#Little eldest son voice isn’t this FUCKED UP that she’s doing this and forcing us to deal with it?? Aren’t you mad??

[crazy-god-bunker-jughead]

I don’t really GET Joplittle most of the time because those guys only spoke to one another like twice. But their dynamic from their few interactions in episode 5 is SO interesting to me. They’re joined in their knowledge of Crozier’s alcoholism and are dealing with the repressions of that. But their responses to it are parallel.

In the cabin scene at the beginning of the episode, Little is so visibly pissed off at Crozier, but does his best to shove it down and follows orders. He’s forced to (try and) hide what’s going on from Fitzjames and now is being made to participate in this by getting Crozier whiskey. A man just DIED, and Crozier is back to speaking about drinking a moment later.

Meanwhile, Jopson has been dealing with Crozier’s alcoholism the longest and knows this is the worst it’s ever been. But he’s not angry like Little, he’s mostly concerned for Crozier’s well-being. (That little pause before “two bottles, sir,”…) He’s a good steward first and foremost, though, so he doesn’t comment and gets the whiskey. Crozier noticeably has a much nicer tone with Jopson.

It’s almost like an eldest child v favorite child dynamic. Edward the angry oldest now shouldering the burdens and Jopson the concerned-yet-empathetic favorite child who mom asked to get another beer.

It's so so so juicy. It’s only really a thing in episode five, but it’s fun to extrapolate on that. You could create such an interesting, fucked up bond for them.

[inkykeiji]

i can take you there but baby you won’t make it back

character: dabi | todoroki touya

notes: stepcest (kind of—ur parents aren’t married yet) with dabi-as-touya x a very naïve and inexperienced reader, normal!AU (no quirks, dabi also has tattoos over his scarred + fully healed skin), university!reader, implied yakuza!dabi, excessive use of the words niichan and good, praise kink, fingering, face fucking, title credit = save that shit by lil peep lmao  uhhhh yeah i hc dabi as a very intelligent and perceptive individual soooo i feel like he’d be a master at reading a person & their emotions and then adapting his manipulation techniques

warnings: 18+, pseudo-incest (stepcest), noncon/dubcon, slight somnophilia, emotional manipulation, toxic relationship, size difference, slight degradation, mentions of drug use

words: 7.1k

part 2.1 | part 2.2

synopsis:

“You want to be good for me, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Of course,” you respond instantly. Later, when you lay awake in your bed, you’ll feel ashamed by your actions, by how readily captivated you were with him, by how easily he was able to manipulate you with those sapphire eyes and that rough voice—

But in that moment, you’ll do anything to pull that little smile from him, anything to hear him tell you you’re good. You just want to be good.

Something dark and primal flashes in those gorgeous eyes as they gaze down at you, a small grin spreading across his face. “Of course,” he repeats softly.

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Your dad’s been dating Rei for a while—nearly a year, now—when things begin to get serious, and he proposes to her.

She accepts, so it’s not exactly a surprise when she suggests you guys move in with her—she’s got more than enough space, she tells you, it’s just her and her son in that big old house—and your dad seems pretty thrilled about it. This was the next step before marriage, after all.

You like Rei well enough, she’s always been nothing but sweet to you, and anyway, your father’s relationship really isn’t any of your business or concern.

It isn’t that you don’t want to move in with her—her house is in a better part of the neighborhood, a standard detached upper-middle class home, and just a short walk from a bus stop that’ll take you directly to university, which you start in a week.

It’s just…You’re a little apprehensive.

You know she has kids. She mentions them in passing every once in a while, but you can’t for the life of you remember their names, or their ages, or how many of them there are. You know they don’t all live with her, that her relationship with her ex-husband is complicated and rocky at best.

But you’re still surprised to hear that only one of them, her eldest, lives with her. She tells you he’s five years older than you are, that he’s a clever, smart boy, going off on a tangent about how disappointed she is that he didn’t go to university, because ‘he would’ve done so well—he could’ve shone so brightly.’ Something about the way she says that, the way her voice sounds almost sad, makes anxiety turn to lead in your stomach. She talks about him as if he’s already a lost cause, but he’s only in his mid-twenties, isn’t he?

You understand the moment you see him. The man standing in front of you as you shift from foot to foot unsurely in the foyer of this unfamiliar house is about as far from what you anticipated as he could possibly be.

He’s tall, skin pale as moonlight, with jet black hair and the most stunning blue eyes you’ve ever seen. But that isn’t what captivates you. It isn’t the lip ring curled around his bottom lip snuggly, and it isn’t the tongue piercing you’re about to find out he’s hiding in his mouth, either.

Every inch of the exposed skin of his arms is covered in intricate, seamlessly flowing tattoos—or, for a moment, you thought it was tattoos, plural. Upon closer inspection, you realize that each arm is actually covered in one giant tattoo, giving a new definition to the term ‘sleeve’. It’s all black ink, not a splash of colour anywhere, depicting an extremely detailed and anatomically correct mechanical arm, complete with what would’ve been joints, ligaments and bones in the form of wires and steel.

The tattoos extend onto the tops of his hands, made to look as if surgical staples are peeling his skin back to reveal the robot beneath. This same tattoo continues up his neck, along his jaw and onto his cheeks, all the way to his bottom lip, spreading across his entire face and disappearing into his hairline and onto his ears. Finally, there’s a small portion of the tattoo underneath his eyes, the surgical staples lining the edges of the face tattoos, too.

It startles you—you’re not necessarily scared, you just…weren’t expecting that. But there’s no denying the rush of breath that involuntarily escapes your lips as your eyes search his face, raking over his body in a brazen way that should make you feel shameful, travelling back up to find him smirking smugly at you, raising an eyebrow as your eyes meet again.

The look in his eyes tells you he knows, knows what you’re thinking about, knows how undeniably attracted you are to him, and scalding heat floods your cheeks.

He chuckles a little, which does nothing but add insult to injury, and sharp anger slices through your chest at the way that you stomach absolutely drops at his gravelly voice. You can’t believe yourself, can’t believe your body is reacting and responding so readily to this man—this stranger.

He introduces himself as Touya, in that rough, deep voice that forces a jolt of electricity to run through your veins. You idly wonder what your name would sound like on his tongue, how it might sound if his voice dropped to a growl, find yourself stuck thinking about this for the rest of the night.

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To your disappointment, and as much as you are unabashedly interested in him, you don’t interact much with Touya for your first few weeks in the house—in fact, you barely see him at all.

This only piques your curiosity about him more, finding that you’re unable to tear your eyes from him on the rare occasion that you are in a room together. He catches you staring every single time, and he has the audacity to chuckle to himself and shake his head when his gaze meets yours, your eyes quickly darting away and cheeks burning at his laugh.

You begin gathering little tidbits of information about him, purely sourced from interactions you witness in the house, desperately praying for something that’ll give you an opportunity to start a conversation with him.

Your efforts prove fruitless when, almost a month and a half since you moved in, you’ve still only spoken a handful of words to him. You do learn a bit about him through observing, though.

You discover that he’s a smoker, which really doesn’t come as a shock at all. Marlboro’s are his favourite, and he’s always got a pack in his back pocket or rolled up in the short sleeve of his t-shirt. He must have them imported—Marlboro’s are incredibly rare to find all the way in Japan.

Touya must have a lot of things imported.

You find out that every other Thursday, Touya discreetly stuffs an absurdly large wad of cash—all composed of ten-thousand-yen bills—into his mom’s hands, forcing her fingers to curl around it. She fights him on it, every time, but he’s firm and adamant that she take it. It always ends with Rei giving him a small, watery smile, Touya pressing a kiss against the side of her head and murmuring that he loves her.

After you witness this interaction for the first time, you begin to notice that, while the house looks relatively normal on the outside, it is stuffed full of luxury on the inside. Flat-screen TVs each complete with full entertainment systems, state of the art appliances that are somehow up to date with all of the latest trends (including a smart fridge—absolutely ridiculous), custom made furniture, ornate rugs, a housekeeper that drops by every Sunday…

You have no idea what he does for work, but you think you’ve got at least some sort of idea when you catch him one night, just past 2AM, exiting his room and using a thumb to brush excess white powder off his nose. His eyes catch yours, pupils blown and shining in the low light, and he smiles darkly at you, winking once as he walks away.

You don’t ask—no one ever does.

You don’t ask about the crimson splattered on the toe of his boot, or why he sometimes smells metallic, like copper, the strong scent wafting after him and invading the halls as he stalks leisurely toward the bathroom. You don’t ask why he leaves the house at odd hours in the night, and you definitely don’t ask about the soft clinking and clicking you hear through the thin walls every so often while he cleans his gun at 3AM.

You’re not sure if it’s really any of your business, anyway. So you stay quiet, and continue to wait.

The opportunity finally comes one Wednesday in October, two weeks before Halloween, when you’re in the kitchen after school busy fixing yourself an afternoon snack. Touya comes home uncharacteristically early—you rarely see him before 10PM, so his entrance scares you, and you jump a little.

“Sorry,” he murmurs as he passes by behind you, just an inch too close, just enough so you can feel his body heat radiating off of him.

“It’s fine,” you say quietly, shaking your head a little and trying in vain to stop your hands from trembling as you spread peanut butter across a piece of bread.

You can feel his eyes on you, and it makes you nervous, makes your skin crawl in a way you’ve never felt before. He laughs a little at your struggling, leaning against the counter next to you and crossing his arms over his chest.

“You don’t have to be so nervous around me, y’know,” he says with a smirk, eyes glittering at the way your lips part in surprise, your breath stuttering a little. “I’m your niichan after all, aren’t I?”

You hadn’t even considered using the honorific until he himself uses it.

Your hands freeze, hovering over your plate, and you look over at him slowly. “You…Want me to call you that?”

“You can, if you’d like,” he says smoothly, nonchalantly, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. It makes no difference to him, he tells you, but when he finally looks back at you, you think you can see it in his eyes—a sharp, small glimmer of…of something. Something that makes your stomach twist in a way you can’t decide if you like or not.

But this is it, you think, this is your opening to finally begin talking to him.

So you do. And the smirk he gives you the first time you address him by the honorific, voice quivering slightly as you ask him where Rei normally keeps the blender, is nothing short of predatory.

“It’s on the top shelf. It’s too high for you, though,” he says, voice so sickly sweet it almost sounds mocking. “Let niichan get it for you,”

It isn’t, but you let him get it for you anyway.

And he knows—knows he’s got you the moment you gasp at the honorific leaving his lips, trying to hide it behind your hand, nodding quickly and squeaking out a thank you.

It starts after that. He begins playing with you; a sick, perverse game of cat and mouse, hunter and hunted, and you play your part perfectly.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t love it, if you said it didn’t send wicked sparks of excitement shooting up your spine and an intense fluttering in your stomach.

And it starts slow. It starts with gentle pet names—honey, sweetheart, princess—and fingertips trailing down your arm as he passes you. It starts with a large hand placed on the small of your back, guiding you—out of the house and into his car, out of the kitchen and into the living room, out of the hallway and into his bedroom—and with little pecks on your lips stolen when no one’s watching, quick kisses that leave you feeling exhilarated despite their chastity.

Suddenly, he’s home a hell of a lot more. He’s sitting too close to you on the couch while you curl up with a textbook, his thigh pressed against you and flesh burning hot through his black jeans. He’s joining the family dinner a few times a week, idly hooking and unhooking his ankle with yours beneath the table while smirking at you from across it.

Suddenly, he’s asking you if you need a ride to school, or if you need someone to pick you up. You don’t, you tell him, the bus is just fine, but he insists. It’s what niichans do, he says. He wants to take care of you, he says.

Who are you to deny him that, really?

✰          ✰          ✰          

The first time you experience Touya angry is about a month after the inciting incident, when he catches you walking home with a few of your university friends.

He had texted you earlier that day, telling you that he—very regretfully, he said—would be unable to pick you up from school this afternoon because ‘something had come up’.

You didn’t question what it was—you knew he’d lie even if you did. So you accepted it obediently, reassured him that it was fine, that you’d find another way home.

You’re pretty sure if you had told him that you didn’t have any extra change on you for the bus suddenly whatever important thing that had ‘come up’ which so desperately needed his attention wouldn’t be so urgent anymore. But you didn’t want to be a bother, or inconvenience him, so you say nothing.

Two friends decide they’ll accompany you on your walk home, so you aren’t lonely, they claim. Normally, the walk from campus to your house is about thirty minutes, but that day it takes you nearly an hour, wasting time goofing around and walking slowly as you talk idly.

Touya’s already pissed that it’s taken you so long to arrive home, that you’ve ignored all of his extremely considerate texts asking if you’re alright, but when he sees you squished between two boys, giggling as the three of you stumble up your driveway—he’s fucking fuming.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he asks, voice calm and monotonous, leaning casually against the doorframe.

Your head snaps up—you swear he wasn’t there just a second ago—blood running cold.

His stance is relaxed, arms crossed loosely over his chest, lazily raising an eyebrow as your wide eyes meet his. Technically, the only indication that he’s furious is the blazing blue fire in his eyes, but your friends can read the tension in the air surrounding him, shuffling a little closer to you. This minuscule action does not go unnoticed by Touya, sharp jaw clenching once.

“You had niichan worried,”

You’re frozen a few feet away from the porch, unable to find your voice, to move your legs, to breathe at all.

“I didn’t know you had an older brother,”

Your eyes do not leave Touya’s as you speak, the words hoarse. “Oh, we’re—”

“Yeah,” Touya bites, irritation finally bleeding into his voice. “She does,” his eyes float back to yours. “Come here, princess,”

Your body snaps into action, moving automatically before you can even comprehend it, allowing Touya to tuck you into his side the moment you reach him.

Your hands are shaking, but you have no control over them as your fingers curl in his white t-shirt, clinging to him. To your surprise, the arm around your shoulders hugs you closer in response, thumb caressing you.

“Thanks for making sure she got home safely,” he tosses over his shoulder, managing to make the simple sentence sound like an insult, tone bordering on patronizing, while he turns on his heel, marching you both inside.

“I-I’m so sorry,” you’re rushing to say the moment the front door shuts behind you two, Touya’s arm still wrapped firmly around you.

He looks down at you coldly. “Don’t you dare pull shit like that again,” he tells you, eerily calm voice forcing spikes of icy dread up your spine. He pauses for a moment, letting his words sink in as his eyes bore into yours. “You had me worried sick,” he breathes out then, squeezing you again. You’re surprised in the sudden change of tone, feeling your chest swell at the thought of him fretting over you, a small smile gracing your lips.

“I…I did?”

Touya’s eyebrows furrow, as if he’s offended at your questioning, mood morphing in the span of a second. “Of course you fucking did,” he spits like you’re stupid, arm dropping. “Do you ever check your phone?”

“Wh-What?”

Touya rolls his eyes. “Check your phone,” he calls out airily as he begins walking into the kitchen, shaking his head a little, disappointment rolling off him in waves.

Hastily fishing your phone out of your bag, you’re astonished to see eight texts from him and three missed calls. You scroll through the texts quickly, each one making you feel more nauseous than the next. ‘Is everything okay? You should’ve been home by now’; ‘Please answer me, princess, you’re making your niichan nervous’; ‘Where are you? Answer my fucking calls already’. Guilt turns sour in your mouth and you hurry after him.

“I-I really am s-so sorry,” you force the words out, unsure as to why there are suddenly tears stinging your eyes. He isn’t even doing anything—his back is facing you as he nonchalantly begins brewing a pot of coffee.

But the thought of him being upset with you, of losing his approval, sends a sharp pain searing through your chest.

“Are you?” he asks, and although his voice holds no malice in it, it causes your whole body to stutter with a harsh breath.

“Yes,” you whimper out, latching onto his arm and tugging in an attempt to draw his eyes to yours, to see how regretful you are, the remorse written across your face. “I should’ve…That was so careless and inconsiderate of me,”

“It was,” he agrees simply, voice still light, as if he’s discussing something as mundane as the weather. “But you’ll never do it again, right?”

“Right,” you agree readily, breathing out the word before you even realize what you’re agreeing to.

“Tell niichan you’ll never worry him like that again,” he finally looks over at you.

“I-I’ll never worry you like that again, niichan, I pr-promise,”

His eyes hold yours for what feels like eons, before he finally twists his arm out of your grasp, instead wrapping it around you and tugging you against his body. You stay staring up at him, eyes wide and obedient, breath bated as you wait for your next order, so pliant and ready to serve him.

“Good,” he whispers, eyes finally softening, and you feel like you can breathe properly again. His free hand cups your face, thumb running along your lips, then your chin, then your jaw. “You want to be good for me, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Of course,” you respond instantly. Later, you’ll lay awake in your bed, feeling ashamed by your actions, by how readily captivated you were with him, by how easily he was able to manipulate you with those sapphire eyes and that rough voice—

But in that moment, you’ll do anything to pull that little smile from him, anything to hear him tell you you’re good. You just want to be good.

Something dark and primal flashes in those gorgeous eyes as they gaze down at you, a small grin spreading across his face. “Of course,” he repeats softly.

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He begins to trust you more. You meet his friends, each one terrifying in their own right. Jin is alright, although his brain is fried from drugs, and he talks to and contradicts himself a lot, earning the nickname Twice from Tomura.

Tomura horrifies you to your very core—a tall, lanky man with sunken red eyes and sickly pale skin who looks like he’s one bad day away from death—and Touya tells you very sternly to stay away from him.

A university student not unlike yourself, Keigo is your favourite. Keigo is the most normal, with his wild blonde hair and enticing gold eyes that always look like they’re playfully holding the secrets of the universe just out of your grasp.

Keigo’s brain is always going a hundred miles a minute, although you’d never guess it with his trademark lazy drawl, speaking as if he hasn’t got a care in the world. But he can always keep a conversation going, knows exactly what to say to avoid awkward silences or lulls in the discussion, and you appreciate that. You think he’s so cool—he has so much knowledge about the oddest things, everything and anything, ‘a walking encyclopedia’, Tomura calls it, and it fascinates you to no end.

It’s the speed, Touya tells you one night while you’re laying on the couch, your body on top of his, the pads of his fingers dragging down your back in rhythmic strokes. Speed is Keigo’s drug of choice, you find out. Speed is the reason why Keigo knows as much as he does.

“Sometimes he doesn’t sleep for days,” Touya says. “That’s how he has all the time to memorize everything he knows—though that big overactive brain of his plays a part in it, too,”

The thought inexplicably makes your heart sink in your chest, and you don’t say anything else. If Touya notices your shift in mood, he doesn’t mention it. You idly wonder what Touya’s drug of choice is, but you’re too scared of the answer to ask.

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It’s only a few nights later when you wake with a violent jolt, breathing laboured as you absentmindedly press your palm to your chest, trying in vain to calm your racing heart.

A nightmare.

You sit in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of your own harsh breaths echoing off the walls and debating what to do next. A minute later, you swing your legs over the side of the bed, wincing when your bare feet touch the cold hardwood, and pad down the hallway.

You try to trick yourself into believing that you aren’t using this purely as an excuse to spend the night with him. It really was so scary, you reason with yourself, it really has made you all shaken up…

Who are you kidding? You didn’t even attempt to go back to sleep.

You’ve been in his room plenty of times now—sitting daintily on his bed as he introduces you to new music, new movies, new books. Stuff that reminds him of you, he says, stuff that he thought you might be interested in. You’re grateful for it; there are so many things you’ve learned in the short time you’ve known him.

That isn’t all, though. There’s no denying the warmth that spreads through your body, that tiny excited flutter in your chest, when he calls your name and interlaces your fingers, leading you toward his room and telling you he’s got something to show you.

Yes, you’ve been in his room plenty of times now. But this is the first time you spend the night in his bed.

He’s still up, soft golden light leaking from under his closed bedroom door. Your hand quivers a little as you lift it to rap your knuckles against the wood. He appears in the doorway a moment later, leaning against the frame in a black t-shirt that looks like it’s a size or two too small for him, riding up to reveal a teasing sliver of milky skin, tips of his hipbones jutting out from the waistband of his plaid pajama pants.

“Princess? What is it?”

You didn’t realize you were staring, and you jump a little at his gravelly voice.

“Oh. I, um—Well, I just…had a nightmare a-and I can’t sleep,”

You can barely look him in the eyes as you say it, your cheeks burning. You both know it’s a lie.

But he plays along.

“Aw, baby,” he coos, drawing you into his arms, into his room, into his bed.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs as he turns on his side to face you, propping his head up with a hand. “Poor thing. Was it a bad one?”

Your mouth feels like its been stuffed with cotton, rendering you incapable of speech, tongue dry and sluggish. You nod in response, heat seeping into your cheeks again at just how loudly your heart is thumping while you roll onto your side. There’s only a few inches of space between your bodies now, his hot breath fanning across your face as he speaks again.

“Do you want niichan to help you forget about it?”

The question hangs heavy in the air, and you suck your bottom lip into your mouth, eyes searching his. Your thighs squeeze together at the way his voice has dropped an octave, low and husky, familiar heat pooling in the depths of your belly. He waits patiently, lifting a hand to caress your cheek, then runs his fingertips down your bare arm, goosebumps following.

Finally, you nod. You think you see the corners of his lips quirk up into the slightest hint of a smirk, but you blink, and it’s gone.

“Here,” he whispers, hooking an arm around your waist and pulling you against him. Hand cupping your jaw, he tilts your face up and slots his mouth against yours.

You’ve kissed before, of course—in his bed, in yours, on the living room couch, on the kitchen counter with his hips shoved between your thighs—but this…this feels different.

These are kisses with intent, with purpose, with a goal in mind. These are kisses that keep you distracted—slow, soft, messy with saliva—as his hand slips down your body and between your thighs.

Your gasp breaks the kiss, wide eyes blinking up at him then fluttering shut as he brushes a knuckle against your clit. He hushes you, nimble fingers spreading your folds before he drags them up your slit, huffing out a laugh at how wet you already are.

“Were you thinking about something naughty before?” he gasps mockingly, sliding the pads of his fingers back down as he speaks.

His hand withdraws from your shorts and he orders you to lift your hips, tugging the waistband down your thighs. You squirm a little, forcing them further down your legs until you free yourself of them completely, eyes gazing up at him again, awaiting your next command.

Legs part dutifully as his hand travels back down to the apex of your thighs, pushing a finger into your soaking pussy.

It’s slow at first, thrusting leisurely with his middle finger a few times and loosening you up a little before adding his ring finger. Sapphire eyes watch his motions, captivated by how your eager little cunt sucks his fingers in selfishly.

“Look at that, huh?” he breathes, looking down at you. “Such a pretty little pussy you’ve got,”

You open your bleary eyes to peer at yourself, mesmerized by the way his fingers are pumping in and out of you, glistening in the dim light of his bedroom. He curls his fingers and you inhale sharply, hips twitching toward his palm.

“Oh?” he chuckles darkly, knuckles nudging the spot again. “Did niichan find something, baby?”

You don’t know, you’re not sure, you try to tell him, but all you can seem to manage is pathetic little whines while you nod your head.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” he’s asking as the pads of his fingers tap against that spot, your entire body jolting.

“Y-Yes,” you whimper out, a little breathlessly. “But it’s never felt like this,”

“Aw, baby,” he coos, and it’s so condescending. “Then you weren’t doing it right, sweetheart,”

He quickens his pace, chuckles at the way you try to desperately fuck yourself on his fingers at such an awkward angle.

“Poor little thing, can’t even get herself off properly,” he tsks. “You need your niichan to do it for you, don’t you?”

Soft whines spill from your throat as you nod eagerly, your stomach coiling tightly.

“One day,” he breathes, curling his fingers with a vengeance this time, your hips rolling up off the mattress. “When we have the time, I’ll teach you how to make yourself feel so good,”  

He’s talking too much. You want to tell him this, tell him to shut the hell up, but every time you try to speak he presses the heel of his palm to your clit and grinds against it, effectively scattering all of your thoughts, soft mewls of niichan the only sound escaping your lips.

Can’t deny his voice is fucking hot though, a form of foreplay all on its own.

And he knows this, can read you like a goddamn book, especially when he’s got his fingers two knuckles deep inside of you. He can feel it, he tells you. You don’t even need to speak; he can feel your thoughts when his voice drops an octave and your cute little hole flutters, when he chuckles and your pussy clenches around his fingers—a slut for his voice, aren’t you?

“Pretty baby, you can’t do anything but nod dumbly, can you? Been fucked stupid by my fingers alone, huh?”

Your head barely moves, lost all control of your body by this point, only able to whimper in response.

“Gonna come all over my fingers, pretty girl?” the knuckle of his thumb begins grazing your clit in quick strokes. “C’mon, make a mess for niichan,”

And it’s pathetic, how quickly your body obeys. Your pussy squeezes once, twice, three times and you’re gushing all over his fingers, juices collecting in his palm, running down his wrist. You’re embarrassed—you’ve never cum that much before, have you?

Breathing still ragged, you nuzzle into his sheets, partially hiding your face from him. Nothing could hide the involuntary grin that forms on your lips, though. Arms snake under your boneless body, tugging a bit.

“Oh no, baby, we aren’t done yet,” Touya’s saying while he hoists you up, letting you lean heavily against him.

Head tilting in confusion, your glazed eyes find his. “Wh-What?”

He looks down at his lap and your gaze follows, a tiny whimper slipping past your lips at the bulge straining against his pants. “Doesn’t niichan deserve a nice reward for helping you forget that scary dream?”

Eyes darting back to his, you nod slowly, whispering out, “Yes. But—But…” But you’re hesitant; you’ve never done anything like this before. Shaking hands reach for the waistband of his pants, beginning to pull them down but freezing when the head of his cock peeks out.

Touya sighs. “Come on, you wanna be a good girl for niichan, don’t you?”

Of course. Of courses you do.

Then he wants you to touch him, he says. He’ll help you; he promises.

“But you gotta get it wet first,”

You ask how, and he laughs at you. “With your tongue, stupid,” he tells you.

He instructs you to kneel on the floor and you comply immediately, trembling legs folding beneath your body as you situate yourself between his knees. He inches forward on the bed a little, shuffling himself to the edge and caging you between his thighs. Bringing his cock close to your mouth, he taps the head against your closed lips.

They part instantly, obediently, his eyes flashing with something sinister as you take the head into your mouth and suck hesitantly, big eyes staring up at him waiting for approval.

He curses, his hips twitching ever so slightly, skin stretched taut over bony knuckles as a hand forms a fist in the sheets. Starting with kitten licks at first, the tip of your tongue barely touches him, tracing veins, then begins to gain more confidence as he groans a little, telling you what to you, that you’re doing good, so good for him.

Watching him through thick lashes, you have the audacity to look bashful as your tongue laves around the shaft, drenching it in saliva. A hand tangles in your hair and yanks, pulling you off his cock when he decides it’s sufficiently wet enough. Long fingers encircle your wrist, bringing your hand to form a fist around him.

“Like this,” he says, jerking your hand up and down.

You’re terrible at it, movements awkward and uncoordinated, but in that moment he doesn’t really care. He’s irritated a little, wondering out loud how anyone can be bad at handjobs while a large hand wraps around yours and forces you to speed up. Bad? Your heart sinks at the small three letter word, a hard lump forming in your throat, looking as though you may start crying.

But he cums quickly after that, ropes of searing hot white painting your cheeks and face. You watch him the entire time, panting a little, lips parted slightly and your tongue darts out to lick them, tasting him.

He laughs at your bitter reaction, and it’s such a patronizing sound.

“Don’t worry,” he says, collecting the cum off your face and forcing his fingers into your mouth. “Someday I’ll stuff your throat full of it.”

  ✰          ✰          ✰          

You can no longer mention needing—no, wanting—anything around him anymore, because within the next few days it’s sitting pretty and perfect on your bed, propped up against your lace trimmed pillows.

He’s so good to you; you should be grateful you have such a generous niichan, one who eats you out and spoils you with gifts. You’re so spoiled.

And he tells you this, in the dead of night when you wake to find him shoving his cock into you, snarling a little at your soft whines of protest.

“Don’t be a brat,” he warns. Just be a good girl and take his cock. He does so much for you, can’t you be good for him?

Yes, yes, you want to be good for him, you want to be the best for him.

By this point you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve woken up in the middle of the night with his head between your thighs, prepping you to take him.

“Stay sleeping, baby,” he’ll tell you, words whispered into your hair as his cockhead nudges against your hole.

As if you could ever stay sleeping when only a few minutes later he’s pounding you into oblivion, large hand clasped over your mouth so tightly his blunt nails are digging into your cheek, so hard that it’s yanking your head back, neck beginning to ache.

He tells you to be quiet, “You don’t want anyone to hear, do you? Then we’d have to stop, and you don’t want that, right, sweetheart?”

You don’t, you whimper. Of course you don’t—you want whatever he wants, you want to be his perfect little baby, you want to be told how good you take his cock, the praise mumbled against your skin in a low, strained voice right before he fills you with cum.

  ✰          ✰          ✰          

He disappears for a few days near the end of December. You have no idea where, Touya answering your curious texts with playful quips at first before he grows tired of it and tells you to stop fucking asking.

But eventually, he returns.

The front door slams shut and your body flinches with a jolt of excitement. Adrenaline spikes your blood when you hear his heavy boots colliding with the hardwood, getting louder, louder, louder…

He passes right by you, not glancing at you at all. Moments later, the sound of water hitting the tiled shower wall echoes down the hallway.

And you wait. Patiently, you wait, like the good little girl you are, not daring to move a muscle. Eventually he re-emerges, hair still damp, a few strands sticking to his neck.

With a groan, he collapses on the couch next to you, flopping his head into your lap and gazing up at you with glazed, blown sapphire eyes.

“You’re high,” you say softly, not accusatory, just an observation. He giggles a little.

“So what if I am?”

“What did you take?”

“Oh,” he gasps mockingly. “Oh no, baby, I can’t tell you that,”

Why? The question is burning on the tip of your tongue, and you can tell that he’s anticipating that to be your next response, but you bite down on your bottom lip, holding it in. You know his answer already, can practically hear his patronizing voice—Because good baby sisters aren’t supposed to know about stuff like this.

“Can I try some?” you ask instead.

All of the mirth fades from his eyes in an instant, and he moves in a flash despite his inebriated state, so quick you can barely tell what’s happening. His large hand wraps around your bicep in a bruising grasp, pulling you towards him as he sits up, his face an inch away from yours.

“Absolutely fucking not,” he spits, cobalt eyes blazing and voice rumbling against your chest. “And if I so much as catch wind that you’re using, have a mere feeling that you’ve tried it—even just once—I’ll slaughter you and the fucker you got it from. Do you understand me?”

Surprised tears spring into your eyes and you nod jerkily, body beginning to tremble as your breath gets caught in your throat. You want to tell him that you didn’t mean it, honest, you promise!; that you were just kidding around, you swear!, but you can’t, voice mangling itself with the hitched little breaths on the back of your tongue.

He growls at your silence, his grip around your arm tightening and you cry out, terrified that he might actually crush the bone with his bare hand.

“Say, yes Touya, I understand,”

“Y-Yes Touya, I understand,” you manage to stutter out, voice returning only at the command of a direct order, tears spilling over and rolling down your cheeks in pairs. His eyes search your face for a moment, his features contorted in fury, before he sneers at you, squeezing your arm once then roughly letting go, shoving you away from him.

You fall backward against the arm of the couch, heart thumping so vigorously you’re sure he can hear it. He groans, throwing his head back and closing his eyes, exasperated.

“Fuck,” he sighs, eyes opening to glare at the ceiling. “You’ve ruined my high,”

You stare at him, breath coming out in uneven huffs, clinging to the couch.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, terrified to move lest you upset him more.

He’s silent for a moment, still staring up, until he lolls his head to the side, glancing at you through the corner of his eye. A small smirk spreads across his face.

“C’mere,” he says, nodding his head a little in indication.

“Wh-What?”

“C’mere,” he repeats. “Come make it up to me,”

Your body’s moving before you’ve given it permission to, crawling into his lap obediently, thighs on either side of his hips. His smirk widens, and you love it—you love how much control he has over you without even trying, you love the way a quiet whimper slips through your lips as his large hands begin kneading your flesh, running up your legs and grabbing your ass.

Lips trail up the column of your neck, and you tilt your head back, a silent plea for more. You can feel the way his lips curl into a grin against your skin, nipping at it a second later.

“So, how you gonna make it up to me? Huh?” he shifts his hips under you, pressing his hard cock into your clothed core. You whine a little, grinding against him.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” you breathe out while sharp teeth mar your collarbone.

“The hell you waiting for? Show me,”

You begin sliding down his body and he pushes on your shoulders, forcing you to your knees between his spread thighs. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, gaping pupils outlined by a thin ring of blue.

Holding his gaze, you lean forward with your pretty little tongue hanging out and begin licking along the straining bulge, tracing it slowly, the denim rough against your sensitive muscle. You relent though, lapping at his clothed cock in slow, long strokes, and his jeans are just thin enough for you to feel him pulse in response.

A giggle bubbles up past your lips, muffled by the denim, already beginning to feel heady as you pull simple reactions from him. Your mouth forms a cute little ‘o’ and you suck on him the best you can through his jeans, drooling all over his lap and soaking through the material.

The hand in your hair tightens into a fist, yanking hard and pulling your mouth away. “Stop fucking teasing,” he warns, a hint of something ominous in his voice.

You obey, because you always obey, tiny fingers working to quickly unbuckle his belt, pop the button, yank down the zipper. He aids you, lifting his hips and allowing you to tug his jeans down his thighs enough for his cock to spring out.

His own hand wraps around the shaft, you pausing mid-action as you reach for it.

“Open,” he demands, your dutiful lips parting immediately, letting him push his cock into the warm, wet cavern.

He sets a brutal, punishing pace from the start, refusing to give you a single moment to adjust. His other hand fists in your hair, forcing you to stay still as he rams his cock down your throat.

Reflexive tears burn your eyes, blurring your vision. You blink quickly to clear them, desperate to watch him, to catalogue all of his micro-expressions and the sound of his voice as he grunts out your name, to burn it into your mind, etch it into your very soul.

Touya’s head falls back against the couch, Adams apple bobbling with his rough whimpers, long neck and sharp collarbone on full display. If your mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, you’d love to lick up his smooth skin, to trace the dips of his collarbone with your tongue and sign your name in brilliant splotches of blue and purple.

