her eyes but focused her attention on her oldest daughter. She grasped both of her hands first, giving them a small squeeze before pulling her into her embrace. Natasha melted, pressed her nose against the side of her mother’s neck. It had been much too long, and despite being reduced to a little girl in this moment, she didn’t seem to mind.

“You’ve healed nicely,” Melina said.

Of course, her mother had heard about the two shots that Natasha took to the back. She had been lucky and avoided any major injury. They were simply superficial, but she could understand how it would sound brutal all the same.

“Now,” she clapped her hands together, getting a devilish look in her eye “where is my granddaughter?”

Natasha choked on air before she glared at Yelena with a look that could kill. Her mother’s hand was patting her back. She’d become tender with age, it seemed. Still, a force to be reckon with, Natasha wouldn’t dare try anything.

“Your granddaughter?”

“Please, Natalia, she sleeps in your bed. Marriage or not, she’s your child. That’s how we got Clint, isn’t it?”

She was at a loss for words. Melina had a point. Clint was a mere stranger to Natasha until her parents took both her and Yelena to the circus that traveled through town. Her younger sister was nothing more than a baby, but Natasha was mystified. More than the clowns, and the acrobats, she had interest in the knife thrower and his charge.

A little boy that was around the same age as Natasha. When the show was over, Natasha refused to move until the young boy, covered in dirt and with dark purple bags under his eyes, started to sweep piles of popcorn and empty paper cups to the sidelines.

She’d introduced herself, and though he was quiet, she took an instant liking to him. Alexi had a few choice words with the boys guardian, who turned out, didn’t want to keep the kid and regarded him as nothing more than an employee- a runaway that had latched onto the circus. He had no idea who the boy belonged to, and Alexi decided that Clint belonged to them, now.

Instead of Clint being like family, he was family.

“Oh Mama, she will marry this girl.” Yelena beamed, “titles be damned.”

Natasha groaned into her hands. Had she thought about marriage? Yes, absolutely. She wanted nothing more than to make you officially hers. But she wanted to wait until the perfect moment; she wanted to not only include Ronnie, but get her input as well.

Melina gave a beautiful smile, patting Natasha’s cheek “I know, moya milaya. Are you not going to show me to my room?”

It was apparent that you and Kate had been sent on a fools errand when you finally got to the store and got a better look at the handwritten list that you were given: Milk, eggs, bread, A single MTS-I Mortorq screw, VW Mk4 Golf R32 duel clutch plate- and seriously, what the hell was that?

Darcy would know, and would have caught on a lot faster than you or Kate did. The more you thought about it, the more you realized that there was no reason to go to the store at all. You’d gone two days prior and knew for a fact that you’d gotten everything recognizable on the list.

“Kid,” Kate gave Ronnie’s had a squeeze “we’ve been played, bamboozled, tricked.”

Your daughter lifted an eyebrow at the woman’s antics. In a few years, she’d move on to eye rolling, and while you weren’t prepared for it, you would be glad for the indication. You’d done it yourself, crumpling up the list and shoving it into your pocket. There was no need to brave the crowds in the grocery store.

Instead, you aimed your sights on the small frozen yogurt place that was nestled in between a shoe store and a Gamestop. You might as well get a treat while you were out, considering Natasha requested you go further than the closest store because she liked the bread at this one better.

“They clearly wanted us out of the house. But why?”

“Yelena usually tells me everything.”

“Huh,”

“What? She does!”

“Doesn’t seem like the type.”

A sweet frozen scent hit your lungs and the little bell above the door sounded. There was a less than enthusiastic employee behind the counter, moving like molasses. You did have to kill time…apparently.

Veronica spoke up when dessert was involved. She didn’t carry a conversation with the teenager, but she did give little indicating sounds. Your arms were crossed over your chest to stave off the cold, and you settled for a simple chocolate. Ronnie loaded hers with a bunch of toppings, and Kate got vanilla with extra (extra) rainbow sprinkles. Each bite she took crunched like gravel.

“The point is, she didn’t say anything about something going down, and if it was, wouldn’t they want us there? Clint’s out of town so we’re the only muscle they’ve got.”

The employee behind the counter lifted an eyebrow at you both and you made sure to stick an extra couple of bills in the tip jar with a sheepish smile. You ushered them both to one of the benches outside, basking in the highpoint of the sun and cursing Kate’s tact, or lack thereof.

“You’ve got a point. Maybe it’s something personal?” You suggested, reaching your pink plastic spoon over and stealing a bite of Ronnie’s candy-coated yogurt. She batted you away, a little too slow and you claimed your prize.

“Yelena tells me-“

“Everything, I know.”

Kate took her own scoop of frozen yogurt and crunched on it thoughtfully. “They’re nervous. If they’re being this secretive. They sent us out for car parts for a car that none of us own.”

“Lena said that Mama is coming for a visit.”

Ronnie’s feet didn’t’ touch the ground and she was working at dislodging a frozen gummy bear that became mostly inedible. She kicked back and forth and only looked up from her task when she was met with silence.

Kate’s mouth was propped open, and your eyes were wide. She frantically glanced between the both of you and shrugged her little shoulders. “This is one of those things I’m supposed to tell you, right?”

Kate nodded, suddenly losing her appetite “Uh-huh,”

You’d heard about Melina before, in passing, but Natasha seemed to bristle about the woman. She did the same for her father, but you knew the legends of Alexi and his kind hand when it came to running the city. Her mother was entirely different; entirely horrifying.

You’d seen a picture of her in a small and dusty shoe-box while helping Natasha clean out the attic one day last summer. It was stiflingly hot, and you were shocked to find it framed, but shoved away all the same.

Natasha was young, maybe around eleven, and Clint was next to her, smiling with missing front teeth. Yelena was smaller, the large hands of Alexi engulfing her shoulders. And then there was Melina, even in casual cargo shorts and striped tank-top, she looked regal and oh-so intimidating.

Your girlfriends’ arms wrapped around her midsection, her chin resting on your shoulder. She gave you a squeeze and stared down at the photo you were holding.

“You were cute as a kid.”

“were?”

“Still are!” you corrected, smiling lazily down at the family photo.

There was something longing behind your gaze that Natasha admired. Not that she would tell you that. Instead, she told you about the trip to Busche Gardens that ended in Clint nearly drowning and Yelena throwing up after she scarfed down three corndogs and a funnel cake.

Now you felt like you would vomit yourself, sliding your frozen yogurt away with a frown. You were far from prepared to meet Melina Romanoff, and by the green look on Kate’s face, so was she.

“Oh, we are so fuc… screwed. We’re screwed.”

“I know the word fuck, mommy says it all the time.”

“Just because I say it doesn’t mean you can. Eat your yogurt.”

You were clearly having a crisis and Veronica was clearly enjoying the fact that you’d given up on your frozen yogurt. She took alternating bites and would most definitely lose her appetite if she kept going, but you couldn’t’ bring yourself to push it away.

“Why wouldn’t they tell us?” you asked.

“Probably because of this” Kate made a vague gesture “this who panicking thing? Melina is going to kill us both and then it won’t matter but they decided to spare us the torture of waiting for this day.”

It felt like slowly working a mouse away from a glue trap by the time your frozen yogurt had turned to nothing but a brown soup. There was nothing to hold you and Kate from home now, and Ronnie was growing restless under the hand of the sun. You swore you heard her mutter something about Grandma, but chose to ignore it entirely in favor for pure fear.

Natasha seemed to be waiting at the door to intercept both you before you went any further. Not that you minded her soothing hand on your chest, and an apologetic look in her eyes. She smoothed your shirt down once, and then nervously, twice.

“Sweetie, I don’t think it’ll un-wrinkle, no matter how hot your hands are.”

“See that,” She whispered harshly, “Is something we’re not going to do. Both of you need to be on your best behavior. Understood? Better than best. Kate maybe don’t… talk.”

“Aye, captain.”

The younger woman frowned at her own words and instead settled for miming zipping her lips shut. Maybe it would better for you not to talk either. From your spot in the foyer, with Ronnie clinging to the fabric of your jeans, you could hear the muffled Russian. Yelena was responding to something, a bit of a whining tone to her voice.

Natasha’s hands had made their way to yours. She knit them together, a sort of an anchor. The other hand reached down to Ronnie, who was suddenly shy despite her earlier indifference. You could throw up right here and now but figured that would only serve to embarrass you further.

There was a clear similarity between Melina and Natasha; the high cheek bones, the striking green gaze, the flawless skin. She held the same cold stare that her daughter did but could hide her emotions better than your girlfriend. A stone dropped in your stomach under her gaze.

Natasha squeezed your hand tighter, her thumb on your pulse point. The pad of her finger ran over it gently, assuredly. She knew you were horrified. Kate gulped (which to her credit, was technically not talking, but was still painfully audible.)

Melina had a knife in her hand, a half-carved apple resting between she and Yelena like a peace offering. There were differences in the cuts, one smoother, the other more practiced. This family found leisure activity in carving techniques.

Natasha warned in a breath “Bud' milym, mama.”

Her mother didn’t heed the warning. Instead, she closed the difference between you. Yelena instinctively tightened her grip on the kitchen knife, not that she’d ever use it. Melina scrutinized you for what seemed like years, but was only a few ticking seconds.

“Ona khoroshen'kaya”

“spasibo, Miss Romanoff”

“ah, you know Russian?”

“Yelena has been teaching me.” You swallowed the dryness in your throat as her raised eyebrow lowered to something less intimidating. “Ma’am.”

“Manners too. Maybe you can teach my Natalia something or two about that.”

You felt you cheeks heat up and you diverted your eyes to the floor. It had directed the attention in the room to the small girl clinging to your leg as if it were a piece of beached driftwood and she were fighting against the raging currents.

Melina knelt down in front of your daughter, her rigid stance loosening until she looked more like a mother than yourself. She was soft in this moment, the sun hitting her eyes in a way that made them glow supernaturally.

“Hi, Malen'kiy strelok”

Natasha parted her lips, as if to inform her mother that Veronica didn’t speak much, if at all. She’d gotten better, sure, but it was nearly stagnant with new people. Ronnie studied Melina as the woman had studied you.

“What does that mean?” Ronnie asked, her grip lessening.

Melina smiled “Little marksman. From what I hear, your mother has a very good aim. Do you?”

“I don’t know yet. Kate says I do.”

“Well, I’m sure we will find out in due time, milaya devushka.” She tentatively tucked a strand of hair behind Ronnie’s ear before standing again and focusing her attention on Kate. Kate who had paled at least ten shades and was sweating despite the air conditioning in the house.

Yelena straightened up herself, giving a silent warning with her stare. Of course, Kate didn’t’ see it like you and Natasha did, her arm having moved from your hand to your hip bone in the quiet approval from her mother. She’d relaxed significantly.

“Hi,” Kate squeaked out and Yelena stifled a groan put massaged her temple.

Melina seemed to look to Natasha for confirmation: This is the one she chooses?

With you, there was merit. There were callouses on your hands and scars that hardened under the fabric of your shirt. Kate was much of the same, though, she showed it in a nervous, fluttering type of way that presented outwardly as fumbling and awkward.

“Krasivo, no... puglivo. Like deer.” Melina offered a small smile to the girl and her breath seemed to release.

Skittish. Kate was certainly that, but she seemed to balance out Yelena with the perfect amount of caring and heart. Melina was nothing, if not vigilant. She clapped her hands together, that small smile turning into a large grin. “You all must eat something, you look starving. And Natasha, you are slouching, don’t’ slouch in front of your daughter. Those bad manners.”

“Mama, I am not slouching.”

Natasha groaned as the tension in the room broke. Her forehead pushed against your cheek. Veronica dragged Kate over to the kitchen island by the hand and instruction on the proper way to carve pieces from an apple began, much to Yelena’s huffing dismay.

Hands shifted from your hips, finding the two back pockets of your jeans. “She likes you,”

“I would be dead by now if she didn’t.”

“Yeah, right when you walked through the door.”

The two of you chuckled, her nose nudging against yours. “She called Ronnie your daughter.”

“I’m sorry, dorogoy, she pushes. She means well.”

You pressed a small kiss to the corner of her mouth, words a light whisper “don’t apologize. I like the sound of it.”

Before Natasha could collect her thoughts, her rush of pure emotion, you had pulled away from her and joined the rest of the family around the kitchen island. Though she couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, Natasha was more than content standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest.

Her heart pounded fondly.

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#Natasha Romanoff #Natasha Romanov #Natasha Romanoff x reader #Natasha Romanoff x y/n #Natasha ROmanoff x you #Natasha Romanov x y/n #Natasha Romanov x you #Natasha Romanov x reader #Mafia au #Yelena Belova #Kate Bishop #Clint Barton #Reader insert #request

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krirebr · 4 months

Text

More Than This 5

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x f!reader, Steve Rogers & f!reader

Word Count: ~6.1k

Summary: Arranged marriages have always been used to solidify business deals among the ultra-wealthy. Your stepfather wants to be in business with Harlan Thrombey, so now it's your turn.

Warnings: Heavy angst, age difference, adult themes, institutional sexism, Linda being Linda, all of the Thrombeys being really awful actually, explicit language, references to bad sex, flagrant disregard for HIPAA (actually, just assume that HIPAA doesn't exist in this universe), the slooowest burn - Warnings will be added as needed for subsequent parts. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/N: Oh god. I promise that there will be a point when this isn't so sad all the time and that point is soon. But it also isn't today. I'm so sorry. 😬

Huge thanks as always to @paperweight91 who listened to me whine and read countless fuzzy screenshots, and gave great advice and was just all around awesome. And to @stargazingfangirl18 who reached out with encouragement when the words just weren't coming.

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. And if you need to come scream at me, that's ok too!

As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

Ransom had the complete collection of Harlan’s books. You couldn’t say exactly why that surprised you, but it did. He even had the two poorly-received romance novels Harlan had written under a pseudonym. You hadn’t known the two of them were so close, but then again, you still didn’t really know anything about Ransom.

So that’s what you’d been doing with your days, making your way through Harlan’s complete works. You were currently reading one about an au pair that had been found dead in her charge’s locked nursery when your phone rang.

Your brow furrowed. The list of people who ever contacted you had gotten much shorter since you’d moved to Boston. Steve, Ransom, Linda unfortunately. That was pretty much it. You looked down at your phone to see your mother’s name. Oh.

You’d expected her to reach out in some way since your wedding and had tried very hard not to feel hurt when she hadn’t. Everyone’s lives had moved on. You were the only one stuck. But you still hadn’t had it in you to be the one who called her. You took a deep breath and answered your phone.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Honey! How are you?”

You kept in your sigh. “I’m fine. How are you?”

“Good, good,” she said, but she sounded sad. She always sounded so fucking sad. It struck you then, that that’s probably how you’d sound too, in ten or twenty years. Maybe less. Probably a lot less. “It’s so nice to hear your voice honey.”

“Yeah,” you said, and, pathetically, you could feel the tears starting to gather in your eyes. You weren’t angry with her. You couldn’t be. It wasn’t her fault she was so broken. It was inevitable. For all of you. And your frustration with her didn’t change how much you missed her. Missed home. Missed the way things used to be. “It’s good to hear you too.”

“I know it’s been a while,” she said softly, “but I wanted to give you a chance to get settled. How are things going?”

“They’re going fine,” you said quietly. You paused. You didn’t want to say anything bad or worry anyone, but also it was your mom. “I don’t know. It’s different here. I don’t have anything to do.”

She just chuckled. “Cherish that. It’ll change soon and then you’ll miss this time.” You didn’t know what to say to that so you didn’t say anything. After a few moments of silence, she continued. “And how’s Ransom?”

You stifled a groan. You didn’t want to talk about him. Things had been… better since your panic attack. He came home at a decent hour regularly. You fucked most nights now. But he was still just this looming presence. You didn’t know what to do with him. “He’s fine,” you said with a shrug.

That was apparently the wrong answer, judging by the little hum she made. “I know it’s hard at the beginning. When I first married your father–” she cut herself off with a deep breath. “Remember, honey, keeping him happy is your one job now. It’ll get easier the longer you do it.”

A few tears finally broke free and fell down your cheeks. “I don’t– I don’t know him. I don’t know what makes him happy.”

“Then finding out will be a good use of your free time, won’t it?” You glanced at the book beside you, feeling shamed in spite of yourself. “I know it feels so hard, but men are shockingly easy. They just want to be taken care of. That’s all you have to do. Make him dinner. Keep his home warm. Give him heirs. Don’t argue. That’s all. You’re going to be such a good wife to him, sweetheart. I know you can do it.”

You shrunk down into the couch, wrapping your arms around your knees, making yourself as small as possible. You hated this. Hated that she didn’t want more for you. That she’d never tried to give you more. But you were tired, too, of being upset with her for not doing the impossible. What else was she supposed to have done? What else could she give you when she didn’t have anything herself? “Ok,” you whispered. It was all you could manage.

“Joseph says hello, of course,” she said, and you wanted to laugh. He’d done no such thing. “He’s so proud that you’ve made such a good match. He’ll be happy to hear it’s going well.”

“Mmm,” was all you were able to say. You hated this. You couldn’t do it anymore. “It’s so good to hear from you, mom. But uh, I have to– I have to go.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “Well, alright. I miss you so much, sweetheart. We’ll talk again soon. I love you.”

You could barely hold the tears back now. “I love you too,” you said, your voice thick. “Bye.” The moment you hung up the phone, the damn broke. You couldn’t stop it. You cried for your mom. You cried for yourself. You cried for the way everything had changed and there was no going back. You cried because this was a day when it felt like no one on earth was on your side. A shaking Lola forced her way into your lap and you held her until you were able to calm down.

Once you’d stopped crying, you looked around. You couldn’t sit still, your mother’s words ringing in your ears. Your eyes locked on the kitchen. That was something you could do. You glanced at the time. If Ransom came home at his new regular time, it would be tight, but you could do it if you made something simple. But not too simple. Something that showed effort. That you were trying.

You got up and looked in the fridge. All those tidy little glass containers full of meals his housekeeper, Carol, made. You’d never felt like they were taunting you before, but now. Now you wanted to smash them. You could do this. You could make him like you. Show him what you were worth. You could make yourself a life better than your mother’s, maybe. Get him on your side.

There weren’t a ton of raw ingredients, but after combing through the entire contents of the fridge and pantry, you found what you’d need for a decent spaghetti. Carol was probably planning it for later in the week. Well, now she wouldn’t have to. You’d do it yourself.

You put some music on and got to work. Losing yourself in the prep. But you’d lost yourself too much maybe, because you were still chopping when Ransom walked in the door.

Lola, of course, rushed to greet him. It still rankled. She didn’t realize that one wrong move would have him kicking her out. His words from that first dinner had never left your mind. But a few days ago, he’d started reaching down to pet her as she danced around him. You didn’t know what either of them were playing at.

He looked at you, now trying to hurry through the rest of your prep, his brow furrowed. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m making dinner,” you said, gesturing to all your work obviously. You looked at the time. You weren’t slow. He was early. Why the fuck was he early? He was ruining all your plans.

“Why?” he asked as he took off his coat, then shoes. “Carol’s put plenty of meals in the fridge.”

“Because I wanted to!” You said, your knife coming down on the onion under your hand too hard.

The knife hitting the cutting board caught his attention. He looked at what you were doing. “I don’t like onions.”

You threw down the knife more carelessly than you should have. It slid across the cutting board before coming to a stop at the edge of the counter. “Then why were they in the pantry?!”

“How should I know?!” he shouted back, matching your tone. But then he looked at you and stopped. “Have you been crying? What happened?”

You froze. Shit. You hadn’t even thought to check what you looked like. You swiped at your face and turned away. “It’s the onions. Obviously.”

“Your face– that looks like more than onions.” He now stood at the edge of the kitchen, only the island between you.

“I’m fine!” you snapped, then forced yourself to take a breath. “My mom called,” you conceded. “It’s fine.”

“Oh,” was all he said for a moment and then, “You and your parents are close then?”

You couldn’t explain why the question irritated you so much. Maybe it was the assumption of homesickness. Or referring to Joseph as your parent. Or just him being here earlier than he was supposed to be, asking you anything. You couldn’t keep the shortness out of your voice when you responded, “My mom. Sometimes.”

You looked around at your progress, the mess you’d made, the onions he didn’t want. So much for keeping him happy. What a stupid idea. You felt done. Over everything. You began cleaning up all the food, scooping it into the garbage.

“What are you doing?”

“I changed my mind! You don’t want any of this anyway. Have one of Carol’s fucking dinners.”

“The fuck is going on with you?!” he shouted as he watched you clean up the kitchen.

“I changed my mind,” you repeated, throwing the cutting board into the sink. “I’m not hungry. I’m going upstairs.” You stomped over to the staircase.

“You’re not going to eat anything?” he called after you.

“No! I’m fine!” You shouted as you took the first few stairs.

“Yeah, you sure seem fucking fine,” he grumbled as he headed to the fridge.

You stopped and glared at him. “Wake me if I’m asleep when you come up. I’m ovulating, so. Tonight’s important.”

He let out a humorless chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, flatly. “I got your text.” That was news to you. He'd never responded to it. As you turned to continue up the stairs, you heard him add under his breath, “Although I’m not sure why you feel like you need to be awake for it.”

You stopped and turned around, coming back down a step. “What was that?!”

He turned to you, one of Carol’s glass containers in his hand, and sighed. “Nothing. I’ve had a long day.” You just stared at each other and then he added, “Aren’t you tired of it being such a chore?”

Something crumpled in you at that, but you didn’t want to stop and look at what it was. “Well,” you said. “The sooner I’m pregnant, the sooner it won’t be.” Then you turned and stomped the rest of the way upstairs.

When he woke you later that night, he was already ready to go. You didn’t even take off your pajamas, just slid your shorts down to your calves. He was right. It was a chore.

It was a few days later when he texted you in the middle of the day. You were hiding in the bedroom while Carol cleaned downstairs. She was still mad that you’d wasted the spaghetti ingredients. You were reading in bed with Lola when your phone buzzed beside you.

Big family thing at Harlan’s on Saturday. We’ll be expected.

For some reason, it was the ‘we’ that caught you. It was the first time you’d realized you were a package deal now. If Ransom was invited somewhere, you would accompany him. And vice versa if you were ever invited anywhere. You couldn’t imagine it, with how small your world had gotten.

The rest of his message caught up with you. His family. Linda had reached out multiple times since her awful visit. Every time you spoke to her, you got so small. You worried that prolonged exposure to her might cause you to completely disappear.

Aside from his parents, you’d barely interacted with the rest of his family at the wedding. It would be fine. You would be fine. You’d have to be. They were your family now too. You’d be seeing so much of them. For the rest of your life. You ignored how much your chest tightened at that thought.

Saturday came too soon.

Ransom paced around the bedroom while you both got ready. You’d never seen him like this before. He wasn’t dressed. He just kept walking in and out of his closet. And looking at you. You didn’t know if you were doing something wrong. He didn’t say anything, he just couldn’t keep still. The one time you’d asked if he was alright, he’d barked back at you that he was fine, so you hadn’t asked again.

Watching him pace around was making you even more anxious than you already were. So you focused all you could on getting yourself ready. You’d asked Ransom earlier if his family dressed for dinner and he’d just grunted in response. But it felt like a no, so you wore one of your favorite day dresses. It was your favorite color. You hoped it would give you confidence. You did your hair. You put diamond studs in your ears, with a matching tennis bracelet on your wrist. Reasonable heels on your feet. A spritz of perfume on your pulse points. It was the best you could do without more information.

You stood in the middle of the bedroom once you were done. Ransom was still undressed, still moving. “Uh,” you ventured, hesitantly, glancing at the clock on his bedside table. “Will we have enough time to get there?”

“Who gives a shit?” he growled, thundering back into his closet. A few moments later he came back out, wearing dress slacks and a cream cable-knit sweater. There were holes in it. You could see them clearly from the other side of the room.

“Ransom,” you said softly, oddly feeling like you were speaking to a spooked animal, “don’t you think that sweater’s a little worn?”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” he rasped. “Let’s go.” Then he was out of the room and halfway down the stairs, with you scrambling to keep up behind him.

The drive to Harlan’s country estate was mostly silent. You’d tried to turn on the radio at one point, but Ransom just turned it right back off. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly, his hands were bright red. You wondered if he was hurting himself. You didn’t know why he was so stressed. You were the one about to walk into the lion’s den, the one who had no idea what was waiting for you. It was his family. He’d be fine. You had no idea if you would be. You rested your hands in your lap, clutching them, and settled into the silence.

You knew that Harlan lived quite a ways out of town, but you still got to his home much too quickly. The large mansion loomed over you as Ransom parked his car amongst the others in the drive. He turned off the ignition and then just sat there, staring ahead. Just as you were about to call his name, he slapped the steering wheel harshly with one hand then growled “Let’s go!” to you and got out of the car. Once again, you scrambled after him, but this time, he slowed, slightly, to let you catch up. Once you had, he put a firm hand on the small of your back and ushered you up the path and into the house. You didn’t have time to react to that or try to figure out what on earth he was doing before you were greeted by a woman Ransom snidely called Franny. She responded with a very curt “Hugh” of her own then introduced herself to you as the housekeeper. She took your coats, and then Ransom’s hand was back on you, guiding you into a sitting room.

The entire family was already there, most with drinks in hand, and they all turned to watch you enter. You felt pinned by their gazes. “Well!” Ransom’s uncle Walt called out. “Look who finally decided to show. And just in time for the food, of course!”

Ransom stiffened slightly beside you then smirked. “Well, thank god we’re in time for your fifth drink, Walt. Who’d want to miss that?”

Walt scowled as he got up from his seat, then lumbered across the room, knocking his shoulder into Ransom’s as he passed and jostling you in the process. You started to sway a little, and Ransom’s hand immediately came to your hip to try to steady you. Your gaze flitted down to it, but just as quickly it was gone.

Everyone else began to get up and make their way out of the room. Meg, at least, gave you a small smile and wave, but otherwise, you were mostly ignored. That was, at least, until there were only three people left, Ransom’s parents and Harlan.

Harlan immediately hugged you. “It’s wonderful to see you, my dear. You look so lovely.” He took a step back to look at you both. “I trust you’re taking good care of each other. This is one of the most important times in your marriage. I hope you’re cherishing it.”

“Sure Grandad,” Ransom snarked, “we’re loving being married to a complete stranger.”

“Ah, now, you’ll only remain strangers if you let that happen.”

You saw Ransom about to open his mouth to say something else, so you jumped in with a quiet, “Thank you, Harlan, we really appreciate that.”

Harlan smiled at you, big and genuine, and then clapped Ransom on the shoulder. “See, my boy,” he said. “I knew she was exactly what you needed!”

Ransom’s jaw ticked but he didn’t say anything. You didn’t know how to respond either. Harlan’s kindness had a way of making you feel invisible.

Linda stepped up to you all then. “Darling,” she said, her tone dripping friendliness in a way that made you brace for impact. “I see not even your positive influence can make my son be on time. How disappointing.” She added a little chuckle onto the end, but you took it as the reprimand it was meant to be. You pasted on your most benign smile, but as always, she made you feel about a foot tall. You had no idea how anyone thought you were supposed to make this man do anything. Like he cared about what you thought or wanted. Like you had any power at all.

“Is that why you married me off, mother?” Ransom asked, matching her friendly tone, but when you looked up at him, his eyes were hard. “So there’d be someone to handle me?”

“Well,” she said, a placid smile on her face to match your own, “someone has to. Lord knows you haven’t listened to me in years.”

“And yet,” Ransom said, his tone dropping all friendliness, “you still got me here, didn’t you?”

The look on his face startled you. You’d never seen him this angry. Without thinking, you reached out and wrapped your fingers around his wrist. At your touch, his eyes snapped to yours. You weren’t sure exactly what he found there, you felt lost enough that you couldn’t imagine your expression was much help, but after staring at you for what felt like an age, he gave you the smallest nod and relaxed his posture.

“We don’t want dinner to get cold,” Harlan called from the doorway.

Linda straightened, finally ending the standoff with her son. “Yes, of course,” she said. Then she looked at you, really looked, her eyes traveling up and down your body, taking in all of you and everything you were wearing. She quirked her eyebrow at you and let out a distinctly judgemental little hum. Then that friendly smile was back and she turned away from you. “Oh, Dad, there was actually something I wanted to talk to you about,” she said as they both left the room.

You stared after her. You didn’t know what you’d done wrong. You’d looked at everyone when you’d arrived and confirmed that you weren’t under or overdressed. She herself was wearing a simple but smart pantsuit. Your clothes were nice, clean, and pressed. You were put together. What could her problem possibly be? You tried to breathe but you could still feel her looking at you and your chest was so tight.

You were brought back to the present by Richard wrapping you in a hug. His lips brushed your cheek as he said, “So nice to see you again, honey.” Then one of his hands on your back traveled lower until it grazed the top of your ass. You couldn’t help the way you jumped.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Dad?” Ransom shouted next to you. “I’m standing right here!”

Richard pulled away and you took a deep breath at being free of him. What the hell had just happened?

“What?” Richard rounded on his son. “I can’t greet my daughter-in-law? You’re so sensitive, Ransom. A little attention is flattering, isn’t it, honey?”

They were both staring at you. You knew you needed to say something but all you could do in your shock was gape at them.

Ransom wrapped one arm around your waist to pull you close to him. “You’re a fucking creep,” he growled.

Richard just scowled and made his way to the hall. “Disrepectful little shit,” he muttered as he left the room.

It wasn’t until his father was completely gone that Ransom dropped his arm from around you. He looked you right in the eye, his face so serious, as he asked, “Are you ok?” And there was something in his tone, fear maybe, that startled you just as much as Richard’s hand.

“I’m fine,” you nodded, your voice shaking only the slightest bit. When he still didn’t release you from his gaze, you brushed your fingers over his arm. “I’m alright.”

Finally, he nodded but didn’t really relax. “He’s–” he began, but cut himself off. “Just, watch out for him.”

“Ok,” you said, trying to sound strong. Reassuring. Ransom still just stood there. “Are– are you alright?”

That seemed to bring him out of wherever he’d been. “What?” he asked, somewhat sharply. “Yeah, of course. Come on,” he said, turning to the doorway. “Let’s get this shitshow over with.”

Everyone else was already seated at the large dining room table when you came in. Ransom guided you over to the two empty chairs in the middle of one side and pulled yours out for you before seating himself. The catering staff moved around the table setting down plates and pouring wine for everyone. But when the server got to you, they moved past you without pouring anything. In case you were pregnant. Of course. That was fine. You just hoped no one else noticed.

“I’m sorry,” Ransom said from beside you and your stomach dropped. “Is there a reason my wife isn’t being served wine tonight?”

“Ransom,” you whispered, still hoping everyone would just ignore it, but it was too late.

From the other side of the table, Walt piped up liked he’d just been waiting for an opportunity. “Maybe the staff got confused and didn’t realize she’s old enough to drink.” His eyes sparkled and he grinned, proud of himself, as it took every muscle in your body not to shrink down in your seat.

“Great catch, Walt! You’re right. She is still much younger than me. Like I said before, and I’m sure I’ll have to say again, neither of us chose this. I would’ve thought that’d be a concept you’re familiar with, seeing as how you practically begged Harlan not to make you marry Donna.”

“Ransom!” you admonished quietly. Your eyes cut to the willowy blonde sitting next to Walt, looking like a deer caught in headlights. You had no doubt that he deserved this, but you had no idea if she did.

Ransom’s eyes cut to you. “You’re right,” he said, before looking back at his aunt and uncle. “I should be nicer to Donna. I’m sure being married to Walt is punishment enough.”

“You little shit!” Walt responded. “I’ll have you know my wife is very happy. Which I’m sure is more than you can say for yours! What’s it been, a month? Two? And she already looks completely miserable.”

You felt all eyes turn to you again and you weren’t sure you’d ever felt more self-conscious in your life. Your entire body was on fire. You didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t say anything, so you picked up your fork and took a bite of the fish you’d just been served. It didn’t taste like anything.

From your left, Joanie spoke up. “Hey, those first few months of marriage are hard. But so rewarding. I know when Neal and I were first married–”

“Yes, Joanie,” Linda cut in, dryly. “My brother was a saint and we all miss him very much.” She turned back to her son. “There’s no need to get upset, Ransom. We just didn’t want to accidentally serve a pregnant woman alcohol. Better safe than sorry.” She picked up her own fork to begin eating. “Speaking of, if the two of you have an announcement to make, now’d be the perfect time.”

You couldn’t stop your grimace. Ransom stiffened next to you, then answered, “No. No announcement.”

“It’ll come,” Harlan finally joined in from his place at the head of the table. “There’s still plenty of time.”

From the other end of the table, a teenage boy you’d never even met before said, “Maybe not. Maybe she’s barren.” And you felt all the wind go out of you.

“Oh fuck off, you little incel shit!” Ransom shouted.

“She isn’t barren, Jacob,” Linda said, calmly. “We have all her medical records to confirm she’s perfectly fertile.”

You could’ve sworn you blacked out at the moment. You’d known, on some level, that if there was a clause in the contract, it’d come with some sort of confirmation that, at least on your side, it was even possible. But to know that they had your medical records and now were discussing them like you weren’t even here, like you just didn’t matter… You hoped the earth might open up and swallow you whole.

You felt a gentle hand land on your knee but it didn’t really register. Nothing did. You didn’t know where the conversation went from there. You couldn’t hear anything above the ringing in your ears. It was all you could do to keep breathing. But you knew they all kept sniping at each other. And you felt the anger radiating off of Ransom the entire time.

The clinking of plates and scraping of chairs finally got you out of your stupor as the family got out of their chairs and staff started clearing the dishes. You looked over at Ransom, for help or support maybe, you didn’t really know. But he also looked like he’d gone somewhere else. He could barely meet your gaze.

You were still numb as people made their way back to the original sitting room. You just needed to make it through the rest of the evening. You could do that. Just as you had gotten to the other room, Harlan stopped Ransom with a hand on his shoulder. “I’d like a word in private with you, my boy.”

