#Luke is Not having a good time but hey he doesn't lose a hand

[fioiswriting]

Reunion | Sequel

[Part 1]

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral f receiving, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, anxiety, Reader has a child, grief, fluff, pregnancy, not proofread. 

Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

Words count : 9150

Author's note : Hello everyone!! Sorry for the wait, I've been very busy, but here's part two of Reunion (or at least the first part two, let's call it part 2.1 hehe). Thank you again for all you kind comments and the love you've given my fanfic omg!! Spoiler alert: this is the happy alternate ending! But I've got another bittersweet alternative ending planned 😈 If you think the first part was good enough on its own and the sequel may break the vibe, don't force yourself to read!! But if you need a happy ending, here it is <3 The plot still doesn't make any sense, but hey, we're here to have fun so enjoy ❤️

English is still not my first (or second) language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes <3

When you wake up, the first thing you feel is the reassuring embrace of his arms around you. You don't want to move, not even when the sunlight tickles your face through the opening between the wooden shutters, trying to make the moment last endlessly. But the growing anxiety in your stomach chases away the illusion of your fleeting happiness. 

You close your eyes a little tighter. Perhaps if you try again, perhaps if you try harder, the world around you can fade away.

Perhaps you can wake up again, in a different reality.

But it's inevitable. You know that now you're awake, it's only a matter of time before the two of you have to say goodbye forever. Your breathing becomes heavier, and you have to fight the tingling sensation at the corners of your eyes.

Why have the gods decided to be so cruel to you? They grant you one last taste of his skin on your lips before taking it from you, again. 

Haven't you given enough? 

Could they not show you mercy? 

You who had forgotten him, you who had begun to turn a new page, to seek comfort in the arms of the cold, far away from the fire and the ashes, why did you have to touch the poison that would once again stain your soul?

Behind you, Aemond buries his long nose in your hair. His hand absently caresses the skin of your thigh, just where the edge of the linen tunic you put on sometime during the night when you were cold ends. The fabric is pulled up, revealing the outline of your bottom, and you can already feel your uncle hardening between his thighs, but you don't move.

If you move, you'll make everything more real. Tangible.

You'll speed up the process of losing him, of him slipping through your fingers. 

How can you let him go, now that your heart is full again, now that you feel complete in a way you haven't felt for over three years?

How can you let him go, now that your body has retrieve the extension of itself in the arms of the man who was the cause of your torment, your moments of joy, your pain and, paradoxically, your happiness?

"I know you're awake."

You hold your breath and Aemond inhales into your hair. His hand moves down the inside of your thigh, along the hollow that joins it to your groin. He doesn't venture any further. 

His thumb rests there and brushes your skin, trying to arouse the desire in you with gentleness.

Subtly.

 He doesn't want to hurry, he doesn't want to rush you.

Not when he's been harbouring the impossible fantasy of waking up with you in his arms since the day he nearly died.

He presses harder against you, as if he doesn't want to let you go, as if he wants to be one with you again, and you feel him pulsing against your buttocks, under the linen cloth that has been pulled up a little higher. He says nothing, but he is pleading, needy, in his gestures, which is rare for him.

Something has changed, after all, and perhaps something has changed in him too. 

"I am awake, indeed, " you whisper in a voice that is still half asleep. The lump in your throat betrays the feeling of anxiety gradually creeping into your body, and Aemond seems to notice. Under your tunic, his hand moves up along your belly until it nestles against your chest, close to your heart. His thumb draws small circles, once again trying to bring you back to him.

Trying to calm your mind.

"Let us forget for a little longer," he whispers, his clenched jaw resting over your head. "Please." 

And you know he never begs. 

Aemond takes and doesn't ask.

Aemond believes he is owed everything and never gives in return.

Hearing him beg breaks something inside you, because this is the first time he does so.

Usually it was you, it was always you, begging for peace, begging for more, begging him not to leave you.

Part of him is as desperate as you are; part of him also dreads the moment when you will have to part again. Forever. It's comforting to know that his feelings are sincere, just like yours.

" Make me forget, then." You reply, moving your lower loins back against him, giving him tacit permission to explore your body once more. His fingers move down to your breasts, which he covers softly with his hand, his thumb skimming over a nipple to make it hard. You let out a gasp between your parted lips.

His hand slides lower, his palm flat against your lower belly, his fingertips brushing the light patch of hair at the top of your mound. You feel the familiar warmth growing between your thighs, in your core.

He sighs against the back of your skull, his head tilted forward. His lips search the skin at the nape of your neck, behind the long hair that has become tangled during the night, while his fingers intimately explore the secrets of your body that he knows all too well. The remnants of last night's lovemaking still smear the insides of your thighs and folds, but it doesn't matter; his fingers easily find the little bundle of nerves that they tease until you close your eyes, until your hand grips the damp, shabby sheet that covers the ragged mattress in the inn where you've spent the night.

Just the both of you, in the comfort of anonymity. 

"Let me taste you". His voice, still husky, tickles the back of your neck and you feel him shift behind you. When you feel the warmth of his bare chest, against which you're nestled, leave your back, your body automatically tries to move back against him. You still need him. You still need him to chase away the lump of anxiety in the pit of your stomach and the voices that keep reminding you that you're only postponing the fateful moment. Your hand slips under your white tunic and wraps around his wrist to force him to stay there, to hold his fingers against the source of heat spreading from your core. Your hips are demanding, grinding against his hand. "On your back," he insists, and stands up on his forearms.

With reluctance you turn over. You obey, lying on your back, your hair spilled around your head on the flat, uncomfortable pillow on which you slept badly. The white tunic that serves as your nightgown is pulled up, crumpled, just above your crotch, which it barely conceals. 

Aemond has swung over your body, silvery strands loosening from the braid that holds his hair behind his head and sliding down his shoulders, falling in loose loops on either side of his face, tickling your cheeks.

His lilac-tinted blue eye glows with a predatory gaze, a ray of light catching in the sapphire he hasn't removed from his socket. 

He captures your lips with his own, begging for access. Aemond marks your jaw and throat with light kisses, sucking at your collarbone to make the violets of possessiveness with which he likes to adorn your body bloom. His lips travel down your chest, playing with one of the two small nipples raised by the cool air and by desire, and continue their journey past your navel. 