You’re gagging around his cock now, starting to feel lightheaded and struggling to inhale enough oxygen. The ache in your jaw is beginning to spread, but you ignore it, stretching your mouth open wider, to take more, to be good for him, to make him proud. It’s worth it for the hoarse, throaty moans you’re pulling from him, to hear your name shuddered out, followed by a breathy, “Fuck,”

He forces hot cum down your throat a moment later, and you choke on it, sputtering around his cock, throat spasming as it tries to force the foreign object out. He won’t let it, though. He holds your head in place, nose pressed against his pubic bone, and you can do nothing but take it, like a good little girl, like he tells you to.

But it’s all worth it. It’s all worth it, to hear his broken whines like that, to have him look down at you and pull your hair and tell you you’re good, so good for him.

And you’re sobbing by the end of it, gasping for air the moment he lets go of you, wheezing violently as your head collapses against his thigh.

“Did I—” you cough, voice raspy from having your throat fucked raw, “—Did I make it up to you, niichan?” you gaze up at him, eyelashes spiky with residual water. You’re the perfect picture of obedience, strands of hair stuck to your face where your salty tears have dried and swollen lips gleaming with saliva as you watch him with glittering eyes, waiting desperately for his praise.

He looks down at you, eyes devious and diabolical, chest heaving a little. “Of course you did,” he tells you, corners of his lips tugging up into a sharp smirk as you melt into him. “You always do, don’t you?”

[angelmavmurdock]

The Boy Next Door

WARNINGS: SMUT, ORAL (fem+mal), DIRTY TALK, PRAISE, CHOKING, THIGH RIDING, MENTIONS OF DRUGS.

inexperienced!reader x stoner!tom

(inspired by Ginny and Georgia)

The new house was a lot bigger than our last house. But of course that's due to my mother marrying a man 30 years older than her who owns some workout company. She's a gold digger is what I'm trying to say. Ever since I can remember, whatever guy she was dating dictated where we would live, where my brother and I would go to school, what I'd wear, how I'd act and even what friends I had. Or, lack there of. Always being the 'new girl' was beginning to get exhausting so I never really had friends. If I gained any friends then I knew that we'd get close then I'd move and we'd stay in touch for about a month before they move on and forget about me.

y/n. Always the new girl.

"y/n would you help us, please?" Mum asked in an annoyed tone, brushing past me with a box in her hands.

I rolled my eyes and sighed, walking to the car and beginning to lift stuff out and into the house. It was a huge driveway - unnecessarily large - and everyone on the street was the same. Everyone in the town was the same. It was a rich, suburban area. No place I hadn't seen before but we definitely didn't belong. My Mum just shapeshifted into whoever she thought Greg would want. Greg being my 'step-dad'. He's 63. My Mum is 33. How is that even allowed.

We unloaded everything from the cars and waited on the trucks arriving with everything else. Cameron and I scuffed our shoes as we strolled through the huge house, taking in everything and familiarising ourselves with our new home.

"I'm so glad I'm not at school anymore because being in a class with snobby assholes like these people would be shit." Cameron said, crossing his arms as he gestured to the family across the road.

I walked over to him and watched too. A family of 5 - two girls, one boy, Mum and a Dad - were dressed rather nicely in dresses and suits. They came out of their house and waltzed to their Tesla nonchalantly with their noses in the air. The eldest girl looked around my age. She would probably be in some of my classes.

"I'm not looking forward to Monday." I groaned.

We stood in comfortable silence, watching the Tesla inquisitively as it drove off with the family inside.

"Trucks arrived!" Mum called from the front door.

We both shared our sibling look with one another then walked back out with reluctance. Mum was standing in the middle of the driveway with her hands on her hips, watching as Greg approached the van and signed some forms off. Cameron and I walked down and stood either side of her. She grinned and wrapped her arms around us, rubbing both our backs simultaneously.

"I've got a good feeling about this, guys." She took a deep breath.

"At least someone does." I remarked.

She ignored the comment and we watched Greg do practically nothing. I mean he was basically an ancient artefact.

"I've heard your new school is wonderful. The pass grade levels are insanely good and there's a lot of people there to befriend." Mum spoke positively.

"My last 6 schools also had a lot of people to befriend but of course, I always lose them because we move so bloody much." I clenched my jaw.

"Well...this time it's different."

I scoffed, "You always say that."

"I swear this time!"

"And that!"

"y/n I don't know what you want me to do. Greg is a great guy who is supporting us fully! I mean, look at this place! Surely you can't be mad we're living here." Mum shook her head, removing her arm from my waist.

"I'd rather live in a box with just you two than live in a huge house with some random guy in a town I hate." I argued then stormed away dramatically up the driveway.

I got into the house and slammed the door, grabbing the banister and stomping up the flight of stairs. There was one flight then a landing then another flight. This house was too bloody big.

I finally found what was meant to be my new room and slammed that door shut. Just for good measure. I huffed and sighed as I leaned my back against the white, wooden door.

The room was stark white and empty, only a bay window to give some character. I might hate Greg and my mother and this whole situation but I loved this bay window. I snaked in between the boxes and suitcases and sat on the wooden ledge. I kicked my shoes off before sitting my feet up and watching outside. My room faced the front of the house so I could see the movers offloading furniture and boxes off while Greg stood helplessly.

I groaned and leaned my head back, closing my eyes, just wanting to crawl into a shell and hide.

A slam of a car door forced my eyelids open and I jumped slightly.

"Where do you think you're going?!"

I heard a woman's voice from outside. I looked outside curiously, scanning the street with my eyes to find where the noise was coming from. It finally caught my eye and I had to sit up and switch sides of the window to look properly.

A red-headed woman and a curly headed boy were standing in the driveway.

Our next door neighbours apparently.

The boy was around my age, maybe a little older. He stumbled a little as he walked up the drive, his mother - I think - watching from behind her car door.

"I'm going to bed!" He shouted back.

"Not now you're not, you have to talk to me, Thomas!" She shouted, slamming her own car door.

Thomas.

He hung his head on his shoulders, "I need to sleep, mum."

"Well I just had to bail you out of jail for marijuana possession and use so you better talk to me."

Oof, I thought. He was a stoner. A criminal basically. But he was attractive from what you could see. Dark brown curly hair, tall enough, a sharp jawline, a good body from where I was sitting and a good style too - a hoodie with a denim jacket and jeans. But he was my neighbour. And a stoner.

"Mum can we just talk later?" He pleaded, running a hand through his hair.

"Tom we will talk about this right now." She said sternly.

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, turning his back to her and walking away. I watched him with a slight smile. He really was attractive.

"Thomas Holland you get back here right now!" His mother shouted.

"When I'm not on drugs, I'll talk." He stated.

His mother stuttered then just grunted in annoyance, allowing him to go inside.

I kept my eyes on him, my smile still on my face as he started to walk into his house. He suddenly turned his head with a confused expression then looked up. Straight at me through my window.

I froze in shock, eyes widening, mouth parting. He slowly smirked and nodded his head at me before going inside.

I sunk off the window ledge in humiliation, snaking to the floor and mumbling how stupid I was and how embarrassing that was.

"y/n! Come meet your neighbour!" Mum shouted up.

My ears perked up then I leaped up to look out the bay window. The boy next door's mum was standing outside, chatting to my mum.

-

I hardly learned anything talking to his mum. Her name was Nikki Holland, she had a husband named Dominic who was a comedian and a writer. She was a photographer. Along with Tom - the oldest - she had three other sons: twins named Harry and Sam and then Paddy who was a good bit younger. I can't remember the exact age. My mum had nosily asked her about Tom and that was the only part I listened to.

"He's 18,"

"Dropped out of school last year,"

"Says he wants to be an actor,"

"Oh today? He got in trouble from the police about...you know what, that isn't important."

"You look so young to be a mother to a teenager. How old are you?"

"And you're 18, too?" "Still in school?" "What do you want to do?" "Ah, smart girl."

The conversation was brief and slightly awkward. She was clearly stressed about Tom and his situation so I slid out of the engagement pretty fast and escaped up to my room.

During the entirety of the weird conversation, the movers had put my bed, mattress and desk into my room. It felt a lot more homier.

-

It was the next night and I had finished dinner and immediately gone upstairs. I was not participating in any sort of 'family time'. I sat down on my bed and scrolled through my phone aimlessly.

A thump outside drew my attention away and I looked to my right at the regular window which faced our neighbours house.

I sat up and squinted to see out into the dark. It was Tom. He was halfway out his window.

I didn't even realise our windows faced each other. And here he was, one leg out the window and his other following on. He had thrown a backpack down which caused the dull thump on the grass - which I only assume contains weed - and now he was escaping his house.

I got out of bed and walked to the glass, peeking out to see what he was doing.

He climbed impressively down the wall and jumped the last few metres, landing in a Spider-Man like pose. Admirable, I thought as he picked up his back pack and slid a skateboard out from a bush. He brushed it off then slotted it under his armpit.

He was sporting a black t-shirt with a dog-tag necklace and some distressed deep blue jeans with a denim jacket over top and a baseball cap placed on backwards that sat on top of his curly head of hair.

He looked around in case he was going to get caught then looked up. Directly at me. Again.

This time I didn't shy away. I just made a gesture and mouthed 'what the fuck?' then he laughed to himself and looked back up at me.

'Don't be so nosy, neighbour', he mouthed.

I squinted and shook my head in disapproval. He just smirked boyishly then walked to his driveway where he flipped his skateboard and skated off into the night.

I gulped and sat back on my bed, feeling my heart rate slow back down.

But curiosity filled my brain.

Where was he going?

-

Just as Sunday night came around, I had finished decorating my room. My pictures and paintings hung on the wall, along with some mirrors to fill the blank space of the white walls. My bed was cosy and was filled with throw blankets, fluffy sheets and way too many pillows. My desk was organised and my laptop sat atop the white surface, making it look a lot more professional than I had anticipated.

I had turned my bay window into a reading nook. A few blankets lay on the ledge and a couple pillows too, along with my current read.

I had seen Tom sneak out a few nights ago but I tried to stay away from the regular window, only ever sitting on the bay one because I couldn't see Toms room from there.

However, it didn't shield me from him completely.

I would see him outside in their front garden playing games with his brothers and sometimes I'd watch them from just over the top of my book. The way he played with their dog was cute. I had gathered her name was Tessa and I knew she was a staffy because we used to have one. He'd throw balls or sticks for her and sometimes she'd clamber on top of him with excitement. He'd dodge her licks but still clap her because she was excited after all.

Every once in a while he'd catch me looking down at him or I'd catch him looking up at me. Whenever it happened, it seemed as if everyone and everything disappeared. Like it was just us. Tunnel view. But then one of us would look away or stick the middle finger up or mouth 'fuck off'. Our unusual and silent rivalry was the closest thing to a friend I'd had in years.

But now, Mum, Greg and Cameron were going out to a nice dinner to celebrate the first week of living here. I thought it was an incredibly stupid idea so I decided to stay home alone and eat pizza.

They all left and Cameron immediately texted me.

Cammando: I hate you for leaving me

y/n: your fault not mine :)

I didn't really know what to do. I walked around the house and asked Alexa to play some songs but I couldn't be bothered dancing. I wasn't really in a dancing mood.

I just gave up and went back upstairs into my room. My windows were still open so before I got changed I went to close them and put down the blinds. I closed the bay window and then I went to the next one.

I looked straight ahead into Toms room and my jaw dropped.

He was hopping and hyping himself up in front of a punch bag...shirtless with gloves on. I watched as he punched the bag skilfully, moving his feet as if it was a choreographed routine. His damp curly hair hung onto his forehead and I could see glimpses of airpods in his ears. His back muscles tightened and flexed as he threw punches.

He moved around the bag and now I could see the front of him. He had a very visible six pack. I definitely didn't expect that from the stoner boy next door. If I thought he was attractive before...now I don't even know what I would call him.

Otherworldly, perhaps?

He suddenly looked up and I gasped, turning and slamming my back against the wall next to the window, wincing at the pain. Hopefully he didn't see me...

It was creepy to be staring at him. I shouldn't have done it.

I peeked back and he was back to beating the poor punch bag.

God, he was so hot.

I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks and ears, burning with lust. I gulped and looked away, closing the blind to stop myself from looking anymore.

I got changed into shorts and a burgundy Cambridge University jumper that used to belong to my Dad. He gave it to me the first time he properly left for a while and I still have it even though I see him more often.

I hopped downstairs and played some music while I sorted the pizza and chips out to eat.

I sat and ate while listening to music. Once I was finished, I cleaned everything up then went back upstairs into my room, shutting the door behind me and jumping onto my bed.

I scrolled through tiktok aimlessly, just filling the time before it was an acceptable hour to go to bed as a teenager.

I switched apps to Instagram when I lay on my side, my back facing my windows. I scrolled through for a while but a certain picture caught my eye.

I had to blink a few times to really look.

It was my so called 'best friend' who I hadn't talked to since I moved twice after befriending her and my ex-boyfriend. My ex. My only boyfriend I've ever had. My first kiss, my first date...my first time. My only time. We only had sex twice. Three if you count foreplay but I faked it. Actually I faked it all of the times. He was never good at it and I had no idea how to go about telling him because to be honest, I had no idea what to do either.

But my ex-best friend and my ex-boyfriend? She didn't even tell me. She didn't even think to ask me.

They were dressed nicely and holding each other's waists. It looked a little awkward but most of those pictures are because they are being taken by parents.

I looked through the comments.

OMG! Hot couple alert! You two are the cutest just marry already yall are too happy it's been the best year of my life baby

"WHAT?!" I exclaimed, sitting up sharply.

They had been together for a YEAR.

"Ugh!" I groaned and threw my phone across my room, hearing it basically break against the wooden floor.

"Rough night?" A voice spoke from my window.

I screamed, jumping with fear and successfully landing my ass on the floor.

I panicked and grabbed the first thing I could use as a weapon. A glass of water. It would have to do.

I quickly flung the water at the intruder, "WHAT THE FUCK, GET OUT!" I screamed, my eyes closed tightly in fear.

I heard the water splash over them but they still came in. I just threw the glass at them. It thumped against them dully and then crashed onto the floor.

"Ouch."

I slowly opened one eye and looked up at the figure who had just entered my room.

It was Tom.

He was in a grey t-shirt and black basketball shorts with a baseball cap placed on backwards, a backpack thrown over his shoulder.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING CLIMBING INTO MY ROOM?!" I shouted, standing up.

He was taller than me by a few inches but we were basically at eye level.

"I was clearly looking for some company but you then threw water over me and then a literal glass." He spoke calmly, wiping a hand over his wet face.

"How the hell are you being so calm about this?! You just intruded into my home!" I exclaimed.

"Well, darling, I have a thing called weed. It's great for calming you down. You clearly need some." He slung his bag around and went to open it.

"W-what? No, I'm not smoking weed!"

He sighed and slung his bag back, "Well, why are you being so uptight about this I just wanted to say hello." He smiled boyishly.

I licked my teeth in annoyance. He was so fucking attractive but he was so fucking annoying and I didn't even know him.

"You need to get out. I didn't invite you in here so you are not welcome." I stated, crossing my arms.

"Okay, yes. But also- my mother nearly just caught me sneaking out so it's a cover if she comes round here."

"Why would she come here?" I asked.

"Because she's a mad woman who hates me having a life apparently."

"You're an 18 year old who sneaks out of the house to smoke weed. I wouldn't call that a life." I remarked.

He smirked, "You know what, I like you."

He sat his bag down then started to walk slowly around my room, inspecting my pictures and decorations intricately.

I stuttered, not knowing how to react to this whole situation.

"I'm sorry, what the hell are you doing?" I asked, brows furrowed.

"You're quite an interesting person, I must say."

I sighed and shook my head at the ceiling.

"Ah, this makes sense." He picked up one of my camera's.

I scoffed, "What's that supposed to mean?"

He sat it down and picked up the next one, shrugging with a smug smirk.

"You like looking at things."

I gulped, red rushing to my cheeks.

"Clearly very beautiful things." He said, referring to my pictures on the walls.

"I'm just honoured I'm one of them."

I rolled my eyes and scoffed, "You wish you were."

"Oh but I am, aren't I?" He challenged, sitting my camera down.

I licked my back teeth and watched with heavy breath as he paced towards me slowly.

"I've never taken a picture of you before." I said matter-of-factly.

"You might not have but you definitely love a good stare, don't you?" He asked, his left eyebrow quirked cockily.

I noticed the unusualness of it and then looked into his dark, dilated eyes.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." I said quietly.

He laughed lowly, "So you weren't staring at me earlier when I was working out?"

I stuttered as we came face to face.

"You're stubborn but I feel like I know you," He placed his fingers under my chin, tracing up my jaw and to my ear where he tucked some of my hair behind.

"Because I've been looking at you, too." He whispered.

I practically melted and a whimper left my mouth, eyes rolling back.

He chuckled, "Already needy for me I see."

I looked up at him as his thumb swiped over my lips.

This whole situation was insane. I didn't even know how we got here. I didn't know how to feel, either. I had never been turned on like this before.

He slowly pushed his thumb into my mouth and I moaned around it, tasting his skin.

"Good girl." He praised, taking his thumb out and replacing it with his tongue.

I moaned again, feeling his lips on mine. His hands gripped my waist and I tangled my fingers into his hair.

He tasted of weed but I didn't mind it at all. He pushed me backwards until I hit the wall next to my bed. He gripped my hips tightly and I kept my hands in his hair. He must have gone for a shower since his workout because he smelled fresh and clean and his hair was damp.

I couldn't believe I was doing this. I was kissing a stranger. Who climbed into my room.

"Wait-" He pulled away briefly.

"Is your family home?" He asked.

"No, they're out all night." I answered breathlessly.

He smirked, "Good."

He suddenly lifted me up and I squealed, automatically wrapping my legs around his taut torso.

His tongue slipped between my lips again and I welcomed it. He lay me down on my bed and started to kiss down to my jaw and my neck.

I gasped and tugged his hair when he started kissing a certain spot on my skin. He got the message that I liked it and started licking and sucking on it. I arched my back slightly, moaning as he worked his tongue and lips on my skin.

He left the spot on my neck but kissed over my skin as he started to lift my jumper up. Panic and nerves suddenly settled in and I grabbed his hands, stopping his movements.

"You alright?" He asked breathlessly.

I swallowed, "I uh...I've never-"

His eyes widened, "You're a virgin?"

"No, no. I've had sex it just...it just wasn't that great." I bit my lip nervously.

He encased my lips in his and I relaxed to his touch.

"Do you want to?" He asked against my lips.

"Yes, fuck yes." I practically moaned into his mouth.

"I just need you to guide me through it." I said in between kisses.

He pulled away, "I can do that." He smiled.

He started to lift my jumper off and this time I let him. I sat up and he removed it, throwing it off the bed. He admired the pink bralette I was wearing and immediately pressed his lips and tongue to the valley of my breasts. He nipped and sucked on my skin and I moaned as he palmed one of my boobs while leaving marks on the other.

He came back up and kissed me again but flipped us over so I was now on top. He sat up and shuffled back against my headboard and pulled me onto his lap.

He brushed my hair off my shoulders and cupped my chin, taking me in.

"D'you wanna try riding my thigh?" He asked lowly.

I gulped, "S-sure."

He smirked and I straddled his left thigh, holding his shoulders.

"Just rock your hips back and forwa-"

"Fuck," I moaned, the rubbing of the different materials causing my core to clench.

"Does that feel good?" He asked, his breath fanning over my face.

His hands rested on my hips and he helped my movements.

"Feels so good." I moaned.

"Yeah? You like riding my thigh?" He prompted, his hands making me speed up.

I fisted the material of his shirt in my hands as my mouth fell agape with pleasure.

"Riding my thigh like such a good girl." He praised.

"Fuck!" I hung my head back, his words going straight to my core.

He chuckled cockily, "D'you like when I call you that? Huh?"

I nodded, too flustered with these new senses of pleasure to speak.

His hand travelled up into my hair and tugged on it by my roots. A louder moan than I would have liked escaped my lips.

"I asked you a question, answer me." He said sternly.

"Fuck! Yes, I love it when you call me that." I answered pathetically.

"Good girl." He praised, letting go of my hair and rocking my hips on him.

I felt an immense amount of pleasure build up and it felt as if something was going to snap in me.

"Oh shit, I- fuck!" I furrowed my brows in concentration and confusion.

"R'you gonna cum, darling?" He asked, almost shocked.

"I don't- fuck - know!" I moaned, feeling the knot inside my stomach about to snap.

But before that could even happen I was being flipped back onto my back and Tom was ripping off my shorts and panties, diving in between my legs with lust.

His hands held my thighs and brought me closer to him. His lips attached to my clit and sucked, giving me a whole new feeling.

"Oh, fuck! Yes! Yes!" I moaned shamelessly, tugging his hair and fisting the bedsheets.

"Go on, darling. Cum in my mouth for me. Taste so good. Please, love."

The mixture between his words and his nicknames for me and the fact his mouth was working wonders on my core completely sent me over the edge: an experience I had never had before.

"Holy shit! Tom! Yes!" I subconsciously tightened my thighs around his head and my hands practically pushed him completely onto me.

He continued riding me through my high until I unclenched my thigh and he pulled away slowly.

I lay breathless and in a state of shock and euphoria at the same time.

"You okay?" He asked soothingly, rubbing his hand over my bare thigh as he came up to kiss me.

"Yeah I've...I've never-"

"You've never came before?" Tom asked, baffled by me.

"Nope..."

He kept his eyes on me but slipped a hand down to my core again. I bucked my hips against his hand with a gasp as he moved his fingers in circles over my core.

"You've never even touched yourself?" He asked lowly.

I bit my lip and shook my head.

"You're so wet for me, darling, fuck." He cursed.

He suddenly dipped a finger into my core and I moaned. He curled it up and I gripped his arm tightly.

"What d'you want?" He asked.

"I want you, Tom, please." I bit my lip.

He smiled and sat back, his hand coming away from my clit, leaving me feeling empty. He shed his shirt and I finally got to look at his chiselled torso up close. He then slid his shorts and boxers off and my jaw dropped at the sight of him.

He was semi-hard but he was already bigger than my ex. A lot bigger.

He pumped his member in his hand, "You sure about this?"

I stuttered, completely distracted by his actions than his words.

"What? You like the look of it? Hmm? Wanna suck me off?" He asked, his hand cupping my chin and sliding his thumb into my mouth again.

I moaned at his words and nodded.

"You want to suck me off, darling? You sure?" He asked, removing his thumb.

"Yes, fuck Tom, I wanna suck you off." I moaned.

"Good girl." He praised.

We switched positions so he was sitting against the headboard and now I was in between his legs.

"I don't know how to..." I said shakily.

"You're okay," He gathered my hair up in his hands.

"Do whatever feels natural and I'll tell you if it's good, yeah?"

I nodded and gulped, moving my mouth closer to his member. I pumped him in my hand a few times and I could almost feel him harden right there. I had done this part before, at least.

I lowered my mouth onto him, swirling my tongue around his lip. He hissed slightly and gripped my hair tighter. I slowly let my mouth down on him and came back up.

"That's it, good girl." He praised.

I moaned and continued bobbing my head slowly on him, finding a rhythm. I held his thigh for support as I got faster, easing into it.

"Fuck, darling, feels so good." He groaned.

The taste of him in my mouth was amazing, pre cum already escaping onto my tongue.

I slackened my jaw and took as much of him as I could then pumped the rest in my hand.

"Holy shit! Fuck!" He held my head there and thrusted up.

His member hit the back of my throat but I didn't mind it at all. He made sure I was okay then did it again. And again. And again. Until he was continuously throat fucking me. I enjoyed it, surprisingly. The obscene sounds my mouth was making was not only making Tom more aroused, but also me.

I felt some drool drip down from my mouth onto my chin and even onto his lower stomach but I didn't care.

"Fuck, love those pretty little sounds coming from your throat, baby." He groaned.

I moaned, my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

"Such a good girl."

But then he pulled me off of him. I looked at him in confusion but he flipped me onto my back sooner than I could say anything.

"Need to be in you before I cum, princess." He said, kissing me deeply, his tongue exploring my mouth.

"Ready?" He asked.

I felt his tip brush up and down my folds. I gripped his arms and nodded, closing my eyes to concentrate.

"Hey, look at me." He said.

I looked up into his gorgeous chocolate eyes.

"Breathe in," He instructed.

I did as he said.

"And out."

As I breathed out, he pushed into me slowly.

I moaned and arched my back at the feeling of him inside of me. His technique worked.

"You okay?" He asked caringly.

I nodded, biting my lip.

"You can move."

He started thrusting slowly in and out of me, my arousal making it a lot easier for him to move.

"So fuckin' tight, darling." He cursed.

I wrapped my thighs around his waist and he bottomed me out.

"Yes!" I moaned, my back arching so our chests were touching.

"Does that feel good?" He asked.

I hummed, "Faster, please."

He smirked, "As you wish."

His thrusts got gradually faster and my mouth hung open in a silent moan. He brushed past my g-spot with every movement and I scraped his back with my finger nails.

"So fucking good," I gasped.

He sped his thrusts completely and his head fell into the crook of my neck, leaving sloppy kisses on my skin.

"So big! Yes!" I moaned pornographically as he perfectly met my g-spot.

He reached a hand down and started rubbing my clit in skilful circles. I screamed out in overwhelming pleasure as I felt the now familiar feeling come back in my stomach.

"So good for me, darling. Been such a good girl. You gonna cum?" Tom whispered his praises into my ear.

"So close! Oh my god!" I curled my toes and dug my fingernails into his back.

"Come on darling. Feel so good around my cock. Feel so fucking good. You're a fucking angel, y/n. Fuck." He moaned.

I rolled my eyes back at his words. God his words.

"I'm gonna cum!" I squealed, eyes squeezing shut.

"Look at me when you cum, love."

I could hardly hear his voice anymore as I felt my second high approaching.

"I said-"

I gasped as I felt his hand around my throat, pressing the sides of my neck, activating some unknown pleasure button.

"Look at me when you cum all over my fucking cock." He grunted, his dark, dilated eyes staring into mine.

I kept my eyes on him as my high began to wash over me. His thrusts kept the same pace but his fingers moved faster, spurring my orgasm along.

"Yes! Fuck, feels so- yes!" I moaned.

I was extremely loud, I'm surprised the police hadn't come knocking asking about it.

My high seemed to be everlasting. Tom began to pull out but I kept my legs wrapped around him.

"Want you to cum in me, Tom. Please." I begged.

"You sure?" He asked, holding his orgasm back.

"Yes! Please! Need your cum in me." I moaned seductively against his lips.

"Fuck- so good for me- yes!"

I felt as he stilled in me, and as his cum painted my walls. His face contorted in levels of pleasure as he finished and I was finally coming down from my own high.

He pulled out after a second and collapsed next to me.

We both lay together, not saying a word, just listening to each other's breathing calm.

After a minute or two, he turned to face me.

"That- was so fucking good." He laughed.

"It was." I smiled back.

He reached a hand over to my face and brushed my hair behind my ear. I softened into his touch and hummed.

But that bliss was broken quickly.

"Hello?! We're home!"

I gasped, shooting up on my bed.

"Is that your mum?!" Tom whisper shouted.

"Yes! You need to go like now!" I whispered back.

He scurried off the bed and into his boxers and clothes, shakily putting on his shirt and attempting to put his shoes on quickly but leaving them untied.

I grabbed his backpack and handed it to him.

"Thank you," He smiled, taking it from me and heading for the window again.

He swung a leg out but then hesitated.

"Oh and uh-"

He held his hand out.

"I'm Tom, by the way." He grinned.

I smiled, shaking his hand.

"I'm y/n. Nice to meet you, neighbour."

"Nice to meet you, too." He winked, before climbing out the window, down the wall and back into his own house.

Nice to meet you indeed.

-

A/N: this is written for my amazing friend Caitlin and it's her birthday today! and she gave me all the details for this piece so i hope you guys enjoyed!

[youareunbearable]

I've been thinking, but what if Beren knew Meadhros before the Dagor Bragollach and the Silmaril quest went down

Sure his father was sworn friends with Finrod, but Meadhros was the Watcher of the North, he probably had worked and fought alongside Beren’s father, Barahir of Dorthonion, Lord of Ladros and Chieftain of the house of Beor. Maedhros worked alongside a lot of men, and he was smart and likeable and a strong general, so he probably kept good relations with the Men that lived nearby that would be willing to lend willing swords to help him protect the March.

He maybe even was a guest to Barahir’s wedding, he maybe even sent a gift at the birth of his son. Beren fell in love with an Elf, and that love must have come from somewhere. As a child he must have visited Maedhros’ kept in Himring for a summer celebration that his family was invited to. He had never seen so many Elves before, and they were as beautiful as they were strange. There was one Elf, tall with dark hair, who could sing Songs so beautiful Beren felt as if he could reach out and wrap the sound around him like the world’s loveliest cocoon.

Even the Lord of Himring, the tall being with survival scars and glowing eyes and hair like living fire, looked gorgeous when he laughed. Apparently the singer he just complimented was his younger brother Maglor, and not in fact a beautiful maid. No one seemed to mind his blunder, and Maglor gave him a warm smile and a head pat so all was water under the bridge.

(Years later, Maedhros would continue to tease Maglor that his beauty and voice must be second to Luthien, if his young lover was able to forget him upon seeing her. Maglor just sniffs)

When the Dagor Bragollach happened, many of Beren’s people fled to Maedhros’ fort, and Maedhros kept them safe. When things calm slightly, he might even send out a search party for the missing Chieftain and his son. The scouts return months later with a sobbing Beren and the Ring of Barahir. Instead of letting the man wallow in his grief alone in the wilds, Maedhros would help him, help him be the leader his people need, help him take his grief out on the swarms of the Enemy at their gate, and help him deal with the grief of losing a father. He might even show him his father’s ring, the Feanorian star signet ring that he keeps as a necklace after his father’s death. Tells him how he gave this ring to his brother Maglor when he went off to go fight Morgoth, and how his brother returned it to him 30 years later after his rescue. Maedhros mentors and guides Beren for four years, long yet also just a blink of the eye.

Beren would lead fighting parties, he would become a swift and terrible blade under Meadhros’ wing, and a kind and just leader. But the bounty that Morgoth put on his head is still the same in this version, and he is still chased and hunted by Sauron until he flees into the woods of Nan Dungortheb, then into Doriath, and still falls in love with Luthien at first glance.

She still loves him back just as fiercely, and when Beren asks Thingol for Luthien’s hand, this time when he asks for a Silmaril, it is a snub towards the Noldor who have hosted and trained and, one could argue, even raised Beren. It is still just as an impossible task as before and Beren still accepts.

He knows he cannot go to Maedhros for this, he has his own battles at the North and Beren could never ask him to go back into the Enemy’s hands, so he writes him a letter explaining that he will not be returning home and still goes to Finrod. Celegorm and Curufin still try to stop their foolish cousin and his men from going on this quest. Finrod once again leaves with his small group of loyal men.

Except this time, as they leave Nargothrond, Amras and Amrod ride on to intercept them and encourage them to first rest, plan, and wait for Maedhros’ backup at their fort in Estolad. There they have more Men and Elves that want to join their group, and when Maedhros comes (furious about Thingol, worried about Beren going on this impossible task, sick with the feeling of the Oath forcing him to want to help send this young Man to his doom on the slim chance he might succeed) they create a real plan, get the schedules of the Enemy’s movements, and maps (a map of Fingon’s path into Angband, a map of Sauron and his lieutenants recent movements, patrol paths, and some secret paths that the trolls and slaves they rescued gave, and the layout of Morgoth’s halls that Meadhros himself remembers from his enslavement)

Maedhros also gives him a small, thin blade of Mithril. "It’s to hide on your person, if you get captured, this blade won’t break and is light as a feather." He gives him this blade, not to free himself or the others, as the purpose his brother Curufin had in mind when he made the blade for Maedhros after he was rescued by Fingon, but as another method of escape. The eldest of Feanor’s Sons grips Beren’s arm and tells him that there is nothing worse in Arda than being at the mercy of Morgoth and his pet Sauron. He tells him this blade may seem like a curse, but it is a gift. Meadhros doesn't pray, he hasn’t in centuries, but he dearly hopes that Beren will not have to use it.

This time, when Finrod sings his Song of disguise, it's over much more than a handful of followers. This time, when they reach Minas Tirith they are better prepared to sneak past the fallen city.

(This time, Curufin and Celegorm don’t kidnap Luthien so Celegorm will marry her, but to keep her safe. She still doesn’t appreciate it and still steals their dog. Well, it’s not stealing if the dog escapes with her. This time, when the brothers are still forced to leave Nargothrond, it's not under exile but as a polite but firm request to leave. This time, when they chance upon Luthien and Beren again, Celegorm isn’t fighting over his ego and heart being bruised, but because this bitch stole his dog, and because they made their dormant Oath writhe under their skin, which one could argue is worse. They still lose against the Man and the Half Maiar, and Celegorm’s dog still won’t come home. This time, when they make to to Maedhros’ Himring fortress, they aren’t screamed at for their political fuck ups, but they get a stern “Why do you two always make things so difficult for me” lecture of disappointment while Maglor plays an unsympathetic and taunting accompaniment)

They still fail. Finrod still fails in his battle against Sauron but he is able to do more damage to the former Maiar, and they free more of their trapped men before he is killed by a werewolf. This time it’s not only Arafinweian Elves that fall, but Feanorian as well. When Luthien comes to save him and carry Finrod’s body away, it is Meadhros’ men that send the news to his nephew in Nargothrond, and this changes things.

When they go into Morgoth’s halls again, this time, Beren uses the little mithril blade he was given. This time, he escapes with not one silmaril, but two. One for Thingol, and one for Meadhros and his Oath.

His hand is still eaten with the Silmaril by Carcharoth. And Beren still grieves for the loss, not because he has nothing to bring Thingol, but because he knows he can’t give Maedhros his due if he wants to marry the love of his life.

When he gives Thingol the Silmaril, he also gives a warning before doing so, that the gem may be cursed with Morgoth’s taint and while it’s shine is beautiful, it hides something darker, for nothing so lovely should make people bleed and die for it. And if Thingol was wise, he would give the Silmaril to the sons of Feanor before the Oath and the Curse of Feanor catches up to him.