Ransom looked at you for a moment, then sighed and said softly, “I’ll be right back,” before following his grandfather deeper into the house.

And then you were alone. You were at a loss as to what to do with yourself, so you went back into the sitting room and settled on a vacant couch. Not everyone had migrated there. There were only a few people in the room now. Jacob sat in the corner, hunched over his phone, but every once in a while he would look up, catch your eye, and smirk at you. It had you sliding further back in your seat. His mother was no help. Donna was slumped over in an armchair, still cradling half a glass of wine. Meg had already shrugged on her coat, giving a hurried wave as she moved through the room. And Richard–

Richard sat down next to you. You slid down the couch as subtly as you could. “You know,” he said, “I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to you at the wedding.”

Alarm bells went off through your whole body. You saw Ransom’s face again, from earlier. How angry, yes, but more than that ashamed and unsurprised. How he’d looked at you. How he’d asked if you were ok. How it’d felt urgent. “It was a busy day,” you gritted out, trying to think of any way to get yourself out of this room.

“Ransom is a very lucky man,” he said, inching closer, his arm draped over the back of the couch, “to have such a beautiful bride.”

“Thank you,” you chuckled uncomfortably. “That’s very sweet.” You looked around helplessly. As he opened his mouth to say something else, you stood up. “I’m going to go get myself some water. Do you need anything?” you asked, but didn’t give him a chance to answer. “No? Ok, I’ll be right back.” And then you fled.

You hurried down the hall toward the kitchen but slowed when you heard voices. You picked out Joanie first, then Linda. You slowed to a stop right outside the kitchen door, trying to weigh just how much you wanted that water. Was it worth facing them? Were they any better than Richard?

“Okay,” Joanie said, “but what do you really think about her?” Your stomach dropped. You tried to reassure yourself that they could be talking about anything, anyone. You pressed closer to the door as quietly as you could.

“I think,” Linda said, then paused while you heard the clink of glassware, “that she will serve her purpose just fine.”

Joanie laughed. “I just have a hard time picturing Ransom with such a mouse.” You closed your eyes. You should go right now. Nothing they had to say would be of any help to you. But, despite your best interests, you were rooted to the spot.

“She definitely wasn’t chosen for her personality, but Ransom understands how good this will be for the whole family. How important it is”

“Oh, of course,” Joanie simpered, and you just hated both of these women so much at that moment, maybe more than you’d ever hated anyone. “I just feel so bad for him. He must be so bored.”

“Listen, I told him that he just needs to get her pregnant, and then he can do whatever he needs to do. Once he has an heir. As long as he’s discreet, of course.”

Joanie cackled. “You didn’t! Oh, you’re so bad!”

“He might already be behind on that one, anyway,” Linda said, and you could practically hear her smirk. But you didn’t know what she could possibly be talking about. She didn’t know you and there was no one– unless. Oh god.

“Well.” Linda continued. “You know, she and her step-brother are very close, if you know what I mean.”

“Really?” Joanie asked, fucking eagerly.

“Mhmm,” Linda hummed. “Did you not see them at the wedding? They were practically hanging all over each other. He had to be kicked out of her dressing room.”

“No! Does Ransom know?”

“Well, I haven’t told him yet. You know how he gets. I’m waiting for the right time.”

“You know what they call that on the internet, don’t you?”

Linda sighed. “You know that I don’t, Joanie.”

“Stepcest!” Joanie said gleefully.

And that was it. That was all you could do. This fucking family. How– Why? You’d never done anything. You hadn’t even chosen to be here! And they still took so much joy in cutting you down. And if Linda managed to get to Ransom and tell him… Who knows what he’d do?

You moved as quietly as you could back down the hall, swiping at the tears beginning to gather in your eyes, hoping not to call any attention to yourself, when shouts suddenly erupted from the other side of the house. As soon as you recognized one of the raised voices as Ransom’s, you began to hurry in that direction.

You hadn’t made it very far before he came barreling out in your direction. “Get your coat,” he growled. “We’re leaving.”

You didn’t argue, more than ready to get out of there yourself. You followed him to the closet, and then once you both had your coats, out the door. The crisp night air was bracing after feeling suffocated in that house for hours. Neither of you said anything as you got into Ransom’s car.

It wasn’t until you were fully off Harlan’s property that you felt brave enough to ask, “Is everything alright?”

He glanced at you before returning his eyes to the road and letting out a humorless chuckle. “Sure,” he said.

“What– What did he want to talk to you about?”

“Just his same old bullshit,” he scoffed.

“I–” you had no idea what to say. “Is it always like that?” You felt foolish as soon as you asked. Of course, it was. You could tell.

“Oh, no,” he said, and his tone was so cold, so detached, that you couldn’t help but stare. This felt like a brand new Ransom. “Sometimes it’s really bad.”

You didn’t say anything to that. You had no idea what to do with this sudden urge to comfort him, this man who had so much power over you, this man you couldn’t even say you liked most days. Especially after what you’d just been through. So you kept your hands in your lap and stared out the window.

After a few minutes of silence, he surprised you by being the one to break it. “So. I bet your family looks like the fucking Waltons compared to that.”

You thought of dinner with your own family. Joseph crowing loudly about his successes. Your mother cowering the moment any small thing went wrong. Steve getting into screaming matches with his father. You feeling invisible, on a good day. “No,” you said, hollowly. “Not really.” He turned his head sharply to look at you and you held his gaze for just a moment before he had to look back at the road. There was one large difference though. You’d always had Steve. As far as you could tell, Ransom didn’t have anyone.

That thought led you back to what you’d heard right before you’d left and your anxiety returned. “Steve and I–” you blurted out. “He’s my brother.”

Ransom’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Uh, yeah, I am aware of that.”

You shook your head. “No, I just– I know we aren’t related biologically, but– Nothing’s ever happened between us. Not ever. He’s my brother.”

“What the fuck?!” he called out as he made a left turn more sharply than necessary. “Why would you–” he cut himself off. “Did someone say something to you?”

You ignored his question. “I just–” you said, “I just wanted you to hear it from me.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. Neither of you said anything else for the rest of the drive.

When you got back to his house, Ransom went straight upstairs while you let Lola out one last time before bed. When you joined him in the bedroom once that was done, he was already in bed. “Listen,” he said softly, “I know you’re probably even more anxious about this whole thing after– I just, I’m really fucking tired. Is it ok if we don’t– If we just go to bed?”

You nodded, relief flooding through you. You were just as tired and didn’t think you could deal with all that after everything else that had happened that day. You quickly went through your nighttime routine in the bathroom. When you came back out once you’d finished, you found Ransom still awake, lying on his back staring at the ceiling. Lola was curled up at his side and he absently scratched her belly. You climbed into bed and turned the lamp off, turning onto your side. You felt him move behind you, scooting closer, not enough that you were touching at all, but you could feel his body heat. It was oddly soothing. You closed your eyes and hoped sleep would come fast, ready for this day to be over.

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the-darklings · 2 years

Text

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐗𝐈.]

summary: "We begin... with a spin."

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 16.2k+

warnings: gonna break your heart one last time, Dream is still Dream (reluctantly affectionate)

notes: all good things come to an end : )

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: Rule the World (Odyssey Version) by Take That

1:32 ───|────── 4:55

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART ELEVEN: BEYOND.

“Who are you?”

“I am Destiny of the Endless.”

“And who am I?”

“You are the one who wanders. You will do so until the universe ceases.”

“Why?”

“Because you have been cursed to do so. Because you chose no shackles, no roots. You wished, instead, to roam free. And now you shall.”

“Why?”

“Because all is as it is meant to be, Wanderer.”

“Why?”

“Because you wished to break your destiny. And so you did.”

“I knew a lad called Jack Constantine once.”

Book in hand, you step around Hob, licking the dryness from your lips. Copper lingers on your tongue. “Same family.”

He perks up at your subdued comment, arms unfolding from where they rested over his chest.

“Nah, really?” He mulls it over for a moment. “Wait, that actually makes a lot of sense. He was a bit of a twat.”

Johanna sniffs. “Piss off.”

Late evening sun streams through the blinds, bathing the dark wood office in syrupy, golden-brown light. Books and notes lay scattered everywhere you look, each inch utilised fully. Johanna leans her hands on the table, squinting at the grimoire laid open. She’s been chewing on her lip for the last five minutes. That doesn’t bode well.

“No can do,” Hob replies, hitching his shoulders with a proud smile. “I’m here on strict business.”

Dropping the grimoire Johanna requested on the table, you shoot them both a look, “Are you two done?” Your attention swivels towards the necromancer despite your trembling hands, finding her delicate features pinched. “Can you find Jed Walker?”

She huffs, her brows folding inwards. “You’re asking me to find a needle in a haystack of seven billion, give or take. I’m not a bloody witch. I don’t just cook up locator spells. I deal with demons and the dead.”

Bracing your hand on the table to mirror her, you soften your voice, “I understand what I’m asking for.”

“I’ll need time to figure this out,” she admits tightly.

Private displeasure colours Johanna’s voice, and you nod in defeat. It’s hard to admit any shortcoming, much less one rooted in one’s power. While Johanna may be more powerful than most mortals can comprehend, it’s not power without gaps. She’s still so young. But, as with all Constantines you’ve known, there now sparks that fiery, stubborn drive, seemingly blazing from within. This is a challenge and one she’s set to overcome.

“What about the other?” she poses abruptly, turning several pages in the grimoire. Her index finger trails over the yellowed pages, glued to another spell. “Do you have anything of theirs? You said this one has magical protection?”

“It’s conjecture,” you clarify. “But he’s been able to skirt me for over a century, so I’m left with one conclusion.”

Hob whistles under his breath. “A century? Bloody hell, you must be eager to find him.”

Memories flutter to life, birds caught in flight. A tall man with blonde hair, a dangerous smirk, and your blurred reflection dancing across his shaded glasses. Nothing more than a twisted memory that’s all fangs and blood. To file this want under ‘eager’ would be insulting. This specific longing comes with both elation and dread. Horror at what you might discover. This ignorance is no more than a flimsy illusion. You’ve spent the last century following Corinthian’s every crime, experiencing it as if he executed them on you instead.

“I can’t promise this will work,” Johanna continues, oblivious to your internal struggle. Your attention snags on Hob, who is watching you with deep creases denting his forehead. There’s old, shrewd awareness in how he examines your rumpled appearance. “At best, I might be able to cloak you. Again, locator spells are not my speciality. At all.”

You clear your mind, pushing away from the wooden fixture. “ What if I gave up an object? It’s old, full of history. Would I be able to form a tether?

You’ve seen such spells performed—you know they’re possible and incredibly advantageous when done right.

Johanna glares down at the grimoire for a beat, silent. Her chin lifts suddenly, her narrow-eyed stare harsh and biting. There’s digging intensity to how she inspects your appearance from head to toe, and you bristle at the probing check.

“You look like shit,” she says bluntly. “I don’t think you should be doing any tethering to anything.”

Your teeth gnash. “Can it be done, Constantine?”

Tension barbs through the room. Hob sighs, making you even more defensive because you can instinctively tell it’s about to become two against one. “We’re not daft, you know,” he says quietly. “It’s clear you’re unwell.”

Your eyes flutter shut. Forcing your jaw to relax, you mull over the most palatable way you can deliver this information to them. It’s clear from their wonderfully human determination that they’re not going to let this drop until they have more context.

“Fine.” Filling your lungs with oxygen, you hold your breath, gathering yourself. How difficult it is to draw oxygen should probably concern you. “Remember how I told you I’ve been experimenting? Well, I’ve exercised a degree of control over the curse. The travelling part, at least. I can force it to take me places I want, but it… costs me. Physically.”

Johanna folds her arms over her chest, humming in consideration. “Cost, eh? How steep?”

These damn Constantines.

The setting sun warms your cool cheek, and some invisible restraint in you loosens your invisible cast dropping. “Internal injuries. Bleeding, tissue tears, organ failure, haemorrhaging. It heals, but slowly. Excruciatingly so. If I abuse controlled travel too often, I can pass out. Slip into a temporary coma until internal damage heals. Vomiting, mobility issues, dizziness, hallucinations—take your pick.”

You’re avoiding direct eye contact, but utter silence encompasses the office when your words sink in.

Hob gathers himself first. “Jesus Christ.”

Shrugging, you say, “It’s fine. I’m getting better at controlling it.”

“Which part of that is fine?” Hob’s voice is barbed with horror. “None of that is fine.”

You wish neither of them were looking at you like this. Rattled, aghast, alight with shades of sadness. It's so much easier to handle this when no one is standing there reminding you of the ugly aspects of this curse.

“Can it be done?” you bite out.

Johanna wipes emotion from her face, stretching out her hand, palm up. “Show me this item.”

Without a preamble, you hand her the roughened wooden figurine. Your stomach roils at the sight. Desperately your fingers clench and unclench in the folds of your coat, blunt nails biting into your palms. The urge to snatch back the figurine is bone-breaking.

Johanna rolls the item in her hand, scanning it with eyes that see far beyond its material form. She’s digging deeper into what history—power—the object contains. “It might work,” she muses pensively. “I’ll cloak you, but the spell will have a time limit. The further away you are from me, the shorter the timer will be. Whoever it is won’t see you coming, but I can’t promise you the exact location.”

The grim determination bubbling in your gut answers: “Just get me as close as you can.”

Swirls of colours and shapes; loud, jarring noises, spinning, spinning, nails raking through the skin—

“Make it stop, make it stop—”

It doesn’t stop. There’s only colour—sound—sound—breaking—madness. And it doesn’t stop for a very long time.

A thousand reflections stare back at you.

“Coward.”

“Traitor.”

“Murderer.”

“I’m not,” you gasp. “I’m not.”

Do it, do it, do it—

A rat scurries past your arm, disappearing into the hoary mist, and you flinch.

No matter how loudly you plead for forgiveness, for relief, there’s only endless despair and glass cutting into your palms.

Flower fields. Sunshine. Peace.

A tall, pale, looming man with twin stars for eyes stands over you.

“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”

No reply.

But for the first time since you’ve woken up as you: hope.

A beautiful dream.

“Who did you say you were again?”

Mighty, leathery wings block out whatever light there once was, the newcomer’s pale hair shining like a halo around their fair face.

“I am an angel, here to save you,” a benign, soothing voice coos, followed by fingers tracing over your bloodied jawline. “If only you help me.”

“By doing what?” you slur, blood and sweat trickling down your split brow. “By spying on the Endless? On Dream?”

“Do not fear. I alone can protect you. Your purpose is to merely… observe.”

Demons hiss and growl around you, and you flex your newly healed jaw. They broke it four times in succession. So much for talking back. Scorched dirt beneath your feet stains with your congealing blood, and you chuckle. The croaking sound grows in volume until your throat bleeds.

It’s answer enough.

Your bones quiver under the sheer power of Morningstar’s displeasure. “Take this one away. Make sure there’s nothing left.”

The demons make good on that order.

Johanna pierces the world map with a letter opener, every inch cutting in with deliberate slowness. Candles flicker, settling after the spell, and you taste the magick at the back of your throat.

“Georgia, U-S of A,” the necromancer announces, loosening a breath.

“Great,” Hob chirps, his arm brushing against yours. “That’s just brilliant. It’s across the bloody ocean, that is.”

Johnna shoots him a venomous look. “Oh, sorry. Were you hoping for a nice trip down Brighton?”

Hob stares at her blankly in the shadowed office. He turns your way slowly as if mutely asking do you believe her?

You do. You’ve dealt with enough Constantines in your lifetime to ensure their sarcastic, surly nature is no longer a shock.

“You’re a highly unpleasant woman,” Hob concludes, though no real malice lingers in his tone or bearing.

“Thank you, Constantine,” you cut in before they can break into another bickering session. “There’s one more thing.”

The brunette rolls her eyes. “Is there now?”

“Magdalene’s Grimoire,” you begin deliberately. Johanna freezes. “I want you to locate it and retrieve it for me.”

Your companions speak simultaneously:

“Why?”

“You believe it has something to do with your curse, don’t you?”

Ignoring Hob’s incredulous outcry, you nod towards Johanna. Pain twinges suddenly in your core, and your breaths slow until you get a grip on yourself. But it’s slow. Numbing pain laps at your senses for a debilitating minute until it clears once more. The curse wants to drag you in a thousand directions, but you don’t permit it.

You right yourself again, swallowing over your dry tongue. Your temples throb insistently.

“I think it’s old—older than people assume and has spells that no mortal should have access to.” You lean towards the map, examining the range letter opener has offered. You’ve been to Georgia several times previously, but long ago. “Roderick Burgess might have gotten lucky, but the mere fact there’s a spell there that can help capture an Endless… I find that curious. Unlike what your records indicate, he was not the first Magus, but he was the last. This means the grimoire has to be with his family—likely his son—or someone relating to them. I’ll pay you.”

Somehow.

“Are you joking?” Johanna scoffs immediately. “One of the most powerful grimoires known to humanity? I’ll find it for free. Imagine what I could learn from it.”

Your stare glides to her unhurriedly, fixing on her fair complexion. She visibly falters at whatever she spies in your cool regard. “Within reason… and for the good of humanity. Scout's honour.”

Hob squints at her. “You’re not even American.”

“Shut… up,” she mutters, shooting him another nasty look.

You tug your coat free when it catches on a chair, slotting your hands in your pockets. “Thank you, both of you. Is the spell active?”

“Yes, but it won’t hold long at this distance,” Johanna warns.

Your attention latches on the wooden figurine on her desk. It’s wrong—it feels so wrong to have it out of your grasp, to feel nothing more than Dream’s pebble warming your hand. You try not to think about him now or your last conversation together. Instead, you focus on the thread woven around your heart, tugging you away and over the ocean.

“I won’t be back for at least two weeks, but see what you can discover in that time,” you tell them.

Hob balances on his heels, presenting Johanna with a charming grin. “Well, I guess I ought to help you.”

The sorceress scowls. “I don’t need your help.”

“Everyone needs help,” Hob counters.

Levelling them with a fond look, you wordlessly head towards the door while they verbally spar. Your hand briefly braces your chest, feeling the unsteady thud beneath your palm. You’ve been jumping too often, too far, and too rapidly for your body to recover. But just a bit more. Then you can rest.

You’re almost at the end of a darkened hallway before an urgent voice sounds behind you, accompanied by brisk strides in your direction.

“Wait, wait…”

You’re not even slightly surprised to hear Hob behind you or feel his fingers wrap around your bicep. Street light filtering through the window paints over his taut features, creating a pronounced tale of two sides. Light and dark. Young and older than anyone can comprehend. Quite fitting for both of you.

“Take me with you,” Hob says, imploring edge laced beneath his lighthearted manner. It pinches your heart. “You know what they say: two immortals are better than one, eh?”

If things were less dangerous, less volatile, if it were anyone but Corinthian, you would take him up on his offer. You would love nothing more—two immortals going on an adventure. Hob has known the same horrors, similar hardships, countless failures and highs. Together you’re as effortless as breathing, as familiar as old friends meeting after years apart. You’ve felt that kinship with him from the first moment you locked eyes in that overcrowded pub, sitting there soaked and miserable.

But this is the Corinthian. Even if Hob is the one human with nothing to fear from the nightmare, this goes much deeper. Soul deep. Perhaps deeper still. This conflict is between you, Corinthian, and Dream. It’s always been a tale of three parts, interwoven into a single, unbreakable thread.

“Hob Gadling, you are a gem,” you say softly, placing your hand on his warm cheek. An unsure smile forms across his mouth. “And maybe one day I will. But this… this is something I must do alone.”

“You don’t, though. You realise that, right?” Hob argues softly, fiercely. “There are people who care about you.”

You think about the Dreaming and its occupants, all the mortals and other beings you’ve encountered in your many travels. Friends and companions who have told you to visit, stay, there is always a place for you here even when they knew you could do no such thing without putting them at risk. You think about the Endless—your becoming and undoing.

Your hand slips away from him, your faint smile hollow. “I do. Two weeks.”

The Endless are formidable individually. The raw power holding this universe together, given form and reason. Their realms are kingdoms that put others to shame. You’ve visited plenty by now to draw the unsurprising conclusion. Dealing with each sibling is an exercise in patience, tact, and subtle respect in differing shades.

Sitting in the same room as seven of them makes you want to crawl out of your skin and run for the hills. You’ve met them individually in the past. There’ve been a handful of occasions where you encountered several simultaneously. But never all together in the same room like this.

They’re terrible and wonderful and so suffocating in their casual existence that every instinct in your mortal body warns you of one indisputable truth:

“I shouldn’t be here.”

Death shakes her head promptly, giving you a stern glance. “Nonsense, sweetheart,” she asserts. “You’re right where you belong. Isn’t that right, Destiny?”

Destiny of the Endless sits unmoving, only his mouth visible behind his flowing, beige hood. His hand rests on the Book of Destiny, pale but relaxed. Whenever Destiny does move, the chain connecting him to the book rattles through your bones.

He hosts these family gatherings, though all Endless have equal prominence in this universe and its continuous function. Despite it, from your angle, it appears as if he’s the one at the head of the table. Oldest and certainly the most overwhelming in his sheer aura. It took him a simple swipe of his hand for an additional chair to materialise at the table for you. For his fluttering, eerily silent attendants to lay a plate and glass on either side of you.

“All is as it should be, sister,” Destiny replies, his voice whistling wind through dry leaves.

Your pulse beats against the curve of your throat. If your stomach weren’t already empty, you would likely be throwing up right now.

Death grins brightly, pleased. Her smile is no doubt meant to be reassuring when she angles back towards you. “See, that’s a yes.”

Your words form clumsily on your tongue, “I didn’t mean to impose—”

Sitting on your left, Delirium tightens her grip on you, cutting your words short. Her chair had been dragged towards yours, your arms linked despite the uncomfortable angle. The scent of leather, sweat, and burnt sugar bites into your nostrils. Today, her hair keeps flickering between bright orange, yellow, and neon green.

“Uhm… impose?” she mutters. Her words flow so swiftly that it’s an effort to keep up. “No, no, imposing to be imposed on, and, um, imposing is impolite. What is impolite?”

“To impose would be impolite, yes.” Your words come out measured. “Like that man. You went into his home.”

“Well, he, well, he wasn’t a very good man.” Delirium’s voice thins, frustration biting into each syllable. On your other side, you sense Destruction turning in your direction. Tension blinks out from Delirium’s lovely features, her different-coloured eyes shining in the dimly lit room. “I made him see colours. Really pretty, pretty colours.”

Yes, she certainly did. You’re hopeful the man received a swift death via villagers, others having no doubt concluded him mad or consorting with devils and demons. As if to illustrate her point, Delirium lightly positions her thumb and index fingers together, forming an O. She giggles, blowing air, and much to your unspoken wonder, multicoloured bubbles float through the air. Some remain bubbles, bloated and bobbing. Others shape into animals and birds.

“I am not an Endless,” you remind, feeling foolish for doing so. As if anyone could mistake you for one of them. Your eyes briefly skim over each sibling, shifting in your seat for the dozenth time. “I don’t think it’s right for me to be here.”

Despair, sitting opposite to you beside her twin, hoods her eyes. The metal hook on her finger digs into her chin. Blood bubbles beneath the honed metal. “Yes. Mortal.”

Her whispering, thin voice blankets you, and your insides ball up.

Destruction chuckles on your right, deep and echoing in the dining hall, smoothing over your suddenly chilled, clammy skin. “Sister, do you meet many mortals who live over three hundred years? I see no harm in you being here, dear Wanderer.”

Desire stretches indolently in their seat, candlelight washing over their indescribable features. Scoff ripples from their chest, their chin dropping in their open palm.

“Right, is anyone else opposed to Wanderer being here?” Desire voices, sweeping a challenging look around the table. When no one speaks, Desire shrugs, arms open at their sides. “See, sweet thing, relax. Have some fruit.”

They pointedly push the fruit basket closer towards you. The fruit does look tasty, and you hadn’t eaten in two days, but don't think you can stomach it right now.

Dream casts an inpatient glance Destiny’s way. In extravagant robes, Dream Lord appears the most disgruntled with being summoned. “Why are we here, Destiny? You do not call upon the family without a cause.”

Destiny’s answer comes predictably vague: “You are here, brother Dream. That is all.”

Despite your unease to be dropped into their family meeting, annoyance pinpricks you at his words. Always the same ambiguity, always what the book dictates, and never what someone might feel. Destiny is not human. It would be unfair for you to hold any of the Endless to mortal standards. For you to expect them to comprehend sentiments that are so far out of their reach.

It doesn’t take away from the sting, though. At least this time, the curse was mindful enough to drop you inside Destiny’s stronghold inside the Garden of Forking Ways. Last time, you found yourself helplessly lost inside the boundless maze for weeks. Destiny did nothing to aid you—it was as it was meant to be. You associate him most closely with that wild animal fear and sheer helplessness. You can’t help it.

“Why the rush?” Desire calls out, interrupting your thoughts. “Eager to get back to another failed relationship, sweet Dream?”

Shadows coil around Dream Lord’s feet, seated between Delirium and Death. You silently question if it’s a purposeful partition.

“That’s enough from you, sibling,” Dream warns.

Desire’s lovely mouth spreads into a quick, beaming smile; all teeth bared and tawny eyes aglow with sadistic amusement. A predator having scented blood. “Oh, come on now,” they coo. “We all come here to talk as a family; even lovely Wanderer is present. Yet you think yourself above everything. Your realm, your rules—we’ve heard it all before! You’re oh so dull.”

Despair slumps beside her twin, face downcast. “Dull. Yes, rather dull indeed.”

“And are you perhaps bored, my sibling?” Dream returns, a slight pinch to his imperious features. His voice remains perfectly aloof. From this outsider’s perspective, it’s easy to see why Desire views Dream as supercilious. “Did you run out of adequate ways to amuse yourself?”

Momentarily swallowing down your fear, you slant your head over to one side, “Dream.”

Dream pauses at your drawn, anxious expression. The ignited stars dim, draining away, but the hard slant of his broad shoulders doesn’t drop.

“Oh, don’t run to his defence.” Desire’s voice is just edging on goading. Their nails tap on the wooden table when they cross their legs, leaning towards you. “This is quite characteristic. Surely you find him just as insufferable as the rest of us?”

Death’s retort is whip-sharp. “Desire. Shut up.”

Others around the table appear calmly accepting. They’ve seen this fight play out in the past a thousand times. While you’ve never demanded reasons for the bad blood between the two Endless, it’s clear it runs deep, a problem stemming from innumerable centuries long since past. And very clearly not a situation for you to get involved in. You’re not naive or arrogant enough to assume you can fix their problems for them. Neither Desire nor Dream seems particularly invested in settling anything, either.

But inciting like this is dangerous. Desire has never attempted to spark arguments involving you in the past, no matter how spiteful the mood.

As if mentally arriving at the same conclusion, Destruction’s rumbling words vocalise your unspoken plea: “Do not involve Wanderer in your quarrel, sibling.”

Delirium curls into herself, her legs raised on the chair and pressing into her chest. Her hold on your arm turns near painful. “Arguing, fights, it's not nice, but it… um… that’s not where Desire is supposed to be. It’s um… it’s somewhere else. It’s in Dreams.”

You’re not sure how to decode Delirium’s words. You once believed them to be mindless babbles. Then some phrases would come back to haunt you months or even years later. Whatever caused the turn in Delirium from Delight gave her foresight no other Endless seemed to possess. Save, perhaps, Destiny.

Desire’s fingers curl beneath their pointed chin. Desire surveys you, then his older brother, with a feline's slowness. “Well, well. Aren’t you two sweet on each other?”

This time, the darkness curling beneath Dream’s chair becomes physical. Visible even to your mortal eye.

“Cease your poisonous stipulations,” Dream says icily.

Desire scoffs, dropping back in their seat with a graceful, seductive stretch. Heat encompasses your being, pouring in the crevices of your skin. Desire’s effect is all but impossible to escape this close.

“Is it not my function, oh dear brother of mine, to sow desire in the hearts of all living things, mortal and otherwise? What are they without their desires?” The Endless straightens just as swiftly, their elbows digging back into the table while they eye you, chin back in their hands. Something cruel and fragmented, endlessly amused, slides through those golden irises—an intent you’ve never seen Desire direct your way until now. “Come, my sweet, doesn’t it get dreary? All those mortals set on your suffering? Surely you have missed the sweet, loving embrace of Desire? I could make you desire anything… even a kiss.”

And then…

The world melts away, and everything once making up your being bows and folds under the power pressing into you. You’re but a child. You are atoms. And you’ve forgotten how terrible their power could be once unleashed.

There’s only cocoon and darkness and golden, glowing eyes beckoning you, warming you, bewitching you. Your limbs are too far away to control, your will dulled into thin, worn paper—brittle to the touch. Your skin is too hot, and the air in your lungs is insufficient. It feels so good. So good, so good—

Even a kiss, even a kiss, even a kiss—

Your limbs are on strings, tugged in one direction, then another. Distantly, horror chokes you, and you scratch at the walls inside your mind, clawing for some semblance of control, but there’s only a sultry embrace of desire.

“Desire, no—”

“Stop—”

“Enough.” Something inside your chest trembles at that single word’s sheer, unbridled power. Your numbed senses are clear but not enough to free you. You're trapped, caught on the verge of awareness. “You dare.”

“Now, now, dear Dream. Did I get under your skin? It’s but jest. Lighten up.”

Few stars emerge in your blackened vision, guiding you closer. They urge you forward to safety, but you’re unable to move. It feels good to be here, so good and hot. There’s no pain, only desire and pleasure—

“We do not control mortals, sister-brother. Their will is their own. Release Wanderer.”

Destiny’s tepid command shreds through the heated, desire-filled veil. You return to yourself with a choked gasp, snapping into your tiny mortal body with a painful lurch. It’s overwhelming. Every sense was smothered to such a degree, it’s as if everything is twice as heightened now.

“Are you insane?” Death snaps. You’ve never heard her this angry until now. There’s always a smile on her face and a playful gleam in her eyes. But you’re too busy shaking to be afraid. “What was that, huh?”

Your hands convulse. Bloody indents line your palms. Your nails must have cut into your skin hard enough to draw blood. You fought. But what can a mortal do when faced with an Endless? You were erased, folded down to nothing. You are nothing.

Voices melt into one. You’re too shaken to separate them. When some semblance of awareness settles in, you realise how awful these… seconds, minutes, or hours have truly been.

You’re half straddling Destruction, arms half wrapped around his broad shoulders, your mouth near his neck. Horror liquefies your limbs, rooting you in your spot. Too much—it’s too much. Humiliation leaves you immobile, but Destruction rests his hand between your shoulder blades, his gaze kind and concerned beneath his bunched eyebrows.

“Are you well?” he asks quietly over the clamour behind you.

Your chin wobbles. Shame lashes your skin. You’ve been used as no more than a puppet to be thrown at him. On him. Like some mindless whore. A witless worshipper, begging for their chosen god’s favour, not understanding what they’re inviting. How the gods are never kind. How they only use and break for their amusement.

Even though Destruction doesn’t appear angry, you can’t stop yourself from croaking out, “I… I… I’m sorry.”

His sympathetic frown is visible even beneath his thick beard. He cradles you to him but with gentleness indicating how fragile he believes you to be at this moment. “Do not fret. It is quite alright, my friend.”

“Can you…?”

Your words splinter. The burn behind your eyes turns painfully prickly. Destruction’s handsome face creases further. He nods mutely, carefully manoeuvring your body to a standing position. His large hand presses between your shoulder blades, steading and hot through your thin robes. His fingers fold slightly, protectively. Your gratitude for his unprompted support is immeasurable. An anchor while your knees shake.

“It was a joke,” Desire calls out over his siblings. “Desire is who I am. It’s all in good fun. Isn’t that right, sweet thing?”

Your shoulders spasm, your back still to them. Your insides churn at the prompt, and you’re unsure if you’re about to be sick, cry, or some horrific mix of both.

You thought… you were foolish enough to assume…

How many times have you landed in the Threshold, thrilled to see Desire? How often have you shared jokes, laughs, and peaceful evenings and mornings in the twilight land? What other touch or embrace have you known over three centuries that didn’t end in agony but Desire’s? You’ve told them numerous times you have no preference for any sibling in their family—that you cherish Desire’s company as much as others, perhaps even more so. Because with Desire, you could remember what it’s like to be human—to want and need.

You had foolishly believed you were friends.

Now you see the truth. You feel the horrible, numbing heat licking across your flesh—the aftermath of this ultimate betrayal. Desire’s power shimmers on the outskirts of your mind, ready to devour you anew. Rob you of reason and choice.

“I—you… I trusted you.” Everyone falls silent at your frayed words, scraping through the eerily quiet dining hall. When you rotate clumsily towards them, you look only at Desire. You avoid others. Your humiliation burns too brightly for anything else. “You… just made me feel like nothing. You degraded me. I’m no more than a thing for you to play with.”

Some foreign emotion spasms briefly through Desire’s face—gone in a blink. Their answering smile is so patronising a deeper crack splinters your chest. “Wanderer. Be a good sport. It was simply a bit of fun.”

A bit of fun.

Desire can be fickle, and it can be cruel. But you’ve forgotten just how cruel they could be. To Desire, this is no more than a practical joke. You’re only a silly mortal. No wonder you don’t get the joke. You’ll get over yourself soon enough. But no one else is laughing or smiling, either. Even Despair in your peripheral remains hunched and mute, typically first to her twin’s defence.

“Fun.”

The word shatters something between you the second you voice it. You can see it on Desire’s face. The realisation settling in. There is no regret, no apology. Nor will there ever be. It’s clear from the dismissive curl of Desire’s mouth. They don’t see anything wrong with what just transpired.

It makes it worse. So much worse.

“Wanderer, brother Destruction. Sit.”

Destiny’s perfectly poised voice shreds whatever little composure you’ve been clinging onto.

“You knew, didn’t you?” The accusation rips through the room like wildfire. You shake off Destructions comforting touch, your lungs filling with air and spilling out fire. “You knew Desire was going to do that. That’s the only reason why you permitted me to stay. Do I not suffer every day? Or do you enjoy making me into your little plaything? Have I not been humiliated enough for your amusement?”