Your heartbeat quickens as he settles between your legs, spreading your thighs to admire the part of you he covets so eagerly. At the same time you bend your legs, your gaze falling on him, on his unravelled hair, on his eye that locks with yours. He is so close to you, so close to your warm centre, and you know that between your folds the sweet nectar that your uncle longs to taste is already flowing.

But his lips trace the inside of your thighs instead, where the skin is soft and tender, and gradually they reach the hollow that connects them to your most intimate part. He takes a malicious pleasure in building up the tension, in savouring every millimetre of you like a fine delicacy, with only the tip of his lips brushing against your skin.

His thumbs spread the tender flesh of your womanhood and then he places a chaste kiss on the very centre of you. His tongue is shy at first, tracing the slit that connects your entrance to your little knob, collecting the evidence of your desire.

As his tongue wraps around your nub, your hands grip the sheets, knuckles white. 

Aemond drinks from your essence like a thirsty man, his nose buried between your folds, rubbing your pearl.

The tip of his tongue catches what drips from your opening, and then the flat of his tongue tastes your slit, working its way up to the little nub gorged with desire. 

He maintains the same rhythm, revelling in the moans that escape from your half-open lips. Soon his middle finger begins to draw circles against your entrance, the first knuckle sliding inside, then the whole finger. Your head is thrown back and immediately your hand buries itself in his silvery hair, gripping his braid in a messy bun behind the top of his head. Forcing his face against the most intimate part of your body, forcing his lips to work on your wet warmth, you seek more contact. 

Aemond adds a second finger. He can feel you tighten around him as he searches for that particular spot, as his tongue continues to play with your bundle of nerves.

As he devours what is his, utterly his.

His fingers, the ones that aren't buried inside you, close around the flesh of your hip in a possessive grip. "Come for me," he whispers against your womanhood, his eyes lifted to you. "I know you can do it."

Your breathing becomes more erratic, faster too. You tighten the grip of your fingers in his hair, your thighs pressing either side of his face, and he collects the sweet taste of your release on his tongue with a hum. 

You feel like you're floating. The waves of warmth still wash over you, less and less intense, your breast rising and falling as you catch your breath. 

Your hand tucks a lock of his hair back behind his ear as Aemond lifts his face towards you, and you rest your hand against his cheek. His parted lips still glisten with your desire smeared across the lower part of his face. He stares at you without moving, his deep, regular breathing the only sound to break the silence that has followed your release. You stay like that for a moment, his gaze burning into yours. At any moment he might pounce on you. At any moment he might close the tiny distance separating your mouths and press his lips against yours like the starving man he is.

It's you who makes the first move. You taste yourself on his lips and your tongue entwines with his in a fiery, demanding kiss.

Straightening up, Aemond creeps between your legs, his hand on the underside of your thighs, holding them apart. He is still completely naked from the night before, he has not bothered to get dressed after your lovemaking, so you can catch a glimpse of his erect manhood, slightly curved. He wraps his hand around to guide it towards your still sensitive wet entrance.

He slides into you easily, in one slow movement. The haste of the night before, the urgency of the reunion, has given way to the tenderness and laziness of the early morning, and Aemond rocks inside you slowly. His hips undulate, punctuated by long, deep thrusts, in an illusion of domesticity. 

But the damp sheets, rough against your skin, the discomfort of the hard mattress beneath your back, remind you that your lovemaking is anything but domestic.

For Aemond is still the enemy, for Aemond is supposed to be dead.

For your family is probably looking for you at this very moment, worried that you have not returned home for the night.

But you push those thoughts away. The weight of your uncle's body on top of yours soothes the knot that forms in the pit of your stomach at the thought of time slipping away, at the thought of having to leave him again, at the thought of this being the last time you will taste his lips, his skin.

Aemond is gentle, and that is rare enough to be worth mentioning. He has never been so gentle, so soft, in the limited time that you have been married.

Between you, there had been the devouring, consuming passion, the power play that in your submission had granted you dominance.

Between you it had been raw and devastating more than gentle and tender.

His fingers run the length of your body to your core, combining his slow, deep thrusts with the movement of his fingers against your clit.

There are only few words exchanged between you, as if you were both afraid to break the grace of the moment.

His panting, noisy breath echoes in the silence, skimming the skin of your throat, then mingling with yours as the shadow of his lips brushes against yours. He rests his forehead against yours, your hand cupping his cheek, sliding behind his neck, and you are transported into a cocoon of intimacy where nothing else exists around you.

There is only his body against yours, warm and reassuring.

There is only him inside you and the slow movement of his hips.

There is only your breathing, blending in the space that separates your mouths.

"Do you know how much I've missed you?" He whispers against your lips as you close your thighs around him. "How much I dreamed of this tight little cunt?" You swallow his words. Your hips meet his as he pushes against you. He is reaching deep inside you. Despite the intimacy of the moment, his body oozes power and darkness, and you can't help but be drawn to that side of him that complements yours so well. 

You can't stop your body from aching for him. 

"You could have been my queen," he says as his movements grow stronger. He won't last long, but neither will you. He's inside you, where you like to feel him, and your walls clench around his member. "And I would have set the whole world on fire for you." He thrusts. "Burned it to the ground" He thrusts again. "All for you." And again.

The old wood of the bed creaks with each of his movements.

You seek out his lips, just to brush them against yours. 

Without sealing the kiss.

"And I would have accepted," you answer with a whimper. "I would have been your queen, qybor." In another life, you think you would.

In another life, in another universe, you would have been his queen.

A grunt escapes his lips and lands in the hollow of your ear. Aemond straightens on his bent elbow, right next to your head, and he plunges into you one last time, with more power, more vigour, just as his new position allows.

You close your eyes. 

A second wave of warmth is about to engulf your body.

And you wait for it, you welcome it.

"Look at me when I come inside you," he growls hoarsely as his seed pours deep inside you, into the most intimate part of your body. "Look at me as I fill you up."

Your eyes lock with his, fiery as ever. A final moan escapes between your lips and you seal them to your uncle's in a feverish, wet kiss. You hold him in your arms for a moment longer, as if to allow yourself the luxury of illusion for a brief instant. 

You delay the fateful moment a little longer, fighting the minutes that inevitably slip through your fingers.

"Stay inside me just a little longer," you whisper, burying your head in the hollow of his neck where you can feel the rapid rhythm of his pulse. His arms close around you, holding you tight against him, and you hear him purr against the hair on the crown of your head. He rocks you gently.