Melian agrees. She is ignored. This does not change.

Beren and Luthien are wed, and Beren invites the Feanorians on the Hunting of Carcharoth, and it is Amras and Amrod that slay the beast with the help of Huan after it attacks Beren. Huan still dies. Beren still dies. Luthien still dies. Yet the Fenorians gain a Silmaril. This is different.

The Oath is not completed with just the one, but it is sated. This time, the Sons of Feanor do not send a letter to Thingol asking him to surrender the gem. This time Celegorm and Curufin do not threaten to burn Doriath to the ground on a refusal that never came. This time, Thingol does not tighten security on his borders. Melian still suggests that they give the Sons the stone after she catches her husband staring at it for too long. Once again she is ignored. That, at least, does not change.

Luthien still sings her husband back to life. They still retire tp Amros and Amrad’s lands, and this time Beren’s people in Himring join them. Dior is still born, and he plays and hunts with two red headed uncles.

(Nirnaeth Arnoediad is still fought. Maedhros is not betrayed by Ulfang, who had seen the light of the Silmaril the Sons hold, and does not cave to the sweet honeyed words of Sauron. His people are not cursed. And his sons still live to fight to survive the battle. This time, Nargothrond sends forces, and Luthien convinces her father to send troops as well. This time Fingon, and his men are not focused and he is able to defeat Gothmog. Fingon is wounded from this battle, and he still dies, but not to a Balrog. He dies as his father did, managing to land five blows on Morgoth before he is slain and the Dark Lord flees. Morgoth’s forces are dwindled down deeply, and there is a unity amongst the Free People’s of Beleriand. They still count heavy losses, but not as heavy as before. Maedhros grieves the death of his dearest companion, and retreats to Himring. While he was successful, he is still the shadow of the Elf he was before. He still wears golden ribbons wrapped around the stump on his right arm and he still weeps. His brother’s still don’t know how to help him. But this time, they do not suggest a second Kinslaying)

Thingol still dies to the Dwarves. Melian is still wounded and returns to Valinor in her grief. But this time Beren doesn’t kill the Dwarf Lord of Nogrod, he lets him keep the necklace but takes the Silmaril. Luthien, in her anger and grief, curses that the Dwarves of Nogord will one day succumb to their greed and become a stain upon their people.

(Unknown to Luthien or the Dwarves, thousands of years later, it is a descendent of a Nogord dwarf that convinces the King of Khazad-dum to continue to mine until they woke Durin’s Bane. It is a descendant of Norgord that was a spy for Sauron which allowed him to overtake Mount Gundabad. It is a descendant of Norgord that uncovers the Arkenstone. It was Narvi, a descendant of Norgord and Durin’s Folk that marries Celebrimbor, and whose death caused such a profound grief that became a weak point which Annatar was allowed to breach and convince Celebrimbor to craft with him. And it was in Narvi’s memory and honor that Celebrimbor crafted the Seven Dwarven Rings of Power. However, that tragedy could also be blamed on Feanor’s Curse.)

Dior still married Nimloth, he still had two sons and one daughter. His parents still die of mortal age and he once again becomes King of Doriath. This time, he gives his father’s bridal gift to his Elven foster uncles, Amrod and Amras. For this Dior was raised on the belief that this stone was indeed tainted by Morgoth. He knew and saw the death and destruction left in its wake. He heard Feanor’s Twins whisper about their broken eldest brother. How he blames himself for the deaths of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and for the death of the former High Noldiran King Fingon. All because he was spurred on by the confidence the Silmaril gave him. He saw how it turned the greed of the Dwarves into slaying his grandfather and wounding his grandmother. This time, he saw and he wanted no part in it.

This time Doriath is the one to host the refugees of Gondolin. This time, it burns by the followers of the Enemy that followed the refugees there. This time, Elrond and Elros are not raised by the ones who burned their city. But instead they were carried out by their twin uncles Elured and Elurin. This time, they were found by Meadhros and Maglor (they were on the run, as Himring was forsaken and overrun by Morgoth’s filth) who takes in not one, but two sets of twins in.

For all their mannish blood, Elured and Elurin aged more like Elves, and therefore looked and acted like Elves of thirty-one, which meant they were children themselves when they fled their burning home. This is compared to their father and younger sister, who grew like Men and were fully grown by their mid twenties.

Elrond and Elros are still raised by the Sons of Feanor. Elrond still follows his love of healing by trying to help the broken Meadhros, and still learns to sing at Maglor’s knee. Elros still learns to fight and foster his love of leading by watching and copying and learning from Maedhros and still learns to love and care and cook from Maglor. Their travels across Beleriand still make the younger twins open minded and still want to love the other races. Elrond still wants to create a city that acts as a safe haven for everyone. Elros still wants to live amongst men and make the choice that his grandmother made.

This time, Elured and Elurin get a chance to live. This time, Elurin will learn that he loves working with horses. This time, Elured will learn he likes to build things with his hands. This time, they will live long enough to join Elrond in his safe haven of a city, and this time they will help him raise his children, this time they will help guard Celebrain on her travels to visit her mother and their family. This time, they will be captured and allow her to escape back to her husband and their children. This time, it is them that will sail because they can’t escape the feeling of being chased, running wounded through tunnels, and being tortured. This time, Elrond grieves, but his children don’t grow up without a mother.

But that is a tale for another time.

In this time, when the War of Wrath ends, Maedhros and Maglor leave their two sets of twins in Lindon. They gather their brothers who live there, and collect those that don’t. This time, all seven of the Sons of Feanor fight in the War of Wrath in an attempt to take the single Silmaril from Eonwe. Curufin and Celegorm are still slain together. Amrod still burns, but this time to a balrog.

This time their Oath is fulfilled, but for attacking a Maiar it still burns them. Meadhros, lost to the pain of his remaining hand and centuries of grief, leaves his remaining brothers and still tosses himself and one of the Silmarils into the fire of the earth. Maglor weeps, tosses the second Silmaril in the ocean, and tries to drown himself. For it was he who urged his brother to join the War under the cover of taking the last Silmaril, but Caranthir pulled him back, weeping himself.

Amras, weeping, throws the final Silmaril to Eonwe, who has caught up to them. He curses the stone and with the Oath complete, refuses to let it tear apart what is left of his family. Eonwe sends the stone into the sky, and it still becomes a token of repentance, and it is still cast as a star in the sky.

Amras, Caranthir, and Maglor limp back to Lindon, and they are welcomed by Gil-Galad and Celebrimbor.

Caranthir will choose to stay with Celebrimbor in Eregion. He will continue to do trade with the Dwarves, he will continue to make lots of wealth on his trade routes, and he will continue to raise his own Half Elven children he created with Haleth. This time, he will see Annatar for the evil he is and refuse to accept any of his gifts. This time, when Celebrimbor accepts Annatar into his halls, he calls his nephew a fool and he leaves Eregion Numenor. This time, Caranthir will help Elros’ descendants create Gondor and there he will live with his children well into the Fourth Age. He will die being ambushed by a small band of highway robbers traveling to Lothlorien with trade goods.

Amras will continue to travel the world until he finally settles with a band of Green Elves which eventually settle in Greenwood. This band will soon join Oropher's group of Sindarin Elves. Amras will eventually marry a Green Elf and they will have one daughter, Tauriel. Amras will join the Last Alliance during the end of the Second Age, and he will die in battle. His wife will be left to raise their baby daughter alone, and soon she will fade after a thousand years of grief. Tauriel will be raised as a ward of Thranduil’s (in honour of her father, who was Lord of Elves and who’s own brother raised two generations of their children) and becomes dear friends his own son Legolas and spends many evenings babysitting him and teaching him the shapes of the stars.

Maglor will continue to sing by the water, he will still have a hand burned by the Silmaril, and he still will have a mind half lost to grief and guilt. But he will stay with Elrond, Elured, and Elurin in Lindon, and he will join them in Rivendell after the War of Sauron and the Elves, and he will be a grandfather to Elrond’s children, and he will walk Elured and Elurin to the Grey Havens, and he will sing on the shore until he can no longer see their disappearing boat. And come the end of the Third Age, he will sail west with his son and his daughter-in-law with the ring bearers.

This time, the Sons of Feanor will all be reunited on the Shores of the Undying Land.

[kingandfireheart]

The Lady of the Autumn Court: what the fuck is happening in Autumn (part 2)

As I said in my Eris Vanserra post, it seems that the Lady of the Autumn Court is a bigger piece to the Eris and Lucien puzzles.

We don't know what the fuck has been happening in the Forest House but we do the following:

The Lady of the Autumn Court is/was extremely powerful

Lucien (and to some extent Eris) are mama's boys (even though Lucien has been exiled for centuries)

The Lady met Helion before she was married to Beron

At least one of the seven brothers - Lucien - is Helion's child, but Helion saved the Lady after she had already had some kids (so Eris probably isn't his, even though they both have amber eyes)

The Lady chose to stay with Beron

Beron is aware of the affair between Helion and the Lady

Beron is physically abusive towards the Lady and had tortured Eris

Helion does not know Lucien is his heir, but Eris seems to know Lucien isn't Beron's son

Things that aren't mentioned below the cut, but are interesting:

Eris is the ringleader of the brothers, the commander of Beron's forces, and is Beron's most trusted son (the other three don't even have names)

In ACOWAR, Eris says has never denied Beron anything - except to save Lucien - but is angling for the throne and betraying him in ACOFAS and ACOSF (this reminds me of Lorcan betraying Maeve for her own good in TOG)

Beron wanted to kill Lucien for wanting to leave Autumn and marry Jesminda (this doesn't seem like a good reason if he isn't in line for the throne - or isn't part of their bloodline, but I guess Beron doesn't need a reason to be cruel)

Helion alludes to having trouble at home in ACOSF

The remaining unnamed brothers are all angling for the throne (this reminds me of the Khaganate in TOG and the Cruel Prince)

I got a little carried away with the color coding, but here's every major scene involving and discussing the Lady of the Autumn Court (and some breadcrumbs because I'm convinced SJM is purposeful in her writing)

Rhysand uses the Lady of the Autumn Court taunt Lucien in ACOTAR:

Rhysand’s venom-coated smile grew. “You draw blood from me, Lucien, and you’ll learn how quickly Amarantha’s whore can make the entire Autumn Court bleed. Especially its darling Lady.” The color leached from Lucien’s face, but he held his ground. It was Tamlin who answered. “Put your sword down, Lucien.” Rhysand ran an eye over me. “I knew you liked to stoop low with your lovers, Lucien, but I never thought you’d actually dabble with mortal trash.” My face burned. Lucien was trembling—with rage or fear or sorrow, I couldn’t tell. “The Lady of the Autumn Court will be grieved indeed when she hears of her youngest son. If I were you, I’d keep your new pet well away from your father.”

The Lady of the Autumn Court also helps Feyre with one of her tasks:

A door clicked open somewhere down the hall, and I shot to my feet. An auburn head peered at me. I sagged with relief. Lucien— Not Lucien. The face that turned toward me was female—and unmasked. She looked perhaps a bit older than Amarantha, but her porcelain skin was exquisitely colored, graced with the faintest blush of rose along her cheeks. Had the red hair not been indication enough, when her russet eyes met mine, I knew who she was. I bowed my head to the Lady of the Autumn Court, and she inclined her chin slightly. I supposed that was honor enough. “For giving her your name in place of my son’s life,” she said, her voice as sweet as sun-warmed apples. She must have been in the crowd that day. She pointed at the bucket with a long, slender hand. “My debt is paid.” She disappeared through the door she’d opened, and I could have sworn I smelled roasting chestnuts and crackling fires in her wake.

Rhys (while wearing the mask of hte High Lord) uses her to taunt Lucien again in ACOMAF:

“Little Lucien,” Rhys purred. “Didn’t the Lady of the Autumn Court ever tell you that when a woman says no, she means it?”

“Prick,” Lucien snarled, storming past his sentinels, but not daring to touch his weapons. “You filthy, whoring prick.”

Lucien explaining how he was treated since Beron may suspect he's Helion's heir and as we know from Tamlin: future high lords have physical markers:

His jaw tightened. “As the youngest of seven sons, I wasn’t particularly needed or wanted. Perhaps it was a good thing. I was able to study for longer than my father allowed my brothers before shoving them out the door to rule over some territory within our lands, and I could train for as long as I liked, since no one believed I’d be dumb enough to kill my way up the long list of heirs. And when I grew bored with studying and fighting … I learned what I could of the land from its people. Learned about the people, too.”

“I’d say that sounds more High-Lord-like than the life of an idle, unwanted son.”

A long, steely look. “Did you think it was mere hatred that prompted my brothers to do their best to break and kill me?”

This may not relate to the Lady of the Autumn Court's relationship with Helion, but I'm gathering all the crumbs (why does Eris hesitate before calling his brothers brothers?)

“You hunted me down like an animal,” I cut in. “I think we’ll choose to believe the worst.”

Eris’s pale face flushed. “I was given an order. And sent to do it with two of my … brothers.”

Eris has no love for Beron (he literally asks Rhys to kill him), but he does seem to protect the Lady during the High Lord's Meeting:

“If you want proof that we are not scheming with Hybern,” Rhysand said blandly to them all, “consider the fact that it would be far less time-consuming to slice into your minds and make you do my bidding.”

Only Beron was stupid enough to scoff. Eris was just angling his body in his chair—blocking the path to his mother.

Helion and Lady of Autumn lock eyes:

The violence simmering off my friends was enough to boil the pool at our toes as the High Lord of Autumn filed through the archway, his sons in rank behind him, his wife—Lucien’s mother—at his side. Her russet eyes scanned the room, as if looking for that missing son.

They settled instead on Helion, who gave her a mocking incline of his dark head. She quickly averted her gaze.

The High Lords discuss the past war:

(also reminder: Eris has Amber Eyes like Helion)

Helion shrugged, the sun catching in the embroidered gold thread of his tunic. “Indeed, though it seems Tamlin is already ahead of me. The Spring Court must be evacuated.” His amber eyes darted between Tarquin and Beron. “Surely your northern neighbors will welcome them.”

Beron’s lip curled. “We do not have the resources for such a thing.”

“Right,” Viviane said, “because everyone’s too busy polishing every jewel in that trove of yours.”

Beron threw her a glare that had Kallias tensing. “Wives were invited as a courtesy, not as consultants.”

Viviane’s sapphire eyes flared as if struck by lightning. “If this war goes poorly, we’ll be bleeding out right alongside you, so I think we damn well get a say in things.”

“Hybern will do far worse things than kill you,” Beron counted coolly. “A young, pretty thing like you especially.”

Kallias’s snarl rippled the water in the reflection pool, echoed by Mor’s own growl.

Beron smiled a bit. “Only three of us were present for the last war.” A nod to Rhys and Helion, whose face darkened. “One does not easily forget what Hybern and the Loyalists did to captured females in their war-camps. What they reserved for High Fae females who either fought for the humans or had families who did.” He put a heavy hand on his wife’s too-thin arm. “Her two sisters bought her time to run when Hybern’s forces ambushed their lands. The two ladies did not walk out of that war-camp again.” Helion was watching Beron closely, his stare simmering with reproach.

The Lady of the Autumn Court kept her focus on the reflection pool. Any trace of color drained from her face. Dagdan and Brannagh flashed through my mind—along with the corpses of those humans. What they’d done to them before and after they’d died

After Nesta makes her speech:

She looked to Beron and his family as she finished. Only the Lady and Eris seemed to be considering—impressed, even, by the strange, simmering woman before them.

After Azriel attacks Eris:

Beron struck—only for his fire to bounce off a hard barrier of my own. I lifted my gaze to the High Lord of Autumn. “That’s twice now we’ve handed you your asses. I’d think you’d be sick of the humiliation.”

Helion laughed

---

Eris, wisely, averted his eyes. And said, “Apologies, Morrigan.”

His father actually gawked at the words. But something like approval shone on the Lady of Autumn’s face as her eldest son settled himself once more.

Thesan rubbed his temples. “This does not bode well.”

But Helion smirked at his retinue, crossing an ankle over a knee and flashing those powerful, sleek thighs. “Looks like you owe me ten gold marks.”

Feyre loses her shit:

Beron shielded barely fast enough to block me, but the wake singed Eris’s arm—right through the cloth. And the pale, lovely arm of Lucien’s mother.

---

The Lady of Autumn was clutching her arm, angry red splattered along the moon-white skin. No glimmer of pain on that face, though. I said to her as I reclaimed my seat, “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes lifted toward mine, round as saucers.

Beron spat, “Don’t talk to her, you human filth.”

Helion tells the story of the Affair:

Helion tapped a finger against the carved arm of his couch. “He played games in the War and it cost him—dearly. His people still remember those choices—those losses. His own damn wife remembers.”

Helion had looked at the Lady of Autumn repeatedly during the meeting. I asked, carefully and casually, “What do you mean?”

--

Helion’s jaw clenched. “The Lady of the Autumn Court was sent to stay with her sisters, her younger children packed off to other relatives. To spread out the bloodline.” He dragged a hand through his sable hair. “Hybern attacked their estate. Her sisters bought her time to run. Not because she was married to Beron, but because they loved each other. Fiercely. She tried to stay, but they convinced her to go. So she did—she ran and ran, but Hybern’s beasts were still faster. Stronger. They cornered her at a ravine, where she became trapped atop a ledge, the beasts snapping at her feet

--

Helion didn’t so much as shift in his chair. “She was still young—though she’d been married to that delightful male for nearly two decades. Married too young, the marriage arranged when she was twenty.”

---

But it was Mor who said coolly, “I heard a rumor once, Helion, that she waited before agreeing to that marriage. For a certain someone who had met her by chance at an equinox ball the year before.”

I tried not to blink, not to let any of my rising interest surface.

The fire banked to embers and Helion threw a half smile in Mor’s direction. “Interesting. I heard her family wanted internal ties to power, and that they didn’t give her a choice before they sold her to Beron.”

--

“How long did the affair last?” I asked. That withdrawn female … I couldn’t imagine it.

Helion snorted. “Is that a polite question for a High Lady to be asking?”

But the way he spoke, that smile … I only waited, using silence to push him instead.

Helion shrugged. “On and off for decades. Until Beron found out. They say the lady was all brightness and smiles before that. And after Beron was through with her … You saw what she is.”

“What did he do to her?”

“The same things he does now.” Helion waved a hand. “Belittle her, leave bruises where no one but him will see them.”

I clenched my teeth. “If you were her lover, why didn’t you stop it?” The wrong thing to say. Utterly wrong, by the dark fury that rippled across Helion’s face.

“Beron is a High Lord, and she is his wife, mother of his brood. She chose to stay. Chose. And with the protocols and rules, Lady, you will find that most situations like the one you were in do not end well for those who interfere.

I didn’t back down, didn’t apologize. “You barely even looked at her today.”

“We have more important matters at hand.”

“Beron never called you out for it?”

“To publicly do so would be to admit that his possession made a fool of him. So we continue our little dance, these centuries later.” I somehow doubted that beneath that roguish charm and irreverence, Helion felt it was a dance at all.

But if it had ended centuries ago, and she’d never seen him again, had let Beron treat her so abominably …

The Lucien Paternity Revelation:

While we spoke, I said down the bond, Helion is Lucien’s father. Rhys was silent. Then— Holy burning hell. His shock was a shooting star between us.

I let my gaze dart through the room, half paying attention to Helion’s musing on the wall and how to repair it, then dared study the High Lord for a heartbeat. Look at him. The nose is the same, the smile. The voice. Even Lucien’s skin is darker than his brothers’. A golden brown compared to their pale coloring.

It would explain why his father and brothers detest him so much—why they have tormented him his entire life.

My heart squeezed at that. And why Eris didn’t want him dead. He wasn’t a threat to Eris’s power—his throne. I swallowed. Helion has no idea, does he?

It would seem not.

The Lady of Autumn’s favorite son—not only from Lucien’s goodness. But because he was the child she’d dreamed of having … with the male she undoubtedly loved.

Beron must have discovered the affair when she was pregnant with Lucien.

He likely suspected, but there was no way to prove it—not if she was sharing his bed, too. Rhys’s disgust was a tang in my mouth. I have no doubt Beron debated killing her for the betrayal, and even afterward. When Lucien could be passable as his own of spring—just enough to make him doubt who had sired his last son.

I wrapped my head around it. Lucien not Beron’s son, but Helion’s. His power is flame, though. They’ve mused Beron’s title could go to him.

His mother’s family is strong—that was why Beron wanted a bride from their line. The gift could be hers.

You never suspected?

Not once. I’m mortified I didn’t even consider it.

What does this mean, though?

Nothing—ultimately nothing. Other than the fact that Lucien might be Helion’s sole heir

[thepeakyfckingblinders]

Never Again || Thomas Shelby x reader

credits to @saralou23​ for the gif

⤠ MASTERLIST⤟

Anon requested/summary: “can I request a fic where the reader is found unconscious or faints in the shop or something and tommy freaks out? I just find protective tommy so ❤️💓💟!! Thank you, your writing is absolutely INCREDIBLE” (Thank you so much honeybun, you’re making me blush, pls, forgive me for being late ❤️)

Warnings: swearing, bossy Tommy, basically Tommy freaking out and being overprotective, me always loving him with all of my mangled soul

Author’s notes:

I hope you are okay darlings, I love you, please stay safe ♡

I’m so sorry for being this late, I have no excuses, forgive me. Also the end sucks, but I’m struggling with my writing lately, so, sorry again.

I love protective Thomas so much, he’s an ass, but he’s a softie, and I’m gonna lose my mind some day.

Behind each one of these works there are sleepless nights and something really close to multiple mental breakdowns, so, please, take a minute to send me a message about it, I need actual actual feedbacks to understand how to improve my skills and grow ♡

If you want to be added to my tag list, please, directly message me

I’m Italian, English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for every possible mistake I made. Also, please, help me improve my writing by telling me if there’s something wrong

ENJOY!

Birmingham’s gelid air hit your sensitive skin with no mercy as soon as your red mary-janes crossed the doorway of the Garrison, only to disgracefully sink into the greyish muddy loam in which the whole of Small Heath seemed to be covered.

Your fingers felt like rigid appendages burdening your already wearied arms, while you tried your best to wrap them around your coat’s edges, in a disperate effort to keep that warm tissue on your bulging clavicles left exposed by the woollen dress you were wearing. No matter how many heavy clothes you decided to put on, that implacable cold still succeeded in making you feel constantly out of forces, debilitated to the core; it had always been that way, since you were nothing more than a little girl obliged to spend one every two months confined in your bedroom, afflicted by incredibly high fever and sometimes even bronchitis.

Truth was that your body had never got used to England’s humid weather, yet, even though you poor healt had previously put you in danger, for your sake, thanks to the enormous progresses made by medicine in the past fifteen years, it was now easy to fight against the ruthless chill of those endless winters. Plus, since the earliest days of your attendence, your wardrobe had been perpetually refreshed with high-quality pieces perfectly in step with the times, for your fiancée had been literally covering you in furs and duvets of all kinds, concerned as he was that you could’ve eventually caught another bad fever, whose deathly consequences he had already experienced on his own thick skin. And for no reason in the world he would’ve even risked to lose you too.

So, as everybody could’ve easily predicted, Thomas was perennially paying attention to your wellbeing: the most famous specialists from inside and outside the United Kingdom had come directly to your country house; if one thing could be taken for granted, it was that your medications would always be settled on your side cabinet, together with a glass of fresh water, every day and every night; and, come hell or high water, he would accompany you during your routine visits to the hospital, even when it meant leaving all of his business without any prior warning.

Needless to say, you were perfectly able to do those things on your own -pheraps except for getting a crowd of world renowned doctors in your living room- and you sure as hell had tried to persuade him that there was no need at all for being so preoccupied all the time; still, he was Tommy Shelby, he simply couldn’t help it. 

The concern for his loved ones’ lives kept stealing his sleep, even on those nights when there was no trace of imminent dangers on the horizon, it kept excoriating the insides of his drained brains, to the point that, more than once, you’d had to sleep alone in your immense king-size bed or reach for him in his study, curling up on one of his uncomfortable armchairs, ready to appease his fears as best you could. In short, for as much as you needed him to relax, you were still able to understand his protective behavior, against which, as a matter of fact, no one could do much; thus you at least tried not to give him more reasons to be worried by paying some extra attention to all those small things you could solve without Tommy even knowing about it. Regularly taking your iron tablets, for example. Nonetheless, it had now been already a week since the Peaky Blinders had started a brand new business involving in effect every metalworking factory in and around Birmingham, and the whole family, you and Tom included, had been so turbulently tied up with work to let every other thought and need slither on the back burner. As a direct consequence, your doctor’s latest prescription was unfortunately left lying on the bottom of your drawer, that being the fourth day in a row you’d spent without taking those pills, and, even though everything appeared to be going well until then, that one Thursday morning your period eventually came and stroke the fatal blow, having you feel so faint and aching that, all of a sudden, the few metres separating your side of the street from the betting shop seemed to implausibly dilate right under your blurred vision, a vexing sense of nausea assaulting your empty stomach led you to lean against a lamppost, your skin still crawling beneath all those heavy tissues.  Dizziness and lethargy almost took over your sore mind, before you shook your head with an abrupt move in a bid to dispel those unpleasent sensations; clients would’ve arrived in less than a hour, Esme had taken John’s kids on a brief fieldtrip, Michael was already in his office, the boys were making their usual rounds of the mills, Finn and Isaiah were dealing with a couple folks in need back at the Garrison and Polly was nowhere in sight, which made you the only available blinder for the opening and, with Friday’s race approaching, there was no way the box-office could remain shut. Hence, more determined than ever, you chocked down the knot forming in your throat due to queasiness and just forced youself to put one foot in front of the other onto the dusty road, until you reached the shop door, not without the risk of tripping over multiple times in the process. Your frozen fingers clutched to the small side-wall now carring all of your weight, whilst your lungs tried to let in as much air as possible. And it worked, each plodding breath seemed to fight your sickness, also your heartbeat was gradually slowing down, thus you shut your eyelids and continued to inhale deeply for a full minute, before your trembilng hand managed to finally turn the key in the lock, giving you free access to the place. 

However, the small click produced by the latch closing again did not live to reach your ears, for they were already brimful of ominous hisses, in a scant moment a bulk of hypnotic grey worms prevented you from seeing anything else, they relentlessly squirmed in front of your dilated pupils, that repulsing view sending brutal shooks straight to your clenched stomach, again. And, before you even had a chance to realize what was going on, your brain completely blacked out.

                                                    ~ ~ ~

Words would not be sufficient to describe the fright taking over Arthur’s features the second your inert silhouette entered his line of sight. Just returned from their daily patrol, he had indeed noticed a small crowd waiting outside the office, cursing and fussing because of the lacked opening, and that alone had been weird enough for him to punch and kick his way up to the entrance, profanities spilling from his mustached mouth every time somebody’s elbow digged into his ribcage, inducing him to hit back so to stand his ground, only to eventually find himself powerless in front of that ghastly scene. It took him a while to recover from the shock, yet the eldest Shelby eventually regained control of his limbs and moved towards your shape with a single step.

“Polly! Pol, come here, for God’s sake!” Those hoarse yells filled the room, reverberating through the brickwalls, so loud that they could’ve been heard from the other side of the city, Arthur fell on his knees right beside you, gently placing a hand under your nape in order to lift your head. Blind panic streaming in his veins kept him for thinking clearly, he didn’t know what to do, thus he simply shook you from your shoulders, hoping in vain to see your eyes fly back open, but your neck just bent backwards.

“Where the hell is that bloody woman when I need her?!” he grunted those words in between his teeth while tigthening his grip on you, then his chest raised in a sharp move: “Jesus Christ, Polly!” He shouted once more, this time conveying all of his breath and blood towards his larynx, his abrasive voice shriveled and insisted on the last letters of his aunt’s name, until swift strides frantically hit the creaking steps, announcing Polly’s arrive. Her eyes struggled to remain open, her left palm was pressed against her forehead in a silly attempt to soothe the tremendous headache resulted from the previous night’s booze, she didn’t even have the time to put proper clothing on, since her mad niece was apparentely going berserk. “You, son of a bastard-” cursed words died underneath her tongue when she understood what was going on, soon her feet took on a life of their own, as they picked up their peace, leading her next to your body now held in Arthur’s arms.

“She’s freezing, Pol, she’s a fucking chunk of ice!” Hiccoughs shattered his worried cries, he almost whined, shifting his gaze from yours to Polly’s face over and over again, she, on the other hand, used the whole lenght of her right arm to clear in one smooth motion the closest desk. “Quick, lay her here” The deafening noise produced by those items colliding with the pavement barely grazed her hears, whilst she nodded to herself in the effort to impose some order on her obfuscated head, searching for a prompt solution that was late in coming, to the point that Finn beat it to the draw and stormed in, pointing a loaded gun to each corner of the room with fear in his cerulean irises. “What the hell’s going on?” That hysterical question echoed through the place, even though the young boy was finding it hard to get his breath, due to the crazy run he had made to reach the shop immediately after hearing that insane screaming. Nonetheless, in the space of an instant, he saw you as well and fell utterly silent, violent dismay caught him off guard, his wide eyes hesitated on your motionless figure; all of a sudden he didn’t know what to think, nor he could get the thought of your death out of his brains.

“My God, she’s as pale as death” Finn let his mind talk through that throttled murmur, regretting it right away, for silty goosebumps crawled on his skin under the pungent pressure of his brother’s instantaneous lethal glare. “Don’t talk shit, kid! Just fucking go and get Tom!”

The redhead didn’t waste any time, he somehow managed to recollect his guts and steadily disappeared behind the door previously left open. While struggling for air and internally searching for the right words to say in front of Thomas, Finn covered the whole distance between the office and the Garrison. Labored gasps coming out of his slightly parted lips in louder groans as he slammed the heavy pub’s doors open, using only his strongest shoulder; both Harry and Isaiah watched him run towards the back room where Tommy was going through the books, they did not dare spill a word and, after all, the boy didn’t even look in their direction, such was his concentration. Still, once he reached the place, all of a sudden his tongue felt dry, his well-organised speech faded away.

“Finn?! What’s wrong?” Tom’s icy eyes were now staring at him through his round glasses, the paper he’d been reading was instantly dropped, although his tone remained steady. “Y-you need to come, now! She... she’s-” A frown formed upon Tommy’s marble face at his little brother’s furious rambling, something wasn’t right, that was crystal clear, yet he wasn’t able to keep up with those hasty and stuttered sentences, so he approached him, putting both his hands on Finn’s shoulders in order to give him a little shove and maybe get some decent information. “Breathe, kid, and tell me what’s going on” That deep, adamant tone somehow sounded scarier than usual roaring inside the boy’s head, hence anxiety definitively won him over, gaining complete control of his mouth too. “It’s Y/n! I don’t fucking know, Tom, s-she looks dead!” All at once, time and space seemed to collapse around him, one single second dilated, covering the space of a whole lifetime beyond his vacant blue irises now fixed on an undetermined spot of the white wall behind Finn’s back.   A gruesome, yet familiar sensation raided his petrified body, it felt like having a beast’s fangs gnawing his throat off, lacerating his flesh to the bone, he could sense every little laceration, his chest being plundered, till even his sable heart was eradicated and then mauled. A strangled wheeze barely lived through his plump lips, that being the only sound he uttered, then his black pupils shrinked and immediately twitched, nailing his sibiling’s gaze. Without receiving an order from his brain, his fists violently gripped Finn’s jacket at the height of his biceps, bringing him a span away from his gnashed teeth with a sharp pull. “Where?” He snarled liked a rabid dog, striking, if possible, geater terror in the young man who struggled to spit an almost inaudible “The shop”, before being shoved against the doorframe as Tommy dodged him and rushed out.

                                                     ~ ~ ~

Polly held the bottle of her almond parfume she’d just put under your nostrils as if her life depended on it, Arthur’s rough palm, instead, began to pat your pasty cheek. “C’mon, love, wake up! Don’t play games, c’mon!” The dorsum of that same hand now poking the left side of your face, and then going back to the other, at incredible speed. You started to feel your face again when his nudges grew in intensity, until he was practically slapping you; soon a tremendous metallic taste invaded your mouth, or rather, you finally sensed it, whilst your eyelids battled against gravity to get back up. Arthur noticed it, he detected that brief flinch and it felt like being pampered with a fresh breeze after days of unsustainable heat. “Oh, fuck, I think I’m having a stroke” His tone held extreme urgency as he grasped for air, tugging with two fingers at his shirt collar; sure, he was great at knocking people off, maybe the best, yet, unfortunately, after that he’d never tried to bring somenody back with the living.