Destiny says nothing.

You shove away from the table with disgust. Your feet tangle before you command your sluggish limbs. Death rise after you immediately.

“Wanderer—”

You flinch away from her extended hand, from all of them. You don’t care what invisible line you may be overstepping. “Don’t touch me,” you spit out. “I never should have stayed.”

Your feet carry you several paces until another, more resounding voice calls, “Wanderer.”

A part of you doesn’t understand why you pause or look back. Dream’s gaze sears into you. Yet you can’t untangle a single thing you see burrowed there. He’s standing as well, his hand flat on the table. Foolishly, you hope he will come after you, say something in defence of you. But Dream is Dream. He’s likely just as clueless about why you took this so badly as others. Perhaps the fury you see glimmering in those starlit eyes is but your imagination. Another pretty lie your sentimental, human heart would be all too happy to convince yourself of.

He doesn’t move. You pivot away, your shoulders hunching.

Desire’s chuckle licks at your back, silky and smooth. “So tense, that one. It was only a bit of fun.”

No one laughs. No one responds.

Only a bit of fun.

“Take me away, take me away from here,” you sob, stumbling into a shadowed hallway.

For once, the curse listens.

Rivulets of sweat drip down your back. The puddle of blood at your feet is starting to go dark. These observations float from somewhere beyond the dense fog shrouding your mind. It’s so difficult to focus. Wiping across your sweaty forehead, you lean on your arm, breathing deeply. You’ve forgotten how suffocating the humidity could be here in Georgia.

Mercifully only heat-blurred fields surround you. The vast, open stretch of highway is all you see on either side.

Lights dance in your vision, your ears ringing. Maybe it’s the curse and not the heat. Your limbs obey no command, barely held together by sheer stubborn will to follow the tether pulsing in your chest. The spell’s power is already dimming. You have no choice but to jump. This is your only chance to get to Corinthian first.

“Come on… come on… I don’t obey you.” Your nails scrape on the heated metal, your head hanging low. “You obey me.”

Your tongue rolls the words clumsily. No matter how much you swallow, more saliva floods your mouth, causing your stomach to cramp. Your knees beg to fold beneath you. Lay down in this tall grass and wait for the inevitable that will never arrive. It’s foolish. Death is far from the worst thing that can befall an individual. It was the very first lesson you learned.

Digging deeper, you claw and yank on the curse’s power, squeezing it until the bleed becomes physical. Until your limbs rip from one place to another.

When you settle back into your body, skin stinging, your knees hit the ground immediately. Blood dribbles past your lips, your sweat-covered forehead pressing into the soft dirt. You pant loudly, blood trickling past your cracked lips. Pain is coming from everywhere. Sounds mangle into each other when you attempt to raise your head. Your stomach protests viciously, leaving you dry heaving. Nothing but more blood escapes your body.

A hotel sign. It’s the first thing you register. You’ve landed near one, practically on it. Your fingernails dig into the dirt as you stumble into a standing position. The tether Johanna’s spell has threaded pulses harder and faster in your chest. There. Corinthian has to be there.

Cradling your sore midsection, you painstakingly make your way towards the hotel. Relentless heat melts your already nonexistent strength reserves down to nothing.

Several people glance in your direction when you push through the reception door. In this climate, your attire certainly raises eyebrows, but you remind yourself there’s no way Corinthian can know you’re here this time.

“Can I help you?”

You stumble to a stop, breathing heavily. A man with a tiny hat and a nametag reading Fun Land sits behind a table, his annoyance palpable while he stares at you expectedly. It takes considerable effort to gather the strength required to speak.

“No.”

You turn to go.

“Hey, woah! This is a convention-only area. Can’t you read?”

Following the direction the man is gesturing wildly towards, you find a board reading Cereal Convention printed in large, bold letters. The rest blurs, sweat stinging your eyes. You work your jaw.

“No,” you repeat.

The man’s petulant glare would be comical if you were in a better mood.

“You can’t go here,” he declares stiffly.

Your fingers curl weakly, convulsing at your sides. You didn’t come this far to be precluded from finding Corinthian by a goddamn sign. By a cereal convention. Cereal convention. Cereal. At the back of your foggy mind, something nags at you.

Your brows dip inwards, your gaze slipping towards the man. His bravado stutters, washing away from him. He shrinks backwards the longer you stare at him, his throat working on a gulp. Your lips compress into a stiffer line. Someone brushes behind you, stepping up to the table. Fun Land exhales in audible relief, serving them, pretending he’s too busy to pay you further notice.

Fine. You’ll find another way.

Stalking outside, you keep to the shade, leaning into the wall for support. It doesn’t take long to track down the delivery entrance. Every hotel has one, and depending on the time of day, they’re not the best protected. Like right now, in the afternoon, after housekeeping has gone home, leaving only a handful of staff on standby.

He’s in here somewhere. The hotel corridors melt together. Beige walls and stale, humid air. They warp, smearing together into nothing but sensation. You’re a rat caught inside yet another maze. Sickness churns inside your stomach.

And then, impossibly, you see him.

A pale head of golden hair illuminated by washed-out light, his back to you while he strolls ahead and away from you.

“Corinthian.”

The raspy exhale ricochets. The nightmare stops dead in his tracks. Until this precise second, he wasn’t there, wasn’t real, but with his name, the nightmare becomes a reality. Corridor may separate you, but the spell winks out, confirming your suspicion.

Aircon buzzes through the long, otherwise vacant corridor. Your heart thunders in your ears.

Then, Corinthian speaks: “You shouldn’t be here.”

A sob wells in your chest at his drawling, smooth words. Nearly two hundred years you haven’t seen him. Over a century seeking him out, having to live with the ramifications of atrocities he’s been inflicting. And now, here, it’s just you and him. You’re not sure which sensation pulses in you stronger: anger or relief.

Your mouth quivers, your tongue dragging across your dry, cracked lips. “I searched for you.”

“I know you did,” he replies listlessly, his back still facing you. It hurts, because you were right. He’s been knowingly avoiding you. As if reading your mind, Corinthian raises his hand, and your stomach shrivels when you spot your ring firm on his finger. “I have this to thank you for, but it would seem you found me out anyway. Shame.”

The ring. Of course.

A small piece of humanity for you to hold. I told you, they’re not all bad. I hope this can help you experience it.

And experience it he did. An essential part of yourself put away in that ring must have given him a sense of your presence nearby. He used your own present against you.

The Corinthian finally turns to face you, all but unchanged except for his modern hairstyle and refined round shades. You want to say so many things to him that your tongue refuses to work altogether. A great chasm yawns between you, and you have no idea how to bridge it.

“What are you doing?” you ask at last.

There’s no smirk or sly grin in sight. He’s as closed off as you. Despite his seeming indifference, you read the subtle tension lining Corinthian’s broad shoulders. He can hide from others, trick and lie to them if he pleases, but never you.

“What I was made to do,” he replies tightly.

“No. You’re hurting them.”

Corinthian’s jaw locks. “He made me in your image, Wanderer. Now I’m making the world in mine. I thought you’d be proud.”

A disbelieving scoff rips from your chest, burning your windpipe as if acid washed down it. “Proud?” you parrot. “You’re killing them.”

Your harsh condemnation dissolves whatever neutrality remains in the space between you. Prior uncertainty dashes beneath a strain of a century dripping in the blood of innocents.

“Did they do less to you?” Corinthian’s voice is all nightmare; honeyed, cruel, and seductive. His head tilts playfully to one side. “How often did they torture you? Shun you? Sought to eradicate you? Still you defend them as you did him.”

Your sight muddies, and it takes a shake of your head to clear it. “You can’t punish all for crimes of a few.”

A snarl twists Corinthian’s mouth, his feet carrying him towards you in a measured, prowling stalk.

“A few? They’re all the same: greedy, selfish, and cruel. The curse reveals. I reflect. They don’t change; they only learn how to hide better.” He pauses, licking his lips as he considers you. Something seems to occur to him, a faint laugh vibrating from his chest. “Do you have any idea how many times I stopped them? Punished them for hurting you? New Orleans in ‘31. Berlin in ‘43. Vienna in ‘55. Seoul in ‘62. Moscow in ‘71. Bangkok in ‘89. New York in ‘00. Why those were all me and then some. I was there. I’ve always been there.”

Each date punctures through you like a stray bullet. Honed and whetted for the single purpose of hurting you in a different sense. A fragmented nightmare. You’ve chased a mirage while the nightmare has spent a century mirroring your steps, keeping you safe from the shadows whenever your paths crossed unbeknownst to you.

There’ve been times—

You thought you’d caught glimpses of him in decades-long since lost. But unfailingly, you’ve only ever found empty alleyways when you pursued these figments. Eventually, you stopped chasing these mirages. The pain was too great. But it’s never been just your overreactive imagination, has it? He was real. He was there.

He’s spent a century killing indiscriminately while also keeping you safe. You want to scream at him for the evil he’s committed and cry from sheer relief he hasn’t forgotten you.

“Then why hide?” you croak, stumbling closer. “Why not speak with me?”

“Oh, come now.” Corinthian clicks his tongue. He turns away, nostrils flaring, then turns to face you again. “You know why. You would have asked me to come back, and for you, I would have.”

His features blur, your words barely audible, “And would that have been so terrible?”

“Come back to what? Dream’s ball and chain?” Acidic words, despite their softness. His rage deflates instantly, a huffing laugh escaping him as if he’s surprised himself with the lapse. “You think he gives a fuck about either of us? He threw you out. You left.”

Indignation flares in your chest. “Not by choice.”

“Then you should have taken me with you. But you left me. All you ever do is play by Dream’s rules. I figured out how to leave the Dreaming back during Dreamfall, but I stayed. Wonder why.”

You have no response to that. You’re left standing there, gaping. For you. Who else? He had no one else there; no other reason to stay other than your presence.

“So that’s it,” you begin shakily, your words rasping, sniffling. “All this because you believe I chose Dream and his rules over you?”

“What did you do to yourself?”

Corinthian’s voice has gone dreadfully quiet. Fiercely unhappy. Too late, you realise you’re sniffling because blood is dripping from your nose. Clumsily, you swipe the back of your hand over your chin. Crevices in your skin crack with dried blood.

“It was never a choice, don’t you get it?” you whisper, your words pouring out thick and wet with emotion. “It’s always been you. Always. I was terrified the journey would destroy you. Had I known, I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat.”

Corinthian closes the remaining distance between you, grasping you by the forearms. It’s such a relief to have him near again. You sag into him, trembling. You try to raise your hand to wipe beneath your nose, but your limbs are too stiff to obey.

“What did you do, Wanderer?” He sounds furious while he examines you, as if only now realising the extent of your deterioration. “What did you do yourself?”

“I had to get to you first,” you tell him. Blood smudges the lapels of his jacket where you grasp it. “Please, you have to stop. They don’t deserve this, Cori.”

He looks disgusted at your words, but your legs fail you before he responds. Corinthian catches you before your knees hit the carpeted ground.

“It hurts.” His words come out hissing, sharp with incredulity. “Why does it hurt?”

Your chin jolts upwards, your bloodstained smile trembling around the edges. “You know why. I’m inside of you. You can’t escape that.”

Neither of you can. You’ll carry him in you until your bitter end, as he will carry you until his.

“Shh. I got you.” Corinthian tucks you into him when a whimper of pain escapes you. His hand cradles the back of your head. “I’m going to set us both free.”

And then, through horror, darkness closes in.

Motion.

“Who is that?”

A woman’s voice. Unfamiliar.

“Oh, yes. This one is with me. Won’t you be a good girl and share that tidbit with others, so we don’t have any… complications. I appreciate it.”

“But I thought—”

Arms tighten around you possessively—the air coils, suffused with thick tension.

“Good Doctor. No one touches this one. Or they'll have to deal with me. Personally.”

Footsteps retreat near instantly, the atmosphere lightening in the absence. You’re resting on something velvety. You have no idea where you are, but you know you’re safe.

“Cori…”

“Shh, I’ll be back before you know it.” Cold glass touches your lips. When your lips part, soothing water slips into your awaiting mouth. After several mouthfuls, the glass disappears. A cool hand traces your face. “Things will be different real soon, you’ll see.”

You reach blindly, seeking. “Don’t go.”

“Oh, don’t worry. After I’m done, we’ll have a Dreaming of our own.”

Then nothing.

Anchor around your ankle. Plunging, bitter cold water, pressure, pressure, a hand reaching uselessly towards the shrinking light above, then nothing—

Ropes bite into your wrists, the pyre is tall, and the crowd jeers with open delight. They throw things at you; some hit, some miss. You don’t know if you hate them or pity them. Both, neither. Sahsin’s face is disgusted, filled with hate. She has positioned herself in front of the throbbing mob. When the fire comes, Sahsin enjoys it. When the fire comes, the agony devours all else—

Blank page.

And beneath, a faint, pulsing power of Endless Destruction.

“My lord.”

Urgent footsteps head in his direction. Morpheus raises his head, his grip on the tome in his hands white-knuckled.

Loyal Lucienne and a rather familiar figure a step behind her.

“I apologise for leaving, Lord,” Fiddler’s Green begins, flustered but entreating. “But you must help. He’s killing them.”

You awake with a pained gasp. Your head swims, your fingers clumsily seeking purchase.

An eerily silent hotel room greets you when your hiccuping gasps assuage into a steadier rhythm. Corinthian is nowhere in sight. You wrench yourself from beneath the comfortable covers, stumbling. You grab your carelessly thrown coat on your way out, shrugging on the familiar weight. At least your vision is clearer than earlier. Pain remains undiminished by your fretful rest.

The hotel is unnaturally quiet—your nerves prickle. Nothing good ever comes from places where there should be life, being devoid of it. Unease pools in your stomach while you stumble through winding corridors. Where did everyone go?

Outside, twilight has settled over the landscape. Your pace increases, your palms dragging across the walls to keep moving.

You find the reception empty, the convention table barren. Except…

“—a black mirror, made to reflect everything about itself that humanity will not confront. But look at you—”

Your body turns to stone mid-step. There’s no confusing that voice with anyone—the absolute power infused into every deliberate, low syllable.

With a start, you realise your knees have bent, your coat pooling around your ankles. You’re scared. Dream wasn’t supposed to be here. Not when you’re not there to mediate. Clawing at the walls, you force your legs forward. Your bones quake in protest with each step.

Shoving into the conference room, you find the room full. Hotel patrons sit in neat rows, their heads bowed and eyes closed.

Dream of the Endless and the nightmare make for a lonely, contrasting sight on the stage: dark and light.

Corinthian’s small smile is scornful. “I’m not the problem, Dream.”

“You’re right,” Dream Lord concurs quietly. “This is my fault, not yours. I had so much hope for you, but I created you poorly then. So I must uncreate you now.”

Dream’s arm lifts in the air between them. You lurch forward, stumbling up the stairs.

“No!”

You let out a dry sob, pushing past Dream to get to the nightmare. The contours of Corinthian’s face have begun dissolving, singed red at the edges, disappearing back into the sand he was fashioned from.

Corinthian chokes out a breath, grinning widely, grasping your hand. “Hey, trouble—”

His hand in yours crumbles. A wounded, animalistic sound rips from you. There’s a futile, blind attempt to grasp onto his body as it slips between your fingers. Through your arms, and then out of your life.

“No! No, no.”

Your knees hit the stage so hard the sound is a thunderclap through the hushed room. Sand lays in a golden pile at your feet. A tiny skull containing teeth for eyes is all that remains and—

Your ring. Corinthian’s faint warmth still lingers on the metal. Wet dots fall into the sand. Only then do you register the tears dripping down your face. Followed by speckles of blood. It seems appropriate that, in the end, he should have your blood also.

Featherlight touch on your shoulder only registers after Dream’s voice floats through your agony: “Wanderer. I am sorry.”

Perhaps under different circumstances, you would have examined this moment closer—Dream Lord, an Endless, on his knees beside you, his voice impossibly soft. Instead, you want to disappear.

“I know,” you sob, shaking, half leaning towards the ground. If it weren’t for Dream’s grip on you, there’s no doubt in your mind you would collapse right where Corinthian has. Something mangles inside you, far beyond physical. “I know you had to stop him. I… to me… he… to me he’s…”

Everything.

Dragging your hands desperately through the slippery grains, you gather them in a smaller circle.

“What are you doing?”

Dream’s question is uncharacteristically gentle. There’s deeper awareness that a wrong question could shatter you completely.

Past your raw vocal cords, you only manage: “I—I can’t leave him. I can’t leave him again.”

You’re not sure if you’re coherent enough for him to understand. Each word borders on a pained howl. Black is rapidly devouring your fading vision. Too much. It’s too much. You’re about to explode. Collapse like the nightmare did, utterly undone.

Several scarlet drops drip into the sand, and Dream sucks in a deep breath beside you, his grip on you tightening.

“You’re bleeding.”

He doesn’t get a response. Blackness devours you whole.

Recovery takes three weeks. You’re unconscious for the first two. Another week crawls by until you can move again.

The simple fact that it takes you so long to become functional only confirms that Dream brought back a broken soul into the Dreaming. You’ve survived limbs being severed. Past incidents where your skin was peeled off. But this goes beyond skin deep.

You haven’t travelled since the incident. The mere thought induces a fresh dose of cramping terror through your system. The curse, wounded and worn, has retreated. Dormant. For now.

“You mourn him.”

You jump in your spot. Your fingers close protectively over the ring in your hand. Dream steps into your line of sight, his coat fluttering around his lithe figure. His face is slanted away from you, observing the waterfront. You try to hide your surprise at seeing him.

He’s been… distant these last three weeks. Not cold, but…

Sad.

There’s no other way to delineate the forlorn stares that seem to follow you.

“I’m not an idiot. What Corinthian was doing was horrific,” you say dully, tugging on stray blades of grass.

Fiddler’s Green has returned, taking his post once more. It should make you happy. He apologised personally for his departure, but you understood his reasonings for leaving. Without his creator, Fiddler’s Green wanted to experience what it was like to be human. What right do you have to judge him for such a wish? Yet memory is a cruel mistress—the recollections of the one whose absence is so torturously felt are everywhere.

“He took lives that were never his to take,” you continue. Anger bites into controlled syllables. “Not to mention his plan to have Rose become the new heart of the Dreaming. Did he realise the universe would have collapsed in on itself? He had to be stopped.”

It was what had awoken you back at the hotel. It’s only later that you learned the extent of Corinthian’s plan. Rose Walker was the vortex. Given enough time, she would have become the centre of the Dreaming, drawing dreams and nightmares to her. And collapsed this universe as a result. Dream would have killed her—it’s the only time the Endless are permitted to take mortal life, if they’re an active threat—but Rose’s grandmother had stepped in last second. A woman who should have been the vortex if it hadn’t been for Dream’s capture. If the sleeping sickness that swept through the waking world had not robbed her of life.

“But you mourn him still.”

Unequivocal insistence. Your composed mask cracks around the edges. Lying would be pointless.

“Of course I do,” you exhale, pained.

Dream’s fingers curl at his side, but he doesn’t look your way. “This was my oversight, Wanderer. Do not bear the guilt for those lost.”

Trees ripple and shiver in the faint breeze. Waterfall roars to your left, while to your right, the dark shores of the Dreaming reflect sunshine like the darkest obsidian. You consider the Dream Lord while he watches the beach with a stony expression. Utterly closed off—same old Dream.

Deflating, you struggle back onto your feet.

“Their blood is on my hands, too,” you say, turning to go.

Guilt will follow you no matter what he maintains.

“Are you departing once more?” he calls out, halting you in your tracks. He’s scrutinising you when you peek his way. “You are not fit for travel.”

Offering a throwaway smile, you shrug. “I’m a rubber ball. I bounce back quickly.”

“Stay until Dreamfall if the curse permits it.” Dream pauses after his brisk request, catching himself with a swallow. Awkwardness permeates the air. “It would mean a great deal to others if you celebrated with them.”

You loosen a reluctant breath, squinting at him. “Do you want me to stay?”

Something shifts between you at the forthright prompt; tightening, warming. Surprise collects in your chest at the fact you dared to ask. But you’re tired of feigning, acting as if you’re both not caught in some bizarre impasse.

Dream’s lips part softly, his answer a mere exhale, “I would.”

Light, tingling sensation webs through your chest. You hadn’t expected that. “Under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Answer me something, Morpheus. Truthfully.” With deliberate slowness, you step into his bubble, so close Dream’s lashes flutter as he peers at you. There’s such unbearable weight to his gaze. There’s always been a raging storm brewing there, but this is more. Heavier. “Corinthian was convinced that you made him in my image. Is it true?”

Your jaw sets stubbornly, the nightmare’s name stinging your tongue. Dream’s eyes roam over your features, seeking some unknown truth. You’re not asking about physical similarities, but you permit him this moment. Because he digs deeper, because your heart is in your throat when Dream finally settles on his truth:

“While I did not recognise it as such at the time, I believe I did.”

You’ve known, been aware of this fact for centuries. Since Corinthian shared his hypothesis, you’ve been unable to scrub it from your mind. But to have confirmation from Dream himself paints many past events in a different light.

“I made you poorly then… a black mirror made to reflect everything humanity will not confront.” Recalling Dream Lord’s words, you stagger backwards, your mind whirling with thoughts. A startled gasp pushes from your lungs, your attention snapping back to the Endless. Suddenly all the puzzle pieces slot perfectly into place. “I had it all wrong. Corinthian was a manifestation of your anger for what humanity was doing to me. He was to be your mirror, your teacher, so humanity may choose to be better. So they may learn to overcome their darkest impulses.”

Staggering backwards, words escape you in a torrent, “But it went wrong, didn’t it? You gave him too much of that anger—the fury of an Endless and reckless, unshakable defiance of a cursed mortal. You created a masterpiece by giving him too much. By making something that is so much more than just a nightmare. A perfect hybrid between an Endless and a mortal.”

Dream says nothing in response. It’s the only confirmation you need.

In the end, you stay. But this time, you’re the one who avoids the Dream Lord.

“You’re always welcome in my chambers, sweet Dream. It’s lovely to see you. Can I get you anything you desire?”

Morpheus strolls through the glossy scarlet chambers of his younger sibling’s stronghold. Desire of the Endless curls with each word spoken, stretching indolently across their seat. Loving malice lines planes of Desire’s face, enigmatic and magnetic as their name suggests.

Dream moves closer. “I desire nothing from you, save some answers.”

Desire pouts, sitting up, their hands in their lap. “Oh? Do tell. I love a test.”

He’s never understood Desire’s love for games. Petulant slights or wish to inflict harm. To manipulate and use. Once…

He supposes it no longer matters what their relationship might have been once—too many years arc between them: too much history and bad blood. Morpheus prowls through the gallery, briefly flicking his attention towards his family’s sigils.

“Unity Kincaid should have been the vortex of this age. But someone saw fit to take advantage of my imprisonment and fathered a child with her, knowing full well that it would become the vortex and I would be left with no choice but to kill it.”

A mock gasp escapes Desire’s ruby-painted lips. Their golden eyes blow wide open, startled and innocent, while they monitor Dream.

“Are you implying I meddled with affairs of another Endless domain, dear brother?” Desire’s pout wobbles when Dream doesn't respond. The faux innocence melts away in a blink, leaving behind nothing but conniving malice, peering back through a hooded stare. “Oh, fine, was I really that obvious?”

A brief, cool smile touches Dream’s lips, his words coming out frosty, “No. You covered your tracks remarkably well.”

“High praise, coming from you,” Desire tuts, grinning sharply.

“What did you intend?” Dream heads towards the other Endless unhurriedly. “That I should spill family blood? With all that would entail?”

“This time, it almost worked.” Desire’s grin stretches wider, pleased. “I haven’t seen you this worked up since my little wrangle with lovely Wanderer. How is she, by the way? Still coughing up blood?”

His younger sibling adjusts their position once again, sitting up straighter. Bracing for a fight, Morpheus realises belatedly. This is a sore spot that always elicits a reaction. But this time, Morpheus will not be giving his sibling the satisfaction. He’s observed Desire’s and Wanderer’s relationship—or what little of it remains—long enough to draw his own conclusions.

“You do not fool me,” Morpheus begins deliberately. The corners of Desire’s mouth tilt downwards slightly. “I know your fickle heart, my sibling, and you resent the fact Wanderer forgives others but not you. But you fail to understand why that same forgiveness has not been extended your way. We of the Endless are the servants of the living, not their masters. We exist only because they know deep in their hearts that we exist. We do not manipulate them. If anything, they manipulate us.”

“Then perhaps I shall pay Wanderer a visit in person.” Desire drags their thumbs over the edge of their lips, sly in their wily deliberation. “I do, after all, wear your face now. But unlike you, I will endeavour to be a far more… devoted lover.”

Wrath kindles in his chest. Morpheus knows. He’s read about your and Desire’s encounter at the shores of the Dreaming while he was locked away.

He shakes his head. “Still, you fail to see. We are their dolls, Desire. You and Despair, and even poor Delirium, will do well to remember that.”

Desire presents him with a dismissive shrug, their nose wrinkling. “Maybe I don’t understand.”

“No, perhaps you do not,” Morpheus agrees softly. Circling, he slips behind his younger sibling. Desire’s head wrenches backwards, their gulping gasp nearly lost when Morpheus twists the other Endless’ head back, peering down at the blonde coldly. “Then let me tell you something you will understand: mess with me or mine again, and I shall forget you are family. You lay a finger on Wanderer, and I will make every circle of Hell feel like kindness by comparison. Do you believe yourself to be strong enough to stand against me? Against Death? Against Destiny?”

Desire forces down a gulp, their breath stuttering at the creeping wrath, “No.”

“No, indeed.” Dropping his hold, Morpheus straightens, his jaw rigid as he stalks away, adding, “Remember this next time you’re inspired to interfere in my affairs.”

And then he’s gone.

Translucent light kisses your shoulders as you stroll towards the looming stronghold, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Your fingers have turned numb from how tightly you’re clenching them. The impressive, stone-carved statues depicting the seven Endless guide your way. Well, six. You pause by Destruction, the only one facing away, unlike his siblings.

You don’t dare to stray from the path. The likelihood of finding your way out if you get lost in the maze again is non-existent.

The ruler of this sprawling, eerily silent domain greets you at the foot of the marble staircase.

“I welcome thee, Wanderer, Roamer of Realms, into my stronghold.”

Even at this distance, Destiny looms so impossibly tall, some forgotten human instinct sparks in a warning.

Undeterred, you halt before the imposing figure, bowing your head. “I greet and thank you for your welcome, Destiny of the Endless.”

Only Destiny’s lower face is visible behind his billowing hood when he speaks in a crackling rasp, “You have arrived here for a single purpose.”

No ifs or buts about it—he knows better than that, the book slotted neatly under his arm.

“And here I was, ready to ask if you’re surprised to see me,” you shoot back jokingly. Destiny does not smile or construe entertainment from your words. You sober, your attempt at levity now abandoned. “Guess we both know the answer to that. I’m here to share some theories if you have time to spare.”

To your surprise, Destiny slips past you, heading in the direction you came from, deeper into his garden. His footsteps make no sound. His cloak whispers behind him, shimmering in the dim, muted light. On equal footing, you have to crane your head to see him. The devouring dark pooling around the contours of his pallid face reveals nothing beneath the hood, even at your angle.

“You seek to ask questions for which there are scarce few answers, Wanderer,” Destiny says resolutely. “You are far older than most mortals can comprehend, yet your heart remains stubbornly mortal.”

You set out after him at once, your invisible hackles rising. “In what way? My defiance?”

Destiny does not falter, his pace remaining as steady as lapping waves. “That is not for me to judge.”

The garden is vast and a marvel to behold, but the temperature lingers on that unnatural lukewarmness that gives away how unorthodox this place is. The light is perpetually unfading, gauzy in the corners of your eyes. It’s a confusing, strangely profound place. It’s as if Destiny’s realm contains everything all at once but also nothing. A place of futures to come, lives unlived, and wilted pasts. There’s no point in attempting to unravel it. There’s only uncanny strangeness you’ve come to accept.

“You will spend time in the realm of each sibling—you will dream, despair, desire, destroy, delight and otherwise, and, eventually, die—but you were his from the very first page, and only he will read how your story comes out, a long time from now.”

Destiny doesn’t pause at your reiteration. There’s no indication he even heard you, but you’re a step behind him. A thousand years of trying to get answers have taught you he would not be entertaining you if this wasn’t heading somewhere. The thought of another scrap of information sets your heart thudding. Haven’t you spent the last two centuries piecing things together? Attempting to confirm your speculations before you came here to confront him with them. Your past attempts may have ended in uniform failure, but today is different. You can feel it.

“You told me that when we first met,” you continue, keeping your nonchalance. You’re no more than a child to him despite your millennia of existence—this is the only way to get him to take you seriously. “When I awoke in your garden, alone and terrified, with no clue as to who I was or what had happened to me. I’ve been thinking about those words ever since.”

Destiny slows, then stops altogether. Your heart climbs to your throat. You've paused by his statue, standing at the foot of polished, pale stone. Destiny’s cloak whispers when he hinges in your direction, anticipatory. He already knows what you will say.

“It was you. You’re the one who did this to me.”

The clarity that clangs through you with those words shakes your knees. Sucking down more oxygen, you add, “Not directly, maybe. I was cursed by mortal power. This much I know for certain. But you made it possible. You led me to this by the hand. Why?”

And like a dozen times you’ve tried in the past, you expect dismissal, or worse, silence with which he’s punished you often. Destiny would disappear from your sight altogether. His patience and unwillingness to give you clear answers are unmatched.

But not this time.

“Because you broke your destiny. Tore it to shreds. Painted it red.” Destiny readjusts the heavy book under his arm. “So you were allocated a new path. One of hardship and pain, but one that may lead you to salvation. Should you tread it mindfully.”

The roar in your head is so loud you barely understand Destiny’s low, equable words.

“You could have told me this a thousand years ago,” you choke out.

He remains a perfectly barren canvas, but in the tension pulsing between you, there now whispers a hint of displeasure. Sweat trickles down your nape.

“I did,” he replies flatly. “But you did not listen. You instead raged and ran, and what came of it?”

Madness and despair.

Stumbling forward, you bite out, “Why? What did I do? What could prompt eternity of this.”

All this pain for crimes you couldn’t so much as recall. Whatever it was, have you not paid back your dues? Have you not suffered enough to make up for your past?

“Forgetting is the only kindness you’ve ever been spared. Or ever will be. Treat it as such.” Cold needles your spine, and a terrible urge to fold yourself into a ball gnaws on your bones. Destiny’s pitch does not change, nor does his bearing, but it doesn’t need to. “In your quest to break, you reformed into something else.”

Your force down saliva, near choking. “Into what?”

“Challenger of the Unknown.”

Silence envelopes the garden. There’s little to no sound in the Garden of the Forking Ways to begin with, but those words blanket everything. Not even the wind seems to stir. No blade of grass moves. This means something; it means something crucial, but you have no idea what.

“What does that mean?” you beseech. Destiny doesn’t move, nor does he answer. Your voice cracks. “Please just tell me.”

But you already know it’s a lost battle. This is all too familiar—the cold, pitiless silence, utterly unmoved. He’s given you all he’s intended to.

“I used to think you hated me.” You’re not sure why you’re telling him this. Destiny won’t care. Your feet carry you past him. Briefly, you pause by Dream’s statue, then keep going. “More than anyone else in this universe. It wasn’t until Destruction left that I finally understood your position more. It is a burden to know what others don’t but be unable to speak that knowledge.”

There’s no doubt in your mind that Destiny knows where Destruction is.

The Prodigal’s statue pierces your vision, making you squint into the hazy skies above. Your following words slip out, each lilting with breezy ease: “But it doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive you for letting Dream rot in a cage for a hundred years when you knew it was coming, when you could have warned him somehow. I know you have a duty, but he’s your brother. However, indirectly you let Dreaming decay—my home. You let humanity suffer. I figured it out, by the way, why it’s a loophole. Why my book exists in the library, but nothing in other dimensions does. Why I can sleep in the Dreaming but not anywhere else.”

Destiny stands stock still, his bony arms close to his chest, clutching his book. He displays no outward reaction as per usual. It’s a relief to voice your thoughts. You’re utterly terrified of him, but he’s right—your heart is still stubbornly human, as brazen as the Fates accused you of being.

“Because if my curse was the will of the Endless, if my path—whatever it is—is so tightly bound to your family, then it only makes sense, right?” You’re not looking for a response because Destiny will offer none. “The Dreaming is the only place where aspects of each Endless manifest. It’s a loophole. The curse goes dormant when I’m in the Dreaming because the only thing more powerful than the curse is the combined power of the seven Endless.”

You’ve waited to voice your conclusions for so long, it’s surreal to have spoken them aloud. You might fear Destiny, but not enough to continue as a coward. He can deny it, but you’re confident that’s the reason. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

“My siblings have gained much from their companionship with you, Wanderer,” Destiny admits. You quell a flinch despite Destiny’s voice retaining its monotonous quality. “But you and I are antitheses of one another. My brother would not be who he is now had he not tasted that helplessness and sorrow. You are the ink and the quilt with which Dream will write his story.”

His words make little to no sense. Dream is… Dream. What could ever influence him? Much less you. He’s changed since his imprisonment, it’s true, but doubt still nestles in your heart. Had the situation with Gault not proven how those attempts to change come undone in a blink? Despite it, Dream is trying, and it’s more than enough. Change doesn’t happen overnight; not any profound version, anyway.

You wipe across your face, schooling yourself. “I won’t stop trying to save them even if I’m punished further,” you assert. “I’ll always fight for humanity.”

Even over his hood, you feel your gazes clash, burning into one another.

“I would expect no less,” Destiny assures.

Squaring your shoulders, you’re halfway between dimensions before a thought occurs to you. “Just one more thing before I go.”

Destiny is as grave as usual, entirely inhuman in his foreboding silence while he waits.