The silence welcomes you both into its embrace and you savour it like a treasure. Your body aches in the sweetest way, your insides throbbing around his softening manhood. 

And around you, nothing exists anymore.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

"I've changed, you know." His hoarse voice vibrates against you, but you refuse to meet his eyes. You keep them closed. 

You're not sure if Aemond has really changed. Aemond is ruthless, cold, brutal, calculating, merciless. Cruel. You're not sure if Aemond can ever change, but he shows unusual tenderness, and maybe, just maybe, you allow yourself to doubt. You indulge in the illusion. 

Perhaps Vhagar's death has broken something in him. 

Perhaps it's true, perhaps he's not the same man anymore.

He's not sorry for what he has done. He never will be. He's too proud, even if you can catch the glimmer of remorse that colours his icy eyes when he is not looking at you.

Does he think of your little brother? Is he haunted by the memory of him, as you have been for so many years?

Does he think of the innocents he killed without flinching, the blood he spilled in the Riverlands that now stains the burned grass? 

Is his sanity slowly being eaten away by the atrocities he has committed with his own hands? 

He has changed. You are not sure if he's changed for the better or for the worse, but he has indeed.

Daemon has changed too. So has Rhaenyra. So has Jace.

You too have changed.

For war changes people, war makes them weary and wary, it shatters something in the body that will never be the same again. It hollows out the roundness of the cheeks, it deepens the dark circles under the eyes, it fades the sparkle of childhood that remains in the eyes.

Aemond seems to be waiting for an answer, but the words remain stuck in your throat. I know, you want to whisper, I know, but suddenly you've forgotten how to speak. His thumb draws the soft line of the underside of your breast.

The future terrifies you more than ever. You had made peace with your past, you had come to a conclusion that, even if it pained you, had given you some respite. 

Seeing your uncle alive had reawakened your demons. 

Spending the night in the embrace of his arms had revived everything you had buried deep, deep down. 

The past had returned, creeping towards you, gnawing at the corners of your heart and at what remained of your sense of stability and certainty. 

Now you are plunged into doubt. 

Just as you were a little over three years ago, when you were informed of his death, when you had to learn to live with the choice that had never really been given to you.

Just as three years ago, when you noticed a familiar lilac-tinged blue in Rhaegar's eyes.

Like when you had to live with the memories that haunted you, that were slowly eating away at what little sanity you had left.

Like when you finally decided to leave for the North.

Aemond seems to sense your anguish, because his fingers get lost in your hair. 

"What are we going to do now?" 

Finally, you dare to utter the inevitable words that have been hanging on the tip of your tongue since you woke up, words you've swallowed so many times this morning. You immediately blame yourself. 

Saying them only makes them more real.

They tear at something in the imaginary cocoon you've built for yourselves. You bury your face against his skin, breathe in his scent, as if you never want to forget him.

For you know how fleeting memories can be.

You remember how his face faded with each passing day.

You don't know if you'll ever be able to experience it a second time.

"We could leave," Aemond replies, as his fingers venture to your jaw, caressing the line of your cheeks with the back of his knuckles. 

He's so pragmatic, as always.

Even in this situation.

Even now.

It makes you want to shake him.

"We could run away," he says again. His gaze, fixed in the distance, falls on you at the same moment. "To Essos. Pentos. No one would know who we are." You close your eyes, and let his hoarse voice lull you into silence. "To start our own family, the three of us."

You know he is not serious. Even though he looks at you with such insistence, with that flame that flickers in the centre of his iris.

You relish his fantasy, this impossible dream. 

But you can't leave your family; Essos is not Winterfell. There, they knew where to find you. They knew you were safe. They knew you were sheltered between the walls of the northern castle, under the heavy furs, under the protection of Cregan Stark.

Essos is the unknown.

You cannot let your mother lose her only daughter, not after everything she has already lost. 

The itch is familiar, tickling at the corners of your eyes. There was a time when you thought you'd lost that sensitivity. When you thought the war had left you cold, incapable of feeling anything. Incapable of crying.

"You know I can't." Your nose rubs against his milky skin, made clammy by sweat. You keep your eyes closed because you feel the weight of his cold gaze on you, his furrowed eyebrows as he stares at you blankly, his lips pursed in a long, thin line. You don't have the courage to meet his accusing gaze, let alone the wounded look on his face as you crush all his illusory dreams into dust. 

When did you become the more pragmatic of the two? 

When did you become the one responsible for bringing Aemond back to reality?

It used to be you, the one who filled your mind with unrealistic dreams, the one who dreamed of stories and fairy tales, back when you could still dream. "They need me, you know that."

A sneer stretches across your uncle's lips as he swallows a chuckle that sounds more like an ironic growl. You feel his whole body tense against yours, a sign that he's holding back his annoyance. 

A sign that he has something to say, that he's upset, but doesn't quite know how to put it into words. 

"Like they needed you back then?" he replies scathingly, bitterness on the tip of his tongue. "When they used you as a bargaining chip to achieve their ends, hm?"  

Your red cheeks burn with shame, as if he'd slapped you. You don't move, merely swallow hard. You know there's something right about what he is saying, but you don't want to admit it. 

You've done your duty.

You've done what is expected of you as a daughter.

It was not a question of them using you. It never was. 

It was your duty, only your duty, what you were always meant to perform, wasn't it?

And yet a small voice in the back of your head had already given you a similar speech, a few years ago, but you had tried to silence it.

You refused to let Aemond admit it. You refuse to allow him to do it. He had no idea, no right to criticise your family when he'd acted like that.

When he has done what he has done.

He has no idea what it is like to be a daughter.

You don't answer, and silence falls between you again.

You wish so desperately that he could go home with you; that he could tell them that he's sorry.

You wish it were easier. 

There is no one left to wait for Aemond but you, but his son, you know that. His family has been decimated, as has yours in some ways, though you still have your parents and your older brother.

For your uncle, there's nothing left but the shadow of his existence, the shadow of who he once was, long ago.

You let your hand trace the side of his throat, your nose buried against it, your lips hovering over his skin. You lean against him, your body on top of his, pressed together as if you were afraid to let him go.

"You could come with me instead," you whisper, but you refuse to meet his gaze. There's something shameful in the words you've just spoken aloud, something naive, and your burning cheeks are proof of your embarrassment.

Almost imperceptibly, he clenches beneath you, holding his breath. This is a bad idea and you feel stupid. Naive to have dared to suggest something like this.