Blinding light rended your shrouded eyes, everything appeared blurred to the point that you couldn’t distinguish Polly’s features, although she was right beside you; nor your hearing was working, since the loud thud produced by the wooden door hitting the brickwall, and then your name barked by your fiancée’s coarse voice, sounded muffled to your ears. With a superhuman effort you succeeded in tilting your face towards the entrance, you recognized the navy-blue suit Thomas had chosen to wear earlier in the moring, still those nebulous images reached your brains with extreme delay, it was like watching vague movie scenes stream in slow motion. Your eyelids blinked as if a plumbeous burden was anchored to them, each flutter seemed to last a full minute, so that you perceived Tom coming to you in multiple shattered motions, while he kept calling you. The moment Tommy furiously jostled against Arthur, in order to take his place by the desk, you gradually went back to see and hear clearly, now being able to seize pure dread sailing those mesmerizing ocean eyes. “Thank goodness, y/n” His big palms envelopped both your cheeks, slightly squeezing them as he lift your neck, revealing all of his hidden delicacy that you, and you only, were able to bring out. “Y/n, love, talk to me” That order came out like a prayer, his voice betraying him once too often, his fingers shaking with worry, while one of his hands held your chin and the other went to caress your locks. Those loving strokes brushed against your skin, slowly infusing a little warmth into your gelid body, he touched you with the unbearable fear of watching you pass away in between his arms, having him struggle to breathe properly. “Do you hear me?” a single, salty drop fell from his long eyelashes and poured your lower lip, you heard his voice crack, distorting, until it became nothing more than a faint whine: “Please, love, talk to me” When his forehead pressed against yours, he finally gave in to the tears that had been held back with drastic ostination, shutting his eyes for a few instants he allowed brutal sobs to trounce his already aching chest. However, that moment of raw weakness was soon restrained, so that you returned to stare into his blue irises. Then, a small grin crossed your pale mouth and, even though your throat felt like gasoline on fire, preventing you from pronouncing a single syllable, you managed to guide your tiny hand to cup his sharp cheekbone. A burning kiss was pressed on its dorsum, before Tommy completely leant into your touch, giving you a look halfway between relief and disperation, he covered your hand with his own, holding it tight. “You’re okay, you’re safe” Those soft murmurs escaped his lips, probably aimed to placate the axphyziating terror still intoxicating his veins. Indeed, as hard as it was to conceive for everybody in that room, although you were the one just recovering from a sudden collapse, Tommy was now the one trembling like a fallen leaf, his arms rested on each side of your shape, sustaining his weight, as he barely stood on his own two feet. Slowly, you regained the necessary strenght to lift your bust, leading him to flutter in your direction, promptly enlacing his forearms around your waist in order to support your movements. “Hold onto me, darling, take it slow” His raspy voice was still unsteady and full of concern, he was holding his breath out of fear, gazing at you with wide eyes and tightening the grip on your hips as if to make sure that you wouldn’t vanish in his palms. You, on the other hand, gave him a rassuring smile, caressing his face mutliple times and placing a brief kiss on his mouth. “I’m fine, Tommy, I’m here with you” you eventually spoke close to his ear so to keep that conversation between the two of you “Let go, my love, I’m here” Your lips accidentally brushed against his forehead once he listened to you and abandoned himself to your tender embrace, gradually drowning into your soft chest while his arms clung on to your figure, his fingertips almost piercing the thick material of your dress as your cheek covered his head, totally annihilating the distance. “Don’t you ever do that to me again. Never again”.

tag list: @spidey-pal​, @shadow-of-wonder​, @stassaurus​​, @peachlle​, @livvtheangel​, @myjbphase​, @namelesslosers, @crazyonesarethebest​, @vxxn128​, @keithseabrook27​, @spaghettirogers​​, @writingstudent​​, @hp-hogwartsexpress , @eggingamazinglove​, @geeksareunique​, @cailoleaf​, @simonsbluee​ , @hereforsmutandfluff​, @starxtt​, @jenepleurepasbaby​, @staygold-bebold​, @marvelschriss​, @captivatedbycillianmurphy​

[glowinggator]

Friendly Competition

Request:  Now I can’t get the image of Mikey and Leo prancing around the lair to try to impress Y/N and Raph and Donnie just exchanging glances like wth in response to this X,D Wait, are you open to requests? Because then I’d totally request if you could do the idea of Leo and Mikey trying to impress Y/N in outdoing each other…

Characters: Leonardo (Pining)/Reader/Michelangelo (Pining)

Content Warnings: Swearing, really brief reference to The Walking Dead (Season 4). 

Word Count: 1946 

“Carl, Carl! Oh my god, dude,” Mikey squeals, clinging tightly to Raph’s side. Any other day, you might have laughed a little at his reaction - once a little brother, always a little brother - but you’re not in much better standing this time. The boy on TV backs slowly away from the zombies a little overconfidently for your liking, and you can’t suppress the rush of anxiety that courses through you. He’s a TV character, sure, but you’ve watched him grow up! He can’t die now, right? 

And when the third walker appears, grabbing onto the young boy and pulling him down, you could have sworn the whole lair screamed. The room is filled with the “no’s” and various swears of your friends as the kid fights for his life, and you press yourself further into the couch to try and put some distance between you and the TV. You flinch at the sound of gunshots as he pushes the walkers away, barely managing to stay alive, when suddenly the room is pierced with a noise that’s somehow even more jarring and terrifying. 

Battle alarm. Of course. Some yokai...alien… whatever it is... had to terrorize New York City now, of all times? 

"Couldn't this have been an email or something? Really, the nerve of some people. Interrupting The Walking Dead now, of all times," You groan jokingly, pausing the show for the boys as they rise to their feet. 

“If you unpause it while we’re gone, I will take you as a prisoner of war and treat the Geneva Convention as a to-do-list,” Donatello snarks. 

You stick your tongue out at him, but you can’t help but giggle. “Noted, D. Hurry back guys, stay safe!” 

“We will!” Raphael calls, waving to you with a smile before stopping at the exit of the lair, waiting for his brothers to catch up. Donatello walks right past him, balancing his tech bō over the expanse of his shoulders. You smile and wave back at Raph, but soon after, you’re met with the excited cheers of Mikey. He takes a running start at one of the nearby guard rails, grinning as he lines himself up at an angle. He jumps, grabbing the bar and spinning himself around it with ease to face you. In the brief second where your eyes lock, he shoots you a wink and a grin, before spinning himself back around and walking off. I mean, you know he’s a ninja and all, but has he always been that smooth with his parkour? Or like, that smooth in general? 

He waves quickly at you with a smile and walks straight past Raph and into the tunnels of the sewer system. “Later, angel!” He chirps. 

Leo boos before taking a running start of his own. Not to be outdone, he avoids the bar completely, instead choosing to flip over it entirely. He clears the bar with ease, landing on one leg and sweeping the other under him to perform a small rotation towards the ground. As he regains his balance, he pushes himself up with one hand and removes his feet from the ground to do another rotation before planting them once more and performing an angled flip. His movements are quick and fluid, as though such acrobatic feats were innate to his nature. As he lands he grins and shoots you a pair of fingerguns - which you laugh at softly - before backing out of the lair. “Later, sweetheart,” he coos, and turns around to walk out properly. You chuckle again once you hear Mikey’s voice echo from the sewers. 

“Show-off.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You swish the warm drink around in your mug and take a sip. You practically purr at the heat as it hits your tongue: it’s been far too cold for your liking lately. Or, maybe you’re spending too much time in the sewers. Maybe you should invest in some space heaters, if you’re gonna be down here all the time. You twiddle a pencil between your fingers as you fill out the tattered crossword in a vain attempt to wake your brain up a little. Who was Aphrodite’s son again? Did she even have a son? You suppose you’ll get back to that one. 

Raphael stumbles into the kitchen with a groan, fumbling around for a fresh mug. “Good mornin’, Y/N.” 

“Good morning, Raph,” you reply. 

He finally manages to find a mug, pouring some coffee and creamer and pulling up a chair next to you. He leans his head in his hands, clearly not awake yet. You chuckle. “Sleepy?”

He hums affirmatively and takes a sip of his coffee. You pat his shell gently and return to your crossword. You’ve never felt more like an adult, you think sarcastically. It’s like some scene out of a Lifetime movie. 

Out of nowhere, there comes a loud thump from the common area, followed by the quiet swears of Leo. You damn-near jump out of your seat at the sudden noise, barely managing to keep your drink in your mug. It sloshes around the rim, and you quickly put your hand up to steady it. Raph, meanwhile, stays glued to his seat, seemingly unbothered by the loud noise. “Good morning,” he repeats. You snort. “Good morning, indeed,” you reply. 

After a moment of thought, you set down your cup and rise to your feet. You might as well check out the noise and make sure everything is okay. You pat Raph’s head one last time before walking out into the living room, only to find Mikey and Leo whispering loudly at one another. Their voices are so hushed that it’s difficult to decipher what exactly they’re saying, although you can certainly hear them. But judging by the force behind the indecipherable words - and the overexaggerated hand motions - it clearly isn’t a friendly discussion. You clear your throat and wave gently at them, which catches their attention. 

“Everything okay?” You venture. 

“Yeah-” says Mikey. 

“Yeah- It’s- Everything’s all good,” Leo stumbles, only to be cut off by his brother.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” He elbows Leo harshly, emphasizing some point to his brother that you’re clearly missing. 

“Hunky-dorey.” 

“Peachy-keen”

“Perfect.” 

The two keep stuttering and stammering, occasionally elbowing the other without warning. You raise an eyebrow at the strange behavior, and decide to intervene. “Okay,” you drawl, “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t just hear… whatever that was. For your guys’ sake.” You joke lightly, attempting to lighten the mood a little and divert the attention away from that… trainwreck of an interaction. And the boys seem all-too-happy for the excuse, as Leo quickly jumps in with a quick question. 

“Hey, now that you’re here, could you do us a huge favor? We’re having a little…” he pauses, “brotherly competition, and we need someone unbiased to judge.” 

“Oh, that sounds fun!” You chirp, “What kind of competition is it?” 

“It’s-” 

“It’s a parkour competition!” Mikey interjects. 

The tension between the two turtles is thick, and you certainly don’t want to be the one to address it. Perhaps if you ignore it, it’ll go away on its own? Maybe they both woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, or maybe this competition has high stakes? You sigh internally: it’s too early to be thinking this hard. “Sweet! I’m ready to be impressed,” you jest. “Who’s going first?” 

“Me!” 

“I will!” 

They reply in unison, cutting each other off for the umpteenth time today. You chuckle and roll your eyes, which catches their attention. You don’t miss the way their eyes light up… or the way Mikey begins to smirk. He looks almost devious, although you suppose such a mischievous look isn’t an uncommon sight with him. 

“Leo,” he starts, “How about you go first?” 

He takes the bait with a grin, clearly unaware of whatever plan Michelangelo’s formed. “Why certainly!” He rolls his wrist around in an overexaggerated motion, beaming with absolute confidence. “As the eldest brother in the room, I’d be happy to show you how it’s done.” 

And with that, he’s off. His movements are as smooth as silk as he runs towards the nearest crate, grabbing it at an angle to flip himself over once. He lands on his feet with a loud “thump” against the concrete, but he doesn’t waste a moment as he runs towards the nearest wall. He runs up its length the moment he’s in range, this time using his body weight to spin himself during his flip. He’s fluid in his movements, years of practice and training shining through in this brief moment. This time he lands straight up on both feet, although he doesn’t take any reprieve. Instead, he kicks himself up and over, sweeping the leg to enter a combative stance. A final flourish in his display, you assume. And just like that, it’s over. The show only lasted a matter of seconds, but it’s still enough to leave you starry-eyed and in awe. 

“That was fucking badass, Leo!” You clap. 

“Really?” He smiles, “Uh, I mean, yeah! Thanks!” He fumbles with his hands for a moment before finding a spot for them. He rests them behind his head, shifting side to side on his feet. God, that’s so fucking cute. 

You beam: You can’t wait to see what Mikey does! “Think you can top that, Mikey?” 

He returns your excitement wholeheartedly, shining back with something that seems like… so much more than his typical positivity. In most situations, he radiates so much positivity that one could liken it to a lighthouse for the hopeful. But his attitude seems different from that usual beacon of light. He’s excited, positive, and confident, but that’s not what’s throwing you off. Sure, they’re competitive, but what’s the motivator this time? Ah, you suppose you’ll find out soon enough. You’re brought out of your thoughts by his cheers. “Easy!” 

And god, Mikey’s movements are so graceful that he makes Leo’s look inexperienced, like a giraffe crossing a tightrope. He moves like a swan through water, scaling walls effortlessly and flying through the air like it’s his second home. He starts his routine off strong, leaping at the first waist-high object he could lay his eyes on, performing an impromptu 720 rotation and landing on the concrete protrusion hands-first. He leaps off it as quickly as he landed, using his momentum to propel himself onto a nearby set of steel bars. He throws himself from one to the other with ease, spinning and adding his own flair to each and every movement. You can’t seem to take your eyes off of him while he leaps his way to victory. He uses any ledge possible to propel himself higher and higher, and his movements are so light and quick that they hardly make a sound. And before you know it, he’s standing at the topmost bit of the lair. He plops himself down, dangling his legs off of the precipice and swinging them back and forth. From this far away, you can barely see the way his grin stretches across his face, but you know it’s there. He raises one hand to wave at you and Leo, and the way he wiggles his fingers signals that he knows he’s won. And to be fair, he has. You giggle at the way Leo mutters “show-off” under his breath - where have you heard that one before? - before signaling for Mikey that he’s won and to head on down. And god, the descent is just as impressive. He laughs as he kicks and spins his way down, and despite the competition being over, he continues to shine and demonstrate his skills flawlessly. 

“One and one, baby!”

[write-ur-wrongs]

Mother, Mother pt.2

A/N: Finally ready to post part 2 of my dad!Geralt fic!!! Part 2 is loosely based on this prompt Another request with baby!👀🥰 Reader has a newborn and geralt is just watching them thinking about how much have changed and how reader turned his life around...🍪 so I really want to thank that anon for their prompt and their patience! I definitely took some liberties with this story and worry the plot got lost along the way(?) but I really hope you like it nonetheless! Full disclosure I haven’t proof-read this piece so forgive the many typos!!

__________________________________________________________

“I said, no,” Geralt repeated himself slowly and with great authority, “thank you.”

The village healer looked at the witcher with eyes wide in disbelief, unable to accept that there was anything a witcher wouldn’t do for coin. Especially this witcher – the White Wolf – or so they used to call him. He used to be a force to be reckoned with on the continent, but now it seemed there was rarely a job he’d be willing to take.

“No? B-but who will help us!” they shouted desperately, “you can’t just leave this village to fend for itself! The creature will kill us all, Witcher!”

Geralt closed his eyes and took a deep breath before repeating himself yet again. “Please understand, I can’t help you, but I know people who can. Eskel is highly qualified and will be here by the next full moon. He will help you; I assure you.”

“But you’re here now,” the healer said, still shaking his head, “you could resolve this by nightfall! Why should these people wait a week for peace?”

“Hm.” He growled, lowly, biting down on his cheek to keep himself from giving into his rage and his pride. He wasn’t just living for himself anymore, not just living for the coin or by the witcher’s code; he had a family now.

He knew the world wouldn’t be easy to convince regarding his change in career path. Hell, it had taken most of your pregnancy to convince his brothers at Kaer Morhen of his plans. When he first told them you were pregnant, and it was his, they laughed heartily while sharing quick looks of concern between one another; fearing you’d strayed and were trying to play poor Geralt for a fool.

Yet that reaction was nothing compared to the one they gave him when Geralt admitted that his days of being a witcher were over. He’d be a consultant now. He’d travel the continent only when he heard of monsters through Jaskier’s letters, and once he reached these villages, he’d take stock and refer the case to one of his brothers, who’d pay him a modest commission for the referral. Geralt never took contracts he deemed to be too dangerous (which, so it happened, was most of them). The rule was if he wouldn’t readily bring Cirilla along to help, it was too dangerous for him alone.

Once, he let pride take precedence and he accepted a contract he knew was dangerous. It felt good to be back in the saddle, both literally and figuratively. He and Roach took to the forest like birds on a breeze, and his sword was just an extension of himself as he wielded it fiercely and with grace.

While he did conquer the beast in the end, it did put up quite a fight, and everything he thought made the fight worth it was washed away the instant he limped into your home and saw the look on his pregnant wife’s face and heard the cries of his beloved child surprise. To this day, he still feels the panicked sound of Ciri’s fearful shriek and your horrified sob weigh heavily in the pit of his stomach.

He felt this very weight now as he considered this desperate healer’s words. Yes, he’d handled this type of monster many times before, but it wasn’t worth it.

“Listen to me, this type of creature is only a threat during a full moon,” Geralt said, “just educate your people, spread the word, you’re in a position of authority here – use it.”

The healer sighed deeply before muttering to themselves in frustration. They pulled their cloak tighter around their body and made a scene of grabbing the coin-filled sac from the table. Geralt rolled eyes his at the paranoid healer before gesturing for them to head outside.

“Fine, leave! But if you leave now and anyone dies, their blood will be on your hands!” shouted the healer, as Geralt tended to Roach.

Geralt rolled his eyes before mounting Roach, urging her onto the trail.

This isn’t my fight, he thought, and their people will be fine.

You were having a wonderful morning. Wren slept through the night for the first time in who-knows how long, and Ciri was relaxing as she entered her fifth day without a magical episode; those lessons with her aunt Yennefer were definitely paying off.

Now you were savouring the gentle afternoon breeze, resting your knees in the cool earth of the garden as the sun warmed you from above. You loved harvesting produce and tending to the flowers; this year was especially bountiful thanks to a rainy spring and temperate summer. As you picked tomatoes off the vine, you smiled softly at the sound of Ciri celebrating a successful hit on her target across the yard.

Meanwhile, Wren played happily in the dirt at your side. She’s been sitting up on her own now which was such a thrill. Such a small change, but it granted you freedoms you didn’t know you’d been missing.

“Mama, snek!” Wren squealed, proudly holding an earthworm up at you. You laughed in relief upon seeing what she was holding up – for half a second you thought she’d managed to snag an actual snake.

“Wow my girl,” you cooed, “what a find!”

At the sound of your praise, Wren smiled up at you brightly and closed her little fingers around the earthworm with pride.

“Careful now, love! Don’t harm it,” you said, gently prying open her stubby fingers and releasing the worm back into the soil, “these little guys play an important role in the health of our garden.”

“You know she doesn’t understand you, right mom?” Ciri said a little breathlessly after stabbing her sword into the earth.

“I don’t think we can say that with certainty, Ciri. She is a witcher’s daughter after all, we are in for a lifetime of surprises I’d say.” You replied with a small shake of your head. Ciri rolled her eyes at you before making off towards the house at a run.

“Cirilla,” you warned, “don’t leave your sword in the yard! And wipe it down before you take it in – I don’t want dirt tracked in again.”

“Mom!” she groaned, stomping back to get her sword. “Witchers don’t need to do these ridiculous chores…” she said under her breath.

“They don’t get warm meals or comfortable beds either!” you replied in a sing-song, knowing it would drive Ciri crazy – you hated when she grumbled at you. Ciri had great respect for her father but would sometimes treat you like you were nothing more than a headmistress at school. Having spent time with witchers and sorceresses alike, scolding didn’t command respect; at least when you played it light it got her attention.

“Yeah – I know! I’ve lived those lives!” Ciri shouted, storming back towards the house, sword in hand.

Fuck. You forgot she was there when Cintra fell. How could you forget?! She was alone and, on the run, and oh gods if Geralt had been here and heard this he’d –

“Ciri, wait, I’m so sorry. I’m –”

“Sounds like someone could use some help.”

You stopped cold at the sound of the strangers’ voice. It ran through you like mead – ice cold but left a strange burning sensation in its place. Ciri also stopped in her tracks, dropping her hand from the door but keeping a firm grip on the helm of her sword. Ciri cast a quick glance at the stranger standing on the edge of your property before settling her nervous eyes on you.

You did your best to evoke confidence before turning to see this stranger for yourself.

It was Visenna.

Again, you did your best to seem confident as you addressed your eldest. “Ciri,” you said, not taking your eyes off the druid, “take Wren into the house, quickly!”  

“Mom?”

“Cirilla please, take her and go into the house,” you said, impressed at your ability to keep your voice level. “And take your sword with you,” you added, turning to give her what you hopped was a look that encouraged her to stay calm and be careful.

Ciri said nothing but scooped her sister up and onto her hip with one arm while keeping her sword steadily by her side.

Once you heard the door close, you cast a quick glance to make sure your girls were safe before turning your attention back to the woman standing at the gate.

“Why are you here, Visenna?” you asked, holding your head high despite the fact your heart was pounding in your ears.

“Oh child,” her words dripped with condescension, “I never expected my son to write me back, but I had hoped he’d share the contents of my letter with his wife.”

“He told me about the letter,” you said, giving her a tight close-lipped smile, “in fact he told me all about you. So, I’m going to ask you again, why are you here?”

“If you know about the letter, then you know why I’m here.”  

“Could you be so cold as to have you forgotten your history with your son? The way you left him to be tested on like a rat? You have no right to be here.” Your voice cracked as you finished your last sentence, and Visenna tilted her head at your sign of weakness.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, dear. You weren’t there -”

“Neither were you!” you spat; with a harshness you didn’t think you had in you.

“Hm.” Visenna crossed her arms and watched you closely through narrowed eyes. You hated that she reminded you of Geralt as she seized you up – the had the same mannerisms, the same affinity for the non-verbal. Geralt could never know.

The druid’s scrutinizing glare made you squirm, and when you broke eye contact with her for a moment of reprieve, she moved to open your gate. For the briefest moment, your panic left you paralyzed as you watched the woman begin a confident stride towards the house.

“Stop!”

You whipped your head around as you heard Ciri come bursting out of the front door. She was wielding her sword up in front of her with one hand while the other hugged Wren onto her side.

“Do not come any closer, I am warning you!” she shrieked, her light eyes wild as her mousey hair blew behind her.

“Ciri-” you tried, holding one hand out to calm her.

“No!” she yelled, keeping her eyes and her sword fixed on Visenna, who was now standing stock-still at the gate.

“Stop trying to tame her, dear,” Visenna interjected. “Let the lion cub roar.”

At the sound of her old nickname, you took in a sharp breath and felt your heart drop to your stomach. It felt like the world stopped turning as Ciri reacted to the trigger.

Cirilla could handle discussions about her old life in small doses and only on her terms. Whenever the dreams came to her, it would take you hours to calm her down. More often than not, the episodes left you and Geralt drained and deeply concerned. Yennefer was really the only person Ciri responded to, and while her methods and lessons have helped, sometimes the pain brought on by the memories was simply too great.

Now, as the four of you stood in your garden, you could feel the earth begin to vibrate beneath your feet. Ciri’s jaw was clenched tight and her nostrils were flared. She slowly knelt down and placed Wren onto the ground before standing tall once again.

“Do not call me that.” She seethed, voice dripping with magic.

“Come now, child,” Visenna replied, seemingly unaware of the storm brewing, “I am your grandmother. I can help you; teach you.”

“You are not my grandmother!” Ciri shrieked, pushing a violent wind towards the druid which forced her to take a step back. “Get out of here! Leave!”

“I – I don’t mean any disrespect, Ciri. The Lioness was –”

“Ciri, no, wait –”

Everything happened so quickly. You felt the burning rush of Ciri’s magic roar past you and tried desperately to keep your eyes open so you could see Wren. Though your eyes stung against the harsh blast Ciri was emitting, you saw Wren crying soundlessly behind her sister, her chubby hands reaching out towards you in desperation. You tried to step towards her but an invisible force pushed you to the ground. You pulled yourself up on one elbow and tried to reach towards your baby without luck. Everything was burning and it took all of your strength to stay alert.

Meanwhile, Ciri’s blast of magic shot at Visenna like a bolt of lightening. Out of the tip of her sword and from her outstretched hand came a bright blue flame surrounded by pulses of violent wind. The destructive blast uprooted the gate and surrounding fence, throwing them back into the forest beyond. Burning shrapnel and earth flew towards her at breakneck speed, but the druid reacted quickly, pulling a portal with the help of an amulet and escaped the blast.

The garden in the path of Ciri’s blow burned harshly – leaving nothing behind but ash; except for the pocket where you lay. You tried to call out to Ciri to calm her down but there was no air for you to draw from. You let the force of her magic hold you down for a moment, trying to recuperate your strength, and when you looked up again you saw Wren taking a few wobbly steps toward her sister.

Holy fuck, you thought. These were her first steps.

You watched with wide eyes as Wren took step after step towards her sister, whose magic raged on. You were so drained by the weight of Ciri’s magic that you were convinced your eyes were deceiving you.

You watched in disbelief as Wren took step after step towards Ciri. The moment her little hand reached her sisters leg, the spell broke and Chaos released its hold on Cirilla. Drained from the exertion, she lost consciousness and started to collapse in on herself, her sword falling from her hand and onto the ground with a dull thud.

You scrambled to your feet and raced to Ciri, dropping to your knees once you reached her to catch her in her fall. You smoothed the ashen strands out of her face and rocked her gently from side to side, breathing shakily through your silent tears. You didn’t know when you started to cry, but when Wren waddled her way to you and nestled onto Ciri’s lap to press her face into the crook of your neck, you were sure you’d be crying forever.

“What the fuck,” Geralt growled upon seeing the destruction as he rode up to the house from the trail. In a growing panic, he urged Roach into a canter. When they got to where the gate should have been, he dismounted and ran towards the house at a sprint, his heart pounding in his ears. When he saw you sobbing on the ground with an unconscious Ciri and weeping Wren, he lost all control.

“Y/N! Y/N what happened?! Who did this?” he shouted, panic rising. When he spotted Ciri’s sword on the ground, Geralt fell to his knees beside you and quickly scanned you all for any sign of injury. You were weeping, holding tightly to Ciri, who was unconscious, and Wren, you

“Y/N please talk to me,” he said more harshly than he meant it, while brushing wild strands of hair out of your face gruffly.

“Ciri, she um –” you choked, working to slow your breathing, “she lost control of her magic…”

“Yeah, I can see that, love.” He said with an incredulous laugh, his eyes scanning your ruined garden with disbelief. “What the fuck happened to make her so upset? Did – did she have a nightmare? Did you, hm, say something to her?”

“Geralt – no,” you said quickly, the tears you managed to calm coming back with a vengeance.

“Y/N, I’m sorry I just…” Geralt regretted the insinuation that this might have been your fault but he’d only ever seen Ciri’s magic be this destructive when she was afraid or hurt. He was at a loss.

You shook your head and turned in his arms to look back at him, readjusting Ciri and Wren in your arms to free an arm which you placed onto Geralt’s chest. You held his eyes and took a steadying breath, unsure of how he’d react.

“We – we were in the garden just, just like always and,” you cast a quick glance down at your daughters before bringing your eyes back up to Geralt’s, both to ground yourself and to hopefully remind him of their proximity in order to temper his reaction, “and Visenna appeared at the gate.”

He gasped sharply at your words, and his body around you. You brought your hand up to his face and tried to calm him. His cat-like eyes were wild and unfocused – he looked like a frightened child and it broke your heart to see him like this. Wren seemed to sense this too, as she scrambled up and reached towards her father’s hair.

Wren’s light tugs managed to pull Geralt out of his shock momentarily and his eyes seemed to come back into focus. Seeing this change, you gently redirected his attention back to you.

“Visenna came for Wren… T-to take her or, or to raise her or something? She mentioned the letter…” Geralt clenched his jaw at the reminder.

You hadn’t motioned the letter in months. Geralt wasn’t at all ready to welcome his mother back into his life, and he definitely didn’t want her anywhere near his family.

“What did she do to Ciri? I swear I’ll –” he seethed.

“No, no, Geralt,” you interrupted gently, moving your hand back to his chest, “she didn’t get the chance. I don’t know what she was going to do, but Ciri came out with her sword,” you stopped short to look down at her with pride, “to protect us.”

“She did?” Geralt let out another incredulous breath, shaking his head at his child surprise.

“Yeah, it was like nothing I’ve ever seen. Her magic, it destroyed everything in its path but somehow, she was sheltering me from the blast. Visenna escaped through a portal, I- I think? But Ciri was… unstoppable.”

“Y/N, if Ciri was able to harness Chaos like this at her will, to protect you; this could mean –”

“Oh no, love, I’m sorry I’m not telling this right. She came out of the house with her sword to protect us but she lost control when Visenna called her the Lion Cub.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Oh, I know,” you agreed emphatically before adding, “and then she called herself Ciri’s grandmother…”

“Fuck!”

“Right,” you sighed, shaking your head as a shudder ran through you.

“Da-ee,” Wren said suddenly, pushing her little hands into her father’s face, causing a shocked laugh to escape his lips. Geralt’s face softened in a way he reserved for his youngest daughter and the sight of it was enough to pull you out of whatever was left of your panic.

“Oh, gods!” you exclaimed, “Geralt you won’t believe this.”

“Hm?” he hummed, not taking his eyes off Wren; he was completely enthralled by his baby.

“She took her first steps – and, gods it was incredible Geralt – when she touched Ciri, it pulled her out of the trance!” You gushed breathlessly.

“She did? That’s my girl!” he beamed, earning a proud giggle from the toddler. “Fuck I hate that I missed this, you’re just full of surprises aren’t you, goose?” he said, peppering light kisses across Wren’s little face.

“I know, love.” You said softly, leaning into his arms once more. “I’m so relieved to have you home.”

“Come on, Y/N, let’s get our girls into the house.” Geralt said as handed Wren off to you before picking Ciri up gently as he stood. You took his outstretched hand rose to your feet along-side him. “I’m not leaving you again, I promise.”

“Geralt, you say that every time.” You tease lightly, holding the front door open for him.

 “No, I mean it this time Y/N, really.” He said quietly, as he laid Ciri down in her room. “I can’t keep doing this. When I’m gone, all I do is think of you and the girls…” he trailed off when he noticed Wren had fallen asleep on the couch. You smiled tenderly as you watched him cradle her into his strong arms.

“My love, you know you’d go crazy if you stayed here with us all the time.” You said as you smoothed his hair out of his face.

“I’d go crazy if anything ever happened to you.” he whispered.

“Hey now… we’re fine,” you tired to reassure him, “today was an anomaly. I doubt Visenna would try that stunt again. Ciri will be fine, she just needs to rest, and tomorrow we can send word out to Yen for support. We – “you paused to take a steadying breath, “we can’t let fear rule our lives, Geralt.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, setting Wren down into her bed before wrapping his arms around your frame, “now when did you get to be so wise?”

“A certain witcher taught me a few things,” you said, a small smirk playing on your lips, “always preaching something or other but sometimes the lessons stick.”

“Is that so?” he growled, a fighting back a smirk of his own.”

“Hmm,” you teased, kissing him deeply.

[herstarburststories]

He didn’t make it to 42

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: it’s Dean’s birthday, you go to visit him with some news and things that need to be said.

A/N: Happy bday, De.

Warnings: so much angst, mentions of sex, hopeful/happy ending (?)

Dean’s dead. It’s Dean’s birthday and he’s dead. You can’t argue much.

Sam denied the demon blood inside him, and that didn’t stop its evil nature from growing and gasping for his fresh air to the point he was almost shocked alive. Dean denied his dad’s destructive methods’ results for the longest time, and that didn’t stop the cicatrixes in every emotion he had ever shown. You denied the absence of Dean and that didn’t stop the bricks cracking in your soul. There’s only so far you can go with your eyes closed.

So here you are. Standing in front of an empty grave. You are bigger than the dull tombstone, yet you can’t help but not to feel tall, at all. How can you even start to talk? Talking to Dean used to be easy even when it got hard and now you’re feeling like a lost kid in a supermarket. Your snide thinking spells out his name with venom, saying it isn’t easy for you to open your barmy mouth and spill out contrarian shit because this isn’t Dean, just another meaningless symbolism that Sam promises that will help. The real Dean died almost a year ago, he was burned in a hunter’s funeral, the flames dancing over his body as the smell of burnt meat invaded your nostrils. Whenever you try to remember his fragrance, that manly aroma which you loved to scent each morning, all your brain can come up with is the odor of his skin and guts burning. The smell lingers like bad perfume, it doesn’t matter how many times you wash yourself with his soap-- that only broke your heart worse.

But today is Dean’s birthday. He deserves a visit, even if it’s not him. Then you go and attempt to deal with the desolation, push it away just a little, and pick up something from the enormous pile of things you wish to tell Dean. You glance at the cold tombstone: Dean Winchester. 1979 - 2020. Beloved son, big brother, and husband. Hunter. A hero. Simple definitions that can never make it up for who he was and what he meant. You purse your lips and cough a little, a gentle wind touches your cheek so tenderly. If you were still a believer, you’d think this is some sort of sign, Dean’s presence or some other pious hoax. All you do now is to remain in quietude, a deep breath. Ultimately, your voice comes:

‘’You didn’t make it to forty two, huh?’’ You scoff humorless, reminiscing to the multiple days that Dean said he wouldn’t go past 35. He did live each year like it was the last--- you aren’t sure if it's such a good thing. If you carry on like your days are outnumbered, you are silently entertaining yourself until death's knock on your door. ‘’I always hated when you were right. Let’s be honest, you had the words of a pessimist and the wants of an optimist. Still, if you were to be right about something, it would be about a bad situation. A nest with too many vampires, how crappy the motel’s bedroom would be, or how that third glass of wine would make me tipsy. So yeah, I always hated when you were right. And look at you now! You aren’t right, you aren’t wrong. You are dead! And I’m the crazy girl screaming at an empty tombstone.’’

You let out a laugh empty of joy. That’s how a hunter’s life is: you die and people stop talking about you because it’s too sad or too long gone to hold any pity, meanwhile the ones who recall about you go loud with all the spirits in their heads. You put your hand in the pockets of the heavy leather jacket that once belonged to a green eyed man who would be turning 42 today, some strange force causing you to speak again.

‘’Wow.’’ You shake your head to the blue way you paint the scene until you notice that you never greeted him. ‘’Hey.’’ The simple word adds a comical insult to injury. ‘’Guess the dead don’t care about manners, huh?’’ You arch your eyebrows with a grin that demonstrates anything but happiness. ‘’Miracle died. Sam digged a hole next to the bunker and buried him there. He isn’t the same since you died, you know? Not the deceased dog-- Well, he wasn’t the same either. Always whining and scratching your door like a fucking cat, and sniffing your old boots. He made me company in your bed and I whined as much as he did when you didn’t come back home that day. He stood by the door most days, waiting for you to appear. I can’t judge him, I did the same.’’ You shrug, not caring about how risible that confession may look. It's true. You became as irrational as a loyal dog at some point in this sorrow. ‘’And Sam, your baby brother… I think he died with you right there, Dean. He didn’t try to bring you back as he promised, but I shouted and screamed so much. I said I would burn the bunker and throw Baby over a cliff if he didn’t-- if he didn’t let me try. I lived up to the mad woman title.’’

You are crestfallen, pacing on top of where the eldest Winchester - Sam’s brand new nomination -  supposedly was buried. You know your boots barely touch an infected land, there's no deceased man under your steps. The dead thing is in you.

‘’I spent days dragging your body everywhere and nowhere, anywhere I could catch a crumb of relief in hope to bring you back. But I couldn’t. Jack could, but that ungrateful idiot doesn’t wanna follow his grandpa steps and get too attached to mere humans, the creation or whatever. As if we are just some skin and bone to him, as if you are just another human.’’

You sit down on the tombstone, some tender solace in being close to a thing that's supposed to represent him, like sleeping hugged to a pillow or waking up to a photograph of his. Your nails sink against the gelid concrete at the thought of screaming into the sky for the new God that seemed as deaf as the last one. His calm answer to your burning pain. How he dared to tell you he knew what he was doing— as if he was the original lord and not a three years old. You can't make him do it, so you hold on the fury of some overthrown nation.