“It can be broken, can’t it?” you say, scrutinising him closely. “The curse. There are weak spots in its design.”

“That is for you to discover,” he replies, much to your surprise. It’s closer to a yes than a no. “But pay heed. This path will not be forgiving should you wish to pursue it.”

Icy trepidation creeps its claws down your spine. You don’t permit it to show.

“Nothing in my life has been forgiving,” you say curtly. “I bid you good fortune, Destiny.”

“And I you, Roamer of Realms.”

“Happy Dreamfall.”

Slanting your head, you let your chin dig into your shoulder, smiling. You hadn’t seen the Dream Lord since you snuck back into the Dreaming, seemingly no one having noticed your momentary departure. Normally, there are someone’s eyes on you. But only Dream can sense your appearance and disappearance inside the Dreaming itself. So you’ve taken advantage of his absence. You’ve had too much on your mind since your return from visiting Destiny to seek him out yet.

“Happy Dreamfall,” you say to the Endless, who comes to a halt beside you. “May Fates smile upon you, Dream Lord. And may your realm of dreams be aplenty.”

Behind you, the castle grounds buzz with activity. At long last, things were returning to normal. This is the first cause of celebration these dreams and nightmares had in over a century. Back home, safe and in a place where they belong. You hugged and drank sweet nectars with plenty, smiling and touching hands. Or claws. But it didn’t take long to slip away and settle out here.

Perched on the castle staircase, you must make for an odd sight, but Gatekeepers straighten back into their patrol positions with Dream’s arrival. You had left the castle to enjoy the darkening skies, the dreams swelling and blinking in the pitch-black canvas, ready for their journey. The Gatekeepers had clustered close, and you had spent a while simply chatting. You’ve missed them. It had been harrowing to witness them turn to stone while Dream was missing.

“Would you walk with me?” Dream asks.

Wetting your lips, you stand. “Sure.”

Without a preamble, Dream sets out. His gait hovers on ponderous this evening. You’ve gotten used to more hurried, curt interactions between you. Invisible tension stretched tautly. Will-o'-the-wisps dance and sway through the humming evening air. Flowers in your path bloom in different colours, fairy dust sprinkled through the air. You continue on the faintly lit path cutting through the heart of the Dreaming without a word.

“Are you well?”

Dream’s sudden question shakes you from your peaceful stupor.

“Busy, but good,” you answer. “And you?”

Dream halts abruptly. You pass him, then do the same, gazing back at him, confused.

Dream Lord’s pale eyes dig into you. They steal from you, and they give more than words ever could. But this once, Dream also uses his words: “I wish for us to talk as we once did.”

Anxiety pangs through your belly. You hadn’t expected him to point it out. Your lips compress into a stiff, bloodless line. It would be a bald-faced lie to insist something hasn’t broken between you. Corinthian’s unmaking has driven a wedge between you that neither can overcome. The nightmare had to be stopped, but it doesn’t take away from the grief festering in your chest. Most believe grief is an absence, but you’ve found the exact opposite is true.

Grief is a presence that should be there but isn’t. It’s a weight of memories, of possibilities, of life unlived. Corinthian has become your phantom limb, his absence invisible to all but you as is the bleed.

“We’re getting there,” you say lastly.

His wild hair covers his eyes when his head lowers. Subconsciously, you find yourself stepping towards him, folding your hand around his. Cool and silky to the touch. A breath, and then you feel Dream’s hand curl around yours. He doesn’t move otherwise, muscles sitting in rigid mass beneath his pale skin.

“Dream,” you call his name gently. “You’re trying. I see that. We’re finding new ways. Now tell me why we’re here.”

Because this path is familiar to you as your own hands. Just over the dark treeline lays the beach. The docks you’ve visited every night in his absence. This path had been your pilgrimage once, and now he’s returned. The fingers folded around yours tighten. Dream wordlessly tugs you with him until soft sand cushions the soles of your shoes.

“It is a night where anything is possible,” he says knowingly.

Your heartbeat jumps when he leads you towards the pier, wood creaking under your combined weight. “What are you doing?”

Dream draws you both to a stop halfway across the pier, something close to mischief sparking in his gaze. It’s so bizarrely unwonted you do a doubletake.

“Giving you my present.”

With that, he strides closer. Your mouth dries when he gently curls his arm around your waist. He raises your joint hands, spinning you to the side slowly. Clumsily, your legs obey, your breaths escaping uneven gulps.

“Are we dancing, Dream Lord?”

Dream bows his head closer to yours, his voice velvet, “We are dancing in starlight, you and I.”

It’s then you feel the tingling, reverent whisper of his power over your body. Your eyes widen when you see faint light needling the sturdy fabric, as if your coat has become no more than a window into the raw cosmos. Galaxies swirl in raging spirals across the once-dark material. Your head snaps to the side while Dream continues spinning you unhurriedly. Your coat is shrinking, reshaping to fit your body even better than it did up to this point.

“Dream this is…”

The coat settles into actuality. Sparkling dust spills from the material when you shift. Your overcoat has shrunk to kiss just above your knees. More fitted but no less comfortable. And then there’s the way it glimmers like a precious jewel whenever moonlight hits it.

“I had hoped to give you something more… fitting,” Dream murmurs. You look up at him, your noses almost touching. “It is only right for the one who roams the stars to wear a coat of pure starlight.”

“Thank you,” you whisper shakily. “It’s beautiful.”

Beautiful doesn’t do it justice. The midnight material shimmers with your movement, liquid starlight captured into tangible fabric, and your throat closes up as you examine it further. Dream slips his arm from your waist. He lifts your joint hands, comfortable in his own, and lays a light kiss on your hand.

“It becomes you,” he compliments quietly, releasing you. “Now… it’s time.”

Your brows crease. “Time for what?”

Was this not it? Thick emotions still coat your tongue, lodged deep in your windpipe. But Dream only devours you with quiet intensity.

Above your head, dreams start raining down in shining beams of light.

“We begin… with a spin.”

Your heart stutters to a stop. Water roars behind Dream, wild spray flying through the air. The faint drizzle beats against your face, leaving you gaping.

“Dream. I…”

He extends his hand your way. “There is no Dreaming without Wanderer Island. Should you wish it, I would like us to create another.”

Your features crumble, the ball in your throat robbing you of your voice. Indecision holds you captive—on the one hand, you want nothing more, but on another, you’re too afraid. What if it all ends up in the same place? You watching yet another part of you sink into those inky depths.

But there’s something cautious, near vulnerable, to be found in Dream’s guarded features. It’s an effort for him to open up, but you can see the unsure way his hand hangs in offering between you. He’s bracing himself for rejection, for you to leave him alone on this pier.

You grasp his proffered hand, fingers winding cautiously around his. Dream’s shoulders slump slightly from their rigid slant, relaxing at the contact.

He guides you to an all too familiar position. You standing at the edge of the pier, him behind you, a hand on your shoulder. A disconcerting sensation of deja vu falls over you.

“Describe it to me,” he prompts.

Black, foreboding waters of the Dreaming spin in ferocious whirlpools. Dream’s elegant hand pierces your line of sight, primed for creation.

“There’s a small island.” Your voice trembles. You haven’t forgotten anything, down to the exact words used. You conjure the Wanderer Island in your mind’s eye as it once stood; brilliant and shining. The visual blooms bold and alive in your mind. “The grass that grows there is the greenest there’s ever been. And it tastes like sour apples.”

Dream’s hand on your shoulder squeezes lightly. Same amusement, even centuries later. You’re both changed, but a familiar outline of an island starts taking shape on the horizon.

“The sun that shines on the island is never too hot. The air is sweet and light. The flowers never wilt, and trees never shed leaves.” It’s pouring from your mouth now, an avalanche of memory. You’ve missed the island so dearly, and details from five centuries ago come readily. “The sky is an endless periwinkle shade. There’s always food and drinks. Books and games. And…”

Your heart bleeds, fresh wounds gushing. But you push on because it’s not about you.

“And an old friend waits at the beach to greet you with a patient smile whenever you arrive. Because not everyone has a family, and not everyone needs a lover, but everyone should have a friend. The island will be there whenever someone feels lonely, lost, or desperate for an escape. It’ll be there to welcome you. To give you a corner to hide. There is no sadness there. No loneliness or confusion. Only…”

Dream’s lips tickle over the shell of your ear. “… hope.”

And then stillness.

The water settles in a gurgling slosh. In the distance, a patch of land once again floats. There to welcome new dreamers. Wanderer Island blurs. The heel of your hand presses over your eyes, overwhelmed.

Blindly, you tug on Dream’s coat; a mute request. Between one inhale and the next, wood underfoot is exchanged for sand.

Everything is the same down to the last blade of grass and tree composition. Either your vision was so clear Dream could pluck every last detail from your mind or…

Or he remembered the Island with the same clarity as you.

You sink to your knees. Sand crumbles around your digits when you dip them into the pliable sand.

“Hi. There you are.”

Nothing, then…

Grass sprouts unprompted around your hand, tiny daisies twining across your thumb. Utterly impossible, yet tonight, here, anything is possible. A choked laugh escapes you. Your cheeks ache from your beaming smile.

“She’s missed you,” Dream reveals quietly.

Your head lifts in surprise. You stroke the miniature, perfect blooms. “I missed you too.”

With another tickle, the flowers and grass retreat, shrinking into the golden beach. Several moments pass by until you unearth the strength to stand. Dream’s profile greets you. He’s turned away, giving you privacy, but subtle uncertainty lines his features. Sensing your attention, he peers towards you, then past you.

“Thank you,” you breathe. Despite your verbal gratitude, Dream’s attention remains fixed over your shoulder. “What?”

His low words reach you over the sound of lapping waves. “Are you not going to say hello to an old friend?”

You follow his line of sight. Behind you, at a distance with falling dreams as his backdrop, stands a tall, pale-haired figure.

Everything inside you falls very, very quiet—all those tumultuous emotions freeze. Your head snaps back to Dream with a stifled gulp. It can’t be real. Surely it’s some mirage, a feedback loop, a ghost conjured from your love for the now-gone nightmare.

But Dream only slants his head in a marginal, affirming nod. You dare to peek behind you once more. There he stands. The nightmare. Not a twisted joke.

Your feet carry you towards him without conscious thought; half-running, half-walking, stumbling all the while. Corinthian stands with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders in a slight slouch. His nude-coloured slacks and white shirt shine like beacons in the pale moonlight. Round shades cover his eyes, his blonde strands fluttering in the light breeze.

He's a figment. Not quite tangible until your body crashes into him, your arms scrambling to hold onto him. “Oh, God!”

Dry, humoured, “Not quite.”

Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can feel it, if not hear it. A pained, whining sound bubbles up in your throat, gripping him closer.

“I… how…” You wrench yourself back, a horrible thought occurring. You search his handsome features. That infuriating smirk always curling his mouth is absent. “Do you remember me?”

Corinthian stands there, not moving, with no real emotion on display, either. Your heart sinks. Could it be that he—

Dull throb flares across your forehead. He’s flicked you—

A wide, toothy grin stretches across Corinthian’s mouth. “Gotcha.”

With a choked laugh, you punch his shoulder, hugging him close with a wide smile. “I hate you.”

A pleased hum. This time, the nightmare’s arm settles around you. “Hate you more.”

You’re not sure how long you both stand there. When you do part, reluctance keeps your hand on him. Fingertips connecting to some part of him. Remembering the Dream Lord you came here with—who gave you this, his present—you find Dream no longer on the beach. Or anywhere in sight. He’s given you privacy and time. Your heart softens further.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

Corinthian’s subdued question tugs your attention back towards him. You almost wish he didn’t remind you. Because now you’re faced with the reality that even though he’s been returned to you, there’s much you both need to overcome and fix. That losing him did not magically wipe away the wrongs he’s done. If you hope to return to the relationship you once had, you’ll need time.

You consider him for a moment.

“You’re always forgiven,” you tell him honestly.

Standing in the moonglow, you pretend you don’t notice how something coiled tightly seems to loosen inside him at your reassurance. Instead, you reach for his face. Your fingertips brush over Corinthain’s glasses, and his hand snap out, wrapping around your wrist tightly. Bones making up his jaw roll beneath the skin. Tension throbs between you while seconds tick by. Through clenched teeth, Corinthian unwraps his hold finger by finger.

You tug his shades away from his face. He’s tense as a bowstring, his head slanted at an angle. The same jagged teeth sit where most have eyeballs. They’re hooded, though. His discomfort—and anger at said discomfort—couldn’t be more perspicuous.

His shades close as you fold arm temples one at a time. You hold his stare, staring right at those jagged teeth with a slight frown. You extend his shades back to him mutely.

“But my trust is something you will have to earn back,” you state earnestly.

The nightmare hesitates halfway to reaching for his glasses. Those pale fingers dance over them before he plucks them from you.

“Sounds like a fair deal,” he muses absently. You expect him to put the shades back on, but instead, Corinthian hooks them on his shirt pocket. Turning to go, he calls out a honeyed, “You coming?”

He gazes at you over his shoulder, jagged teeth on full show, and you feel yourself smile.

“Always.”

Sun shines luminous and warm today. The Wanderer Island stretches as far as your eye can perceive, teeming with life and greenery around every corner. Flowers and trees bloom everywhere—an awe-inspiring marriage between tropical and temperate climates. The Island once again oozes a sense of magick and wonder that was once so prominent here. No place in the universe can compare.

“Rebuilding is almost complete,” you begin conversationally. “The Dreaming is more beautiful than ever.”

The Endless keeps pace beside you, a pensive sound rumbling from him. “It was not without aid.”

A smile twitches your lips upwards. “You’re welcome.”

Two weeks have gone by since Dreamfall. Things have mended—between you individually and the atmosphere around the Dreaming. While Corinthian’s return was met with some side glances, no one discussed it further. Dreamfolk trust Dream to make the right decision. Or perhaps Gault was right; they’re wiser than to outright question.

“The Corinthian has also been making progress,” Dream says. “I am hoping to place him under supervision and monitor his conduct. To make sure what happened is never repeated. Should the need arise, he will be allocated duties back in the waking world.”

Joy flutters in your heart. “Yeah? That’s great. Someone you trust, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“And?” you probe. “Are you going to tell me who or not?”

In your peripheral, Dream inclines in your direction. “Yours.”

You nearly trip. “Dream, I—” You clear your throat, pausing. “Are you sure? It didn’t exactly work out last time.”

Dream’s intent scrutiny slides over your facial features. “It was due to no fault of yours. And this Corinthian is the same in all but one function. He will not fail again. He has a different purpose now.”

There’s a solemn sort of finality about the way he articulates those words. A tiny shiver skitters down your spine. He will not expand further upon those words. Whatever that purpose is, you imagine time will reveal it.

You chew on your inner cheek. “Okay. I would like that.”

You smile at him. But Dream’s expression stutters, overcome by some foreign emotion. His mouth parts, then closes, his fingers folding into white-knuckled fists.

Just as you’re about to ask what’s wrong, Dream speaks: “Wanderer. Stay.”

You muster up an uncertain, perplexed smile. “I’m right here.”

Dream marches closer, sunshine caught in his onyx hair.

“Stay however long you want,” he insists softly. “Stay forever if it should so please you.”

Shock envelops you, freezing you in your spot. You’ve told him, didn’t you? That you would stay forever by his side if only he asked. Now he’s asking. Except confusion and unease battle in your chest. Can you trust his word? Did Dream change enough? He brought back Corinthian. He freed Gault from the Darkness. He insists this is a new age. But…

“And if I wanted to leave?” you question. “If I chose never to return, what then?”

“It would sadden my creations—”

“I’m asking you.”

Dream falters, shackled by your insistence. His lashes flutter, his head lowering in near palpable struggle. You’re challenging him, but you refuse to continue with the charade. If he wants forever, you can’t live with the fear he might change his mind about it.

“It would pain me, also. A great deal.” He hesitates again, and it’s bizarre because this degree of uncertainty is not something you associate Dream with. “But you are free. You've always been free. The Dreaming is your home. Should you wish to return, its gates will always await you.”

Doubt twists your mouth downwards. “I thought that once—”

“I swear it. No matter what the future may hold. No matter how angry I get, I shall never again take the Dreaming away from you.” Sheer power woven into those words leaves no room for doubt. It’s a vow. He will not break it. There would be a price to pay if he did. Dream’s fingertips ghost over yours, a graze leaving fire in its wake. “I read your book in the library. I did not wish to tell you sooner because I worried you would leave. Because… you were right. I could never understand the sheer devastation. Or the harm I inflicted.”

You drag your hand back, stepping away from him. Dream’s features fall subtly. You face away, giving him your back while you process. Raising the hand he was caressing seconds prior, you cradle it to your chest. Sunshine prickles your cheek, but you ignore it.

“I’m not ashamed of my past,” you tell him, turning back to face him. “I always knew there was a chance you could read it. So, what did you think?”

He appears pained. At least now you know why he’s been so melancholy these last several weeks. “That I should wish for nothing more than for you to stay by my side.”

Those unadorned words devastated you.

Smiling through your inflated, overjoyed heart, you mumble, “Stay forever… I can’t technically do that.”

But Dream is unruffled. If anything, you glimpse the beginnings of hope starting to take root in him.

“I’ll seek a way,” he avows.

“To what?” An incredulous chuckle escapes you. “Break the curse?”

Destiny’s warning jump back to the forefront of your mind, and you swallow thickly. You don’t dare to ponder freedom for longer than an indulgent moment.

“Yes,” Dream replies.

You stare at him. Tall and dark, sunlit and more open than you’ve ever seen him. Determined and golden. Your Dream Lord. He terrifies you. You love him.

“You can’t interfere,” you remind him emptily. “And I might die.”

“Or you may live,” Dream argues. “Freely. And choose for yourself. Always.”

“Trying to bait me, Dream Lord?”

Sudden tension between you loosens around the edges. Once more, the susurration of the trees trickles into your mind, elevating the brewing anxiety.

A thousand years. The curse has defined your existence and has kept you alive this long. What are you without it? There’s always been an unspoken acknowledgement that you could never break the curse without dying. Simply too much time has passed. No mortal vessel can survive over a millennium otherwise. When you asked Destiny, it was only to understand more about the nature of the curse. Not because you ever assumed you could survive breaking the curse.

Dream’s mouth compresses as if he’s attempting not to smile. “I would never.”

“Stay by your side, huh?” you mutter, looking away while you mull over your conversation. “And what exactly would that entail?”

His response is immediate, smooth, “Whatever you wish.”

“A companion, then?” Your words pitch lower and silkier while you close the minimal distance with relaxed, unhurried steps. Dream’s eyes darken a shade. “An emissary? A consort? A queen?”

His black-clad shoulders lift with his inhale.

“Those are but words,” he murmurs silkily. “For you would be all those things, and more.”

You examine his profile, those starlit irises, the doubt swimming there. Does he doubt you would stay? After such long years harbouring this affection for him? Silly, wonderful anthropomorphic personification. “I’ll stay, but only if you answer a question.”

“Even if the price were a hundred thousand questions, Wanderer, I would pay it gladly. What is this question?”

Narrowing your eyes, you scrutinise him. Dream does not balk under your exigent examination, waiting patiently. Biting back a smile, you permit your features to relax. He’s unfairly fun to tease.

“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”

Relish bubbles in your chest at the way Dream’s expression comes undone. As if from a thousand questions he was bracing for, nothing could have prepared him for this. Birds chirp a merry tune somewhere in the tree line, a warm breeze ruffling Dream’s dark hair while he gazes at you with utterly confused wonderment. A slight, fond smile curls his lips.

“A thousand years,” he begins in a bewildered drawl. “And still, you ask the same question.”

You laugh faintly, shrugging. “Well, in all fairness, you never answered me the last time. Which was very rude, by the way—”

In an inhale Dream of the Endless materialises in front of you. His hands slip to hold your face, cupping it with delicate hands as he tugs you closer. His kiss falls over you like stars. Silky, gentle warmth that washes over you with such fervent passion you gasp against his mouth. Your hands grasp onto him blindly. You part only long enough for you to gulp down oxygen before your mouths meet again, and again, and again, burning with need unquenched. Heat spreads through every inch of you. A thousand years being cold, floating unearthed, but now someone is holding you.

Dream presses another kiss to your mouth, desperate and hungry, gentle in his handling, and you return it with equal enthusiasm, equal need. Dizziness envelops you, and Dream pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. You shudder, a delicious heat licking up your senses. This closeness hurts better than anything ever has. You remind yourself to breathe, to remember this is real, he’s here, holding you, and nothing matters in this moment. Whatever the future holds, you do not fear it. Because Hob was right: there are people out there who love, and that makes all the difference.

Dream’s thumb grazes over your bunched-up cheek. Your smile is wide enough to light your entire face.

It continues with a gentle, rasping: “I’ll tell you one day, stardust.”

an:

Never apologise, never explain.

I set out to write nothing more than a fun little story that I expected to have maybe 3-4 parts max. Something entirely self-indulgent and fun for no one but me and maybe one or two mutuals. I never quite expected it would become as beloved as it did. I suppose here, in the end, I would like to take the time to thank everyone who read this and supported it. Be it by commenting, making edits/art for it or just sending me encouraging/funny messages. You guys are the reason this story became what it did. I'm immensely grateful for each and every single one of you. It was a rough month, but I'm glad I could offer you this conclusion at long last. Thank you for being here, thank you for being kind, and thank you again for reading.

Goodnight, and see you all in dreams, wanderers ☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ

#the sandman #dream of the endless #dream x reader #morpheus x reader #sandman x reader #the sandman netflix #sandman imagine #morpheus imagines #morpheus x fem!reader #dream x fem!reader #sandman fic #fanfiction #sandman netflix #sandman neil gaiman #morpheus fic #dream fic #tom sturridge #fic: today i bury you in me

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peanutpinet · 10 months

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hihi!! really love the mini nct-mafia universe that you’ve created 🥹 i was hoping if you could write jaemin next..i was thinking of jaemin being a little cold to others but only soft towards y/n (and of course jeno)..i’ll leave the plot up to you but i thought it’ll be cute if there’s a scene where y/n helps to undress jaemin to take care of him..so like angst/fluff/suggestive all blended in one! thank you and i’m sorry if it’s so specific 🥲🥲

Trauma - Mafia! Na Jaemin x Innocent! Fem Reader

A/N: Hi anon!! Thank you for requesting the fic! I actually was already planning to write for mafia Jaemin and since you requested him as well, it motivated me even more to write!

Also, apologies if I took way too long and if the story isn't how you actually want it to go but I do hope that you enjoy it as much as I wrote it. There are lots of heavy trigger warnings that you have to pay attention to!

Trigger Warning: trauma experience, character death (not MC), grief, revenge, murder, blood loss, torture (excessive), explosion. -> I'm sorry if this isn't all but I will try to update it in case I missed anything

Synopsis: Being the son of the famous Nam Goongmin came with a heavy price to pay for Jaemin. Though Taeyong managed to get Jaemin out of his father’s mafia business and helped him to heal, there was still some trauma that Jaemin had yet to face. Until he came across a girl that he would soon learn that he can't always run from his problems

Water to Fire. Winter to Spring. Sunshine to Rain. They were all opposites of each other yet people kept on saying that opposites then to attract one another. Jaemin had never believed such things until he saw his parents. His father was the ruthless mafia whereas his mother was a kindhearted school teacher. Despite their contradicting characteristics, they were like magnets and attracted each other in a good way just like sunshine and rain coming together to create a rainbow.

Though Jaemin knew that his father didn’t have the best job, being one of the most feared mafia in South Korea before NCT became a thing was a reputation that Jaemin had to live for years until his mother passed away; and not in a peaceful way.

Jaemin knew that with the amount of power and wealth his father had, came all the enemies as well. Enemies who either wanted his father dead for hundreds of different reasons. Murder. Fraud. Stealing. Jaemin didn’t know how far his father was in crime because his mother made sure that he wouldn’t have to see his father at one of the most gruesome scenes that might as well come from the action/thriller drama that he watched.

Sadly, those moments were all but just memories to Jaemin. Everything happened as quickly as his memories could remember. One sunny morning, the day before Jaemin’s 18th birthday, he was going off to school and the same evening he went back home, it started raining but he still went home smiling knowing that he got a perfect score on his biology test, a recommendation letter from all of his science teacher and that his mom promised that they would bake today.

But when he arrived at the front door, Jaemin knew that something was wrong. Quietly, Jaemin took off his shoes and took the nearest thing that he could use as a weapon and went in. Though Jaemin was sheltered from the gruesome life of his father, the old man actually taught him every self-defence technique he knew. From hand-to-hand combat to even using a gun, Jaemin knew it all. But what his father had not taught him was how to cope with his feelings or a life that he took with his own hands.

That day will forever haunt Jaemin’s memory as the day of his first kill, the day of his mother’s death, and the day that he knew that he was his father’s son. When Jaemin’s father came home that night, he was just as distraught as his son. Both instantly mourn the loss of their beloved wife and mother. It was the first time that Jaemin’s dad actually let Jaemin into the horrifying world that he lived in.

Out for revenge, Jaemin had no mercy for anyone who would prevent him or his father from getting back at the one who took the light out of their dark thoughts. But even when Jaemin finally got a taste of revenge. It didn’t satisfy him and instead, he quickly realised his actions before it was too late.

His mother taught him better. His mother always taught him to never hate anyone as most people who do evil things were also once good. So Jaemin did what he could do. Run. Jaemin ran away from all his dark side; his father.

Jaemin knew that no matter how far or fast he ran, his father would always find him. But it seemed that his mother must’ve sent some guardian angels because right as Jaemin was cornered by some of his father’s most trusted men, some other men came and saved Jaemin, killing his father’s men in the process.

It was that day did Jaemin joined Taeyong into NCT and became one of the core members of NCT. But unlike the other members who also have daytime jobs, Jaemin prefers to just stay at the base and stand by whilst studying medicine with Kun. Though Taeyong still forces Jaemin to go follow Jeno along because Jeno was one of the only members that Jaemin talks to and eventually Jeno manages to convince Jaemin to at least intern and later work in NCT’s hospital under Kun on the early morning of weekdays.

For the most part of Jaemin’s life in NCT, not once did he ever complain. Not once did Jaemin want something more like his friend Jeno who is a famous racer. Not once did Jaemin ever go against NCT’s leader, Taeyong, like sometimes Haechan did. Though Jaemin has become more social than his first year in NCT, Taeyong has yet to completely understand Jaemin.

In reality, Jaemin stayed with NCT because he hoped that one day if he were to have to face his father again, he would face him without being scared. After years of being with NCT and even becoming a surgeon in Neo Hospital under Kun, Jaemin slowly finds a new routine and he slowly finds that by helping other people, it relieves a part of him that remembers all the bad things his father had done towards multiple innocent people.

As days passed, Jaemin has slowly forgotten about meeting his father again. Instead, Jaemin wants to avoid having to meet his father ever again if it were possible. Jaemin was content with the life he has now and wants to continue to just live his life without the constant worry of having to deal with his father or the mess he made; at least, until a recent patient that he had to deal with.

It was in the middle of a weekend night, right when Taeyong suddenly dismissed him and told Jaemin to just go back home despite Taeyong just finished torturing a guy who kidnapped the intern for Neo-Tech and helped build the Satellite tracker.

But right as Jaemin was about to go back to his place, Jeno suddenly called him and said that there was a sudden accident right when he and his girlfriend were on their way home and some weird men were chasing an injured girl.

“I got no idea why they were chasing them but I figured to call you not only to help the girl but I also feel that you should know. Those weird men mentioned that they were under your father’s name” Jeno mentioned, making Jaemin stop in his tracks

“I’m on my way. I’ll call the nurse to handle it before I get there. Just drive to the emergency entrance” Jaemin replied, turning off his call with Jeno, going into his car and rushing to the hospital

Along the way, Jaemin called the nurse in his hospital and told them to go to the emergency room and help a girl that Jeno was bringing. Jaemin also told the nurse to ask for Kun to help before he arrived there.

Within minutes, Jaemin arrived at the hospital and immediately went to get changed and head to the surgery room. Before going in, Jaemin saw Jeno who was bloody with his girlfriend sitting by the entrance. “Jaem…” Jeno called out to his friend who was just about to head into the surgery room.

“You should take her home. I can handle it here” Jaemin replied but Jeno seemed hesitant. “Your girlfriend is practically asleep, Jen. You’re also covered with blood. Plus I’m not alone. Kun-hyung is here. Go” Jaemin reassured Jeno who stood up, carrying his sleeping girlfriend

“Call me if anything happens. I’m not just a member. I’m your friend, too” Jeno mentioned before Jaemin went into the surgery room

In the surgery room, Jaemin apologised to Kun for being late but Kun didn’t question him. “I’ll question you after the surgery. Jeno came in here bloody and said that you wouldn’t want anyone outside of NCT to know about this” Kun mentioned

“Probably for the best” Jaemin replied and immediately got to work with Kun

Because Jeno managed to stop the bleeding by using a cloth and putting pressure on it, Jaemin and Kun managed to stitch up the girl with no problem. But aside from the deep wound, Jaemin noticed that the girl also had several bruises all over her body, a cut lip, and even a few fractured bones.

After moving the girl into a secluded patient room, Kun and Jaemin went into Kun’s office where Kun made a cup of warm tea before getting into the talk. “I won’t tell Taeyong if you don’t want me to” Kun reassured Jaemin who has been quiet since the surgery

“She’s related to my father” Jaemin mentioned, making Kun stop drinking his drink and look at the younger one. “Not in a way that you would think. Jeno said that she was being chased by some men. When Jeno got to her, she was already bruised and everything. Jeno thought that he was just helping someone but didn’t realise until too late that the men were working for my father” Jaemin explained

“You know. You’re not really obligated to actually find out about her or her relationship with your father if you don’t want to. You can always just ignore her and think that you never met her” Kun mentioned. “I’m not saying that you should run away from your problems but…” Kun added but Jaemin stopped him

“I know that someday I’m going to have to face him again after all these years. If so, I might as well get it over with. Thanks hyung, but I’m going to try and find out and maybe face my father. All I ask is to not tell Taeyong-hyung about it until I’m sure that she truly has something to do with my father” Jaemin mentioned, leaving Kun to see the girl

Jaemin’s POV

Reaching the girl’s room, I went in and received an overview of her profile from Haechan. “You owe me big. Taeyong-hyung almost caught me for this”. Going over her profile, I noticed that the girl, (y/n) has gone through a rough childhood.

“3 different foster homes in the span of 20 years?! Geez. Either she was trouble or those foster homes are actually as shitty as I know” I thought to myself, glancing over (y/n) who was sweating and whimpering.

Turning off the screen to my tab, I walked closer. Grabbing a soft cloth, I started to wipe the sweat that was building up on her forehead until I was close enough to hear her whimpers.

“p-please…” (y/n) whimpered. “leave my mom alone. Let me go” (y/n) suddenly screamed, jolting from the bed

“Hey, hey, no one is going to hurt you” I mentioned, looking at (y/n) who was now sitting, her chest was going up and down faster than normal

“You’re alright but I would suggest you to rest again. Let’s put you to sleep again” I mentioned, coming closer but she flinched when my hand was just reaching her shoulders

Sighing, I pulled my hands away and tucked them into my pockets. “Look. I’m a doctor here. I’m not going to hurt you or anything. If I was going to hurt you, I’d done it already” I bluntly mentioned as (y/n) just eyed me from top to bottom

“Jaemin…” she read my nametag. “You look like him. I, I thought…” (y/n) finally said a sentence

“Who? Who do I look like? What were you thinking if I look like someone?” I asked but (y/n) didn’t utter another word. “Do I look like Nam Goongmin?” I asked, the name felt foreign that my voice cracked a bit but luckily, I got some kind of answer as (y/n) nodded

“You’ve met him before” I mentioned. It wasn’t a question

Another nod which made my next sigh rougher than the previous one. “Look, if you have anything to say to me regarding him, just tell me. Or if you know about him. Or if you’re involved with him. I’m not a mind reader” I rambled

“He mentioned your name before” (y/n) finally said something again but I didn’t cut her off. I wanted her to keep talking. “He mentioned that I reminded him of his son. How I wasn’t considerate and thankful that he helped me find a foster home b-but…” (y/n) started to cry

“He helped you look for a foster home? But why? Sorry for being blunt but I doubt that he would let himself get involved with someone like you unless you or someone you know is involved with him” I mentioned

“H-he, he killed my dad and then my mom. He killed them because they worked for him but eventually cut ties with him” (y/n) cried, probably remembering the dark times she had to face

“What do you remember?” I asked, handing a clean cloth for her to wipe her tears

“My dad was his colleague. He helped supply the things that Nam Goongmin couldn’t easily get his hands on. But when I reached a certain age, my dad just cut ties with him” (y/n) added

“Were you home when your parents were killed?” I asked and (y/n) nodded

“My parents hid me, along with files of Nam Goongmin. Files that if they were to be released to the public, would ruin everything that he had built” (y/n) replied, perking up my interest

“When was the last time you saw him?” I asked, wanting to know more

“Months ago. He found me while I was working at a convenience store late at night. I didn’t know who he was at first until he brought up my parents’ name” (y/n) replied. “At first, he didn’t ask the files. He just told me about his history with my dad which honestly shocked me. I was so scared that he would do something to me but instead, he just left”

“But you mentioned that you were in foster homes? Did you run away?” I asked

“Ever since my parents passed away, which was when I was 14, I was put in an adoption center but turns out I was put into foster homes. At first, I didn’t notice anything strange until one night in my first foster home, I heard him again. I ran away after finding out. I was then put into another foster home at 15 but it was the same thing. I found out they were associated with him and ran away. The last one was the most brutal one. They didn’t sugarcoat anything and I was treated like a slave until I told them where I hid the file. When I saw a chance, I ran away once again. I managed to hide from them for the past 2 years because I ran away by the time I reached 18 years old and started working part-time in a few places. Up until now at least” (y/n) ended her story

“So, where did you actually hide the files then?” I asked as (y/n) just looked at me

“Don’t you think it’s only fair that I ask you after explaining to you, not knowing if I can trust you or not” (y/n) mentioned

“Nam Goongmin…he’s my father” I mentioned, shocking (y/n)

The next morning rolled around quicker than I wanted. I ended up not going back home and stayed in (y/n)’s room since I was the one who booked her the VIP room. While (y/n) was sleeping, I checked on all the files that Haechan sent me just to double-check her background because she could be lying and actually working with my father.