His voice purrs in a hm that vibrates against you. He's about to say something. He searches for words. "You know that -"

"I know." You cut him off sharply - a little more than you would have liked, your eyes raised to silence him.

You know what he thinks.

He thinks that Rhaenyra will never be his queen. He thinks he will never bend the knee to his eldest sister and her authority, which he doesn't recognise.

He thinks that with the death of Aegon, with the death of the children his brother fathered with Helaena, the throne belongs to him.

And you are aware of his ambitions. You know how perfectly the conqueror's crown fits his head. You know how it sets off the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. You remember the look of greed in his eyes every time he stared at the Iron Throne, you remember the look of pride on his face every time he scorned anyone who dared to question his decisions as Prince Regent.

You know how mercilessly he made the soldiers at Harrenhal kneel, forcing them to contemplate their impending deaths. You know the terror he has sown throughout the Riverlands.

Even in the Seven Hells you could have found more mercy than at the hands of Aemond Targaryen.

Aemond may have changed, but you're not sure he's changed enough to put aside the pride that is consuming him from within.

You take a deep breath. "You don't really have a choice, qybor." 

Fearing his reaction, you curl into a fetal position, your back to him, your knees drawn up to you. You close your eyes. You wait for his frustration.

You wait for his sentence.

You know that he is aware that he has no choice. 

He has only two options: swallow his pride or sink back into the abyss, disappear into the dark meanders of oblivion.

Rhaegar needed his father, of course, but you found him a father in Cregan Stark. 

That was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

There was no way you would give up what family you had left.

For Rhaegar needed his grandparents and his uncle even more.

Behind you, you feel your uncle's hand slip under your tunic and around your body, pulling you against him. He presses his bare chest against your back, tucking your head under his chin. His hand caresses your stomach, then his fingers brush the base of your breast.

"You know she will never be my queen. You know the throne belongs to -" But he lets the words drop without finishing the sentence, the knowledge of what he was about to say hanging in the air between you. 

As long as he remains alive, will the embers of war never truly be extinguished? 

You don't know, but you accept the risk. 

You close your eyes, as if you're about to jump into the icy depths with both feet.

"The rest is up to you, Aemond," you whisper, barely audible. "And if you have truly changed, then you will know how to make the right choice."

He says nothing. 

You savour the last few minutes of illusion you have left.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

The fear of making the wrong choice never really leaves you, but your mother chases your fears away, as she so often did when you were a child, tucking one of your dark curls behind your ear. She has her distinctive little smirk on her lips, the one that pulls the corner of her lips up towards her nose.  

The same one Lucerys had, you think sadly. 

You still miss him, even after all this time, and sometimes you wonder what kind of young man he would have become.

"You're a clever girl, my sweet clever girl," she whispers against your forehead as she cradles you in her arms. She's as beautiful as ever, as gentle with you as ever, despite the years, despite the wear and tear of war that has hardened her features and hollowed her cheeks. "And I know you have made the right decision." She lifts your chin with her forefinger to look into your eyes, and you feel like you're turning back into that shy, insecure girl who disappeared somewhere in the violence of the war all those years ago.

 "And if it should turn out that you were wrong... Daemon will be there to intervene. You know he is just waiting for that." You roll your eyes at her attempt at humour, and she plants a kiss on your forehead. 

For a split second, you truly are that carefree little girl again.

But behind your mother's humour lie fragments of reality that make your laughter bitter.

The news of your husband's survival remains a hazy blur in your mind. Sometimes you're not sure if this conversation really occurred or if you're dreaming.

You're not sure if what's around you, if the night you spent in Aemond's arms, is real or an invention of your sick mind.

Sometimes you're not really conscious of the events or how long they lasted, the lump in your stomach grows back, and once again you're destined to carve half-moons marks in the palms of your hands to soothe the tension in your body.

You told your mother first because you knew she'd be more understanding. As a mother, as a woman, she knows the meaning behind certain silences, the weight of words, the unspoken words that float between sentences. 

You know she can understand your pain and your doubts, but also your love and your compassion.

She was shocked when you told her that her younger brother was still alive. She smoothed her dress, paced back and forth, then took the time to sit down, her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes riveted to your face, looking for clues that would betray what you were thinking, what you might be hiding. She was afraid that he had hurt you. She was afraid that he would rip you away from her, just as he had once ripped your little brother away from her.

Her fingers had gently taken your hand and her thumb had drawn little circles on the back of your hand to comfort you. She listened to you first as you confessed everything. 

Where you were that night when you didn't come home. 

Who you were with.

And then she took you in her arms. She reassured you. Soothed you. 

You had been so afraid of disappointing her, of disappointing all of them, that the tension paralysing your body had finally loosened and you burst into tears.

Things had proved more complicated with Daemon. When he learned that his nephew was alive, that he wasn't forgotten forever in the deep waters of the lake near Harrenhal, he refused to believe you. He was furious. He said he had seen him fall, that he was the one who had taken his life, tearing the sky apart.

You didn't know where to look, and it was in your mother's eyes that you sought support, comfort, anything in the face of your stepfather's rage. You could feel on you the look of disappointment of your brother, Jace, as he held his shoulders up and his chin high. He wanted to prove that one day he would be a good king. With his jaw clenched, he said nothing, looking at you as if you were suddenly so foreign to him. He probably didn't know what to say, for fear of being clumsy, for fear of unintentionally hurting you, even more than by his lack of support. 

You know it wasn't his fault. 

He simply couldn't understand.

The words stuck in your throat and you found yourself unable to speak, pearls glittering in the corners of your eyes while you waited impatiently for the final blow.

The final death knell that would seal your disgrace in everyone's eyes.

After all you'd endured.

Daemon stood before you, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes hard. He was staring at you as if you'd committed the ultimate treason, and you knew he was controlling himself to keep his anger from exploding. "You're going to bring him to me," he had hissed, his hand closing over your shoulder. 

" You will lure him here and he will be put to the sword." His tone left no room for argument. With the tension growing in your stomach, you sought your mother's compassionate look to calm you. You could see the fury in your stepfather's eyes, and also a mixture of fear and feelings of betrayal. You knew that, deep down, he was afraid for you because he considers you his daughter. Because Baela and Rhaena are like sisters to you. 