‘’Anyway, I couldn’t bring you back. Your body, well, you know how human anatomy works. Your body started to smell like death. We tried to stop with human and magic ways, and it wouldn’t work because you were dead. You should’ve seen the doctor’s face when we got you in that fancy hospital tha night. I think we traumatized the doctor with so much violence and trauma. She didn’t even give us a false hope or anything, you know? She just asked about organ donation of what was left. She just wanted to take every little thing out of you, as if you were just another accident on a Tuesday night.’’ Your shake your head as the memories and your points start to mix, it's hard to discern things and keep a straight line when you have an open wound in your insides. ‘’Well, they couldn’t bring you back to life, and neither could Rowena or whatever I looked for. Don’t be mad because I tried, Winchester. You know I’m too stubborn for my own good. I had to try.’’ you refuse to apologize, yet adds the playful words in his eulogy. ‘’But then your body started to stink and God, how could I continue to be so violent to your corpse? That was when I decided to listen to you for the first time and to Sam, so I let you go. I hate you for asking that.’’ What an ambiguous, contradictory truth to bare. You are glimpses of a person for months because of Dean Winchester, still have the energy to argue his selfless logic, just to love him even more. He's got your devotion, but man you can hate him sometimes. ‘’I hate you for going on that stupid hunt. I hate you for being dead, you giant idiot that I love so much.’’ You can't bring your mouth to say loved. "I was always telling you to let the past go and now I’m in love with a dead thing. What a comic way to end our history. I told you that Miracle died, right? I don’t know if dogs go to heaven, but I hope he’s in there with you. I wonder what your heaven is like. I bet it has Whiskey.''

Your dry chuckle makes your notice the tears in your eyes, glistening your orbs as they go like a waterfall to be absorbed by the thirsty land after leaving your cheeks.

"Sam and I-- We tried to make some sense out of this cruelty, but we can’t. You are dead and I can’t seem to put it past me. I still sleep in your bed, and I can still taste your body burning on the roof of my mouth in the quiet nights. I cried this morning because someone asked for a burger, can you believe that? It was so stupid since I used to shake my head and argue with you about cholesterol. Suddenly I was crying at lunch in a restaurant because some stupid kid asked for a burger with extra bacon. They sang Happy birthday to this dumbass child, and I interrupted with my awful crying, and wished that you were celebrating your birthday and not that kid. I guess you could say I wish death upon an innocent child with a problematic eating routine.’’ That was a whole new level of low, as if you are the one wrapped with the sentiment of laying six feet under.

‘’Everyone tells you about how grief is singular and particular with similar emotions that bring people who went through this together. They even have that crap stages thing and all that. You know what they don’t tell you?’’ Your mouth shuts for a moment, like you are waiting some response. You nod as if whatever you were expecting is handed to you. ‘’Grief can be fucking ridiculous. Who cries because of a burger full of oil and cardiac diseases? Who cries because they found a grocery store recipe under her dead boyfriend’s bed? Who falls on the ground screaming in the middle of the mall because they saw a flannel? Who? Those things are so stupid.’’ You smile like there's no tomorrow and the laugh leaving your lips is a treacherous tone. Perhaps you just aren't build up to express joy anymore. ‘’You see it in the movies and in the books and you think, you know, you think to yourself that grieving is being sad on special dates and randomly remembering the loved ones because of some screaming memory, like a flannel or their perfume. Thing is, it’s not just that. All your body seems so small, so tight for all the ache and agony inside it. Your senses go wild, you are not just one person in one place. You’re just the pain everywhere, like being pulled apart and you beg to jump in the fucking grave with them. At least you would be together, at least you would feel like one person and not suffering edges of a broken earthy thing. And--And you start remembering things you didn’t even know you had mesmerized. I look at the ceiling and remember you saying you’d paint it someday. I look at the kitchen and remember me screaming at you for giving Miracle the rest of the food. I smell Sam’s clothes and started crying because hey, they don’t smell like alcohol. You don’t iron them while drinking anymore, so of course they don’t smell like cheap beer.’’ You are chuckling through the tears and it only makes it more monstrous. ‘’Everything is you now that you are gone. Every man has something similar to you, every garden is green as your eyes, and each step sounds like you are coming home. They didn’t prepare me, not for this.’’ You said breathless. A soft single follows. The knife cuts both ways; the empty breeze and the words hurt. Where's the middle term? Where's the limbo? Where's the only safe place for you to rest your weary head?

Out of nowhere, you blurt out, ‘’I can’t masturbate,’’ I know it’s something stupid and even selfish to say, but I think you’d like to know. I can’t masturbate. That’s a part of the whole losing someone process that people are too ashamed to discuss, or maybe they don’t have the urge to be touched anymore because after someone you love dies, after someone-- the hands who touched are dead and cold, you become a haunted object. That’s how I feel most days, like I’m a haunted house because you touched me and now you’re dead and some days I believe I am too.’’ You look around the places. It's beautiful. It's lonely. It has trees and flowers and green. Not as green as Dean's eyes, but it doesn't matter anymore. He doesn't even have eyes at this point. ‘’Well, I can’t masturbate. I can’t touch myself. And I can’t ask someone else either. I tried and ended up punching the guy, Dean. I swear. I panicked when he was between my legs and just punched his nose. You’d have liked it, you were always the jealous kind. I won’t admit that, but I thought it was kinda hot. Especially when you got possessive in sex.’’ A dirty grin appeared on your lips, the echoes of luxury lasting in your eyes for a brief moment. ‘’I don’t think I can be cared for anymore, honestly. Sam tried to hug me when Miracle died and I… It was like I wasn't there. I got frozen in time, and I live in my sleep. In my nightmares you are alive. I  dream about the day you died every week and I used to wake up screaming, but now those nightmares are the only proof you were alive now that you’re as dead as the police report says this time. It was the most painful, calamitous moment for you and I swear it was a nightmare for me, but then I realized that at least I had you there, egoistical or not, I made my nightmare into a dream.’’ You aren't sure which opinion Dean would have on that. Would he understand? Would he shake his head? You wish you can ask him just this one more thing, just beg him to write it down for you on how to be without him here.

You raise on your feet, glaring at the name craved in the concrete. The tears go by still, although they're as usual as the blood in glir veins at this point. ‘’Death is so silly. What it takes, anyway?" Each word conquers more inches of pure wrath. ''People die because they stumbled on their own feet and hit their head somewhere, or they drove their car too close and too fast to the cliff, or because they were giving birth, or because they dated the wrong person, or because they were hunting a fucking vampire and got impaled. What are the chances? How stupid, and idiotic is death? Always creeping and waiting to bite and chew a piece of you-- Taking every scrap of you from me like that’s its right.’’ You are screaming, starting to kick and punch the tombstone with any piece of straight you have. Your limbs hurt and the blood is visible, but you keep going. ‘’YOUR STUPID DOG DIED, DEAN! AND YOU DIED! AND I DIED! SAMMY DIED! YEAH, IS SAID SAMMY! GO AHEAD, TELL ME ONLY YOU CAN CALL HIM THAT.’’ Another punch, your knuckles are ripped. Another kick, your boot as a hole. ‘’DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.’’ Kick. ‘’SAMMY, SAMMY, SAMMY!’’ A punch to each name. Anything to get a reaction, to get comfort. Anything. ‘’YOU CAN’T BECAUSE YOU ARE DEAD.’’ Gasping for something you don't need anymore, sweet oxygen, your eyes are on the tombstone again. And the definitions. And the trees. Your body is sore and aching. It is the kind and coercion no person wants which you needed; the freedom of feeling outside the exact pain that was inside. ‘’You can’t because you are dead. I’ve been playing some sick games in my mind, you know? Sam stopped hunting and had his closure. He was always better at letting go than you and I, but he’s still hurting. I never saw him hurting so much. I think he knows you won’t come back this time, how could you make us promise something like that?  Well, my twisted game is a bunch of misleading what ifs. What if you hadn’t gone after John? What if you hadn’t gone on that last hunt? What if you had stayed with Lisa? At first I didn’t like her much. Jealous, I admit that. But she grew on me. She gave you something I couldn’t back then and I’ll always be thankful for that. And even though it would rip me apart, I’d rather you to die at sixth after living your suburban dream with her. Have another kid besides Ben, maybe a girl this time, and just have that apple pie life. You and Sam would live close and your kids would always play. They’d be as close as brothers. Maybe I’d get a guy and bring my own kids and we could’ve a barbecue and everyone would be happy. But we don’t get soft epilogues here. It ends how it starts, right? Bloody and desperate. I thought maybe, maybe Lisa could understand what’s going through my head now. I drove to her new address and parked close to her house. I must have spent hours there, thinking if I should come in or not, If she somehow remembered after Castiel died or if I could make her brain work again if I told her the truth. But then I just drove back home and fell asleep wrapped in that stupid lumberjack flannel of yours. The one I always mocked, yeah? She may understand me, but I know you wouldn’t want that. You want her, you want me and Sam to be happy. I don’t know if I can do that, Dean. It’s like myt brittle soul shrewd and my body is just waiting to collapse.’’ You signed, overwhelmed by the battle without an anthem. The victory with no triumph. Is it still a win when you don't have someone to come home too? ‘’Your dog died, it’s the first birthday you didn’t live to see, and I bought all the things you told Mrs Butters you wanted for your birthday because it’s your birthday. I just don’t know how to celebrate it with you dead. People stop counting after they die, right? They just say he’d have been 42 or he died at 41. They give melancholy smiles when they wake up and check the day on their phones and a woe atmosphere swallows them for the rest of the day. Then they get better the next day. I think everyday is your birthday.’’ You attempt to wipe away your tears, which only causes your pulsating hand to stain your face red. ‘’Dean, for the first time, what died stayed dead! Congrats.’’ Once again, a hysterical laugh. ‘’I wish but no. What died didn’t stay dead, you are alive, so alive in my head. I swear you are there some days. I wake and watch the door, so sure you’ll come back. Sam says I’m living in delusion and I have to wake up and keep going since that's what you would want. That's enough to make him keep going, but it only makes me angry. Everyone we know and some strangers looks at me like I'm a house on fire and no longer a warm home, like I'm a car accident. They think I don't notice but I do.’’ You look at your boots, the whole is rolling out blood like your hands. You feel closer to Dean. How sick.

‘’Help, I’m still right where you left me." You plea, his love lingering like a bruise. ''I think gravity is overwhelming and it keeps me here. Sometimes it’s like I’m one of those dusted books Sam used to read. Or those Bukowski ones that you hid, so we wouldn’t see how smart you’re. You tried so hard to hide your intelligence because you didn’t think you were entitled to it. You saw yourself as the protector and never the valuable one for protection. You, the man who made an EMF out of an old radio, who rebuilt the Impala from the ground multiple times, and who knew patterns better than any detective. The man who showed me I could rely on someone other than myself. The dude with a lopsided grin, tough hands and a heart of gold. I miss you so much. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were singing all those classic rock songs and Taylor Swift pop hits, while I drove here. I would think you were home, smelling like guts because you wanted to eat before taking a shower after a hunt. I would think that you are in the Deancave, waiting for me to curl up on your lap to watch Scooby Doo or Doctor Sexy MD until we aren’t watching anymore. If I didn’t know better I would think no death could take you from me. There would be no tear us apart in our vows.’’ The only thing that keeps your organism working is that Dean died knowing how much you loved him. You never let this talk for later or never. No tomorrow is promised. That's a nice comfort, maybe that's what will help you to let go in the future. ‘’But yesterday your stupid, skink dog died and I lost the last living thing that I had from you. You know what’s more angerting? I cried and Sam cried and I noticed we were the living things you left behind and all we have is each other. All your closets of backlogged dreams were left for us-- so yeah. Sam is done hunting and he’s met a lovely girl, and they are moving in like in your domestic dreams. I’m taking care of the family business like your other contradictory dream and making sure Sam is safe enough to be normal. Because I have to, we have too. Stupidly enough, I still wait for the day you’ll burst out the door and tell us to hit the road again. I still watch every episode of your dumb tv shows to make sure I’ll know everything that happened when you ask. I still drive around in your car and close my eyes when the street is calm, only picturing you driving as Baby’s engineers go wild but those are my hands on the steering wheel. If I didn't know better, I’d think you are still around. But I know better. I still feel you all around. I love you.’’

Your monologuing ends as astutely as it stated. You get up, press a kiss to your ruined for the next weeks hands and place it on the rock with writings. You turn around and walk back to the car that you parked near, only in case of Dean wanting to see Baby. How knows? You and your clandestine faith. You lick your lip and get in the car.

You swear you the AC/DC cassette wasn't there before, but when you turn on the car and the radio it starts playing. It's the first true smile that comes to your mouth, it's bloodstained and you look like a shameless woman. With that you can deal.

It hurts a bearable hurt for now. You didn't think it was possible. Maybe someday.

The end.

(she takes a little longer to arive in heaven than sammy. his baby brother says that women are most likely to live around six years more than men. it doesn't ease him up, though. dean waited sam for too long, his platonic soulmate. and now he has to wait his romantic one too? the eldest Winchester considers it the best earthly present when the he sense you around, that smell of orange and apples. it's you, he knows before even turning around. he can't wait to love you again. your name rolls off your tongue so naturally, as if you had seen each other just yesterday: ‘’hey, y/n.’’)

But then again, nothing ever really ends, does it?

REBLOG AND COMMENT. Feedback is magic and helps me!

Starburst's footnote: It just didn't feel right to make an author's note on the top. I wanted it all only to be an arrow to the story. So, this is my side note: it's six am and I'm up writing this after inspiration kissed me with a bruise in the middle of the night. Or more like grabbed my throat. Anyway, I had to write and finish this one to post today, even pushing sleep aside. Hey, we are writers, that's what we do! I've been watching the show since I was eleven and I cried like a baby with the finale. This series was just so important and crucial to molde aspects of relationships for me. The song marjorie by Taylor Swift was used here, and so was the line "you got my devotion/ but man, I can hate you sometimes" by Harry Styles. I told you guys I would use it somewhere! A special thanks to @msmarvelouswinchester​ who helped me with her encouraging and opinon. You are the best! And with all of this I wanna say: Happy bday, Dean Winchester!

REBLOG AND COMMENT! Feedback is magic! Especially about this fic, I’d like to know your opinion. Tags in the reblog! Send an ask or dm to get in the taglist.

[julemmaes]

Oksy so don’t feel like you have to do this but nesta and the kids go out grocery shopping and they bump into THOMAS FUCKING MANDARY and Nesta gets super overwhelmed but she’s got the kids and shit so she pretends she’s fine

But later cass comes home and the kids tell him what happens.

(and maybe they have a talk on important stuff about being with someone who loves you and if someone hurts you they don’t love you and it’s beautiful Idk)

Loving And Caring

Nessian modern au set in the The Seven Of Us universe (masterlist)

acotar next gen fan fiction

A/N: This is the reason I’m gonna fail my English exam, so please enjoy:)

The children’s ages: Ezra is 11, Cal is 6, Nora is 3 and Celia is 2. Andra is kinda not born yet.

DON’T COME FOR ME FOR BEING SLOW AS FUCK OR FOR WRITING SUCH ANGSTY PROMPTS. I HAVE 70+ IN MY ASKS BOX AND THEY’RE ALL SO ANSGTY

Word count: 8,185

"I want it!"

"I don't-"

"No, I want this!"

"I said I wanted it first."

"You did not!"

"Mom!"

Nesta Archeron had been called many things in her life. Daughter first. Then sister and friend, woman. She had been appreciated by all the professors she had had the honor of meeting during her studies, who had called her the best in her classes. She had finally found someone who had sincerely called her love and then wife, and she would not give up that last acquired, very important title of mom for anything in the world, but-

Right then she just wanted to strap her kids to the cart and run.

Walking down the cereal aisle, she ran a hand over her swollen, ready-to-burst belly, realizing that she would have to trip and fall on her bump if she wanted to end the problem for good. The baby girl, for whom they still hadn't chosen a name, would be born in a few weeks, and if she didn't get rid of her, too, she would never find peace.

She giggled - or at least she thought she did - at those morbid, disturbing thoughts for which many people would surely have her locked up in a mental hospital, if they found out how often she admitted to wanting to abandon her children.

It had been such a tiring day. She had been home from work for a couple of months now, this fifth pregnancy was breaking her down physically and mentally. She was at the end, in her eighth month, but she would much rather have the last baby out and inside the cart with her sisters by now.

Celia and Nora were babbling something in their imperfect language, and Nesta's heart clenched for her little men at the thought that they would be outnumbered in a few weeks. She and Cassian had experienced that feeling only three years before, and yet she still hadn't forgotten the terror she had felt at the idea of her children turning against them.

They had created a small army.

Casting a quick glance at Ezra who was sneaking something into the cart, she huffed. If the others noticed that he had put a package of junk food in the basket, that would be the end of it.

Moments later, in fact, Cal was looking at the colored bag in the still empty cart with suspicious eyes, and Nesta wasn't going to wait for the fight over who could buy the most junk food that day to begin.

"Ezra, put the snacks back," she said rubbing her hands over her eyes.

Celia mumbled something as she sat inside the cart, and Nora, silently settled next to her, nodded, as if she understood what the other was talking about. It shouldn't have shocked her, but Nesta never ceased to be amazed by that way of communicating that only the two of them understood.

Ezra's icy eyes turned sad when he looked at her and he pouted, "But mom I need them for snacks for school."

Cal looked at him with a furrowed brow, "No you don't. I need them." then he turned to Nesta, "But I don't like these, can I have those?" he asked with a bright smile pointing across the aisle with a wave of his arm.

She leaned forward, sighing and not answering him. Nora looked up at her and reached out her hands toward her mom, letting her know she wanted to be held, but Nesta was aching.

Cal and Ezra hadn't stopped bickering for half a second, and Celia had cried all day because she wanted her dada. Nora had stayed in Nesta's arms the entire walk to the grocery store, and one way or another she knew she would have to carry her all the way back home as well, despite the unbearable back pain. It was less than two kilometers, but with a pregnancy running out and only one hand to restrain any possible child who threatened to throw themselves under the cars whizzing by, it became more mental work than physical.

When Nesta smiled lovingly at her, trying to make her understand that she couldn't hold her right then, Cal burst into tears.

Her daughters' little heads snapped up at their brother, and Nesta cursed herself for deciding to do something as stupid as taking her four young children to the grocery store on an evening when they were all visibly on edge and stressed.

"Dear, what happened?" she asked without even an ounce of concern in her voice. She knew full well that it was just a tantrum. She got confirmation of that when Ezra replied in a whiny tone that they couldn't both buy snacks, or they wouldn't know how to carry them home. At that point Cal's cry became a proper scream and Nesta had to close her eyes to avoid the judgmental stares of the people passing by.

She brought her hands to her temples, massaging her forehead in circular motions, and when she thought she could handle it without throwing up on each of her children, she leaned against the cart, circling around Ezra and crouching with no small amount of difficulty in front of Cal. One hand on her back and the other still clinging to the cart, she grunted as she put one knee on the ground. She felt Nora's little hand rest on hers as she began to speak, "Listen kiddo, we're all very tired and now your brother is going to put his snacks down too," she explained, giving Ezra an inquisitive look over her shoulder. The eldest son rolled his eyes, but he had Celia hand him the package and snortingly put it back. Cal sobbed, sniffling, and Nesta laid a hand on his shoulder, massaging his arm. "How about we read a book together tonight before bed?"

The boy's face scrunched up in a grimace of sadness, "But I want snacks." he sobbed louder. Nesta bit her lip, knowing full well that the fat tears on his cheeks weren't really for the snacks and that she couldn't give in and let them all buy something or she'd end up with two bags full of junk food to carry.

Cal hadn't slept that afternoon, as had everyone else, because of Celia's endless crying, and she hadn't wanted to take her afternoon nap until it was too late and Nora and Cal had gotten out of bed to go play in their rooms. At that point Nesta had been forced to let Celia go, but she knew that had meant agreeing to spend an evening with frustrated and not-rested children.

She was about to respond when a couple of older ladies walked by them, casting an annoyed look at Cal. Nesta would have liked to respond with an ugly hand gesture, but she couldn't do it in front of her children.

In that moment of distraction she hadn't realized that Celia had also started calling her and now, casting a quick glance at her daughter, she felt a very bad feeling sink into her stomach at the sight of the little girl's tear-filled eyes.

She looked at Ezra, taking a deep breath, and noticed that even the oldest of her children seemed bothered by the course of action Nesta had taken. She felt tremendous guilt at seeing that the only one of her children who didn't seem disappointed or angry with her was Nora.

It all got worse when one of the two ladies who had just passed her said loud enough so she could hear her, "I don't understand why some people don't stop with their first child. It's obvious she can't even handle one, listen to her screaming."

Nesta felt the emotion grow in her throat.

"When someone isn't born to be a parent, it shows immediately. She's one of those awful mothers who doesn't know how to take care of her children." the other added.

Nesta caught her breath, fixing her gaze in Cal's. Celia was crying by now, spluttering to be picked up as she tried to keep her balance inside the cart.

She wasn't going to answer. She wasn't going to answer.

"Let's go home." she whispered suddenly, laying a hand on the small of her back and pulling herself up with a tremendous effort, a twinge of pain went through her legs and back, "Cal, dear, we'll buy the snacks another time, for now we'll just take the bread and milk, tomorrow come back with daddy and take whatever you want, okay?" she spoke quickly, in a high, steady voice so that all four of them could hear her. She just hoped they didn't hear how desperately she was trying not to burst into tears over what the ladies had just said.

Cal nodded, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his shirt and immediately stopping crying. Ezra looked thoughtful, but he too had stopped pouting. The only one who still looked upset was Celia, who followed her by walking inside the cart, moving where she stood.

Seeing the little girl's red face and dripping nose, arms outstretched toward her, Nesta heard only the words "awful mother" repeated in her mind.

With a knot in her throat and a cry that she was sure would break free as soon as she stepped into the house, Nesta pushed forward, bumping the cart with her belly as she picked up Celia and placed her on her side. The little girl immediately stopped crying, resting her head on her mother's shoulder and cupping her tiny hand over her shirt.

Now, beyond the emotional wound that had just been inflicted on her, Nesta could feel the pain in her back growing with every step she took. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to stop a sob that threatened to break that composed attitude she had.

Everything hurt so bad.

Cal was running in front of them all, stomping his feet on the ground and making the little lights on his shoes glow. Ezra was walking beside her, one hand on the edge of the cart as he mouthed off to Nora, but he had to stop when Nesta froze in the middle of the aisle, taking an abrupt breath. She brought a hand to her belly, feeling the baby move and kick, only adding to the pain.

"Ezra, love," she breathed, stepping aside and holding Celia against her side, then asked between her teeth as the baby continued her assault inside her, "could you push the cart?"

He nodded, his face lighting up as if she had asked him to take control of a ship.

Celia began to squirm on her side and Nesta had the urge to drop her, not voluntarily, but it all hurt so much that her body was begging her to sit up, to take all that unnecessary weight off her arms.

At the idea that she would have to walk home she felt her eyes grow heavy with tears.

She put Celia back in the cart, breathing a sigh of relief as some of the pain eased in her lower back. Nora was now standing and smiling at Ezra, who was struggling to see where he was going past his sister.

Nesta looked up just as Cal hopped out of the aisle and fell to the ground, crashing into someone's cart. Or rather, as someone ran over him with their cart and slamming him to the ground.

She didn't even think about it as she started walking as fast as her body would allow towards her son, leaving the other three behind. By the time she reached him, Cal was standing there laughing in amusement and was running his hands over his pants to get the dust off his palms. Once she made sure he wasn't hurt, she was ready to yell at whoever had dropped her son, ready to take out all her frustration and doubts on the stranger, when she heard a voice that sent chills down her spine.

"Nesta Archeron?"

She moved her head so fast she was surprised she hadn't snapped her neck, but her brain didn't have time to process the pain the jolt had caused her, because there standing before her was Tomas Mandray.

She couldn't believe it.

Any thought of yelling at the stranger vanished like an echo in her mind.

How was it possible that he was there?

"Is it really you?" he asked her with wide eyes and an incredulous smile on his face. He circled the cart, shifting his gaze to Cal, and Nesta felt the overwhelming instinct to grab her son and hide him behind her. When Tomas reached out a hand toward him, ruffling his hair, she felt vomit rise in her throat. They had to get out of that place immediately. "I can't believe it." he voiced her thoughts, "Is this yours?" he asked looking into her eyes again.

This... he was talking about Cal.

She couldn't find the words and continued to stare at the man in front of her with wide eyes - scared eyes, if you knew Nesta, if you knew where to look. And Tomas knew it. Tomas had always known it.

She heard Ezra reach them, and then something slammed into her side. She didn't need to lower her head to catch a glimpse of Nora's little pigtails of black hair or hear Celia's amused giggle.

Tomas snorted a laugh out of his nose, crossing his arms over his chest, "Are they all yours?" then moved his gaze to her belly to bring it back up to her breasts and Nesta wanted to say something to him, to insult him, to hit him, to take him away from her children, but she felt her heart pounding in her throat and the air couldn't reach her lungs.

That tone-

That tone wasn't of someone who was happy to hear that you'd made a new life for yourself after they'd managed to destroy you completely. It wasn't the tone of an old friend who you hadn't seen in years and who you're about to agree to hang out with and tell them about everything that happened in your lives.

No, it was the tone he had used every day, every hour, when he needed to belittle her, when he needed to make her feel insignificant, worthless.

"Mom?"

Nesta turned her head so slowly toward her son, blinking, that she must have seemed like another person entirely. No longer the proud, strong woman she'd shown everyone for years on that side. Ezra had one eyebrow arched, as if wondering what was going on, and was clasping hands with a jumping Celia.

She didn't have the energy to turn around, to look at the man who had pushed her to the bottom of the barrel and destroyed her, but she managed to throw out a weak, "Kids we have to go, we're not taking anything." then turning to Cal, she took his arm, pulling him towards his siblings, "Let's go."

She felt Tomas' eyes creeping over her like slimy hands. She could still remember the last time he'd touched her, when she'd gone over the edge, offering herself to him to avoid yet another fight or worse.

For that, when his true hand tightened around her wrist, pulling her slightly to let her stay there, she flinched.

"Nesta."

She spun around, bringing her free hand to her belly for protection. When the little girl inside her kicked again, making her groan through her teeth in pain, Tomas smiled in a way that made Nesta hope she was anywhere but there.

"Is she kicking?"

And then it all happened quickly. She couldn't move, couldn't pull away, as the grip on her wrist tightened and Tomas pulled her closer to him and placed his other hand on her stomach, next to hers. A soundless sob escaped her control and her breath labored as she felt his fingers move over her shirt.

She was going to throw up.

She gave a tug so hard that the twinge of pain started at her wrist and reached her elbow, but she was free. She smacked the hand on her, taking several steps back and bringing Cal with her. She had started pushing the front of the cart, trying to position it in the direction they had come from.

She met Ezra's gaze for a moment, before her son's eyes slipped behind her, on Tomas' figure.

"Ezra." she called to him in a firm voice. Four pairs of eyes snapped in his direction. That was the tone of a tired mother issuing orders to her children at the end of the day, "Eyes on me."

She didn't want anything of Tomas's to come into contact with her children. She didn't want him to contaminate them the way he had contaminated her.

She lifted Cal off the ground and the child quietly let her pick him up without too much of a fuss. She didn't feel the strain at all as she pulled him high enough to put him in the cart with the girls. Looking at her oldest, she hoped she could secure him like she was doing with the other three, but he was too big to fit in the cart himself.

Before she could tell him to follow her without saying a word, Tomas spoke again.

"What a beautiful name, Ezra," she felt the venom bind each letter.

Ezra was about to turn around, probably to thank him, as she and Cassian had taught him, but Nesta squeezed his shoulder, "Keep looking ahead and walking, I don't want you talking to him."

"Always so fucking obnoxious," Tomas spat at that point.

Nesta froze in her tracks. She could feel him following them as he tortured her. Ezra froze beside her, tugging at her sleeve to get her attention.

Always so obnoxious. You're useless, worthless. I'm the only person who will ever be able to put up with your bullshit. You'll never find anyone else.

She felt the panic rise, the agitation for one of her children to realize how uncomfortable she was at that moment. She closed and opened her hands on the cart's handlebars, hoping to relieve some of that tension.

"I'm amazed to see you with so many children," he continued, creeping up beside her and stopping in front of her cart, blocking her way with his. She looked up at him, feeling the air scratch at her throat. He had aged, she could see it in the features around his eyes, his mouth - he had aged and yet still had the same look. "I didn't think you'd ever date again after I left you."

I left you. She wanted to tell him. I had the courage to leave.

She didn't answer him, straightening her back.

Tomas smirked, lowering his gaze to her daughters and his smile widened even more.

"Don't look at them," she snapped, still maintaining her composure.

The man looked up at her one more time, "They'll be just as pretty as their mother when they grow up." then looked at Cal and Ezra, sliding a finger over the edge of his cart. "Who's the father?"

"Dada." muttered Celia, flapping her little hands.

Nesta wanted to recoil at the sound. She didn't want Tomas to hear her talk, didn't want him to watch them. She didn't want them breathing his same air.

"It's none of your business and now move over," she whispered to him. All she could think about was the fact that she had to get her children out of there as soon as possible. Therefore, when he didn't move an inch, she added. "Please."

Tomas laughed. He laughed, leaning his head back and clutching his hand around the mesh of her cart. "Nessie Nessie," he clicked his tongue on his palate, a remnant of laughter in the tone of his voice that made the woman's gut tangle, "I haven't seen you in so long. I want to know everything."

"Please." she repeated, as her eyes filled with tears. His own widened slightly, surprised to see such a reaction in her. She didn't care if he saw her weak, she didn't care if she had to get down on her knees. He was keeping them trapped, and Nesta knew he wouldn't let them leave until he squeezed even the last drop of sanity out of her.

If Ezra still realized what was going on, she didn't know, and it scared her even more. Cal was looking at her and looked worried, probably having never seen her so shaken in her life.

She was about to beg him a third time. Beg him to free her from whatever that game was that they were stuck in at that moment, but someone said her name. Ezra looked behind them and Nesta saw the shadow of a smile on his face, prompting her to turn around in turn. A choked sound escaped her throat as she bit her upper lip to keep from bursting into tears, and a wave of gratitude washed over her.

"Miss Archeron," the man smiled at her. Drakon Cretea had been Nesta and Cassian's neighbor for years now. He and his wife Myriam had babysat their children so many times that they were their go-to people. In fact, Celia and Nora had snapped to their feet at the sound of the voice of the acquired grandfather they loved so much.

Nesta didn't waste a moment turning the cart so that it faced Drakon. The children, Ezra included, began to cheer happily at having met a familiar face, and Nesta allowed herself to look over her shoulder.

With such relief that she thought she might collapse to the ground, she saw that Tomas was already pulling away, and as he turned the corner, pulling into another aisle, she took a deep breath through her nose, closing her eyes.

She had made it.

***

Cassian was exhausted.

He had spent the entire day grading exams for first-year students with his aide, and it was as if he could see the letters behind his eyelids every time he blinked. It was much more feasible to work in the university library, where he didn't risk being interrupted by a child every five minutes, but he only tried to do it once or twice a month during exam sessions, knowing full well how exhausting it was for Nesta to keep up with all the children together until late in the evening, especially now that Andra was about to arrive.

"Andra." he murmured into the silence of his car. Nesta kept telling him that they weren't sure that would be the name of their fifth child, but Cassian didn't care. He just needed to name his wife's belly when talking to his daughter.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he turned off the car in the driveway and stepped out, stretching his arms up just enough to make his back crack.

Glancing at the watch on his wrist, he huffed. It was too late for his girls to still be awake, but maybe he'd be able to say goodnight to Cal and Ezra.

He had warned Nesta that he was going to be late, and she had simply replied that she would leave dinner ready in the kitchen for when he returned.

Opening the front door, he immediately saw two little dark heads popping up from above the couch. Cal was already running at him when he closed the door behind him and jumped on him as soon as he had put his stuff down, "Dad!"

"Kiddo!" said Cassian throwing him into the air.

Cal laughed waving his arms, "Sssh," he scolded him still laughing, "the girls are sleeping."

"Oops," dad made a guilty face, stopping their game and putting Cal down.

Ezra was too focused on watching TV and wasn't paying the slightest attention to Cassian, but he walked over to the couch anyway, lowering himself just enough so he could leave a kiss on his hair, "Hi love." he murmured to him.

The little boy's head snapped toward him and with a crooked smile on his face and his pajama collar in his mouth, he said, "Hi dad."

Cassian scoffed amused, ripping his pajamas from between his teeth, "How many times have I told you not to eat your clothes?"

"Sorry," Ezra said, not sounding sorry at all.

Cal had gone back to lying next to his brother and they both seemed too caught up in the cartoon to pay any attention to it, so he went into the kitchen, loosening the tie around his neck and praying that Nesta had cooked something good - though the opposite was quite unlikely considering the woman's innate cooking skills.

He moaned with delight when he realized it was the meatballs she always made when she didn't feel like cooking and, taking the plate, he headed back to the living room. He plopped down in between his sons, taking the pajamas out of Ezra's mouth again and offering them both a meatball.

"So, what have you guys been up to today?" asked Cassian with a full mouth, slipping off his shoes and placing his feet on the coffee table.

First Cal and then Ezra told him in full detail about what they had done at school and then about the fact that none of them had slept that afternoon. Cassian was surprised to find out that Cal could still stand up without getting any rest.

When they got to the point where Nesta had taken them out walking and they had made it all the way to the supermarket, he had stopped them.

"Guys come on," he looked at them with incredulous eyes, "I told you to keep her home."

It was true. Lately Nesta had been pushing her limits when the doctors had told her to exert herself and stress as little as possible. With childbirth imminent too, it was risky for her to walk around without any other adults.

Ezra had the decency to look guilty, "I know, but-"

"We also met a weird dude," Cal interrupted him.

Cassian looked at him taking on a confused expression, "Weird?"

"Yeah, he knew mom," Ezra nodded, looking at the TV and talking thoughtlessly. He was bowing his head slowly and Cassian unconsciously extended a hand towards him, shutting his mouth before he could start chewing on the fabric once again. He looked at him at that point, continuing the story, "Mom was all weird, though."

