#I’m just unreasonably terrified of dogs now :) hope that helps

[oscargender]

Idk unpopular opinion but. Buying a puppy from a responsible breeder who doesn’t allow any dog they’ve bred to end up in a shelter is a morally neutral act

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt 24

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N:  the problem with Ernesto’s murderous plans is that they tend to only have a 50% success rate.  Art is by @lunaescribe​ and @swanpit​​

***

“... And you killed how many Villistas?” 

“Ah, I lost count. At least thirty.”

“Five, more like!”

“Shut up! Maybe some were just wounded, but I killed no less than twenty of Villa’s bastards, at any rate.”

“Sí, sí, and then you wounded Pancho Villa himself. One would think that with such a warrior among us, getting through the Zapatistas on our way here would have been a child’s play. I didn’t see you hit a single one. Did you forget how to shoot in the meantime?”

“Ah, shut up. They fought better, is all. Everyone knows Zapata and his followers are twice the mad dogs as everybody else, and I did hit one!”

“Your own shoe doesn’t count, pendejo.”

“Shut your mouth!”

“You’re so full of--”

As an argument broke out, Héctor watched Gustavo sigh and fall back a few paces with his horse. His attempts at buttering up the soldiers to get any sort of useful information had amounted to nothing, when they hadn’t straight-up started an argument like that one. The only question he was able to get a real answer to was why Commander Hernández hadn't allowed them to spend the evening and night in Santa Cecilia before setting off. 

“Ay, he won’t hear of it,” a soldier had replied. “He heard of a battalion that was decimated like that - they stayed in a village overnight, but turns out it was chock-full of traitors and they called their friends in during the night, and the men were slaughtered before they could grab a gun. So he’s paranoid about that.”

The expression that crossed Gustavo’s face for a moment, that of a man who just sucked on a lemon, had been enough to tell Héctor that was very much something he had hoped to pull off in Santa Cecilia. Unaware of that, the man - “call me Chucho”, he had said - had added: “It’s a myth if you ask me, more likely all of them just got sick of this shit and deserted.”

“Can’t blame them,” someone had muttered only a couple of paces behind Héctor, only to be immediately shushed by no less than ten of his comrades. 

“Shut up, idiota!”

“You want the commander to nail you to a telegraph pole or what!”

“He’s off ahead scouting anyway,” the man had muttered, and promptly fallen in a sullen silence. Morale was low, Héctor had quickly realized; he had been aware of the fact the war was not going all that well for the Federal Army, but this was the first time he saw its effects on the troops. All things considered, he got the distinct feeling most of those men didn’t want to be there a hell of a lot more than Ernesto had. 

Only that Ernesto had seized his moment to escape, and they were still stuck.

“-- shoot that cigarette off your mouth from a hundred paces, and if you don't believe--”

“Amazing, think you can hit the men attached to the cigarettes every once in a while, too?”

“If what you're asking is a bullet through your brain--!”

“Brain might be a big word there…”

“Shut your mouth, Nachito!”

As the argument continued, Héctor did his best to tune it out and reached into his saddle bag for the water. They had been warned the water rations were scarce and he had been trying not to drink too much, but they had been riding under the sun for hours, he’d been sweating half his body weight, and there seemed to be no moisture left in his mouth. At least the sun was starting to get lower at the horizon, evening not too far away.

Héctor wondered how they’d spend the night. Would they make camp? Just sit around fires, rifle in hand, and try to shut their eyes for a few hours before they kept marching on? Surely someone would stand guard, were the revolutionaries really going to catch up as Gustavo seemed to think they would? Would there be a battle? How many would come? Or would they decided a few men off Santa Cecilia was not a big enough loss to bother--

“Water?”

“Huh?” 

Héctor looked up to see a man riding next to him, holding out a flask of water. He seemed about his age, maybe a little younger, an attempt at a mustache on his upper lip and an uniform almost as ill-fitting as his own. He tried to smile, grimaced at the heat, and awkwardly avoided his gaze at the same time. 

“You, uh. If you want water.”

“Ah. I’m getting mine, don’t worry. I don’t want to take your ration.”

“... Right,” the young man muttered, and kept riding by his side. Héctor took a couple of sips from his flask, just enough to make his mouth feel a little less like an entire desert had moved in, and glanced back towards the man. He seemed to hesitate, but as Héctor rather expected he finally spoke again. “So you are, uh, a novice?”

“I… I was, I suppose. I suspect leaving the parish to join the Federal Army means that’s going to lapse,” he said, trying to smile like the idea was funny. The man didn’t seem amused, and Héctor cleared his throat. “... My name’s Héctor, by the way.”

A nod. “Alejandro,” the man replied. “Look, me and the others - several of the others, we… I mean, back there, when the commander shot the gringo-- I mean, the priest, I would have never,” he finally blurted out, holding onto the reins so tightly his knuckles turned white. 

Ah.

Héctor had barely looked at Father John’s body on the cobblestones, focused as he was on the fact that man had Miguel, but the mental image had still been lingering in the back of his mind ever since they left. The pool of blood, the way it got into every crack, the sticky warmth of it through his robes when his knees hit the ground. 

Some men had taken him away to get him help, he knew, and the Federales had allowed it, but Héctor had no idea if any help would even be possible. He was probably dead, for trying to reason with someone utterly unreasonable, for trying to save Miguel. 

He found his martyrdom, at last.

Something in Héctor’s chest ached; the gringo was not a simple man to get along with, easy to despise and quick to judge, but he had tried to do the right thing and he did not deserve a bullet for it. Perhaps taking note of his pained expression, the young man fidgeted. 

“Maybe God will save him,” he murmured, and swallowed. “I… we wanted to ask… do you think God will curse us for this? For shooting down one of His servants?”

Why ask me, Héctor almost replied, but then again it was the sort of question one would ask to a priest and he was the closest thing to one those men had at hand. Part of him wanted to believe God would indeed curse them, all of them, Huerta’s damn Federales - but as he looked around himself now, those men who’d seemed to terrifying looked so tired, dirty from days of travel, many of them young and probably wearing their uniforms no more willingly than he did. 

How many had been taken the way they were in the first place?

“There is no mercy in war,” he remembered Ernesto saying when he was found out and they confronted him. “They die or you do. On and on, day after day, until you forget you’re looking at humans because it gets easier if you get that detail out of your mind.”

“... The Church says that as long as there is regret, all can be forgiven,” he found himself saying instead. Alejandro nodded, but he looked far from reassured and just fell silent as they rode on towards the top of a hill they were never going to get past.

***

“Those bastards were supposed to come through San Luz!”

Arms still aching and palms burning from the friction with the rope, Sofía made it down the belltower and to the churchyard just on time to hear the frustrated shout. Right before the church were maybe twenty men and women on horses, all of them armed, being filled in on what had happened by a few very confused bystanders who likely had no idea what was going on but were relieved that these new visitors were not Federales at least.

As Sofía approached with quick steps, the man turned his horse to face her. “Gustavo--” he began, and trailed off. He blinked. “... You’re not Gustavo.”

Sharp as a knife, this one. Nice to see we’re in good hands.

“Gustavo went with them. He told me to call for you,” she added, pointing up to the belltower, where the bell still swung slowly. “He said I should tell you to follow the trail.”

The man seemed taken aback, then he nodded. “Very well. What direction did they--”

“They took the road west, through the hills.” 

Imelda’s voice rang out suddenly, causing several heads to turn. She was riding an aging horse that had belonged to her family for years, but that was not what made Sofía raise an eyebrow.

The robes were gone, replaced by a gown and a blouse, a belt at her waist with ammunition and the pistol they had taken from Ernesto’s room. Her head was uncovered, her jaw set; the man stared at her a few moments before he tilted his head in recognition. 

“... Sister. I was hoping to meet you again in better circumstances than this.”

“José. You probably already gathered as much, but the Federales that took our men outnumber you, at least three to one. I assume you could use an extra pair of hands.”

“We could,” one of the women spoke up. She spurred her own horse closer to Imelda, a rifle slung over her shoulder. Her hair was braided back, showing a still healing cut on the side of her head. “How much practice did you get with that pistol?”

Imelda met her gaze. “Not much. I’ll have to hope what practice I could get will be enough.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Then I die. Not the first or last.”

The woman smiled. “Very well. We’ll need someone to tell us what men not to shoot, after all, in case Gustavo can’t,” she added, and turned to look back at the man she’d called José. At this point, Sofía suspected she may have been mistaken in her assumption he was the leader there. “They can’t have gone very far, with the supplies and carts they took. We can catch up with them. Gabriel, you and I go ahead to dispatch anyone guarding the back of the column. If we don’t take them by surprise we’re fucked.”

“Well, you heard her, everyone. Let’s get going!”

As they kicked the flanks of their horses to get moving, Imelda looked back, and her gaze met Sofía’s. “... Sister,” she said, “I should mention this marks the end of my novitiate.”

Something gripping her throat - don’t die out there, she wanted to say - Sofía managed a smile. Trying to talk Imelda out of her plan, she knew, would be absolutely fruitless. “About time,” she said instead. “Go take back your stupid fiancé.”

The smile Imelda gave was sharp, telling her clearly that she wouldn’t go down without a fight. Not that Sofía had doubted that even for a moment. 

“You can be certain I will,” she said, and kicked the flanks of her horse, riding off.

“Ay, a novio,” one of the men muttered as he rode past. “And my heart breaks already.”

We had enough heartbreak as is for the day, Sofía thought, but said nothing. Instead she turned away from the galloping horses and let her gaze wander across the parish grounds. A few men were running off to grab what horses and hunting rifles they had and join the rescue party, but no trace of Ernesto. He’d returned, she knew, but no one had seen him since. 

Where in the world is that idiota hiding now?

***

Following the trail left behind by the column of Federales - the imprint of hooves, the wheels of carts, the cigarette butts they left in their wake - was easier than finding gonorrhea in a brothel.

Well, at least Ernesto supposed it was; he wouldn’t really know, as he had never in his life had gonorrhea or needed to resort to a brothel for pleasurable company in the first place. His good looks and charm had served him well enough with men and women alike, as Juan could testify.

Except that Juan was dead, shot like a dog in the middle of the plaza, what little color he had on his face draining away along with the blood; Ernesto had not seen it happen, but he could imagine it all too well each time he closed his eyes against the merciless July sun. 

Juan could never testify anything anymore, nor roll his eyes or start a lecture whenever Ernesto said something outrageous. He was far enough from Santa Cecilia that he could barely hear the bell anymore, but its toll was still ringing in his head, in every thudding beat of his heart. 

Dead. Dead. Dead.

I want them dead.

Sweat dripped into his eyes and down his cheeks, or so he told himself. Ernesto kicked the donkey’s flanks to make the stupid animal go faster, the reins of the other clutched tight in his hand, and wiped his forehead, teeth clenched hard. He clung to his fury, allowed himself to bare his teeth in something resembling a smile as his gaze fell on the caskets of wine. Holy wine, plus a special ingredient courtesy of the parish’s old rat problem.

He would see them dead. He would see them writhe and suffer, and he’d let them know it was by his hand; Juan would probably disapprove, that stupid stuck-up gringo, but he was no longer there to talk him out of it. He was no longer there to disapprove of him, and someone had to pay for it. How gracious of God’s church to provide the means to make it happen. Perhaps it was his will, after all, and who was he not to help along divine will?

Todo modo para buscar la voluntad divina, Juan had said.

Todo modo. Todo modo. Todo modo. 

Ernesto let the words echo in his head until they drowned out all noise from the bell, or perhaps it had stopped ringing, or he simply got too far for its sound to reach him anymore. He pressed on through the dusty path and up yet another hill until finally, finally, he saw it just below: a long column of men who were not long for that world. A few men at the back were looking up towards him, surely there to guard against rear attacks. But they saw no rebels there: only a priest, far more charming than the one they’d shot dead in Santa Cecilia.

Ernesto stared for a few moments, and finally let out a long breath, relaxing his frame. He wiped sweat off his face, opened his eyes, and smiled. A real smile, not a grimace; the easy, charming expression that got him in the good graces of men and women alike oh so quickly. 

Who would refuse a blessing in those difficult times? Who’d turn away a friendly face? Who wouldn’t accept some holy wine to wash down the dust and dirt? With some luck, it would be the last thing they’d do before they got to confess their sins to San Pedro himself. 

Good luck explaining away the murder of a man of the Church, Ernesto thought, and got the donkeys moving down the hill as quickly as he could. No turning back now, not anymore.

The thought did cross his mind for the briefest moment - what if they see through me, what if they recognize me - but it hardly even registered. At that point he was one deserter among thousands and he’d left his battalion as it headed north, with no plans to go back down towards Oaxaca. Chances any of those men came from his battalion were vanishingly thin, he thought, and to be fair he was almost entirely correct in that assumption. Just almost. 

Ernesto de la Cruz kept clambering down the hill on top of his donkey, with the smile of a friendly priest eager to deliver a very special blessing to the heroes of Mexico.

***

He wasn’t there, either. The slippery bastard wasn’t anywhere.

Santiago kicked his horse’s sides again, hands clenching on the reins. He had gone off ahead, ostensibly to scout for any sort of possible ambush, but truth be told it was only an excuse to be alone with his storming thoughts for a time. 

He already knew there would be no ambush: the idiots were still waiting for them in San Luz, or had given up waiting and were drinking themselves into a stupor, which was just as likely. A few more miles, and then they could circle back to take them by surprise in the middle of the night.He’d toyed with the idea before, but it was not the current plan: he and his men were expected in Yucatan within days, which left them short on time. 

But it was… tempting, nonetheless.

We could get some scum out of the way. And maybe de la Cruz is hiding there, or passed by. Someone might know something. Someone might talk.

Santiago closed his eyes and lifted his head, letting the sun beat down on his face. It had been a scorching hot day when he had found Alberto’s body, too, shot in the back of the head and left to feed carrion birds by the monster who’d greeted them that morning with a smile before they went off on patrol together. 

It should have been Santiago out on patrol with Ernesto de la Cruz  that day. It was his turn; it should have been him to fall face down in the sand with his brains blown out. But he’d pulled a muscle in his back the previous evening, riding felt like having hot rods pushed into his spine, and Beto had offered to take my place. 

Said I owed him a drink. What wouldn’t I give to pay back that debt.  

Monster, the gringo had called him. What sort of beast, he had said, but the idiota knew nothing of monsters and beasts that must be put down for everybody’s safety. He, at least, didn’t feign friendliness. He didn’t hide behind a smile. He warned before he shot, stated his terms and delivered on his promises.

If it made him a beast himself, very well; perhaps he was. Perhaps trying to take the child had been a step too far - but he’d sooner be a lion than a snake hiding in the sand. 

I cannot turn back anymore. No way to go but forward. 

But first, San Luz. If he’s there, I’ll smoke him out.

Santiago Hernández stopped his horse on a rocky outcrop and reached into the saddle bag to pull out his map, so he could work out the best route back for a quick attack. He opened it and studied it under the merciless sun, waiting for his men to catch up

It took him a while to realize it was taking them much too long.

***

“Oye! Come here!”

“There’s a priest!”

“We’re getting blessed, muchachos!”

“And we’re getting wine!”

“... Huh?”

As word travelled fast up the column, causing men to halt their horses and turn, Héctor glanced around in confusion. He looked over at Gustavo, but he seemed about as lost as he was at the notion of a random priest walking into marching Federales to offer blessings and wine. Where did he even--

“He says he’s the parish priest of the hole we just left,” someone added, and Héctor’s blood ran cold, something clenching in his stomach.

No, no, no, no. What is he doing here? They were looking for him. They’ll kill him.

“Padre Ernesto?” Francisco, a young cobbler who’d been taken with him that day, blurted out. Sidling up to Héctor, Gustavo elbowed him in the ribs. 

“What’s going on?” he growled under his breath. “Why is he here, and why did you get almost as pale as the gringo just now?”

“I…” Héctor swallowed, unable to force words out. Gustavo didn’t know, and this really was not the time to explain him everything. He needed to get to Ernesto immediately, warn him to get away while he still could, so he ignored Gustavo’s questions and spurred his horse to go back, towards the end of the column. The men there were already starting to gather, dismounting their horses… and passing around caskets of wine. 

Héctor braced himself for the moment someone would cry out in recognition and every man present would turn against Ernesto, but there was no such cry; the men were none the wiser as they talked and laughed, took the wine and kept gathering, all semblance of order gone. 

Above all, Héctor heard a familiar voice.

“... And once I realized I had entirely missed your arrival, well, I had to catch up with you,” Ernesto was saying, all charm and smiles as he helped unload the caskets of wine. “I couldn’t let my parishioners leave to serve this country without giving them my blessing, you understand. And you, of course, it is the least I could do - careful there, it’s heavy…”

It was like an impromptu party, but it was soon clear not everyone was simply in the mood to celebrate. Héctor did his best to approach, but he got knocked back by several men gathering around Ernesto. 

“Padre!”

“Can we have your blessing, Padre?”

“I have not had confession in months--”

“Haven’t heard from my family since March, I don’t know if they are well, pray for them--”

“What happened to that other priest-- the gringo, we did not--”

“Our commander lost his temper, a man of God, I would have never--”

“We would never--”

Ernesto turned to the men, and his smile wavered for only a moment. But then it was back, full of understanding. “... Padre Juan was a man of principle who did not always know when to hold his tongue, but he is with God now,” he said, and Héctor’s stomach sank. So he hadn’t made it. He was dead, and Ernesto showed no sign whatsoever of being affected. 

“His soul is safe, and I know he would want me to take care of yours,” Ernesto was going on, and he lifted his hand to impart a blessing, speaking loudly to be heard by all. He spoke in near-perfect Latin John Johnson would have been proud of, giving everyone present absolution before crossing himself. Many of the men mirrored the gesture, relief plain on their faces. Alejandro was among them, looking close to tears.

The blessing done, absolution given, Ernesto smiled and spread out his arms. “Now, let us all drink the blood of Christ and--”

“Padre!” Héctor finally cried out, pushing his way to the front, and Ernesto’s gaze turned on him. His smile grew even wider. 

“My child!” he cried out, and pulled him into an embrace. “Ah, what a relief, having reached you on time to absolve your sins and give you the Lord’s blessing!”

Face smashed against Ernesto’s shoulder, Héctor barely managed to whisper. “What are you doing--” he began, only for Ernesto to turn his head and almost snarl into his ear, his voice so full of seething fury it made Héctor’s heart skip a beat in his chest. 

“Saving your scrawny ass so I can kick it myself. Don’t drink the wine, none of you. Tell the others.”

“Wha-- Ernesto, wait, they’re--”

“Not a drop,” Ernesto hissed, and pushed him off before anyone realized they had spoken to one another, patting his shoulder with a laugh. “Go to the others, tell them they have my blessing and that the parish will look after their families,” he added, and before he could add another word Héctor was almost ejected from the small crowd, reeling. 

What does it mean? What has he done to the wine?

He looked around to see Alejandro taking one of the opened caskets, saw the wine flowing and men drinking. Héctor wanted to stop him, tell him not to - he was not a bad person, he could tell; many of them were not bad people - but he knew he couldn’t do so without alerting them all, and in the end he had to back away. 

Guilt twisted in his gut, but he knew he had to ignore it and move quickly. The wine was being passed around so fast, and he had to warn Gustavo and the others not to drink it before it got to them. Regardless how tempting it was not to tell Gustavo, of course.

No one has recognized him. Maybe it will be all right. Maybe whatever plan he has is going to work. Maybe it will make them pass out, no one needs to die, Héctor thought, and with one last glance towards Ernesto - he was positively holding court now, men around him laughing at something he said or crossing themselves and asking for a prayer - he ran back to where he left the others from Santa Cecilia, trying to reach them before the wine could.

Whatever Ernesto had done with it, he knew none of them wanted to find out the hard way.

***

What got Santiago to lift his gaze from the map and realize his men really should have caught up by now was a very distant sound, one he did not recognize at first. He put away the map with a frown, focusing, and for a moment he thought what he heard were distant screams. It made his blood run cold and his hands clench on the reins. 

Had his men been attacked? Could it be? Was there an ambush - had he walked right past the enemy without realizing as much? Heart hammering in his throat, Santiago spurred his horse to trot back, straining to listen… and finally he realized what he was hearing were not screams. 

Well, they kind of were, but those were no cries of distress; there was a rhythm to it, all voices rising up together and then falling, then rising again, like… singing? Was that bunch of idiots singing at the top of their lungs?

Have they all gone mad?

Stunned and furious at the same time, Santiago kicked his horse’s flanks to spur it into a gallop back the way he had come. He knew those men’s discipline was almost non-existent, but that was ridiculous. He would see them punished for it, he’d make them march through the night, he--!

Insortaron a Cortez Por toditito el estado: "Vivo o muerto que se aprehenda Porque a varios ha matado!"

Soon he was close enough to hear the words and, after turning a bend, he could see that the sorry excuses of soldiers he’d been leading were off their horses and standing around or sitting in the dirt, drinking and singing like they were off duty in a damn cantina. 

He opened his mouth to shout at them, demand to know what was going on in their empty heads, but another voice rose up loud and clear and Santiago’s own voice died in his throat. 

Decía Gregorio Cortez Con su pistola en la mano: "No siento haberlo matado Al que siento es a mi hermano..."

He knew that voice; he heard it before in the barracks, at campfires, whenever a comrade picked up a guitar. He never missed a chance to sing, turning each break in a performance. 

Alberto had found it endearing; he’d found it annoying. Now it made him feel as though the sweat on his skin had turned into frost.

Still atop his horse Santiago turned slowly, very slowly, towards the source of that voice. He had not expected the priestly robes, and he’d had a beard when he’d last seen him, but he would recognize that despicable face anywhere; he’d dreamed of it almost every night, grinning down at him as he kneeled over Beto’s body.

And now he was there. 

How or why he had come to be there, let alone in a cassock and singing along with his men as they guzzled down wine, Santiago had no idea nor he cared to know. All that he knew, all that mattered, was that he was there within his grasp, and that he would never escape again. 

Santiago Hernández bared his teeth, and reached for the pistol at his hip.

***

BANG.

The gunshot was distant, reverberating through the hills, impossible to mistake for anything else. It made Imelda’s blood run cold, but she didn’t slow down; her horse was in full gallop, right at the heels of José’s own - which, come to think of it, looked an awful lot like Ernesto’s own missing horse - and she spurred it to go a bit faster, just enough to sidle with him. 

“Was that one of yours? Did you prepare an ambush?” she yelled to be heard through the rushing wind and beating hooves, knowing full well what the answer was but still hoping against hope to get at least some explanation for the gunshot. 

José shook his head, his expression grim. “No such thing. There may be insubordination among them.”

“Does it happen often?”

“All the time. But we’ll only know when we catch up,” he added, and spurred his horse again. Imelda could only follow, and hope for the best.

If he gets himself killed, she thought, I’ll have to kill him again.

***

The gunshot was deafeningly loud, and close enough to make Héctor cry out - him, and several other men - and the singing to stop abruptly. There were confused cries, men jumping on their feet and dropping their cups of wine to reach for their own guns, turning around wildly to find out who’d shot.

They didn’t have to look far.

“Ernesto de la Cruz.”

Still on top of his horse, pistol raised in the air, Commander Hernández stared at Ernesto with enough hatred to make Héctor tremble. He was vaguely aware of Gustavo and another couple of men from Santa Cecilia talking to him under their breath, asking what the hell was going on, but Héctor was unable to speak, dread gripping his throat. 

He found him. It’s over.

He wanted to cry out for Ernesto to run, to do something, but there was nothing for him to do and he could only stand there, staring in horror. Ernesto had stilled, realization beginning to dawn on him that he’d been recognized, and that he was trapped. 

The soldiers around him were not quite as quick to grasp the situation. “What--”

“Commander, we, uh, can explain--”

“Shut up, all of you, and seize that traitor!”

“... Sir, that is Padre--”

“That’s no more a priest than I am, idiots! It’s the deserter we’ve been looking for!”  the man screamed, and leaped off his horse, pistol still in his hand. “ SEIZE HIM, I SAID!”

“Qué?” Gustavo blurted out somewhere on Héctor’s right, and it seemed that sentiment was prevalent among the Federales as well, most of whom kept staring at their commander as though he’d suddenly started speaking Portuguese. 

Then Ernesto tried to run, and all hell broke loose.

Héctor had gone hare hunting once, out of sheer curiosity, watching from the sidelines and not really doing much. The pack of dogs, all of them friendly mutts, had seemed comically clumsy, wagging their tails and snuffling about, seemingly more interested in playing than hunting… until a hare had burst out of its hiding spot to run away, and suddenly the entire pack had pounced. The chase had been brief, the screams unbearably loud, the outcome bloody, and Héctor had felt queasy as the owner of the dogs lifted the prey, grinning from ear to ear while his dogs went back to goofing off.

“This,” he had said, “is why you never try running before even the dumbest dog pack.”

Now Héctor watched Ernesto make the same mistake, and again the dogs pounced as one. The hare had no chance of escape that day, and neither did he now. 

“STOP HIM!”

“Got him, I got him!”

“Get your hands of me, hijos de--”

“Agh! He bit me!”

“Get him over here!”

If any of the soldiers had doubted Commander Hernández’s words and still believed him a priest, Ernesto thrashing and screaming insults to their entire lineage - through the flea-ridden Spaniards who’d forced their way between their great-great-great-great grandmothers’ thighs and all the way down to the Garden of Eden - probably took care of it. 

As Héctor stared, petrified and not knowing what to do, he was dragged in front of the commander and forced on his knees, arms behind his back. Hernández put the pistol back in its holster, walked up to Ernesto, and grabbed a fistful of his hair to force his head back. 

He gave a cold, too-wide smile that still did not reach his eyes and said something Héctor could not hear. Ernesto’s scowl turned to shock for a moment, and then his features twisted in fury. He screamed and tried to rise up to throw himself at Hernández, almost made it, but too many men were holding him down and he was pushed back in the dirt. Orders were barked and they began dragging Ernesto away from the rest of the still confused soldiers, off the path and towards a small grove of trees and shrubs. One of the men carried a long rope. 

They'll see me hang, Ernesto had told them after being unmasked, and God, he'd been right. “No, wait!” Héctor cried out and tried to run, but something gripped his arm, pulled him back. 

“Stay here, idiota,” Gustavo hissed, his grasp on Héctor’s wrist tight enough to cut off the blood flow. He glared. “Won’t let you become a martyr on my watch, you’re insufferable enough as is. Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t do it. Did you know about him?”

“I can’t let them kill--”

“Did you know!” Gustavo barked, and Héctor fell silent, his expression probably speaking volumes. Gustavo groaned, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. “A Federale right under my nose and I never knew. Por Dios, José is never going to let me hear the end of it...”

“Gustavo, let me go, we have to help him--”

“Help is coming, idiota. Stay here.”

“But--”

“Help is coming,” Gustavo repeated in the forceful way of a man trying to will something into reality. “At least that damn liar delayed their march. Any moment now--” he trailed off when a sudden noise reached their ears amidst the confusion and exclamations, harsh and unmistakable - retching. Soon followed by another such sound, and another. And another. 

One by one, the men around them began looking very, very sick.

***

“Let me go! Let me go, you bastards--!”

Ernesto’s insults got him precisely nowhere, and his attempt at fighting off the men dragging him away was about as useless. Too many of them, too strong, his wrists already tied behind his back before they shoved him on his knees in the dirt before the cabrón who had somehow recognized his face.

When said cabrón stepped forward and grabbed his hair to yank his head back, Ernesto clenched his teeth to hold back a cry and glared up at him. Who was he? Dimly he knew he must know him, he looked vaguely familiar - something about the mustache, the unusually thin bridge of his nose - but he still could not put a name to the face the way that bastard had somehow put a name to his.