Jeno came along with Renjun and Haechan, bringing something for me to eat which I realised that I hadn’t eaten anything since the surgery the other night. The four of us sat in my office as I told them about what happened the other night.

“So her story and what Haechan sent you checked out? She’s not lying?” Renjun asked, munching on the burger that he bought upon coming to the hospital

“As far as I read the background. Yeah. Unless you have something else up your sleeve, Haechan?” I asked, looking over to him who was stuffing his face with french fries

“That’s all I found. And I’ve used the big bois. Perks of having parents that used to be in the mafia I supposed. Can manipulate what information would be put out there well until they were dead at least” Haechan shrugged

“What are you planning to do then, Jaem? I mean, you used to say that you don’t want to get involved with your dad ever again. What changed?” Jeno asked but I too didn’t quite have the answer yet

“Part of me doesn’t like the idea of what dad has become. Regardless, he was still my father and he honestly raised me well. He was there for my childhood. It was truly like he wanted me in his life. But when my mom was killed, guess that’s when he went haywire and made a killing spree. I want him to atone for what he did. Killing innocent people is wrong and he had never done it until my mom passed away” I mentioned

“So, you want to put him behind bars?” Haechan asked

“It’s more complicated…” I mumbled when a knock was heard. “Who is it?” I asked, standing from my seat, eyeing my members who suddenly went serious mode

“Dr Na, your patient is here to see you” the nurse exclaimed, making my members sigh of relief

“Yes, of course. Just bring her in” I mentioned and the nurse brought (y/n) on a wheelchair into my office. “I’ll handle it from here, you can leave” I told the nurse

“So this is the famous (y/n)” Haechan smirked while I instantly eyed him, helping (y/n) into my office

“Ignore him, he’s always that playful. I’m Renjun, that’s Jeno over there” Renjun mentioned, giving a smile at (y/n). The same goes for Jeno

“You’re the one that helped me!” (y/n) exclaimed as Jeno nodded. “That would be me. I’m glad that you’re alright now. Also, I know Jaemin might seem cold and unapproachable but he’s pretty nice” Jeno mentioned, making me groan

“I never got to thank you. Thank you, for saving me. If you hadn’t, I would’ve…” (y/n) rambled but Jeno shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Thank Jaemin as well for saving you. I just helped a bit. He’s the saviour here. I mean, he’s dubbed the miracle doctor here because the amount of times Jaemin has been able to save people who are in critical condition is crazy” Jeno mentioned, which honestly made me flustered

“I think I’m just lucky this time, to be able to meet kind people to help me” (y/n) shyly stated

“It’s not luck. No one deserves to die honestly. Anyways, you can trust my friends here. They, they know about my history with my father” I stated. “You can tell us where you hid the files and we’ll help retrieve them. I promise that there’s nothing to worry about. You’re completely safe here” I added on, making (y/n) smiled

“Thank you” (y/n) uttered. “But I’m sorry that this might seem like I’m asking a lot but actually, I hid it at my old house. The one where I used to live with my parents. I figure that it would be the best place to hide it since Nam Goongmin wouldn’t think to look at an old abandoned house where he killed people that he probably don’t remember” (y/n) explained and I looked over at Haechan who was still stuffing his face with food but his face was serious as he was typing away on his computer

“Is this the house?” Haechan asked, showing us all his laptop that showed a house. “Y-yeah, how did you?” (y/n) asked but Haechan shrugged. “It’s one of my many talents”

“Alright then, we should leave tonight. It’ll be easier so we won’t be seen” Jeno pointed out and the others started to pack their things. “I’ll also fill in Yangyang and Shotaro on our plan so that they could help with the file. Haechan, you, Renjun and Shotaro should prepare on the equipment we need. I’ll ask Yangyang for a vehicle and…” Jeno added but (y/n) cut him off

“Is, is it alright if I come along? I mean. I’m the one that knows where it’s hidden. Plus. I, I want to get something from the house” (y/n) asked

“Honestly, I don’t think it would be the best idea for you to come. You’re still injured and…” Jeno replied

“I just want to get my old family photobook. I promise that’s it” (y/n) argued

“I think it’s alright if she goes. We’ll all be there and I’ll keep a watch on her and then get her out as soon as she gets her photobook” I added on, making Jeno sigh

“Fine. But we have to move quickly. Taeyong-hyung doesn’t know about this and even if he does, we have to be fast, alright?” Jeno stated and everyone nodded

After the short meeting, I brought (y/n) back to her room, making her rest up a bit more while I went back to my office and changed into my nightwear mission gear and taking the female clothes I asked someone to buy for me to (y/n)’s room; telling her to change while we wait for Jeno to come.

“Just asking. How long have you been doing this?” I heard (y/n) asked

“For a few years. I was found by my now leader at 18 and ever since I was taken in, was taught everything I know and was given the opportunity to be something that I’ve always wanted as a kid” I told her, remembering the early days when Taeyong-hyung and Jeno first found me

“Do, do you guys like, I don’t know, kill people? Sell drugs or human trafficking?” (y/n) asked, making me chuckle at her thought. “Wh-why are you laughing? Is this all just a trick and you’re actually working with…” (y/n) rambled but I stopped her before she could say that man’s name

“No. We’re not like him. Not every mafia is bad. At least not us. I used to think the same until my leader brought me in. We’re considered a mafia group because we deal with other dirty crime organizations through some illegal methods which to the public, it might seem wrong but basically, we help the government do more of the dirty work. But we never went as far as killing. Torture? Yes. I’ll tell you that upfront. Especially to those who betray us” I explained, looking at (y/n) who looked nervous

“Don’t worry. As long as you’re not involved with the people in our wanted list, there’s nothing to worry about. Are you ready to go?” I asked as (y/n) slowly nodded

“Alright, come with me then” I mentioned, nudging (y/n) to walk right beside me. “Whatever happens there, I’ll be by your side and I expect you to do the same. Don’t walk ahead, don’t walk behind. I have to make sure that nothing happens to you, got it?” I stated as we walked into the private elevator and (y/n) nodded

Arriving at (y/n)’s house, Jeno told Haechan, Renjun and Shotaro to stay hidden as he, Yangyang, (y/n) and I go into the house and find the files along with the photobook that (y/n) wanted. Because (y/n) was the only one who knew where both the items were, we stuck close to her, practically forming a human wall around her to make sure that there weren’t any threats.

“Haechan, any sign of anyone nearby?” Jeno asked. “Nope. It’s all clear. Unless you count some stray cats nearby which they’re very big and chubby” Haechan joked

“Jaem, you accompany (y/n). Yangyang and I will stay downstairs, just in case. Once you’ve gotten the files, toss it to me and I’ll have Yangyang hand it to Haechan and the others, kay?” Jeno instructed and I nodded in acknowledgement

(y/n) and I went upstairs, and I noticed from some of the ripped, broken images that (y/n) seemed to be an only child and that there weren’t really any other family members except for her parents. “D-do you not have any like uncles or aunts to take you in at the time?” I asked as (y/n) rummage around a room that seems to be a master bedroom based on the size and linked bathroom

“Unfortunately, no. As far as I know, my parents are both only childs and even if there were, I doubt they want to take a burden in” (y/n) chuckled dryly, making me feel bad for asking

“I’m sorry to hear that but you should know that no one is a burden. Especially those under 18. You didn’t ask to be born. None of us asked for it and you shouldn’t push yourself because of what happened. This universe might’ve fucked up some things in everyone’s life but the moment you’re given just one chance to change your fate, take it. Exploit it if you can as long as you hurt no one. You deserve to enjoy your life” I stated, trying to cheer (y/n) up

“You know, I lived my life in uncertainty and everything changed with my mom was killed and I thought that this universe hated me until my now leader and Jeno found me. They gave me a new life and I’m doing much better now. Why don’t you come with us when all of this is over?” I offered, catching (y/n)’s attention

“I doubt that you guys would want me. I don’t even know what I’m good at” (y/n) replied, her voice became much softer than before

“Don’t worry about that. Everyone doesn’t know what they’re good at because they just simply were never given the chance to. But I promise you that as stone-cold as some of my members are, they are all caring for each other and would always help one another. Just consider it. And if you decided you want to, I’ll talk with my leader about it” I replied, offering (y/n) a smile, making her smile back

“T-thank you, Jaemin. Really. No one has ever offered me this far” (y/n) mentioned, making me frown

“That’s probably because they don’t understand the pain you go through; especially after losing your parents. Let’s hurry and find the file and your photobook then we can continue this conversation” I stated as (y/n) nodded

(y/n) quickly scrambled to the bed of the room and went underneath the covers, ripping it and taking something out of the mattress which turns out to be the USB. “Is that the files?” I asked as (y/n) nodded. “Yeah, I kept it here because this room and bed reminded me about my parents. How I would crawl into their room in the middle of the night because of nightmares when I was younger. And eventually sleep between them” (y/n) replied, making me smile

“Can I take the USB from you? I promise that my members and I will bring justice to your parents and all the innocent people whose life were ruined by Nam Goongmin” I stated, extending my hand as (y/n) handed the USB over

“Jen, I got it. We’re upstairs in the master bedroom. (y/n) is looking for the photobook” I stated in my earcom. “I’m going up” Jeno replied

Jeno then came within seconds and took the USB. Jeno told me to take care of (y/n) while he went to Haechan and handed the USB over to check the files before going back to the base. I told Jeno that he and Yangyang could just go with the others because (y/n) and I were only finding the photobook.

Despite being unsure of my request, Jeno eventually compiled and told me that if anything were to happen, I should just call him or the base; regardless of whether Taeyong-hyung knows or not. Because in the end, whether I like it or not, I will have to tell Taeyong-hyung about this.

After Jeno left, I continued to help (y/n) find the photobook she was looking for. We eventually turned the already messed up house into basically a destroyed ship. But luckily, we managed to find the photobook that (y/n) was looking and I instantly told the others that we were done and were going to head back to my place.

As we went downstairs, I suddenly heard a clock ticking. I looked around and saw an old grandfather clock that was ticking. Which was strange because I swore that when we all went into the house, the only noise that could be heard were our voices, the sounds of our shoes on the old hardwood floor, and even our breathing. But not once did I hear any ticking noise.

Not wanting to find out, I quickly wrapped an arm around (y/n) and dragged her out of the house. But before we could get out, the clock struck 3 am and instantly, everything became a blur. One moment I was reaching the door handle to open the door and the next, I was having a hard time breathing and was lying on my back.

Blinking several times, I tried to regain my vision after almost blacking out but everything was still a blur. My nose smelled some smoke and as I used my hands to try to get me up, I noticed that the house behind me was in flames.

Regardless of my weak state, I called out to (y/n) and tried to scan my surroundings with whatever vision I had but I felt everything spinning around and was suddenly met with a fist on my cheek; making me fall to the ground and cough up blood.

Suddenly, I felt two people holding each of my arms respectively as I was now kneeling on the ground. I tried to fight them off but knowing my weak state from the sudden explosion, I couldn’t do anything. But what caught me off-guard was the person who walked and stood right in front of me. The man who made me have my first kill, the man who I thought was good because of how he loved my mother, the man who shared the same DNA as I did. My father, Nam Goongmin.

“I thought I told you manners on how to greet your elderly, Na Jaemin” my father chuckled, grabbing a chunk of my hair, roughly pulling my head back, making me look at him

Even though my vision was still blurry, I could recognize that tone and sinister smirk from anywhere. “You don’t deserve any manners or respect from me” I coughed up, spitting some blood that landed on my father’s suit and face

“You still haven’t changed, have you? A doctor now are you?” my father stated, not really asking me

“W-was the least I could do, after what you’ve done. You can try to kill as many innocent people but I’ll be the one that’ll save them” I argued back, my father roughly letting my hair go

“Oh, you might want to save that breath of yours because you’re going to need it” my father uttered, I could feel his breath by my ear. “You and your little gang have something that I’ve been looking for years” my father whispered as I turned to eye him

“Let’s test how eager you are to save a life, shall we? That troublesome girl will be your time limit. Right now, she’s practically as injured as you are. The difference is. You’re going to be rescued by your little team while she gets to hang out with me” my father stated, making me try to release the grip of his men

“With every second you don’t come back, I’m going to draw her blood out of her. Slowly. With each day passing and you do not give me back those files, I’ll have to find out which organ I want to sell to the black market first. And if those files ever get released to the public? I’ll give you a little present. For all the years that I’ve been gone from your life” my father stated when suddenly I was injected with a sleeping drug and the grip on each of my arms were gone as I drifted off to sleep, and my body unconsciously fell to the ground with the thought of (y/n) in my mind

NCT Base - 8:25 pm (still Jaemin’s POV)

The sound of a beeping monitor slowly matched with the beat of my heart as I slowly woke up from my slumber for who knows how long. When I opened my eyes and slowly scanned the room, I noticed that I was in the patient room back in the base.

When I closed my eyes again, I remembered my father’s threat and immediately jerked on the bed. “Shit Jaemin, are you okay?! Let me get Kun-hyung” I heard Jeno stated but I managed to grip his wrist. “How long was I out?” I asked

“About more than 12 hours. Not long after we left, I felt something was off. I tried to contact you through our earcom but it was muffled. I told Haechan to just go while I drove one of our emergency borrowed cars and went back to the house. By the time I arrived, the house was in flames and you passed out on the ground, bruises and blood everywhere. But I didn’t see (y/n) at all” Jeno explained

“Shit. My dad. H-he caused the explosion. He knew that we would go to the house. He knew that (y/n) must’ve hid the files there and would have to retrieve it. Where’s the files right now?” I asked, trying to get out of bed but Jeno stopped me

“Woah. I know that your dad is insane and we should save (y/n) but you’re injured pretty badly right now. You gotta rest. Especially since you have to face…” Jeno ranted but we heard several footsteps coming into the room

“Is he awake?!” both Jeno and I heard Taeyong-hyung’s voice and suddenly the door was slammed open and Taeyong-hyung along with Kun, Mark, and Doyoung came in

“Tell me why the hell is there a 150ml of blood bag with your fucking name on it arrived at the hospital when the blood is clearly not yours?!” Taeyong-hyung demanded, showing me the blood bag

“Shit. He’s actually serious. Fuck. Hyung, where’s the files?” I asked back but Taeyong-hyung didn’t budge. “Who is he, Jaemin?! You’re my member. My core member. And Kun received this right as he finished handling another patient. So no, Jaemin, I won’t let you know anything about the files until you explain yourself” Taeyong-hyung growled and I was trying to put together some words to not make the situation worse

“He’s back isn’t he?” Taeyong-hyung stated, sending chills as I remembered the incident

“He’s after the files, isn’t he, Jaemin?” Taeyong-hyung asked as I slowly nodded. “Everyone but Jeno, out” Taeyong-hyung stated as the others left the room but Jeno. “You know something as well, Jeno. I’ll deal with the other 00 boys later” Taeyong-hyung added

“Tell me everything, Jaemin. What happened, how did you get those files, whose blood is this and what did Nam Goongmin threaten you” Taeyong demanded and I told him everything that had happened. From when Jeno brought (y/n) to the hospital to going to her house and even facing my father on my own

“I know meeting him would not end well but this?! This is out of my prediction” Taeyong-hyung grunted, messing up his hair before slicking it back again

“We can’t release the files. (y/n) would be instantly killed” I argued

“I know that. But we need to find where your father is first which Jungwoo is already in the process of finding through the satellite tracker. In the meantime, Haechan already duplicated the files and we’ll hand the original file back” Taeyong-hyung mentioned

“You figured it out when I was passed out, didn’t you, hyung?” I asked back when Taeyong-hyung explained on the current situation he’s handling which always amazed me

“I keep tabs on my members. I know about your father coming to find you because that was the reason why he sent someone to kidnap the intern under Jungwoo. But I wouldn’t expect another person outside of NCT to be involved. Guess I should’ve expected it since it already happened with Jeno and Haechan” Taeyong-hyung chuckled

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to worry you. I also didn’t expect my father to have everything figured out and was basically a step ahead of me” I grunted

“Jaemin. Whether you like it or not, your dad was in the mafia way before me and the other oldest members in the group. He might be out of touch with the current generation unlike us, but he always has that sinister, manipulative mind that somehow always manages to turn the situation around. No matter what, your dad is not someone we can take on lightly like Jeno or Haechan’s situation” Taeyong-hyung stated when suddenly we heard a knock on the door, revealing to be Jungwoo

“Hyung. I found him” Jungwoo-hyung stated and Taeyong-hyung told him to come and show us

Jungwoo-hyung came in and showed the exact location of where my father was and it turns out, he was back at my old house. The house that I abandoned since my mother was killed. “Of course he would be there” I growled

“That’s not all, Jaemin. As I found him, there was a sudden file that was delivered to me. I didn’t want to open it until I see Taeyong-hyung” Jungwoo-hyung mentioned, showing us the mystery file that he received

“Open it, Jungwoo” Taeyong-hyung mentioned and upon opening the file, I could feel my stomach twist and nearly puke upon seeing the file because it was a video of (y/n) who was unconscious and tied to a bed, getting her blood slowly drawn out and a figure coming behind her and slowly picking up a scalpel before the video went black, showing several numbers.

“Hyung…” I grunted, Jeno taking a bucket and shoving it towards me. “Go ahead, no one is going to judge you” Jeno tried to joke

“It’s a countdown” Taeyong-hyung stated. “Looks like your dad still isn’t a patient man. Are you okay to go?” Taeyong-hyung asked

“I have to. I’m not letting him kill another innocent person. Not when I can actually do something about it. I failed to protect my mom and spent the past few years to try and atone for what my father has done. I’m not going to sit this one out just because I have a few bruises and injuries” I stated, getting up from my bed

“It’ll most likely be a trap. Your dad would instantly kill her upon seeing the rest of us but if you go alone, there’s no telling what will happen. Your dad could have mercy on you but not on the girl or he might be very merciful and spare both of you. Either way, I won’t sit tight and let you handle everything alone, alright?” Taeyong-hyung stated, patting my shoulder

Jaemin’s Old House - 1:38 am

Right as my car came to a stop, I took a deep breath before walking out and facing the very problem that I’ve been running away from for the past 6 years of my life. As I slowly opened the door, memories of what used to be a happy childhood slowly flooded back but this time with the smell of dirt, trash, and even blood mixed in.

Standing by the door, I was met with multiple other men with their guns all loaded, pointing at me as I looked up at my father who was standing on the 2nd floor, looking as sharp as I remembered him from the day when I last saw him. The last day that I ever agreed to do anything with him. To get revenge on my dead mother.

“I’m assuming you come here with what I requested?” my father asked and I pulled the USB from the inner corner of my jacket, raising it up to show him

“All the files about you. About what you’ve done. About every corrupted person you have helped. Every innocent person you have killed. Every track of your dirty money in and out. Every weapon and drug you own and sell. They’re all in here” I stated, none of my father’s men lowered their weapons

“Hand over the USB and put down every weapon you have” my father instructed me. “Search him just in case” my father added

I handed the USB to one of his men as I took out my guns, knife, pepper spray, and every other weapon I had in hand. Two of his men held me by the arm and another searched me completely before taking away all of my weapons, telling my father that I was already clean.

His men who took the USB went upstairs and handed it to my father. My father then took it and plugged it into the laptop to check every single file personally. “You really have turned soft, haven’t you, Jaemin? All this information for just a girl?” my father questioned

“Just a girl? You killed her parents. She didn’t deserve to continue her life like that. She had no one. No one deserves to live like that. Just because you were like that, doesn’t mean someone else should” I argued back and without warning, my father fired a bullet that grazed my cheek

“Know your place, boy. Remember it was me that helped bring you to this world. Without me, you wouldn’t be alive or breathing right now. Her father wasn’t as innocent if she ever told you the truth, that is. His father was associated with me as in they were the ones that sourced all the weapons and drugs that I sell. So, regardless, they weren’t all that good” my father argued back as well

“Doesn’t mean you should kill them. No one deserves to be killed” I stated but what my father said next hit me more than a bullet would. “Yet your mother was killed”

“If you recall, your mother was murdered, Na Jaemin. She didn’t die due to some illness or of old age. She was murdered cold-blooded. She did nothing wrong yet she was still murdered. You’re only partially right. Not everyone deserves to be killed. Some do” my father stated.

“As shitty as some people are, including you, no one still deserves to be killed” I stood my argument

“You sure about that? Don’t you remember the time when you practically forced yourself to come with me to find your mother’s killer? That you wanted to pull the trigger yourself. Yet, it didn’t satisfy you enough, did it? If anything, you’ve always been a coward. I taught you everything. Yet, you never dared to go above and beyond” my father complained

“My mother never taught me to do anything bad. Plus, she was the reason why you were also soft at some point in your life. She would be disappointed with how you’ve changed. At least I’m trying to atone for what you and I did” I taunted, making my father’s demeanour change. His gaze got darker and scarier.

“Don’t talk about her as if you know about our history. As if you understand what it feels like to have someone part of you being ripped away after all that you’ve been through to change for them” my father admitted; a side of him that I didn’t really know of

“Who says?! My mother is a part of me. Heck, 50% of my DNA is from her. She was my number one supporter and she was my everything. The first woman I love. You and I are the same in terms of looks, some of our traits, and our love for the same woman. The big difference is how we cope with that loss” I mentioned. “As much as I hate the man you’ve become, it saddens me more because no matter what, you’re still my father. So stop this nonsense and just turn yourself in” I tried to reason but instead, my father let out a rather maniac laugh

“There’s another difference between you and I. Your mother might be your first love. But she’s my first and last. Like you said, my parents weren’t really there for me and when I met your mother, that’s when I actually knew what love actually is. Until she was murdered that is. So, Na Jaemin. You want to understand what it feels like to go through what I went through? Let me show you then” my father stated, confusing me

My father went into one of the rooms and not long after, he came back, dragging a way smaller yet weak figure than him to his side which made my whole body shudder as I saw (y/n)’s paled and injured face was being held between one of my father’s hand.

“You said that you wouldn’t hurt her if I gave you the files” I growled, punching and kicking both men who were holding me down, finally breaking free of their grip and immediately there was smoke covering the entirety of the house

Within seconds, each of my father’s men was knocked out by my group and Taeyong-hyung’s additional reinforcements. Once the smoke cleared up, everyone pointed their weapon towards my father as Taeyong stepped into the scene.

“Nam Goongmin. I didn’t expect for us to ever meet again ever since you nearly killed your own son” Taeyong-hyung mentioned. “Let the girl go and turn yourself in. You promised you wouldn’t kill her”

“I only said I would kill her if those files were released. Nothing more. But since you’re all here, you broke the agreement first, Jaemin” my father stated, making my jaw clench. “You want to understand my pain? Then let me show you” my father then stabbed (y/n) in the back and immediately pulled the scalpel out, making her bleed even more blood

Immediately, I rushed upstairs and shoved my father away, catching (y/n) in my arms when suddenly my father shoved me again and started a fight with me

Thankfully, Jeno, Shotaro, and Jaehyun-hyung came and helped bring (y/n) away from the fight between my father and I. Though I was already trained in combat and my father had already age, he still managed to get me out of breath.

My father’s aims were sharp and strong which made me have to go into defence mode until I saw an opening and kicked him on the side of his ribs, which made him stumble backwards. Immediately, I took my chances and threw several more punches which hit and eventually, I managed to pin him on the ground, using my knee to pin his chest down, making it hard for him to breathe while my left arm was right on his neck, barely allowing my father to even speak.

“I think you should be by her side, doctor. Unless of course, you want to feel the exact pain that I felt” my father managed to choke out, tears somehow forming in my eyes

“Jaemin!! You have to operate on (y/n) right now. She already lost so much blood and while we’ve stopped it, it won’t last long” Taeyong-hyung stated as some of his reinforcements came and handled my father

“You should listen to your leader, doctor. Unless you want to relive the time when you couldn’t save someone” my father taunted and Taeyong-hyung covered him from my sight. “Go. I managed to bring a decent amount of tools for you to operate. The guys also managed to find the same blood type as her. I’ll deal with your dad” Taeyong-hyung mentioned, ushering me to quickly go

“Hyung. Thank you. And don’t kill my father. As shitty as what he did, I still stand my ground. I’m not going to kill him and no one is allowed to kill him. He’s still my father after all” I mentioned, looking back at Taeyong-hyung then seeing the other men take my father away

Rushing to the room that my members brought (y/n) in, I immediately put on a mask and gloves before getting to work. Though not all of my members know how the surgery procedure works, I’ve done operations on other people alone before.

I saw the monitor that checked all of (y/n)’s blood condition and they were all very low. First things first, I had to do the blood transfusion quickly before operating on the wound. After setting up the blood bag and putting the IV into (y/n)’s blood vessel, I told Shotaro to eye the blood bag and tell me when it was running low so I could give another blood bag.

As the blood transfusion was happening, I immediately got to work with the wound. I made sure that none of her vital organs were hit before actually stitching her up. I didn’t know how long I was stitching (y/n) while also giving her blood transfusion but at some point, the monitor suddenly beeping like crazy which made me worry.

“Jaem…her blood pressure is decreasing and so is her heart rate. Are there any other scars or wounds she has?” Jeno asked and I instantly scanned her entire body once again and the tab about her past conditions but nothing checked up; it was as if her body was giving up on its own

“Nothing, Jen. She has no wounds, no allergies, no sudden reaction. Her body, its slowly giving up. I’ve only heard several cases of patients whose consciousness just shut down their whole body. I, I didn’t think I would see it happen in front of me” I stuttered, my hands were now shaking

“Jaemin, I know this might sound crazy but you have to talk to her. She might be unconscious but her consciousness is alive and she could most probably hear you. You have to convince her to fight through it” Jaehyun-hyung mentioned and I was a shaking mess

Putting my tools down, I stood right beside (y/n). I grabbed one of her hands and leaned down by her ear. “Hey. I’m not sure if you can hear me but I just wanted to tell you that you shouldn’t give up. I know that we barely met but when you told me what happened to you, I felt that no one was ever able to understand you unlike I do. When you told me what my father did to your family, it made me feel obligated to take care of you. It might seem that I’m doing this to repay what my father did but honestly, I want to help you. You weren’t ever given the chance to enjoy your life” I held (y/n)’s hand with both of mine, squeezing it

“I know that I’ve told you this before but I want to say it again, I want to remind you if you feel that you want to give up. I was at that point as well. I was truly lucky to be able to have a leader and friends that helped me find a new purpose and that alone drove me to help others. You want to know what I want to be a surgeon? It’s not to only save people but I want to give them hope, to give them a second chance in their life when no one else would. I want to help them heal from their trauma just as I want to help you. So please, don’t give up just yet. Let me take care of you and give you the life you deserve. Let me be the one to heal your trauma just as my members healed mine” I rambled, hoping that whatever I said actually got to (y/n)’s consciousness

Somehow, as crazy as Jaehyun-hyung idea was, my voice somehow got through (y/n) and the monitor was suddenly stable once again. Letting out a sigh of relief, I looked at (y/n)’s calmer face and looked at Jaehyun-hyung and Jeno who both told me that I was good to continue.

Thankfully, throughout the rest of the operation, (y/n) was stable and I finished operating on her quicker than usual. Not long, we had some backup to help bring (y/n) and my father’s men back to our base.

Back at the base, everyone cleaned up but I immediately made sure that (y/n) was taken care of. I didn’t even care that I was still in my uniform and covered in dirt, scars, and blood. What matters most is that (y/n) was in a comfortable room, being treated and stable.

I even waited for Kun-hyung to confirm that (y/n) was indeed stable and that all she needed was some rest before actually being dragged out of the room and shoved into our shower room to shower by Jeno.

“You finally done?” Jeno asked as I got changed and dried my hair

“Yeah. You wouldn’t even let me leave until I actually freshen up” I grumbled, annoyed that Jeno and the others wouldn’t let me stay until (y/n) was awake

“Because you reek. You really think (y/n) would want to be next to you when you look and smell like blood, sweat, and tears?” Jeno sarcased

“How is she? Stable right?” I asked, putting my uniform to the dirty basket for laundry later

“Yeah. Kun-hyung actually mentioned that her fingers were moving a bit which means she’s going to wake up soon” Jeno mentioned as I hummed. “What are you going to do with your dad though? Taeyong-hyung practically chained him up and well, the usual. Taeyong-hyung didn’t hurt him too badly, if that’s what you’re worried” Jeno rambled

“Honestly, I’m not sure yet. I don’t want to kill him that’s for sure, I…” I replied when the door was flung open and Renjun came in panting. “She’s awake and Taeyong-hyung is with her”

Within seconds of Renjun coming to tell us that (y/n) was awake, I wasted no time in rushing to her room and seeing Taeyong-hyung beside her. “Relax. I’m not tormenting her, Jaemin. Excuse him, he sometimes look into things a bit too deeply” Taeyong-hyung mentioned and I heard a soft chuckle

When I walked to the side, I saw (y/n) sitting on the bed, her face looked brighter and fresher than hours ago. “Hey” I called out to her, offering a soft smile which she replied back

“I’ll leave you both alone now. Jaemin, when you’re done, my office, alright?” Taeyong-hyung mentioned before leaving me with (y/n) in the room

I pulled a chair and sat next to (y/n). “How are you? How are you feeling? Any parts of your body that hurt?” I asked and (y/n) softly shook her head

“I’m okay. Thank you” (y/n) stated, making me smile. “T-thank you, for saving me” (y/n) uttered out and I immediately took her hands in mine

“No, thank you, for staying strong. I’m not sure if you heard what I said to you when you were unconscious but I promise you that I’ll help you get back up. I’ll help you get the life you’ve wanted. Not because I feel obligated for what my father has done but because you deserve it and maybe because I can relate to you. Only if you allow me to help you, that is?” I rambled on and (y/n) held my hand tighter

“I’d like that. But I also want you to share your burden too” (y/n) uttered, making me smile wider, pressing my forehead onto hers. “As long as you let me take care of you and your trauma” I replied. For the first time, I felt calmer and more at peace since a long time.

NCT Prison - 12:18 am

Though I’ve been through these empty halls, I typically walk through them with my members to torment one of our prisoners. But this time, walking alone felt foreign. It reminded me of the day I left my home on my own. When there was no one to help me at all. But this time it was different. I wasn’t the same boy who ran away from his problems.

No. I decided I was finally going to put an end to it. By going in and facing the man who was both someone I used to look up to and someone that I despised.

“I’m amazed that you actually came. I thought you’d let your leader and other members do as they please with me” my father stated, locked within one of the cages of the prison

“I wouldn’t let them do that. Unlike you, father, who almost killed their own son, I would never let you get killed by my own members. As much as I despised you, you’re still my father. You said it yourself. I’m your son” I started out

“So then what? Are you going to torture me now? Your leader already has my files and most probably he’s going to release it tomorrow along with a statement that I’ve fallen and been captured. Then are you going to kill me by yourself? Is that why you’re not letting your members kill me?” my father questioned me

“I’m not going to kill you. Sure, my leader is going to open up and give a statement regarding his recent findings about you. But I told him that whatever he tells to the public will just be for the public because…I’ve already lost one parent. I don’t intend to lose another” I uttered, my father finally looking at me

“You might not be the best father but at some point, you raised me well. I know you love mom so much and you miss her just as I do but I know that mom would have never wanted us to be like this. She would have wanted both of us to be able to move on and live our lives. Not hating each other. Not chasing each other. We don’t even have to like each other or what we do but I know that mom would have wanted us to just try and get along. And that’s what I plan on doing” I ranted

“You can think that I’m weak or anything you want. But I hope that someday, you’ll be able to see me as your son who only wanted his dad. Not his father. I hope that you will be able to go back to the time when you were happy with mom but this time with me. And I hope that one day, you’ll admit your mistakes and apologise for what you’ve done. Not to me. I’ve gotten over that a long time ago. But to those who you’ve hurt and traumatised” I rambled on before slightly bowing to my father, about to leave but stopped upon hearing my father spoke

“You’re wrong, Jaemin. You’re not my son. You’re mine and your mother’s son. And whether you think that I was going to kill you that day. I wasn’t. Just like you, I was angry at what happened. And was pissed that you cowardly left me. But never did I ever think to kill you. Even now. I would have never killed the one person who reminded me of what your mother and I were like when we first fell for each other” my father finally spoke in a softer tone, making me turn to face him

“But you’re right. I was a shitty father when I should’ve been more of a dad to you. For that, I’m sorry. But I’m glad that you got more of your mother’s side. I’m glad that you grew up well. Your mom might hate me but I know for sure that she’s proud of the man you’ve become” my dad stated, actually smiling a bit which made me smile

“Thanks. I’ll um, talk to you again soon. I hope you do reflect on your mistakes. See you soon, dad” I uttered, leaving my dad, finally getting over the trauma that I’ve been holding onto for years

A/N: hopefully you guys enjoy this other long mafia fic of mine. I swear I will make a whole mini mafia series masterlist. After my 100th post which will be coming in December. I'm sorry that I've been slow on my stories and have only been posting like once a month but somehow, I ended up writing this mini mafia series which while fun, takes quite a while to write as I want them to somewhat interconnect with one another. Alright, before I go, I'm gonna give a mini sneak peek at my 100th post which will be another mafia series. Thank you all, have a great day and stay safe xoxo vinet

Sneak Peek for 100th Post

“Yo, John, doesn’t she look a bit too young to be working a a club?” Jaehyuna asked, looking over to a young girl wearing the waitress uniform, serving some drinks to old sweaty men

Johnny who was just trying to drink and enjoy his night eventually followed Jaehyun’s gaze and landed on the girl that Jaehyun was describing.