"Weird." repeated Cassian.

"Yeah, weird." repeated Cal in turn, then chuckled, "He even hit me with the cart."

He and Ezra laughed together, remembering how Cal had fallen on his bum, but Cassian's thoughts were elsewhere. Clearly the fact that someone had rolled his son with a cart must not have been traumatic or painful, or Nesta would have called him and Cal wouldn't have been there laughing, but the fact that they had described her with an adjective like "weird" had him on high alert.

"Do you happen to know the man's name?" asked Cassian, pulling himself up and setting his plate down on the coffee table, keeping his gaze on his hands.

Ezra shook his head, "No, also because mom didn't talk to him much and then Drakon showed up."

"Oh, yeah," Cal repeated excitedly, his eyes glowing, "then Drakon showed up."

Cassian was on his feet before his youngest son had finished speaking. He started up the stairs to go upstairs, where he hoped he would find Nesta awake, but warned the two little men that he would go change and be back down to them in a jiffy.

With a strained expression and a bad feeling working its way through him, he walked down the hall, opening the door to his daughters' room slightly. Both Celia and Nora were already fast asleep, and Cassian felt a smile break out on his lips... his little gems. He couldn't believe yet another one would be arriving soon.

He closed the door, making sure not to make any noise, and then headed to his room, praying that Nesta was okay and that his children had misunderstood everything.

He heard her before he even entered. He could picture her pacing back and forth through their room, muttering about what was bothering her at the moment.

He took a deep breath, ready to fight whatever demons there would be to fight that night together, and tightening his hand around the doorknob, he lowered it, pushing himself into the room.

Nesta stopped short, both hands wrapped under her belly to help support that extra weight she was always complaining about.

The second Cassian's eyes found hers, her expression completely transformed and a desperate sob broke the silence that had formed between them.

"Nesta." he said as if someone had just sucked the air from his lungs. Reaching for her with two quick strides and wrapping her in his arms, Cassian heard all kinds of emotion in his wife's crying.

When he stroked her back, Nesta let go a wail of pain and he immediately pulled away, still keeping his hands around her elbows as much as her cold hands tightened around his forearms.

"God, Nesta what happened?"

She only cried harder, loosening her grip on him when she was sure he wouldn't pull away. She managed to say between sobs, "Everything hurts."

Cassian felt as if the floor has cracked open beneath them. "Is it the baby?"

Nesta's eyes went wide, probably only realizing at that moment what state he'd found her in, "No, she's fine." then, seeing his increasingly worried expression, she added, "I promise the baby's fine."

Cassian sagged at little, reducing his lips to a thin line, gently pushed her towards the bed to get her to sit up, but Nesta shook her head, taking short, overly fast breaths, "I can't."

Cassian paused, taking her hands and trying to restrain himself from asking her who they had met that afternoon that had managed to trigger such a reaction in her. There was no way she could have been in that state just from being tired.

"I can't." repeated Nesta sobbing and looking into his eyes. "Everything hurts, Cassian."

He sighed, closing his eyes. Seeing her in this state was nothing new unfortunately. With four pregnancies behind them and everything they'd been through in the years prior to their marriage, it wasn't unusual for either of them to be in such a condition.

He opened his eyes, trying to keep a firm tone, "How come you can't sit down?"

"If I sit the pain gets worse." she said between choked breaths.

Cassian furrowed his brow, wanting to yell at her about how stupid it had been of her to go walking that afternoon, but he restrained himself. "Have you tried lying down?" he proposed.

Nesta shook her head again, "Any position hurts my back or my legs," she explained.

"Tell you what," he began hesitantly, taking both of her hands, "why don't you put on those super pants that support your belly - or I'll help you put them on, it's no problem," he added quickly when he saw the pain in her features, "and then I'll give you a leg massage while you're standing?" he said smiling at her coyly. Nesta sniffed, nodding slowly. "And when sitting doesn't hurt anymore or is bearable you get on your knees on the bed or lean against the keyboard and I massage your back too, are you up for that?"

She squeezed his hands to let him know she was okay with everything, so Cassian smiled at her, returning the squeeze and starting to pull away from her to go get the leggings, but Nesta's eyes went wide and a few tears rolled down her cheeks, "Where are you going?"

Cassian grimaced worriedly.

Why hadn't she called him if she was feeling this bad?

He moved back as close as he could without crushing Andra between them, "I was just going to get my pajamas, Nes, and your pants." he placed a hand on her face, stroking away the remnants of her crying. Then he sighed, pushing her forehead into his and keeping his eyes open as he whispered, "I love you."

She repeated it quietly, almost a sigh.

He undressed quickly, slipping into his pajamas with equal haste as Nesta stood motionless in the center of the room, waiting for him to return to her.

"Listen," Cassian began, kneeling in front of her as he helped her out of the pajama pants she was wearing, "the boys told me you met someone today." he forced himself to look at her, when the grip on his shoulder suddenly tightened. Cassian studied the reaction he'd elicited from her and bit the inside of his cheek, seeing how Nesta had frozen and put her foot down. He took a deep breath, giving her knee a little tap to let her know she needed to get it back up, "They didn't tell me who it was and I don't think they know, but I got some ideas and I want-" he swallowed loudly, thinking seriously about what might have happened if his doubts were real, "If it's Tomas, I want to know if you're okay." he said in a lower voice, looking at her from under his lashes. Nesta didn't answer.

He had managed to get both of her feet into her pants and was pulling them up gently, trying not to hurt her. He had to pull up the skirt of the robe she used during all her pregnancies when none of her pajamas fit anymore, uncovering her belly and left a gentle kiss on her skin, smiling at his daughter, "Hello my little sunshine."

He felt Nesta shiver and thinking it was from the cold he hurried to cover her belly with her pants and then pull her nightgown down.

He looked at her more seriously than ever as he settled on the floor in front of her so he could massage her into a comfortable position. He was about to speak, to ask her again how she was doing, but she beat him to it.

"What did you do today?" she asked in a weak voice.

Cassian closed his mouth, bouncing his legs, pondering whether to insist that she spoke or let her distract him with that question. He decided for the latter, even though his wife already knew very well what he had done that day, "This morning there was an exam of Ancient History for the first years." he began to speak while pressing his thumbs on her left thigh. Nesta was leaning her hands on his shoulders. "I have to be honest, I've never seen exams as crappy and ignorant as this session's," he continued while keeping his gaze fixed on her face. "It's like people stopped studying all of a sudden and thought they could pass my exams by learning the bare minimum."

He shifted on her other thigh and Nesta snapped forward, groaning softly as Cassian touched a particularly numb muscle.

"Sorry." he smiled at her, "Then at lunch I stayed in the faculty with Gwyn and Luc, and by the way, they asked me if you'd be okay with organizing a lunch this weekend, with everyone?"

Nesta rolled her eyes, "I can't even walk, let alone plan a lunch with everyone," she pointed out to him in an irritated tone.

Cassian chuckled, "I'll let Gwyn know you told her to fuck off nicely."

"Yes, thank you," she replied to him. But then she bit her lip, thoughtfully, "But if they want to do something at her or Elain's that's fine. I can also cook, but not here, please, I don't feel like tidying up afterwards." she looked into his eyes with a pleading look.

"It's okay, it's not a problem," he shifted to her calves, "Although, if the only problem has to be the fact that you don't feel like tidying up, you know I wouldn't let you."

Nesta grunted, "I don't want you to do all the work yourself."

Cassian let out a puff of air through his nostrils, "You can't be the only one working hard in this house Nes, let me have some of the glory too." he joked.

"But I'm not the only one." she said in an overly serious tone, "You're always at work and I know you're working overtime, filling in for your colleagues, don't think I haven't noticed," she scolded him. Cassian lowered his head, feeling his cheeks turn red. "And I'm here at home and I can't work and I've been like this for months now and even before that with Celia-" she sighed, bringing a hand to her face, "I just wish I could help you bring something extra home."

Cassian stopped massaging her leg, surprised at what he was hearing. He moved away from her, enough so that he could stand up without bumping into her stomach and then looked at her, shaking his head, "What on earth are you talking about?" he asked, "Nesta you're raising our children. You're doing a much more tiring and exhausting job than mine ever will be." he pulled himself upright, "True, it's just as rewarding and enjoyable to be able to stay home and watch our children grow up, but you're the biggest help I could ever get right now. We don't need money right now."

"But-"

"No buts." he said arching his eyebrows and pushing her towards the bed, "Do you think you can sit?" she nodded pensively and let him help her up onto the mattress. "Nesta what you're doing is admirable and I'm sure not everyone could handle it as well as you can."

Nesta stopped in the middle of the bed, turning to look at him with a shocked expression.

Cassian was just as shocked. That she didn't realize how much she was actually helping him was beyond comprehension.

"I can only get by because you're there," she murmured, looking away, "I'd never make it on my own."

"And no one expects you to make it, Nes." he said stunned. He really couldn't understand where all the doubt was coming from, "You don't have to make it on your own and you're not doing it on your own."

He had her settled so that her back was to him and she was turned to the wall. He placed his hands over her back and began to make concise circles on the bottom, applying pressure where he knew the pain was most concentrated. Nesta's head fell forward in relief.

"You really don't think you're helping me in any way?"

"No, I-" she froze mid-sentence, "It's not that."

"Then what is it?" he asked, using his knuckles to massage her shoulder muscles.

Nesta groaned softly, "It's just that I wish I could go back to work and read all the books I want and I wish I could feel tired and be able to let my kids cry without anyone telling me what to do and how to do it. I wish I could move without the terror of going into labor at any moment and-" she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "I wish I wasn't so hormonal right now."

He could tell that her thoughts were all over the place.

There had been other such crises during Celia's pregnancy. The fear that they wouldn't measure up as parents to so many children. They were in constant thought that they were not giving them enough, that they were teaching them the wrong lessons. Cassian had received some nasty comments himself about how they were raising their children, and he knew right away that someone must have said something to Nesta that day.

They had always had stronger, more heartfelt reactions on her, and now that she was pregnant it was all much more altered.

"What happened today?" he asked her under his breath after a few moments of silence.

"No one slept, I didn't have a moment's peace and then we left and walked to the mall. I had to carry Nora all the way there and-" her voice broke on the last sentence and Cassian stopped his ministrations on her. He laid both hands on her back, getting as close as he could, letting his hands slide down her hips and then over her belly, until his chest made contact with her back and Nesta pushed back against him.

She dropped her head onto Cassian's shoulder.

"And?" he murmured, spurring her on.

"Everything hurt so much, Cass," she replied in a watery voice, "It was like I was being stabbed in the back and I couldn't put Nora down because she'd start crying."

A sharp twinge of pain shot through his chest. He began to gently massage her belly and shortly after he felt her small hands settle on his, pushing harder, "No one would try to say you're a bad mother just because you don't pick up your daughter when you're hurting."

She didn't answer.

"Celia?" he asked.

"Ezra and Cal held her hand the whole way, she walked so much," she said with a half smile on her face. "When we walked in they immediately started acting up and then they started crying and I couldn't take it anymore and these ladies said I was an awful mother and it's true, Cassian." she jerked in his arms as she said those last words. He only held her tighter, taking a deep breath. "Who is the mother who can't calm her own children when they cry? Her own children." she shook her head, running a hand under her eyes.

He couldn't see her face, but he knew she had started crying again.

"Nesta listen to me." he whispered to her, kissing her shoulder and then the tip of her ear. "You are the most loving and caring mother I know. Your children are perfectly healthy and you've never let them lack for anything. You've never raised your voice to them. You've never threatened them or grounded them-"

"I'm not a monster," she muttered.

"And more importantly," he said smiling and holding her tighter, "your children are happy."

"But Cal today-"

"Cal is downstairs watching TV with his brother and he's been telling me about his day and he's the happiest kid ever," he interrupted her, "Just because he threw a tantrum and cried a little doesn't mean you're not a good mother."

She sighed and nodded, though she didn't look convinced.

Cassian continued to stroke the spots on her belly where he knew her skin pulled the most, her hand still on his playing with the wedding ring on his finger when Nesta said, "I saw Tomas today."

Cassian froze behind her, holding his breath. He'd known it, but hearing the fear in her voice now as she said the name of the man Cassian hated most in the world didn't stop him from wincing.

"He bumped Cal with the cart and knocked him over and I didn't realize it was him until he called me," Nesta continued.

When Cassian spoke, his voice came out much harsher and tighter than he intended, "Did he-" he cleared his throat, "Did he say anything?"

"No, he-" Nesta brought both hands to her stomach, shifting his. She moved uncomfortably in his arms and Cassian loosened his grip on his wife, realizing she wanted to move. He grabbed her by the hips, trying to pull her up so she could turn toward him, and when she was finally sitting up with her back against the headboard of the bed, she sighed. "I saw him, Cass, and I froze." she said under her breath, looking into his eyes. "He touched Cal's hair and it was like he was touching me, again, and I completely froze and then the baby kicked and he touched my-" she took a ragged breath as her eyes filled with tears. When she spoke again, her voice was so weak that Cassian had to appeal to every ounce of his reasoning not to get up and go find Tomas to kill him.

He took her hands, remaining silent as a revolting feeling took over his body. The idea of Nesta being touched by that filthy man made his guts turn. The idea of his children-

A choked sob brought him back into the room, "And I wanted him to go and stop looking at Ezra and Celia and Nora and I could only move when Ezra called me, but he followed us and blocked our way. He asked me about you, wanted to know who you were, and it was like going back in time and I couldn't- I couldn't, Cass-" Nesta brought a hand to her chest, her eyes and mouth wide as panic appeared in her gaze and air struggled to reach her lungs.

Cassian squeezed her hands, speaking softly, "Nesta, it's okay." a sob from her, "You're all home." he murmured starting to massage her palm, "You're home with me."

Her breathing became even more erratic and she shook her head, closing her eyes.

Cassian closed his eyes as well, "I'm sorry you had to see him again and I'm sorry you couldn't move, but it's understandable, sweetheart." he was trying to keep his tone of voice relatively low, to calm her down, but it was proving difficult for him as he viewed Tomas watching his daughters. "He shouldn't have touched your belly. He shouldn't have just touched you at all. And he shouldn't have gotten close to Cal or Andra." he seethed. "And if I could I would go to him and rip his hands off." he let slip as he imagined the terror Nesta must have felt at that moment.

Nesta sobbed and the sound broke Cassian's heart, "I'm sorry," she said, "I'm sorry."

A pang of pain tightened in his chest as his face turned into a mask of controlled anger, "Don't ever apologize to me, please," he whispered, "Not for this stuff."

"But I couldn't do anything, even after all this time-" a hiccup broke the sentence, "He still has all this power over me. It's not fair."

It's not fair.

Cassian nodded, biting the inside of his cheek, "You're right, it's not fair." he squeezed her hands lightly, telling her to look at his face. She quickly did so. "You're not with him anymore. You're free. You don't owe him anything, just like you never owed him anything." Nesta took a shaky breath, stopping sobbing. "You have a family, you're a wonderful mother and wife. And you deserve all of this."

Nesta's eyes went wide, realizing where this was going.

Cassian took a deep breath, "You're not worthless, you're not hopeless or useless." he closed his eyes as Nesta mimicked him, breathing deeply in turn. "You are a strong, independent woman, it doesn't matter how much he said otherwise. It didn't matter before and it doesn't matter now. It's just meaningless words.

"I know you, Nesta, and you are the light of my life. The light of every person in this house. The only thing that keeps us going." he whispered in a weak voice, as Nesta leaned forward toward him and cried silently.

Cassian moved closer to her on the mattress so that she could rest her forehead against his chest, his shoulder, wherever she wanted, for support.

He had repeated those words to her so many times over the years. He didn't think he'd ever have to do it again, certainly not after so long that they both knew Tomas had moved to another continent entirely.

"I know you and you're nothing like he describes," he encircled her shoulders with arms when Nesta let go of a particularly loud sob. "You are the exact opposite of what he says." he kissed one temple, stroking the hair on her back.

She shivered in his arms, "I know." she whispered against his shirt.

Cassian managed to force a smile onto his lips, even though she couldn't see it, he knew she would hear it when he spoke, "I'm proud of you."

"Why?"

"Because I can only imagine how hard it was for you to see him again, and although I would have appreciated a different approach to everything that happened this afternoon, you handled it perfectly and our kids are fine." he passed his hands over her shoulders and pushed her away from him so he could look at her face. "And it's okay that you broke down now, it's normal. I'm glad you told me about it. Thank you." he spoke against her lips.

She smiled, breathing a laugh through her tears, "I love you."

"I love you." repeated Cassian, sighing. He cupped her cheek, brushing a thumb under her eye, before kissing her. No rush or force, just pure, raw emotion as their lips caressed in a desperate kiss.

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[unknownpileofducks]

This took 6 tries to get this to work

Part 1 of many

Welp apparently Tumblr didn't want me to post the first part. SO here we are again. This was copied and pasted from the OG word doc, so please bear with me. Also, semi edited by Grammarly.

Warnings: Murder, Gene, Gene being himself, Mansplain Maniputale and not the MaleWife, Oc death, Where the FUCK are the parents. (let me know if I should add any more)

Welp get some popcorn and sit down. This is going to be long.

In a village called Boboros, there lived three siblings. The eldest was a son named Gene, he had eyes of cold blue, skin lightly tanned from the days in the sun, and hair like black coal. The middle child was the only girl named Annalisa. She wasn’t like her siblings in looks for she wasn’t fully their sister. She had golden hair, eyes that rivaled the sky’s blue, but she had the same completion, and always carried a small silver locket that had a photo of her family in. And lastly, the youngest son was named Dante. He had eyes like the deep ocean, skin like the others, and hair of royal blue.

The day that Annalisa was brought into the household she was only just a baby of 2 months. Gene didn’t see the want of having a tiny little sibling after all it couldn’t do anything. But as two years passed he grew to tolerate the small child and wish to protect her. And not long another child came joined the family; that child was Dante. Gene learning from his past grew to love them both (kind of). As they grew the eldest two developed gifts, Gene developed a gift of being able to alter anyone meanwhile Annalisa developed the gift of light magic. Even though, Dante didn’t have a gift like his siblings he still looked up to them.

During their years together, Gene developed his gift and became the head guard because of it. Anna also developed her gift but only found it useful to create small things like blankets during the winter or a nightlight for the nights Dante feared what was in the dark. The younger children looked up to Gene as he was the eldest and wished to be like him but only threw ways of their strengths. Gene like any normal person, he fell in love but that person was the Lord’s daughter, Octavia, but she didn’t love him. However, that didn’t stop Gene for he had a plan to break into her room at night and alter her memories so that she loved him. There were only 2 things problems with his plan and that is what both of his siblings knew. A week before Gene was going to act out his plan, Anna asked to go speak with him over by a garden that overlooked a small cliff that was blocked off with an old vine-covered railing while Dante was off playing with some friends.

We are here. Well what did you want to talk about that was so important that I had to be on break,” Gene demanded as he didn’t want to be there.

“Please don’t get angry but I know about your plan,” Anna spoke but in a hushed voice as she knew Gene had a small (understatement) temper.

“What plan?” Gene was confused for he had one plan and no one should have known.

“The plan to go to Lady Octavia’s house at night… and… I really believe that you should rethink that decision!” Anna first continued with her soft tone but then slightly raised her voice.

“Keep you voice down!” Gene harshly whispered and now gripped Anna’s arm with force.

“I’m sorry, please let go you are slightly hurting my arm,” She yelped as she slowly backed up to the railing to hopefully get out of his grip but that proved ineffective.

 “There is no plan of doing that and you will not speak of this again,” Gene’s eyes started to glow an emerald green as his grip only got tighter.

“I…” Anna’s eyes changed from their light sky color to the same emerald green until… “No. This isn’t right,” Her eyes shifted back to their unnatural normal color. “Gene you need to stop,”

“No… This should have worked. Why didn’t that work!” Panic only filled Gene’s mind for this was the first time his power didn’t work.

“I promise that I won’t tell anyone and… and we can pretend that this never happened. If you don’t do it and let me go,” She knew that she couldn’t get out of this situation without getting hurt in some way as she was now entirely against the old railing. “Please… there is another way,” Gene didn’t hear her as he was only lost in his thoughts ‘how didn’t it work’ ‘It always worked why now!’ ‘Something isn’t right with her’ ‘She will go back on her word’ ‘She needs to be silenced’ ‘If she is gone no one will find out.

“There isn’t any other way…” He spoke in a hushed voice, no longer looking at her but what was underneath the railing. ‘Push her’ the voices told him and they only got louder by the second.

“Gene. Wait, please! We can- “Anna was cut off as Gene acted by pushing her off the railing that was once was the only this that was stopping her from falling off. Anna didn’t yell nor scream but tears fell down her face as she saw pieces of the old fence fall with her, the one that held no sympathy, and the sky. “I am sorry Dante,” her last words were not heard by anyone as she hit the ground.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

I'll try to post the next part this Saturday but no promises.

Hope you have a great day/night!

[smallheathgangsters]

Doomed | Part Two

Masterpost

A/N: I’m sorry you had to wait so long for part 2 and that this seems like a filler, but I promise it isn’t! I also enjoyed writing some soft Bonnie, so please don’t come at me for the lack of action lol.

Tag List: @imgrullas @beautycinders @maggiescarborough @lovemissyhoneybee @ellaestloved @swweett-insanityyy @peaky-fookin-blinders-addict @writeroutoftime @namelesslosers @elisabethisdead @amirahiddleston @sinfulshelbys @yoheyyosup

Pairing: Bonnie Gold x Shelby!Sister Reader

Word Count: 2801

Type: lots of fluff, violence, swearing

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The sound of men cheering, talking loudly and shouting met you, when you pushed open the large entrance to the vehicle factory, in which Tommy and Arthur prepared automobiles for their Russian clients. You knew it was a dream come true for Arthur, working with and on cars being a passion of his and you were happy for your eldest brother. He’d been fighting a lot of demons in the last few years, even though he didn’t want to admit it. And it hurt you to see Tommy banning any personal and emotional battles for the sake of the business, forcing Arthur into a position of having to ignore his feelings, exactly the way Tommy did. But you knew, Arthur was going to break sooner or later. Surely sooner than Tommy.

Your heels clicked on the floor covered in little pools of oil and water, as you walked past the many vehicles, some disassembled, most of them ready for dispatch, towards the hall in the back. You turned around a corner and immediately frowned by the sight that was presented to you.

Around two dozen workers stood around a makeshift boxing ring, following a match going on within the rope. As you got closer, you noticed your two older brothers standing together with Aberama Gold outside the ring, watching the fight take place.

You cursed under your breath, remembering Mr. Gold’s words about seeing each other again soon. The killings at John’s funeral had only been the start of the alliance.

You already dreaded the encounter with Gold after ignoring the handshake he’d offered you when you’d first met. After all, he’d saved you from being shot by the Italian. Meaning, he was the reason you were still alive, and you honestly hadn’t thought about it too much. Until now.

You went around the ring, walking in the direction of Tommy and not paying any attention to the two men throwing and dodging punches. When you stood behind your brother, you tapped him on his shoulder. Startled, he whipped his head around. “What are you doing here?”

“Polly sent me. She’s calling a meeting.”

“Can it wait? I’m busy.”

You scoffed. “With what? Arranging weird boxing matches in the vehicle factory?”

With that, you finally threw a gaze at the boxers. Your breath got caught in your throat when you spotted Bonnie stripped down to his undershirt, hands stuck in red gloves. His movements were quick and even though he wasn’t sending a lot of hits, he somehow seemed to know what he was doing. The only thing concerning you was the obvious fact that his opponent was a heavyweight. And Bonnie clearly wasn't even close to being a heavyweight. The sight made you gulp, and worry settled in your stomach.

“What is Bonnie doing in there?” you gasped, eyes wide in disbelief.

Tommy just shrugged. “That’s what we’re going to see.”

“Your boy knows he can hit back, right?” you heard Arthur tease. Aberama, who was standing next to Arthur, luckily unable to spot you from that position, was quick to respond. “Told him in the professional game people want their money’s worth, don’t win too fast.”

Aberama’s eyes were fixed on his son, watching him carefully. Bonnie swung out and landed a precise hit on the opponent’s face. Another punch followed, only a split second later.

“But if you’ve seen enough …” Aberama said, still not taking his concentrated gaze away from the match. “Finish it, Bonnie!”

That seemed to have been Bonnie’s cue. The larger man hit his gloves together, preparing himself for what was coming. But only a few moments later, it was clear that there hadn’t been a chance for him to prepare himself for what Bonnie was able to do. The heavyweight lunged forward, missing Bonnie by a lot, his fist hitting plain air. That mistake gave Bonnie the chance to take over control and surprise him with powerful strikes into his abdomen. Stunned, the man stumbled backwards, moving his hands to shield his face from the attack. But Bonnie was quicker. He sent a punch from below and then a last one directly at his temple, knocking him out completely.

“Fuck me, that was a punch,” you heard Arthur exclaim, while one of the workers ran up to the heavyweight to help his slumped body onto his feet again. “What’s he got, horseshoes in those gloves or what?”

“No,” Aberama replied, ducking under the rope to get inside the ring, “just his dad’s strength and his mother’s temper.”

Aberama helped his son out of his boxing gloves before Arthur and Tommy moved closer to the Gold’s. That was when you moved a few steps backwards, but not too far away from the scene. You were too intrigued.

“Does he have fits?” Tommy asked.

“No.”

“Asthma?”

Aberama denied again.

“How’s he cut?” Arthur questioned.

“Well, no one’s cut him yet, but his skin’s think.”

You scoffed at the way Bonnie’s father answered all the questions. It just showed you how much control Aberama seemed to have over his son, just like Tommy did with you. Families like yours and Bonnie’s clearly functioned very likewise.

“Does he drink?” Another question from Tommy.

“Water, sometimes.”

“How many fights?”

“Twenty-five, bareknuckle, all knockouts. Five with gloves in pastures, all knockouts,” Aberama boasted, his eyes, filled with a proud gaze, moved back and forth between Tommy and Arthur.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Against Romani fighters?”

“That’s why they won’t let us in the fairs no more, he keeps winning,” Aberama replied, right before Bonnie interrupted with a comment of his own. “I could fight a fucking tree and knock it out, Mr. Shelby.”

His son’s words made Aberama chuckle pridefully and throw an arm around him. Arthur snickered in response to Bonnie’s statement. “I like him, I like him.”

Suddenly you felt somebody push themselves past you, towards your brothers. It was Tommy’s assistant.

You watched him lean forward and whisper something to Tommy. Your brother nodded and answered in a tone, just as quiet. The assistant then ran off, up the stairs to one of the meeting rooms.

Bonnie and his father moved from one side of the ring to the other, giving Arthur and Tommy some time and space to stick their heads together about the boxing matter. You decided to join your brothers, curious about what was going on.

“What was this all about?” you asked, stepping out of your spot behind one of the large wooden pillars in the hall.

“Bonnie wants to fight and we’re deciding on whether we’re going to help or not,” Tommy replied, looking over to the Gold’s.

You let out a scoff. “You mean control him, not help him.”

Tommy let his blue eyes wander back to you, the usual unimpressed, blank stare plastered on them. “Everything I do is business, Y/N.”

“I just want you to see him as a person,” you said, a reproachful tone in your voice. You watched as your brother slightly rolled his eyes.

“Why do you care?” Arthur asked, a little confused about you getting involved in the boxing subject.

You rolled your bottom lips between your teeth. “He seems nice, Arthur. And kind. Something my family often seems to lack.”

Arthur frowned at your remark. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying, Arthur.”

Tommy seemed to have enough of your opinion and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, guiding him a bit away from you to talk in private. You watched as they discussed Bonnie’s performance and how they could profit off of it.

It didn’t take long for them to call over Bonnie and Aberama and by the way Arthur pulled out a bundle of cash and started counting the notes, you knew they had agreed on working with the Gold boy. And just before Tommy sped off to the office upstairs, he handed Bonnie a cap. “You’re a Peaky Blinder now, son.”

You noticed Bonnie sending his father an unsure look, but eventually put on the cap when Aberama took the money from Arthur’s hands. The deal was settled, and you weren’t sure how to feel about it. Weirdly enough, you were anxious about Bonnie being a Peaky Blinder now. Anxious for the son of a dangerous hitman. The more you thought about it, the more ridiculous it got.

You’d been so caught up in your mind, that you hadn’t noticed the Gold men approaching you. When you lifted your gaze, Arthur was nowhere to be seen.

“Came here to finally properly introduce yourself to us?” Aberama sneered. Bonnie nudged his father, his face showed a hint of embarrassment. “Dad, c’mon.”

You shook your head. “No, it’s okay. I really should apologise.”

Aberama lifted his eyebrows in surprise. He probably didn’t expect a Shelby to ask for forgiveness. At least not this quick.

“I’m aware that I … let’s say, owe you my life in a way? And I wanted to thank you,” you said, a slightly shaky hand pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. You weren’t used to apologising. Being a Peaky Blinder meant you weren’t sorry. For anything. But since you started to distance yourself more and more from being solely associated with your family name, you actually truly wanted to apologise.

“And I’m Y/N, by the way.”

You carefully held out your hand, knowing very well you had left Aberama hanging when he’d introduced himself to you. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to have any bad feelings left, accepting your hand, gripping it firmly and shaking it. Then, he sent you a confirming nod and let go of your hand. “You’re not like the rest of your family, are you?”

“I take that as a compliment,” you said, a small smile creeping onto your face.

Aberama didn’t respond, simply tipping his hat and walking off, leaving you and Bonnie to yourselves.

Your eyes followed Aberama for a while, before they eventually landed on the pretty man in front of you.

“I’m impressed,” you stated, giving him a wider smile than the one you gave his father.

“Have you been watching the entire time?” Bonnie chuckled, scratching the back of his head a little awkwardly.

You nodded. “Polly sent me to call a meeting, but it seems as though neither Tommy nor Arthur felt addressed by it.”

Bonnie let another chuckle escape his lips.

“Anyway,” you said, “I see that you’re one of us now.”

“I am and I’m excited to start training as soon as possible,” Bonnie responded, a wide grin on his face. There was no doubt, that boxing made him happy. A happiness you were still searching for. Making you feel a tiny bit jealous.

Angry at your reaction to his cheerfulness, you swallowed down the lump in your throat. “It doesn’t look like you’ll be following in your father’s footsteps.”

Bonnie shook his head, taking off the cap and running his strong hands through his dark, curly hair. “No, but I don’t think he minds. My goal is to be a professional.”

“I like that, you know?”

“You do?”

You hummed. “I’m not planning on doing anything even close to what my family are doing. Trying to get away from the business, but with the situation we’re in at the moment, that’s not an option. Not right now, at least.”

Bonnie rolled up the cap with his hands. “I didn’t see you at Charlie’s yard after the funeral.”

You sighed. “I needed some time … to myself.”

“I understand,” Bonnie said, giving you a weak smile of comfort. “I’m sorry, about your brother.”

Bonnie’s words sent an unfamiliar warmth to your chest. It reminded you of the feeling you had gotten sat behind him on his horse. So many people had offered their condolences to you, but none of them felt like they truly meant it.

And then there was Bonnie.

“And I’m sorry for what happened at Charlie’s Yard,” you mumbled, looking down at the ground sheepishly. He immediately understood that you were talking about his father wanting to buy the boat yard and Tommy making the disgusting move of involving Bonnie’s eldest sister in the deal. The sacred coin.

“You don’t need to apologise on behalf of your brother, Y/N. It had nothing to do with you,” Bonnie promptly replied, lifting your head up with his index and middle finger. The subtle, but intimate gesture made your heart beat faster.

“It was still quite the dick move,” you murmured, trying to escape his mesmerising hazel eyes.

Bonnie laughed. “Yes, it was. But the good thing is, Charlie still has his yard.”

You were in absolute awe of Bonnie’s personality. So positive and kind. The complete opposite of what the Gold’s represented. What is father represented.

“Can I ask you something?”

You tilted your head curiously. “Anything.”

“What did you mean when you told Tommy about feeling safe with me?”

You cursed at yourself internally. You’d almost forgotten that you had said that out loud. It had felt right momentarily, letting go of everything you had been bottling up, but thinking about now made you cringe.

Your desperate tries to avoid his stare were useless. All of his attention was directed at you, burning into your skin, impossible for you ignore. So, you looked up and met his gaze.

“Can I like … take it back?” you chuckled, trying to turn the topic into something funny.

He grinned, shaking his head. “Fuck no.”

You let out a groan, burying your head in your hands. “I just really loved your company, for a change.”

Bonnie let out a laugh. “Only for a change?”

You moved your head back up, rolling your eyes, with a grin on your lips. “You know what I mean. You’re different and I like that.”

“Different because I don’t want to cut out people’s eyes and shoot them in the head for a living?”

You giggled. “Yes, that too. But mostly because you care. I knew you cared about me being safe, back at the funeral. And I knew you meant it, when you said you were sorry for what happened to my brother.”

Bonnie seemed to be overwhelmed by your confession, a cute shade of pink appearing on his cheeks. “Uh– I’m glad you felt that way. Although, I am concerned that you feel like nobody else cares about you.”

“It’s not that,” you sighed, your voice traced with sadness. “I just hate the way everything is about business. It’s as if feelings and emotions are prohibited in this family.”

You heard Bonnie sigh as well. Then, he put a hand on your upper arm, giving it a squeeze. Gentle enough to comfort you, strong enough to let you know you weren’t alone.

“Would you like a hug?”

Bonnie cleared his throat, when he noticed you staring at him in surprise. “I’m sorry if this was awkward, I–“

“No,” you cut him off, “I would really like a hug.”

The way he had asked you, had made your stomach erupt in thousands of butterflies. Tickling your insides in a manner that was wonderful and annoying at the same time. The way he didn’t just pull you into an embrace without making sure you were comfortable with the closeness.

Bonnie smiled down at you and let go of your arm before wrapping his muscular arms around you. Your cheek was softly pressed against his chest and his pleasant scent made its way into your nose, briefly numbing every part of your body.

Too early, Bonnie pulled back again. “Feeling a little bit better?”

“A lot,” you admitted, sensing your cheeks imitating the colour Bonnie’s had before. Although you were convinced it wasn’t the same sweet pink, but a deep cherry red.

“You’re very beautiful, you know that?” Bonnie suddenly said.