Unaware of his thoughts, the man sneered. “Ernesto de la Cruz - so the rat comes out in the open at last. What’s the reason for this masquerade? Did you think these robes would save you? They will not. I shot down a true priest today. Or was the gringo an impostor, too?”

Our commander lost his temper, one of them had said. 

That beast pulled out his pistol and… and… ay, I told you, he knows no God. To shoot a man of god like an animal!

YOU TOOK HIM AWAY!

With a wordless scream, Ernesto strained against the men holding him down, against his bounds, wanting nothing more than putting his hands around the man’s neck and choke the life out of him. He almost managed to stand, but the weight of several men was too much and he was thrown back down in the dirt.

“You, take him and follow me. Rojas, get enough rope to hang this bastard. Quick.”

“Yes sir.”

No no no no no!

Ernesto struggled, but to no avail. Bound and overpowered, he was easily dragged away from the path by the small group of men - towards shrubs and trees, where they could hang him by the neck and leave him to feed carrion birds. They would not give him a clean death, he knew. No fall, no broken neck. They’d string him up and… and… 

“Let me go!”

“Oh, as you wish.”

The men threw him down on the ground, and with his hands tied there was nothing sparing his face a painful impact. Ernesto ground his teeth to stifle a cry, only for that cry to be forced out of him when a kick in his side threw him onto his back. A knee pressed on his chest and the man leaned down, all his weight on Ernesto’s sternum.

When is the damn poison going to work?

Maybe the parish got scammed and that wasn’t poison at all. Wouldn’t that be a laugh, a fake priest dead thanks to fake poison. 

As he struggled to breathe, Ernesto blinked a few times to clear his vision and looked up. Seen up close there was something startling in the sheer hatred in the man’s gaze, and it caused Ernesto to still a moment. The soldier, John’s murderer, sneered once again. 

“Tell me, traitor,” he all but snarled. “Do you even know who I am?”

Don’t make him mad, part of Ernesto’s brain said, but the rest clung to the hope the poison would start working soon. Make him waste time.

“Should I?” he spat. A fist connected with his face as soon as the words were out, causing his vision to swim. Blood ran down his face from a split lip, went down his throat. Somewhere above him he saw the rope being thrown up over a branch, one end already tied in a noose. 

And then, before his eyes, the blade of a knife caught the sunlight.

***

He didn’t even recognize him.

Of all the ways Ernesto de la Cruz had wronged him, that somehow was the final straw, the worst possible slap to the face. He’d murdered his best friend since childhood and ran off, leaving him to obsess over revenge for months on end - unable to sleep without seeing his face or Beto’s body in the sand, or both - and now he dared say he didn’t even know who he was.

Ah, but he’d know. Before he died, when he allowed him to die, he would know. 

“I know who you are well enough,” Santiago snarled, and pulled out his hunting knife. “A coward, a traitor, and a murderer. You’re a Judas, and you’ll die as Judas did - and everyone will know why!”

De la Cruz tried to squirm beneath him, still dazed by the blow but all too aware of the blade of his knife. Santiago sneered, held the knife to his throat, and watched him grow still. There was terror in his eyes, unmistakable, and he savored it like a sip from a bottle of fine wine. 

“Ay, you’ll wish I made it this easy for you.” The blade slipped beneath his collar and ripped down through the cassock, baring his chest. 

De la Cruz tried to squirm again, this time with more urgency, eyes wide. “Stop!” he rasped.

Santiago smiled. “Why? Have you recalled my name?”

“I have done nothing to you. I--”

“Liar. I should take an eye for that,” he snapped, and brought the tip of the knife’s blade to rest right beneath a widened eye, drawing the tiniest drop of blood from his skin. “Think again, you Judas. Think of the day you deserted. Someone was with you.”

“What…” Ernesto de la Cruz paused and finally, finally, Santiago saw his expression change - from terror and confusion to realization. Of course, that must have jogged his memory: the two of them had barely shared a few words, but he must remember Alberto. And wherever Alberto went, Santiago followed.

Until, of course, de la Cruz had sent Beto someplace where Santiago could not follow.

You took him away.

Something ached in his chest, and all of a sudden Santiago felt ridiculously close to tears. But he had him now. He would see him die, Alberto would be avenged, and he would finally feel better. He had to feel better. He could not contemplate feeling the way he did forever.

“Thiago,” de la Cruz choked out, and he scoffed. Of course, even now, the self-absorbed bastard couldn’t be bothered to remember anyone’s name. 

“Santiago,” he snapped, and leaned in so close their faces almost touched, pressing the blade a little harder on Ernesto’s skin and causing another pinprick of blood to well up. “But it matters not. You know whose name I want you to remember, sí? That of the man you killed.”

De la Cruz swallowed. “Alberto,” he managed. “I-- I didn’t want to kill him. I swear. I only wanted to get away, I couldn’t stand it anymore, I... he would have stopped me, he--”

“And so you shot him like a dog!” Santiago screamed, causing that disgusting coward to wince. He pulled back, knees still pressed against his sternum, keeping him pinned down. The grip on the handle of his knife was so tight it ached. And he even had the galls, this bastard, to lecture him for shooting a gringo! 

“You left him dead to feed scavengers, and you really thought I would let it stand! You really thought I wouldn’t hunt you down like the beast you are! Tell me, did you kiss him the way Judas kissed Christ when he betrayed him?”

A shudder beneath him that may have been a sob. “P-por favor--”

“Oh, you’re begging now?” Santiago gave a loud, ugly laugh, and pressed the blade against Ernesto de la Cruz’s chest. “Very well, traitor. Go on and beg,” he said, and began to cut.

He did beg, but only for a few moments. For a good while, all he could do was scream.

***

[Back]

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[halothenthehorns]

All in the Family

Chapter 77: The Hungarian Horntail

Sirius would swear the ground kept shaking even as he got himself up onto hands and knees, his vision was staying blurry longer than usual rather than letting anything into focus, and at first he thought it smoke in his eyes as he finally distinguished bonfires dancing all around him.

His long dark hair fell in curtains around his eyes, but now that he'd adjusted, it did nothing to obscure the fact he was face to face with a dragon. He screamed. A high pitch, death like noise that hurt his own ears, causing the fire breathing nightmare to roar louder and spray a white hot breath right towards him. He tried to get to his feet, too fast, and lucked himself into falling just below the deadly blast. Then he did get himself upright and took off at a dead run, until he ran face first into an invisible barrier just barely on the shadows of the last cage.

He staggered back, clutching his freshly bleeding nose but gripping his heaving chest instead, took the seconds it was worth to see the other seven weren't actually in the cages with any of them but staggering about in their own fear, and made the split second decision he wished he'd had available to him two summers ago.

"Padfoot, are you okay?" James asked in concern, seeing the blood matting his muzzle, but the dog merely shook his head, and his whole body with it, before pacing anxiously as far from the nearest dragon he could.

"That's a question I don't expect we'll get an answer to until we leave this spot," Remus pointed out. "Even then, I'm sure it'll just be, shut up."

James nodded in silent agreement and decided to get right to that, summoning the book to him. The book came shooting from in between the feet of the largest black one that had spikes all along it, the blue cover was blackened around the edges and still smoking slightly, not a great omen.

Peter came hesitantly over to them, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly but still asking in genuine concern, "is he okay?"

"You try asking him," Remus nearly had to shout over the still roaring beasts, who seemed no more pleased with their presence than them. Remus barely noticed, despite the fact he'd usually salivate at the chance to see live dragons. His eyes were on the nick in his ear once more, barely illuminated in the still bright flames being shot in all directions. His gut clenched once more, he wondered if he was going to be sick again. Why on Earth did Peter come over here to check on them when he had every reason in the world not to?

James Potter read out the very obvious chapter title as the other four stayed huddled in the shadows as well for safety.

"Which one's the horn-tail, do you think?" Alice asked quietly enough she hoped it wouldn't cause the green one to keep direct eye contact with her, glaring in a truly predatory way.

"Ah, the one with horns on its tail?" Frank offered politely, watching Regulus's progress. He was braver than he would have given the kid credit before moments ago, he'd scattered after them upon first finding themselves here, but was now walking back between the four enclosures cautiously to head back towards the Marauders group.

Amazingly, he made it to the other side without a burn, though the blue one had tried her best.

"Why are they here?" Lily demanded faintly. "Hagrid having a baby on the school grounds was insane enough, what the bloody hell is wrong with this Tournament?" She finished by answering her own question.

"I don't want to know," Alice groand, clutching Frank's hand harder. He returned the pressure in kind, all three of them wincing and burying their backs farther into the invisible barrier.

Regulus was chewing painfully on the inside of his cheek as he slowly but openly approached the four like they were more dragons. He had no clear goal in joining them, an oddity itself as he never did anything without a reason. All he was sure of was that he'd never heard his brother scream like that.

James stopped halfway through Skeeter's blithering article, admittedly happy with any reason to stop he was so disgusted, but tracked Regulus coming closer with narrowed eyes. He had three good reasons not to trust whatever he was coming over here to say right now, all involving the three currently around him.

He hadn't said a word about Remus, or to him, but neither had any of the others. He didn't know what would incite Regulus to now, but he'd push the welp into the nearest dragon's cage if that was it.

He had zero clue what that recurring conversation Regulus and Peter had been having was about, but was in no mood to learn of it now when he wanted a chance to try and have Peter back talking to them, he didn't trust any Black to help with that right now.

Padfoot was currently shaking on his strong legs, all fur bristled on end and tail between his legs as he let out heart stuttering growls and soft whimpers intermittently. This bloody area was traumatizing enough to the lot of them they'd be happy to never be so close to a dragon again, he couldn't imagine having to stare at these things for hours with no clear way to escape, again. It was the dog though Regulus had his eyes on as he approached.

Regulus almost couldn't hear his own voice amidst the still painfully loud roaring, so he cleared his throat awkwardly and tried just a touch louder, "is, ah, is he-"

"No, he's not alright!" James Potter was scowling at what he perceived as a stupid question. "You mind if I get around to fixing that?" He waved the book obnoxiously.

Regulus frowned, but shook his head and kept what he'd really been about to ask to himself as Potter continued. Is he going to change back, had been his actual question, as it was hard to put together what his mind was telling him, that this beast was actually somehow his brother. He shot a side glance at Lupin uncomfortably, he couldn't imagine being trapped like that, in a body so, minimal.

The last time he'd seen this massive canine, it had its jaws around a werewolf that would have happily eaten them all. Now it looked like just as much a dangerous animal itself, and a cornered dog was the most vicious kind. The blood just barely visible in the glittering teeth from the injured nose that he'd caused was not helping the image.

His parents would be impressed, he vaguely realized the longer he looked. Despite the fact he had to remind himself every other second that was indeed Sirius, rather than another terror of this Forest, his sixteen-year-old brother was an animagus. Not a fact he'd really taken the time to appreciate back when it had been revealed, considering everything else happening. He shot another anxious look at Lupin, this time out of the corner of his eye, and then glanced through the thick foliage once more to make sure it wasn't a full moon again, but couldn't see through it to be sure.

Orion and Walburga had been wrong about so much, it seemed. The Dark Lord, his screw-up of a brother never managing to accomplish anything, it seemed they were even wrong about werewolves as well. The pale, tall kid that stood half behind James Potter looked more afraid of him than vice-versa as he seemed to be waiting for something just as much as Regulus was. He chanced a glance at Peter, who was still standing just a few feet away more than was casual but standing firmly nonetheless, obviously more weary of keeping his eyes on the massive dragons than any other immediate problem like the two seemingly dangerous animals at his back.

Regulus again had to remind himself of his Animagus lesson he'd had just this year, that the difference was Sirius was in full control of his mind, where a werewolf never was. Just because this terrifying bear-like dog looked like it was going to lunge forward and tear their throats out any second, Sirius wouldn't...right? Surely if he was, he would have done so to Peter and claimed delirium when he changed back, but instead as James Potter kept talking, detailing Harry's reaction to the article, Sirius almost began to relax.

Not by any noticeable means if you weren't looking for it, but Regulus was. Almost one by one, his fur began to smooth out, his tail came out from under him to merely become horizontal, and he was leaning forward on his toes. Careful, calculating, eyes still resting on the danger and teeth bared, but no longer growling quite so loud.

He'd been studying Animagi a bit for his upcoming exams of course, but never with any more intensity than the curricular questions he might perceive. Nothing of the magnitude Sirius must have gone through to be like this. Regulus only knew the very basics, and even those processes were still beyond him. The question that really boggled the mind was, why had he done it?

At the time, the book version of his brother had said it was to help their werewolf friend, but what use could this be except a meal? It had come in handy, certainly, in keeping him at bay, but only for the precious time it took to get away from those deadly jaws. The creature was unreasonable at all senses though, it had nearly torn Sirius and Potter to shreds without a second thought, so clearly no pack mentality had spared him.

It was a conundrum he had no hope of understanding without actually talking to Sirius, and possibly Lupin so long as he was going to stay in his human form while doing it. As Potter had pointed out though, that didn't seem likely to happen until they got away from this place, the Horntail shooting a blast of fire in their direction that all five of them had to duck to avoid proving a valid point.

After that, Potter's reading increased in tempo even more, he almost blurred through Harry's trip to Hogsmeade, and Hagrid's odd invite that nevertheless they all almost immediately understood would somehow lead to this place.

Lily almost wanted to slap the gamekeeper for being so excited about this, even bringing a competitor's Head along like some sort of date. Even Potter could come up with better romance than this!

Alice and Frank winced and pleaded with the ground to swallow them whole on the spot when they heard that the challenge Harry would be facing did indeed include these dragons, nesting mothers to be spacific. The clutch of eggs, now that they knew to look for them, was indeed in the massive shadows well guarded, anybody would have to be insane to get near them! If Harry died trying, what would happen to them?

James' voice wavered uncomfortably as he heard that Karakaroff was sneaking there just as Harry was leaving, his mind going to Cedric and some kernels of pity for the kid who would be the only one of the Champions left out, but the majority of his mind was still on Harry and how he was going to! Hopefully Sirius would be of some help, after he had his own little freak out while talking to Harry in the fire?

He at first uneasily exchanged a small look with Remus as the conversation began, at least Sirius was looking better than the unrecognizable murderer from the Shack had described, but the longer it went on, the more obvious their worried exchanges got. Until finally he flat stopped and his mouth hung open for several beats, and Remus didn't even prod him to keep going.

Sirius had no reaction to the dragons Harry would soon be dealing with. Sirius was more worried talking about the Death Eaters in the castle, like Karkaroff! Sirius...really had changed.

Whether it was Azkaban or just time, they wondered what other little things would he have also prioritized over? He was still reckless, impulsive, this they knew, and he clearly put Harry above his own well-being, at least that was the same... but did he still have sticky fingers when it came to his friends' clothes? Did Sirius still throw his head back and laugh with his whole body? Did Padfoot still remember what it was like to trust anyone besides himself?

The big, glaring obvious difference of what would happen to Peter had shook them to their core, but it wasn't until now they thought back and really felt in their bones how different this world was, almost alien from theirs. It had been almost fun up until that awful moment to think of this as their future, that James and Lily would get together and have this child, that they'd just hear the tales of Harry's insane school years and find out what had killed them so they could keep the good and pretend the bad would never come. The real question though, was how any of this was going to end?

"Would you two quit gaping at each other like fish!" Peter finally snapped as the silence dragged on and Padfoot began whimpering uncomfortably right at their feet. "Dissect his shitty choices later please and get us out of here before we're roasted alive!"

The red one shot a mushroom-shaped fire right over his head to prove his point.

James swallowed uncomfortably, but complied, trying to take what comfort he could that was the first normal thing Peter had said to him in a while, and smothering whose fault that was how long it had been.

Finally as the pages reached their end for this chapter, Regulus did speak up once more, the question coming out of him the least of his concern really, but the only one he expected anyone other than him to come up with an answer to for now. He looked at Remus Lupin, and asked, "does that really help?" His eyes needlessly flickering back to Sirius, err, Padfoot? The dog that had actually almost loosened up, still in a tense weary stance, but of a hunter sighting its prey rather than fending it off. His brother.

Remus Lupin smiled in surprise, but answered cordially, "like you wouldn't believe."

[sohotthateveryonedied]

Chaos and Bloodshed Already Haunt Us

Read here on AO3!

Summary:

Tim and Jason get kidnapped by Black Mask. Jason is too sacrificial for his own good.

Tim has been waking up tied to chairs in strange places since he was thirteen, to the point where he has been kidnapped more times than he’s been to Chuck E. Cheese. When you’re a Wayne kid and a batkid, you learn to accept regular kidnappings as a part of life, just like taxes. Is it so unreasonable that Tim would prefer to wake up in his own bed, for a change? First things first: take stock. Assess the situation. Go from there. Before he’s even opened his eyes, Tim feels for what he’s pretty sure is regular rope keeping his hands tied behind him. Unfortunately, even rope can hold a bat when said bat has no weapons to bail them out, which Tim doesn’t. His utility belt and bandoliers are missing, and any spare tools he has hidden on his person are impossible to reach with the way his arms are wrenched behind him. His fingertips are already tingly, going on numb. “Red? You up?” Tim opens his eyes at the familiar voice. Jason is tied to his own chair across from him, a mirror of Tim’s own situation. The room itself is small—gray walls, cement floor, unmarked crates stacked along the walls. Jason’s helmet is off, exposing the domino he wears underneath. Tim’s mask hasn’t been touched either. “Do you remember what happened or do you need the recap?” Jason asks.

It’s blurry at best, but Tim remembers enough. “Intel mission on Black Mask, right?”

“Started out that way. We got here and I figured out that Sionis was selling weapons to Intergang so we blew the whole shipment to hell.” “You figured it out?” That doesn’t sound right, as fragmented as Tim’s memories are. From the throbbing in the back of his head, he must have been hit pretty hard. “You calling me a liar?” “I ain’t calling you a truther,” Tim mutters, fiddling with the rope that’s been cutting off circulation in his hands for what must have been at least an hour. He can’t get Jason and himself out of here in this condition. “Did you—" “Already signaled him.” Good. Bruce will send someone to bail them out of this in no time. They just have to hold out until then. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” a chilling voice speaks from behind Tim. “You have no idea how bored I was waiting for the party to start.” Fingers touch Tim’s shoulder and he jerks away. Jason, unbothered by the newcomer, snorts. “This is what you consider a party? You need some fucking friends.” Sionis ignores the jab. He passes Tim and goes straight for the camera set up near the left wall, just far back enough to fit both Tim and Jason in frame. Very, very bad sign. He turns it on, the red light blinking. “You making a movie?” Jason says. He’s snarky, but Tim can see the fear lurking behind his eyes. Roman ignores him and adjusts the camera so it points at himself. “Hello, Batman.” Tim’s eyes snap up to meet Jason’s. “In case you were wondering, this is a live feed you’re getting now. And don’t try tracing it, you’ll just waste your energy. You’re not the only one who has talented technicians on his side.” He leans in closer to the camera, his mask nearly touching the lens. “In the spirit of clarity, let me be clear: this, right now? This is a gift. This is my warning to you to stay the hell out of my business, otherwise you and your precious lackeys will have to answer to me.” He moves out of the frame and zooms in on Tim’s masked face, then Jason’s. “Lucky for me, I found a couple of your birds messing with my shipment, and they so graciously volunteered to help me set an example.” He steps aside and gestures to a tray of tools, each one more horrible than the last. Most of them are still coated in blood from his last victim. Tim gulps. Sionis peruses his collection, which gives Tim the chance to catch Jason’s attention. He jerks his head toward the camera, mouthing, Tell them where we are. Jason nods, and Tim looks back at Sionis. “You think I haven’t been tortured before? This is just a workout.” Is it true? No. He’s terrified, actually. But Jason needs time to signal Bruce through the camera, so Tim will stall for as long as he can. “Bold words, kid.” Sionis picks up a knife, tracing the edge of it with his fingertip. “Just makes it more fun for me when you break.” He comes closer and grabs Tim roughly by the chin, pressing the knife against his cheek uncomfortably close to his eye. “I’ll bet I can make you cry.” “Hey, Blackie,” Jason calls, ripping their focus away. His eyes are narrowed, mouth twisted. “Did you hear the one about the rich dude who wore blackface?” Sionis tightens his grip on Tim’s face. “Do tell.” Stop talking, Tim tries to convey telepathically. Don’t make this worse. “It was universally agreed that he was a piece of shit.” “You should learn to keep your mouth shut when someone’s holding a knife to your baby brother’s face.” To prove his point, Roman digs the knife in, slicing a thin line down all the way to Tim’s jaw. Tim inhales sharply at the sting. “Baby brother?” Jason repeats. “You really are an idiot.” He doesn’t look at Tim, keeping his glare solely on Roman. “I barely know the guy. He follows me around, thinking I walk on water or some shit, but trust me. He’s a pain in the ass. You’re doing me a favor, really.” Sionis pulls the knife away from Tim’s face. Tim releases a breath. Sionis approaches Jason now, his knife still raised with Tim’s blood staining the steel blade. “Someone’s mouthy today.” “If you think this is mouthy, you should have heard your mother last night.” Sionis plunges the knife into Jason’s knee. Jason locks a scream behind his teeth, his face contorting in pain. “Try walking on water now,” Sionis hisses. He yanks the knife out, blood splattering on Jason’s legs and the floor. Tim looks nervously at the camera, its red light blinding ominously. Is Bruce watching this from the other side, agonizing over having a front-row seat to this display? Or is he already gone, on his way to rescue them? Tim hopes it’s the latter. “You think—think I haven’t been stabbed before?” Jason pants, his teeth gritted through the pain. “That was child’s play.” “Is that right?” Sionis looks over his shoulder at Tim. “Then maybe we should get a second opinion. What do you say, kiddo? Want to match your brother over here?” “Thank god,” Jason says. “Go over there and stay, if you wouldn’t mind. Your breath smells like dog shit. But I guess you are what you eat, so.” Roman punches Jason in the face so hard Tim can hear his teeth clank from here. He does it again two, three times, until blood streams from Jason’s nostrils and spills over his lips. Tim pulls frantically on the ropes binding him, tries to do anything, but he’s held tight. “Now, that,” Jason says, spitting out a mouthful of blood and what looks like a tooth, “was better. Still amateurish, but at least you’re not a fuckin’ sissy about it.” “Hood,” Tim snaps. “Please, shut up.” Why are you doing this? “Why should I listen to you? You’re the one who got us into this mess in the first place, replacement. This is your fault.” Jason’s words are snarls and his eyes burn with a tangible hatred, all directed at Tim. But Tim knows him too well. Not everyone wears a literal mask like Sionis does. Roman reaches for his tray and picks up a new blade, this one with large, jagged teeth. “By all means, keep talking, Hood. See where that gets you.” “What, are you going to stab me? Go ahead. The little shit deserves to feel guilty.” Sionis poises the blade at Jason’s shoulder, digging the tip in until Jason hisses. He leans in close, grabs Jason’s jaw with his other hand. “I know you’re not stupid. You think that if you act like a big enough asshole, you can save the runt from me.” He pushes on the knife, slowly sinking it into Jason’s flesh, ridge by ridge. “I’m very okay with that.” Roman twists the knife and Jason screams. Tim closes his eyes but he can’t cover his ears; he can’t tune out his brother screaming in agony, and he almost wishes that he were in Bruce’s position, watching this through a video feed. At least then he could turn it off. “Stop, please,” Tim begs. “He didn’t do anything, it was all me. It was my idea to blow up your shipment. I ruined your business, not him. Just—hurt me, take it out on me. Not him.” Sionis releases the blade, leaving it sticking out of Jason’s shoulder. “Told you I could make the little bird cry.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim has never felt so powerless in his life. It feels like it goes on for hours, the blood and the screaming and the sickening sound of torn flesh. It only gets worse when he escalates to the snapping of fingers, the crackle of knife through bone. He hits Jason so many times there’s more purple riddling his face than clean, unmarked skin. And every time Sionis so much as looks at Tim, Jason does something new to pull his attention back like a wasp on a string. He provokes the sadistic bastard with vulgar comments, snotty complaints that belong more in Damian’s mouth than Jason’s. And Tim can’t do anything but watch. He doesn’t know how long it’s been when something crashes behind him, which he assumes is the door. Roman barely has time to drop the blowtorch he’s holding before a batarang strikes him in the center of his mask, knocking him out cold. Jason doesn’t react. He hasn’t lifted his head in so long it puts Tim on the edge of panic, just quiet groans and grunts through every new injury inflicted on him. “Tim!” Dick is at Tim’s side in an instant, already working on the ropes binding him. “Are you okay?” Bruce is tending to Jason, putting a field dressing on one of his many open wounds while he talks to Alfred through his earpiece. He’s telling him to call Dr. Thompkins and tell her it’s an emergency. As soon as his hands are free Tim is lunging up from the chair, only for Dick to grab him by the shoulders and force him back down. “Hey, hey, slow down. Where are you hurt?” Dick lightly prods around the cut on Tim’s face, which is undoubtedly going to need stitches, but Tim couldn’t care less. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Jason, who lets out a groan when Bruce accidentally jostles his broken arm. Tim shakes his head, swallowing thickly. “He didn’t—he didn’t do anything to me. He didn’t touch me at all. Only Jason.”

[allsassnoclass]

Hi M! Can I please request "an actual open honest conversation" + "falling asleep over skype or chat" with Cashton? 💞 -blackbutterfliescal💛

alrighty here you go @blackbutterfliescal

Ashton's face is half-obscured when Calum calls him, shadows flickering over him from the street lights he keeps passing under and beanie flattening his hair so his curls fall further into his eyes than usual.

"Hey," Ashton says, adjusting one of his earbuds.  "What's up?"

"I could've waited to call," Calum says.  "I didn't know you were still out."

"I'm just coming back from the library," Ashton says.  "Besides, I always want to talk to you, and I'll be back at the apartment in no time."

"What were you doing in the library at three in the morning?"

"I had a paper due tomorrow.  It's not great, but it's good enough that I can leave the edits for the morning."

"Oh," Calum says.  "You should probably go to bed, then, if you're going to get up to edit."

"Not tired yet," Ashton replies automatically.  "Besides, I want to talk to you.  What's up?"

Calum shifts, trying to get comfortable under the covers and still be able to see the screen.  He misses Ashton's face, more than he conceivably should given how often they snapchat and FaceTime.

"Nothing much," he says eventually, once he's decided that laying on his side is the best option.

"Are you going to keep bullshitting me?  Because this is the latest you've asked to call and I know that something's been bothering you.  If you want to talk around it, we can, but I don't think you would've called me at three in the morning if that's the case."

Calum sighs, but he expected this.  Ashton knows him too well to allow him to get away with lying about how he's been doing.

"I feel really fucking shitty," he says and then, to his great embarrassment, immediately starts crying.

The worst thing is that he never cries.  Michael can get teary-eyed over those sad dog commercials and Luke sniffles at half the Disney movies he watches, but the last time Calum cried was when he broke his leg as a kid.  It hurt like hell and he thought he would never get to play soccer again until his mom corrected that assumption.

"Woah, hey," Ashton says gently.  "It's alright, Cal.  Whatever it is, you'll get through it."

Calum shakes his head.

"Remember to breathe," Ashton says, and Calum obediently forces air back into his lungs.  On camera, Ashton enters his apartment and flicks on the light.

"I d-don't want to be here," Calum sobs.  "I hate school, I'm f-failing half my classes, I have no friends, I don't--I just want to be back home, with you and Michael and Luke again.  I miss my family.  I miss my house.  I miss just--sitting in the back yard with you doing nothing, or going to get fries late at night because we didn’t want to go home, or any of those ridiculous adventures you dragged me on.”

He takes another shaky breath, swiping at his eyes.  It does nothing to stop the flow of tears.

“Cal, it’s okay,” Ashton tries desperately.