It was his reaction you feared most, not your mother's. His fingers dug into your skin, the floor slipping out from under you, the room swaying dangerously, and your mother had come to your rescue, trying to calm things down with her usual diplomacy.

You can't quite remember the words your stepfather said; in anger he muttered something that sounded like are you really thinking of becoming his whore again? and the words hurt like hell, but you tried to swallow the pain.

 Endure, hold your head high. That was what you had learned.

Your mother had suggested you go back to your room or spend some time with Rhaegar, her fingers gently stroking your dark locks, and as soon as you left the throne room you could hear their voices echoing through the door. 

They were arguing.

Over you.

Because of you, again.

You took a deep breath and returned to the gardens, where your two stepsisters were making your son laugh by playing with him. They had fun running around in the damp grass to the applause of Baela's little daughter, who clapped her little hands in delight.

Your fingers were still trembling when you joined them.

In the end a solution was found, for your mother feared losing you a second time. 

She remembered what had happened to Laenor, your father, when he had grown tired of the court.

She remembered what had happened to Helaena, your sweet aunt, when she could no longer bear to suffer.

It was her worst nightmare to see you torn from her again, now that she had the chance to hold you in her arms every day, to protect you again, to see you grow again.

It was her worst nightmare to see her only daughter, her only daughter and the second of her only surviving children, taken from her. 

You and Jace were all she had left of her own blood.

After long negotiations with Daemon, you had managed to bargain for your husband's life in exchange for strict conditions; increased surveillance, no bonding with a new dragon, no carrying of weapons, and the assurance that he would be executed if there was the slightest doubt about him. You proposed that you and he leave the capital, with your son as well. To return to Dragonstone. To start over on a new, blank page in a book that was already too damaged.

For you, it was also a way to ease the tensions between your family and Aemond, and perhaps find a more intimate life with your husband and son.

Rhaenyra had declared that this was the best solution: a guarantee for her to have you by her side again, a guarantee for her that you would be there.

You had been afraid of Aemond's reaction, afraid that his ego would not bear it; that he would refuse, that he would rather sentence himself to his own death than to an existence as a prisoner within his own family, condemned to live as a shadow of the man he had once been in exchange for seeing his son grow up. 

But in the end, wasn't he doomed to live as a shadow of the man he had once been, anyway?

He would never be the rider of Vhagar again.

He would never be the ruthless Prince Regent again.

He would never again be the second in line to the throne, the second son greedily waiting for fate to turn in his favour.

He hadn't been all of that for a good three years, lurking in the cold, gloomy corridors of Harrenhal like a lonely monster.

And if he went back, if he rejected your proposal, he would have condemned himself to eternal solitude at the side of a witch you would rather forget.

He had no choice, for he would never be that Aemond again. 

When you joined your husband at the meeting place, you were relieved to see him swallow his pride and accept. It was difficult, but you convinced him. 

For Rhaegar, for his son.

Aemond had suggested that you run away, far away from everything, and you almost hesitated. Running away would have allowed you to forget, of course. 

But your deepest wounds had begun to heal. You had begun to be able to face the ghosts that haunted King's Landing, the ghosts that haunted Dragonstone.

To stop there was tempting, and yet so frightening at the same time. 

The unknown terrified you. You needed familiarity now, something to fall back on, for you were so tired. 

Now you can't help bringing your thumb to your lips, nibbling the skin at the corner of your fingernail with the tip of your teeth as you walk away from Rhaenyra. A handmaiden brings you Rhaegar, and you struggle to breathe. 

You inhale.

You exhale.

The thick tuft of brown hair makes you smile. The sight of your son is enough to give you the courage to walk with a more confident stride. It's as if you were filled with new strength, for you know that he needs you more than anyone else. And for him, you've promised yourself to stay strong.

As soon as you reach him, you kneel and plant a kiss on his plump cheeks. 

He's growing up so fast that sometimes you wish you could stop time.

"There's someone who'd like to meet you, sweet boy," you explain, and you can recognise your mother's inflection in your own voice. Sweet boy. Rhaegar looks at you with big, round, questioning eyes, and you wonder if he senses your anxiety, because he takes your hand between his tiny fingers.

"Who, muña ?" he babbles, striding down the cobbled path in the middle of the gardens, hopping on his clumsy little legs, and you smile at his carefree attitude. He stops to watch the bees foraging, bends down to pick up a flower and gives it to you. He's always so curious, so full of life. He's a ray of sunshine that brightens your dull days. You finally understand your mother, the agonising fear she has of losing you. You finally understand the horror she experienced when she lost her four other children.

You also finally understand why Helena threw herself from Maegor's Holdfast.

The thought of what Daemon did still revolts you, and you can't imagine anyone hurting your boy like that.

You turn around. Rhaenyra is still there, in the distance, her crown on her head, her hands crossed in front of her on the heavy fabric of her dress, watching over you. She won't move, a comforting, discreet presence.

A stone bench awaits you by the fountain, on which two cushions have been arranged. A dessert buffet has been set up under the gazebo and you immediately spot your favourite cakes, the strawberry one, the blackberry jam one, and you look down at your son. He hasn't noticed them yet, or he would have already run over, dipped his finger in the whipped cream and stolen a blueberry from one of the tarts, his innocent expression on his face. 

He is definitely a lot like you. Mischievous and clever. An angelic air. He is an easy-going child who never throws a tantrum.

Who understands quickly, too. 

"I love you. I love you more than anything, you know that, don't you, young boy?" your tone is soft, and you kneel down in front of him, your hands on his small shoulders to emphasise the seriousness of your discussion. You search for your words, hesitating. How do you tell a three-year-old that his father, his dead father, is back from the dead and about to meet him?

Of course, Rhaegar knows that his birthfather was valiant, that his birthfather rode the greatest dragon in the world, that his birthfather died in battle.

But there is so much he doesn't know, so much he will inevitably learn as he grows up, and it is precisely that future that frightens you. You hug him as if you're afraid of losing him.

"Princess."

The deep voice of your sworn protector echoes behind you, and you straighten your skirt. 

You know he is there. 

You know you will see him the moment you turn around.

Your heartbeat quickens.

Aemond Targaryen stands behind your sworn protector, surrounded by two guards. His hands are bound in front of him. 

It is so strange to see your uncle in this vulnerable position. He who for so long has been on the other side, he who for so long has been the one who bent others to his will. He looks at you harshly, and you almost feel the need to apologise.

But you know it is a matter of caution.