Sure, Johnny might’ve opened his own bar with Taeyong’s permission but that doesn’t mean that he allows just about anyone to work in his bar. And while he doesn’t deal with all the miscellaneous work in the bar, he surely memorises his staff and the girl Jaehyun pointed out was never in any parts of Johnny’s memory.

Instead of confronting the girl, Johnny immediately called another waiter to get the current manager and question the girl whom he learned was technically legal to work in a bar as she was 21+ and the manager mentioned that she was only a part-timer on the weekends since they needed more help.

Right when the manager was explaining to Johnny, he saw one of the old men put their hands on the girl’s bare thigh which scared the girl. Angered at the behaviour, Johnny stood up and stomped his way to the scene before the man could go any further.

“This is an exclusive bar and I make sure that all of my staff are always on their best service. But that doesn’t mean that you could just harass them like this” Johnny growled, gripping the older man’s arm tightly that the people nearby could hear a bone crack

“Especially when it’s an old man harassing a young girl” Johnny grunted, pushing the man that he fell off his chair; the other men around the table started to get up, about to put up a fight when Jaehyun came beside Johnny, shielding the girl

“I suggest you all sit your old sweaty asses down unless you want your old bones to be broken” Jaehyun taunted. “Or shall we call Taeyong? Because he’s the co-owner of this bar and I don’t think he would be pleased that his supposed business partners were in his bar, harassing a girl”

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margowritesthings · 2 years

Text

The Greatest Gift A Cowgirl Could Ask For

a @rdrevents Valentines gift exchange for @cowboydisaster

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader word count: 4,400 words warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, explicit language, sexual themes, vaginal sex, mentions of death, unprotected sex, throwing up (TW EMETOPHOBIA), very brief mention of SA in the past, unexpected pregnancy, mentions of Micah Bell a/n: am I britney spears in her 2000 grammy award winning song??? because oops, i did it again. i don't know how I managed to get Bea as my recipient for a SECOND time, but it only felt right to carry on building this universe I've made for her and lying to her about it all week. Whoops.

Bea, my beloved, Happy Valentines Day. You deserve the world and Im so glad I could dedicate this fic to you. Honestly I probably couldn't have gotten the motivation to get back on my feet and write again if it wasn't for you. Thanks for everything you do bby and I hope this lives up to your 'if by some miracle you get me for your gift exchange disregard my prompts and write a TGG prequel' (yes she actually said that) idea. Love you lots xxx

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @luvliewriting @mrsarthurmorgan7 @photo1030 @snobbybastard

My Darling Wife,

I’m writing to you from up near Tempest Rim. I’ve tracked this bounty all over the goddamn Grizzlies and I’m ready to come home to you. I miss you so much and I’m real sorry I can’t be home in time for St. Valentines. Hopefully I can catch this bastard soon and make it up to ya. We’ll go to the theatre and sit right at the back, how’s that sound? I’ll move heaven and Earth to be beside you soon, you know I will.

I can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. I’ll be there as fast as I can be with enough money to take you out on the town. Won’t be long, I promise.

All my love, Arthur

Your finger runs over his looped script, over and over as if it will somehow will your husband out of the crumpled paper and into your bed. It’s been 2 months since the letter arrived, 2 months of the agony of not knowing if he’s dead or alive robbing you of sleep each and every night. You miss him, more than you could ever imagine one person could miss another and you honestly don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t come home.

It’s a 600 dollar bounty, it’s sure to be a tough job you constantly reassure yourself, unable to focus on anything but the absence of half of your very soul in every waking moment.

The day he comes home starts like any other. Time's arrow marches on, the sun rises and sets over your makeshift family as they work and plan and rob and hunt. You busy yourself planning a job with Karen, cushioned into your schedule between menial tasks so that it’s just that bit easier to not think about him. As usual, your efforts are in vain, but at least the chores are done, your steed Diesel is happy, and, all being well, you and Karen will have about 30 dollars to split between you when the week is out.

An hour before he comes home, everyone retires to bed, save for John (who’s on watch tonight) and you’re left alone by the campfire. It crackles and pops, embers swirling the air around you. It feels like you stare at the twisting flames until your eyes blur and burn and you can’t tell which are tears of irritation to your senses and which are your heart breaking once more.

Moments before you’re reunited with the second half of your heart, you hear John yelling. It’s instinct that drives your hand into your holster, still resting against your hip despite the late hour, and you perk up like a startled deer, straining to decipher Marston’s words.

“Who is it?!” “Arthur, you dumbass!”

Arthur.

Arthur?

“Arthur?!” It’s a breathless shout, barely heard over the rushing blood in your ears as your feet take you to your husband before your mind can even fathom that he’s here.

But sure enough, when you reach the edge of camp, heart racing, you see Arthur Morgan riding his chestnut mare straight towards you, spurring her into a gallop as soon as he lays his eye on his waiting wife. Marston probably makes some remark about who ‘decided to show up’, but to you, there is nothing but you and Arthur, two magnets parted by an unnatural force finally reaching each other again with a deafening crash.

And it is. A crash, that is, when Arthur all but throws himself off his saddle and your bodies collide, great big arms wrapping around your frame. It is then that the tears fall down your cheek, soaking into Arthur’s coat that smells so much like him it truly feels like a dream.

You thought he was dead.

Only when you’re safely in his arms, when he’s pressing frantic kisses to your head, whispering your name over and over into your hair do you allow yourself to admit that fact. You thought he was never coming back, and yet here he is. Words fail you, the overwhelming emotion settling right in your throat.

“Oh, god… oh, darlin’ I-I missed you so much…”

You feel two large hands cup your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss that holds everything and anything the past 3 months could have been had you not spent it apart. But everything fits back into place, the world starts spinning again and you’re whole the second Arthur Morgan’s lips meet yours. It lasts a lifetime, it lasts a fraction of a second. You want to stop time, keep Arthur in your arms forever and never again have to go through the torture of being away from each other. The two of you only part to throw near identical scowls at John, who is amusing himself by telling you to get a room.

Unfortunately, as Ms. Grimshaw so often reminds you all, the Van der Linde Camp is not a hotel, so tonight you will not be afforded the luxury of a private suite as John so kindly suggested. There is only your tent, hitched against the gang’s weapons wagon, the old canvas pulled around to offer a little privacy when you and Arthur first started… well, needing the seclusion.

Calloused fingers intertwine with your own digits, Arthur’s other hand flipping John off before his weight pulls you towards your little corner of camp. There's so much purpose in his stride, the need to have you all to himself, not even share you with the lord above or wildlife below, driving him forward. Driving him home.

When you’re finally, truly alone, the tears welling in your eyes glistening in the candlelight, no words are needed. Soon enough, you’ll talk for hours on end, catching each other up on every little detail of the last few months. But for now, all that there is and all that could matter is right this very second, when Arthur reaches for you, brushing a thumb over the tear tracks on your left cheek. His eyes, looking almost emerald in the dark of night, roam over each and every detail of you with such an intensity in him that you think he’s trying to remember this moment for the rest of time. You’re sure it’s one you could never possibly forget.

Arthur snakes both arms around your waist, guiding you backwards until the backs of your knees gently hit the cot and you lay back onto it. He covers the full length of you and then some, making you feel so fragile and small. It’s nice to feel breakable for once, to let go of the need to be the strongest in the room, lest you be ridiculed for being too sensitive or too weak or too womanly. Arthur knows just how strong you are, you need to prove nothing to him, so you can submit to his embrace, allow yourself to just breathe for once knowing you can break and there’s re will always be somebody to put you back together.

He lowers himself to your lips, pressing a kiss to them that doesn’t last nearly long enough. Arthur then kisses your nose, then your cheeks and chin, before trailing down to the crook of your neck. Your skin feels as though it’s on fire, so starved for the man you cannot live without that now he’s finally here everything feels that much more intense. The tiniest scrape of Arthur’s teeth against your flesh shoots through every single nerve in your body and you moan right into his ear. You can actually feel him harden against your thigh at the sweet melody of your pleasure.

Pushing Arthur’s hat off to the side, your fingers rake through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp encouragingly as he nibbles at your skin.

“Oh, Arthur… Oh, I missed you so much…” You breathlessly whisper, feeling your heart skip a beat when he pauses his movements to glance at you from under impossibly long eyelashes, jade green eyes glistening up at you.

“I missed you too, sweetheart. So so much.” His voice is soft, as if he’s handling the peacefulness around you so delicately and it causes the overwhelming emotion to well in your chest and choke up your throat. Arthur sees this, trying not to be too taken with his own surprising amount of emotion himself, and relieves you of your job of a response by directing his attention to the buttons of your shirt. You don’t remember him pushing your jacket off your shoulders, but there it lies on the floor beside the entrance to your tent, so he must have.

Despite the juxtaposition of such dainty buttonholes and such large fingers, Arthur expertly undresses your top half until you’re bare to him. He takes no time at all to take one of your nipples into his mouth, kissing and sucking at it with a hunger you feel right in your toes. You moan loudly, unable to stop yourself after yearning for this very feeling for so long.

Arthur coos and shushes you and it vibrates across your skin, not helping you stay quiet in the slightest. The hand not tugging on his dirty blonde locks reaches between your two longing bodies to begin to unbuckle his belt. You can feel your own heartbeat throbbing between your legs, your coil growing tighter and tighter by the second. It’s been almost 3 months since your bodies have joined like this, and yet you’re not sure you can wait another minute.

You’re purring for Arthur, twitching and grinding as your hand fumbles desperately at the belt. His absence from your skin is agony the second he pulls his hips back to sit up straight. Spotting your downright bratty expression, bottom lip protruding in a pout, Arthur chuckles lowly, “Patience, baby… I gotta get these damn clothes off us.” He gestures to his belt, still very much buckled around his waist. Definitely not your fault. He was being far too distracting.

He’s quick, you’ll give him that, shedding his clothes without taking his eyes off you. You burn under his stare, even more so when he crawls back on top of you to slide your boots off one by one and peel your pants and undergarments down your legs.

The heat radiates off his huge body, his cock pulsing with need. The way he’s putting his weight into his arms to stop from crushing you with his weight adds a definition to his already beautifully sculpted body. Reaching down, you brush the tip of your finger oh so gently over his rosy head, finding a bead of cum already leaking, and you snap. You can’t wait a second longer, scratching and gripping at him like he’s the air you need to breathe.

“Please, Arthur, please I need you. S-So long, it’s been so long-” “Shh, I know, princess, I know. I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Gonna take care of your pretty little cunt, I promise.” He soothes you, though his own voice is shaky from the very effort of restraining himself, maintaining his control to not drive into you and ruin you. While he whispers to you, he lines himself up at your entrance and you quiver in anticipation.

In all your years before you met Arthur, you never really saw sex as anything but something to give, or worse, something to be taken from you. You never truly understood, not until you met Arthur, who taught you it’s something to share, to experience. With Arthur, it’s different. It is connection and pleasure and it’s wonderful and god damn it, it’s addictive. So when Arthur slides into you, letting out a visceral, guttural groan as he does, everything is right in the world.

You feel so full, especially when Arthur pushes all the way to the hilt, connecting you completely at the pelvis. The moan that escapes your lips is downright obscene and Arthur crashes down into your mouth to swallow it.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been so long, or the emotion of it all, but you swear you can feel everything. Every vein and ridge, every twitch and movement of his perfect cock as Arthur slowly starts to move in and out of you.

“Fuck… s-so good, darlin. So tight- y’feel so fucking good, princess…”

You’ve never hurtled so close towards a climax so quickly in your life. His torturously slow, deep thrusts drag into your sweet spot every fucking time and trying to hold back brings a blur into your vision. Your own hips grind against his, Arthur gripping into your flesh to guide you perfectly in time with him.

“I-I’m so close already, Arthur… fuck…” You breathe out, your breath tickling Arthur’s ear and sending a visible shudder down his spine. He looks proud at your admission.

“You missed me that much, huh? Gonna cum for me already, darlin’?”

He gives you no time to respond, pressing a thumb to your clit and rubbing in time with everything else. You implode, pulling Arthur down to catch the scream you’re about to wake everybody up with. It has never felt so intense, and with every thrust Arthur fucks into you it only grows and grows, shattering you to pieces for Arthur to fix back together again.

When you return, a rhythmic thudding in your ears, the first thing you see is Arthur, of course. His jaw is fluttering madly, a bead of sweat clinging to his forehead but the candlelight makes him look ethereal. You still can’t believe he’s here, alive.

Tears start to glisten in your eyes. You’ve never cried during sex before, not for anything positive, at least, but somehow this doesn’t feel wrong. Arthur slows again, watching you, and you spot an extra shine to his own jade orbs. He knows. He feels it too.

He’s right there with you. As he always is.

He brushes a piece of hair stuck to your forehead away, and the gesture is enough to send the tears falling down the same worn path on your cheeks as before.

“I love you, Mr. Morgan…” “I love you, Mrs. Morgan…”

It seems to become too much for Arthur to stay still, and you’re glad for it. You’re desperate for the friction, already flying towards another orgasm. He’s really fucking into you this time, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in. He’s groaning and growling and you decide in that moment that it’s your favourite sound in all the world.

“I… I ain’t gonna last much longer, baby…”

“C-Cum in me…” “Huh?” He slows, shuddering at the exertion required to control his movements, “I-”

But you’re not listening to his protests, your nails digging into the skin of his back and ass and anywhere else you can reach to urge him forwards again.

“Please Arthur, I-I need you… I need you to cum with me, I need you with me…” you plead with him, not truly understanding your need but honouring it. You’ve been without him for so long, you deserve him with you now.

He appears to consider you for just a moment, before diving down to lock your lips with his. His tongue delves into your mouth, tasting every bit of you and he starts to pump into you unreservedly. His body grinds against yours and the friction is perfect and you’re so fucking full and before you can even try to hold back, you’re cumming again, stars scattering your vision, heart pounding out of your chest to find release from it’s mortal, physical cage. Your inner walls twitch around Arthur’s length and this time, he doesn’t hold back either.

His eyes fly open and lock onto yours as you both climax together. It’s vulnerable and strange, but perhaps more connected than you ever thought possible for two people to be.

Arthur’s cock twitches inside you, pumping out his spend as he groans viscerally, completely losing control of his rhythm as he thrusts into you one last time, harsh and deep. You’ve never experienced this before, with Arthur or any other man, normally erring on the side of caution when it came to such matters, but even as you come down you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Whatever you and Arthur just experienced together felt spiritual, and worth much more than a little risk.

Arthur collapses, even as depleted as he is still considerate enough to collapse onto his elbows and not crush you. He slides out of you, earning a little wince, and rolls to the side so you can rest your head on his chest. It’s like a locket that’s been ripped apart, finally fixed together with the most satisfying click.

═══════☆═══════

Two months later, life has returned to its equilibrium. You and Arthur are perhaps clingier, still in a sort of second honeymoon phase where you just can’t seem to keep your hands off each other, more so than usual. It’s a side effect of prolonged solitude, you’re sure.

The first time it happens, you blame Pearson and think nothing of it. It’s pretty early in the morning and you’re sitting with Tilly and Abigail, peeling potatoes for the stew tonight. Abigail is venting her frustrations about when John did this and John said that, and everything feels so normal. Pearson arrives, throwing a rather large, rather dead fish onto the table you’re leaning against and you feel the thud from the weight of it vibrate against your back.

It isn’t until the smell invades your senses that everything starts to feel off. It smells exactly like all the other fish Pearson has ever slammed onto that poor table, which doesn’t explain why you immediately lurch forwards, grabbing an empty bucket and throwing up your breakfast. The fish stench is suffocating and all you can do is get the hell away from it, not noticing when Abigail’s brows knit together almost… knowingly?

You skip the stew that night.

―

The second time it happens, you try not to think about it. You’re riding Diesel and almost don’t make it off him in time. There is nothing to set you off, no horse shit or rotting animal at the side of the road, and yet in an instant your stomach feels like it has been flipped upside down.

The sheer volume of your retching catches Arthur’s attention and he tugs on the leather reins in his hands to steady his mare.

“Darlin’? Y’alright?”

His concern is evident in his tone and in the tight line between his brows, which deepens when he finds you unable to respond in anything but a frantic nod. He dismounts, spurs clicking against the dusty ground when he approaches you.

“Oh, sweetheart… that’s it, easy, easy… you’re okay…”

You feel gentle circles rubbed into the tense muscles of your back as you try to get through this again. It’s not lost on you that Arthur is speaking to you like a spooked horse, but it actually really does help. (You decide to prioritise peace of mind and not psychoanalyse why that is). Eventually, it relents and you regain your composure, albeit somewhat less gracefully than you’d have liked.

“Sorry… I don’t know what’s gotten into me, maybe I ate somethin’.”

Your apology for something you can’t help earns you a sad smile from your husband, who places a loving kiss on the top of your head before reaching for your discarded hat and putting it back on for you.

“Y’don’t gotta apologise. I gotcha, darlin’.”

You know he does.

He always does.

―

The third time it happens, the luxury of denial is stolen from you. It’s early enough that your view while you sit with Abigail drinking coffee involves glorious hues of orange and pink scattered around the rising sun. It’s peaceful, tranquil. The warmth of the little metal mug in your hands and Arthur’s jacket around your shoulders is enough to ward off the fresh morning chill in the air.

There is absolutely no warning when it hits, when it happens again. You’re so goddamn sick (no pun intended) of hurling. Your eyes water and your throat hurts a little and you curse under your breath when it’s over. Abi is beside you, rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you. She waits until it’s over before speaking hesitantly.

“Uh, can I ask you somethin’?”

You nod, eyes still red and glistening as you swirl coffee around your mouth to take away from the awful, acidic taste lingering.

“When did you last bleed?”

“What, like an injury? Uh, I cut my hand couple days back, but I don’t see what-“

… Oh fuck.

═══════☆═══════

The anxiety bounces around your body and you decide that you’ve become far too acquainted with the concept of nausea. You can actually tell the difference between nerves twisting your stomach and… well, let’s say it as it is: morning sickness. This is the former, you deduce, spinning both your engagement and wedding ring around your finger to give your hands something better to do than carve fingernail-shaped moons into your palm. He should be home any minute now. Any minute now and it will all change forever.

It’s quite late, but the poker game Arthur was scoping out for potential jobs is known to last a while. You’re the only one still awake, poking the embers of the campfire to keep yourself as comfortable as possible.

You hear hooves hitting dry dirt first, and it seems to trigger your fight or flight response. God, you’d love to run away from this, but that is pretty much impossible, so fight it is. It’ll be the greatest fight of your life, you’ll soon learn, one you’re privileged to be a part of. But right now, it feels like an all-consuming unknown.

Arthur can tell something is wrong the second he sees you. You’re terrible at hiding things, especially from him. He always reads you as though you have a poster advertising your feelings printed on your forehead. Arthur dismounts, kissing you tenderly on the temple and wrapping his arms around you.

“What’re you still doin’ up, darlin’? Is everything alright?” You can feel his worry vibrating in his chest as you nuzzle into his embrace.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I just… Can we talk? I kept the fire goin’.” You say it into his shirt, reluctant to move from this hold.

“Of course…” there’s something in his voice, a tense apprehension that really doesn’t help the knot contorting itself in your gut.

While you’re more than capable of keeping a fire going, Arthur is an expert, and has it healthily burning within seconds of you sitting down on the overturned log the gang has fashioned into a bench. You’re back to spinning your beautiful gold bands around your finger, trying to remember to breathe in and out every so often.

“What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?” His voice is so soft, so kind that it makes you want to cry. But you promised yourself you wouldn’t until you’d told him, because this might just be the most important conversation you’ve ever had, and you definitely won’t get through it if you’re a blubbering mess.

“I, uh… I… somethin’s happened.”

You hear his breath hitch in his throat and Arthur leans towards you, completely enveloping your hands in his. They’re sandwiched in now and you can’t fiddle with your rings anymore.

“What? What happened? Was it Micah? If he’s said somethin’ to you, I’ll kill him, the rat bastard-”

“No, no, it’s… as much as I’d love to see that, it’s not him.”

The tension releases. Just a little bit.

“I’m pregnant.”

Oh wait, there it is.

The silence is deafening, even though you’re almost certain it isn’t actually silent out here right now. There's a fire going and crickets are just metres away, you’re just shutting down with nerves.

The normally so often tense, fluttering jaw of Arthur Morgan is slack, his eyes wide and gaping at you, occasionally flicking down to your so far bump-less belly. (You should know- you’ve been obsessively looking in a mirror any chance you get for some sort of sign that this is really happening).

Say something. Please say something. Please don’t be angry. Oh, God please don’t hate me.

“I-I… You’re pregnant?” He repeats, reassuring you that you haven’t actually gone deaf, though his tone holds no indication of anything but shock. That’s probably fair…

You nod, hands instinctively reaching over your belly. It feels… weird. Holding your hands over your baby. Yours and Arthur’s baby.

“It happened a couple months back, when you got back from The Grizzlies, I think… I-I’m sorry, Arthur. I shoulda’ been more careful and-and…” You’re rambling, filling a silence that probably should just be allowed to be a silence.

“There… There’s gonna be a baby?”

There. Right there, adorning Arthur’s beautiful features, is the pull of a smile. It chokes you up instantly, so far deep in nightmares of arguments and unhappiness that you hadn’t even considered the good. You start to nod, a little bit of your fringe falling in your face.

“Yeah… There’s gonna be a baby. Our baby…”

“Our baby…” He repeats, his arm raising to brush the hair away from your eyes in such a natural manner it feels like it’s just his instinct to care for you. It is his instinct to care for you, Arthur has shown you that in every minute of every day of your marriage, and suddenly you’re not sure why you’ve been so scared.

“I’m gonna be a dad?” He still seems in disbelief, but that’s normal. It’s taken you a few days to come to terms with it, and even then the fingernail marks in your palms are still red raw.

“You’re gonna be a dad.”

It hits him. Really hits him and he all but throws himself into you, scooping you up and spinning you around as he laughs unreservedly.

“Well goddamn, I’m gonna be a Daddy!”

You laugh with him, worries and anxiety a distant memory as your feet swing around in the air. You’re probably waking the camp up, but you don’t care all that much. Right now, you’re the happiest girl in the world.

A baby. There’s gonna be a baby. Arthur’s baby.

Really, it’s the greatest gift a cowgirl could ask for.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan x f!reader #arthur morgan x y/n #rdr2 fanfiction #red dead redepmtion 2 #arthur morgan rdr #rdr2 arthur #rdr valentines change

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lambsouvlaki · 1 year

Text

For the Hell of It - Anniversary

Characters: Jason Todd x fem!oc

Rating and warnings: G, no warnings.

Word count: 1,800

Summary: After two years together, Jason takes her out somewhere special for their anniversary.

Masterlist

It was mid morning when Jason called.

That was deeply unusual, this month especially. He had been so busy lately she barely saw him except for the days she got up and found him dead to the world on the other side of her bed.

Idly cataloguing the possible reasons for the call, Andy turned down the radio and stepped away from her laptop.

A serious injury? Unlikely, that call typically came from Alfred and would have happened three hours ago. Location compromised, maybe? Pretty good chance, although it wasn’t usually a call but an emergency alert telling her to get her ass out the door. Maybe he was loopy on fear-toxin antidote again and needed to hear she was still alive.

Most likely situation was Jason calling to tell her he was leaving the country, or the planet, or possibly the universe. Given the timing, it would be… well. Not crushing, but disappointing.

Two years into this relationship, she knew better than to get too precious about calendar dates.

“Hello?” she said with a jaunty tilt of her head. No pre-emptive sulking, she refused.

“Hey beautiful,” Jason’s voice came through the little speaker. It was warm and low. “I’ve missed your voice.”

Her eyebrows rose and relief lit up her face. “Did you just? I’ve got a presentation tomorrow that needs some rehearsing, want to listen to my dulcet tones talk about community support funding?”

He laughed. “I would actually, but I’d rather hear the whole story from the beginning. Are you free this saturday?”

“Hmm, am I free this saturday?” she drawled. “On our anniversary?”

“Yup, that saturday.”

“Why, yes, baby, I think I am. Why do you ask?”

“You’re not free anymore. I’m calling dibs.”

“Oh?” She dared to feel not just relief but anticipation.

“8pm. I’ll come get you.”

“Alright. How am I dressing? Steel capped boots? Running shoes? Ballet flats?” She had learned the vital importance of this question since going out with him. Jason’s plans were best faced prepared.

“Heels,” he said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. “Wear that slinky red number you hide at the back of the closet.”

She paused. Of course he’d seen it. “I’ve… never actually worn that before.”

“What did you get it for then?” he asked, teasing.

“Oh, you know. Maybe I’ll get invited to the Oscars.”

He laughed, low and promising. “I’ll make you feel like you did.”

She bit her lip. She was grinning like an idiot, alone in her own apartment. Two years in and she could still melt her with a word.

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you Saturday, sweetheart.”

They hung up and she drifted to her closet, eyeing up the dress.

He couldn’t make their first anniversary. The planet was under an invasion while Bruce was off-world dealing with some other, separate invasion, so Jason and Dick split up cowl temping duties. Dick went to go play Batman with the Justice League and Jason stayed to play Batman in Gotham.

He was more than capable of it and the average criminal didn’t even realise there was a different guy under the cowl. They just thought Batman was feeling extra mean this month. But it more than doubled his workload.

It didn’t blindside her. They were both disappointed but didn’t make a fuss, they had a system in place for these things. Both made compromises and extended grace to the other, and their relationship was stronger for it.

All the same, when Saturday night rolled around and she heard the purr of a car rolling up outside, excitement fizzed in her chest like bubbles in champagne.

She put on her finishing touches and went out to meet him.

Jason waited for her in a perfectly tailored black suit. He didn’t fancy himself up very often, or ever, in fact. Having him dressed up was more of a luxury than the McLaren sports car he was leaning against.

She drank in the sight of him. He looked like he could put Brucie Wayne to shame. The smirk on his face completed the ensemble.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said.

She wore her floor length evening dress, with a halter neck and the most indulgent plunging neckline she had ever worn, to say nothing of the split in the skirt. It was also bright red. She felt a little shy in it, but it wasn’t a dress for hiding in. She had towering black stilettos on her feet and a lazy swing in her hips. She wanted him to look his fill.

His eyes roamed over her with open appreciation. They were shortly followed by his hands, settling on her hips. He pulled her to him.

How was he still so much taller than her?

He kissed her, slow and deep and hungry. She leaned into him. He luxuriated in her.

Her night was off to a wonderful start.

Once they could bring themselves to part, he helped her into the car, and drove them off into the night. She put her hand on his thigh. He interlocked his fingers with hers and drove one handed. Gotham’s lights flashed by as they left their native little corner of the city behind. They wound through the Diamond District.

They slowed to a stop in the courtyard of a softly glowing restaurant. There was a cellist playing in the foyer. She recognised the name in a looping font over the door. She’d read it on some list of world best’s.

“You did not get a booking here on Wednesday. Did you?”

“I booked a year ago.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t going to miss it twice.”

She squeezed his hand. A ‘thank you’ wouldn’t encapsulate just how much it meant to her. She knew the case he was working on wasn't wrapped up yet. He lifted her hand and kissed her palm.

She looked out the window at the people getting out of cars ahead of them. Doubt niggled at the back of her head.

“I may not actually be fancy enough for these people,” she confessed.

Jason scoffed. “Sweetheart, you’re gonna put everyone else here to shame.” He killed the engine and turned to her. “They should be grateful for the privilege of seeing you. I know I am.”

She smiled, ducking her head a little. He tilted her chin back up and looked into her eyes, leaning down towards her.

“You know these windows are tinted?” he said.

She snorted a laugh. He snatched a kiss.

“If you smudge my makeup, so help me.”

“Sweets, you know that’s a challenge.” He tipped her chin higher and kissed her neck, expertly dodging where she had blended her foundation into her skin.

She sighed. She loved this ridiculous man so much.

A valet tapped his window and Jason drew back with a sly grin.

He got out and came around to open her door for her. It was a necessity given how low the seats and how tall her heels were, but she was happy to lean into the fantasy as he took her hand.

Doubt was for behind closed doors. With the world watching she stepped out into the courtyard in a flutter of red silk and her chin held high. Jason slung an arm around her waist, resting low on her hip. They walked like they belonged because who the hell was going to tell them they didn’t?

They were welcomed in by the maitre d’ and led across the packed restaurant floor. Jason caressed the curve of her hip without shame.

She spotted the empty table their path led them to. Jason stiffend at her side.

At the table directly next to it sat another couple, presumably also on a date. Bruce Wayne and a gorgeous brunette with a pixie cut, staring deeply into each other’s eyes.

Bruce glanced their way only briefly, and his expression froze.

Dread broke through his public persona for just a moment, a look perfectly mirrored on his son’s face. The collision course was set. Jason walked like he was approaching the gallows.

The brunette noticed the hiccup and looked back, revealing Miss Selina Kyle. She looked at Andy and rolled her eyes in commiseration.

“Actually,” Andy said, tossing her hair back and stopping in place.

The maitre d’ paused in his path.

“I would love to sit on the mezzanine floor. With the wall of flowers? It must be so beautiful.”

She ruthlessly silenced her internal scream over making a fuss. She was not surrendering her evening to Wayne bullshit. She got waxed for this.

“I’m so sorry, Ma’am, the orchid display isn’t currently available, we are preparing an exciting new display for the spring after Poison Ivy-”

“It’s what I want,” she said pleasantly.

“Of course.”

The maitre d’ redirected them with perfect poise. He whispered in a passing waiter’s ear, and led them to the stairs.

Jason took her hand and squeezed it in silent thanks. The tension seeped back out of him. She squeezed back.

The mezzanine was comparatively quiet, with a giant print of Monet’s water lilies erected to cover some construction works. It had a lovely view of the rest of the restaurant however and the glinting chandeliers hung down over the main floor.

Table settings were arranged for them with a swiftness and subtlety even Alfred Pennyworth would approve of. Jason got to sit with his back to a wall and with sightlines over the entire pace, which always made him more comfortable. The table was small, they sat very close together, making it feel more intimate and private.

There were no prices on the menu and she didn’t grasp what the minimalist dish names actually meant. For a moment it filled her with a mute panic. Jason gave her a calm look and played with her hand on the table.

“We’ll have the chef’s menu, and the paired champagne for the table,” he said.

She was more than happy to be swept along. And she could pronounce the champagne better than the waiter, which calmed her fear of making a fool of herself. Jason managed to look exactly as at home here as he did while having a smoke on top of a dumpster in the Alley.

The food was all delicious, albeit in tiny portions on very large plates.

Below the table Jason ran his hand up her bare thigh, his fingers sneaking under the split in the dress.

She made eye contact as she licked the last of a creamy sorbet off her spoon. He watched with unadulterated focus. She ran her bare leg against his briefly, tastefully, and then retreated. He smirked at her. It was the smile of a man who knew exactly where his evening was heading.

He lifted his glass, with the last of its golden liquid in it. “To another year, beautiful.”

Next>>

#jason todd #red hood #jason todd x oc #red hood x oc #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x reader #for the hell of it #my fanfic #dc #fluff

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edenmemes · 2 years

Text

you (season 4) starters

part i & ii.