“It’s not!  You don’t understand.  You’ve never had an issue making friends.  You’ve always known what you want to do with your life and you’ve never gotten anything less than a B.  I have nothing.”

“I thought you get along with the soccer team.”

Calum rolls his eyes, even though Ashton probably can’t see it in the darkness of his room.

“They don’t hate me, but I’m not friends with any of them.  The only reason I have their numbers is because it’s on the team roster.  It’s not like we’re getting lunch or forming a study group of anything.”

Calum didn’t have a friend until he had Michael, and he didn’t really have friends plural until Luke and Ashton came into the picture.  He was terrified coming to college without any of them, but part of him had still hoped that his fear would be unfounded.

“What about your roommate?” Ashton asks.  “I thought you two were okay.”

“I haven’t seen him for the past five days,” Calum says.  “He texts me to let me know he’s staying over at his girlfriend’s, but that’s it.  I should have gone to your school.  At least then I wouldn’t be miserable.”

“Calum--”

“I know, I know.”

“You can’t choose your school because of me,” Ashton says gently.  “My university doesn’t have the program you wanted and it’s too far away for your family to visit for a weekend.  You wouldn’t have been happy.  It probably would’ve led to us fighting.”

Calum rolls his eyes again, because he knows that.  Everyone under the sun told him that he shouldn’t choose his school based on a high school romance, regardless of the fact that said romance is with Ashton, the love of his life.  Luke and Michael ignored everyone who said that and now Calum gets to see all of their instagram pictures and snapchat updates, both of them looking perfectly content and utterly in love.

Maybe he should’ve gone to school with them.  If he hadn’t gotten a soccer scholarship to his current school, he probably would have tried to scrape up the money to and wouldn’t feel so fucking lonely all the time.  He already did two years of being without Ashton since he graduated before them, and it was bearable with his two best friends still by his side.  Without any of them he feels untethered, adrift amidst an ocean with a storm brewing on the horizon and no lifejackets in sight.

“I miss you,” Calum says.

“I know, sweetheart,” Ashton says.  He’s in his own bedroom now, phone propped up in his desk.

Calum misses him so much he aches with it.

“What’s going on with your classes?” Ashton asks.  “You haven’t said anything about failing them before.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Calum pouts.  Ashton sighs.  “Look, they just suck, okay?  I’m behind.  Nothing makes sense.  The teachers are mean and the classmates are mean and I don’t fucking understand anything.”

“Have you been going to class?”

Calum scrubs a hand over his face, hating this conversation more and more as it continues.  Ashton can judge the answer by his silence, and he knows that it’s not the one he should be giving.

“You can’t learn if you don’t go to class, and your professors are going to be more willing to work with you if they see you making an effort.”

“I know.”

“Okay, okay,” Ashton says gently.  “I know you do, Cal, but that’s the only advice I have.  Can you talk to a TA or go to some office hours?”

Calum shrugs.

“When do you have class tomorrow?”

“Eight,” Calum says.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ashton hums in sympathy, “and you’re still awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Ashton hums again.

“I’m going to call you tomorrow to be sure you’re headed over,” he says.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Ashton says.  “I like talking to you in the morning, anyway.  It’s a good start.”

Calum buries his face in his pillow.

“What?” Ashton asks.

“Everyone is going to judge me,” Calum mumbles, moving his face out of the pillow just enough for Ashton to be able to understand what he’s saying and for him to get some oxygen, because watching him suffocate on a video call would probably be traumatic for Ashton.

“They won’t,” Ashton says definitively.  “They have their own shit to worry about.  Half of them are probably in the same boat, anyway.”

Calum hums.

“You know, I thought I was going to fail some of my classes at midterms my first semester.  I barely managed to scrape them all up to a B and save my scholarship.”

“What?”  Calum frowns, but when he looks at his phone Ashton doesn’t seem like he’s lying.  “You never said anything.”

Ashton shrugs.

“I didn’t want you to worry, I guess.  It was hard enough being away from everyone, and when we talked I wanted to be able to enjoy it instead of making us both stress.  I think part of me also thought I had to like… justify why I went so far away, I guess.  Like if I had been having a bad time it would’ve just proven that I should’ve gone to community college like everyone was expecting.  Everyone made sacrifices to get me here.  I didn’t want that to be in vain.”

Ashton has always acted like he has to do everything himself.  It took a long time to get him to open up when they first became friends, but Calum has always tried to give him endless support.

“What I’m trying to say is that you’re not a failure for how you’re feeling right now, or anything like that,” Ashton says.  “You’ve only been at college for a few weeks.  Everyone struggles a little to adjust, even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

Ashton may be right, but that doesn’t necessarily tell Calum how to fix this.

“If you put in the work, it’s still plenty early enough to get your grades up to passing,” Ashton says.  “And if you still despise all of your classes by the end of the semester, you can talk to your advisor about switching majors.  They might be able to point you towards something that you���d enjoy learning about more.  Your career center might have one of those tests you can take that tell you what fields you should go into, too.  As for the friend thing, maybe start with the soccer team?  You’re a fucking delight, Calum.  Once people realize that, you’ll make friends, but you have to encourage them to get close enough.  Maybe you could ask about a team dinner at a dining hall.  Hell, maybe you could ask your neighbor on the floor if they want to go get dinner.  The worst that can happen is they say no, and that’s their loss.”

“Okay,” Calum says quietly.  “It’s hard, though.”

Even thinking about approaching someone is making his palms sweat.  He’s not as shy as he used to be, Michael and Luke and Ashton all bolstering his confidence since they became friends, but it’s a lot easier when they’re with him instead of over an hour away.

“I know it is,” Ashton says.  “You can do it, though.  I know you can.”

Calum hums.

“What can I do?” Ashton asks.  “How can I help right now?”

Asking Ashton to skip his classes tomorrow and make the drive to stay with him for a bit is unreasonable, and Calum wants to do this without resorting to any unreasonable whining.  Even though Ashton said he’s not a failure for how he’s feeling, he’s going to feel like one if he doesn’t manage to get through this.

“I should probably go to bed,” Calum says.

“Are you going to be able to get to sleep?”

He doesn’t answer right away, because he’s pretty sure that as soon as they hang up he’s going to start crying again or toss and turn until his alarm goes off or Ashton calls again to get him to class.

“Cal?”

“Probably not.”

“Do you want me to keep talking?  Or maybe you could play some music to help you relax more?”

“Can you keep talking?” Calum asks.  He doesn’t say I miss you again, because that would be redundant, but he’s pretty sure Ashton hears it, anyway.  “You could read a phone book if you want, I just want to hear your voice.”

Ashton hums, riffling through various books on his desk.

“You could read your essay,” Calum says.  “You don’t have to talk to me very long, just a little bit more, then maybe stay on as you get ready for bed.”

“You’re sure you want to hear about how Shakespeare uses the family as a microcosm of society?”

“Yeah, that’ll put me right to sleep,” he snorts.  Ashton gives him a look that makes Calum smile for what feels like the first time tonight.

“Okay, buckle up,” Ashton says.  “This is a riveting essay.  This essay could win me awards.”

“You said it’s bad earlier.”

“I said it’s not great, but it will be once I edit a bit.  As a stem major you have forfeited your right to judge.”

Calum rolls his eyes and snuggles deeper under the covers.  Ashton clears his throat and begins reading, voice even and gentle.  Calum lets the words wash over him and tries to get his muscles to relax, sinking further into his shitty dorm mattress.  Somewhere between Ashton’s explanations about the rottenness of Denmark relating directly to the unraveling of the ruling family and Ashton thinking quietly out loud as he switches words around in his edits, Calum falls asleep.

[mangobilorian]

Flight | (explicit) iii

Pairing: Mandalorian x Reader

Genre: Smut

Words: 5246

read chapter two or four

“Break my ship, and I’ll leave you on the next backwater planet.” You grit your teeth, fingers gripping the controls. The display swims before your eyes, and you’re too rattled to think straight.

“I’m trying , Mando.” The helmeted man grunts, annoying you further. You try concentrating on the task at hand, but there was too much information to parse through. What did this button do? What about that lever?

“Try harder.” You open your mouth to retort, but the collision of a small asteroid collides with the ship, hurtling Mando off his feet. The man sighs, and pushes you out of the pilot’s chair, taking back control of the Crest.

“Does that mean my lesson is over?” You pout and give him your best puppy-dog eyes, but he’s unfazed.

“Yes.” He steers the ship back to a straight course and maneuvers the two of you out of the small asteroid field.

“Will there be more?”

“Maybe.” You huff. You’ve spent about three weeks with the Mandalorian now, and conversation still runs dry. Sometimes, the silence lasts for days before it’s broken, and it’s usually you who speaks first.

At the start, you’d been too terrified to initiate anything. After all, your relationship with the bounty hunter hinged on sex and your evident lack of confidence. You didn’t mind, but you wanted something more than that. You wanted to learn how to fly. He refused, you begged, he continued to refuse, and you tried swaying him through… other means. It took one space battle, five hyperspace jumps, and a trip to Nevarro to convince Mando to teach you. So you have some use , he had muttered.

But your first lesson just flopped, which was definitely not your fault. Mando thought, for whatever reason, that flying through an asteroid field would be great practice for a beginner. A complaint rested on the tip of your tongue, but you sucked it up in indignation. If Mando wanted to be a bad teacher, then so be it. And… Maker, he was worse than you ever pictured.

He didn’t even give you enough time to remember what the controls did before launching you into the field. Everytime you got hit, he’d threaten to strand you or cast you out. If you forgot what a button did, he’d mutter a curse like you couldn’t hear it and-

Ugh. You know you’re being too angry. Too unreasonable. You were wrong to place Mando on some pedestal and expect him to be a good teacher. It’s just that… he’s so gentle when he teaches you about other stuff. Like how the body works, what he likes, what you like. So it’s hard to reconcile that Mando with one grumbling in his seat next to you. The one who successfully flew the ship out of that field and now plots the next coordinates of a planet he thinks his next bounty is on.

You can tell, by the sheer amount of bounty pucks Karga gave him, that Mando had a lot of work to do. The fall of the Empire a year prior had shocked some systems while others were left to do business as usual. In the wake of government upheaval, people who thought they were safe under the Empire suddenly had targets painted across their foreheads. And those who previously hid and ran found themselves with a blaster in hand. You wonder where Mando stood on the spectrum. Was he a mere enforcer? Working for money or maybe to leave a tragic past behind? Or did he like bloodshed and found a job to fulfill that desire? Some bounty hunters even catered to certain types of jobs. Stories of Boba Fett filtered into your parents’ tavern often enough for you to know he made a living off of the Empire. But Mando didn’t seem like the kind of person to eat at the feet of moffs.  

His helmet reflects the hyperspace beams, taking the light and pushing it backwards. It’s like the way he dodges all your personal questions.

“Done staring?” Mando doesn’t look at you.

“I wasn’t staring.” He snorts, not bothering to reply. Maker, he gets on your nerves sometimes. You just want him to talk to you and that’s the last thing he wants to do. You always had someone to talk to for the majority of your life. By default, you were shy and insecure, but you had your brother, your parents, your friends at the spaceport. And now? You had one grumpy (but very hot) bounty hunter.

“If you want something, spill it. We’re almost to Tatooine, and you look like you’re going to burst.”

“I do not -”

“Save it. Now tell me.” The two of you sit in silence once more.

“Why are you so blunt all the time?”

“If you have a problem with me, I’ll drop you off when we land.” You grit your teeth. He’s always deflecting your questions. He makes every question about you and not about himself and it’s so. Kriffing. Irritating.

“I just asked ‘why are you so blunt.’ I didn’t say ‘I have a problem with you, Mando.’” He grunts in reply. As if that answers all your questions. “So you’re not going to-”

“Why are you so curious all of a sudden? You didn’t have a problem before,” he says. Mando doesn’t sound as angry as you expected. It’s like he’s genuinely interested… and well, you don’t really know how to answer him.

Why were you so angry and irritated? Three weeks with the man and it’s all bubbling up now? The time you spent with Mando is usually in pleasant silence or complete darkness, so you don't know why you decided it was “Be an Ass to Mando Day.”

“If this is about me teaching you, then don’t worry. I’ll still help you fly.” You snap your head up to him.

“N-no this has nothing to do with that-”

“Stop stuttering. I thought we went over this-”

“Stop deflecting everything-”

“Get a grip of yourself.” You close your mouth at Mando’s command. He wheels his chair to face you, and your knees almost touch his. Even though you don’t know what he looks like, you can probably imagine how irritated he is. Scrunched brows, downturned lips-

“I’m sorry. It’s just,” you breathe out, struggling to figure out what to say. “I’m… really on edge? Right now?” Mando tilts his helmet in the equivalent of an eyebrow raise.

“On edge?” He repeats. You nod, forcing a reassuring smile. Only it probably looks like a grimace because Mando sighs the same sigh he gives you when you accidentally injure yourself.  

“Like I’m all jittery and stuff. And not because I just had my first flying lesson which was cool and scary and- anyway. It’s like my heart is beating too fast and I just need to do something .” The bounty hunter gives you a simple hum as if he understands everything you said.

“You’ve got cabin fever,” he says, propping a hand under a chin. At your confused expression, he continues on. “You’ve been stuck in the ship for too long and need an outlet. Flying only made you more… ansty.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes. You weren’t antsy, and Mando acts as if he can just diagnose you with whatever.

“I don’t have cabin fever,” you pout, “but if I did, how can I fix it?”

“Physical activity would do the trick.” The sneaky bounty hunter. You know he’s smirking under there. He’s trying to bait you, but you won’t fall for it.

“Like what?”

“You tell me,” he says, titling his helmet. Ugh. You’ve come to know one fact about Mando: he’s stubborn. Instead of snapping back, you resign yourself to steady breaths. Let the man look at you and see the picture of calm. You close your eyes for an extra effect.

But your stoic facade does little to placate the thrumming in your blood. You are on edge, and you don’t really know why. Cabin fever might be the answer, but you’re doubtful. You survived being cooped on your home planet even though you desperately wanted to leave. You survived managing your parents’ tavern despite hating the work there. So the idea that being stuck on a ship—something you ached to do since your brother became a pilot—seemed a tad ludicrous. And yet, the undying urge to move and do something rests in every blood vessel and every nerve cell in your body.

Maybe the answer lies in why you were so angry at Mando. He was the worst teacher you’ve ever had, but that isn’t a reason to be livid. Of course you felt disappointed at the lesson being cut short, even a little sad at the prospect of you being a bad pilot. But you held out hope that you will improve your piloting when Mando improves his teaching. That still doesn’t warrant how frustrated you were with his silence. Three weeks seems like enough time to get used to him not talking.

You respect him enough to allow him to be quiet, but you loved it when he did talk. Because when he talked, it was about easy things like the difficulties of his job. How certain criminals gravitate towards specific planets. How some bounties were better dead than alive despite the order going either way. You especially loved it when he whispered praises, little moans in your ear—telling you to be more confident and to stop stuttering. His breathy grunts when you wrapped your mouth-

Maker, did the heat in the cockpit go up for some reason? Mando had wheeled his chair to face front once again, and you had spent the last few minutes… thinking. Very hard about your situation, yet you don’t have a conclusion. Or maybe you did reach an answer and were avoiding it because of one glaring reason: you were still a virgin.

That singular thought is enough for you to visibly cringe. Thankfully, Mando doesn’t notice. From this angle, you can see the flash of Mando’s bare wrist, and almost sigh wistfully. It’s always a pleasant surprise to be reminded that Mando is Human. A peek of bare skin is enough to send a tingle down your spine. Imagine what the rest of him looks like- You air out your shirt and stand up, leaving the cockpit.

Once you descend the ladder and are finally away from the bounty hunter’s shiny helmet, you slump on the bed. With a sigh, you bury your face in your hands and just… melt. Into a blob of feelings and nervousness.

You didn’t know what to expect really. Well, that’s not true. You expected kissing then oral sex then ‘real’ sex. Instead, you received a lot of kissing and a lot of oral—seriously, Mando’s obsession with eating you out isn’t bad, just surprising— but you’re still a virgin. With a big capital ‘V’.

Some part of you wonders whether you’re the one who’s holding yourself back. That your nervousness is tangible enough for Mando to notice and give you space. Your confidence was a smattering of puzzle pieces, and Mando helped you put it together. He knew how fractured, how fragile you used to be, and probably didn’t want to push you.

Yet another, darker part of you considers the idea that Mando didn’t actually want to have sex with you. As if you were some poor girl he took pity on and decided to pleasure a little bit, but he didn’t want the emotional baggage that came with actual sex. Not that you wanted emotional baggage but-

You groan in frustration. The more you think, the more conflicted you get. It’s easy to admit—after all your inner monologues— that you’re on edge because of how much you want to jump Mando’s bones. Kriff, a look at his bare wrist was enough to get you hot and bothered. Yet the nagging fear of whether or not he reciprocates your desire still tugs at your chest. Maybe he would strand you on Tatooine. Maybe he was just waiting for the right moment to leave you without it weighing on his moral compass. He never said how long you’d be allowed to stay. Maker, what would you do if you were alone? What would you eat, where would you live, how-

“Are you in a crisis?” You snap your head up to the helmeted man leaning against the opposite wall. When did he even get there?

“W-what? No. Just thinking about my supposed cabin fever.”

“Yeah? And how did that work out?” Mando crosses his arms, bending a knee to place a foot against the wall. And he looks too damn intimidating, too wide, and much too hot.

“Um… I don’t think I have it?” He snorts in a yeah right sort of way.

“You say that but you look like you swallowed poodoo. Very attractive.”

“Do you mean that?” You blurt out, mind too fried to filter your words.

“That you’re attractive? Yeah.”

“Oh.” There must be something about your expression because Mando pushes off the wall to grasp your chin.

“You still doubt yourself?” Your lack of response is enough for Mando to sigh and nudge your legs apart. He’s fully in your space now. Mando traps himself between your thighs, but you feel like the one who’s caged in. “I thought I told you that already.”

“It’s kinda hard to stop being insecure after-”

“Well, it’s not my job to make you more confident, is it?” And those were the words you did not want to hear. He’s right; it’s not his job to help you at all, and you knew it. At your silence, Mando pushes himself even deeper into your space, leaning over you so you’re forced to look up or collide with his chest. “I didn’t mean it like that… look, if you’re going to sulk-”

“I’m not sulking. I just-” you sigh, unsure if you should stop speaking now or get it all off your chest. “Do you even want me here?” He pulls back.

“What? If I didn’t want you, you’d be long gone.”

“Then why…,” the words dry up like cotton in your mouth. “Then why don’t we do anything… more?” You gesture between the two of you. “Intimate?” You cringe at the wording, but there’s nothing else to say.

“So this was about sex then? I thought you liked it.” Just a touch of hurt lingered in his words, making guilt worm into your chest.

“I do . But we haven’t done um… ‘real sex’?” Maker, if someone stabbed you before you opened your mouth again, you’d thank them. Maybe Mando could do it.

He lets out a snort. “I didn’t initiate anything because I thought you’d be too scared. Not because I don’t want to. I do,” he says, voice tapering out to a whisper. Oh. So your fear was misplaced, and the rational part of your brain was right all along. Mando wasn’t going to kick you out, and he did want you and-

“Here,” he says, pushing you back to lie on the bed. “If you think you’re ready, we can do this now.”

“Now?” Your heart stutters at the thought, fast enough and erratic enough for you to hear it.

“You’re too wound up. Seems like the solution is ‘real sex’.” You groan in embarrassment. Well. Sure. “I’ll turn off the lights.” Mando leaves you, and everything becomes too real. You’re definitely unprepared for this moment despite craving it for the last few weeks—actually for the past month; you’ve wanted this since the first encounter in your bedroom.

The hull descends to darkness. Stars, how will this even work? You hope you don’t make a fool of yourself. Scenarios of you fumbling or messing up flash through your mind, making you cringe. How does one even ‘mess up’ at sex?

“Relax. You think too loud,” Mando says, a few feet away. You release a breath, nodding to yourself. You can relax. Just breathe in and out and-

Mando places a hand on your shoulder. “Come here.” He leans in and your breath mixes with his, hot and airy. A clunk rings by your feet, the sound sending vibrations to your head. You trace up his sides, removing his armor piece by piece. You could do this. It was all part of the routine. Just as you loosen his pauldrons and Mando drops them to the floor, he presses his lips to yours. Now this is what you were used to. The steady rhythm of his mouth, the tentative tongue already swiping past your lips.

As soon as his armor is all gone, a hand clutches the back of your neck and another makes its way up your thigh. Mando presses deeper into the kiss, forcing your head backwards as he bends further down. The hand on your thigh reaches the zipper of your pants and unzips it.

The bounty hunter discarded the glove on that hand some time ago, but worn down leather still touches the nape of your neck. Pulling away for a second, Mando tugs your pants down, and you push off the bed to allow for it to slip past your ass. Just as he’s about to reclaim your mouth, Mando takes his hand off your neck and glides a gloved finger on your lips. He doesn’t need to talk for you to understand what he wants.

You bite the tip of the glove and yank it off his hand. You drop it to the side, and pull Mando into your arms. He relents and kisses you once again. A hand rubs small circles on your chest then grasps the soft cushion of your breasts. He muffles your sound of surprise with his lips, his hands squeezing in an erratic pattern. The more he touches you, the more he enters your space, the more you lose yourself in his hazy spell. You always wonder if the blissed-out feeling usually accompanies kissing and sex or if it’s a Mando thing.

He pulls back and sinks to his knees. Nudging your thighs further apart, Mando reaches a hand up to your mouth. Without a word, you suck his thumb, making sure to get it as wet as possible. It’s messy, saliva dripping down your lips, tongue swirling dirtily. He tastes like smoke and salt.

You hear a murmur of “good girl” below you as Mando takes his finger and glides it over your center. You moan at the contact, relieved to finally be touched. He presses a soft kiss on your thigh, still gently rubbing his thumb over that spot and-

The bounty hunter takes his hand off and nuzzles against you. Without warning, he licks a stripe along the length of your now-throbbing pussy. Stars, even though he eats you out often, you still feel like it’s the first time. The same lightning that zaps through your body now is exactly like the one that hurtled through you when Mando first placed his tongue on you.

He laps at you a few more times before taking your clit in his mouth and sucking . Without his lips on yours, nothing stops a groan from escaping you. Mando presses a hand on your stomach and nudges you backward. You let him push you, and lie flat on the bed. Beads of sweat already build on your brow, the temperature of the room rising. He continues sucking, the pleasure muffling every coherent thought. Only one thing bounces around in your mind: more .

Your hands grasp at his hair, a familiar feeling, and tug. Mando simply grunts and you feel something graze the inside of your thighs. Slowly—too slow, actually—one of Mando’s fingers enters you.

“M-Mando,” you gasp, pushing your pelvis closer to him. He’s being too careful with you, and you just. Want. More.

“Calm down,” he says, but you tug at his hair harder. He begins to move his finger in and out, but it’s not nearly enough to satisfy you. After a few excruciating minutes—or maybe seconds; time seems to slow when you’re with Mando— he pushes another finger in. The sensation of his mouth on your clit, of his fingers thrusting into you, encases your head in a cloud. Lewd, wet sounds echo around the dark hull. You can feel Mando’s groans against you, the vibrations of his breath and words sending you spiraling.

At this moment, Mando is the only one who exists. He lives in your head, in your body: a puppeteer who controls every move. You can feel Mando curl his fingers, aiming for that one spot. A warm, heavy coil builds in your stomach. As Mando continues his ministrations, his torture, the coil tenses and tigthens until-

It snaps, like a sparkler on Life Day, and the darkness behind your eyelids bursts into colors you can’t describe. You gasp at the feeling, finger desperately pulling on Mando’s strands. Little murmurs of affection and praise echo from below, and you take the time to slow your breathing. He doesn’t pull away yet, and his breaths are almost enough to drive you to overstimulation. You have to plead to get him to back off.  

“Ready?” You nod, then realize Mando can’t actually see you.

“Mmm, yeah,” you say, releasing your hold on his hair in favor of the sheets below. You hear a rustling of clothes, probably his pants and under shirt. He must have tossed it on the floor, leaving him completely bare. When you reach a hand out, you’re met with a searing hot torso.

Hands grab your hips and tug you forward. Something hard and blunt and warm presses up against you. Maker, this is it. The moment that’s building up for a month. The moment that exists in your fantasies at night when you try to muffle your moans, fingering yourself to the thought of the bounty hunter. The moment that you daydream about when you watch Mando pilot the Crest or clean his blasters.

You shut your eyes despite being in total darkness. Mando slicks his cock with your wetness before pushing in, just barely entering you. The slight contact is enough to send tingles to your throbbing clit, already stimulated and aching. He props a hand next to your head, and you feel the warmth of his body hover over yours.

“I’ll go slow,” he breathes out.

“Thank you,” you whisper, and Mando pushes in a bit deeper. The head enters then the rest of his twitching cock. Inch by inch he slides in, using your wetness as lubricant.

It’s… an odd sensation. He’s much thicker than anything you’ve had inside you—much warmer too. The stretch is expected, and it stings a little bit, but Mando prepped you enough. You hear little grunts from above you as Mando bottoms out. You squeeze without thinking, and Mando swears.

You feel more full than ever. It’s one thing to have Mando’s cock in your mouth and get used to the feeling of him pushing at the back of your throat, of you gasping for air in one breath and moaning around him in another. It’s an entirely different feeling to have that same cock inside of you, hard and pulsing.

“Are you… ok?” You’re more than fine, but it feels like something is missing.

“Yeah. Umm… is it supposed to feel like this?”

He snorts. “Like what?” He says, then retracts his hips a bit before thrusting into you. It feels like a blunt stab, and you gasp—more out of surprise than real pain. “Too soon?”

“N-no. Just continue.” He begins to thrust shallowly, setting a steady pace. Mando’s hand skims up your side, warm and soothing. He traces up your ribs, your neck, and settles on your face. Still thrusting, he leans down to kiss you again.

It feels a little better this way. His mouth on yours, delivering you another dose of endorphins while he takes his pleasure from you. It feels… good to be filled up by Mando. He satisfies your craving, but there’s a lack of something more . You didn’t know what to expect when you finally lost your virginity. Maybe a feeling akin to fireworks bursting in your chest or an explosion of pleasure enough to orgasm at entry alone. It seems like your fantasies were just that. Fantasies.

“Does it… feel good?” Mando asks, a nervous hint in his voice. Maker, you’ve been so caught up in your own anxiety that you didn’t think about how he would feel.

“Yeah,” you say, but you both know it’s a lie. Mando leans back, cock halfway inside. He pulls out so only the tip is in then he thrusts, hard enough for you to gasp but the feeling is different, like-

As Mando thrusts, two of his fingers rub tiny circles over your clit and that… that makes all the difference. A dam of nerves and anxiety and unmet expectations falls away to reveal the mounting pleasure beneath. This time, when you moan, it’s real.

He resumes his position above you, his arm between your bodies, thrusting at a steady pace. Every time he enters you, a bolt of pleasure accompanies the sensation. The cloud that encloses around your head when he kisses you returns, once again rendering you at the mercy of the bounty hunter.

Even with the penetration and the extra stimulation, it’s not enough. The comfortable, seductive coil in your stomach stays curled, not yet satisfied to unfurl and snap.

“M-more,” you groan. Mando presses a small kiss on your brow, and you feel him retract then push in. He goes at a steady pace, harder and faster than before. But it’s still not enough. You blindly reach up for him, desperate for more contact. Something hungry takes up residence in your body, and only one thing will satiate it.

“Please-ugh-Mando, more ,” you beg. You need more of him. Of his hand rubbing your clit, of his thick cock thrusting deeper. The bounty hunter doesn’t speak, electing to grunt instead, but he does increase his pace once more. To a pace bordering on bruising. On fucking. Now this is what you fantasized about. Not the sweet, gentle way you imagined most people lose their virginities—something that wasn’t bad, but Mando was a kriffing bounty hunter. You want him to be rough.