You know that Daemon, you know that Jace and even your mother would never have agreed to bring him in if such precautions hadn't been taken.

You admire his resilience, his determination. You admire his ability to hold his head high, to be confident, despite the fact that he is being treated like a common prisoner, about to be sentenced to death.

You struggle to swallow the lump that has formed in your throat. 

"Who's that, muña?" Aemond's eyes leave you and immediately drop to the small figure that has appeared beside you, reaching for your hand, huddling against your leg, shy and worried. 

Immediately, your husband's icy gaze, his lilac-coloured eyes, soften.

"Thank you, Sir Rowan. You may leave us."

Despite the worry on his face, your sworn protector nods, unties his prisoner's hands and walks back to your mother, accompanied by the other two guards. You watch them leave, and a strange silence fills the space between you and your uncle.

He doesn't look at you; his eyes are riveted to your son, whom he observes with wonder. He looks as if he is admiring the most beautiful and fascinating discovery he has ever seen. You look down to see Rhaegar's reaction, and he seems as intimidated as he is hypnotised by that gaze, by that blue and purple eye so similar to his owns, by this man looking at him as if he were one of the most marvellous things in the world. 

"Gods, he's perfect," Aemond murmurs as he looks up at you, emerging from his trance. He comes closer to embrace you. And for once, there is something other than his usual brutal possessiveness and ferocity when his arms close around you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

Aemond is shy at first. Awkward. 

He's shy and amazed as he follows your son's every move with his good eye. From time to time, his gaze rests on you, as if to make sure he's not dreaming. As if to make sure he is doing right, seeking your approval.

Rhaegar is shy too, at first.

When he sits on your lap, he snuggles up to you, buries his face in your neck, one of your locks curled in his chubby little hand and he rubs it against his nose. From time to time, he turns to give his father a curious look, recognising his own eyes in the unfamiliar face before him. 

Aemond's expression grows gentler, a softness never seen in his features before.

Once he has tamed the stranger, the little boy pecks at the blueberries in the tart in front of him. He shakes his legs, hitting your knees in painful little jabs, and your arm wraps around his body to hold him down.

Rhaegar loves cake, and the sugar may be coaxing him, for he's regaining his appetite for talking.

"He really does have my eyes," Aemond whispers incredulously, and his voice, still foreign to his son's ears, causes the little boy to lift his head.

" It is definitely the only thing he has inherited from you," you reply, teasing him with a small smile at the corner of your lips.

Soon Rhaegar finishes the blueberry tart, the cream smeared over the bottom of his face and the tip of his nose.

"He inherited that from you, that is certain." Aemond grins, pointing with his long chin at the boy's voracious appetite for cakes and pastries.

You have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming. That your husband is really standing in front of you, with your son, like a normal family. 

That he was truly trying to tell a joke.

This form of domesticity is so alien to your relationship, and yet so pleasant, that you find yourself thinking that perhaps you have made the right decision, indeed, if every day can be like this. 

"Your muña deserves some cake too, what do you say, little one?"

Rhaegar giggles. Aemond cuts a slice of your favourite cake, the one with the strawberries, and puts it on your plate. 

You blush. After all these years, he hasn't forgotten which one is your favourite.

You can't even really whisper a thank you because this apparent domesticity, this feeling of completeness, this interlude of happiness makes you uneasy. Anxious.

You have the feeling that at any moment you'll be plunged back into the horror of what you went through all those years ago. 

You have the feeling that at any moment the Gods will be cruel and snatch away this happiness that you've barely been able to taste, leaving only the memory of its sweet taste on your lips.

You breathe in and out, as you often do when you feel your palpitations rising in your chest.

"Do you... do you want to take him on your lap?" you ask your uncle with shyness, your hand stroking Rhaegar's thick brown curls. Aemond looks at you as if you have spoken in a foreign language. Lips parted, he is about to say something, but not a sound escapes his lips. His lonely eye travels from you to your son, from your son to you, in silence.

"I don't know if -"

You can hear the doubt in his voice, and it's almost touching to see him lose his confidence in front of his own son, to see him so nervous and unsure of himself.

You let out a little laugh, not in mockery, obviously, just full of tenderness.

You know what he's thinking.

He's afraid of frightening him.

He's afraid of harming him.

"You won't hurt him, Aemond."

He answers nothing. He still doesn't like to look vulnerable, unsure, and you know it has to do with his childhood. With all he has kept bottled up inside him all these years. He will need time.

Your eyes fall back to the little boy sitting in your lap, and you draw his attention to yourself by stroking the curls on his forehead.

"Do you want to go to Aemond for a while? To kepus?" 

you correct yourself immediately, and Rhaegar nods in agreement.

You are amazed at how easily he slips off your legs to run to his father, to pull himself onto his lap, when only a few hours ago he was so intimidated by the presence of this stranger with the eyepatch.

Your uncle automatically puts his arm around his waist to make him feel comfortable, his new role taking root in him. His fingers reach for the cloth on the table, and he wipes Rhaegar's face, who can't help but burst out laughing at his father's clumsy gestures.

For a split second you are lost in contemplating the horizon, the stillness of the sea. You taste the sea breeze on your face.

And then you turn your head towards the cobbled path where the guards and your sworn protector are still stationed. 

Your mother is no longer there, and you notice that you have not at any time felt the need to seek comfort in her presence. 

You smile, for in the end you know you've made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

Dragonstone, 6 months later.

When you walk the corridors of the place that saw you grow up, you are no longer haunted by the ghosts and their incessant cries. A kind of peace has settled over you, a return to the pleasant familiarity you've waited so long for.

You still think of Luke, of course. Of Luke and Joff and little Aegon and Viserys, your brothers you will never see grow old. 

But you no longer feel their disapproving glances at every step you take. You are no longer kept awake by their cries, by their tears, by the remorse that twists your stomach. 

You no longer blame yourself. 

Perhaps you've finally learnt to make peace with yourself.

The heavy door of the bedroom you share with Aemond is half open, and you slip your head into the doorway, piqued by curiosity.

Snuggled on your husband's lap, Rhaegar is staring at the pages of a large book, the corners of which you can guess are horned, the cover worn, from being carried everywhere. You can imagine the jam stains that mark the paper with children's fingerprints. You know exactly which page is missing, the one you and Aemond accidentally tore out and hid so the Septa wouldn't notice, so many years ago. 