❝ love tests us. i’ve been tested more than most. ❞ ❝ love chooses us. the only thing we can control is what we do, how far we go. ❞ ❝ you know, i think i...i think i understand you. ❞ ❝ it’s not redemption if it’s for selfish reasons. ❞ ❝ look, trust is earned. ❞ ❝ it’s times like this i can’t help but wonder, where did i go wrong? ❞ ❝ you like it. how it feels. to kill. ❞ ❝ your kindness and ability to see the good in people, it's the best thing about you. but people take advantage. ❞ ❝ so when are you letting me show you the real city? ❞ ❝ i can see you’re trying to remain noble while you hide your true motives. ❞ ❝ all i can say is never again. no love. no people. just books. ❞ ❝ you don’t know who i am or what i want. ❞ ❝ i’m not a fairy princess who needs soft speech or coddling. ❞ ❝ the best way to stay out of people’s business is to know what that business is. ❞ ❝ i can say something...romantic if you like. ❞ ❝ ugh. don’t know why i bother trying to help you. ❞ ❝ your past can’t be worse than mine.❞ ❝ i have too many friends. come back when one is dead. ❞ ❝ don’t kiss me. we might fall in love. ❞ ❝ i don’t let people in. it simply isn’t worth it.❞ ❝ you all right? you look sick. ❞ ❝ what i find dodgy about you, mate, is absolutely fucking everything. ❞ ❝ you know what they say: ‘the colder the stare, the warmer the heart’.❞ ❝ we will never ever be equals because i can't compete with perfection. ❞ ❝ don’t make promises you can’t keep. ❞ ❝ i know the real you, a cruel man in his own immoral universe.❞ ❝ you say sweet things, it’s nice. and it makes me feel worse.❞ ❝ i know your strengths, and when you fail to live up to them, oh, it’s so disappointing.❞ ❝ everybody wants me...until they have me. ❞ ❝ i think we’ve somehow gotten off on the wrong foot. sorry. ❞ ❝ whatever it is you think you want to say, don't.❞ ❝ my way is the only way and you know it.❞ ❝ what i find dodgy about you, mate, is absolutely fucking everything. ❞ ❝ the world isn't kind or fair, so i need you to know that you have changed me the way...opening a window changes a dark room. ❞ ❝ oh, i’m sorry. did i hurt your feelings? ❞ ❝ historically, you are the family fuck-up. ❞ ❝ i love your stubbornness, luckily for you. and your good heart.❞ ❝ your past doesn’t scare me.❞ ❝ i’m sorry. i’m trying to change my past mistakes. ❞ ❝ i don’t wanna lose you, and i’m sorry that i pushed you away. ❞ ❝ i own everything in this world i want. ❞ ❝ who would i be to judge you?❞ ❝ don’t be a prude. you can touch me. ❞ ❝ there you are. i was wondering when you’d find me.❞ ❝ you don’t know me as well as you think. ❞ ❝ i can’t afford distractions. not now. ❞ ❝ i'll make you this promise: this is the last thing i ever ask of you.❞ ❝ if you are honest with me from now forward and i'm honest with you, then...that’s what matters. ❞ ❝ you following me like a puppy? ❞ ❝ did you kill someone? i can always tell. ❞ ❝ i ran away from all this. i never wanted to touch a bloody knife again. ❞ ❝ you act like...you’re just a good man who did a bad thing. ❞ ❝ what i’d like is to...is to be done, you know? ❞ ❝ we all wear different masks, depending. and of course, parts of us we can't bear to show to anyone. ❞ ❝ heartbreak is always the catalyst for a new path. ❞ ❝ i have no desire to hear what you say, and i don’t know why you’ve come. ❞ ❝ you’re not who i figured you for. ❞ ❝ if i had done these things, it could only have been because i had no other options. ❞ ❝ are you ignoring me? you’re hurting my feelings. ❞ ❝ have a lovely afternoon. or don’t. ❞ ❝ it continues to be none of your business.❞ ❝ you wage war with your own nature. that is what you do. ❞ ❝ my guess is that you’ve truly had a hellish life. ❞ ❝ eventually, i will get a smile out of you. ❞ ❝ i suppose i’ve been falling in a little bit in love with you. ❞ ❝ are you telling me i need a man? a big, strong man to protect me?❞ ❝ you do have a good heart. and it tortures you.❞ ❝ i decide if the line gets crossed, when and why. ❞ ❝ what do you say we grab us a real drink? ❞ ❝ redemption is possible, as long as they commit to never running from themselves. ❞ ❝ not only do i not care if you think i’m a bitch, i hugely prefer it. ❞ ❝ i wish you an end to suffering and the roots of suffering. ❞ ❝ do you have something to hide? ❞ ❝ i love you. i don’t want to lose you ever.❞ ❝ i just want to make my own way. i just want to be a person and not even a great one, just decent.❞ ❝ what...? what is that look? ❞ ❝ you don’t want to know the real me.❞ ❝ i’ve always admired a man like you who...doesn’t care how he presents. ❞ ❝ it’s time we got to know each other. ❞ ❝ you okay? you seem a little nervous. ❞ ❝ i’m not scared of being my dad. i’m already worse.❞ ❝ i like a secret. secrets make you feel like you're living your life. ❞ ❝ you know what my favorite thing about love is? it gives you second chances.❞ ❝ when are you going to understand? i’m smarter than you.❞ ❝ i have been incredibly kind in the past to so many dear little lambs who were, in actuality, cruel wolves.❞ ❝ doing any real good is predicated on having real power.❞ ❝ all i’ve ever wanted is to love and to be loved completely. ❞ ❝ i have a past too. in another place with another name. all i want is to never be her again.❞ ❝ you do so much for everyone, but i cannot let you put yourself in harm’s way.❞ ❝ i’m gonna need you to change the subject by kissing me.❞ ❝ i am sick of being manipulated and underestimated.❞ ❝ we all have something bad in us.❞ ❝ if you had died, i would never have forgiven you. ❞ ❝ your story is incredible. you must be tired of talking about it. ❞ ❝ despite all i’ve ever done for you...you despise me. ❞ ❝ all that matters is that you’re all right.❞ ❝ the more you spend time with someone, the more cursed you are to see them as human.❞ ❝ things took a turn since i saw you last.❞ ❝ very sweet for you to offer, but we both know that you’re full of shit. ❞ ❝ my place. tomorrow. bring wine.❞

#roleplay meme #roleplay starters #rp meme #rp starters

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lovebugism · 1 year

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Congratulations, babydoll! Sending this in early! So super proud of you, and you’re one of my favorite authors/humans around here! ;) 😘🎂💝❤️

“Let me take care of you today. Don’t do anything in return, just let me.” - For virgin! Eddie (him taking care of the reader) ❤️

kristen. love of my life. absolute queen of smut. thank you so much for always being so kind! i wasn't sure if you wanted this to be smutty or not, so here's 2k words of eddie spaghetti taking care of a sick reader (also me soft launching the nickname Peach hahah) hope you enjoy!!

part of the tcar universe!

Eddie Munson was a worrier.

Apart from creating D&D campaigns and mastering Metallica guitar riffs, it’s what he did best.

Like, when Dustin skips out on Hellfire for the first time, he immediately thinks something’s wrong. He keeps the poor boy in the club room after the rest of the boys have left, badgering him about the reason why. “If something’s going on at home, you can tell me. You know that, right? Rule number one of Hellfire, you know? It’s a safe place.”

“I thought rule number one of Hellfire was never sit in your throne? Dustin asks with furrowed brows.

“Well, yeah, but… I’m just saying. You can tell me if something’s going on.”

“My mom’s just getting a new cat, Eds. We have to drive to Indianapolis to pick it up after school,” the boy explains, so sincere he’s practically cooing. “Everything’s okay, alright. I promise.”

“Alright. Drop the tone,” Eddie squints at him.

Dustin grins. “I’m happy you care so much, though. It’s really sweet, actually.”

“If you wanna keep the teeth you have left, I suggest you shut up, Henderson.”

Dustin makes fun of him about that to this day.

Still, it hasn’t lessened his ability to stress out over nothing.

Gareth is five minutes late to band practice at The Hideout, and Eddie’s certain his beat-up truck is sitting somewhere in a ditch. Mike comes to school with a scrape on his cheek, and Eddie immediately thinks Jason and his basketball goons are giving him a hard time again.

It’s a deep-rooted urge to protect the people he cares about — to worry incessantly about their well-being and fight like hell if something’s wrong. And these are just the boys he tolerates, at best.

So when Eddie’s worried about you? All hell threatens to break loose.

Two days pass, and he hasn’t heard a single thing from you.

And it’s not the total end of the world or anything. You get busy sometimes, and that’s fine.

Is a part of him distantly worried that you’re lying dead in your apartment? Sure. But still. The sliver of logical thinking he possesses knows that you’re fine. Eddie’s mostly able to simmer in his worry until the third day comes and goes with no word from you.

He’s popped into a full-on boil by then.

“Have you seen my keys?” the boy asks his uncle while he rifles between the couch cushions, searching for the metal things he can’t even seem to keep up with.

“You’re what?” Wayne answers, tucked too comfortably in his recliner for a time like this. He’s more focused on his Cheers re-run than his nephew’s anxious mumbling.

“My keys. They’re missing.”

“You didn’t leave ‘em in your van, did you?”

“No, I didn’t leave them in my van,” Eddie snaps. It’s more harshly than he intended but he doesn’t think to apologize as he looks under the magazines on the coffee table.

Wayne isn’t deterred by his tone. He pops another chip into his mouth and talks through the mouthful. “Did ya look in your room?”

“Yes. That’s the first place I check. They’re not there.”

“Kitchen counter?”

“I looked there, too.”

“Well, they gotta be somewhere, Eds,” Wayne chuckles.

“It’s not funny,” Eddie scolds in a fit of boyish rage. He ceases his search for a moment to be angry — his tight chest thankful for the weight is let off. “My girlfriend could be dead—”

“Your girlfriend’s fine,” the older man assures, still laughing a little to himself. Eddie’s dramatics and misplaced worries are familiar to him now. He looks over his shoulder at his nephew, grey brows raised. “Maybe she just wanted some space. Ever think of that?”

Eddie shakes his stubborn head. “You don’t know her, alright? That’s not— That’s not how she operates.

“Operates?” Wayne scoffs in a laugh. “She a robot or something.”

“…You’re are no help, you know that?”

Eddie backtracks to his room. He finds his keys beneath a pile of dirty clothes in the very corner of his room. He doesn’t care to know how they got there. He’s just grateful he found them at all.

He’s forced to walk by Wayne with them in hand to leave the trailer. The man’s lilted “I told ya so” doesn’t go unheard.

His van gets him to the other side of town in ten minutes flat — half the time it usually takes, but still not quick enough. He ascends the concrete stairs two a time before b-lining to your apartment. He grips the knob, expecting it to be locked, but it gives under the weight of his hand.

“Oh my god, if she’s not already dead, I’m gonna kill her,” Eddie mumbles rather morbidly to himself as he walks into your unlocked apartment.

He’s surprised to find you on the couch — your back facing him, all wrapped up in blankets, with a thousand tissues on the coffee table.

“Hopper, I told you a thousand times, I’m fine—” Your voice is scratchy and slurred, the makings of a girl who’s exhausted and obviously sick.

You turn slowly to look over your shoulder, careful not to jostle your migraine. Your glassy, red-rimmed eyes go wide when you find that Eddie’s the one standing in your driveway instead of Lurch.

“Coulda fooled me,” the boy quips with a sympathetic smile at your pallid appearance — sallow face, sunken eyes, messy hair.

He doesn’t know you’ve got a raging monster of a headache, but he shuts the door closed softly anyway.

“Eddie?” you call his name. It’s mixed with a groan as you flip onto your back. The change in position makes your head pound all over again. You squint at Eddie through the knife in your skull. “What are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you,” he tells you just before laying his keys on the table and sitting on the wooden edge of it in front of you. He puts the back of his hand to your warmed cheek. It nearly burns him.

“And everyone said I was stupid for being so worried. Now I know I had every right to be.”

“In their faces huh?” you quip dryly, then laugh until it turns into a coughing fit.

You hack into your elbow. Eddie winces and reaches for the half-gone glass of water at his side. He hands it to you and you take the thing in your trembling grasp, sipping from it gratefully.

“How long have you felt like this?” Eddie agonizes, full of woe.

“I don’t know… Couple days, maybe,” your breaths are uneven and unusually deep, as though each one is hard for you to take. Your face is scrunched up like they pain you.

“Why didn’t you call? You know I would’ve come over.”

“I thought I was feeling better,” you rasp. “And I came in here, but then I felt worse.”

“You should’ve told me before.”

“I didn’t want you to get sick…”

“I’ve been sick for four days, Peach,” Eddie laughs when you go all sheepish. “I would’ve rather been here getting sick with you than all the way across town worrying if you were dead or not.”

Your brows pinch together. “What?”

“Nothing,” he answers quickly.

You look like you want to argue, but it turns into another coughing fit. Eddie grimaces as you take another hearty sip. It hardly helps.

“What can I do?” he grieves, feeling totally helpless.

“Nothing,” you croak as your head lolls onto the throw pillow behind your head. Your heavy eyes flutter shut. Eddie swears he can hear your chest rattling.

“I’m gonna get you some more water, okay? And maybe a cold rag for you head.” He rises from the table with the glass in hand. “I make you some soup, too, if you have some. I make a mean canned chicken noodle, if I do say so myself—”

“No, don’t go,” you rasp and reach for his head. You rise on your elbow so suddenly that it makes the room spin around you. Your eyes squeeze shut again and you groan.

“See?” Eddie coos with a soft smile. “This is what not accepting my help gets you.”

“Just go home, Eds,” you plead after the room’s stopped spinning. “I’m okay. I don’t wanna get you sick, too.”

“I’m taking care of you today, babe. Whether you like it or not.”

Eddie ushers you to lay back down again. You do so without much protest, but with a pretty little pout on your face. He pulls the quilt back over you and smooths the frown between your brows with his thumb.

“You can try to fight me on this, but I’m pret-ty sure I’d win, so…”

“But it makes me feel bad,” you whine. “I can’t do anything for you—”

“You do stuff for me all the time, alright? Now, it’s my turn. I don’t need you to do anything for me in return, anyway, so… You might as well just let me.”

Eddie gives you little time to argue — not that your body would’ve let you, anyway. He returns with a glass of water, a wet rag, and a kiss on your forehead. He winces playfully after his lips touch your skin and lays the cool cloth over you.

“Jeez, babe. If you get any hotter, you’re gonna burn me,” he jokes, just to make you smile.

He cleans up the living room and wraps you up in more blankets when you start to get the cold sweats. He tucks you in them like a burrito, propping you against the arm of the couch so you can sit up more comfortably.

He’s off to the kitchen a second later. You can hear him rifling through your cabinets for something to ease your prickly throat. The only thing soup-adjacent he finds is a box of macaroni and cheese.

“This’ll have to do…” he murmurs to himself and to his co-chef, Bowie the Calico, who keeps him company while he boils the water and stirs in the powdered cheese. He kisses the wooden spoon to make sure it’s cooled down enough before fixing two bowls.

He carries them bowl, a blue and a green one, into the living room.

“It’s certainly no chicken noodle soup, but it’s still good,” Eddie promises as he sits down the dishes in front of you. He settles neatly on the couch beside you right after. His raised brows disappear behind his curly bangs. “It’s a good thing I make the best boxed mac and cheese this side of Hawkins has ever seen, huh?”

“Yeah,” you hum, smiling despite your exhaustion and the distant throbbing in your head. “I’m really lucky, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Eddie purses his smile to the side and turns his glowing cheeks to the coffee table.

He picks up your bowl and stirs it to let the steam out. His gaze is far shier than it was before when he looks at you again. “How you feeling now, Peach?”

“Like someone shoved a box of cotton up my nose and through my skull.”

“So… better?” he teases.

You know he’s joking, but you nod anyway. “A little. Probably ‘cause you’re here.”

He laughs when weakly jab his thigh with your sock-clad foot.

“And to think, you were gonna kick me out.”

“I’m still scared you’re gonna get sick— what are you doing?” Your head juts back when he lifts the fork to your mouth, motioning for you to eat the pile of noodles sitting on top.

“Feeding you,” he shrugs. “What does it look like.”

“I can feed myself—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” the boy scolds when you reach to take the fork from him. He jerks his hand away from you. His face scrunches in a feigned anger. “I’m taking care of you today, remember? You can have the next turn.”

“Eddie—”

“Don’t Eddie me, alright? Just eat it. The more you argue, the longer this is gonna take.”

You take one bit, just to humor him.

He doesn’t let up until you’ve eaten it all, makes you down the rest of your water, too.

His food is cold now, but you’re better.

The life has returned to your eyes. They twinkle when they look at him, no longer as sunken in as they had been before. A part of him wonders if he’s the reason why. He ultimately decides to blame it on his sort of homemade mac and cheese, lest his heart explode from how much he adores you.

“Feel better?” he asks as he sits your bowl back down on the table.

You nod. For the first time in three days, it doesn’t make your head spin.

“Yeah. Thanks for taking care of me, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“No, thank you, for only putting up a little bit of a fight when I tried, sweetheart.”

He leans forward, as though to kiss you.

You pull back from him. “No, don’t.”

“Why?” he pouts.

“Because you’ll get sick.”

The boy scoffs. “I don’t care about that.”

“Well, I care about that.”

“Babe. I’m made of metal. I don’t get sick.”

You shake your head at the relentless boy. “As long as you’re aware of the consequences,” you lilt in a rasp.

“I’d kiss you now even if it meant I died tomorrow, Peach.”

“That’s really morbid—” you try to joke, but his mouth is already on yours.

He’s got one foot on the ground and a knee digging into the couch. One hand props himself on the cushion at your side while the with clutches the back one. Eddie leans over your bent knees and presses a sweet peck upon your chapped lips.

“Mm,” he hums against you. His pinks lips curl into a grin when he pulls away. His chocolate eyes sparkle at you. “Tastes like mac and cheese and winter time.”

“Wintertime?” you giggle.

“Yeah,” he shrugs.

He doesn’t tell you that he means it more in the flu season way rather than the sparkling snow one. It’s more poetic that way, he figures.

“I’ll get you more water,” he grunts as he rises from the couch, empty bowl and glass in hand.

“Hey, Eds?” you call before he can get too far.

He stops in the door way. “Yeah?”

Your tired head tilts to your shoulder. “I love you.”

“I know,” Eddie grins.

You squint at him before he ducks back into the kitchen.

“I know you did not just Han Solo me—”

#published by bug #eddie munson x reader #stranger things x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #stranger things imagine #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #st drabbles #eddie spaghetti drabble

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missjomarch · 1 year

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I’m here to request Nico. Of course 🤭 Imagine Nico surprising his girlfriend at an event she thought he couldn’t attend. Either during the season or off-season. Like he has to basically move mountains to get there. But he knows how badly she wants him to be there so he does it because she is worth it.

( I am such a sucker for these types of sceneries 🥰) k love you, bye!

I'll never complain about Nico requests. I expected nothing less, he's our man. I love him. I'm equally a sucker for these situations because it just shows so much love & care, y'know?

I'm thinking reader has just finished her masters degree at a university that is no where near Jersey. Maybe even all the way back in Switzerland. She's graduating on May 12th, but the devils are in the heat of their series with the Canes. Obviously she wants him there, but she knows that this is likely the most important game of Nico's career and that he needs to focus on that. So she doesn't expect to see him at all until after the Devil's playoff run.

Little does she know that Nico Hischier has a plan. He's not even sure that he will make it. It's unwise for him to miss practice, with his captaincy and all. However, in the event that the Devils lose to the Canes in game 5, Nico has a plane waiting to fly him to Switzerland immediately. He was definitely not happy with the way the game went, but he was excited to be able to support her during such a big moment. He took a few minutes after the game to do media, but then it was straight to the airport to board the flight.

By the time the game is over, it's like 5 am in Switzerland and she's dead asleep. She would usually have stayed up to watch, but she knew she needed the sleep for the busy day ahead. When she woke up and checked the score, her heart broke. Mostly for Nico and the disappoint she knew he was feeling, but also slightly because he had to miss her graduation for something that ended up being so futile. She wasn't upset with him, just the circumstances. She sent him a sweet text letting him know how proud she was of everything he accomplished this season and promising to fly to NJ to see him as soon as the graduation brouhaha was over. He sent her back an equally ooey gooey text thanking her for always supporting him and profusely apologizing for having to miss her graduation. Liar.

She appreciated the text, but it was also just another reminder that he wouldn't be with her today. She mourned his absence for a few minutes before forcing herself out of bed to start getting ready, entirely unaware that Nico was on his way to her.

With all the grad festivities, she didn't have any time to talk to Nico throughout the day. Which actually worked out for the best because he had no service on the plane.

Her parents did a great job distracting her throughout the day, hosting a small party and taking a million pictures. Nico's plane arrives around 2:30, giving him about 4 hours to get ready and grab flowers before the 6 pm ceremony.

He sent her an inconspicuous video from his hotel bathroom wishing her luck and telling her not to fall on stage before he headed to the arena. The selfie she sent back stopped him in his tracks for a solid 2 minutes, causing him to almost be late. But everyone was getting seated when he arrived. Perfect timing. Her parents had saved him a seat, and immediately pointed out where she was sitting.

She didn't notice him until she was standing beside the stage, waiting for her name to be called. As she climbed the stairs, her eyes found her parent's thus subsequently finding Nico. She stumbled over her feet ever so slightly when she spotted him, tears instantly lining her eyes at the sight of his bright smile. Her nerves diminished significantly with the knowledge of his presence, and she had to refrain from bounding up the stadium seats to reach him. She barely registered the rest of the ceremony, anxious to get to Nico.

When the ceremony had finally ended and the graduates had processed out, she all but sprinted to the lobby. She found Nico standing there with a wide grin and a bouquet of flowers. She nearly knocked him over as she jumped into his arms, flinging her own around his neck and letting out a dry sob.

"You're here," she mumbled into his neck. He chuckled lightly at her disbelief.

"I'm here, baby." He squeezed her, pressing a light kiss to her head. She pulled away slightly to press her forehead to his, tear tracks clear on her face.

"How're you here? You're supposed to be in Jersey."

"Got on a flight right after the game. I wanted to be here for my girl," Nico mumbled back. This brought her back to reality. The game, shit.

"Oh my god. Have you even slept? I'm so sorry about the game, but you did everything you-"

Nico cut her off with a kiss, "Today is all about you. We can talk about the game later."

"Okay but-"

"Yes, baby. I slept on the plane. Stop worrying about me. Look," he presented the flower bouquet in front of her face, "for you."

She took them, a soft smile gracing her face before she pressed her lips to his.

"I love you, Hischier. You surprise me every damn time."

He smiled against her lips, "I love you more."

They broke away to acknowledge her parents, who had begun making polite conversation with a nearby family. They took a billion pictures and had all the emotional hugs before deciding on a place for dinner. Nico's treat, of course. He wrapped an arm around her waist as the exited the building, comfortingly rubbing his hand along her hip.

"Hey, question."

Nico turned to look at her, waiting for her question, "Hmm?"

She leaned up to whisper in his ear, "Can tonight be all about me too?"

His eyes darkened at her suggestive tone, not missing the coy smile playing on her lips. He didn't respond, just slid his hand to grab lightly at her ass. Oh yeah, tonight was all about her.

---------------------------------------------------------

I was half tempted to write an actual fic for this, but there has been sorority girls screaming outside my dorm all day so this is all I can give. :') So I present you: my (unedited, un-proofread) thoughts. Super cute idea though. anyways, love you :33

#nico hischier #jay writes #nj devils #hockey

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marislittlestories · 1 month

Text

Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

Mature | Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Spy Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Hogwarts Eighth Year

3/10 - chapter one, two - read on ao3

may 1998 - july 1998

Draco used to be small, short and waif-like. In the past couple of years, he’s gained a few inches of height and enough wiry muscle to complete this one, final task for the Dark Lord. Even if he hadn’t, if he still had a child’s frame, if he was weak and underfed, this is something he would find the strength for. He would do it brittle and broken and barely standing, if he had to.

He cradles Harry’s fragile bones, all the skin and sinew that make up this impossible body, against his chest. He’s reassured by the heartbeat he feels beneath his palms, faint and almost unnoticeable. Harry is alive. Harry is alive and Draco’s mind is a frozen, glassy lake, reflecting only the certainty on its surface. Voldemort’s attention is elsewhere, on the other Death Eaters and then on the crowd amassed in front of the destroyed castle, but Draco knows better than to let his guard down for even a second.

Harry is alive, and that means the war must continue. Draco is not done yet.

When Harry shifts in his arms, Draco gives up his wand easily, gladly, knowing that it will be Harry’s devoted and abiding servant, just as Draco himself has been.

It doesn’t even feel like a loss, not when it’s him.

***

Dean finds him after everything has calmed. Draco is laying flat in an empty courtyard, away from most of the carnage. He can’t make himself move. Three years of his life, years that he won’t, can’t regret, but years that are now useless all the same. He’s tired, and he’s lonely, and there is nothing left inside of him. He has used up every reserve. He’s done what he promised, even if it was a vow he’d only ever spoken to an empty room, and now it’s over. He’s not sure what comes next.

His eyes are closed, but he can still tell when a shadow falls over him. He looks.

“You know, there’s a bit of a mob after you,” Dean says, like he can’t decide how seriously to take it.

“They think I’m a Death Eater,” Draco pauses, runs a hand over his forearm, “I guess I am. You think they’ll leave me in Azkaban while they get it sorted?”

A strange sense of calm falls over him. It doesn’t matter much what happens to him now, no missions to complete, no one to save.

“I’m not letting them. Apparently, neither is Harry.”

Draco blinks, “Harry?”

“Yeah, I told him I’d find you while he kept them busy. He said you lied to Voldemort.”

Draco snorts, “Is that proof of innocence now? If so, he should let all the Death Eaters loose.”

“You lied about him being dead.”

“Yeah.”

“And you lied about recognizing him at the Manor. Obviously I wasn’t there to see that either, but Hermione’s a good storyteller. You might want to leave? It’s still a little chaotic, and there’s not exactly a way to notify the entirety of England that you’re actually fine.”

Draco rubs at his eyes, “I need to see my handler.”

“Alright,” Dean says skeptically, “Who’s the unlucky bastard?”

“Hestia Jones. I saw her earlier, so she’s definitely here.”

Dean hauls Draco up, grasping his elbow, and then lets go of him just long enough to throw an arm across his narrow shoulders, “Listen, after everything is less mad, Luna and I are going to spend some time in my village. You should come with us.”

“What?” Draco splutters, “Why would you want me to come with you?”

“You’re our friend,” Dean says like it’s a fact of life, like it should be common knowledge.

Together, they pass from the courtyard into a corridor, empty except for Ron and Hermione standing at one end of it, staring.

“Apparently he’s got a death wish,” Dean sighs, “Have either of you seen Jones?”

Ron and Hermione narrow their eyes at him, perfectly in sync, heads tilted at the same angle and everything. It’s a little eerie. After a moment, however, Hermione sets her shoulders and her expression clears.

“She’s in the Hall with Kingsley,” she turns the corner ahead of them.

When they enter the Hall, Harry is not battling a crowd hungry for Draco’s blood. He’s sitting alone, staring out at the bodies lined up on the floor.

Draco eyes Dean with suspicion. He shrugs.

A few people shoot Draco angry or fearful glances while they make their way to the corner where Hestia and Kingsley are surveying the room. Hestia’s face brightens when she sees Draco.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Hestia says, “We finally meet.”

Draco rolls his eyes, “Hello, Hestia.”

She gives him a look, sharp and dangerous, “I heard a story, just now.”

He meets her gaze warily.

“Apparently, you had a chance to use your extraction plan and you didn’t.”

He winces, “I wasn’t compromised-”

She swats at the back of his head, “I could just strangle you! Oh, well, I guess it’s no use now. It’s all over. You’re a free man.”

“Am I?” he side-eyes Kingsley, who doesn’t appear to be paying any attention.

“Give me a break,” Hestia grumbles, “You just had the bloody Savior protesting your innocence, no one is about to cart you off under a binding spell. Is your mother here?”

Draco shakes his head, though really, Hestia should know the answer to that question.

“Thought not. That’s probably for the best. I don’t think that the new Ministry will be eager to make an example of her, not when they have your father.”

Draco nods, just once, thankful for the confirmation. Hestia never does beat around the bush, and outside of the sporadic expression of care for his safety, she treats his life like a series of variables to maximize. He doesn’t really mind. He wouldn’t have responded to anything else.

Kingsley clears his throat, “The new Ministry won’t be making examples out of anyone, if I have anything to say about it. Justice is a worthier objective.”

“Of course,” Hestia says.

Draco is familiar with the tone of Hestia’s voice when she’s being patronizing, so he has to stifle a laugh.

“Some people are being… difficult,” Dean says, “About Draco, I mean.”

Draco elbows him.

Hestia waves Dean off, turning to Draco again, “Yes, yes, I’m aware. You can handle yourself, no?”

“I can,” Draco says.

Dean digs his fingers into Draco’s shoulder, “No, he cannot. Besides, isn’t handling him your job?”

Hestia smiles indulgently, “Not anymore. Free man, remember? But if anyone tries to hex him, you’re welcome to send them my way.”

Draco tugs on Dean’s arm, “I’m sure you’re busy, so we’ll just be leaving now.”

“Take care, Draco,” Hestia says.

“You too.”

Dean lets himself be dragged away.

“Is Luna alright?” Draco asks, words running into each other.

He’s operating on fumes now, and he’ll crash soon, but the conversation with Hestia has given him a bit of direction. His work is not done, not yet.

“Yes, she’s fine. She went to find her father.”

Draco nods absently, scanning the room, though he’s not sure what he’s looking for until he sees it: Harry, still alone, head hung. It’s strange. Draco hasn’t felt much besides weariness and desperation and scattered flashes of relief for months, maybe years. He doesn’t now. But he does get the familiar urge to smooth a hand over Harry’s shoulders, to take his weight, to help. Like muscle memory.

Draco blinks, comes back to himself. Dean is staring at him, waiting for him to speak.

“Okay,” Draco breathes, “Okay, then. I need to- You understand, I can’t stay-”

Dean groans, “Yes, yes, I understand. Go figure your shit out.”

“Could you tell Weasley and Granger thank you for me? If you get the chance?”

“Not Harry?” Dean asks, looking genuinely bewildered.

Draco knows that he’s blushing. His only hope is that his face is streaked with enough dust and blood to obscure it, “Uh, yes, Harry too.”

“I’ll tell them,” Dean assures him.

Dean, thankfully, doesn’t try to prolong the goodbye, or extract any promises from him. He knows where Draco will be.

***

Draco’s mother has not moved since the last time Draco was at the Manor, nearly three days ago. As soon as he’s confirmed that she is alive, he ventures carefully into the dungeons. His body aches, bone deep. He hasn’t slept or eaten. He pushes through the lingering pain and dread.

He isn’t sure what to expect. There haven’t been many prisoners at the Manor in recent weeks, but there are other Wizarding houses that were used by Death Eaters, who will likely retreat to these last strongholds.

Hestia knows everything he does. He trusts her to take care of it. And she knows that he will take care of this. He has to.

There’s something that happens when you’re powerless, when your mind is forced to confront the horror that surrounds it, when you have no escape: you contract to fit within the space you have. That’s what he does, what he has always done. He has one narrow path now, and he will walk it, no matter how painful it will be.

One foot in front of the other, all the way down the steps and into the first empty chamber. He’s more afraid of what he’ll find in the rooms at the back of the dungeons used for interrogations.

Draco pulls the first of the iron doors open.

“Onward,” he whispers into the darkness.

***

It takes a full week for her to gain consciousness. Most healing spells are accompanied by side effects of intense drowsiness, so Draco tries not to worry about it too much. The Muggle girl he had found half-dead in the very last room couldn’t be older than twelve or thirteen. Draco suspects that she survived because whoever was in the process of killing her was called away to fight.

When she does come to, she stares at him with bottomless black eyes and a trembling lip, “Please, please, I just want to go home.”

She doesn’t try to run away, or even sit up, but she does flinch away from Draco’s steady hand.

“It’s okay,” he says as calmly as he can, “You’re safe now. No one is going to hurt you. Do you remember what happened?”

“My sister’s a witch. We were taken by Snatchers over Easter, but I don’t know where she is or, or-” she starts crying, and heaving these shuddery breaths that sound like they hurt.

Draco shifts uncomfortably. He knows he has terrible bedside manner, “Um. She’s not here, but she could have been taken somewhere else, okay?”

“Oh-Okay.”

“The Wizarding hospital is still getting back up and running, so I’ve given you what treatment I was able to. Hopefully, they’ll be operational soon.”

“Where am I?”

Draco sighs, “This is the house above the dungeons you were in, but the war is over. The last of the Death Eaters are on the run, and I’ve locked them out of the wards. You don’t need to worry about them. You know about the Order?”

She nods.

“They’re hunting them down right now.”

“Who are you?” she asks.

“My name is Draco. This is my house now, my father has been sent to Azkaban.”

“You’re not…?” she shakes her head, like she’s trying to assure herself, “I’m Marcie.”

Draco rolls up his sleeve to show her the Mark. He doesn’t want her to be afraid of him, but if he was in her position, he would feel safer if he knew everything upfront.

“I got the Mark so I could relay information back to the Order. I swear you’re safe with me.”

Marcie’s eyes widen, “So you’re like a spy?”

“I suppose.”

“Wicked.”

He seems to have assuaged the last of Marcie’s fears, because she becomes instantly more energetic, peppering him with questions about the house and books he’s read. She seems horrified to learn that he’s never even heard of her favorite author.

“Well, if we’re to be friends at all, you’ll have to at least read Matilda and James and the Giant Peach, they’re my favorites.”

Draco raises his eyebrows, “Oh, will I?”

“Yes. And there’s a film for Matilda as well, but Ella says wizards don’t have tellies.”

Draco is only thirty percent sure he knows what she’s talking about, but he doesn’t have to admit it to her. Marcie is already nodding off into a restful sleep. Draco checks her vitals once before he slips out of the room. He has a monitoring spell up that will alert him if she shows signs of waking, but he still checks obsessively. It feels like the only thing he can do.

Dean and Luna come to check on him later in the afternoon, apparating directly into the most bearable sitting room while he’s pacing down the length of the corridor outside. Dean pokes his head out of the doorway.

“Everything alright?”

Draco joins him and Luna in the sitting room, “The little girl woke up. Her name is Marcie. She fell asleep again before I could get too much information about where she’s from and all that, but she’s much better. Her wounds have healed fine, and nourishment charms have improved the slight malnutrition, but she can’t fully recover here.”

Luna nods, “Too much Dark magic.”

“Too much rot,” Draco says fiercely, “I don’t have time to fix it now.”

If he’s being honest with himself, he’s not sure if it can be fixed at all. The Manor was the first thing he ever loved, before his mother, before anyone or anything else. It was never about the house, but Draco knows that the stain has seeped into the ground. He loves his home, but someday he may leave and never return.

For now, he sets to finding a flat in London.

***

“Marcie, do you have somewhere else you could stay?” Draco asks a couple days later, when she’s managed to stay awake for more than half an hour at a time. He has a feeling that he knows the answer already.

She shakes her head and makes a valiant effort to refrain from crying. Draco envelops her in a very stiff and very awkward hug.

“Your sister, what’s her name? We can try to find her.”

“Her name is Ella. Ella Renford. She’s a fifth year, and she has the prettiest hazel eyes you’ve ever seen,” Marcie sniffs, “She was wearing a purple friendship bracelet I gave her when we got taken.”

Draco is silently relieved. He helped bury a lot of bodies, and none of them had a purple bracelet or looked the right age to be Marcie’s sister. She could still be alive.

“Okay. I’m going to write some letters to people who can look for her. For now, we’re going to find somewhere else to stay.”

“But you’ll be with me, right?”

Draco wants to fall at this little girl’s feet and weep for a week straight. Instead, he just pats her shoulder.

“As long as you want me there.”

He decides, fairly quickly, that his flat should be in a Muggle area. He wants Marcie to be comfortable, and he wants to be far enough from Diagon Alley that his mother can gaze unseeing out of a window and not be recognized from the street.

He drags Dean and Luna to showings.

“I’m afraid of doing something strange,” Draco tells them, “I don’t know how Muggles behave.”

Dean and Luna exchange a pitying glance. They know as well as he does that he’s more afraid of being alone. They keep him company anyways. Dean is just as useful as Draco had imagined. He knows what to look for in a Muggle place, and a little about how magic interacts with Muggle technology.

Luna is supremely unhelpful. She contributes nothing but vaguely ominous commentary, delivered in her trademark dreamy lilt. Draco listens to her when she tells him not to apply to the flat above the chippy regardless.