Instead of kissing you, a hot mouth closes in one of your nipples. In the same way he sucked your clit before, Mando pours the same energy into your breast. His mouth is wet and warm and too many of your nerves are wired with pleasure. His pace is hard enough that your breasts bounce at the movement, your entire body pliant and open for the bounty hunter.

The mouth on your chest, the finger on your clit, the bruising thrusts wreck your body to the point where you’re starting to consider how you’ll make it out alive. Mando releases his hold on your chest, opting to grasp your hips instead. His grip digs into the soft skin of your hips, and you know it will bruise.

The new angle changes his thrusts from a simple in and out to a bam-bam-bam downwards. The hands on your hips curl around to the back of your thighs and hoist you up, your lower back and pelvis rising off the bed. Wet, filthy sounds of your coupling mix with choked-off moans and gruttal groans. You grow more delirious by the moment, and you can’t even move against him.

“So fucking good for me,” he grunts. “My little pilot,” he says, pounding into you. “Feels good now, huh,” he chuckles darkly. Your brain is too frazzled to respond with anything but moans.

“You always want more ,” he enunciates with a particularly hard thrust.

You wrap your legs around Mando’s waist, trapping him in place. He can’t pull out as much, so he grinds into you instead. The thrusts are shallower but just as hard, just as overpowering as before. For a second, you wonder if you should do more but realize you don’t even know what to do. So you let Mando take your willing body, eager for every thrust, every kiss.  

The pressure in your stomach picks up heat, garnering more pleasure each passing second. You grasp at his arms, nails dragging down the length of his forearms.

“S-so good,” you mewl, too lost in the moment, already drowning in his arms.

“Are you,” he huffs, “close?” You moan in reply, stomach clenching in anticipation. The smell of sweat, metal, and sex permeate the air, creating a an almost suffocating haze. The fingers on your clit speed up, losing their careful, controlled motions. It’s messier, hungrier. The almost painful tension in your belly holds out, rising and aching, greedy for a little more-

You cry out, back arching off the bed, relying solely on Mando’s hold on your legs. For a brief moment, you can’t hear anything but crashing static, consumed by the feeling of being so full . You squeeze tightly, hugging every inch of Mando’s cock. He continues shallow, softer thrusts as your pussy pulses around him, wet and hot.  

Your body goes limp, and Mando sets you back down to lay flat on the bed. He thrusts one, two more times before pulling out. You still feel dizzy and disoriented, barley registering Mando jacking himself on top of you. For a moment, you hear him gasp, a strangulated sound, then something wet and warm lands on your stomach.

He continues rubbing himself until he’s completely drained, choked moans escaping his lips. You hear him move away and pick something off the floor then feel fabric wiping across your belly. In the aftermath, you suddenly feel clammy and sweaty and tired. Like all your exhaustion halted in the heat of the moment then decided to spring up on you once the high of an orgasm left your body.

Mando nudges you aside and joins you in the cramped bed. The heat his body emanates is inviting, but you’re too sweaty to even consider snuggling up to the bounty hunter. Besides, cuddling seems too intimate, too revealing. You rest in silence, feeling the lingering sparks in your veins die out, replaced by a comforting warmth. Despite being completely drained, you could also conquer the galaxy in your blissed-out post-sex euphoria.

“Good?” You turn your head to Mando in the darkness.

“Yeah. Thank you.” It’s the truth. You’ve never felt this good in your life. Losing your virginity to the bounty hunter fell short of your expectations at first, only to surge higher than you ever imagined. If someone else were to take your first time, would it feel the same? Would you be this pleased after it all ended? Or, is it all a special Mando thing? One man, whose name and face you don’t even know, providing you comfort and pleasure...

“You’ll have another lesson tomorrow,” he says. You grin to yourself. Another shot at your ambition. You don’t thank him; he understands how grateful you are for everything he’s done. So you close your eyes and try to sleep. Mando mutters something, and you don’t quite catch it. Maybe you’ll ask him tomorrow.

The weariness in your bones cradles you like a blanket then drags you under.

[skinsharpenedteeth]

kinktober 3

A/N: 3rd Kinktober piece. Smutty smut. Sex pollen, in heat, mate or die type fic so the normal dub con warning is there, but otherwise it’s Malex being dirty together. lol. hope you enjoy. Prompts filled: In Heat / Bondage / Multiple Orgasms. You can also check out this fic on AO3.

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                Michael came to slowly. The thing he noticed first was the grey concrete ceiling above him. He was in the bunker? He turned his head and noted the lamps and side tables to either side of the bed. Definitely not his bunker then. His mind felt like he was having to swim through honey to make simple deductions. Why was this place familiar? He pulled at his arms so he could prop himself up and met with resistance. Jerking his head to either side, he looked at his wrists and noted the sturdy leather cuffs around each one. He pulled his arm again, straining to see if there was any give in the restraint and found none. He tried to reach out with his mind, to access his telekinesis so he could undo the securing straps, but found he was having trouble focusing his power. A shuffle from across the room drew his attention and he saw Alex descending a ladder into the bunker with him.

              “What the fuck, Alex? Where the hell am I? Why have you got me chained up like this?” Michael yelled, immediately enraged as he took in Alex’s resigned, determined look. It was his soldier face and Michael hated it because it usually meant he was about to be unreasonably logical and stubborn about something.

              “You’re alright, Guerin. Max and Iz helped me get you down here. They had to knock you out. Apparently, Mr. Jones hit you with some alien powder and it made you go nuts. Kind of like the pollen that mutes your powers, but different. You were insensible they said, and they didn’t know how to handle you, so they brought you here. Apparently, I’m their top choice for babysitter. I’m sorry about the restraints, they thought it would be the safest bet until we had an idea what the powder would do to you long term.”

Alex had kept moving towards Michael as he talked. The lights around the room had taken on a shiny, haloed quality to them, like looking through the dark windshield of a car in the rain. The closer Alex got, the harder it became for Michael to think through what he was saying, he just felt… thirsty. Alex sat next to him on the bed, his voice coming in and out of focus as he continued musing about the possible effects the alien powder might have had. Michael’s joints ached like he needed to relieve some tension in his muscles that wasn’t there. He stretched against the mattress, fidgeting, and trying to get comfortable, pushing and pulling. He didn’t realize he was trying to get closer to Alex until he managed to press his hip to Alex’s where he sat. Alex stopped talking and looked down at where they were touching.

              “Michael? You okay?” Alex asked, eyebrows furrowed in concern as he laid what was supposed to be a comforting hand on Michael’s chest. There was a sound like metal protesting against too much pressure and Michael shut his eyes as a blinding headache came over him.

              “Michael!? Michael!” He heard Alex yelling his name from so close, but so far away. He didn’t know what was happening to him, what he needed, but it felt like his skin was going to burst open and pour out his insides if he didn’t get it. He felt a cool hand on his cheek, tapping slightly, and it was like someone had put out one small flame in the middle of a forest fire.

              “Alex…” Michael moaned, canting his head into the touch on his cheek.

              “Michael, I’m here. What do you need?” Alex asked, his voice sounding almost like it was coming from the other side of a tin can telephone.

              “Touch me,” Michael cried, his voice breaking under the pain licking through his body.

              “I am, Michael, I will,” Alex answered desperately, putting his other hand against Michael’s neck, smoothing it over all the skin he could reach.

              “I need more, Alex. Please, so much more. It hurts,” Michael begged. He didn’t know how he could feel tears on his skin outside of all the other sensations he was having, but he knew he was legitimately crying.

              “Okay, okay… let me think,” Alex said, keeping his hands on Michael’s face as he looked down Michael’s body. “Okay. I’m going to have to let go for a minute.”

              “NO!” Michael yelled, body writhing against the sheets as he continued trying to push his way closer to Alex’s body.

              “Just for a minute, Michael. I have to get undressed and… and grab some scissors.”

              “Wait, wait, please, Alex, no. Don’t stop touching me, don’t stop, please. Alex, ALEX!” As soon as Alex’s hands left Michael’s face he was screaming and arching off the mattress. It felt like someone was twisting his guts and roasting him alive. He wasn’t aware of anything that Alex was doing. He had no concept of how long Alex was taking, only that it was too long. He was too far away from Michael and Michael needed him. He needed him like he was oxygen or water. He needed him now and not later.

              “Hold on, Michael. I hope you’re not in love with any of these clothes you’re wearing,” Alex tried to joke and Michael heard the snip-snip-snip of scissors before cool air rushed over his skin. It was a relief, but only for a second before the flames inside of him started up again.

              “Oh…” he heard Alex say, sounding like something had just been made very clear to him. Michael opened his eyes a fraction to stare at him, to see what had caused him to make that noise. Alex was staring down his body and Michael lifted his head, terrified of what he’d find. Was he missing a limb? Was he covered in wounds that made him feel like he was being grilled alive? What was…. Oh.

              Michael was rock fucking hard. His cock was red and angry, hard enough to pound nails, and was dribbling precome onto his stomach like a leaky fucking faucet. Michael didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to react, because he hadn’t been aware he was hard until he looked down. Now that he knew, it was like that was all he could think about. He needed Alex to touch him, needed to feel him everywhere, needed to mark him up with his come and claim him.

              “Wait- you need me to claim you or you want to claim me?” Alex asked, looking at him in confused shock. Apparently, Michael had said that last part out loud. Michael couldn’t explain, a fresh wave of heat, need, and pain rolled through him and he had to grit his teeth to keep from screaming again.

              “Okay, okay. You seemed to do better when I was touching you. I’m going to get undressed and lay across you, try to get as much skin to skin contact as possible. We’ll see if that helps you enough to let you be able to talk to me,” Alex said in a rush, standing and stripping out of his clothes in record time. Michael barely had time to appreciate the expanse of tan skin and muscle exposed to him before Alex was climbing awkwardly over him and stretching out to cover him with his body. As soon as Alex’s weight settled, it was like Michael had gone from a car wreck to a bee sting in levels of pain. His mind cleared, his muscles began to relax, and he took great gulping breaths of air. He felt Alex’s hands on him, petting his neck and chest as Michael started to calm down.

              “Is this working, Michael?” Alex asked, his face so close to Michael’s that he almost couldn’t focus his eyes on him. Alex pushed himself further up Michael’s body and pressed his cheek to Michael’s before repeating the question. The movement against Michael’s cock reminded him how hard he was and he moaned again, but this time in pleasure.

              “Yeah, yeah it’s working. Fuck you feel good,” Michael commented as he found himself once again straining to touch more of Alex’s body. His hips hitched upwards under Alex’s weight as he struggled to get some more friction.

              “Thanks,” Alex replied dryly. “Do you think you could answer some questions?”

              Michael nodded weakly, eyes closing as he tried to concentrate on Alex’s words.

              “What did you mean when you said you needed to ‘claim’ me?” Alex asked, voice low and serious. The word ‘claim’ sent a spark down Michael’s spine and he clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth would crack. He tried to sort through what his body was trying to tell him about what it was feelings and what it needed, but he could feel Alex’s cock starting to get hard from the friction of his movements underneath him and it shattered his concentration. His body was starting to heat up again and he whined as Alex pulled his hips back to stop Michael from focusing his attention where it didn’t belong.

              “I don’t know, Alex! It just… it feels like I need to mark you. I’ve got so many urges right now just flooding through me. I want to fuck you, I want you to fuck me, I want to gag on your cock and have you paint me in your come, I want to mount you from behind like a fucking dog and just rail you for hours. I want you to smell like mine and taste like mine and I want to rub myself so deep into your skin, you’ll never wash me away. It’s… it feels so instinctual. It doesn’t feel logical or politically correct. I feel like I’m going to lose my fucking mind if I can’t keep touching you right now. It’s so hard to concentrate, Alex, because I need you to touch me,” Michael rushed the words out of him without considering what he was saying. “This isn’t like having blue balls, Alex. This is like being set on fire and electrocuted at the same time. Please touch me.”

              “Oh, Michael,” Alex sighed, his voice sounding so sad. Michael knew it wasn’t fair to ask Alex to do this for him, to lay his hands on him when he was in such a new thing with someone else and Michael was barely free of Maria.

              “Please Alex, I’m in so much pain. Just please,” Michael begged, voice beginning to go thick with desperation.

              He waited for Alex’s move. He could feel the tiny puffs of his breath ghosting over the pulse point in his neck. Alex’s hands were rubbing up and down his arms like he was trying to soothe a spooked horse, slow and meditative. His lower back was starting to have that feeling like his muscles were trying to cramp. It wasn’t sharply painful like a Charlie horse, but more like a bone deep ache that pushed outwards. It was like the pain was between his bones and growing and there was no movement, no solace he could give himself from it. He needed Alex to agree to help him. He needed to come.

              “Please…” he whispered, raising his head and laying a gentle kiss on Alex’s shoulder. His tongue sneaked out and he tasted the skin under his lips. Alex tasted clean and a little like salt. He felt Alex’s hands freeze on his biceps and Michael kissed him again, moving his lips up Alex’s shoulder to his neck. He pushed his power out on instinct, pressing down on Alex’s lower back to bring their hips back together so he could grind upwards against him, even as he sucked and bit at the most prominent muscle in Alex’s neck. A high-pitched, broken whine was his reward and Michael felt a possessive wave surge through him. He wanted to swallow that noise, wanted to eat it as his breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He let go of the flesh of Alex’s neck and tilted his head to suck Alex’s earlobe, teeth teasing the sensitive skin, before he let is fall from his mouth.

              “I need you, Alex,” he whispered. He was answered with a whimper before Alex lifted his head and pushed his lips against Michael’s. It felt like ecstasy. Michael opened his mouth immediately, tongue snaking out to meet Alex’s in a series of hungry, biting kisses. Alex’s hands clenched around his upper arms and Michael felt his shift his body on top so that he could get some leverage between them and move his hips against Michael’s with purpose. On the first downward grind from Alex’s body, Michael felt his body’s tension ratchet up from 75% ready to blow to 99%.

              “Fuck, Alex… just a little more. I’m so close,” Michael gasped after he wrenched back from Alex’s mouth to suck in some air. Alex groaned above him and Michael felt him pull his hand down between them. It took exactly one pull from Alex’s hand for Michael’s climax to start. He heard himself growling as he fucked himself through the sticky mess that had started coating Alex’s hand, riding the tide of relief. It felt like a cool blanket had been put over his skin. He was aware of Alex thrusting his hips against him still, his cock dragging through the cooling mess on his stomach and then with an almost pained grunt, adding to it. Michael wanted to taste it, wanted Alex to lick it off him and feed it to him with kisses, but he didn’t say anything. He let Alex collapse boneless on top of him and he reveled in the afterglow.

              “Was that it?” he heard Alex croak next to his ear. Michael thought about it, catalogued the sensations of his body. He could still feel the fire of need, but it was banked for the moment and he could think clearly. He had no doubt it would return, but he had no idea how quickly. He shook his head and kissed Alex’s shoulder as something of an apology.

              “I don’t think so. I think it’s more like I’m getting a quick breather. I can still feel whatever this is influencing me, it’s just like… like I’m getting a break. God, this feels so weird, Alex. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry this is happening to us. I… I know this isn’t what you want, I just.. I don’t know if I’d survive just gritting my teeth and trying to do without right now,” Michael babbled his apology, hoping Alex would forgive him someday.

              “Guerin, it’s fine. It’s not a perfect situation, but it’s not the end of the world. If there’s one thing I know I can do for you confidently, it’s make you come your fucking brains out as many times as necessary,” Alex said, laughing weakly at his joke.

              “You are really good at that. You make me stupid and keyed up. If you’re in the room on a normal day, all I can think about is how good you look naked, how much I miss the way our skin feels when we’re alone and sweaty and on round three…” Michael trailed off, recalling some of those times in his mind as he spoke.

              “Guerin,” Alex spoke up, breaking his daydream. “You’re still hard.”

              Michael swallowed and nodded. He’d started to feel the need building in him again.

              “You don’t happen to have any lube in this sex dungeon, do you?” Michael asked in mock casualness, even as his hands flexed and he felt the ache in his joints starting up again, body writhing to try and stem the ache.

              “Shit. Fuck. Okay. You’ll have to let me go upstairs ‘cause I didn’t expect to ever use this place as an actual sex dungeon. Do you think you can go ten minutes without me touching you?” Alex asked, nervously looking over his shoulder. Michael tried to think about it, but his brain was fogging fast and his cock was throbbing where it was trapped between his and Alex’s bodies. Regretfully, he shook his head.

              “Maybe,” he gasped out, glad Alex hadn’t hesitated this time and had taken his cock in hand the moment after he registered his body had given and not his mouth. “Maybe if you go right after I come…maybe I can make it.”

              Alex tightened his grip almost imperceptibly, but it was enough for Michael. He moaned, hips chasing the sensations of Alex’s hand on him as Alex pulled out all his favorite moves. He moved down Michael’s body with his mouth, lips closing over one of his nipples and making Michael cry out. He bit down gently and sucked at him, abusing the rosy bud with this tongue and teeth as he used his hand to push Michael closer and closer to another orgasm.

              “God, Alex, your fucking mouth…” Michael moaned when he felt Alex release one and move over to the other. Once again, he found himself fighting against the wrist restraints. He wanted more. He wanted to encourage Alex to take that talented mouth just half a foot lower on his body and swallow him down. He wanted to hold him there, feel him gagging around his cock, his throat muscles squeezing and releasing him. The idea was hot, but he also knew that he wasn’t in control. So he didn’t ask Alex to go down on him, not yet. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had, he was quickly approaching another orgasm and Alex’s hand was doing a fine job of getting him there.

              “Come on, Guerin. You’re so close, I can feel it. Come for me, baby, and I’ll go get some lube and we can really get each other dirty,” Alex encouraged him, wrist twisting on the down stroke and coaxing Michael to let go for the second time half an hour. It felt good, but it wasn’t as good as the first one. It didn’t feel like it would be enough for the next one.

              Alex tentatively sat up, putting space between their torsos as he looked down at Michael speculatively. Michael was breathing harshly through his nose, but he could stand the separation.

              “Go ahead. Go get the stuff now before it comes back,” he said, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to watch Alex walking away. Alex climbed off him gingerly and Michael could feel every inch that stretched between them as he quick stepped his way to the ladder and up to the main part of the cabin. Sweat broke out across his body almost as soon as he heard Alex moving around in the house above him. It didn’t feel like fire this time, but like pins and needles all over his skin that grew more intense as he waited. His cock had managed to soften slightly after the last orgasm, but he still felt anxious and needy. His skin felt absurdly sensitive and every slight shift in the air around him had him gritting his teeth. His mind tried to concentrate on his telekinesis again, seeing if he could work on the cuffs at his hands, but as with the first time, all he could manage was a brief nudge with his abilities before his concentration shattered.

              “Alex,” he called, his voice sounding weak even to his own ears. He was so thirsty. His mouth felt like the Sahara and he just needed something to drink. He needed Alex whispering soft words of encouragement to him so he could keep coming until he could sleep. He just needed… Alex. And he could hear him moving around upstairs and wondered how long he’d been gone. Somewhere in his distracted brain he knew it hadn’t even been ten minutes yet, but his body felt touch-starved and bereft like it’d been ten years.

“Al-lex…” he whined into the air, hands and legs starting to thrash against the restraints. Why was he like this? What did he do to deserve this? Why wasn’t Alex here taking care of him?  

“Just a sec, Guerin. I’m almost done up here,” Alex’s voice floated down from the upper floor. Michael thrashed harder, body trying to twist and break free. He wanted to be where Alex was. He needed him. Needed to touch him. Needed to be free to mark him. He still hadn’t claimed him. Alex was away from him unmarked, unsafe, not his. Not his, not his, not his.

“ALEX!” he screamed, visions of other men coming upon Alex and taking him in his head. He was tied up, he couldn’t protect him. He couldn’t defend his soulmate. He would die if he couldn’t see him soon, couldn’t make sure that he alright, make sure he was still his.

“Jesus, Michael, I’m here,” Alex responded, sounding a little impatient. Michael watched him climb down the ladder, each new few inches of skin revealed like balm to him. He had a bulky backpack slung over his shoulders that made him more careful with his movements as he descended.

As soon as he reached the bottom, he turned and started walking as quickly as he could towards Michael. He dropped the backpack onto the side of the bed and sat next to Michael, pressing his naked hip to Michael’s waist.

“You look strung out. Shit, I’m sorry I took so long,” Alex apologized as he unpacked his bag. Through clenched teeth and gently trembling muscles, Michael watched him put three bottles of Gatorade onto the nightstand. He also pulled out a frankly indecent sized bottle of personal lubricant that even through a heat haze Michael gave him a raised eyebrow over. “Shut up, it was a gift,” was all Alex could say about it, though he was grinning when he said it. Lastly, he pulled out a package of wet wipes, plopping them onto the nightstand near the Gatorade and promptly pulling one free of the package.

“This might be cold,” Alex warned him before carefully starting to clean off the mess on his stomach. Michael hissed in a breath against the coolness of the cloth. He’d wanted something cool earlier against his skin, but now that Alex was near him his temperature had risen again to the point where even if it was room temp, it was too cold for him to bear. Also, probably more worryingly, as Alex cleaned the old spunk off him his mind started to fog back over into primal need.

“Stop! Stop, Alex, fuck!” Michael managed to get out as the fire and pain returned, seeming to be pinpointed at the where Alex was cleaning him. He was panting against the feeling of pain that had come over him. Alex watched him in growing alarm and then looked down at the cloth in his hand.

“OH!” he exclaimed, tossing the cloth somewhere to the side of the bed. Michael couldn’t see and didn’t care. He watched Alex quickly bend down and start stripping off his prosthetic and liner, his movement practiced and quick, before he turned and straddle Michael’s hips. He immediately covered Michael’s body with as much of his as he could. “Better?”

“Nooooo,” Michael cried piteously. “Need more. Please, Alex, let me have a hand. I’ll show you, please?”

“Non-negotiable right now, Guerin. I can give you your feet back, but that’s about all I’m willing to compromise on. You’re not in control of yourself,” Alex said, immovable in his decision. Michael whined, pressing his head back into the mattress and arching against Alex’s body.

“Please, Alex. I need to be in you. Or you in me. Something. Hand job won’t do it this time, please,” Michael begged.

“69?” Alex offered, pressing his lips to Michael’s cheek and jaw in apology. It wasn’t what Michael had meant, but he’d take it. He’d take anything Alex would give him. He swallowed and nodded quickly. Alex maneuvered his body over Michaels, knees bracketing Michael’s head with his cock swinging enticingly in front of Michael’s face. Michael looked down between their bodies and watched Alex reach down to grab himself and angle his cock towards Michael’s mouth. Michael opened his mouth and licked at the tip with a broad, flat tongue a few times before closing his lips around Alex’s flesh and beginning to move his mouth over the flesh. The angle was strange and he felt like he was only doing half the job without the use of his hands, but it felt amazing to have Alex in his mouth, dick hardening further against his tongue as he sucked and laved at the hot flesh. Alex indulged in a few seconds of just letting Michael work on him before letting his hand fall away, trusting that Michael could keep him in his mouth.

Michael was back to painfully turned on and the first touch of Alex’s tongue had him thrusting up in reflex. He made an apologetic hum through his mouthful of Alex and was rewarded with Alex’s own reflexive hip jerk. He wished he could communicate to Alex that he wanted more of that kind of attention. Alex could fuck his face like this, take what he wanted from Michael, and Michael would let him do so happily. He gathered what little bit of his concentration he could gather with Alex’s mouth working his shaft like his favorite flavored popsicle and used it to once again push down on Alex’s hips, encouraging him to give in to his natural urge to hump forward against the pressure of Michael’s tongue and lips.

“Guerin!” Alex gasped, mouth popping off Michael’s cock as he fought the unseen force pushing at his hips. “Stop. I can’t… there’s no way for you to tap out if it’s too much.”

Michael pulled his head back and let Alex’s cock pull free from his mouth so he could answer.

“It’ll be fine, Alex. I just want to feel like you’re getting something from this. I can’t… do much… at this angle with just my mouth and no hands,” Michael explained, frustration evident in his voice.

“You were doing fine, Michael,” Alex replied, voice going a little soft in affectionate exasperation.

“That is not good enough, Alex. If I’m going to be giving a mediocre blowjob to someone, it isn’t going to be you!” Michael said a little insulted and looking at Alex like he was insane.

“Oh my God, Michael,” Alex replied, leaning his forehead on Michael’s hip while he laughed weakly. He tipped his body sideways and laid half on top of Michael, curling his leg over Michael’s chest and propping his head up on his hand as he looked down towards him still grinning. “You must be feeling better because I have no clue how else you would be worried about my pleasure right now. I mean, would you give the same consideration to Max?”

Michael gagged. It was such an immediate reaction to thinking about Max in any sort of sexual sense that his body responded before he was even sure he’d fully comprehended the question. His reaction did give him a moment of clarity as he quickly filtered through his body’s reaction to literally anyone else being here with him for this.

“I think…. I think that my reaction is based on my relationship with you? Like… obviously I have no clue how to test the theory and I don’t want you getting ideas to play scientist like Liz, but…” Michael paused, trying to ride a spike of need that traveled through him. Alex seemed to get the hint and started moving his hand while watching Michael’s reaction. Michael nodded and took a couple deep breaths. It wasn’t enough to get him off, but Alex’s slow, steady strokes kept him from dissolving back into mindless need and pain. “…so, as I was saying… If I think about Max being here, I don’t feel horny. I feel like getting into a fucking fight, because he is not the boss of me no matter what he thinks. Ugh. Sanctimonious jackass. And if I think of Isabel I just feel… protective? Like, I definitely don’t want to see her naked or to touch her sexually. She’s my sister. I just want to keep her safe. Maria? Eh… it’s more indecisive. Valenti? Fuck that dude, I will fight him also. I’d probably fight Rosa also. I feel like this stuff just like… takes the noise out of my feelings for people. It’s like… whatever my gut instinct is? I don’t know, I just… I wouldn’t hurt you. I would never hurt you like this.”

Alex looked like he was thinking over what Michael had said, his eyes fixed on some point across the room as he sorted out what Michael had been saying. He didn’t slacken his grip or stop moving his hand, which Michael was profoundly grateful for since it was seeming to take some of the edge off. He didn’t know how much longer it would work, but for now it was working.

“Max had said, you seemed to be attacking him after the powder hit. You wouldn’t stop trying to hit him, and you kept pushing Isabel away like you thought Max was the enemy…” he mused, looking up towards Michael’s eyes again. “Lot of unresolved hostility with Max?”

Michael bit his lip before answering.

“Probably more than I’m comfortable admitting to myself right now,” he answered, suddenly wishing they were talking about anything else but his issues with Max. Maybe Alex picked up on it because he just hummed in understand before he leaned over, and with a casualness that Michael didn’t know one could have in such a situation, took Michael back into his mouth with probably the dirtiest slurp he’d ever witnessed outside of porn. Stars collided behind Michael’s eyes at the unexpected sensation and he let out a strangled moan at the sudden hot-wet-tight pressure surrounding his cock.

“Al-lex! Shit,” he gasped out when he could. Alex kept his mouth and tongue moving over him, hand following and keying Michael’s voice into the higher notes. Alex was right, of course; he was feeling better. His head was starting to feel clearer and he with a gentle push he found that he could unlatch one of his ankles. He had to take a breather afterwards, had to lay back and simply enjoy the feeling of Alex’s mouth on him, but then he gathered his strength and unlatched the other ankle. He tried to keep his legs still, tried not to let on to Alex that he was able to use his powers much more than he had on him earlier. He wanted his fucking hands. He wanted to hold Alex down and remind him how good he was at blow jobs… and eating ass… and pretty much every sexual thing he could possibly do to the man with his willing participation.