It is a book about dragons, the very one the two of you used to read hidden under the table when you were so young and innocent, long before the torment of war.

Without a sound, you lean against the doorframe and contemplate for a moment the perfect vision before you.

You don't have the cruelty to disturb them.

 "This one is Vhaegar!" shouts Rhaegar, and you hold your breath, searching Aemond's face for any hint that might betray his reaction. The mention of his former dragon is still a sensitive subject for him, you know it.

"Yes, that's Vhagar." he pauses. "She was brave."

From the corner of his eye, Aemond spots your silhouette in the faint glow of the corridor, and his attention lingers on you for a moment. He's almost embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable, intimate moment, but you smile tenderly to encourage him.

"And big!" the little boy adds, energetically raising his arms to the sky to emphasise his words.

"Yes, and big." There's a suspended moment of silence where the words hang in the air, and then your husband gently ruffles his son's hair. It's a tender sight to see them bond like this, and your heart fills with happiness.

Taking a step forward, you step into the light of the room and Rhaegar expresses his joy at seeing you. You smile back at him and approach the chair where Aemond sits, your son on his lap.

Your uncle's hand instantly rests on the curve of your belly, which he still stares at with the same protective instinct, the same fascination, as the day you told him the news. His eyes sparkle.

"Your daughter is restless today."

He looks up at you, not without lingering for a moment on your breasts and their new shape.

"My daughter?" he asks, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"I'm convinced it's a girl. You reply, smiling wryly, and take a seat in the armchair next to the one where Aemond and your son are sitting, facing the fireplace. "And she took after her father, given her temper," you tease him, your hand on the top of your rounded belly to soothe the baby growing there. 

Rhaegar's eyes close slowly. Nestled against the chest of the man who, just a few months ago, was still a stranger, he fights sleep, he fights to stay awake, but tiredness quickly overcomes him. And then he falls asleep, his mouth half open, the movements of his breath making his chest rise and fall rhythmically.

Aemond finally gets up. You follow his movements with your eyes as he approaches you, the child in his arms, and he plants a kiss on the top of his head.

"I'm going to put him to bed. I'll be right back." He straightens and lowers his voice.

"I wouldn't fail in my duty and neglect my wife." The heat rises to your cheeks, turning them red at the implication of what awaits you tonight. You're already wet between your thighs at the thought. 

But you nod in agreement and watch him walk away. 

You are left alone in the silence of the room. The only sound around you is the steady crackling of the fire.

It's strange, you think, to be back on Dragonstone, in the familiarity of the stones you've spent most of your life between, after getting used to the idea of not surviving the war.

To the idea of dying from a broken heart.

To the idea of dying, the umpteenth victim of the vicious spiral of conflict that has torn your family apart.

And yet here you are.

With your own family.

For once you have hope for the future. You hear the cries of your little brother, lost in the storm so long ago, but they are quickly replaced by the laughter of a happy memory. 

And finally, you have the absolute confirmation that you have made the right decision.

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

Thank you so much for reading!! <3

Tag list : @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis (I'm tagging you since you asked for it ❤️)

[mysecretlittlelibrary]

Every Inch of You

Pairing: Luke Alvez x Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: reader is fighting demons (insecurities), very specific descrpitions of body image related insecurities- like the reader is literally picking herself apart in a mirror, hella praise, body worship, fingering, edging, multiple orgasms, creampie, cockwarming, pseudo voyeurism/exhibitionism (he fucks her in front of a mirror idk) I think that's everything

Genre: starts off pretty angsty, we transition to smut and end with fluff!

Summary: Insecurities can be quite rough on you but your boyfriend has no intentions of letting you go through it alone

***

You frown at your reflection as you stare at yourself in the mirror. Today has been a rough day. Nothing in particular happened. You went to work, you ran some errands, you did normal daily things, but for some reason you've been in such a weird mood and now you're stuck in a vortex, picking apart yourself apart in the fucking mirror. You really ought to go to the gym more often, or- stop snacking at night, have your pores always been so noticeable? Since when do you have so many stretch marks? You can't see your toes over your stomach- god that's embarrassing. You let out a long sigh as you bite back the tears stinging the back of your eyes. You hate this. It doesn't usually get this bad and the worst part is you know it's not real, you know you're not some hideous monster but it doesn't stop that nasty voice in your head from warping your perception some days and when that happens nothing you say to yourself changes it. But man does it suck, because most of the time you have all the confidence in the world, you've worked very hard on it. Days like this make it feel like you're still some lost little kid desperate to find your place in the world with no sense of self. You should just walk away. If you can't see yourself, you can't pick your appearance apart. But your feet feel glued to the floor, as if they can't remember how to move, as if it's the most impossible task you've ever been given.

"Alright that's enough. You'll lose your mind standing here." You tell yourself, shaking your head in hopes of getting out of this dreary mood. You finally step away from the mirror and head to your closet to put on some clothes post shower. You throw on a hoodie and some shorts and leave your room.

"Babe?!" You hear as you walk down the hall. Sounds like your boyfriend's back.

"Hey love, welcome home." You meet him by the door and he kisses you on the cheek.

"Hope you haven't made dinner yet beautiful because I brought take out." Luke tells you holding up the bag with an excited grin.

"Take out's good. You wanna shower first or dive straight in?" You ask him.

"Would you mind terribly if I showered first?"

"Not at all. Go ahead." You take the food from him and nod your head towards the bathroom.

"I'll be quick!" He kisses you once more and jogs down the hall. You set the food on the living room table and watch TV while waiting for Luke. You hope you're able to keep it together for the few hours you'll be spending with Luke before bed. Considering its a weekday, you don't have to keep the mask up for that long. True to his word, Luke is quick to return, maybe 15 minutes pass by the time he plops down next to you on the couch. "Alright! Let's eat!" He announces, opening the takeout bag. He hands you your food before digging into his own.

"How was work today?" You ask him.

"Fine, tedious. Was mostly doing paperwork today." He shrugs. "How was your day cupcake?"

"Work was work and then I ran some errands. No fun stories here unfortunately. How's everyone?"

"Well, Spencer was giving a guest lecture today so he wasn't around since we didn't have an actual case. Garcia was telling me about some woman that seems to have his attention at the uni though."

"Is Pen keeping tabs on Spencer at the college? He'll literally hate that when he finds out." You frown.

"That's what I told her but you know how she can be. Especially with how sometimes things- go wrong when we meet new people."