Eventually, he finds a decent flat and moves Marcie and his mother in. Marcie recovers as much as she’s going to without a Healer. Mungo’s is still battling with potions shortages and staff shortages and too many patients that are worse off than Marcie, so they stay in the London flat and Marcie makes him go to the library with her so she can sign up for a card.

And then, one afternoon when Marcie has goaded him into a game of Go Fish that he is absolutely going to lose, Ron Weasley shows up at his door.

He’s laughing at Marcie’s bragging when he flings it open, expecting Luna even though she never knocks, or perhaps the nosy old man who lives across the hall. But no, it’s Weasley, tall and freckled and looking about as uncomfortable as Draco has ever seen him.

“Oh. Ron,” Draco says, then curses himself. He has literally never called him Ron, “Um, how can I help you?”

“Hestia sent me. She couldn’t get away from the Ministry, but there’s been a development about that girl-”

Draco moves out into the hallway quickly, closing the door softly behind him, “Ella Renford?”

Ron takes a small step back, creating an acceptable amount of space between them and narrowing his eyes, “Yes. Ella. We still don’t know exactly where she is, but one of the prisoners rescued from the Rosier house recognized the description you gave. Apparently, she escaped from there a week before the Battle. There’s no information that suggests she was recaptured.”

“So she’s alive?” Draco is aware that he’s wearing perhaps the biggest smile he has ever worn in his life. Ron looks a bit concerned.

“Presumably. We still need to locate her, of course, and there’s still a possibility that-”

Ron stops talking, probably because he is taken aback by the massive hug that Draco sweeps him up in.

“Thank you, thank you so much, Merlin,” Draco sets him back down, “I need to tell Marcie.”

Ron frowns, “Who’s Marcie?”

“Oh, just come in. You might as well meet her. I’m sure she’ll want to hug you as well.”

His suspicions are correct. Marcie squeals and leaps into Ron’s arms as soon as he can get the words out.

“I knew it, I knew it,” she cries, “Ella’s so clever, I knew she would get out and come find me. Draco, didn’t I tell you?”

Draco laughs, “You did.”

Ron leaves with orders to read Matilda at his earliest convenience and a stilted handshake from Draco, who is so happy that he wants to do something he hasn’t truly done in years: celebrate. Marcie and him venture out to a Muggle shop, where she coaches him through buying ice cream. They eat straight from the carton, saving a thick layer at the bottom.

“When Ella comes, she can have the rest of it,” Marcie murmurs, and succumbs to the inevitable sugar crash.

Draco hasn’t quite figured out how to be gentle with anyone but Marcie. It’s easier, he thinks, to do it when no one is around waiting for him to fuck it up.

Luna and Dean are the best friends he’s had since fourth year, and he loves them as much as he’s loved anyone he doesn’t also hate, but despite their efforts to pull him into casual embraces he maintains his distance. There is a wall he’s built that he doesn’t know how to take down. He did it knowingly and willingly, and he will never regret it, not when it saved Harry’s life.

With Marcie, though, it’s easy. It’s more instinct than it is desire, a softening of his voice and care to his touch that he’s never really experienced before. He grew up an only child, isolated from the rest of the world. She’s not exactly the gentlest kid anyway. She’s loud and often afraid but never sad. She is quite possibly the happiest person Draco has ever met.

“Do you miss Ella?” he asks one day, after they’ve spent most of it lazing about a park in London, picking at the food Draco brought and watching the ducks in the pond nearby. Marcie had named each and every one of them, even if she definitely couldn’t tell them apart.

Marcie smiles, because of course she does, “We play this game, when she’s away at school, where we talk to the wind instead of each other. That way, we don’t miss each other as much. I’ve been talking to the wind so it’s not that different from when she’s at Hogwarts. I wish she was here, and I hope that she’s safe but I know that I’ll see her soon.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Draco says, swallowing the worry that tries to climb up the back of his throat. It has only been three or four days since Ron showed up at the flat, and the time is blurring. They’ll find her soon, he tells himself. They have to.

Dean has gone back to his village, Crawley Down. It’s close enough to London that anyone with a license can apparate, but he’s spending time with his mums and warned Draco and Luna not to expect him to be going back and forth very often. Luna is joining him at the end of May, which is rapidly approaching.

Draco doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He doesn’t particularly want to stay in London. Something about the city makes him feel claustrophobic. You can never really be alone here. There’s always someone on the other side of a wall or next to you on the pavement. He also doesn’t want to leave Marcie. He’s definitely not going to leave until they find Ella, and maybe not for a while after that.

He knows he can’t hold onto her forever. She deserves a genuinely stable home, one that isn’t under the direction of a fractured teenage boy, one that ghosts don’t linger at the edges of. The beginnings of a Ministry program for war orphans is coming together, but he’s not sure where a Muggle kid fits into that. Some day, he will have to let her go, and then he’ll be alone again.

He’s scared to return to the Manor, of what he’ll find there.

He sets it aside for now. It’s a beautiful day and Marcie wants him to teach her how to do a cartwheel.

***

The next time there’s a knock at the door, Draco races to answer it, full of breathless hope. Instead of Ron, Harry and Hermione are on the other side.

Draco’s smile falls. They both look far too solemn to be delivering good news. He glances over his shoulder. Marcie is in her bedroom, door shut, inhaling one of the books they’d checked out from the library last week. They’d forgotten to bring a bag with them, and had to walk back to the flat with stacks of books held tight beneath their chins.

“Is this about Ella?” he asks quietly, hoping that they’ll follow his lead. If it’s bad news, he doesn’t want Marcie to overhear it before he can figure out how to tell her.

Harry blinks, confused, but Hermione seems to know what he’s talking about.

“Oh, no, still no word about her.”

Draco sags a bit against the doorframe, relieved. There’s a bit of silence, and then Harry clears his throat and his face hardens into a confident, serious expression. It’s a little disappointing when Draco feels nothing. Whatever fire had raged inside of him at fourteen has been snuffed out, and he’s not sure he’s capable of lighting it again, for anyone.

“We’re arranging public hearings,” Harry says, “And we need your testimony. If not against your father, then the other Death Eaters you interacted with.”

Draco doesn’t reply immediately. He thinks about everything he’d be asked about, everything he’d have to explain to a room full of people who largely despise him, all his worst moments laid out in front of a captive, unsympathetic audience. He’s not sure why he didn’t see this coming, but he does know what his answer is.

“No.”

Harry narrows his eyes, “What?”

“I have nothing to offer that you can’t get from someone else,” Draco says firmly, “I won’t participate.”

“You don’t feel responsible?” Hermione asks, finding her voice.

“For what?”

“For what happens next,” she says, “For the world being rebuilt.”

Draco feels a savage sort of vindication when he smiles at her, “Fuck the world.”

“What was the point then? Of all the fighting?” Harry frowns, annoyed.

Harry is doing what he always does. He’s trying to understand what Draco is doing, ascribing motives and intentions where there was nothing but blind panic. Draco, though, is finally, finally free. He has done his duty.

“I had people I wanted to protect, people I was responsible for, and I gave up three years of my life to them. I have no debts.”

“But-”

Draco shakes his head sharply, “I won’t testify. Hestia knows everything I know, and it has not escaped my attention that she isn’t here asking me to do this.”

Hermione stares at him, disappointed and a little frustrated maybe. Harry is, as always, more suspicious than anything else, though he also seems rather angry. Draco hasn’t been paying very much attention to how the news of his true loyalties has been received, but judging from Harry’s willingness to fall back into old patterns, there must still be some skepticism.

Testifying in the trials could quiet that. It could also make it worse. The thing is, Draco doesn’t care. He will never be a convenient hero, and he’s not interested in plunging himself into the same hurricane of public opinion that he saw Harry experience at school.

“Hestia doesn’t know everything, though,” Hermione says thoughtfully, “You didn’t tell her about the Manor.”

At that, Harry tenses up, coils, like he’s getting ready to strike.

“Astonishingly, I was not the only person present for that. I’m sure you’ll muddle through without me.”

Draco is getting tired of being cross-examined. He’s tired of fighting.

He starts to shut the door, “Have a good day.”

“Why?” Hermione asks, “Why didn’t you tell her?”

“She would have been angry.”

“Because you stayed?”

Draco shrugs, “I’m sure she’d be happy to answer your questions about how stupid I am.”

***

Marcie is too old to ask for bedtime stories, but not too old to want them. Draco’s not sure how it happened the first time, all he knows is that it ended in Marcie fast asleep on the bed beside him and no nightmares for either of them.

He does it every night now, reads a chapter from Fantastic Mr Fox and then leaves a nightlight on for her. He likes it. There’s something comforting about things made for children, and it’s a comfort he never had, not even when he was a child himself. It was always running off by himself between French tutoring and etiquette lessons.

Marcie has him read James and the Giant Peach on his own time, and he surprises himself by bursting into tears when he turns the last page. If he had to put it into words, he would say something about how the world is depicted as cruel and kind in equal measure, mundane and magical. Marcie makes fun of him for the tears and hugs him tightly.

“You know why I like Roald Dahl?” Marcie’s voice is uncharacteristically sensitive.

“Why?”

“He knows how scary it is to be a kid.”

Draco nods, “Yeah, he does.”

“I used to dream of someone coming to save us, you know,” she continues, “But no one did. No one even helped us.”

“I used to dream of that too,” Draco replies.

He had wanted to live in the kitchens, or be whisked off by some distant relative, or to disappear into the untamed wilderness. It was a lonely child’s fantasy. He wants nothing more than to make it come true for Marcie.

It’s a pointless exercise, really. Marcie has already seen the horrors of war, and before it, the cruel tide of an uncaring world, in all of its violent ebbs and flows. Draco can only give her space, only time. So a day before the trials start, he starts to build levees to keep the flood at bay. He takes Marcie out of London on an early train, barreling through the brilliant green dips and crests of the English countryside. Draco bought a pack of two disposable cameras at the station, and Marcie spends at least an hour of the ride adorning them with stickers.

They end up, quite by accident, at the eastern coast.

She’s never seen the ocean, but she falls in love immediately, gasping at the very first sight of the deep blue waves, glimmering and churning, from the train’s window. They’ve made no plans, booked no reservations, so they spend the entire day at the beach, eating kebabs from a stand on the boardwalk. Marcie’s curls turn wilder, and the waves Draco has resolutely ignored all his life make themselves known, and forcefully.

Once the sun starts to set, once Marcie starts shivering, he finds a nearby hotel and pays for a room. He’s never experienced this before, the quiet pleasure of taking a hot shower and sinking into a strange, pillowy bed, but it feels nostalgic all the same.

The concierge at the hotel, when prompted, offers Draco a few bookshops and their addresses. They waste a delightful afternoon trying to navigate the winding streets, getting lost and ducking in and out of shops. Marcie finds a pair of terrifying porcelain dolls at an antique store and insists that they must have them. Finally, they locate one of the bookshops and they emerge with three bags altogether, mostly for Marcie. She sneaks in a few Muggle classics for Draco.

“We’ll need to watch the series once you’re finished with this one,” she says, back in the hotel room, holding up a cheap paperback copy of Pride and Prejudice, “Ella loves it. I’m undecided.”

Draco can’t respond with anything but a smile, “Undecided?”

“I don’t want to spoil it for you,” Marcie mimes zipping her mouth shut.

Sitting on the floor of the room that night, eating Indian takeaway and taking turns reading passages from Matilda out loud, he imagines another life, maybe a Muggle one, with seaside holidays and a large, warm family.

It’s not his, nor is it Marcie’s. It never will be, not quite, not completely, but for now this is enough. It is enough to spend the rest of the week going on precarious, salt-rusted rides and learning how to beat each other at arcade games and finding little nooks to read together in comfortable, placid silence and taking so many photos that Draco has to buy another set of cameras, then another. It is enough to roll it in sugar, to give her a glossy, saccharine summer as an epilogue to her bitter story.

When he develops the film, it paints an eclectic, beautiful montage of wide smiles and blue skies; Marcie standing in the ocean, Draco sleeping on the train home, the view from the top of the observation wheel, Draco’s face half-hidden by A Tale of Two Cities, Marcie holding the creepy dolls, a cute dog they’d seen on the street. He gets two copies of all of them, one for him and one for Marcie.

She tapes one of them, a blurry shot of the two of them sprawled on the beach, over her bed. It tears at Draco’s heart the first time he sees it, and every time after. He thinks that maybe he could do this. He could keep Marcie safe, wrap her up in a patchwork of new memories, each replacing the ones he never asks about and she never offers up. He’s full to the brim, with love, with possibility.

Although the fighting is long over, and now the trials are as well, Draco feels for the first time like the war might be ending too.

And the war does end for Draco, on his eighteenth birthday, a breezy morning at the very beginning of June. Luna and him and Marcie are at the London flat, attempting to bake his cake, when Harry shows up on the doorstep, bearing the only gift Draco wants this year:

Ella Renford, fifteen years old, as tall as Draco and scowling at him with hazel eyes.

***

Luna darts into another obscure little shop he’s never noticed in Diagon before, pulling Draco right along with her. She’s joining Dean in Crawley Down next week, and she wants to get a gift for his mums before she goes. It’s a bit worrying, honestly, because she’s being quite indecisive for Luna.

“Maybe you should just bring flowers,” Draco suggests after the fourth or fifth shop, “Or, I don’t know, ask Dean?”

Luna shakes her head, pale curls almost floating in the breeze behind her. Her expression is as serene as ever, except for the miniscule crease between her brows. It gives her away every time.

“No. I need to get this right.”

“You get everything right, Lunes. You’re sort of a genius.”

“But,” she pauses, “I know there’s a perfect gift. I just haven’t found it yet.”

Draco raises an eyebrow.

“It’s a feeling.”

“Oh, it is?” Draco sighs, looking down the street. He doesn’t really go into Diagon much these days, just when Luna asks, because he still gets tight, apprehensive looks from people on the street. It’s much easier to stick to Muggle London, even if sometimes he feels like he’s bumbling around, especially with Marcie.

“I don’t think it’s flowers.”

“Is this a feeling,” he stresses the word, because you never know with Luna, “Or are you just being fussy?”

She gazes at him with wide blue eyes and Draco feels silly. Who would ever accuse Luna of being fussy?

“Alright, we’ll keep looking. What happens if you don’t find something? Are you going to postpone leaving?”

“Maybe,” Luna chirps, “I could just stay in London until you come as well.”

Draco folds his arms. He’s left Marcie at the flat with Ella, whose side she hasn’t left in the days since Draco’s birthday. He’s so fucking Happy that Ella is okay and that Marcie has her sister again, but it means he has to face the music of what happens next.

“Don’t say that, you might end up staying forever.”

Luna slits about the sidewalk like an agitated pixie, “I might.”

“You won’t. You’ll go to Dean’s little village and make friends with all the cows, I’m assuming there will be cows, and you’ll charm everyone you meet and his mums will fall just as in love with you as Dean is.”

Luna doesn’t roll her eyes, because she never rolls her eyes, but there’s something fondly exasperated about the way she pats his hair, “Okay, Draco. I don’t see why you can’t just bring Ella and Marcie to Crawley Down.”

Draco doesn’t have anything to say to that. If he told her the truth, she’d only argue with him, in whatever way Luna argues.

“You love them,” Luna says gently and then she mercifully lets the conversation wilt and die.

He returns to a flat quiet, except for the sound of Ella and Marcie talking through the walls, a near-constant hum. Ella has said no more than a handful of words to him. He loves her despite it, for it, and he does it fiercely. He also knows that there is only one way to be kind to her, and that is to let the both of them go. Draco is already fracturing beneath his own weight, and he cannot take her burden and stay standing.

She deserves to set it down, though. She deserves the same careless freedom he’s tried to give Marcie, but Ella is older and wiser and she knows what Marcie doesn’t, what Draco can’t help but know. She knows that he isn’t to be trusted. Not with this.

His mother sits, silent and still, in her chair by the window. Sometimes vague expressions flicker across her face now. He reminds himself that it’s progress, that she might get better, that one day she might even meet his eyes and smile. There’s an emotion that swells inside of him when he looks at her but he refuses to name it, to give it space within him.

He’s not sure how to help her and he’s tired of the obligation. He’s tired of the way it pulls at him, snagging on his skin and tearing his body up.

“Love you, Mom,” He taps the doorframe and moves on to his own room, which is depressingly devoid of his personality. Trinkets from Luna crowd the top of his dresser, but other than that, his space is generic.

He’s tired of this too, of feeling like a blank sheet of paper that the people around him write on, only for their signatures to be quickly erased. He’s tired of loving, and staying, and being ripped apart for it. His love is a thing that has never brought out the best of anyone, Draco included.

“Home sweet home.”

***

The knock on the door, the one that Draco has been dreading, comes just after Luna has left for Crawley Down, a packet of seeds and a well-worn cookbook stashed in her bags.

Mr. Garnier, as he introduces himself, is coordinating the Ministry response for displaced children. He apologizes profusely for how much time it has taken to get to their situation, but he had much more urgent placements to deal with. And, as Marcie and Ella were safe here, they were some of the last children to be settled.

“But we have found an older Wizarding couple to take you in!” He says, as if he expects Marcie and Ella to jump for joy.

Marcie attempts a shaky smile. Ella glares.

“Their children have all left home, and they’re eager to help in any way they can. I’m sure you’ll be very happy there.”

Marcie looks at Draco expectantly, but he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do.

Ella grabs Marcie’s hand, “Come on. We have to get our things.”

Draco hovers, asking them repeatedly if they have everything they need. He slips Marcie pastries, lemon raspberry like they ate the morning they got lost in a seaside town, bundled up in waxed paper and tied up with a blue ribbon.

Mr. Garnier flushes red, “They will certainly have food at their new home.”

Marcie pulls Draco into a tight, grasping hug. She trembles in his arms. Ella steps on Mr. Garnier’s foot on their way out and Draco has to choke down a laugh. She never really warmed up to him, but he’ll miss her all the same. Luna was right, after all. He loves them.

And he loves them enough to give Marcie a kiss on the head and give Ella a fistbump. He loves them enough to tell them they can write him anytime. He loves them enough to cry once they’ve well and truly left.

He loves them enough to not ask them to stay.

***

He tells Dean and Luna in a letter that the girls are gone, which is an adventure in and of itself. He has to send it off to Crawley Down in the Muggle post. He’s only certain that he’s done it right when he gets a letter back urging him to join them in Crawley Down.

They probably know that he’s not fit to be alone, but he doesn’t really feel fit for company either. He lingers in London, haunting the flat like some kind of phantom, until he can’t stand to look at his mother’s vacant, unseeing stare anymore and he does the only thing he can.

He goes to the Manor.

Walking through the deserted halls is like walking through a mausoleum. A testament of things long gone. He is surrounded by decay, outnumbered. He doesn’t dare touch anything. There is a thin layer of dust, of course, but it’s worse than that. If he looks closely, he can see blood worked into the grain of the wooden floors.

Dark Magic creeps over every surface like mold, like a living thing. There’s a chilling, spectral presence somewhere in the walls, in the very fabric of this place. He knows, without needing an official Ministry inspection, that it cannot be salvaged.

He walks out into the garden, stares up at the ivy-covered wall that he used to perch on. He hasn’t climbed it since that night last summer, the night he brushed death twice, but he toes his shoes off now and peels his socks from his feet. He scales the wall with practiced ease. It still leaves his soles sore and weeping. He looks out at his forest, and there is nothing left of that teeming, wild life, stretching as far as the eye can see.

Draco cries again, there at the top of his entire world. He hasn’t gone to the clearing yet, but somehow he knows what he’ll find, and he’s correct. He steps past the treeline into a meadow covered in snow. It’s the middle of June, but try as he might, he can’t banish the storm clouds from the sky above or the icy wind from between the trees. Within this sacred grove, it is eternal winter.

***

Hestia can’t have known that he returned to the Manor, but something prompts her to coerce him into lunch.

“You look like shit,” is the first thing she says, the second being, “It’s nice to see you.”

He sighs and accepts a stiff but welcome hug, “You look great.”

“I know.”

“Where are we going for lunch?”

They’ve met at Hestia’s office in the Ministry. It’s charmingly cluttered, with a picture of her dog hanging right across from the desk. A map of Wales is spread out on the floor, anchored in each corner with empty beer bottles.

“I’ve got my Wizarding robes on today,” she says as if he can’t see that with his own two eyes, “So it’ll have to be somewhere in Diagon.”

“You don’t want to swing by McDonald’s?” he jokes.

She gives him a look, “You’re buying, and I know exactly how much money you have in your Gringotts vaults. If we were going somewhere Muggle, it would be somewhere a lot nicer than a McDonald’s. Our Wizarding options are limited. Diagon’s still a bit empty.”

“Yeah, I went with Luna a little while ago. So many shops were still boarded up.”

“There’s a bill working its way through the Wizengamot right now, special loans for small businesses,” Hestia gives a vague wave of her hand, “Anyways, we’ve got the Leaky Cauldron, that French bistro that just opened, and the chippy, which I’m convinced will survive the apocalypse.”

“What, do you want me to guess where you’d like to go?”

She rolls her eyes, “French alright with you?”

They apparate to Diagon, and Draco tries not to let on that he’s on the brink of puking his guts out on the sidewalk. Apparition does not agree with him. There’s a reason he and Marcie took a train to the coast.

The teenage witch who seats them at the bistro seems to recognize them both, but thankfully doesn’t say anything except to tell them the name of their server. They make it through appetizers before disaster strikes in the form of Harry Potter. He is, for some unfathomable reason, alone and being seated at a table set for one. Hestia sees him before Draco does.

She raises an arm, “Potter, are you eating alone?”

Draco follows her gaze to its inevitable conclusion, green eyes and the casual line of Harry’s body. He feels the ghost of broken glass against his feet.

“Uh, yes.”

“Join us if you’d like.”

And he does. He waves off the hostess and moves his setting to their table himself, grinning at Hestia and throwing an unreadable glance Draco’s way.

“Draco,” Harry greets him without meeting his eyes, “It’s been a while. How is your mother?”

The question only stings a little, “She’s alright. Better, I think.”

Hestia peers at him over her menu. For all of his secrets he’s laid bare at Hestia’s feet, this is not one of them. She knows him, though, and to anyone well-versed in the language of Draco Malfoy, he’s being quite obvious. He’s just answered a question about his mum, for Christ’s sake.

Harry immediately turns that fleeting glimmer of attention on Hestia, “Any luck with Robards?”

Hestia shakes her head, her lips cutting a grim line across her face, “I swear to Merlin, if he blocks one more thing…”

“Charlie told me that Travers might be susceptible to a bit of charm, but I don’t know. Seems pretty tight lipped to me. He’s the only person who might know anything.”

Draco stiffens, but keeps his head tilted down at his glass of wine. It’s no use, though. Hestia knows fucking everything.

“Hm,” she says, a laugh hiding just behind the sound, “If only you were the political sort, Draco.”

He glares at her, half embarrassment, half betrayal, “He won’t tell me shit.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure. What was it that he left for you? A bouquet?”

Oliver Travers, distantly related to one of the Death Eaters and educated at Beauxbatons, had been Draco’s only Order contact besides Snape and Hestia in the last year of the war. He was a low-level Ministry official, and he had been nothing but a middle-man, one stop along a winding channel of information, passed down from spy to spy.

He’d taken to leaving a bundle of forget-me-nots with the information drops after he’d met Draco for the first time, as a reference to his clothes, spun with Notice-Me-Not charms in the very fibers.

It had been nice, and a little funny. Ironic. He still has a few of them pressed between the pages of a book in his room at the Manor, a reminder of the loneliest time of his life and one of the only people who had noticed.

“He’s too self-serving,” Draco says, knowing it’s more an easy answer than a truthful one, “That’s why we understand each other.”

Hestia does something ridiculous with her eyebrows and Draco takes a long drink of his wine, bitter and dry against his tongue. He keeps doing it, not because he needs the buzz or even wants it, but to distract his mouth from contributing to the conversation.

He’s tipsy by the end of lunch anyways, and in no state to apparate. He’ll have to leave Diagon Alley on the other end and walk back to his flat from there. He’s never been intoxicated, in any sense of the word, in front of his mother, but he’s comforted by the thought that it won’t matter at all. She likely won’t even look at him.

Draco takes care of the check, waving off Harry’s insistence that they split it, “Tell him, Jones. She knows exactly how much gold I’ve got in my family vault. I’m convinced that she checks it every day, you know, just to know another thing.”

Harry hasn’t looked at him with open hostility at any point in the afternoon, but he gets close then. Draco smiles, and he knows it’s a sharp, brutal thing. His favorite thing about alcohol has always been the heat, the slide of it down his throat and the embers settling in his chest, but his fingers are cold and shaking on the tablecloth.

Harry clears his throat, “I meant to ask, how are Ella and Marcie?”

“They’re alright. The Ministry finally got to their case, they’re with an older couple now.”

“I thought-” Harry shakes his head, “I’m surprised. From what Ron said, Marcie seemed pretty attached to you.”

“They’re better off where they are,” he says blandly. If he says any more, he’s going to burst into a fresh round of tears, and then he won’t just be drunk, he’ll be drunk and crying.

Harry scowls at him but doesn’t say anything. He’s silent as they leave the restaurant, waving when he parts from them.

“That was fun,” Hestia says cheerfully, “And enlightening.”

“Fuck off.”

***

He struggles through 7 days of interviews with French nurses and tries to coax out a sign of approval from his mother. He writes another letter to Luna and Dean, full of nothing, and crumples the paper in his hands. There is a dam inside of him, one of his own making. Every night when he lays in his bed, he can feel the pressure building, and he’s scared out of his mind at the eventual collapse, the one he knows is inevitable.

Draco doesn’t mean to, but he finds himself loitering outside of Harry’s office at the Ministry on Monday night, trying to stop himself from knocking on the door. He should be packing up his things, finding someone to watch over his mother, taking the train to Crawley Down if he can’t stand the feel of apparition in his stomach.

There’s a light on inside, warm and inviting, and there’s a lure hooked deep in Draco’s chest, pulling him in. He imagines what would happen if he did it, if he knocked. Harry would call out for him to come in, and then he’d turn that shocked, pleased smile Draco’s way.

Except that’s not right. That’s an expression Draco has only seen in his periphery, directed at other people, or in muddled dreams. He recalls the look Harry had given him at lunch, distrustful and turbulent, and the way he’d looked at Draco in sixth year. Frustration and hatred and desperation, all warring for dominance in his narrowed eyes and the rigid set of his mouth.

Draco’s not sure what he’s doing here, but no, that’s not exactly the truth. He’s here because he’s looking for something. Whatever it is- redemption, understanding, punishment- he knows he won’t find it. Not in the green tiled halls of the Ministry, and certainly not from Harry Potter.

Draco decides that now is the time to develop survival instincts. He apparates to his flat, and arrives already hyperventilating. There is no reason why he should feel like he’s being hunted, like he’s back in the halls of the Manor, sneaking potions ingredients into Severus’ makeshift lab. He is fine. He’s in London, he’s safe, he’s fine.

If he spends another week here, he is definitely going to do something he will deeply regret.

He owls one of the nurses on Tuesday morning and draws up a contract. He packs his things. He sends a message to Mr. Garnier, asking him to pass on his new address to Marcie and Ella. By sundown, he’s on the last train out of London.

Luna meets him at the station in Crawley Down. She doesn’t ask him why he didn’t apparate, or how he’s doing or what’s taken him so long, she just envelops him in a hug.

“Come on,” She says, pulling back just a bit to smile dreamily at him, “Arabella’s very excited to meet you.”

Arabella, Draco knows, is one of Dean’s mothers. He’s got two, because he’s lucky, but Arabella is Mum and Claire is Ma. It feels like something he has always known, but in reality, he’s only known it since the Manor.

Draco shakes his head, trying to clear it, “Okay.”

Luna leads him into the village and to a picturesque two story house in the center of it. Wisteria crawls up one side of the gray stone walls. The front door is painted a bright blue. Luna doesn’t bother knocking, she just opens the door and tugs Draco along after her.

They’re greeted with the scent of chocolate and the sound of low chatter, both filtering out from a room to the right of the main hall. Dean leans out of the doorway.

“Hey! Do you want a brownie?”

Draco pushes away the old, creeping feeling that he doesn’t belong here, “Yes. Please.”

Dean dresses him in his old clothes, frayed denim and soft, worn t-shirts from when Dean was approximately Draco’s size, years ago. They spend most of their time that first week at the house. Dean is worried about Luna and Draco sticking out in the village, though he doesn’t say it in so many words, but Draco is at least somewhat used to the Muggle world because of Marcie.

Luna is another story.

They go on long walks up and down the river. Luna adores the ducks that float along with the current and waddle up onto the banks. Dean gives her corn to toss their way, and she greets each one by name. Draco is reminded, with a sharp pang, of Marcie doing the same thing. Luna, though, recognizes them and somehow remembers the complex web of relationships between them. She talks to them as if they can talk back.

Dean looks on fondly, trading faintly incredulous looks with Draco. They get used to it quickly. She does the same with the sheep that come up to sniff at their hands through the fence by the road. Luna could befriend anything with a heartbeat.

“So,” Dean says on one of their morning strolls, “I know you’re not exactly the most chatty person, but are we really not going to talk about it?”

His arm is wrapped around Luna’s shoulders, but his hold is light. She keeps running off to pick flowers or to take a closer look at the cows in the pasture across the road, but she always comes back to tuck herself into Dean’s side. It makes something warm spark in Draco’s chest, a brief flash of warmth and pain, and then it’s gone again before he can grab onto it.

Draco’s mind races, “Talk about what?”

“Any of it? The Manor, the forest, Marcie and Ella?”

“What made you finally come here?” Luna adds.

“No, we’re not.”

They accept the answer, but he knows it won’t last. Eventually, the dam will break.

After a week or two, Dean takes them to wander around the shops. Luna is still odd, but that’s an immutable fact. Most of the villagers, who are primarily over the age of 60, are charmed by her lyrical way of speaking and the wide-eyed sense of wonder that lingers in the space around her. They seem indifferent to Draco. He’s quiet but there’s something about his accent and his posture that instantly sets him apart. He tries to bow his shoulders.

The summer is full of warm, sunny days and dark, muggy nights. He looks up at the stars and is comforted by their brightness, this far from the city. They still look wrong, like there is something in him that can tell they aren’t in the correct order, though he doesn’t really know anything about the constellations.

And then the weather turns.

The storm lasts nearly a week, six days of rain and thunder. The sudden chill and the damp air and the dark clouds all conspire against him, and he ends up with the worst cold of his life.

He’s spent so long boxing away the weak, vulnerable parts, punishing them. The deprivation is almost satisfying. It’s harder to do this, to let Claire measure out his medicine, to accept soup and honey lavender tea from Arabella, to allow Dean and Luna’s concern. Suffering feels like a natural part of his existence, an existence he has become accustomed to enduring alone.

“How’s your appetite today?” Arabella asks, voice soft.

Draco groans. He’s starving, a gnawing emptiness in his stomach, but if he eats something there’s a good chance he’ll throw it back up.

Arabella sighs and she manages to make it sound empathetic, “Oh, sweetheart. I wish there was something I could do. Sometimes you just have to wait these things out.”

Draco decides he hates cough syrup, its artificial flavor, the slide of it down his throat, the sickly sweet coating it leaves on his tongue and teeth. More than anything, he hates the way it makes him feel like a prisoner in his own body.

It’s only a sensation, crawling across his skin, only a throbbing in his head and a heaviness in his joints. He slips into these strange moments where he loses track of time, drifting in and out of restless sleep, and it shouldn’t be a big deal. He should be able to get sick and let people take care of him and have a few nights of shitty sleep, without completely losing it. It’s not a big deal.

Except.

The last time he felt so disconnected from his body and from the world around him, he was sweating poison out on the Manor’s lawn. He tries not to think about it, but the memories persist, and he can’t hold onto the tenuous threads of his mind long enough to batter them away. He has a dream where he’s falling into an inky black emptiness, and when he wakes up, his skin is on fire.

He wants to plead, to his friends, to the universe, but his throat is scraped raw and no sound comes out. It makes him panic more.

Flashes of that night come back to him, but they’re distorted, sometimes by sleep and sometimes by the effects of the cough syrup. He sees his clearing back at the Manor, but the trees are burning around him and he’s choking on the ash. He sees Nagini, poised to strike, and then her jaw unhinges and swallows him whole. He hears Snape singing a lullaby that Narcissa sings in Draco’s earliest memory.

It’s different from truly reliving the experiences, because in his delirium, they’ve become cartoonishly horrifying, easier to handle than the solid, awful truth of it.

He stops taking medicine. He recovers from the cold. He once again seals off the portion of his mind where he keeps all of the worst things about himself and he talks to Luna and Dean. He doesn’t tell them much, but it’s enough. It’s enough for now.

He tells them about the Manor, about his soft soles and the rough ground, about how much love has always hurt him. He tells them about the thing he was as a child, a boy whose friends were trees and rocks and the animals that roamed the Manor’s grounds. He tells them about Twila and his clearing and all of the beautiful corners of the place he grew up.

“I don’t think I can ever go back there,” he says, and he doesn’t have to tell them that he will never truly be happy anywhere else. They know.

They’ve seen him there, in the middle of war, not happy but more somehow than he is in the aftermath, like there was a center to him, a tie that bound him to his home. A tie that’s been cut now.

Luna leans her head on his shoulder, “Maybe we can find somewhere else.”

He nods and he smiles and Dean looks at him, just looks. It’s not lost on him that Luna had said ‘we’. He does not take it for granted. He wants to find a home with them, but deep down, he knows it’ll never be quite what he’s lost.

The place where he spent his childhood was not inherently special or beautiful or magical, but because it was the first thing that was his. He had so much love within him once, and he poured it all into leaking cups, all except the love he gave to his home. It was the first and best thing he loved as a child, the only thing that ever truly protected him. It was the only thing that loved him back in a way that made a difference.

He can’t put it into words, or even thoughts, what it means to him. He will never be able to go back, and he will never be able to leave it behind him. He’s scared to even try.

“You might not be able to go home, or find another one,” Dean says after a few moments, “But I think you can make one.”

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