Michael got momentarily distracted from his goal with Alex maneuvered back to hovering over him so he could deep throat Michael’s cock. The sensation was beyond explanation to him and he was sure it was about to be over for him until Alex, like an absolute asshole, squeezed him with a thumb over his frenulum seconds before he was going to finish and stopped his fucking orgasm.

“You motherfucker…” Michael coughed out before leaning his head back and groaning in frustration. He looked back and saw Alex grinning back up at him, looking smug and completely unrepentant.

“You didn’t seem ready,” was all he said before releasing him. Michael rolled his eyes. Alex started to climb off him then and Michael watched him in horror.

“Where are you going?” he asked, nervous about the tingling that had already started back in his nerve endings as soon as Alex wasn’t touching him.

“Nowhere. Chill, I think I’ve got a handle on this. I’m getting some lube,” Alex explained, reaching over towards the nightstand. His hand bypassed the lube, however, and he grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, uncapping it and taking three long swallows before offering it to Michael. It was weird trying to drink while laying down without hands or the ability to roll to his side, but they managed it without too much of it rolling down his cheek into his hair. Alex recapped the Gatorade and grabbed the lube bottle.

“What’s your plan?” Michael asked, eying the bottle of lube in both apprehension and anticipation. It was, after all, a lot of lube. Alex smiled at him softly and leant over, pressing a kiss against his lips before answering.

“Obviously, I’m going to fuck you. And then I figure you’re going to fuck me. And if we do it well enough, I’m pretty sure this is going to wear off and we can have a fucking nap together. Then you can panic and formulate a proper response as to why the fuck you left the Pony during my obvious public declaration of love. Especially since apparently after a hit with some weird alien emotional baggage eraser, you admit to me that I’m the only person you want to ‘claim’,” Alex finished, squirting lube into his hand and giving Michael a look.

“Shit,” Michael mumbled, overwhelmed by Alex’s little speech and his observation.

“Shh… you’ve got at least two more orgasms to go and a nap before you have to tell me you’re not going to pull anything like that ever again on me.”

Michael swallowed and nodded mutely. Alex watched him and smiled, before giving him another quick kiss and scooting down the bed. Michael felt pretty sure this was the best thing to ever happen to him.

[thewalkingdead-fan101]

In This Hell Daryl Dixon x Reader part 8/??

Hey guys!  I’m so excited to post part 8!  I’m sorry about such a large gap in between parts, I'm currently trying to figure out a schedule for posting parts. I hope you're all safe and well. Thank you for being patient and so lovely!

Warnings- Slow burn, Light smut?, General Walking Dead stuff, Blood, Gore, Swearing, Shane being sus.

The drive home seemed shorter than the drive there, passing the familiar mailboxes and other run down buildings.

The minute we arrived back, Shane left to speak with Rick, furthering their search for Sophia.

I started grabbing the Medical supplies that we had found scattered throughout the houses and took them into the farm house.

I knocked on the wooden doorframe, waiting for someone to answer, Patricia’s head popping around the corner.

“Good morning (Y/n).” “Morning, I just thought that since we’re all low on supplies that I would bring you some stuff. Shane and I went out this morning and came across all of this medical stuff, even found a full first aid kit.” I chuckled as she opened the door, stepping aside for me.

“Oh thank you, just sit it all on the dining table.” She smiled, grabbing one of the bags from me, leading the way through the house into the dining room.

“Did you guys find much?” “We found some things, a bunch of medical stuff as you can see, some food, which is in that green bad, and some gardening stuff that ill take out to the barn now.” I smiled.

“No!” She paused, my head turning to look at her. She cleared her throat before continuing. 

“Don’t take them to the barn.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but not before she cut me off again.

“It’s too far from the house, not to mention the barn needs some repairs. I’d feel absolutely horrible if I let you go up there and get hurt. We have a little garden shed out back I can put them in.” She stated, walking with me to the car, grabbing the equipment out, briefly making eye contact and sharing a soft smile. 

“Are you sure? I honestly don’t mind.”

“I’m sure, now it’s best if you go sit down for a bit.”

“Pat-“

“Go on, get away.” She swatted softly.

 I shook my head as I backed away.

“It’s hardly fair that you guys do everything around here.” I try to argue.

“If you doing nothing around here protects gods little miracle, I do not mind. Now, go sit down and relax for a couple of hours.” She gave me a warning glare that had reminded me of my 5th grade teacher Ms. Gabel.

“Yes Ma’am.” I nodded, turning away from her and made my way towards the RV.

As the majority of the group were discussing the upcoming gun practice at the rear of the RV, I noticed Carl and Shane talking.

Shane looked Carl up and down, as if questioning him, and nodded his head.

I noticed the small movement and my breath stopped.

He had slightly raised his shirt, Shane’s eyes doubling in size. 

And that’s when it hit me.

This is a new world we live in.

A world in which to survive we have to fight.

Fight for yourself, your friends, your family, your people.

Shane barely even blinked. 

I picked up speed, my legs carrying me as fast as they could to the RV.

“Give me that now.” Shane firmly stated.

Once the gun was handed to Shane, he stormed off to the others, no doubt taking it to Rick.

Carl stood, staring at the ground.

“Hey, Carl..” I spoke softly, placing my hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s sit down, you can talk to me.” 

He nodded his head as he walked with me to where the camping chairs were set out.

I took the seat next to him, slightly turning to face him. “What was that about?” “What?” “Carl.. why did you have a gun.” “I just wanted to help..” “I understand, but guns are dangerous.. You shouldn’t have had it.” “I know.” “You do know that your parents are going to flip?.”

He nodded his head and resumed staring at the dirt beneath his feet.

I looked up to see Shane, Dale and Rick staring at Carl, making their way to the boy.

“(Y/n), can you get Lori for me? We need to speak to Carl.” Rick asked, nodding in my direction.

“Yeah.. of course.” I nodded, turning and starting the search for Lori.

The first place I had checked, the fire pit where she and Glenn were earlier showed no results.

I made my way to where the chicken coop was, to be met with the clucking of the hens, but again no Lori.

I checked her tent, to see her sitting on the mattress, head in her hands.

“Hey.” I spoke, moving the door to the side.

“Oh, Hey Honey.” She smiled. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, Im fine, just a little tired. Whats up?” 

“It’s Carl.”

She stood quickly, worry present in her eyes.

“What? What’s wrong? Where is my boy?”

“He is okay, he isn’t hurt.. Rick asked me to come get you..” “What? Rick asked you to get me? Whats going on?” “Carl had a gun.”

Her eyes widened, her left hand going to her mouth.

“Oh God… im going to be sick.” She shook her head

She paused briefly. 

“Where are they?” 

“”They’re at the RV.” 

“Let’s go.” She stated, grabbing my wrist and dragging me behind her.

She cleared the distance between the tents and the RV in no time.

Letting my wrist go when she got within earshot of everyone, walking straight over to Carl, taking the gun from Shane and showing it to Carl.

“Where did you get this?” She asked sternly as she kneeled in front of the boy.

She waited for an answer.

“Carl Grimes. You answer me.” 

She stood up, turning to us.

“How the hell did this happen?” She asked, tucking the gun into the back of her jeans.

“Well, It's my fault.” Dale began, slightly pausing as Lori’s attention snapped to the older man. 

“I let him into the RV. He said he wanted a walkie, that you sent him for one.” Dale continued.

“So on top of everything else, he lied.” She began. 

“What was he thinking?”

“He wants to learn how to shoot. He asked me to teach him.” Shane started, earning an ice filled glare from Lori.

“Now It's none of my business, but I'm happy to do it. It's your call.” He nodded, sensing the tension.

“I'm not comfortable with it.” Lori looked towards Rick, who tried to avert his gaze.

“Oh, don't make me out to be the unreasonable one here. Rick?”

“I know. I have my concerns too, but-“

“There's no but. He was just shot. He's just back on his feet and he wants a gun?”

“Better than him being afraid of 'em. There are guns in camp for a reason. He should learn to handle them safely.” Rick responded to his wife’s worries.

“I don't want my kid walking around with a gun.” She shook her head.

“But how can you defend that? You can't let him go around without protection.” 

“He is as safe as he'll ever be right now.” She started.

“Look, everything you're saying makes perfect sense. It feels wrong. I mean I didn't feel good about him following you out into the woods. And I wish I'd said something. I should've gone with my gut.” She argued.

“He's growing up, thank god. We've got to start treating him more like an adult.” Rick tried to reason. 

“Then he needs to act like one. He's not mature enough to handle a gun.”

“I'm not gonna play with it, mom. It's not a toy. I'm sorry I disappointed you, but I want to look for Sophia and I want to defend our camp. I can't do that without a gun.” Carl stood and walked toward us.

“Shane's the best instructor I know. I've seen him teach kids younger than Carl.” 

“He will be with Shane. He loves that boy and wouldn’t let him get hurt.” 

Lori looked at me and I could tell that even though the thought of Carl having this gun terrifies her, but him not having one in this world terrifies her even more.

She waited a few moments and walked to Carl, resting her hand under his chin, making him look up at her.

“You will take this seriously and you will behave responsibly. And if I hear from anyone in this camp that you're not living up to our expectations-“

“He won't let you down.” Rick stated clearly behind her.

Carl nodded at Rick and answered with a “yeah.”

The sound of the old blue truck pulled up next to us, Beth, Patricia and Jimmy all inside.

“Now if you're gonna do this, you listen to Shane.”

“Okay, dad.” 

“All right? You two be careful.” Rick pointed at Shane and Carl.

“You coming?” Shane asked Glenn.

Glenn shook his head.

“I gotta help Dale clean the spark plugs on the RV. He said he's gonna teach me mechanics. I should probably go look for him.”

“You found me.” Dale called out from two metres behind him, startling Glenn. 

Shane nodded and got in the car, starting it.

“He's a good learner.” Dale called out.

I moved towards the car, getting in with Shane, watching as Lori, Rick, Carol, Carl and Andrea piled into the Cherokee. 

T-dog jumping in wi†h Shane and I, as we made our way to a neighbouring farm’s paddock, distancing the gunshots from the Greene farm.

The sound of breaking glass, and the metallic ricochet of bullets hitting the tins and bottles that were sitting in a perfect row on the boundary fence line.

The loud echoes of the gunshots leaving my ears ringing, the slight scent of gunpowder present in the air.

Rick and Shane pacing behind us all, ensuring that we were all practicing gun safety.

T-dog, partnered with Jimmy, who needs as much help as he can get.

Jimmy was holding his gun as if he had just come from a bad adaption of a 90’s gangsta movie.

“Hey, come on, man. Don't give me that gangsta shit.” T-dog stated.

Jimmy, stood up, straightening his posture, moving his free hand to help support the gun, shooting and finally hitting his target.

His face lighting up as if he had just won an award, a participation award, but an award none the less.

 Shane gave him a pat on the back as he passed him.

“Did you see that? I hit it!” He exclaimed turning to T.

I watched as my brother zoned in on Andrea, stopping next to her and looking to where she was shooting, through his binoculars.

Helping her change her posture before letting her shoot again, which she hit the target perfectly.

Shane and Rick shared a laugh, and some small talk before continuing the pacing.

Lori was planted a metre behind Carl, watching him shoot, hitting the tin off the fence.

“Got it.” Carl smiled widely.

“That's a great shot!” Rick smiled back at him.

I look over to where Beth was aiming at her target, slightly missing it.

“Hey.” “Oh hey.” “Would you like some help?” “Um, I think im not doing it right.” “Oh, no, it’s fine, here.”

I moved to where she was and helped position her arms.

“Dont be scared, of the gun. You’re in control.” I paused.

“Just breathe, take your time. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

She visibly relaxed and pulled the trigger, the glass bottle exploding.

I looked over to see her eyes closed.

“Beth. You did it. You hit the bottle.” “What? I did?” She asked opening her eyes and looking to where the bottle once sat.

“I hit it! I actually hit it!” She beamed.

“Thank you!” She jumped on me, hugging me tightly.

“You’re welcome.” I laughed.

“What about you (Y/n)? You a good shot?” Rick asked.

“I was once.” I nodded.

“She had the best teacher.” Shane smiled.

“Yeah. Grandma.” I jeered.

“Oh really? Mind showing us?” Lori laughed. “No-“ “She wasn’t the strongest shooter, she probably forgot.” Shane shook his head laughing.

I grabbed the gun from Shane’s holster and shot three targets in a row, the sound of shattering glass echoing beyond the gun.

“Where’d that come from?” Shane asked as I handed him the gun back. “I told you. Grandma.” I smiled as Lori held in a small chuckle.

“Yeah, Yeah. Let’s go then.” Shane shook his head.

“Sure showed him.” Lori chuckled.

“Shane needs to be put in his place. I never had a strong shooting arm when I was a kid. Shane never tried to teach me after he realised. Grandma took it upon herself to teach me. Always said that a woman should always know how to defend herself.” “Well, your grandma was a smart woman.” Rick smiled, leading his wife and son to the car. 

Everyone following in pursuit, getting into the same vehicles that had transported them from the Greene farm.

I got in the car, and looked at Shane.

“Is there any other things that Grandma showed you?”

“The secret recipe of her butternut squash pie.”

“Is that all?” He laughed.

“Yeah.. yeah I think thats pretty much it.”

“That pie sounds good right about now.” T-dog chuckled.

“Maybe Hershel might let me commandeer the kitchen.”

Shane had pulled the car over.

T-dog, jumping straight out in search for Dale and Glenn.

“Get out.” “What?” “Get out. Andrea and I are going for some more target practice.” “Oh is that what we’re calling it now? Target practice?” “Shut it. Now get out.”

“Alright. But please please please make sure that you wrap it before you tap it.” “(Y/n)-“

“No glove, no love.” “Seriously-“

“Plug your funnel then enter the tunnel.” “What does that one even mean?”

“If im being honest I don’t even know. But It’s on the same line as the others.”

“Seriously get out now.”

“Alright, alright. Calm down.” I raised my hands and opened the door, sliding out and closing it, putting my head through the open window. “Shane.” “What?”

“Love is cleaner with a packaged Weiner.” I laughed.

“Goodbye.” He muttered through his teeth.

I took a step back from the car, watching as he moved to where Andrea was waiting, letting her hop in and then taking off down the dirt road towards the gate again.

I laughed to myself as I made my way towards the RV and the others.

“Whats so funny?” Carol asked smiling.

“Nothing, just thought of a joke. Do you need a hand?” I chuckled.

“Sure, sit down and I’ll show you how.” She smiled.

I knelt next to her, watching as she continued patching holes in clothes for us.

Her work perfect.

“How did you get it to look so good?” “Years of practice. Ed used to come home after going to the bar in a mess, clothes torn and bloody from fighting earlier in the night.”

She paused, taking a breath.

“He used to say that it was my job to fix the mess and clean it.”

“Carol-“ “Oh no honey, im fine.” She smiled once more.

I nodded.

Carol and I sat for an hour and a half, her teaching me different stitches and when the best use for each one.

“Alright guys, foods ready.” Dale called out.

I stood up, and walked over to Dale, who had two plates set aside, handing them to me.

“I figured that you’d be hungry, Daryl would be too.” “Thank you Dale.” “Go on, go eat. Make sure He eats too or we will all be insufferable.”

I nodded my head and chuckled, turning around and heading towards the farm house.

“Hey (Y/n).” Maggie smiled as she walked down the front steps.

“Hey.” “Glenn and I are going for a supply run, im going to keep an eye out for any pre-natal vitamins for you. Is there anything you’re after?” “Oh thank you, not that I can think of.” “Okay, well, Daryls upstairs, I think he might be asleep, but head on up.” She smiled.

“Thank you.” I smiled as she continued past me.

I made my way up and into the Greene family home, and up those familiar steps that lead me to Daryls room.

I softly pushed the door open and walked in, smiling as I see Daryl sit himself up.

“Where have ya’ been all day?” He asked

“I, have been everywhere today it seems, Shane and I went on a supply run this morning.”

“Ya’ did what?”

“Daryl-“ “I don’t want ya’ out there. Why would he take ya’ out?” “He didn’t take me, I took him. Technically. But it was smooth, no near death experiences to report.” I smiled softly.

“Dale cooked whatever, this is for us. It smells good though.” I chuckled handing him a plate.

He took the plate and picked up the food, biting away at it.

“Quit ya’ starin’.” He spoke through a mouthful.

“Or what?” I challenged, taking a bite from the food.

He shook his head as a light pink blush rose on his cheeks.

“Are you blushing?” I grinned, watching as he finished eating.

He grabbed his plate and moved it to the side, grabbing mine from my hand and placing it on his own.

“Hey! I wasn’t finished- “ 

“C’mere.” He muttered, reaching over, pulling me onto his lap.

“Daryl.. what are you trying to do?” “I’m tryin’ to finish what ya’ started.” “Oh, what I started?” I grinned, my hands resting on his shoulders.

“Mhmm” he nodded.

“If I remember correctly, it was you, that initiated this.” “Was it?” He smirked.

I nodded my head.

“Guess im gonna finish it too.” He stated, bringing his hand to the back of my neck, pulling me in for a kiss.

I smiled into the kiss, both of my hands made their way to the sides of his face, cupping his stubbled cheeks.

His hands moving down to my thighs, picking me up and laying me back.

I pulled away from his lips and smiled up at him.

“What?” He muttered.

“Nothing.” I shook my head softly, bringing his face back down to mine.

Daryl’s hands roamed freely over my body, sending shivers coursing down my spine.

I shivered against Daryl, earning a low chuckle from him.

Once Daryl had fallen asleep, I got dressed and took the plates downstairs for cleaning.

I left the farm house, making my way to our little camp.

Washing up the two plates in the tub we had set aside I left the two to air dry.

“I was wondering where you’d run off to.” Lori spoke up as she exited her tent.

“I just gave Daryl his lunch.” I smiled, getting off the ground.

“Thats not all you gave him.” I could hear the smirk in her voice without even turning to look at her.

I smiled and turned to face her.

“I don’t know what it is you’re implying Lori.” 

“Sure you don’t.” She grinned.

“How else would your shirt be inside out.” 

I looked down and laughed, quickly stripping my shirt off and flipping it the right way in.

“Lucky it was only me.” She laughed, patting my back.

“Ill give you a hand.” I smiled motioning to the laundry that needed folding.

We laughed and joked for about 15 minutes as we folded, the clothes.

The creak of the side paddock gate gained the attention of both Lori and I.

We looked up to see Maggie storming through, Glenn hot on her heels.

“Hey! We got your stuff.” Maggie called out.

“Maggie, hang on, please.” Glenn called after her.

Lori looked around, seeing who else was out.

Then she looked at me.

“Come on in here.” Lori tried softly, gesturing to her tent.

“Why? Nothing to hide. We got your special delivery right here.” Maggie started.

“We got your lotion, got your conditioner, your soap opera digest.” She named each item before throwing it to the floor.

“Maggie..” Lori tried.

“Hey, Maggie, calm down. What-“ I tried to reason.

“Next time you want something, get it your damn self. We're not your errand boys.” 

“Honey, I-“

“And here's your abortion pills.” She threw a small blue box at Lori, storming off, Glenn and Lori sharing a look before he followed Maggie.

“Lori?” I asked softly as she stood there in silence.

“Honey, I can explain.” “You don’t need to explain anything to me.” I stated bringing her in for a hug.

“I just wish you’d have told me.. we could’ve talked about it.” I rubbed her back. 

“I just don’t know what to do. I haven’t told Rick yet. I’m not going to until I know what I’m going to do.” She paused.

“Does that make me a bad wife?” She asked.

“No. It makes you a cautious one, and thats not a bad thing considering what’s happened in the last few months.”

“You have no idea how good it feels now that you know.” She softly laughed.

“I’d say it’d be a whole lot less stressful.” I laughed with her as we sat on the small stools near the table in the tent. 

The little blue box holding the attention of both Lori and myself.

“Whatever you decide to, I’m here to support you.” I whispered placing my hand on her own.

She grabbed my hand and looked over to me, a thankful smile on her face.

A slight movement from the corner of my eye caught my attention, to see Glenn appear at the tents doorway.

“I’ll leave you guys to it.. just come get me if you need anything.” 

“Thank you honey.” She hugged me.

“I’ll see you later Glenn.” I smiled, softly patting him on the back.

“Yeah, see you.” He nodded as I made my way through the tents door.

The familiar green car came into view and pulled up by the RV.

I couldn’t help but chuckle as I noticed the light flush on Andrea’s face as she climbed out of the car.

I made eye contact with Shane, him rolling his eyes as he noticed the small smirk on my face, continuing his walk to Carol and Dale.

“Anything?” Carol was the first to speak.

“Not today.” Shane shook his head.

“I’m so sorry. We'll cover more ground tomorrow.” Andrea sympathised with her at least.

Andrea was covered in more grime and dirt than what she had left in, signalling that they’d run into some sort of trouble whilst out.

“What happened out there?” Dale asked looking her up and down.

“Um, I-“ Andrea was cut off before she could even finish her sentence.

“The place was overrun.” Shane said far too quickly.

“Yeah.” Andrea agreed, sharing a look with my brother.

“Let's go get you clean up.” Carol motioned towards Andrea, pulling me along with them.

“(Y/n), you coming?” “Yeah, i’ll catch up, just got to grab Andrea a towel.” I smiled running into the small share tent, grabbing one of the towels.

I turned to leave, but overheard Dale call out to Shane.

“Shane.” “Shane, I was thinking, you've got that nice new ride of yours, plenty of fuel, more than enough for you to get far from here.” Dale began.

I furrowed my brows, not understanding where Dale is coming from.

“What, you telling me to leave?” Shane asked, annoyance clear in his voice.

“I know you've been planning to. Maybe now is a good time.” Dale responded.

Shane scoffed before laughing.

“Is this about Andrea?” He asked.

“I’m looking out for the group.”

“You think the group would be better off without me, Dale? My sister would be better off? Why don't you tell that to Rick or Lori? Their boy would be dead if I hadn't put my ass on the line.” Shane argued.

“And Otis's. You've been vague about that night, about what happened.”

“Otis died a hero.” Shane stated smugly.

“So you've said.”

“A little boy lived because of what went down that night. I think you ought to show some gratitude.” Shane sneered

“I wasn't there.” Dale responded.

“No, man, you weren’t.” Shane agreed, clearly angry.

“But I was the time that you raised your gun on Rick.” My hand instantly covered my mouth as I had heard what Dale had said.

“Come on. Jesus.”

“You had him in your sights and you held him there. I know what kind of man you are.” Dale continued.

I heard a sigh, the same one that I’ve heard my entire life, the one that Shane used to use when he was caught in something.

Shane stayed silent for a moment before speaking once more.

“You think I'd shoot Rick? That is my best friend. That's the man that I love. I love him like he's my brother. You think that's the kind of man I am?”

“That's right.” Dale answered.

“Well, maybe we ought to just think that through. Say I'm the kind of man who'd gun down his own best friend. What do you think I'd do to some guy that I don't even like when he starts throwing accusations my way? What do you think?” Shane threatened before retreating.

My stomach was in knots, knowing that my brother isn’t the man I knew.

I heard the footsteps retreat and decided to give myself a moment.

I took a deep breath, and shook my head softly.

As I took a step out of the tent, gasping when someone spoke.

“How much of that did you hear?”

Series Masterlist Next Part

[factoffictionwriter]

Tiva Fic Amnesty #10

This is the entire epilogue I wrote for that multi-chapter fic I keep talking about. A bit of a different take on what the DiNozzo family might have gotten up to after Tony eventually turned in his badge.

“Is he sleeping?” 

Tony looked down at his daughter as she tugged lightly on his jeans, “Not yet.” 

“Can I hold him?” 

He looked at the sleeping baby in his arms. His little eyes were fluttering open every few seconds, as if trying to keep himself awake out of fear of missing any of the action. His fists clenched every time they closed like he was angry at his own exhaustion. 

Tony knew he wanted his mother. He wanted her to hum a sweet song to him as he drifted off to sleep pressed against her chest, surrounded by her warmth and scent.

The kid sure was head over heels for his mother. 

Definitely my son, He thought to himself. What he wouldn’t give to fall asleep against Ziva’s chest right about now. 

He looked back down at Tali, her hands clasped behind her back as she swung her hips back and forth and hit him with some intense puppy dog eyes. She was laying it on a little thick in his opinion, but who was he to deny his little girl. 

Besides, Tali was a mini Ziva in every conceivable way. Maybe she would pass as a reasonable substitute in her mother’s absence. 

“Okay, Booger. But you have to be careful. He’s very sleepy.” 

She nodded quickly, her curls flying into her face. 

“Okay, go sit on the naptime chair and I’ll give him to you.” 

She ran across the room and climbed onto the cushy chair, named for Ziva’s tendency to fall asleep in it while she was nursing her youngest child. He slowly walked over to it, adjusting the blanket wrapped around his son as he leaned over to place him gently in his sisters arms. 

He let out a cranky cry, not appreciating being passed about, but quickly settled down when he felt the tiny kiss Tali placed right between his eyes. 

“It okay, Eban. I’m here.” 

Tony smiled. She sure loved her little brother.

“I’m going to check on Sarah and your mom. I’m taking the monitor with me, so if you need anything, just yell, okay?” 

“Okay, Abba.” 

Tony nodded as he grabbed the parent unit of the baby monitor and turned up the volume before hooking it into his front pocket. He walked out of the nursery and made his way down their narrow hallway and toward what had been the guest bedroom until quite recently. He gently opened the door, peeking inside to make sure he wasn’t interrupting anything. 

His wife was laying in the tiny twin bed with her back to the door. He didn’t have to see her to know that Sarah was curled up beside her. The two had barely spent more than a moment apart in the two months they’ve lived together. 

He was starting to find his empty bed every night to be a little depressing, but it was worth it.

He had to admit, he wasn’t completely on board with the whole adoption thing at first. He had barely settled into his new job and she hadn’t even finished nursing Zach. Then there was Tali, still not three years old. They had enough on their plate. Were they really in a position to be taking in another child? Not to mention one who was struggling with so much.

“She has PTSD, Ziva. It’s not like we’re talking about taking in a normal 6 year old.” 

Her eyes lit up with burning rage so quickly he almost took a step back.

“A normal 6 year old? She’s just a child, Tony.” 

“You know what I meant.” 

“Do I? Because, I seem to remember you being much more understanding when I was just starting to get treatment for my own PTSD.” 

“That was different.” 

“How? Because you loved me?” 

“Well, yeah.” 

“I love her.” 

“You just met her, Zi.” 

“But I love her, Tony. I understand her. I can’t explain it, but I just… get her.”

He groaned in frustration, partly at how unreasonable she was being, and partly because he knew she was right. He had seen them interact. Ziva loved that little girl. And he was pretty sure the little girl loved her back. 

“Look, Ziva. I know you care about her. I know you care about what happens to her. I care, too. But she is a witness in an ongoing investigation. Hell, she’s the victim. She needs to be in protective custody until her father goes on trial.”

“Don’t call him that. The man doesn’t deserve the title.” 

The fire was back again. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he gave her a reason to bring out those Krav Maga moves she had just started practicing again since her second birth. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. But she has to be kept in the system if we want them to put that bastard in prison. She can give them answers that they need.” 

“And what about after the trial? Where will the system put her then?” 

“I’m sure they will try to find her a good home. A happy family.” 

“We have a good home. We are a happy family. Look at us, Tony. We’ve made a life for ourselves that we never would have even dreamed of having 5 years ago. We’ve fought tooth and foot for our family. We’ve managed to capture so much joy between these walls. We have so much love in our lives. And we have so much more to give.” 

He had to swallow back the bubble of emotion threatening to pour out as she talked about the life they had built together. She was right, of course. They could have never have had this while they still worked at NCIS. They never could have even imagined that they would purchase a little house in Virginia with a huge yard and trees made perfectly for climbing. They never would have seen themselves with not one child but two. They wouldn’t have been able to see themselves married and settled and happy. So incredibly happy. 