You placed your cool hands on your flushed cheeks, trying to calm them down, but it was useless. The heat just travelled further to your ears, making this whole encounter even more embarrassing for you.

“Are you flirting with me, Bonnie Gold?” you asked.

He laughed. “Of course, I am! Would’ve been very awkward if you were that oblivious.”

You playfully hit his arm and opened your mouth to respond to his cheeky remark, but were suddenly interrupted by a loud voice.

“Bonnie! Let the lady be, we need to get going!”

Aberama’s voice resounded in the wide, open factory hall. Bonnie pinched the bridge of his nose in slight annoyance.

“I need to get going,” he announced. You chuckled. “I heard.”

“Even if it doesn’t seem like it, I’m not dependent on my father.”

Your chuckle turned into laughter. “Understood.”

Then, he sent you a last, beautiful smile, his white, gorgeous teeth shining from behind his lips. “I’ll see you around. I’ll make sure of it.”

[gendercraft]

When I Fell Overboard [Chapter Three: Strawberries & Pomegranates]

Read on ao3

Synopsis: Sebastian struggles with his relationship with Maru as she strives to get close to him. Meanwhile, he and Elliott get closer and closer.

Trigger warnings: Panic attacks, fighting, snapping, potentially unsympathetic Robin, crying, food mention, let me know if I missed anything please

Things at home weren’t the same after Sebastian and Maru talked. 

He had a feeling she talked to Mom and Demetrius, because everyone was awkward around him, walking on eggshells. 

“Are you going somewhere today, Sebby?” Mom asked stiffly one day as he crossed the foyer. Demetrius and Maru tinkered in the lab next door. 

“Pierre’s,” he mumbled, hand on the doorknob but not turning. His hood was flicked up, his back to her. 

“Well, that sounds fun. What are you getting?” 

“Oh, Sebastian!” Demetrius put down the beaker and fumbled for his coin pouch. “Here, let me—”

“What are you doing?” Sebastian stared at him with wide eyes. 

He raised an eyebrow. “Can’t I give my step son a little spending money?” 

Sebastian stared. Could he? He guessed, sure. He never had before. Just Maru. 

“Don’t be so stiff, honey,” Mom said, stiff. “Is everything okay?” 

Maru gave him a knowing look. She rolled her eyes, mouth quirked. Sebastian stifled a laugh. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. Just… it’s fine.” 

Demetrius came over and handed him a handful of gold. Sebastian slipped it in his pocket. 

“Do you want me to… pick something up for you?” He asked uncertainly. 

“Uh— Sure! Honey, do we need anything?” Demetrius turned back to Mom. 

She smiled, and it didn’t reach her eyes. “Um…” 

“Can you get me some strawberries?” Maru asked, frustration leaking into her voice. She nodded at the door. 

Sebastian fumbled to turn the handle and push the door open. “Yeah, I can— sure. Yeah.”

He ducked his head and rushed out as Mom called a, “Love you, honey! See you soon!” and slammed the door behind him. 

What the fuck was that about? 

He guessed Maru told them that she was going to try, so they should too, but they would stop the moment Maru did. Maybe Sebastian wouldn’t pick out the perfectly ripe strawberries and Maru would be upset so Demetrius would get on his ass about it. There goes the dollhouse. He shuddered. If that was them trying, it was creepy. They didn’t have to treat him like Maru for him to be happy, they just had to… 

To what? Of course he wanted to be treated like Maru. But if that was how Maru was treated, it was fucking weird. So what did he want? 

He trekked the long hike down the mountain to the heart of Pelican Town, the cobble roads and Evelyn Mullners’ gardens and the Stardrop Saloon. It was late—Shane was already headed inside the saloon, probably racing Pam there, since the two could only care to move that fast for alcohol. Pierre was only open another half hour. His lips turned down as Sebastian entered. 

“Good to see you!” He called. “Thanks for shopping at Pierre’s! Can I help you find anything? We have a brand new selection of fresh produce, compliments to Farmer—” 

“I don’t need your help,” Sebastian snapped. 

Pierre always pissed him off. His greed was his entire life. Abigail showed up at the saloon on more than a couple Fridays pissed and ready to pound back drinks because of something he did, something he didn’t do, something that wasn’t as important as his shop. 

Sebastian stopped at the aisle and sighed. Embarrassment twinged in his stomach. “Pierre?” He asked, gripping the hem of his hoodie. 

Pierre forced a smile. “How can I help you?” 

“Strawberries?” 

“Yes, we have some left over from spring. Right over here.” 

Sebastian drifted over to the tubs of produce. “Thanks,” he sighed. 

He picked up a basket and carefully picked out a carton of strawberries. Anxiety Farm—Sebastian always liked that name—was written on the label, a little purple stormcloud as its logo. He dropped it in his basket. 

“Strawberries?” 

Sebastian jumped. He turned to Elliott, forcing away the smile fighting to curl on his lips. “What?” 

“I didn’t take you for the strawberry type,” he said, hands in his pockets. “I’m partial to pomegranates, myself.” 

“Pomegranates are better,” Sebastian mumbled. “They’re sour.” 

“They are! A pain to deseed, though.” 

Elliott stepped next to him and grabbed a basket. He picked out a few pomegranates and slipped them inside. 

“So how are you doing?” He asked quietly. 

Sebastian shifted nervously. “Okay, I guess.” 

“You guess?” Elliott glanced at him. “Any more…?”

He shook his head. “Not really. I mean, the anxiety never really goes away you know, but—” 

“Oh, I know.” Elliott hesitated. “I have a little sister with anxiety. It’s about as bad as yours, it seems.” 

Sebastian eyed the strawberries as if he were considering buying more. He wasn’t. “What’s her name?”

“Elliwyn.” 

Sebastian stared at him. “You’re joking.” 

His mouth quirked up. “I’m not.” 

“Any brothers?” He drifted across the way to the aisles. There were a few canned meals that weren’t too bad. Plus, they were quick to make after working on a project for twelve hours and suddenly realizing that he was ravenous. 

“Two. Jasper and Alistair. I’m the eldest.” 

“God, your parents are pretentious, aren’t they?” 

Sebastian nearly sighed. Dumbass. Don’t insult his family. 

Elliott laughed. “A little bit.” Then he smoothed down his coat with his free hand, looking away. “I suppose I am a little, too.” 

He leaned against the aisle and watched him. “I used to think so,” he admitted. “Not really anymore.” 

Elliott lit up. “Oh, really?” 

“Yeah. I don’t know. You’re cool, I guess.” 

Elliott’s face flushed. “Now that I have your approval, I can go on.”

Sebastian shoved him playfully. “Shut up.” 

“You seem off today. What’s wrong?” 

“God, how do you do that? It’s a little creepy.” He drifted down to the sodas, avoiding the Joja Cola. Sometimes he bought it for Sam but the stuff made Sebastian sick. He didn’t know how Sam drank that shit. 

“Call me an empath. Did something happen?” 

Sebastian hesitated, then ran through the thing with as little details as possible. 

“I don’t understand.” Elliott picked out a few spices—Ha. Sage. “That’s not a good thing?” 

“No, I mean, I don’t know… It was just weird.” He grabbed a pack of sour candy, and Elliott picked out a few boxes of teabags. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong.” 

“Do you want help?” They wandered towards the checkout counter. “We can go back to my cabin, talk it out.” 

Sebastian set his basket on the counter, and Pierre rang him up. “Why?” He asked suspiciously. “Why are you… doing all this?” 

“Well, for one, when I see someone needs help, I can’t help but offer. I wouldn’t feel right to not.” 

“That can’t be healthy.” 

“And for two,” Elliott smiled, pushing his hair over his shoulder, “it certainly wouldn’t be a chore to spend more time with you.” 

Sebastian flushed deep red, his blood rushing through his ears. He barely heard Pierre give him the total and fumbled for his coin pouch. Some of the gold clattered on the counter.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, taking his bags and ducking out of the way. 

“So?” Elliott asked with a grin as Pierre rang him up. 

“Sure,” Sebastian mumbled. Anything to not have to go home. 

Elliott placed a hand on Sebastian’s back and led him out of the store, carrying their bags. People stared as they walked, Sebastian was sure of it, but his gaze was fixed firmly on the ground. Elliott stopped a moment to talk to Evelyn Mullner, and Sebastian stood there awkwardly. Evelyn liked everyone, so she wasn’t one of the people who cringed whenever Sebastian came near, but she didn’t have much to say to him besides a pleasant hello. 

“Are you not close with anyone?” Elliott asked with a laugh after they left. “Evelyn is so easy to talk to.” 

“No one is ‘easy’ to talk to,” he grumbled. 

“Ah.” He pulled open his cabin door and gestured Sebastian inside. 

It was warm inside. Sebastian looked around and found the small electric heater plugged in the corner, oscillating heat around the small space. He sat on the piano bench and Elliott sat at his writing desk. It was cramped enough that their knees touched. Maybe Sebastian was sitting just a bit too far forward. He certainly didn’t move back. 

“Is there not anyone you can talk to?” 

Sebastian hesitated, looking down. “Not really,” he mumbled. 

“Sam and Abigail?”

“No. I mean, yeah. Just…” He sighed harshly, rubbing his eyes. 

“Hey,” Elliott rested a hand on Sebastian’s knee, and Sebastian’s gaze snapped to his, eyes wide. “This isn’t a therapy session and we don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. It’s supposed to help. No use getting worked up over it.” 

Sebastian nodded. It was all he could do with Elliott’s hand still there. Elliott smiled. 

“Uh…” He hesitated, then rested his hand over Elliott’s. His hand was so soft, much softer than Sebastian’s own eczema-ridden skin. Especially in the summer, it was death. “We can talk, just not… I don’t know. It’s not… there’s no one I… It’s different. It’s different being close with them and being…”

“Intimate?” Elliott asked, and Sebastian shook his head. 

“I don’t know, you know how you’re supposed to have those people where you don’t have any anxiety around them, you can completely be yourself and say anything?” 

He nodded. “I do.” 

“Do you have one of those?” 

Elliott bit his lip. “I can’t say I do.” 

“Me, neither. It sucks.” 

Elliott watched him for a moment. Sebastian could feel his eyes burning into the top of his head. Sebastian kept his gaze on their hands, wanting to simultaneously move and never move again. Did he want Elliott to flip his hand, so they could lace their fingers? Did Sebastian want to yank his hand back and shove them in his pockets? Was he fine with how it was? His skin was crawling, but not in a disgusted way—in a way where he craved something. Something. What did he need? 

“It does suck,” Elliott said softly. “But I’m happy to try and be that person for you, Sebastian.” 

“Why?” 

“Why not?” He chuckled. “You’ve been perfectly lovely to me. I honestly can’t understand the things some of these people say about you.” 

“Like Caroline?” Sebastian scowled. Abigail’s mom never liked him. 

“Like Caroline. Dyed hair and piercings does not a bad influence make. Oh! I have a great idea.” 

He ripped his hand back and dug around in his groceries for a moment. Sebastian pulled his hand to his chest as Elliott found a pomegranate and disappeared into the kitchen. He came back with a small bowl, and the fruit cut in half. He gestured for Sebastian to scoot back, so he did, and they sat on opposite ends of the piano bench with the bowl in between them. 

“You don’t need to-” 

“I insist! I have plenty.” 

He took one half and pressed it into Sebastian’s palm. Sebastian blushed and looked away. 

“Okay. Thanks.” 

They worked in silence for a little while, popping the seeds out and gradually filling the bowl. It was tiring work. Sebastian’s back ached, his fingers stiff. They occasionally cheated and stole a few seeds out to chew on while they worked. 

“Did you ever have a person like that?” Sebastian asked quietly. 

Elliott hummed, eyes on his half of the fruit. “Once, I thought I did. I was wrong, though.” 

“What happened?” 

“He wasn’t a good person.” 

“How’d you meet?”

“A concert, if you’d believe it.” 

Sebastian looked up, grinning. “I do not. What band?” 

Elliot leaned forward and whispered, “Broken Belladonna.” 

“No!” 

“Yes.” 

Sebastian laughed and shook his head. 

“It was one of their last, when I was in high school.” 

“Were you dating?” 

“We did for a little while. Two years.” 

“Yoba.” Sebastian had never had a relationship last longer than a few weeks. He was too awkward, too slow. “Did he… do something to you?” 

Elliott smiled and popped a few seeds into the bowl. “He wasn’t a very good person.” 

Sebastian swallowed. He wanted to press, to know that it wasn’t as bad as what was going through his mind, but Elliott clearly didn’t want to talk about it and Yoba, what if it were that bad? What was Sebastian supposed to say to that? 

“It was a long time ago, Sebastian,” Elliott promised. “You don’t need to worry.” 

“You know that’s not how it works, right?” He rolled his eyes. “Shit doesn’t just go away. It’s alright if it’s still affecting you.” 

“Well, look at that!” Elliott looked up with a grin. “You can make healthy habits.” 

“Dear Yoba,” he mumbled. “You sound like my mom. Or Demetrius. Or Maru.” 

He hesitated. “Well,” he said softly, “those are the last people I want to sound like. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not a big deal,” he mumbled. 

Elliott tipped his chin up. “What did I say last time?” 

He shrugged a little, swallowing. “I don’t remember.” 

“I think you do. But I said that if it bothers you, it is a big deal. And to be kinder to yourself.” 

Keep touching me. 

Sebastian blinked. Where did that come from? 

“Right.” They finished the pomegranates and set the empty shells to the side, digging into the rewards of their work. “I’ll try.” 

After a while of eating in silence—normally that would be torturous, but Sebastian found himself not minding the quiet company—Sebastian turned to face the piano. He wiped his hands on his pants and settled his fingers on the keys. It was dusty and a little decrepit, but worked fine enough. Not great, but fine. 

“You know how to play?” He asked. 

Elliott shook his head. “No. It came with the cabin.” 

“Do you want to?” 

Elliott smiled. “I’m sorry?” 

“I took a few lessons. I could teach you the basics, at least.” 

“Well, that doesn’t sound like you. A grand piano?” 

Sebastian stared at the keys. “Mom didn’t like the keyboard,” he mumbled. “I figured… it doesn’t matter. I know. And I want to thank you.” 

“You could just say the words.” 

“I could,” he agreed. “But you’ve done a lot of emotional labour for me. Let me do something more. It’ll at least help me feel less guilty.” 

Elliott perked up. “Well, if it’ll help you!”

“Dude, that wasn’t the point.” 

He set the bowl aside. “Show me.” 

“Alright,” Sebastian laughed. “Here, put your hands here. You should know the names of the keys…”

They spent the next few hours at the piano. They gradually grew closer until their hips were pressed together, and Sebastian found himself laughing quite a lot. A lot more than he had in a while. Elliott had a way of catching Sebastian off guard. 

Sebastian yawned, long after the sun had set, and his head drooped. His head was only inches from Elliott’s shoulder, so, pulled there by gravity, Sebastian nuzzled into it. Elliott laughed and rested a hand on the back of Sebastian’s head. 

“Someone needs to go to bed,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to the top of Sebastian’s head. His hair fell down like a curtain, leaving them alone. “Do you want to spend the night?” 

Yes. Yes! 

“I can’t,” he said in frustration. “Those fucking strawberries. They’re for Maru.” 

Elliott blinked. “Will she even be awake?” 

“Well, what time is it?” 

“Almost midnight.” 

“Shit!” Sebastian pulled back and grabbed his bags. “Fuck, sorry, I gotta go. Mom hates me staying out this late.” 

“Sebastian, you’re an adult—”

“Stop saying that,” he groaned. “I know I can. It’s just not worth the lecture right now, okay?” Then, before he could get anxious about it, he lurched forward and gave Elliott a hug. 

Elliott grunted, but his arms came to wrap around Sebastian and Yoba, it was just as good as he thought. A little awkward, Sebastian’s feet were too far away and he was scared to move them closer in fear Elliott would pull away, but his head fit perfectly in the crook of Elliott’s neck and wow, he really smelled strongly of everything fresh and good. 

“Okay.” He pulled away after a few minutes. He was lightheaded, a little dizzy. “Uhh, I gotta go. Thanks for… everything. Um, when can I swing by again? You know, to teach you more.” 

Elliott smiled. “Right. Any time is fine with me. Maybe tomorrow?” 

He smiled back. “Yeah. Sure. Tomorrow.” 

He left. He smoked a cigarette on the way back to calm his nerves. He was shaking from that hug. How did that even happen? Elliott didn’t shove him off, didn’t pull away, didn’t… he just hugged him. He even seemed to enjoy it. 

Sebastian rubbed his thumb against his index finger, against a crack in his skin. It burned. There was more on his face, his neck. He could hide it with soft hoodies, soft fake jeans, but he couldn’t very well go around in the skeleton mask the farmer wore sometimes. Did Elliott stare at it when they were hugging? Did he avoid the patches on his neck? Why? 

He shook his head. He would just have to wait, see if Elliott hugged him first. He couldn’t be that put off, he touched Sebastian first all the time. Surely a hug wouldn’t be out of the question. 

Right? 

He stomped his cigarette out outside the front door and crept inside. The lights were all out, except Maru’s. He tiptoed over to her door and knocked quietly. 

It opened a moment later. “Yoba, that took you forever. Had to go to Zuzu City to find any?” 

“Haha. Here.” He pulled them out of his bag and handed it to her. “I’m going to go eat.” 

“Wait. Where were you?” 

Sebastian stopped, but didn’t answer. 

“Mom said she heard from Caroline that you were with Elliott. What were you doing with him?” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” He snapped. 

“Oh— Nothing bad! Sorry.” She sounded sheepish. “I just mean… well, you don’t seem like you’d mesh very well.” 

“He’s nice.” 

“Yeah, and you’re not. So… is it true? Were you with Elliott?” 

“Didn’t we agree to leave each other alone for now on?” Sebastian stalked down the hall. “So leave me alone.” 

He disappeared into the kitchen. All of his senses alive and aching, he stumbled through making himself a bowl of soup, ears straining. 

Maru’s door closed.

new chapter posted bc someone commented on ao3, continuing that system. once i get feedback, the next chapter gets posted <3 

[wichols]

May I request Hikaru for fluff “You know I have feelings for you, right?”

This ask has probably been sitting in my inbox for about a month. And it sat that long cause I wanted to give it the attention it deserved. The last fluff I wrote reeked of angst and I wanted this to be all fluff. And I can confidently say that this is indeed 100% fluff and 0% angst. I know some of you were really sad about my last post of HikaHaru (Disgust and Devotion). Let’s consider this an apology for writing that. Timeline speaking this would happen before Disgust and Devotion. Shout out to @amoreosalina for helping me get the right amount of Italian sprinkled throughout this one-shot!

Fashion and Feelings

Pairing: Hikaru x Haruhi Word Count: 2,700

“She should be here by now,” Hikaru grumbled, tossing his phone back onto the table. “What’s taking so long?” His fingers deftly pushed the needle through the delicate fabric, adding another bead onto the bodice. “Fangul. (fuck)”

Light poured through the large wall of windows of the studio while fluffy white clouds hung effortlessly against the clear blue sky. A plethora of immaculately dressed mannequins lined the wall of exposed brick, ready for a final inspection.

Turning his attention back to the lilac chiffon dress pooled atop the workbench he continued to mutter to himself. “It has to look perfect. She deserves my best work.” His hands moved with ease adding more beads and removing the last of the pins holding the pleats in place, doing his best to pour his all into his final piece- though this one is reserved for someone more special than a model.

Haruhi watched with bated breath as she leaned against the door frame, not having the heart to interrupt Hikaru from his work. Her eyes followed his hands as they diligently worked with the fabric. Though it was not often she was able to witness him working it was always a treat to see him come alive in the studio, his body trained for fashion excellence. The flight from Boston to Milan was exhausting but the prospect of a week away from school and reuniting with her friends was enough for her to push through her final assignments and her current exhaustion to enjoy what little time they had together.

Glancing one last time at the completed piece Hikaru sighed with contentment, allowing himself to smile widely at the finished dress. “Perfecto.”

“An awful lot of space for just one person. It never amazes me how much space you think you need.” Haruhi giggled from the doorway, finally catching Hikaru’s attention.

“You made it!” His childlike giddiness getting the better of him as he practically rushed over towards the door, lifting Haruhi up into a hug.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” She wheezed under his hold, allowing her bag to drop carelessly to the ground. “How could I say no when you threatened to come to Boston yourself just to drag me here yourself?”

Releasing her from his hold, he placed her back onto solid ground before smirking. “We all know how one-track-minded you get with school, besides if it wasn’t me it would have been.”

“Tamaki.”

“Tamaki.” He watched her body shiver at the thought before she leaned down to retrieve her bag.

“Good point.” Shifting her weight to shoulder her bag she stepped further into the studio.

“Here, I can take that.” Hikaru gestured towards her bag.

Reluctantly she handed it over and followed him towards the work desk.

Depositing the bag on the bench, he cocked a brow back at her. “Is this all you brought?” He asked, looking between Haruhi and the bag.

“I have known you long enough Hikaru Hitachiin to know that you probably already have three suitcases stuffed full of things I will be forced into this week. So yes, my one bag is all I brought so that I have enough hands to drag whatever you have for me back home.”

“Bella, and just when I thought you couldn’t get any smarter, there you go again.” Smiling, he pointed towards the clothing rack against the wall filled with colorful patterns and miscellaneous sized boxes. “You caught me.”  Anything for you, my love.

“You are only making more work for yourself when you do things like this. When did you even have time to pick all of this out?”

“You make time for the important things.” He sighed quietly as he watched her hold up a summer dress dotted with small flowers- that’s one of my favorites.

“What’d you say?” The light clinking and slide of the hangers filling the space between them.

“It wasn’t all me, you know as well as I do how mother feels about dressing up her favorite little doll.” He cooed before gliding his hand over the soft materials hanging at the end of the rack.

Skeptically she placed another cream colored blouse back onto the rack. “Right.”

It’s not like it was a total lie. His mother did pick out things but they were neatly folded and already placed into their own suitcase. This rack was all his doing, but he would never tell her that. “So what do you think?”

“It all looks nice but you know you guys know you don’t have to keep doing things like this just for me.”  

“I know but we are just as stubborn as you are.”

“Thanks. And tell your mother thanks in case I miss her in the business of this weekend, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

Leaving the rack of clothing Haruhi walked back over to the workstation to admire the work she interrupted with her arrival. “This is really beautiful Hika.” Her hands glided across the fabric fluttering over the edge of the table. “Is this the last look?”

Hikaru felt his heartbeat quicken as he watched her admire his work. Without even knowing she had given him the affirmation he needed to unravel his heart to her. Walking up behind her he watched over her shoulder as she lightly held onto the chiffon. “Well, as much as I would like it to be, I’m afraid this one wasn’t meant for the runway.”

Haruhi glanced at the line of mannequins and back at the dress before looking over her shoulder confused. “What do you mean this isn’t the last look? It’s beautiful, it deserves to be seen by everyone.”

“Oh really?” He grinned back at her.

“Yes really.” Turning to face him she lightly pressed her finger into the center of his chest. “You don’t mean to tell me that you had extra time to make this and not put it into the show?”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you but I don’t have an extra body on hand to model this specific piece for the show.” He knew he was cornering her into an unsuspecting trap but he just couldn’t resist pushing her buttons- just a little bit more.

“You are Hikaru Hitachiin, eldest son to the Hitachiin brand! You mean to tell me that you couldn’t find even one person to come in and wear this?”

“Are you volunteering? Because if I recall, I am indeed Hikaru Hitachiin and I did happen to pay for someone to come and wear this piece.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to walk the show but I would be honored if you wore this and accompanied me down the carpet.”

“I can’t wear this! It was meant for someone with a totally different body type. I would practically be swimming in all this fabric.”  

“Well if my last set of measurements for you are still accurate then you shouldn’t be unless you’ve decided to drastically change your body within the last six months.” He was practically giggling as he watched her come to the realization.

“My measurements?”

“Yes, dear, your measurements.”

Turning back around to face the dress she clutched her hands to her chest. “You made this for me?” Her head was swimming as her eyes examined the dress again.

“I couldn’t resist.” His hands twitched as he fought the urge to wrap them around her small frame and snuggle into her tousled hair. Her reaction made it nearly impossible to maintain what little self control he had left.

“You shouldn’t have.” Her voice felt so small in the openness of the studio. She felt her heart begin to betray her composed exterior.

“So is that a yes?”

Haruhi could hear the smile in his voice as he asked. “How am I supposed to say no?”

“If you want there are a few options hanging up on the rack if you would feel more comfortable in something else.” He didn’t want to reveal how his feelings cracked at the thought of her denying his gift as his eyes raked over the garments hanging across the room. “But I will say I will look pretty silly in what I made for myself if you pick something else.” Using humor to try and break the tension of his question. “And if you do decide to wear it I will need to see if I need to make any last minute changes.”

“I think it would be a travesty if no one but you and I were the only ones to see this.” She picked up the dress with care looking around the room. “Changing room?”

“You could always just get dressed in front of the mirror.” He snickered, wiggling his eyebrows back at her. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Har, har, har. Don’t you get enough time looking at half naked bodies?” She deadpanned back at him.

“If you insist.” He tisked, placing a hand at the small of her back he led her to the adjoining room with a partition placed near the corner. “You can change behind here and I can help you with the zipper once you are finished.”

Disappearing behind the partition Haruhi popped back out to wag her finger at him, giving him one final warning. “No peeking.”

“I promise.” Holding his hands up to placate the female’s warning.

Tossing the dress over the top of the partition Haruhi looked at the small box set on the bench placed against the wall. “Most people would be creeped out by someone other than a significant other who bought them lingerie.”

“If that were the case you wouldn’t have any underwear, though I am not opposed to that idea.” He watched her silhouette move behind the partition, letting his imagination wonder. “Can’t have you wearing that dress with just anything underneath, my mother would scold me the entire time on our trip back to Japan.”

Flipping open the box she exchanged her well worn undergarments for the newly purchased ones. “Nice choice,” she remarked at the blush colored lace.

“I thought you might approve. I have a whole other set left out with the other clothes so you have a fresh set this weekend.”

“And what per se are you going to do with my other clothes this time?”

“Well, the last time I burned them and you about choked the life out of me. I would rather not have a repeat of that particular event. Turns out being choked is not my thing.”

Haruhi couldn’t help but giggle at his admission. “Glad to see physical violence was the right choice to get my point across.” Slipping her arms through the off the shoulder sleeves and tightening her hold on the bodice she walked to the edge of the partition turning her back towards the open room. “Zipper please and no peeking.”

“Fine. Fine. No peeking. But it’s going to be kind of hard to find the zipper without my eyes. I might just have to feel around to find it.”

She felt his hands lightly trace down her exposed skin fumbling for the zipper. “We both know that you could do this blindfolded and with one hand.”

“You’re probably right but where’s the fun in that?” His hands gilded the zipper up with ease giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “All ready! Now out to the podium for inspection.”

The deep side slit fluttered open, revealing the smooth skin of her exposed leg, as she followed behind Hikaru back towards the main room of the studio. Taking her place on the podium she watched in the three panel mirror as he moved swiftly around the room flicking on switches and grabbing a pin cushion. The fullness of the gown pooled around her feet before she lifted it lightly allowing it to fall more naturally into its proper resting place. This might just be his best work yet.

“Faccia bella.” He could hear his heart practically pounding out of his chest as he finally allowed himself to look at Haruhi in all of her glory. Her skin glowed under the white lights of the box lights making her look like an ethereal fairy basking in the light of the moon. The dress clung to her body like a second skin, a nearly perfect fit.

“Hikaru?”

A quiet voice bringing him back into reality, eyes snapping to the woman staring at him in the mirror.

"What are you staring at? Is something wrong with the dress?" Glancing down at the gown, she twirled slowly to face him. “Is it not how you thought it would look on me?”

“What? No, its perfect.” The pincushion slipped from his hand, forgotten as he walked up to her.

“Oh good!” Stepping off the podium she did a small twirl. “It doesn’t need any alterations?”

“No alterations needed. You’re perfect.” His eyes shined brightly as he took her hand, placing a gentle kiss upon her knuckle.

Haruhi’s cheeks flushed a light shade of pink as she watched his eyes rake up and down her body. “I don’t want to upstage you at your own show.”

"No matter how long its been, you are still as oblivious as ever."

"What is that supposed to mean? Am I missing something?"

Grabbing her other hand he watched her eyes searching his. All self-control be damned. If he was going to unravel his heart he was going to do it right. Leaning in he watched her eyes for any signs of hesitation. His lips stopped just far enough away to feel her taking shallow breaths. "It has to be obvious now. You know I have feelings for you right? I mean come on Haruhi. I have been chasing after you the moment you walked into the club room. No matter how far apart we are I can't get you out of my mind. The only thing I ever think about is you."

Haruhi’s eyes flicked between his lips and his golden eyes. What is he waiting for? “Hikaru?”

Bending down ever so slightly he closed his eyes and pressed his lips against hers. It was everything he ever wanted. Just a moment. Just one moment. All he had wanted for the past three years was for her to know exactly how he felt. And now here she was in Milan with him, wearing a dress inspired by her, and kissing him. It was pure and wonderful. “Woah.”

“Woah,” she responded back breathlessly.

Releasing her hands he brought his up to cradle her face, caressing the softness of her cheeks before pulling her in for another kiss. If this was going to be the only and last time he would be able to kiss her he was going to make the most of it.

She found herself responding to his kiss, hesitantly wrapping her arms around his back pulling him closer, deepening their kiss. Perhaps between school and work, she had found herself thinking of him too.

After a few more moments of pure bliss, he found himself giving her one final kiss before pressing his forehead against hers. He couldn’t help but smile as he tried to catch his breath. “Sorry, I just couldn’t go another moment without you knowing my feelings and after seeing you in the dress my heart was going to explode if I kept it in any longer.”

“Maybe I am a bit too oblivious for my own good sometimes.” Haruhi chuckled nervously.

Laughter bubbled up from his chest as he wrapped her up in a hug. “You don’t say?”

“A little.”

“I’ll take your kissing me back as a sign of your agreement to be my girlfriend. Do you agree to the terms?”

“And just what kind of terms are we dealing with with your proposed agreement?”

“Future lawyer-like as always. Well I guess it would be what we are doing now plus you get the benefit of now having a significant other who is really good at picking out lingerie. Deal?”

“Hmm, deal.”

“Does this mean I am allowed to peek now?”

“Just because I am your girlfriend now does not mean that my no peeking rule is redacted. Instead of acting like a respectable profession you now have to act as a respectable boyfriend.”

“ Merda (shit).”

[vikingpoteto]

problem solver

Read on AO3

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Relationships:  GEN. Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne

Summary: Tim's job has always been fixing things up, giving everyone backup, making sure there is a contigency plan for the contigency plan and everything runs smoothly. However, even the best of them ought to grow exhausted and maybe - just maybe - Tim needs to learn that, when you have your family's back, they're willing to return the favor.

________________________

He had had nightmares that felt sweeter than the present.

Even with his arm twisted in a painful lock behind his back and his  cheek pressed to the ground, Tim doesn’t feel anything but fatigue. He thinks to himself that it’s been a while since the last time Jason had held him like that, like Tim was the enemy.

Tim doesn’t blame him, though. Even from where he is, he can see Dick kneeling next to Damian’s limp body. It’s a shame that Cass wasn’t around, really, she would’ve been fast enough to stop Tim. Or perhaps Duke, with his powers. But maybe not. They wouldn’t expect Tim to do that, so even the fastest of them wouldn’t have stopped him once he started moving.

There is a puddle of blood on the ground ant that’s an unpleasant sight.

Just that.

Unpleasant.

Damian isn't moving and Tim just wishes he didn’t have to see it.

“ Timothy ,” Jason hisses. When he notices Tim isn’t fighting, he  loosens his grip a bit. When Tim still doesn’t move, Jason turns him around abruptly and shakes him by the shoulders. “Tim, what the fuck was that? Who did this to you? Who’s controlling you?”

Right. Of course Jason’s mind would go there. Jay had been out of control before, after all, he still didn’t believe Tim had done such a horrible thing. He should feel good that his brother has that much faith in him, but, again, it feels like nothing.

“It was me,” Tim says, his voice weak. “It was all me. I’m such a failure, aren’t I? But it’s fine. None of this is real.”

Tim had never seen Jason looking so horrified. He likes that about as much as the puddle of blood.

“It’ll be over soon,” Tim assures, and he glances at the giant computer screen. The clock says 00:59. It changes to 01:00. He closes his eyes just as he feels Jason’s hands leaving him.

He opens his eyes again. He’s still in the cave. Jason has retreated several steps and is now staring at Tim like never before, an emotion so intense he doesn’t know how to name. He turns around. Dick is now cradling Damian in his arms, but the boy is still not moving even as his older brother pathetically calls his name.

Tim doesn’t like that either, so closes his eyes again.

He opens his eyes. Nothing’s changed. He stares at the computer. 01:01, says the clock, but Tim isn’t waking up.

“Why am I not waking up?”

No one answers him. He still doesn’t wake up. Dick starts openly sobbing, but Damian doesn’t open his eyes to tell him to stop being a baby. Tim doesn’t wake up and Jason doesn’t approach him again and Tim doesn’t dare look at him, because he’s suddenly aware that Jason looking at him like that hurts a lot. Tim doesn’t wake up, but neither does Damian and he’s slowly realizing he’s the one that’s done that and nothing is happening to change that and that hurts more.

Tim is a problem solver. He had come to the Wayne Manor, joined the BatFamily because he was going to fix things, he was supposed to keep everyone safe-

Tim wakes up. He’s alone on his bed. The phone on the bedside table says it’s 1am, sharp.

On that night, Bruce is awake, as he is most nights. It isn’t his turn to patrol. He could be in his bed now, using the night off to get some rest.

However, as much as he chastises Tim for his (lack of) sleeping habits, Bruce can’t sleep, not even when he isn’t on duty. Especially when he isn’t on duty. He stalls, ignores Dick’s judgemental looks and ends up at the Batcave going over a cold case that might be active again, his eldest on his shoulder. He’ll sleep as soon as Cassandra and Duke come home.

Damian is at the computer reading a police report and Bruce has half a mind to send him to bed - he’s still figuring out the most efficient way to do so - when he hears rushed footsteps.