“It’s tooth and nail, babe.” 

Her eyes softened at his tone, the clear resignation in it as he found it so hard to fight with her anymore. She had been right, after all. And she knew he was a good man. He would do the right thing. 

“So we’re going to do it?” 

He sighed, “We’re going to… look into it. They’re not just going to hand her over to us. We’ll have to do things the right way. They’ll have to make sure we’re a good fit.” 

“We are.” 

“I know that, Ziva, but they have to make sure. And I’m sure they’re going to spend a lot of time looking into me specifically. They will have to make sure that I will not hurt her the way her fa-” he stopped himself when he saw her shoulders rising in anger, “The way that bastard hurt her.” 

“You would never do that. You’re a good man.” 

“And they’ll see that. But it will probably take time. Not to mention how long it might take for her to be comfortable around me.” 

Ziva nodded sadly at that. The poor girl had been so terrified to be in the same house as a man she didn’t know that he had been staying at a hotel while Ziva took care of the girl for the bossman. He had claimed that they shouldn’t watch the girl if she was so uncomfortable, since he should really be around to help Ziva with the baby, but she had insisted she would be fine. And it turned out that Tali was getting to be a great little helper, and an even better big sister. 

Sarah had fit into their little family perfectly while she stayed with them. Well, perfectly aside from her aversion to him. But he knew he could earn the girl’s trust. 

“But we are going to do this, right? We are going to adopt her?” 

Her eyes were screaming with so many emotions as she looked at him, waiting for a final answer. There was fear and hesitancy, but there was also hope and excitement. And love. And pride. 

And he wanted to make her proud of him. Proud to call him her husband. He wanted her to look at him like that forever. 

“Yes. We are going to do everything in our power to make sure that little girl comes home with us. As soon as possible.” 

Tears threatened to fall as she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed so tight he almost yelped. 

“Thank you, Tony. This means so much to me.” 

“I know it does, Ziva. I know it does.” 

It hadn’t taken nearly as long as he had thought, seeing as the government already had extensive background records on both of them and they wanted to get Sarah settled into a home before she was set to start school in the fall. Kindergarten. They had a kindergartner now. 

And Sarah had even come around to liking him a lot faster than he expected. Or at least tolerating him. Once she heard that he wanted to be her father and that he was willing to open his home to her, she had decided to give him a chance. Then once Ziva explained to her that Tony was willing to continue living at the hotel down the street for as long as she wanted him to, she had insisted he move home immediately. 

“I don’t want to break the family just because I’m broken.” 

Tony had held Ziva while she cried over such heartbreaking words coming out of such a small child. 

In the past few weeks since all the paperwork was signed and Sarah moved into their home officially, the little girl had made many brave steps towards building a relationship with the man who was now her father, but she still was not able to sleep in their house without Ziva laying in bed beside her. 

And then there were the fits. At first he had thought that they were flashbacks like Ziva still got every once and a while, but Ducky had insisted that they were different. 

“She experiences these dreams, or she had these memories playing through her mind, and all of these emotions well up inside her. It is like filling a balloon with water. She starts swelling with all these feelings that she can’t process and doesn’t know how to deal with, and she feels like she’s going to burst. So she lashes out in the one way she knows will get her the attention she needs: with anger. And frustration. She screams and she cries and she kicks because she doesn’t know what else to do.” 

“How do we help her, Ducky?” Ziva was squeezing Tony’s hand as they listened to what their lives were about to turn in to.

“You can stay with her. Wait it out. Listen to her when she decides to speak. Distract her if you can, but always make sure that you give her an opportunity to explain what she is feeling before you consider the episode to be over and you walk away. She might not always have the words to explain it, but allowing her to practice expressing herself to you guys will greatly help her when she goes to therapy.” 

Ziva had taken her new responsibility as Sarah’s mother very seriously, always being the first to recognize the start of a fit and finding the best ways to corral the young girl into her new bedroom as quickly as possible in order to protect her other two children from the wrath. At first, Tony found bruises along Ziva’s arms, and he tried to take over as the official fit-squasher. But that had made things much worse, as he should have expected, and soon he resigned himself to letting his wife take a few punches for the sake of Sarah’s healing. But he hadn’t noticed any bruises since Sarah moved in officially, and the screaming was starting to die down much faster than it had before. He oftentimes opened the door after one of the fits to find the two curled in bed together, much like they were now, sleeping off the frustration and sadness from their tense encounters. 

Tony took a step inside the room, and Ziva stirred. She moved slightly to look over her shoulder at him and held up a finger to tell him to wait. He paused. She slowly slid her body out from around their daughter, being careful to completely untangle their limbs so as to not wake the child. Once she was free, she stood carefully and crossed the room, grabbing him by the arm and tugging him out the door. She closed it gently behind her and seemed to let out a deep breath. 

“Everything okay?” he whispered.

She nodded, “She needs to learn to sleep without me at some point. This shall be our first trial. We will see what she does when she wakes up and I am not there.” 

He nodded and pointed down the hall toward the nursery, “Tali is holding Evan, but he really wants you.”

She nodded again and turned to join the two in the nursery.

“Ima! Eban is sleeping!” Tali yelled when she saw her mother. 

Whether the baby had actually been asleep or not, the burst of excitement from his sister had been more than enough to wake him up. Steady cries filled the room and Tali’s face fell immediately. 

“I’m sorry, Ima. I didn’t mean to…” 

“It is fine, Yakiri. You did nothing wrong. Let me take him.” 

She slowly lifted her 9 month old out of her 2 year old’s arms and hugged him to her chest. 

“Shhhh, Matok. It’s okay. I’m right here.” 

She started bouncing him gently against her shoulder as she looked down at her daughter, “Thank you for helping Abba take care of your brother.” 

“Is Sarah feeling better?” 

Ziva nodded, “She is sleeping right now, but you should ask her when she wakes up. She’ll be happy to know you care..” 

Tali nodded. Tony was always amazed that Ziva seemed to know exactly what to do to integrate Sarah into the family. While the two little girls had gotten along great at the start, there had been a bit of tension lately as Tali felt that this new girl was taking her mother away from her. They hadn’t gotten into any arguments or anything, but the disconnect was pretty obvious. Ziva had been working on getting both of them to talk it out and build a better relationship now so that there would be no lingering resentment later. Tony couldn’t help but wonder if she was doing all these things out of experience, since she did have a half brother who had been thrown into their home when she was really young. Either way, he was so thankful that she seemed to know what she was doing, because he would have been completely lost. 

Tali slid off the naptime chair and looked up at her father. 

“Can we watch Moana?”

Tony smiled, “Sure thing, booger. But only if I get to wear the grass skirt this time.” 

Ziva smiled at them. Tony had certainly been successful in getting his first daughter to share his love of movies. He came home almost every week with a new DVD to share with her, and some form of silly outfit for each of them to wear while they watched. Moana involved a grass skirt and large green stone attached to a hemp string meant to look like the stone from the movie. Frozen had required a blue princess dress for her and reindeer antlers for him. He had made a point to go back and purchase additional pieces to add to their collection in case Sarah ever wanted to watch with them, but she had yet to take him up on the offer. 

Tony was doing his best with Sarah. They both knew it. But that didn’t stop the flash of hurt in his eyes every time the blonde girl turned down his offer to spend more time with her. 

If only he knew that she called him her father for the first time today. 

It had been during their post-fit talk. She had been going on and on about something coming up at school called career day.

“Markus said his dad had the coolest job because he gets to work with tools. I told him that was nothing, because my dad works with guns.” 

To say that Tony worked with guns was a bit of an overstatement, but she hadn’t bothered to correct her. Technically his job was to design training simulations for agents and cops to work on their weapons proficiency. But not all the courses were designed for target practice, and none of the weapons used in their facility were real or even dangerous. Still, the first time Sarah had met Tony, he had one of the training guns strapped to his waist, and it was hard to override that first impression. 

She watched as her three year old took off running for the living room and her husband leaned over to give Ziva a quick kiss before following. 

Ziva smiled down at her son, who was sucking happily on his thumb. Her second pregnancy had not been nearly as smooth as her first, leaving her on bed rest for almost 2 months only to go into labor too early anyway and have an emergency c-section in order to save the life of their child. The surgery had been every bit as risky as it would have been the first time, and as a result they had been told that she could not have any more biological children. 

Tony had taken the news admittedly well. He told her time and time again that he didn’t need any more children. That their little family was perfect just the way it was. 

But she had wanted more. Being pregnant had its ups and downs, but at the end of the day it was an indescribably beautiful experience. Not to mention how much she loved being a mother, and with her continued career as an independent personal trainer giving her the freedom to pick her own hours and even bring her children along with her if she needed to, she thought that the more kids the merrier. Three was her ultimate goal. And it devastated her to think she would never get there. 

But then she met Sarah. Abby had asked her to stop by NCIS one day to translate some emails linked to a cold case she was reworking (and to bring by her ‘two little babies’ as she always called the DiNozzo kids). When she walked into the lab, one kid in the stroller and the other walking alongside it with her fingers gripping the side tightly, she was met with a small blonde girl, not too much older than Tali, sitting on Abby’s lab table with her hands tucked underneath her bottom. 

Abby had been swabbing the girl’s clothes and cataloging her injuries. Ziva hadn’t asked what had happened - she could tell by the tunneled look in the girl’s eyes that her father had hurt her somehow (it was a look she was very familiar with given she had a sister who also had to live with a disappointing parent) and by the bruises that it was horrible. When Abby pushed Evan into the back part of the lab and Tali followed, Ziva stepped up to the girl and tried to get her to talk. It was a very one-sided conversation, but by the end of it Ziva was reaching into her back pocket and calling her husband, telling him to get his ass over there now and take their kids home. She wasn’t about to leave this girl’s side. 

The girl had been made to be a part of their family, even if it didn’t always seem like it. Sure, she had pale skin and straight blonde hair, but she pronounced Tali’s name perfectly on the first try, which was something Tony still failed to do at times. And she may not have spent the first 5 years of her life living in a half Jewish home where they spoke a fluid mixture of a couple of different languages, but she was picking up on the different words so quickly. And sure, her eyes were starkly grey, like the sky before a lightning storm, which were certainly not mimicked by any of her adopted siblings, but she was so clearly as strong willed as Ziva and had a sense of humor that mirrored Tony’s. 

She was always meant to be their daughter. She was meant to be the fifth DiNozzo. And now she was. 

Tali Elizabeth DiNozzo. Evan Shai DiNozzo. And Sarah Mailyn DiNozzo. 

Their little family. 

She couldn’t imagine her life without any of them. To think she had tried to run away from everything that DC and Tony offered after her hunt for Bodnar. To think she had once sat alone in a small farmhouse, stewing in her own self hatred, convinced the world was so much worse for her being in it. 

A tear slid down her cheek and her fussy baby was not happy to see his mother sad. He stuck his arms out as if to reach for her, and she lifted him up above her head so she should blow a raspberry into his stomach while he tugged on her hair. 

She heard footsteps in the hallway and looked over to see a sleepy Sarah standing there, rubbing her still red eyes. 

“You weren’t there,” She whispered, but she didn’t seem too shaken by the memory. 

“I knew you would be okay if I left you to sleep alone,” Ziva responded, resting her son back against her chest. 

Sarah nodded a little bit, “I was okay. I thought I wasn’t at first but… I was okay.” 

“That is good. I believe Dr. Mallard would call that progress.” 

Sarah smiled a little. Loud laughter, mostly from Tali, came from the living room. She looked down the hall toward it longingly.

“They are watching Moana. Would you like to join them?” 

The little girl shrugged, but she hadn’t said no like she usually would. 

Seeing an opportunity, Ziva reached over for a burping cloth and slid the blanket off of her son as she adjusted him in her arms. 

Sarah considered this for a moment before finally nodding just as Ziva stepped out into the hallway. The girls walked quietly toward the commotion, stopping by the kitchen for just a moment to warm up a bottle of formula (breastfeeding hadn’t gone as well the second time) and then settling themselves on the couch. 

Tony was in fact wearing the grass skirt as he lay on the floor next to his daughter. A few minutes into the movie, Tali got up and walked up to Sarah on the couch. 

She held out the green stone necklace, “You can wear this if you want. Or Abba can give you the other grass skirt.” 

The blonde girl reached out and wrapped her fingers around the stone, “Thank you, Tali.” 

The brunette smiled wide before jumping on her father, “We can match, Abba! Where is the other skirt?”

Tony got up slowly and ducked into the kitchen. He returned seconds later with a matching grass skirt. 

Sarah watched as he helped Tali get it on and they both went back to laying on the floor. 

Tali looked over her shoulder again and started patting the empty space beside her, “Lay with us, Akhot.” 

Sarah glanced sideways at their mother, who mouthed the word sister as a translation. 

A slow smile spread across the girl's face as she slid off the couch and onto the floor, tugging the stone necklace over her head as she went. 

Tony leaned back, looking up at his wife who was gently feeding their son. She looked down at him, and they both smiled. This was family. This was peace. 

And the only way I got it was by coming back after Israel. 

Thank god I did that.

[pythosart]

A big ol 2019 end of the year update

I felt somewhat compelled to write my end of the year/decade thoughts, but a warning before you read: This one’s going to be heavy, intensely personal, and long. If you don’t feel up to reading that, it may be best to skip it. I promise I’ll go back to shutting up and posting art afterwards. I’m profoundly incapable of being concise, ever, so apologies for the length of this.

2019 was a nightmare.

Some background: In mid 2016, my mother was diagnosed with a rare form of liver cancer. She was given a few months to live. She was given weeks or months to live multiple times, for almost three years. In that time my mom was in and out of the hospital, but spent all her good days living life to the fullest, starting and finishing dream projects, and keeping all of us going despite her own situation. Even when she was bedridden, hooked up to tubes and bags and god knows what, she found time to prop up her loved ones and pursue her hobbies. She even managed to develop new hobbies and interests while otherwise imprisoned by her physical state, something I struggle to do at the best of times even in my young and relatively healthy form. If there’s anything I can make of this experience, it’s that I hope to grow into even half the woman my mother was.

I ended 2018 with my final quarter at SCAD. I spent the entire quarter terrified my mom was going to die while I was away from home. It was horrific, I barely scraped by my last few classes (bless my professors’ endless patience), and immediately left Savannah for home as soon as the quarter was up. I never had room to celebrate finishing college. Any other year it would be a huge milestone, but I barely even care.

This past May, my mother passed away, after three years of petrifying suspense. It happened in the dead middle of the night, while my best friend was visiting for a con, and it still feels like a bad dream. It’s also one of the only vivid memories I even have of this year. 

I wish I had more to say on that, but I genuinely think the drawn out suffering and fracturing of my whole world left me unable to fully unpack everything that’s happened. It’s hard to even think about for long, and at times I even half-forget she’s gone. I think of things I want to show her, or tell her, or cook with her. Just the other day I kept thinking I’d tell her how much I liked endive after she showed me how to make it. I found a historical Italian cooking channel that, every time I see it, I just think of how much she’d love it. I knew she’d love Hot Fuzz but never got to show her. Little, stupid things that shouldn’t matter, but they do. They just do.

My mother and I were close, much closer than I am with my dad. Especially towards the end of her life, we had gotten closer, and I felt like I was only just really getting to know her as an equal. I still want to share my life with her, but that chance is gone.

This holiday season has been especially rough in her absence, because not only was my mom the motivational and creative force behind a lot of holiday activities here, it’s the first everything without her. We had Thanksgiving with friends and a catered dinner, instead of spending several days cooking and polishing family silver and setting the table. I won’t be making handmade tortellini with her for Christmas like we did every year. It’s the little things like that.

We’re a tiny family, with over half of us in Italy and lacking much communication due to the language barrier. Family holidays were always small, but there’s just a huge hole how, much greater than the cold numeric value of “one fewer participant.” My mom was always a driving force and a keystone in our support networks, not to mention the main line of contact with the Italian-speaking side of the family, so now the family feels so much more scattered and isolated than ever.

My girlfriend was close to my mother too, and as she’s been living with me for years now and is practically part of the family, I think she took it just as hard as anyone. Cel saw everything I did, and dealt with many of the same uncertainties and traumatic experiences I did.

A month after I lost my mother, I lost my cat too. Galileo was twelve years old, a spry old man who yelled instead of meowed, and just a wonderful cat. I got him when I was in 7th grade, after begging my parents for years to get me a cat. It was my mom who eventually overrode my dad’s hesitations, and from then on Leo was part of the family. He went through a very sudden decline over the course of a week or two, and we learned it was cancer. Feline lymphoma, I think. I had to make the call to put him to sleep, and it ripped what was left of my heart out.

Not that it needs stating, but fuck cancer.

A few too-short months later, I cut ties with a “friend,” which despite how fucking much it hurt, was really for the best. At a certain point one simply can no longer afford to waste energy on a certain kind of person. Unfortunately I’m a persistently optimistic idiot, and it took me too long to cut my losses before deep damage was done. Done to me, my close friends, and even barely involved acquaintances this “friend” dumped on relentlessly and tried to harass into spying on me. Really, if any part of this is unforgivable, it’s that.

All this was, however, a valuable reminder that it’s no good to have any tolerance for habitually dishonest people, even if they think they’re doing it to look “nice.” Chronic liars will gaslight you whether they know it or not, and trying to navigate that in an already damaged mental state is inadvisable. It was an important lesson in picking one’s battles, albeit one learned too late. I’m still holding out hope I can find it in my heart to forgive this person, if only for my own selfish sake so I can move on. I have a lot of experience living on spite, and I don’t want to make a further habit of it.

Naturally all of the above did little to curb my already inflamed pessimism about the state of my country and the world at large, but I need not expand on that, I imagine.

I suppose it would be unfair of me to leave it all at that and only mention the negative, though admittedly positivity is hard to muster these days. A few bright spots of note:

Graduated from SCAD with my BFA in Sequential Art (technically last year, but I did the ceremonial bit this year)

Tabled at Animazement with Woods. We barely broke even, but it was a great time and I plan on doing it again in the new year.

Spent literally an entire month hanging out with my two best friends, which was amazing and exactly the kind of healing experience I needed around that time of year.

Properly did Halloween for the first time in years. I made a costume I’m proud of and we went out on the town… for like an hour, because it promptly started pouring. But fun nevertheless

Started therapy. As of writing this, I’ve only had an introductory session, but it’s a start. Should have started six months ago, but didn’t for reasons to be addressed...in therapy

Started volunteering at the local natural history museum, where I spent like half my childhood. I’ll be doing data entry in collections, but that’s still cool as hell

Got a start on figuring out what I want to do with my life. It’ll involve going back to school for science within the next five-ish years, but it’s nice to have a goal. More of a goal than I’ve ever had, in fact.

Played some extremely good video games (shout out to The Blackout Club and Control)

Made a shitload of unnecessary yet endlessly fun and good AUs with my friends and my one (1) OC

Got an iPad Pro and started learning Procreate, which has gotten me drawing more

Learned a bit of needle felting

2019 was a year of getting much closer to my two best friends, and I genuinely owe them my life at this point. I don’t know where I’d be without them. Nowhere good, certainly.

Woods and Dross kept me talking to people, kept me creating, told me when I was being unreasonable or needed to cool it, heard me out when I needed it but always kept me honest. They helped me keep some creative juices flowing when otherwise I’d have been at a frustrated loss and might have given up for good. If it seems like I’ve kept up my usual art output at all, and if you’ve enjoyed the Lou content (or not, whoops... apologies to everyone who followed me for monster content) you have both of them to thank.

Even moreso, I owe my girlfriend a great deal for being there for me through all of this while she herself was suffering similarly. She and I have had our ups and downs, and been through a lot in the five-ish years we’ve been together. We aren’t the most outspoken couple, but I think our mutual understanding and pain mitigated a lot of the damage this year has done. I don’t think I could have handled it alone.

Furthermore, I really need to thank a lot of other friends and acquaintances I’m not quite as close with, but still talk to. These people especially were willing to call me on my bullshit when necessary, or just talk to me at all, about anything. Even if these acquaintances didn’t know it at the time, there’s a good chance they were dragging me out of one of my frequent existential despair spirals.

I also, weirdly, owe a lot to helping my hen Julia recover from her dog attack. That was around the time that my mom’s health was in its final decline, when I felt the most helpless and despairing. I think having even some tiny something I could do to help was like, the only feeling of control I had in life for a bit there. Julia’s fine, by the way. Still queen of the yard, top chicken boss bitch, etc. Julia was always a kind of kindred spirit with my mom, in a way. Little but not to be underestimated, gray, big personality and commanding presence… Not to mention, she was one of the first in our flock and was always my mom’s favorite. 

It would be too much to say I have high hopes or plans of any kind for the upcoming year, but I do have a list of things I want to try and do. Some of which will involve art, and the posting thereof.

Big if on this one, but I’ve also recently started therapy (only took me half a year to work up to making a phone call after the first failed attempt took all the wind out of my sails) and I have…maybe not high hopes, but hopes, for that doing something to help. I should have started therapy two years ago, but the second best time is now, etc etc.

I have a lot of New Year’s resolutions, beyond the usual “get in shape, drink less coffee, blah blah” that I’ll try and write up a little list of separately. Most of them are art-related, so you all will be there to watch me swing and miss I PROMISED I’D TRY TO BE LESS NEGATIVE. New Year’s resolution #1: Maybe don’t make so many self-deprecating jokes.

Anyway, I don’t know how to end any wall of text, be it an OC worldbuilding screed or something serious like this, so... I guess, love yourself, cherish your friends, know when to put your own needs first and when to put your friends’ needs firster. One of the things my mom taught me in this past year or so is that relationships are what you make of them, and that it’s okay to be selfish sometimes. Be generous, be genuine, don’t be a doormat and don’t lie to people you care about, even if it seems kinder in the moment. Savor the time you have with those close to you, and spend time doing things you love. Cliché, maybe, but cliché can still be true. Happy new year, everyone. I sincerely hope it will treat us all better. 2020 may just be an imaginary change of numbers, but I like to think it really does wipe the slate in a way, and make room for all of us to do what we can to be better. Speaking of which, vote. For the love of all that is good, vote.

--

A little bullet list of New Year’s resolutions, because it’s nicer to look at

Try to get back in shape (of course) - That 30 days of strength thing was good while it lasted, despite my joints hating me

Learn some new recipes, preferably with fewer carbs, you Italian ass

Keep a physical calendar and stick with it for at least a few months

Learn at least one new skill by the middle of the year, whether it’s art-related or something else

Start writing more. Don’t have to share it, but try. Write down ideas somewhere other than Discord where they’re easy to lose

Either reopen Patreon or figure out how ko-fi works. Even if it’s for no money, just to have structure and goals.

Do Animazement again and try out some new product types

Go to SCAD career fair with a decent portfolio

Get better about spending, by whatever method works

Attend some art classes at the local collectives, doesn’t matter what

Play more video games. I swear I only played like three new things this year 

Read more classic literature and nonfiction, at least one book per month. I’ve been really enjoying Agatha Christie’s works and am about to start Guns, Germs, and Steel

Read more comics. Basically just consume more media

Do Halloween again, better this time

See friends in person more

Practice accepting whatever shitty thoughts show up and then letting them go, rather than dwelling on them

[originalhybridloverfics]

Why Can’t We Be Like That CH18

AN: I seriously have it in my head that this story isn't in as high demand as my others. I need to remind myself that that's not the case just because the story isn't all cotton candy and rainbows.I know this chapter is short but at least its an update.

“Felicity,”

Oliver knew she didn’t want to see him.

He didn’t blame her for the anger in her eyes as she spoke to him or the way, she held herself rigidly before him.

He kept replaying today in his head. When he just stood there as their family and friends had placed all the blame at her feet. How he said nothing when Laurel made a jab about the child they lost.

He had been so overwhelmed. Seeing Felicity confront, Sara, his sister, his mother, her brother, and Laurel calling them out on their bullshit the way she always called them out on his crap.  

He really allowed himself to see what Felicity had to go through because he came home. The way the blame was placed all at her feet.

He thought Felicity was being unreasonable. He was wrong.

Why did it take him seeing her being verbally and emotionally attacked for him to see that?

“Please, don’t shut the door in my face.” he pleaded. “Just hear me out. I really need to talk to you.”

“Give me would good reason why I shouldn’t slam this door right in your face right this second?”

“Because I’m sorry.”

“Not good enough.” Felicity gripped the edge of the door, ready to slam it shut.

Oliver’s hand shot out, pressing against the door, keeping her from shutting it. “Because I don’t want us to hate each other. We were in love, Felicity. We owe each other the chance to say everything we left unsaid.”

“Felicity, who’s is at the door?” Roy pulled the door opened wider, and his eyes hardened over. “You have a lot of nerve coming here after today.”

“It’s okay, Roy,” Felicity said, not looking away from Oliver.

Roy turned his eyes to Felicity, eyes softening. “Are you sure? I’m more than willing to make him leave.”

Felicity finally looked away from Oliver, and she nodded at Roy. “Yeah, I can handle him. Go back inside. I will be there in a few minutes.”

Roy shot another glare at Oliver but disappeared back inside Felicity’s home.

Felicity stepped forward, forcing Oliver to take a step back, she stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind her.

Oliver stared at her, his heart clenching at her closed-off expression. There was a time when Felicity wore her heart on her sleeve. All he ever had to do was look at her to know what she was feeling.

He hated that that had changed. He hated how everything had changed. Everything that he loved, that he came home for was either gone or different, and he wished it wasn’t.

He wished everything could be exactly as he wanted. He was not used to wanting something he was never going to get.

“Are you going to talk or not? If you’re just going to stand there, then you can go.”

Oliver swallowed, gathering his courage. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? Because from where I’m standing, you have a lot to be sorry for.”

“For everything.” Oliver gripped the back of his neck. “For the discord between us. For not being there the way I should have when we lost our son. For leaving. For not handling things better than I should have. For screwing up your life by coming back here. God, I wish I never left in the first place. The list goes on for all the things I’m sorry for. I regretfully could go on all night for all the things I’m sorry for.”

“Just stop, I don’t need you to resight everything that happened between us, everything that went wrong in our lives. I was there, I remember everything. I have lived with a mountain of regrets for years. I don’t need to live with yours too.” Felicity snapped, hearing him say he was sorry had only made her angrier.

“Are you really sorry, or do you just feel guilty? Do you just want to absolve yourself?” Felicity demanded.

“What, no-” Oliver shook his head, he reached for her.

Felicity shook her head sharply, shifting out of his reach. “Don’t.”

Oliver swallowed and looked away from her. His chest tightening with her rejection.

“You say you’re sorry, but in all honesty, I don’t care. If you feel that way, that’s on you. Because you were the one who walked away. I stayed when I lost a piece of me. I pushed forward and held on when I felt alone. More alone than I should have. More alone than anyone should ever feel.”

“You were never alone,” Oliver protested. “You had our family, you had our friends. You had me-”

“I didn’t have you. I didn't have anyone. You left me!”

“It wasn’t like that. After it happened, it was like you didn’t want me there, and I didn’t want to force my presence on you. I didn’t want to make things worse." Oliver argued. "Everything made you so angry. I didn’t know how to help you. I didn’t even know how to help myself.”

“You and I both know that’s not the only reason why you left.”

Oliver’s face scrunched up in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“After high school, our relationship was starting to move so fast. Too fast. We moved in together right out of college. We didn’t discuss it, we just did it.”

“We wanted to be together. We wanted to spend every moment together.” Oliver recalled.

“We did. Still, looking back, it’s something we should’ve discussed. We didn’t have to live together to be with each other. It wasn’t until we found out I was pregnant that we started to make plans for our future, and I think that said a lot about our relationship."

“Felicity, that didn’t mean I didn’t want my future with you.”

“But you weren’t ready. I’m not sure I was ready, but I was going to try. I was going to bring our son into this world, alive and happy and loved. I was going to be the best mother I was capable of being even though I was terrified all the time.”

“Terrified?” Oliver repeated.

“Yes, terrified. I was carrying a life inside me. An innocent life that depended on me for everything. I had nightmares all the time before the accident about something terrible happening to the baby. I was anxious all the time, scared I was going to fail our child, and that is exactly what happened. I failed to bring our son into this world alive and healthy and breathing. I failed to protect him as a mother should.”

“Felicity,” Oliver wanted to take a step forward, he wanted to pull her into his arms, but he knew that wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want him. Not anymore. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Maybe not, still, it doesn’t change how I feel, but even when I hated myself. I never left.”

“I couldn’t stay,” Oliver confessed. “I couldn’t look at you because every time I did, I felt like I was drowning.”

“Why tell me it’s not my fault. If you blame me?” Felicity questioned.

“I didn’t blame you,” Oliver shook his head. “I couldn’t look at you because it was my fault we lost our child. I was drowning in my own guilt.”

Felicity brow furrowed in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“When you told me you were pregnant, I wanted to run,” Oliver admitted shamefully. “We were so young, and I was still trying to figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I was constantly under the pressure of being a Queen and having to carry on the family’s legacy. I was uncertain about everything. Everything but you.” Oliver paused as emotion clogged his throat.

Felicity's eyes stung with a fresh wave of tears.

“You were the one thing in my life I was always certain of.” Oliver continued, his voice shaking with emotion. “When I looked at my future, I only ever saw you. So when you told me you were pregnant-”

“You lied-” Felicity accused, her chest cracking wide open with a fresh wave of pain. “You said you wanted to be there.”

“It was a lie at first,” Oliver confessed. “I wasn't ready for a baby, but I wanted to be there for you. I wasn’t willing to let you go, but as our baby was growing inside of you, I got used to the idea of us starting a family. I got used to the idea of being a father.”

“But you did let me go.” Felicity ground out. “You left.”

“Because I deserved to suffer. I deserved to lose the one thing that meant most to me. I was scared to be a father, and the world punished me by taking our baby from you.”

Felicity shook her head. She didn’t want to hear any of this. It sounded like a bunch of excuses. “If you weren’t ready, you should have been honest with me from the start. Instead, you used our son’s death as an excuse to bail. If you didn’t want to be with me anymore, you should have just said as much.”

“No, Felicity, you’re not hearing what I’m trying to tell you,” Oliver protested.

“No, I think I am.” Felicity’s voice shook with anger. “You weren’t ready. A part of me knew that, but I was pregnant, and I loved you, and I wanted you to be there. Still, you weren’t ready to be a father.”

Oliver shook his head. “Things are different now.” his voice shook. “I’m different now. I’m not the same man I was when I left. I’m ready now, and I want it all with you, the white picket fence, kids, a dog, marriage. Building a life together. I want to experience all of that with you.”

“No,” Felicity shook her head. “I told you before, and I meant it. You can’t come back here and decide you’re ready now and expect me to be waiting for you. You can’t expect me to start over with you or pick up where we left off.” Her hands shook in anger, and she curled her fist, digging her fingernails into her skin. “You say you’re sorry, but I don’t see it. I don’t feel it, and I am not ready to forgive you. I don’t know if I will ever be able to forgive you.”

“Please, Felicity, don’t say that.” Oliver pleaded.

“I am being honest. Something you should have been from the moment we found out I was pregnant. Instead of pretending to be the guy who takes care of his responsibilities, pretending to be someone you aren’t. Stop pretending like the death of our son wasn’t the one thing you needed to run away from your life. The one thing you hoped for.”

Oliver took a step back from her as if her words physically hurt him. “You think I wanted our child to die?”

“I don’t know what to think about you. I haven’t for a very long time. I don’t know you anymore. You’re not the same man I fell in love with.”

Oliver swallowed down the pain he could feel, trying to climb up through his throat. “You’re right, I wasn’t ready then, and I was pretending I was ready when I wasn’t. But I did not want our child to die. I would never want that. It hurts that you would think that of me, that I made you believe that.”

Felicity pursed her lips, blinking back tears as Oliver continued.

“You're right. Things were different then. I’m not the person I was. I’m not that boy pretending to be a man. I’m not afraid of what life has waiting for me anymore.”

“Before I came home. I got hurt. I thought I was going to die, and the last thing I saw was you, and I was okay with that, seeing you one last time before it all ended. Only I didn’t die, and I started to dream about what our life could have been. In my dreams, we were together, you were running your own company, we had three beautiful children. A son and two beautiful daughters who were the spitting image of their mother. We were married.” he took a shuddering breath. "We were happy."

“It was just a dream,” Felicity said. It wasn’t something she could picture for them. Not anymore, but she could still remember a time when she did.

“It could be more than a dream. I wasn’t ready then, but I am now, and I want all of it. Marriage, house, kids, all of it. With you.”

“I don’t.” Felicity shook her head. “You’re ready now. Good for you, but it’s a little too late. We’re not together, and I can’t see myself forgiving you. If you knew you weren’t ready, then you should have left when we first found out I was pregnant, instead of pretending to be the guy who takes care of his responsibilities.” Felicity took a step back. “Just leave me alone, Oliver. As far as I’m concerned, there is nothing between us anymore. Nothing but pain and regret. Furthermore, there is nothing left for either of us to say.”

Felicity opened her door and shut it behind her, shutting Oliver out.

Oliver stared at the closed door, a weight settling in his chest, stomach twisting uncomfortably.

Felicity made it clear she was shutting him out of her life.

It felt like Felicity just shut the door on them forever.

A/N: Alright, so this is the start of a turning point for Oliver and Felicity but especially Oliver. The next chapter will be longer but until then I hoped you liked the chapter.

Tags: @mariestark

Okay, so I lost my tag list for this story, so if you want to be tagged just remind me. 

[kittenshift-17]

Hi I hope you're doing ok I just wanted to ask a question. What do you think of Daenerys from game of thrones,I'm sorry its really random right but I've always wanted to know.oh and those christmas stories are really great are you going to continue those or were they just a one shot ? And as always I love you and you're writing.

Christmas stories? You mean the 👀👀👀 side-eye ask-responses fics? Because they weren’t Christmas stories, so much as people sending those “inviting creators to share something in progress that they wanted to finish in 2019, but didn’t manage to” asks to me and me sharing snippets of WIPs. Eventually all of them will be completed fics and will be shared on the appropriate archives, but until then, they’re just sitting in my “In Progress” folder, waiting to be worked on.

As for you query about Dany, I’m very on the fence about her. Throughout the books and the early seasons of the TV show, she’s my least favourite character because she’s so far removed from all the other plotlines all the way over across the Narrow Sea. There are some sections in the middle where I quite liked her, and I confess that in Season 7, I was all for having her take over as Queen of Westeros.

Unfortunately, D & D ruined that. And though I can see WHY they had to play it that way from an author’s perspective (particularly since they’re not the original authors, essentially making the last couple of seasons a D & D version of fanfic, if you think about it), I didn’t like her by the end. She went too far (no matter how Cersei pushed her to get there) and honestly, she became too hell-bent on ruling the world. Early on, her acts of violence were all for the sake of rescuing the oppressed and championing freedom. She weeded out injustice and beat it back with fire and blood, and that was great. 

The continuity of that is where D & D (I beleive) were trying to take it all, but they forgot one uncomfortable thing.

When she overthrows the Khals, she rescues the men and women of the hoard and the vast number of peoples they enslave. When she overthrows the Masters of Pentos, she resuces the enslaved and downtrodden. When she overthrows the Salvers mutilating boys for their armies, she’s resucing future generations of boys from that fate. When she ‘overthrows’ Cersei, on the other hand, she rescues no one. She loses sight of doing it to protect the innocent and to help the down-trodden. Instead she roasts those very same innocent, frightened, downtrodden, terrified people of King’s Landing alive, and for what? 

Power. Revenge. 

There is a theme throughout her timeline that she defies those who look down on her and those who say no to her, and she does do ruthless things to the people who refuse to support her cause, but she was perceieved to temper it throughout those things as a champion for the weak because she herself had once been weak.

She loses sight of that when she faces Cersei. And in fairness, Cersei is a vicious cunt who deserverd far worse than was done to her throughout the series, but Dany lost it. The saying of the Targaryens being doomed to madness or greatness was supposed to fall on the line of greatness with her. Under her reign, I beleive Westeros could have been properous and happy. But D & D, just wanted to do a big scene with the dragon(s) I think. 

And okay, yes, being traded to the Dothraki for their army and treated like a common whore by Viserys made her brittle, and losing Khal Drogo hurt her deeply. Losing Viserion to the Night King, and Rhaegal to something so stupid as a lance in broad daylight when the beast could literally have flown in any direction to dodge it was just dumb. That broke her, I think. To couple it with the ‘betrayal’ of Jon’s true origins and the threat he then posed to her rule, and then losing Missandei to Cersei’s bitchiness definitely pushed her over the edge, I think. All of these things would certainly have fucked with her mental health, and it’s not unreasonable to state that she could’ve slipped into madness.

Which I suppose, is the point, in the end, isn’t it? She becomes the very monster she slayed so many times for the sake of her people, and she acts in the ways she has always done when the people in between her and her throne won’t bend the knee, and give her what she wants. The only thing that changes is that she loses sight of who is an enemy, and who is just a helpless victim.

And I empthaize with that. The longer you spend as a survivor, the less you recall the days of only being a victim. The longer you spend rising above your trauma, the less patience you have for those wallowing in their own. It becomes easy to forget that those other victims are scared and helpless and suffering, when you want them or need them to be strong, and brave, and valiant. By the time Dany reaches King’s Landing, most of her army is destroyed. Two of three dragons dead, her lover a traitor (and her nephew, ewwww) her friend captured and killed, and so all of these things could and probably should have broken her again, like the crying, broken, helpless girl who let herself be sold for an army, and raped like a helpless female dog. 

Throughout the series we watch her overcome the early trauma, and we watch the way she learns to solider on in the face of new traumas, too. They’re hurting. They’re like limbs being hacked off, I’d imagine, but she’s got to go on. She doesn’t have the luxury of breaking down in tears. She is Khaleesi. The Unburnt. The Breaker of Chains. She can’t just crumple. She’s got an army at her back relying on her strength and her guidance. 

She’s toughened, maybe a little dead inside by the end after all she loses.

So she has no patience for those victims still in the early stages of their trauma journey. The small folk of King’s Landing know suffering under Cersei, but they’ve seen everyone else who stood up to the Lannisters decimated in one way or another. Ned, beheaded. Renly, slain. Robb, beheaded. Catelyn, slain. Stannis, slain. The Tyrells, murdered. All three of Cersei’s children were killed, too, but just like Dany, she soldiered on. When all the other contenders have fallen beneath the mighty paws of the Lannister tyranny, what indiciation did any of them have that Dany would be any different? What else could they do, but follow orders or be beaten to death? Die on the outside of the gates by the hand of people claiming they want to protect you, or follow orders and scurry inside, beleiving that once again, the Lannisters will be the victors?

But Dany didn’t consider any of that, because everyone else she liberated hadn’t lived through battle after battle, war after war, watching their oppressors win. The Unsullied knew only how to follow orders, and being sold to a new Master meant doing only what they were told. The enslaved rose up against the masters because before Dany, only individuals had tried to fight back, not entire armies. When you are downtrodden and someone says, “Hey, if we all rise up, we can win” and it’s the first time anyone has tried, you are filled with naive hope and courage.

But the people of King’s Landing aren’t naive and courageous. They’d seen 5 kings rise and fall at the feet of the Lannister Queen, 6 if you count King Robert. Already, many had tried to rise up and overthrow her, and already all had failed. A new queen riding in, even on the back of a dragon, wasn’t enough to rouse them from their hard-learned slavery and acceptance. No one else had won before, so better to avoid trying again. Dany’s lack of understanding for that scenario - her unwillingness to heed what Varys and Tyrion tried to tell her to educate her about the way things worked in Westerous compared to Braavos - is ultimately what made her the monster she died as.

She refused to recall that others weren’t as brave as her; weren’t as hard-hearted as her; and she refused to recognize that the people she sought to ‘free’ had already been ‘freed’ five times over, at least, and still their tyrant queen stood tall. Dany’s impatience and her anger got the better of her thanks to the suppressed agonies she endured, and her unwillingness to see reason and understand that this time, things had to be different, was ultimately why she jumped into the role of brutal overlord doomed to die. 

I suppose, too, that when you flip the coin for madness or greatness, with only 2 Targaryens left on earth, you have to pick on, don’t you? Viserys was the mad one, and Dany the great one, but then Jon came along, and you flip it again, and to stay true to Jon’s nature throughout everything else, he must be the great one, so Dany has to be the mad one. 

So I suppose, in answer to your question on my thoughts about Danerys,  I’m... disappointed. She’s brave and brilliant and courageous in all she faces until excessive trauma makes her angry, makes her sloppy, and makes her foolish. She tries what she’s tried before and when it doesn’t work as it has every time before she throws a tantrum vile enough to end the world and to seal her fate, once and for all. I tolerated her until I liked her, and then I liked her until I didn’t. Now, I think of her as a tragic plot piece used, ultimately, to chart the course of valiant saviour to all right up until the Army of the Dead problem is resolved, a tool to batter down the walls without killing any more Starks in order to finally see Cersei dead once and for all, and then she’s tossed aside as being superfluous and in the way of the overall goal to see the Starks rise from the ashes of their destoryed family.

It’s hard to fathom in a tale with so many majoy players, but Jon Snow has always been the MAIN protagonist of the story; and everything else, including Dany, is all just circumstantial plot device to keep the story moving and to ultimately further Jon’s arc. That’s why he, alone, despite breaking every oath he took, and still trying to do what’s right, survives to the end, but gets no hero’s reward.

Based on what I know of G.R.R.M. from interviews he’s given and the overarching theme of this series as a whole, Dany’s end is fitting. You can’t stay a hero forever, you know? Eventually someone takes your hero’s crown or you become a tyrant to keep it, and someone else has to rise up and kill you, as you once rose up and slayed monsters, yourself. His whole schtick has always been that being a good person doesn’t mean you’ll get to live and doing the right thing for noble reasons will just get you killed sooner (Ned), but even those willing to do the wrong thing for the right reasons must pay their penance in the end. 

After all, valar morghulis.

[marvelousbirthdays]

Happy Birthday, fergumeister

November 18-A 5+1 format of Bruce/Tony being domestic with each other, for @fergumeister

Written by @ozhawkauthor

5 times Bruce and Tony took care of each other, and 1 time they realized it’s not because they’re Just Good Friends.

(Diverges from canon during AoU. If only canon had diverged from canon during AoU… but I digress.)

1

“I mean, thanks for catching me, but ouch. Everything hurts.”

“Don’t thank me, it was the Other Guy,” Bruce said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shrugging.

“Yeah?” Tony shot him a sharp glance. “I’m not falling for that. You might have Fury convinced that Hulk is an entirely separate entity, but that ‘I’m always angry’ line gave you away. So I’m gonna say again… thanks.”

Bruce hesitated, and finally said quietly “You’re welcome.”

“So.” After a moment of awkward silence, Tony swiped his hand over the screen. “This is the plan for the Tower. Your apartment’s here, and these are the labs. Anything you want, it’s yours.”

“Anything?” Bruce queried. “You mean, within reason.”

Tony turned to grin at him, jerked a thumb at his own chest. “Billionaire. Nothing is unreasonable, except occasionally my ego.”

Bruce couldn’t help it. He laughed.

2

“Seriously, I can’t believe you fell asleep while I was explaining it all!”

“I was up all night,” Bruce defended himself, “helping stabilize Pepper. Which you asked me to do, I should point out.”

Tony shrugged sheepishly. “Well, it’s my fault she got dragged into this mess with Killian. I promised I’d figure out how to cure her of Extremis, and let’s face it, if anyone’s going to figure out how to cure weird biologically-induced superpowers, it’s the man who’s spent the last decade researching them.”

Bruce gave him a fond, exasperated glance. “I failed, remember?”

“Only at curing yours. I have faith you’ll be able to help Pepper.”

Bruce shook his head, but Tony’s faith in him was definitely heart-warming. And the fact was, he already had some ideas of where to start. Pepper was definitely going to be all right.

Eventually.

3

“Lie the hell down, Tony. You’re not getting out of that bed. It’s all over bar the shouting, anyway, and Rhodey’s gone to give Steve and Natasha any backup they might need.”

Tony opened his mouth to argue, and Bruce shot him a ferocious glare.

“Do I need to call the Other Guy out? You’re in no state to put your armor on.”

“Hmm,” Tony said, but his eyes were already drifting closed again, the aftereffects of the operation to remove the shrapnel endangering his heart making him tired. “You’re kind of sexy when you’re bossy.”

“You’re cute when you’re behaving yourself,” Bruce murmured. “But I’m not gonna hold my breath hoping for it to become a regular occurrence.”

4

“Tony. Tony!”

“Mm hm?” Tony dragged his gaze away from the mess of circuitry he was poking around in, long enough to look up and notice the cup in Bruce’s hand. He reached out and took it. “Thanks. Ugh, is that kale?”

“It’s wheatgrass, and it wasn’t for you.” Bruce reclaimed the cup.

“Good, because it’s gross. JARVIS, I need more coffee.”

“No, you don’t. Cancel that order, JARVIS!” Bruce waved off the robot trundling towards them with a coffee cup held in an outstretched claw. The robot froze before turning to one side and pouring the coffee into the sink.

“My coffee!” Tony wailed.

“I’m cutting you off. You’ve been up for fifty-seven hours.”

“But the Iron Legion…” Tony gestured with the soldering iron in his hand. Bruce unplugged it at the wall socket.

“Will still be there tomorrow, and you know what’s worse than not having an Iron Legion? Having a malfunctioning Iron Legion because you were up for fifty-seven hours and made a mistake.”

Tony grumbled under his breath, but he also put down the soldering iron. “That wheatgrass stuff isn’t all that bad,” he muttered as Bruce pulled an arm around his shoulders and guided him towards the elevator.

“Is that a hint that you’d like one of your own?”

“Or maybe just a bit more of yours.” Tony gave him puppy-dog eyes, and as usual, Bruce couldn’t resist.

“Fine, take it. Drink the lot down. Probably more vitamins than you’ve had in a month. Now, you’re going to bed. I’ll send breakfast when you wake up.”

“Yes, Nanny,” Tony said compliantly, and Bruce chuckled.

“You don’t fool me for a minute, but I’ve got your number. I’m going to tell JARVIS to keep you locked in your suite with no toys to play with for twelve hours at least.”

“Damn Pep for giving you those override codes anyway,” Tony gumbled. “Never should have made them in the first place.”

“Smartest thing you ever did, even if you were drunk and suggestible at the time.” They’d reached Tony’s suite, and Bruce helped him over to the bed, watching as Tony collapsed face-down onto it. With a sigh, Bruce leaned down to unlace Tony’s boots, making a face at the smell. “JARVIS, do not let him out of this suite until he’s slept, eaten and showered.”

“Yes, Mr. Banner,” the AI agreed.

“You gotta stop burning this candle at both ends, Tony,” Bruce murmured quietly, one hand coming down lightly to touch the now-unconscious billionaire’s face. “Sooner rather than later, you’re gonna flame out… again.”

5

Bruce couldn’t stop shaking. What the witch had done had destroyed every tiny bit of his hard-won control in an instant, and the mess… he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the ruination he’d wrought on downtown Johannesburg.

“Don’t look.” Tony put an arm around him, and Bruce shuddered, trying to flinch away. He didn’t deserve sympathy or caring. He was the monster, and the monster had done this.

“I’m gonna kill that Sokovian bitch for this,” Tony grated, pulling Bruce closer, and Bruce finally broke down. He hadn’t cried in so long, terrified the loss of control would let Hulk out, but Hulk seemed far from the surface right now, almost as though in shock at what he’d done. Tears began to run down Bruce’s cheeks and he leaned closer to Tony.

“Sh. Sh, it’s all right.” Tony held him tighter. “Everything’s gonna be all right. I promise.”

+1

Natasha was trying to call him back. Hulk hit the screen, silencing the soft voice. He didn’t want it. Didn’t want any of it. They couldn’t make him go back.

The sky outside the jet’s window was darkening to the blackness of space when a different voice spoke, not from the screen. Overriding the speaker the jet’s autopilot used to acknowledge voice commands, Tony’s voice spoke to him.

“Hey, big guy. Fight’s over.”

“Fight never over!”

“No.” Tony sighed, a gusty, weary sound. “It’s never over. Never will be, I think. But today’s fight is done, at least. You coming back? I could use your help.”

“Hulk not good help.”

“You gotta be kidding! We couldn’t have done this without you. I couldn’t do this without you.” Tony was silent for a moment, and then he said softly “I don’t want to do this without you, Bruce.”

“Bruce not here.”

“Of course he’s there. He’s you, and you’re him. You’re both incredible, so strong in different ways… and I need you. Both of you.”

There was nothing but raw honesty left in Tony’s voice, and Hulk groaned, unable to sustain the rage.

Bruce stood in the jet’s cabin irresolute for a moment, looking up at the stars, and then he sighed and reached down to grasp the controls.

Landing the jet on the Helicarrier brought back so many memories. This time the huge flying aircraft carrier was full of shell-shocked refugees rather than SHIELD agents, but Bruce still saw a few familiar faces.

Tony was in the very briefing room where Fury had first explained the Loki problem to them, lying flat on his back on the conference table. He turned his head as Bruce walked in, and Bruce sighed as he saw the bloodshot eyes, the way Tony lifted one hand as though to wave and then let it flop to the table.

“You overdid it again, didn’t you? And you couldn’t find anywhere more comfortable to lie down than on a table?”

“Floor’s more comfortable but I was afraid someone might step on me.” Tony shut his eyes. “Boat’s pretty full.”

“Oh, Tony.” Without thinking, Bruce reached to place his hand against Tony’s cheek. “What am I gonna do with you?”

Tony smiled without opening his eyes. “Anything you like, since you came back.”

“Couldn’t leave you,” Bruce admitted.

Tony put his hand up to lay it against Bruce’s, eyes opening again to reveal a startling vulnerability in their depths. “I don’t know what I’d do if you left me,” he said quietly.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Bruce took a deep breath, admitted the truth he’d been holding deep inside for way too long. “You’re stuck with me, Tony. I’m in love with you.”

“About time you finally admitted it.” Tony was too tired to produce more than a feeble smile. “But your timing is shit. I don’t have the energy to do anything about it!”

Bruce chuckled, pulling off his sweatshirt and rolling it into a ball to put under Tony’s head. “Get some rest. We’ll talk when you wake up.”

“Damn right we will.” Tony’s eyes drifted shut. “Thank you for coming back, Bruce.” His voice was slurring with exhaustion.

“Always,” Bruce whispered, leaning down to kiss Tony’s forehead before grabbing a chair and parking his butt in it. He wasn’t leaving Tony’s side, not for Fury, not for anyone. The world was just going to have to accept them as a pair.

[bettycooperthefirst]

So, a couple of months ago, i decided to cut my dad out of my life. TLDR; narcissist who abused me and gaslit me. I wrote a letter to him that i’m never going to send, and i thought maybe I’d post it here. In case anyone else is thinking about doing something like this. Or anyone has felt the feelings i’ve felt. It’s been really fucking hard. It’s mourning someone you didn’t like but who was a significant part of your life. and it’s scary too. The reason I’m able to do this without completely being in danger is that I moved in April and he doesn’t know my new address. If you feel like reading this and even an ounce of it resonates with you, or if you’ve been through something similar, or are thinking about it, I would lovelovelove to talk about it. i hope you’re all having a good day. The letter is below the cut.

Dear Dad, 

I don’t remember the first time you said it. The word bitch, or the word go to hell. 

I work with five year olds. They are concerned with their favorite color, whether its purple or pink, and the great debate of whether or not bugs are scary. And I know eight year olds too, who are thinking about their first crushes but not really acting on them. I was eight years old once, writing about a boy in my diary and talking about him to my friends. And I learned how to do multiplication. I know eleven year olds, and they are terrified to start middle school. They are scared that people will talk about them behind their backs- and they’re right. They are worried that they are too thin, too fat, their hair is too curly, too straight, the shoes they love so much aren’t cool anymore, the boy they like won’t like them back. I know eleven year olds. I know eight year olds. I know five year olds. 

I was eleven and eight and five once. When my biggest concern was whether or not I liked pink or purple, you told me I was a piece of shit. When I was trying to decide if bugs were scary and if certain construction paper tasted better than others, you were there telling me that I was a bitch. While I had my first crush, I was realizing that men can’t be trusted. I was writing in my diary about a boy who’s smile I liked and I was learning firsthand that a man can smile in front of people and push you to the ground when no one is looking. I learned addition, multiplication, division, fractions and all the while you were making me question if I knew anything at all. I was afraid of being too fat, afraid that the boys thought I was ugly, afraid that I was worthless and you told me that I was. I was afraid that my friends would talk behind my back and that my shoes weren’t cool and that my hair was too messy and that you’d raise your voice loud enough to somehow break my bones. 

I  d e c i d e d  b u g s  w e r e n ‘ t  a s  s c a r y  a s  m y  f a t h e r 

I keep picturing myself in the front lawn. Let me paint you this picture. I’m standing there, maybe seven years old. Let’s go with that. I’m wearing beat up tennis shoes. There’s dried mud caking the bottom of them. I’m wearing some shorts and a huge t shirt with Kiara on it from the Lion King 2- I had so many of those shirts, she was my favorite princess. My hair is messy, frizzy, with a couple of butterfly clips in it. I’m bent over in the front lawn near the gravel driveway and I have a purple bucket. I swear that this specific purple bucket existed. And in the bucket I have mud where I am putting worms. I’m picking them up from the ground and giving them a home in this bucket. 

To you, I was needy and never happy and always unreasonable. But I was so happy playing with worms in a stupid bucket. If you had just supplied me with chalk forever and taken me to the library I would have been set. It was you who wanted me to do all these other things, fishing, wood working, photography, dog training. I wanted to read The Babysitter’s Club and draw hearts on the road in pink chalk. But when I wasn’t good at those things or I didn’t like those things, I was the problem.

My feelings not being the way you wanted them was the problem.

Even though my feelings weren’t unreasonable- it was a matter of like and dislike. To you that was unreasonable, because you wanted me to like what you wanted me to like. You wanted me to do certain things a certain way and I was supposed to follow the script and like those things because those were the ones you’d chosen for me. You chose the emotion of happy there. So you couldn’t deal with the fact that you don’t get to decide how another person is feeling. 

If I want to sit in the mud and put worms in a bucket then I fucking will. 

How unreasonable and selfish of me. 

I ‘ d  r a t h e r  s p e n d  t i m e  w i t h  w o r m s 

 t h a n  w i t h  y o u

I’ll give you this. I’m not as scared anymore. I don’t fear men on the street as much because there was a man to fear in my own house. In my safe space. 

My fiercest protector is me. 

I have to keep reminding myself that I am an adult and that I am okay. I have to keep telling myself that the people around me aren’t going to explode and I’m safe.

I have a man in my life. I have for six months. And he came out of nowhere and I tried not to expect too much and suddenly he’s trying everything in his power to be good for me, enough for me. Dad, I have a boy who holds me when I’m shaking and he knows about you. He goes out of his way to make me laugh, he tells me in quiet moments the little things he loves about me. He makes me feel safe when my breaths are short. He makes me feel safe when my breaths are even. Dad, he’s funny and he’s smart and - he knows about you. But you’ll never know anything more about him. Except this. I have a boy who holds me when I’m shaking and he loathes you. He goes out of his way to make me laugh and he knows about all the ways you’ve made me cry and rather than tell me I’m a bitch or to go to hell or any number of things, he turns his anger away from me and doesn’t let it hit me. He helps me feel safe from you. He’s funny and he’s smart and I love him more than I have ever loved you.