“DAMIAN!” Tim shouts from the entrance, his voice echoes horribly against the silence.

Bruce lets out a tired sigh, wondering what sort of prank it was this time. He watches as Tim darts down into the cave and makes a beeline to Damian, Bruce and Dick tensing up and getting ready to intervene in a fight as Damian jumps to his feet and stands on guard to… be wrapped tightly into Tim’s arms.

“Drake, what is the meaning of this?” Damian gasps, his voice breaking in his confusion.

Only then Bruce notices Tim’s shoulders are shaking. Tim squeezes his little brother tighter against his chest and lets himself fall to his knees, dragging Damian down a bit.

“Cease this absurd behavior right away!” Damian demands, glancing at Bruce and Dick as though expecting them to do something.

Both of them had been stunned into inaction, however.

“Y-you’re here,” Tim chokes out. Tim is crying. “I thought I- I thought I lost you.”

Damian’s eyes grow wide in utter panic. He finally wraps his tiny arms around the other boy. He again looks at his father in a silent, but clear plea of help.

As usual, Dick is faster to recover. “Timmy?” He calls, approaching his brothers and crouching down by their side. “Timmy, what’s going on?”

Tim simply shakes his head, his face buried into Damian’s chest and his body still trembling. Bruce knows Tim has been through a lot. All of them have. He knows Tim particularly is familiar with loss. Still, Bruce doesn’t remember ever seeing Tim breaking down like that.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers, “I’m so sorry, Dami, I really thought I- I-”

“You what? What has gotten into you, you energum?”

“I- I thought you were dead,” Tim whispers.

That finally shocks Bruce into moving. One of his children is breaking down in front of him, he has to do something. He joins Dick by kneeling in front of his youngest sons and slowly reaches for Tim’s shoulder.

“Tim, Damian is here. He’s safe. You both are,” he says.

Tim lets out a strangled laughter without any humor and Bruce doesn’t want to hear such a horrible sound ever again. “N-not thanks to me, he isn’t.”

Dick makes as if he’s going to try to pry Tim off of Damian to be able to see his face. Damian glares him down before he can do anything. Dick settles for squeezing his brother’s other shoulder and asking in a soft voice:

“Timmy, can you explain what’s going on? Did you have a nightmare?”

“ God . I wish,” Tim sobs, his voice still muffled into his brother’s chest. “Except I can’t wake up. I never wake up, not for real. Th-this why I don’t like sleeping.”

At loss, Dick turns to Bruce, worry twisting his expression and confusion in his eyes. As their father, Bruce should have answers. He doesn’t have answers. He simply watches his teenage son shake in utter grief no child should be so familiar with and he is powerless and confused. It feels awful to just sit back and know there is something for him to do, however it’s outside of his knowledge.

“C-compose yourself, Drake,” Damian tries again. But his voice is weaker now, a little hoarse. His little arms are still awkwardly looped around Tim and his gaze shows he’s petrified.

Dauntless and brash Damian looks like the 12-year-old he is, confused and scared. Damian, Bruce realizes, had never seen Tim breaking down. Tim is his rival, his infuriatingly logical and calculating brother that can take any situation swiftly and solve any problem by sheer force of will. Tim, that never wavered, even when Damian was trying his hardest to crack him.

Bruce can’t wallow in self-pity about his parental skills now. His pride is nowhere near as important as his children. “Tim,” he asks, being careful to keep his voice calm and collected. “Son, talk to me. What do you need from us?”

What he needs, what he wants. Whatever it is, Bruce will get it.

Tim hesitantly pulls away from Damian without letting him go. When he turns to his father, it takes every bit of Bruce’s strength to keep his calm mask. There are  bags darker than usual under Tim’s clear eyes, his nose is crimson red and his usually bony face is puffy from so much crying. His helpless expression breaks Bruce’s heart in a million pieces.

“Jason,” Tim says, his voice hefty. “Bring Jason here. Please.”

Dick is already moving before Tim finishes his request. Bruce stays with his son.

“He’ll be here soon,” he says, certain. His last encounter with Red Hood had been less than ideal, but Bruce knows Jason won’t ignore a call from Dick and he especially won’t hesitate to come for Tim. “What else?”

“Just J-Jason. It has to be Jay.”

“That’s not what it looks like,” Damian mumbles, still caught in Tim’s embrace.

Tim lets out a little chuckle. Again it’s hollow, humorless. Bruce hates it.

“I’m sorry, Dami,” Tim mutters. “Just… Just a little bit more. I need this.”

“Tt. Do what you must."

Jason was asleep when he got the call. He wants to tell his brother to fuck off and go back to bed, but with their family business being like it is… Well. Jason knows it’s never a good idea to ignore a phone call. Dick sounded confused when he asked Jason to come over because Tim needs him and he couldn’t explain why.

It’s a good thing Jason doesn't need why. Dick says Tim is asking for him. Tim never asks for what he needs, not unless the world is ending. Jason was getting into his outfit and out of the door before Dick hangs up.

He doesn’t know what to expect when he rides into the cave. Dick assured him that Tim wasn’t physically hurt, he was just asking for Jason. He certainly didn’t expect to find his brother sitting on the computer chair with Damian on his lap.

It’d be cute if it wasn’t concerning. Damian is still short enough to sit there almost comfortably with Tim’s chin resting on his shoulder and Tim’s arms loosely wrapped around his middle. Damian has his arms crossed like the world's grumpiest teddy bear and a murderous expression that challenges Jason to laugh at the scene if he wishes for death.

Jason doesn’t laugh. Not when his eyes meet Tim’s and it’s clear that his brother had been crying not long ago. He ignores Bruce and Dick uselessly standing around and takes off his helmet before walking towards his younger brothers.

“What’s happening?” he asks.

When Tim speaks, his voice is almost to hoarse to recognize. “I’m stuck in a time loop.”

“Damn it. Again?”

His sarcastic reply makes Tim’s lips quirk up a bit. His expression returns to somber too fast for Jason’s liking.

“You’re the only one that always believes me right away,” Tim tells him.

As hypocritical as it is, Jason hates magic shit. Hates it.

“Alright. Let’s break your loop. What’s the last thing you remember before the loop?”

“It was 10pm. Alfred forced me to go to bed. Then I wake up three hours later and it starts.”

Jason glances at Bruce and Dick and they nod in confirmation that that’s their latests Tim memory too. He turns back to his brother.

“Alright. Any constants?”

While time loops are a first for them, they watched enough movies to know there is always something specific repeating itself.

Before answering, Tim hesitates and squeezes Damian again. Jason is surprised when the gremlin uncrosses his arms and awkwardly offers Tim a little pat on the hand.

“The thing that always happens is… You die.”

Jason goes stiff. He can hear Bruce and Dick reacting behind him, but he has to focus on keeping himself calm. Despite his own issues, this is still about Tim.

“Just me?” he asks, as casually as he manages.

“Just you.”

Slowly putting what he knows together, Jason glances at the protective way Tim is holding Damian. Of all of them to be stuck in a time loop, he thinks Tim is the most likely to think his way out. Of all of them, he has the best memory, he’s the one that finds it easier to put away his feelings in a little box and do what’s the best to be done. For him to be that distressed about Damian…

Jason doesn’t beat around the bush, the way he knows Tim prefers. “Tim, did you kill Damian on the last loop?”

Dick inhales sharply. Bruce doesn’t make any noise, but Jason figures he’s frozen in horror. Damian stares at Jason as if he’s gone mad as Tim squeezes him a bit tighter before slowly retreating into the chair. His arms are still around his younger brother, but all Damian had to do was to stand up and he’d be free of his hugging pillow duty. Damian doesn’t move, not even when Tim whispers:

“I did.”

Jason nods. He’s glad that Tim’s eyes are trained on his, because he doesn’t want to even imagine what kind of reaction Dick and Bruce are showing behind him.

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

Tim breathes in and out. “It was the seventy-first loop. You were teasing him over something stupid and he had that… that stupid katana. He said he was going to kill if you didn’t shut up and I...” At this point, he retreats fully into the chair, willingly putting distance between him and his little brother. “I didn’t think. I was on high alert for any threat, I just… I hit him with my staff. He fell. I hit him in the back of the head, and… he didn’t get up.”

Damian still doesn’t leave. His expression is unreadable.

“And… and I didn’t care. Dick was horrified, you restrained me and I just… I just got annoyed and waited. But then it was time, the loop didn’t restart and I-”

Tim runs out of breath and chokes on thin air, unable to continue for a moment. No one says anything, even Jason unsure of where to start. He also notices that the whole time Tim doesn't make any excuses for himself, like he does for the many people that hurt him in the past and he's forgiven. He doesn't use the word accident. He doesn't try to remind them he didn't mean to, even though he didn't. Jason thought Tim was making a lot of progress on the self-worth department lately, but apparently some steps backwards were taken.

“I thought it was over. I thought I cemented a timeline in which I killed my little brother. What kind of monster am I? How come my first instinct was to deadly wound anyone, let alone Damian? Then it restarted and… And I don’t know if I can do this anymore. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe you guys should put me-”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Damian hisses. He turns to face Tim, his tiny arms tightly crossed again and his eyes steeled with conviction. “I thought you were supposed to be smart, Drake.”

“Damian,” Jason starts in warning.

Damian makes a gesture to silence him and continues: “How can you think that’s your first instinct? That was hardly the first thing you’ve done. What sounds to me is that you watched your favorite brother die seventy times and you were pushed to the extreme. I would not call that bloodlust.”

Tim blinks. “But I didn’t…”

“Of course you didn’t care. You thought it was inconsequential. After watching a family member’s gruesome death so many times, you’d be desensitized as a defense mechanism. That’s only logical. As soon as you thought it might be real, however, you reacted as expected and came to me crying like a child.”

No one says anything for a moment. Damian deliberately leans backwards, pressing his back to Tim’s stomach.

“Besides, it was an accident. You didn’t attack to kill, you attacked to incapacitate and miscalculated the amount of strength needed. It happens to the best of us.”

Jason could have smiled at the kid. He thinks his lips quirk up against his will when Damian grabs Tim’s hands and pulls them so he’s being held again. Confusion replaces the lost look on Tim’s face for a bit.

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but the gremlin is right. You’re fine, Timbers,” Jason says.

For a horrible moment, blue eyes become watery and Jason feels as though there is a knife twisting in his gut. He doesn’t remember the last time he’d seen Tim crying. It’s not one of his favorite experiences.

“Timmy,” Dick starts, his voice soft. “How long is every loop?”

“About 24 hours,” Tim says. “It restarts exactly at 1am.”

“And in all of those loops… how many times have you stopped to sleep? Or eat?”

Tim stares at his older brother as though he’s speaking an alien dialect. Dick sighs.

“Well, buddy, it sounds like you’ve been awake for 2 hellish months.”

“But… But I’m always in my room at 1am. Doesn’t that mean I got to sleep like Alfred wanted?”

“Well. We can’t know for sure, but you sure looks like someone that needs some rest,” Dick insists.

Tim tries to protest but Bruce walks to him and combs his fingers through his son’s hair. The touch is enough to shut him up.

“Let’s be practical, chum,” he says. “We need you to be okay to be able to help us. I don’t think you can as you are now. I need you to drink a glass of warm milk and take a nap for about an hour. While you rest, your brothers and I will do research into time anomalies. When you get up, you can join us. How’s that sound?”

A frown. Jason is ready to force him if he must. He resolves crumbles a bit when his little brother turns his gaze to him and asks in the smallest voice:

“Are you still going to be here when I wake up?”

Jason’s throat is clogged. He used to think that his early demise had been inconsequential and that hurt like hell. He didn’t think that it hurt just as much to learn that it mattered, that his family cared, that Tim cared so much, because Jason never ever wanted to be the reason behind that forlorn look in any of his brothers, let alone Tim. Tim who was always there for them, who always worked the hardest, who was Jason’s go0to prank partner, who laughed at his jokes and embraced him as family when he had every reason not to.

“I promise I will,” Jason manages. “You know I’m a man of word, Timbers.”

“We’ll take care of him for you,” Dick adds. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid until you’re back to scold him and all that.

Tim hesitates, glancing from one brother to the other and then to their father. He seems to try and assess his condition and recognizes he feels tired - if not physically, Jason doesn’t need to be a genius to know he must be emotionally exhausted. Finally, he nods.

Well, that had been a rollercoaster from start to… the middle? Damian doesn’t think this is the end per se. It’s best if they put their plan into action sooner better than later, so the boy finally jumps to his feet in order to leave his brother’s lap

“Very well,” he says, “I reckon I’m on Drake Duty, is that correct?”

“Drake Duty?” Timothy repeats, frowning.

Damian shoots him a haughty glare. “Forgive me if I don’t trust you, but you do have the habit of sneaking under our noses to do extra work when you’re supposed to be resting. I’ll be the one making sure you stay in your bed, as you should.”

Besides, Damian doesn’t think Timothy should be left alone as it is. Not that he minds, he just thinks the older boy is unstable and needs to be watched. He’s not worried, just cautious.

“Hm. I was actually going to take a nap at the reading den?” Timothy says. “I… I don’t want to be in my room right now.”

It’s to be expected that he wants to avoid the place where the loop starts, of course.

“Tim, you’re going to wreck your spine if you keep sleeping in the library,” Richard chastises gently.

Damian sighs. “If your room is the issue, mine should suffice, isn’t that right? You may take a rest in my bed.”

The surprised look Timothy gives him is outward insulting. Damian feels as though the others have the same expression, so his cheeks start getting warmer. Annoyed, he tuts and grabs Timothy's hand, starting to drag him away.

“Well? We should not be wasting time!”

“Uh. Yeah,” Timothy mutters. Then, sounding a bit more like his usual self, he tells the others: “We have yet to contact Doctor Fate or Zatanna, they do not pick up their phones. Constantine will answer if Dick’s the one calling, but the day restarted before we knew if he was any help. Bart and Wally have no idea about what’s going on, but uncle Barry had a hunch based on his last essay. Do not contact Booster Gold, his place is on fire and we wasted a lot of time putting it out and he was no help. … Maybe send someone there to help him?”

By then, Damian has successfully dragged Timothy out of the cave and their brothers and father were left to follow his directions. Damian briefly consideres forcing Timothy to sleep and joining them, but decides against it. Thomas and Cain should be joining them soon and he knows their father won’t rest until he finds an appropriate solution.

“You don’t have to do this, Dami,” Timothy says. “I promise I’ll actually sleep. I can take Jason’s bedroom instead. He hasn’t used it in ages, but I know Alfred didn’t leave it dusty.”

Damian ignores him.

“Really, you-”

“For someone that couldn’t let go of me until a couple of minutes ago, you’re sure talking a lot of nonsense,” Damian huffs. “I’m not Todd, but I know you enough that I'm sure that, the moment I leave your sight, you’re going to start torturing yourself.”

Timothy is silent after that. They go up the stairs like that and for the first time Damian doesn’t feel like a toddler while he holds someone’s hand. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s the one guiding or the strange situation. Despite everything, it isn’t entirely unpleasant. He considers for a moment telling Richard that he doesn’t hate hand-holding after all, but decides against it. Richard would definitely abuse that knowledge.

Alfred the cat is napping on Damian’s bed when they arrive. For a moment, Damian panics over having to kick out his precious pet - he has slept on the floor for Alfred before and he’d do it again - but, as soon as he sees his owner, Alfred mercifully stretches and moves to the bottom of the mattress, leaving plenty of free space.

Looking nothing like the, Damian begrudgingly admits, intimidating hero Red Robin, Timothy fumbles with the hem of his ratty hoodie and hesitates. The hoodie is purple and weirdly tight around the arms, so Damian suspects that it belongs to someone else. It gives him an idea.

“Do you need me to bring Brown over?” he asks.

Again, Timothy gives him a surprised look.

Stubbornly, Damian holds his gaze even when he feels his cheeks warming up. He knows he’s not suggesting anything outlandish, because he knows Brown’s unstoppable cheerfulness is on par with the Bats' unmoving angst. He also knows calling her is acceptable, because he heard Todd make the same suggestion once. Timothy was running himself to the ground over an unsolved case and snapped at Todd. Instead of putting Timothy in his place, Todd had simply rolled his eyes and asked Timothy in a whisper Damian is sure he wasn’t supposed to hear, do you want me to ask Steph to come over? and lo and behold, an hour later Brown was climbing inside and making a lot of noise. She forced Timothy to eat and the two ended up asleep together in the living room. On the following day, Timothy looked more like a human being.

“Steph is out of town,” Timothy says. “I tried calling her in a couple of loops. She’s always out of town.”

Oh.

If Brown isn’t around, Timothy has to settle for the next best thing, that would be… well, Todd. But Todd is busy, so the next best thing would be… Cain. Then Richard. … Then Thomas.

But alas! None of them are available so Damian will have to do.

“Well then,” he mumbles. “She’s too noisy anyway. Why are you still standing?”

Like a skittish stray, Timothy climbs beneath Damian’s blanket while Damian stands there, his hands on his hips and his foot tapping on the floor impatiently.

Once he’s settled, Timothy glances at him. “Are you going to just… stand there?”

Damian supposes it’s not ideal to try to sleep with a standing guard, is it? With another tut, he climbs into bed as well, glad that it’s big enough for the two of them and then some.

...then, seeing Timothy’s wide eyes, Damian realizes this isn’t the outcome he expected. Damian curses inwardly, because he can never predict what Timothy is thinking. Richard is ridiculously easy to read, as is Thomas. Todd and Cain he can understand to an extent. But Timothy? He’s a complete mystery.

“Hm. Dami, are…” Timothy struggles with his words. That’s a first. “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

Damian tries to kill him with a single glare. Timothy seems to find his expression amusing and relaxes a bit.

“Not like that, brat, you know I know you’re deadly, and all that. I mean… aren’t you wary of me after I said…”

“Do you want me to repeat the very solid arguments I already presented?”

“No, just… I get them, rationally. They make sense. But still.”

Damian sighs. “Still nothing. If that’s the case, shouldn’t you be wary of me? I did try to end you. Repeatedly.”

“That was a long time ago, though, we didn’t really know each other.”

“And, by all means, your traumatic experience was with a version of me I don't even know from a reality I’m not a part of. Go to sleep, Drake.”

They stay quiet for a moment. Timothy sits up abruptly. Before Damian can scold him, he grabs the alarm clock on the bedside table and sets it to go off one hour from now, which is smart, Damian will give him that. Then he glares until Timothy lies down again and they’re both on their sides, facing one another.

Alfred the cat stands again and comes lie down between the two boys. The room is completely silent save for soft purs and the even softer tick-tock coming from the nightstand.

Damian stares at his brother’s closed eyelids and he knows Timothy is wide awake.

“Do you really see me like that?” he hears himself whispering.

As expected, Timothy’s eyes shoot open. “Of course not, Dami.”

All right, ouch. That hurts.

“I know you would never hurt Jason,” Timothy proceeds. “That’s why I… that’s why I was so messed up. I knew you weren’t a real threat, not to him. But I still freaked, I still moved before I could think and I…”

Oh. Damian hadn’t considered that, but that’s reassuring. He nods briefly but soon adds:

“I don’t mean that. I mean what you said after.”

Timothy frowns. “What?”

“You know.”

“I really don’t.”

“Forget it.”

“No, Dami, what is it? You know I’m curious, I’m not gonna by able to sleep if you don’t tell me.”

The boy groans, because how is he the youngest in this situation?

“I meant… When you said I’m your little brother.”

“Oh.” Timothy blinks owlishly, his eyes growing big before his voice grows small:  “I mean… yeah. I know it’s not mutual, but… You’re part of my family, Damian. Sure, an annoying, cocky part, but… I like having you around. I still love you. I wouldn’t want to send you away or to hurt you or… anything like that.”

Damian makes a dismissive noise and looks away. Timothy used to be more bearable. He wouldn’t say out loud those things to anyone when Damian first arrived. It was his time with that gang of hooligans that were Jon’s brother and the other two that ruined Timothy. He came back home a lot more willing to let Richard cling to him and comfortable saying such embarrassing things to Cain and Pennyworth and Todd and… and now Damian.

“Dami, did you… did you think I don’t see you as a brother?” Timothy asks.

More mumbling. Damian isn’t avoiding his gaze because he’s embarrassed, but because Timothy’s icy stare can be so stupidly intense it’s uncomfortable.

“I thought I burned that bridge a couple of attempted murders ago,” he finally admits.

“That happened to a version of me from a reality I’m no longer a part of.”

Another frustrated noise. He buries his face into the pillow.

“Damian.” Timothy calls. Annoyingly, he waits until Damian looks at him. It’s a trick he learned from Richard, Damian is sure.  “You’re my little brother. For best or worse, I… I’ll never let something like the last loop happen. Ever.”

Damian doesn’t know what to say, so he remains silent. Timothy realizes he’s not getting any reply, so he simply closes his eyes again.

It seems unfair that Timothy has to make that whole speech when Damian is the one that’s supposed to be in charge. It feels like he’s losing somehow. Letting out a huff, Damian mutters:

“It is.”

“Hm?”

“You said it’s not mutual. That’s ridiculous. You can’t be someone’s relative one-sidedly. Of course it’s mutual.”

It takes a second for his words to register, and, when they do, Timothy finally lets his lips twist into that annoying smirk he usually wears. He looks genuinely happy, albeit in a tired way.

“Ugh, do not let Richard hear about this,” Damian groans, closing his eyes and turning his back to his brother

“Goodness gracious, I would never.” Timothy chuckles. His sarcasm is less effective when his voice is still hoarse from all the crying. “In exchange, promise me you won’t forget that on the next loop.”

Goddamnit, Damian has to turn back. “There will be no next loop.”

“Hmm.”

“Timothy? Look at me.” He does. Damian sustains his gaze. “There will be no other loop. We’re going to fix this as soon as we wake up. You have my word.”

A little hesitation, a lot of fear of holding onto hope. Timothy reaches for Damian’s hand.

“I believe you. So. Am I Timothy now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Drake.”

“Thought so,” Tim says.

Tim allows himself to close his eyes. Damian’s hand is small and warm and undeniably alive. His older brothers are downstairs trying to fix this for him. His father is going to protect him, too. Soon his sister and his new brother will join them and there is no doubt in his mind that they’re going to have his back.

His family is going to solve it for him.

[wondersofdreaming]

Lost Boys - THREE

Characters: August Walker / Captain Syverson / Walter Marshall

Word count: 2.389

Warnings: Family reunion. Memory overload. Realization. Hurt. Self-loading.

Author’s note: Everything in this story is a figment of my imagination, with inspiration and snippets from the movies ‘Mission: Impossible - Fallout’, ‘Sand Castle’, ‘Nomis/Night Hunter’. This is pure fanfiction. If something doesn’t make sense, it’s not supposed to.

I do now own any of the characters from the movies that I write about in this story. Only the OFC’s are mine.

Tag: @katerka88​ @littlefreya​ @hell1129-blog​ @radaofrivia​ @gothwhopper​ @fcgrizi​ @vania-marie​ @mary-ann84​ @sciapod​ @mitzwinchester​ @omgkatinka​ @mis-lil-red (your tag isn’t working 😢)

MASTERLIST

Feedback is appreciated. Seriously, please tell me all the good and bad stuff, else I won’t be able to develop into a better writer if I don’t know what I’m doing right and wrong. I swear I don’t bite.

[ONE] [TWO] [FOUR] [FIVE] [SIX] [SEVEN] [EIGHT] [NINE] [TEN]

Lucas was sent home to Georgia to heal. Joshua, the Syverson’s biological son, flew across the Atlantic Ocean to meet and bring him home. Silvia Syverson was a stern woman, and when she wanted her younger son to pick up her adoptive older son that is what she would get. His brother had been curious about what had happened, as a medical practitioner he was also compassionate and wanted to help in any way he could.

A 12-hour plane ride later Lucas was back in his childhood home, lying in his old bedroom filled with rock music posters. On his dresser sat an old boombox and next to it, a towering stack of CDs.

Silvia had demanded he got some rest. There he was. Staring at the ceiling like a good little boy. Fuck. He was a captain in the US Army. He had seen death and destruction enough to last two lifetimes, and he was still a little momma’s boy.

After dinner that evening, Lucas asked his mother for the things he had with him when he was sent to be fostered by them.

“Are you sure you want to rip up in the past?” Silvia asked him, her brows pushed together in concern.

“Ma, I need to know.”

She sighed and motioned for him to follow her. Joshua was right behind the two. All three entered the basement and towards the wall filled with stacks of boxes.

“One of them should be labelled Trevor Thompson.”

Lucas started lifting his uninjured arm to one of the top boxes, but a steely look from his mother made him back away and sit on the stairs.

“Joshua, come help your old mother,” Silvia commanded her younger son, who was snickering behind his older brother.

“There’s nothing old about you, ma,” the younger man said and kissed his mother’s cheek. He started taking box after box down. Of course, the box that belonged to Trevor Thompson was at the bottom of the pile.

It contained Trevor’s birth certificate, fostering papers, adoption papers, name changing papers, and a black photo album. Lucas opened it with one hand and a pair of blue eyes were staring right back at him. The same colour as his own haunted eyes. Beneath the photo was written ‘Jennifer Thompson’. The next page shocked him even more. ‘William Thompson’, Lucas was the spitting image of him, besides the eye colour. In his dream, his father was always too far away to get a close enough look besides some minuscule features.

“Wow, Luc, you look just like your dad,” Joshua exclaimed, “You even have the same freckle on your lower lip.”

“Josh, that is creepy as hell that you notice stuff like that,” Lucas looked at his brother with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m a doctor, I would be a terrible one, if I didn’t notice the little things. Now turn the page and let’s see those brothers of yours.”

Lucas sighed, preparing himself mentally to take a look at his biological brothers. Brothers he couldn’t remember until a week ago. They had shared a womb, so why the hell couldn’t he remember them?

Silvia noticed the change in her son. She put a hand on his good shoulder and squeezed. He looked into her green eyes that were giving him the confidence to face the past.

“Lucas, you were five years old. Don’t beat yourself up for not remembering.”

“I just have this feeling that we were so very close as children. I feel bad for forgetting them. They are my brothers. I’d do anything for my brothers, those in the army and even Josh.”

“Gee thanks, bro.”

Lucas chuckled and turned the page. Three identical young boys were smiling back at him. One of them had a front tooth missing. Probably himself. He couldn’t even see the difference between who was who in that picture. Only the names under each boy answered his question.

Trevor, Oliver and James.

“Aw, Luc, look at how innocent you looked once. Now you’re a grumpy old man with a beard,” Joshua was teasing him. Lucas ignored his little brother and looked at the next page, which was of the entire family sitting on a porch swing all together, laughing and smiling. The boys were smaller, maybe three years old at the time.

A sense of sadness washed over him. The flush of some childhood memories overwhelmed him. Lucas closed the book. He handed it back to his mother and walked away from the basement. Both mother and brother calling his name, he didn’t listen, just kept walking. He needed to be alone, to collect his thoughts. His mind was flooding with a million memories, his heart was racing, his legs just kept walking, until he was standing at the end of the driveway. He went into a sprint and ran as fast as he could to the beach, or as fast as his broken arm would allow him.

The beach was almost void of people. Only a few were out swimming or walking along the edge of the water. Lucas sat down and just let his mind wander. Letting all the memories in. His brain was throbbing, the feeling was like it wanted to escape from the cramped space of his skull.

Memories of smiles, laughter, love. He remembered the devastating feeling when two policemen came to the front door and told their neighbour, who had been watching over them, that their parents had died. A social worker, Marcy Kane, had taken care of the boys until they were divided into new families. He remembered a lot of yelling and screaming.

“They are only young boys. You shouldn’t separate them. They need each other!” Marcy roared at her boss.

“Nobody wants to take in three boys at the same time, so either you calm down, or you are off the case.”

The next he remembered was Marcy crouching in front of the three boys. They hadn’t said a word since the news of their parents’ death. They had vowed not to talk or be happy again without their parents.

“James, Oliver, Trevor. I’m sorry.” She started and hugged each boy in her warm embrace. It nearly made Trevor cry. As the eldest of three, he needed to stay strong for his brothers.

The families came and picked up each of the boys, separating them, forcing them apart from each other. Marcy put the medallion of Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton over each boy before they departed. None of the boys cried. They had made another pact, to find each other when they were old enough. A vow all three of them forgot as they grew up.

Now it was time to make that vow come true.

Lucas stood and brushed the sand from his well-shaped ass. With a clear mind, he walked home to get some sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

Joshua drove him to city hall. They released his papers but there was nothing hinting where his brothers had ended up.

Back home he called an old army buddy, Aiden, who had started a private detective company when he was released from the military. It took Aiden a few hours before he called back.

“Aiden, any news?” Lucas asked the minute he answered the phone.

“Yeah. I have some good and a whole mountain of bad, which one do you want first?” His friend told him.

“Give me the good ones. You found my brother? James?”

“I did. He was sent to live with a family in Minnesota. He’s still there. He changed his name to Walter Matthew Marshall, and guess what, he’s a police detective. He used to be S.W.A.T. and, dude, he has a daughter.”

“I have a niece?”

“Yes, congratulations Uncle Lucas. Are you ready for the bad news?”

“Hit me.”

“The brother, Oliver, you met in Iraq, he was moved to Virginia and changed his name to August Christopher Walker.”

“August? What the fuck kind of name is that? August is a month, not a name.”

“That’s not the worst part. Lucas, he was in the CIA.”

“He was definitely well trained. What else?”

“He rebelled.”

“What do you mean ‘rebelled’? What did he do?”

“Luc… your brother is wanted for planning to set off nuclear bombs around the world.”

Lucas nearly dropped his phone. His parents and brother were giving him worried looks. He went to sit down on the sofa before telling Aiden to continue.

“They thought he had died somewhere north of India, but they haven’t found his body. And there’s a warrant for his head from all the intelligence agencies around the globe.”

“How much?”

Nothing. Aiden kept his mouth shut.

“Aiden, tell me. How much?”

A heavy sigh could be heard through the speaker.

“A hundred.”

“A hundred what? Just a hundred? A hundred thousand? Spit it out, man.”

“A hundred million dollars. All the agencies want him gone, Lucas.”

“What does the warrant say? Dead or alive?”

“Both.”

Lucas groaned in frustration. What the hell had his brother done? Why had he done it? What happened to him?

“Thanks, Aiden. I really appreciate your help.”

“No problem. Call me if you need any help. Any kind of help.”

“Will do.”

Lucas pushed the end button and threw the phone on the coffee table. His mother came to sit next to him. She touched his left bicep, trying to comfort him without saying anything.

“What now?” Joshua asked and sat on his other side.

“I don’t know.”

“Son, look at me,” his adoptive father, John Syverson, was a rather large man himself. Don’t be fooled by his grey hair and grey beard, he might look like a nice old man, but he could kill people with a spoon. Lucas heard the authoritative tone in his general father’s voice and looked into the compassionate green eyes. “What are my rules?”

“Always be kind.” Joshua and Lucas said at the same time.

“Treat your woman like a queen,” Silvia chimed in.

“Don’t judge people based on the first look,” Joshua continued.

“Don’t do things to make other people happy, do them to make yourself happy,” Silvia smiled.

“And never leave a brother behind,” Lucas’ voice was firm. His mind was made up.

“I’ll book you a ticket to Minnesota.”

“Who’s going to Minnesota?” A soft female voice said from the hall. Four pair of eyes looked at the curvaceous woman entering the living room. The Syverson’s only daughter, who had been born a year after they had adopted Lucas. Her long curly brown hair was put up in a bun, her glasses sitting at the edge of her pretty little nose. She had her father’s deep green eyes.

“Melanie, darling, we didn’t know you were coming home,” Silvia exclaimed and went to hug her daughter.

“I heard through the grapevine that the captain was home, so I had to come home and say hello,” Melanie smirked at Lucas and squeezed his left side, avoiding his casted arm.

“Good to see you, shorty. How’s the University treating you?” Lucas asked and kissed his sister’s forehead. She went to get kisses and hugs from her other brother and father, before plumbing down with a huge sigh on the armchair.

“I love my job. I love that I can do research all day long, I never get tired of that, but lately…” She started.

“Lately, what?” Joshua gave his sister a quizzical look.

“Lately it’s been a bit boring. It’s too much of the same. I know it is what I signed up for when I accepted the job, but I was also promised more fieldwork, where I would be able to travel and study the texts, ceramics, and people up close, not from a computer where someone is streaming. So, I’m taking a sabbatical, one year where I figure out, if I still want to do desk research or if I need to find a job that is better suited for what I want and need.”

Silvia and John gave each other a look that only a married couple could give. They were communicating non-verbally. Lucas looked at his parents.

“No,” he said sternly. “Not in a million years.”

“You need someone to help you,” Silvia told her son in the same hard voice.

“I can take care of myself.”

“You’ll need help with the cast.”

“Josh can help me.”

“Sorry, bro. I have to be back at work on Monday.”

Lucas sighed and turned to the young woman, who had put her hair down. Her long curl cascading down her shoulder.

“Melanie, will you come with me to Minnesota?” He said through gritted teeth.

“Anything for you, Luc. What’s going on in Minnesota?”

“We’re going to find my brothers.”

Lucas had filled his sister in on his history. She had taken one look at all his documents and said she would figure out why in the world they had to be separated into three different states. They dropped their belongings off at a nearby hotel, walking to the precinct where Walter Marshall worked.

The secretary at the front desk didn’t even look up when they entered and just told them where to go.

“Hey Marshall, when did you break your arm? And I thought you said something ‘bout never wanting to cut your hair.” A young man, fresh from the police academy by the looks of it, was yelling from the other side of the room. He walked over and gave Melanie an appreciative look over. Lucas clenched his left hand into a fist; it wasn’t his dominant hand, but he could still break the little fucker’s nose.

“Hi, we’re looking for Walter Marshall, could you direct us to his office?” Melanie asked as she blinked a few times. Lucas smiled; he knew the look in her eyes. The charm-glare as he called it. That look that had gotten her out of trouble countless times.

“Well, miss, he’s right here,” he motioned at Lucas.

“Cade, get back to work or I’ll wring your neck,” a deep grumpy voice said behind them. Lucas turned around to look into another mirror version of himself. Walter Marshall was standing with his leg spread, his arms crossed over his broad chest, wearing a black jumper. His eyes widened as he looked at Lucas. “My office, now.”