I have friends in my life. Fierce friends who understand how I feel about you. And they don’t think you’re worthy of me. And they would hold me back from you and some of them would pummel you into the floor

and all of these people understand that I am perfectly capable of handling it all myself, but they don’t want me to have to.

It’s been weighing on me. My reality. What’s true and what’s false. What’s true is this: when I was five, and eight and eleven, you made me feel weak. You made me feel like I could be crushed in a single moment, like I had no control over anything in my life. And I made myself be strong and I tried to put up walls so you couldn’t get to me, but they were flimsy. I locked the door so you couldn’t get in, but I left it with a window so you could still see me, and I only had the strength to put a few locks on it to keep you out. And over the last few weeks, I took the door down. I see now that that’s what I did. I took it down completely and let all my emotions flow out. All the fear, all the sadness, all the hatred, all the confusion and worry and even guilt. And now I’m putting a new door up. And I have fresh locks. And there are more of them, because I didn’t get all of them myself. I have a lock made of my own strength, reinforced now. I have a lock that reminds me that I am an adult and you don’t know where I am and you have no way of finding out. I have a lock that is tight but can slide out quickly to let out the monster that is the people who love me in a rage onto you. I have a lock that is this man who I’m so deeply in love with that he helped me make. I have a lock my mom gave me a long time ago that’s going right back where it has always been, given more power by the locks around it. You can’t get in. I have the keys. I have all the keys. 

The keys to my safety and my strength and my courage are all tucked away where you’ll never find them. The key to getting into my heart and mind and soul, the key that lets you sneak in the front door and break me down is missing. There’s a key for the boy, there’s a key for the people I trust, there’s a key for my mom, but there’s no key for you. I didn’t make one this time. You didn’t earn it. You never did. You had one that was handed to you by the court when I was three years old and couldn’t make my own keys myself. But I changed the locks.

I  c h a n g e d  t h e  l o c k s  s p e c i f i c a l l y  s o  t h a t  y o u  c o u l d n ’ t  g e t  i n . 

So goodbye. I’m not going to say it to your face. Or on your voicemail. Or anywhere that you actually hear it. 

There were a lot of things in my life that you said to me that I didn’t deserve to hear. Bitch. Go to hell. I don’t remember the first time you said them. So I’ve decided that you don’t deserve to hear my goodbye. I don’t remember the last thing I said to you. You probably don’t either. You didn’t know it would be the last. You don’t know if you’ll hear from me again. You don’t know what’s going on. The same way I didn’t know what was going on when you screamed at me. The same way I didn’t know what to expect- kindness or animosity. You don’t know what to expect now. I grew up questioning a lot of things- Is my hair too wavy? Does that boy like me back? Does my father really love me? Is he going to throw that at me? Is he going to grab me? Does he mean what he’s saying? Why is he being so nice to me? Why is he being so mean? Now you get to question things. 

Did you forget the golden rule? Treat others how you want to be treated. I learned that when I was five. I reminded myself of it when I was eight. I cried about it when I was eleven. I wrote it on my classroom chalk board when I was 25. 

Maybe if you had followed it, we wouldn’t be here now. But that doesn’t matter. Because you didn’t follow it. 

When I was eleven, I was afraid of being ugly, that the boys wouldn’t like me, that the girls would laugh at me. And they didn’t like me, and they laughed at me and I felt ugly, and my mom held me while I cried. You just made me cry more.

When I was eight, I learned multiplication. Now I contain multitudes of strength and intelligence and power over my own life that you forgot i’d get some day. You cared so much about my grades. Are you glad my self worth has multiplied now? That you’ve become a fraction of my life, getting smaller every day that we don’t speak?

When I was five, I was deciding if bugs were scary. I’ll give you an update: Don’t be afraid of bugs. They’re not scary. Be afraid of everything I’ve become instead. 

The door’s locked. Good luck. Bitch.

[stormquill]

mahpiohanzia | chapter five [Remus Lupin/Reader]

You are an Animagus-in-training nearing the end of your education. He is Generic Defence Against the Dark Arts Teacher Replacement #7. Your final year at Hogwarts couldn’t possibly be any stranger than the previous six...but seven is one of the most powerful numbers in magic, after all.

Author’s Notes: Co-written by Andrew. Follow the blog @mahpiohanzia.

Notes: march's update is late, but I'm hoping to still have april's out on time!

we're still on a canon timeline at the moment, starting of course with Harry's very rudely interrupted Quidditch match. i love the idea of you finishing up your animagus training by exploring with mcgonagall and i could probably write a whole series alone about your misadventures tbh. a lot of stuff is happening in the next chapter (December), there's a slight chance I might have to split it in two? but we'll see. what do you think our dear Professor Lupin should get for Christmas? :3c

please let us know what you think! your absolutely lovely, fantastic reviews are what keeps us going, and we cherish each and every one!!

The weather remained stormy throughout the first week of November.

After Halloween night’s break-in, the atmosphere at Hogwarts grew tense with rumors. Sirius Black had somehow managed to get into the castle and attack the Fat Lady—Gryffindor’s common room portrait—when she refused to grant him entry to the dormitories.

As a result of the incident, dementor activity increased tenfold.

Though the dementors weren’t supposed to cross into the grounds, they disrupted Saturday’s Quidditch match mid-game, making Gryffindor’s seeker pass out on his broom a hundred feet in the air. If Malfoy hadn’t still been milking his injury and gotten Slytherin’s match rescheduled, the victim that day could have just as easily been a Quidditch player from your house.

How could such an accident have been allowed to happen?

The incident made you even warier of the dementors’ occupation; you never felt safe from them, especially not when you could still catch them out the corner of your eye, drifting aimlessly like enchanted smears of ink across the distant landscape. Even from afar, they filled you with unease. You were finding it more and more difficult to concentrate.

On the night of your first Animagus transformation with Snape and McGonagall, returning to your human form took an hour of careful focus. Not being able to use your wand to revert back made the task exponentially more difficult; though you were warned of this beforehand, it didn’t make the inability to change at will any less terrifying. You needed practice, practice you couldn’t do on your own, as you had to wait for your Ministry of Magic registration to go through before transforming without supervision.

In the meantime, you trained with McGonagall as often as her schedule would allow.

The exhausting drills of transforming from one form to the other and back again took place in her office. Once you got the hang of it, she started transforming alongside you, leading you on excursions on lunch break or between classes. As a raven, you would follow her around the school grounds, through small spaces and crevices you would have never noticed otherwise, mapping out shortcuts around the castle. Sometimes, you even got the chance to terrorize Mrs. Norris. McGonagall would pretend not to notice.

McGonagall’s Animagus was that of a sleek grey tabby cat. Her movements were graceful, postured, and sure, which was a stark contrast to your novice, unwieldy handling of your own feathered mass. You were still getting used to maneuvering properly—sometimes, you would clip a pillar mid-flight, or misjudge your landing and fall off a given surface. On one occasion, you flew straight into a library window and shattered it into a thousand pieces; when you heard Filch’s curses of frustration approaching from a distance, you and McGonagall exchanged glances, and ran.

Above all, you found the hardest thing to reign under control was the powerful animal instinct nagging at you from inside your head. If the voice wasn’t trying to get you to fly higher or draw your attention to random shiny objects, it was alerting you to McGonagall’s presence.

Fake cat. Fake cat. Fake cat.

‘I know,’ you kept telling yourself. ‘Shut up, already, I know.’

The most memorable outing occurred the following week.

To familiarize you with navigating natural terrain outside the castle, McGonagall took you just outside of Hogwarts grounds, where you found a dementor floating directly in your path. It was the closest to one you had ever been—the massive black wraith hovered in place, wearing cloaked, tattered robes whose edges faded into billows of ever-moving smoke. Whenever a human passed it, you noticed, it would give a slight turn of its hooded head, like a dog checking a scent in the air.

You and McGonagall walked directly in front of it.

The dementor did not notice either of you.

You couldn’t get your mind off the revelation throughout the remainder of your classes. Strangely enough, being in your Animagus form was the one instance you had ever felt safe around a dementor. You did not ask McGonagall about it, lest she suspect you of wanting to sneak away from the grounds on a regular basis&mdash. Somehow, the discovery felt like forbidden knowledge you weren’t supposed to have.

Dementors could not tell the difference between Animagi and normal animals.

You were still thinking about it when Defence Against the Dark Arts ended. By the time you handed in your spell theory essay, you were the last person in the classroom.

“Just the Slytherin I wanted to see,” Lupin spoke up, taking the parchment from you. “You seem a bit distracted, today. Everything alright?”

You'd let idle thoughts cut into your attention in-class. That was a problem. “Sorry, Professor. Lots of studying this week. I feel like the moment I stop, everything I’ve learned will come pouring straight out of my ears.”

“The joys of seventh year. Might I recommend earmuffs?”

You smirked, and he smiled up at you warmly.

“Well, now I feel terrible asking this of you,” he started, “but would you be able to meet me after classes this evening? I was quite ill last weekend and could do with some help catching up.”

The request took you by surprise—his proposition to have you as an assistant had only come a little over a week ago. “You’ve already spoken to Professor Snape?”

“Oh, yes. Seemed thrilled with the idea, actually. Did he not tell you?”

“It...must’ve slipped his mind.” You knew full well that was a lie.

To say you were astounded was an understatement. Though you picked up on Lupin’s sarcasm—it was impossible to imagine Snape being ‘thrilled’ about anything—the fact remained that Snape had given Lupin his approval to take you on as his teaching assistant. No summoning you for a meeting in his office? No passive-aggressive remarks during Potions? No pushback at all? You couldn’t imagine what Lupin may have said or done or promised to get Snape to agree so readily. The thought alone was oddly terrifying.

“I know you’re busy,” Lupin winked. “Think you can pencil me in?”

The wink he shot you was like an arrow to the heart.

How could you say no?

-

Being a teacher’s assistant was dreadful work.

As November trudged on, you were visiting Professor Lupin’s office after school two to three times a week. Half of your time was spent helping him organize sixth-year curriculums, while the other half was spent grading assignments to his unreasonably thorough specifications. Terrible as it may have been, you couldn’t help but think that if Lupin's standards for helping his students were just a little lower, assisting him wouldn’t have proven to be so tedious; you hadn't realized there was so much work behind the skilled instruction he made seem so effortless.

Still, you had accepted the position for completely selfish reasons, and those reasons were proving worthwhile.

You enjoyed receiving the random owl at lunchtime asking if you could help him after classes. Grading through twenty essays on the same topic was just another form of rote repetition for your own studies. Marking sixth-year answers wrong, but also having to detail why they were wrong, did much to help cover the gaps in your knowledge from your academically void year with Lockhart. The trouble was worth seeing what pun would appear on Lupin’s tea mug that day, and the stolen glimpses of him at his desk, focused, nibbling at the end of his quill as he read across parchments.

The bits of colour you had during your week made the rest of it feel that much more desaturated.

Today, you were studying outside, a large table all to yourself due to the colder weather keeping everyone indoors. You were running through multitudes of steps and ingredients for Potions, your many notes spread across the wide stone tabletop. Before your N.E.W.T. classes, you had always thought Potions was an exact science with no room for variation or interpretation, but Snape had done well to prove you wrong. Skipping a single one of his classes would have proven disastrous to your studies, as the majority of the material he provided had absolutely no mention in the assigned textbook; it was frustrating, but following Snape’s generous liberties to the book’s instructions yielded flawless results, results he would be expecting you to replicate from memory.

You looked over the Shrinking Solution recipe for the thousandth time, seeing but not reading any of the words.

You’d rather be flying.

Being an Animagus was invigorating in ways nothing else was. Everywhere you looked, the world around you was recontextualized with new possibilities. What would it feel like to fly over there? Could you reach that point without getting tired? How long would it take to touch that tree in the distance and come back? Five minutes? Ten?

McGonagall had warned you of this, of how addicting your Animagus form could be at first. She told you it was important to regulate your thoughts, to have strict control over your random urges to transform and escape. You had the rest of your life to fly, after all. You just had to stay grounded for another couple of weeks.

Another couple of weeks...

Breathing in a lungful of crisp autumn air, you tried once again to focus on your Potions studies. You realized Snape’s in-class instructions for the Shrinking Solution was almost completely different from the textbook’s—quite literally, all they had in common were the damned ingredients.

Already overwhelmed, you glanced up from your notes.

You spotted Lupin across the field.

He was clearly in a hurry, carrying stacks of parchment and fast-walking down the corridor, when a first-year stopped him to ask something. A split-second of exasperation flashed across his face before melting away, all at once—then, he was talking, his explanation to the young student full of kind smiles and enthusiastic hand gestures. Even when he was stressed, he was happy to be helping.

You found his unbridled enthusiasm enchanting.

To your surprise, you sensed someone approaching you from behind; the sense itself was a weaker, more diluted version of the same instincts you had when you transformed.

“Afternoon, Professor Snape,” you greeted without looking.

You felt a swell of pride at how you managed to give him pause. All it took was years of study and the ability to turn into an animal to keep him from sneaking up on you.

“Afternoon,” he said, flatly. “How is the assistant’s position faring?”

“Very well, I think. Unless you’ve received news of the contrary.”

He acknowledged your attempt at humour with a sarcastic little hum. “You may be wondering why I approved the request.”

“I’ve learned not to question your judgement, sir.”

“Though wise of you, in this instance it would be useful for you to know my reasoning.”

You were both watching Lupin from across the field, now. At this point, Lupin had taken a seat on a nearby bench with the first-year, placing his papers aside completely to review something in their textbook.

“I trust you are familiar with the recent incident involving Sirius Black.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Suspicions and security alike have been heightened across the board,” Snape continued. “As Professor Lupin’s aide, I will need you to keep an eye on him. Report to me of anything...suspect you may find. Understand?”

You kept your reaction neutral, though your mind began racing at once.

So Snape approved Lupin’s request just so you could spy on him? This seemed to be coming out of nowhere. Yet, if Snape was resorting to asking you for help, it meant he had suspicions that weren’t being taken seriously by other members of the faculty. That included the other teachers. That included Dumbledore. Though you had no idea what led Snape to believe Lupin had anything to do with Sirius Black, Snape would not have brought his concerns to you lightly.

He also would not have trusted you, lightly.

You had several questions. Now was not the time to ask them.

“Understood, sir,” you said simply. “I’ll keep you informed.”

-

To your mild frustration, being mysteriously enlisted to keep secret tabs on Professor Lupin only served to make the man more attractive. Snape would not have levied his wariness without good reason. You always had the sense there was more to him than he let on—now you were sure of it.

But what on earth could he have been hiding?

Several days had passed since your conversation with Snape, and all you saw of Lupin thus far was one severely overworked teacher trying to manage way too many students at once. Were all the teaching positions at Hogwarts this strenuous? McGonagall’s iron temperament and Snape’s perpetual state of irked impatience suddenly made a lot more sense—it was a wonder any of your professors had free time, at all.

You were grading papers at the small side-table and extra chair Lupin had brought into his office for you. Your stack of assignments was running as thin as your tea was empty; it was getting late, and you were on your last paper. Quill in hand, you read the next answer on the exam before you.

You snickered, louder than you intended.

The sound of your laughter put a reactionary smile on Lupin’s face. “What is it?”

“‘Why are they called The Unforgivable Curses?’” you read aloud from the parchment. “‘The Unforgivable Curses are named as such because they are curses that are unforgivable.’”

“Well. It’s not wrong.”

“It’s not right, either,” you said, marking the paper. You flipped through the textbook beside you to cite the exact page where the proper answer could be found. “You’d think being thrown into Azkaban would be a more memorable punishment.”

“Things like the Unforgivable Curses and Azkaban are abstract concepts to those who have no knowledge or experience with them. They're little more than scary stories, to most.”

“I never thought of it that way,” you admitted. “I suppose most people have never seen an Unforgivable used, before. I know I haven’t.”

Lupin made a thoughtful noise. “Pray you never have to.”

You glanced at him. This was the second time you’ve heard him make a vague reference to some terrible experience, voice laden with an unexpected severity that carried an unspoken weight. He had some personal experience with the Unforgivable Curses, that much you could gather. The morbid curiosity of the revelation had you treading lightly.

You tried to keep your tone curious. “Don’t you think it’s something we should see?”

“How do you mean?” he asked, still scratching at his parchment.

“You’re the most practical Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher I’ve ever had, Professor. Wouldn't you agree that we should see every spell and its effects, so we would know how to recognize them in a duel?”

“You’re suggesting I ask for a volunteer?”

There was a gentle edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“Well, not a student,” you said. “Maybe a Doxy, or something.”

“No living creature deserves to suffer an Unforgivable Curse. Not even a Doxy.” He sounded final. “Ethical considerations aside, there’s a certain level of intent required to cast such spells—an amount of darkness within you needed to make it work. To speak plainly, I don’t believe myself capable.”

You raised an eyebrow. “How do we defend against them, then?”

“You run.”

The sudden ice in his tone made your blood run cold. You wanted to ask him of his experiences. You wanted to ask him what he’d seen. With a few well-placed questions, you had stolen a glance into a depth of him—the same depth he kept well-hidden, the same depth that drew Snape's suspicions.

Lupin suddenly looked rather tired, as if he knew he’d revealed too much, and you realized too late that you had given him the wrong impression. You had no interest in the Dark Arts, yet your house colours betrayed you; if your questions had come from anyone else, it was curiosity, but because they came from you, it was a warning sign.

“It’s getting rather late,” he said, rising from his desk. “I need to return some creatures to the lake before it gets dark. We can finish up next time.”

“Would you like me to come with?”

“No need. It’s a simple errand, I can manage on my own.”

Lupin had his back turned to you as he gathered several large glass jars from his bookshelf, a large cloth draped over each to shield their inhabitants from direct light. You had encroached on a sensitive topic, and now he was trying to put distance between the two of you to dispel the awkwardness.

You didn’t like how that felt.

“I’m sorry, Professor, it was ignorant of me to suggest—” The apology tasted too much like self-pity, so you stopped yourself and rethought your words. “Like you said, Unforgivable Curses are just scary stories for people who have no experience with them. But I’m sure they’re nightmares, for those who do. I should have kept that in mind before speaking of them so lightly.”

You noticed he stopped shuffling through his shelves.

Getting up from your desk to approach him, you made sure your hands were outstretched by the time he turned to face you.

“Let me help, Professor.”

He stared at you for a moment before handing you a jar.

-

The walk down to the Black Lake was cool and quiet; the temperature continued to dip as the sun lowered, the slight breeze now biting against your exposed face and hands. You carried two large glass jars apiece, with each jar containing a different-coloured Hinkypunk from third-year lessons from the previous weeks. Hinkypunks were somewhat dangerous pests that were easy enough to dispose of, and though you didn’t question his decision, you were surprised Lupin was going through all the effort of returning them where he found them. Somehow, you imagined he was also the kind of man who escorted wandering spiders from his home without harming them.

One at a time, you released the creatures with no issue. Though they were normally aggressive little tricksters, the Hinkypunks didn’t seem too keen on attacking you once they were set free, instead taking their miniature lanterns and disappearing with a puff of smoke and a squelching shriek.

On the way back to the castle, through the thin layer of fog floating above the Black Lake, you spotted a large cluster of what appeared to be slimy balloons floating in the water.

“What are those?” you asked.

Lupin peered over to where you were looking. “Plimpies, I reckon.”

You approached the waterside to get a closer look. You were familiar with Plimpy eyes as a potion ingredient, but you had never seen the whole animal before. “What happened to them?”

“Merpeople handiwork, from the looks of it. They consider them a bit of a pest, so they tie their legs in knots and let them float away. As you can see, Plimpies inflate when they get stressed—they gather along the shoreline, eventually, and are left to the mercy of nearby predators.”

You thought getting the opportunity to see the Plimpy close would make them look less like balloons, but it had the exact opposite effect. They looked like regular fish hit with Inflating Charms and frog legs cobbled to their undersides—only, their long, skinny legs were tied up in complicated nautical knots that shouldn’t have been possible with organic appendages. There were about twenty of them, give or take. The longer you stared, the creepier the scene became.

Rolling up your sleeves, you squatted by the shoreline and grabbed the one nearest to you. You pulled out your wand from your inner robe pocket. “Deimplicitus.”

The Plimpy’s tangled legs untied. You tossed it back into the lake. It bobbed around for a bit before deflating with a very rude noise and disappearing beneath the water.

You grabbed another Plimpy and started over again.

Lupin called at you from a distance, a small laugh in his voice. “What are you doing?”

“You go on ahead,” you called back, throwing the second freed Plimpy into the lake. “I’ll catch up.”

“It’s nearly dark. If you’re caught outside the castle without a teacher at this hour, you’ll get detention.”

“It’s alright, just go back without me. I won’t be long.”

Unable to leave you alone in good conscience, Lupin watched as you repeated your process, over and over again, with several more of the magical fish floating helplessly at the shoreline. You would grab a Plimpy, perform a Detangling Charm on it, and hoist it back into the water, where it blew a giant raspberry before sinking below the surface. You were ankle-deep in the lake. The bottom of your robes were getting soaked.

Burying his hands in his pockets, Lupin walked over to you. “You really should just let nature take its course, you know.”

“I doubt I’ll disrupt the magical ecosystem by doing it just this once.”

“But why bother?”

“Because I saw them. So I can’t just leave them.”

To your surprise, Lupin pulled up the knees of his trousers, and he knelt down to help.

The two of you continued the task in silence, the quiet broken only by the occasional, hilarious sound of a Plimpy deflating. The sun had already dipped below the horizon by the time you cleared out the cluster. The last fish in sight bobbed in the crook of a large log nearby. You leaned further into the shore, reaching out to get it.

The log moved.

In an instant, the large, wood-like creature rounded on you and snapped at your outstretched arm, sinking its teeth into your wrist. You shouted in surprise—the shock of it sent you reeling backwards, and you landed on your bottom as the creature waded off into the fog.

“Are you alright?” Lupin asked, already at your side.

“I’m fine,” you hissed, quickly getting back on your feet. “Just a Dugbog, I think.”

“Probably here for the Plimpies. We appear to have interrupted dinnertime.”

“How rude of us.”

“Not to worry, Dugbog bites aren’t venomous,” he said, already reaching for your arm. “They tend to get a little nasty if not looked after properly, though.”

Lupin held your wrist in his hands, rotating your forearm to examine the wound. To both of your surprises, there didn’t seem to be any blood or broken skin.

That’s when you noticed what saved you.

You cursed. “The bloody thing made off with my watch!”

“Quite quickly, too. Perhaps it was on a time crunch.”

The snort of laughter you gave was most unbecoming.

From the corner of your eye, you saw a familiar giant of a man approach the two of you from afar.

You turned to him and smiled. “Evening, Professor Hagrid.”

He called you by name. “And Professor Lupin! Blimey, it’s after sundown. What are yeh doin’ out ‘ere so late?”

“My assistant and I were returning some creatures to their natural habitat,” Lupin explained. “What brings you to the lake tonight, Hagrid?”

Hagrid raised the net he was carrying. “Harvestin’ Plimpies.”

You paled, but Hagrid misinterpreted your look of shock completely.

“Now, don’t you look at me like that,” he said defensively. “They make a fine soup.”

Lupin leaned towards you so only you could hear. “Told you we should’ve let nature take its course.”

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter, which was met with Lupin trying—and failing—to hold back the cheekiest grin you’d ever seen on the man. Unconsciously, perhaps, he hadn’t yet let go of your hand, and in a rush of fleeting courage, you let yourself curl your fingers around his own for a moment.

Just a moment.

[mitcheemarns]

3, 11, 23 (either separate or all together) all of them for Mitch and Aus cause I think we all deserve it

okay anon, im guessing these were the dialogue prompts? (ive neglected 23 because it doesnt fit, sorryyyy. and also theres no italics on here and im mad.)

Aus/Mitch:

3. “Please don’t walk out of that door.”

11. “How could you ask me that?”

23. “What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”

There’s a certain secrecy that Mitch doesn’t like when it comes to coming up with a surprise proposal. He isn’t that great at lying and he wears his heart on his sleeve, so the whole concept of secrets doesn’t really fit him as a person. And that’s why he hates planning for a proposal.

But then Mitch thinks to the person he’s proposing to and rethinks all this secrecy debacle. Because Auston Matthews deserves everything.

Auston has always been there. He was there when Mitch was back on the fourth line, when Mitch was playing with a sense of being incompetent. He was there when Mitch’s dad was being unreasonable, was the one who helped him escape the clutches of his demands. He was there when Winston died, when all Mitch could do was tear up at the thought of his precious dog being gone. He was there when Mitch signed his most important contract, smiling at him with a look of pride and joy and excitement on his face. He was there when Mitch needed him to be. And that was all he needed.

So Mitch thinks Auston deserves the best of the best. He deserves the over-the-top reveal, something completely outrageous. He deserves the best ring, something elegant but simple but also meaningful. He deserves all of what Mitch can give to him. That’s why Mitch enlists JT’s help. JT has got to know everything there is to proposals, especially with the adorable wedding he just had.

He’s been spending more time with John, jumping from store to store to find the perfect ring. He’s settled with a simple silver band. “Yours”, it says, etched into the inside of the metal. He’s hidden it in a velvet blue box, reminiscent of Leafs Blue.

It takes him at least half an hour to hide it, unsure of the place Auston checks the least. But at least he’s gotten it done, buried underneath the piles of detergent in their laundry room. Auston never does the laundry.

Mitch has just finished hiding the little box when Auston storms into their condo.

“Hey,” Mitch greets with a smile, hoping his voice doesn’t sound too weird.

Mitch frowns. Auston doesn’t give him a kiss; it’s their usual routine. There’s a constipated look on Auston’s face and Mitch immediately starts worrying. It isn’t a good sign. There’s something wrong.

“Auston?” Mitch asks hesitantly, padding towards him with furrowed eyebrows.

Auston looks up at him with a wounded gaze. His eyes stare at Mitch imploringly. “Are you cheating on me with John?”

Mitch flinches back with vehemence. “How could you ask me that?” His voice shakes.

“You’ve been with each other so much. I know you just came back from being with him. You’re so flushed.” Auston averts his gaze, hands clenching into fists.

Mitch holds a hand up to his cheek dazedly. He does feel warm. He knows it’s from the excitement of getting a ring. “I haven’t, Auston. I promise you, I haven’t.”

The look he receives back is terrifying; there’s anger and distrust and betrayal and sadness all swirled into one horrible emotion. Mitch feels disgusting, as if his whole soul has been tarnished. He loves Auston. He wouldn’t ever think about cheating on him.

“Then tell me what you were doing with him,” Auston pleads, taking a step closer to Mitch. The hope returns in his eyes.

Mitch leans closer, pressing a hand to Auston’s arm. He turns his head away from Auston. He can’t ruin the perfect proposal.

“I can’t,” he whispers. He looks up at Auston again, imploring. “Please believe me. We haven’t been doing anything.”

Auston’s face hardens. “Tell. Me.” Mitch shakes his head, eyes tearing up. He doesn’t want to cry.

“Tell me. Or I’m leaving,” Auston whispers, lifting Mitch’s chin so he’s staring into Auston’s eyes. He wipes away a stray tear on Mitch’s cheek. His hands are trembling.

“I can’t,” Mitch cries shakily, sniffling as he averts Auston’s gaze.

And suddenly, Mitch feels the warmth around him drop as Auston steps away completely. The ghost of his touch still lingers on Mitch’s skin. Within a few strides, he’s at the door.

“Please don’t walk out of that door,” Mitch begs, tears streaming down fluidly now.

The look Auston gives him is sad, distressed.

The door closes with a soft click.