"I mean if she's just a coworker, Penelope's getting ahead of herself don't you think? He probably hasn't even made a move on her." You say.

"He hasn't. You're right but it's not like she can be stopped." Luke chuckles.

"Yeah I guess so." You hum.

"Alright, what's wrong, princess?" Luke frowns.

"What do you mean?"

"You've barely touched your food. Did you think I wasn't gonna notice you've only been picking at it? Do you not like it? Do you want to eat something else?"

"No it, it's fine, I just- I'm honestly not all that hungry I guess." You sigh.

"What do you mean you're not all that hungry? What've you eaten today?"

"A bagel for breakfast and a salad for lunch." You shrug. Luke checks the clock in your living room.

"Lunch was 8 hours ago, all you had was a bowl of rabbit food and you expect me to accept that you don't want to eat your favorite food? Come on, spill it baby what's going on with you?"

"Nothing's going on. I dunno I just- feel weird." You mutter, avoiding his gaze. Dating a profiler is so irritating sometimes, can't he just ignore your body language for once?

"Weird how?"

"We don't, have to do this. It's not a big deal babe." You mumble.

"You're not eating y/n it is absolutely a big deal."

"Luke-" you sigh.

"Don't 'Luke' me, what's going on?" He frowns.

"I'd really rather not discuss anything there's no need, seriously."

"Baby, don't shut me out. You can't shut me out. We're in this together, always. You've gotta tell me what's going on in your head." He caresses your cheek gently. You sigh, unable to justify holding out on him when he speaks so softly, with such care.

"I've just been having a bad mental day. Nothing's happened, but I, just feel uncomfortable in my body, and it's hard to deal with let alone talk about." You say, tears burning behind your eyes again.

"Baby," he says, concern contorting his features.

"It's fine, I'll get over it. Today's just been a rough one. It happens. Sometimes my insecurities flare up out of nowhere but that's life, I don't want you to worry." You shake your head.

"Do you know me at all princess?"

"What?"

"My baby, my darling, the love of my life, my reason for being, is stuck in her own head hating her body, the body I live to worship, the body I can't get enough of and you want me to simply 'not worry about it'? That ain't happening." He stands up.

"Luke." You grumble as he grabs your hands.

"No no no no, no complaining, up you go." He pulls you off the couch and lifts you into his arms.

"Ah! Luke what are you doing?" You ask, throwing your hands around his neck as he princess carries you down the hall.

"Well if that nasty little voice in your head wants to lie to you, I'll simply have to remind you myself of all the reasons ever inch of you is perfect." He says matter-of-factly.

"I do not like the sound of that." You tell him.

"And I don't like the sound of you feeling uncomfortable with yourself." Luke shrugs.

"Well that's not-" You stop yourself with a sigh, not even sure what your comeback would be. In your bedroom, Luke carefully lowers you to the ground in front of the mirror with your back facing him.

"I want to help you to see yourself the way that I do." He says softly. He kisses your neck lightly and gently lifts your gaze to meet his in the reflection. "Ask me how I see you." His fingers brush against your thighs as he speaks.

"How do you see me?" You whisper hesitantly. You're not sure you even want to know, but his lips against your throat and his hands on your skin are rather persuasive.

"You, mi amor, are the sun at the center of my universe, if ever I was asked to describe perfection I would simply describe you." Luke slides his hands up under your hoodie caressing your skin.

"Luke." Your brow furrows. This can't possibly be sexy for him, he's only touching your stomach to comfort you, he'd probably prefer it if-

"Relax baby." Luke whispers. You didn't even realize you'd sucked your stomach in against his touch unconsciously, as if you could hide from him your size. You slowly untense your muscles, cringing at the way you fill his large hands. "I'm going to take this off of you, is that alright baby?" He asks.

"Well," can you really handle looking at yourself again?

"You can say no if you want princess, but I need you to stay with me."

"I'm not going anywhere." You say.

"Physically maybe, but I can see your mind wandering off." He kisses your temple. "Don't go."

"You can take it off." You whisper. Luke tugs the hoodie over your head not a moment later, tossing it somewhere in the room, out of sight. He lets out a sigh as his eyes trail over your body through the reflection. You can still feel the heat of his gaze in the mirror and weirdly enough it feels undeserved. He looks at you like that all the time but, tonight you just can't understand what would make him look at you with such want.

"God, you're gorgeous." He sighs placing his hands on your hips again. Luke places kisses on your shoulder. "Your skin is so soft, I can never get enough of touching you, kissing you, holding you." He says. He slides his hands up your sides to cup your breasts. "So perfect, I love the weight of your tits in my hands." His thumbs stroke over your nipples and the light stimulation makes your breath catch in your throat. He twists and tugs at your nipples, enjoying the little whimpers you let out. "You make the prettiest noises when I touch you baby."

"Luke-" you whine, your head lolling against his shoulder.

"Uh uh, head up princess, you've gotta watch. Watch me touch you, worship you, and watch how your body reacts to me, see for yourself how captivating you look." Luke gently shrugs his shoulder to push your head forward. You force your eyes to focus back on your reflections in the mirror, the sight of his hands kneading your breasts with rough fingers toying with your nipples to create hardened peaks only serves to make you squirm more against him. He keeps at it until your breathing is heavy, then one hand slides down, pausing to rub your tummy, "You may not believe me but this, I love this. Growing up it meant you were eating well, taken care of. And I like to think I take good care of you. I want it to show." He says kissing your neck. "Plus it's excellent for cuddles." He winks with a smile that makes you giggle. "I like that sound even more than your little whimpers, but I'm about to get a lot more of those." Luke's hand continues down, pushing your shorts down enough for you to kick them off. His hand caresses your thigh.

"You're teasing." You pout.

"You look cute when you pout." He chuckles. "But I'll be nice." His voice drops as he slips two fingers between your folds. You arch you back against his touch as his digits toy with your cunt. Luke knows your body maybe better than you do and his hand makes quick work of bringing you to the edge. Your head tips back again, instinctively and his movements slow when he catches it. The sudden change drags your gaze to his in the mirror, a silent question in your eyes when you whine. "If you want to cum pretty girl you have to watch yourself do it."

"But-"

"No buts, keep your eyes open and on the mirror." He says stroking you faster now that your attention is back on your reflection. Again when you feel your orgasm creeping up your spine your head drifts back and again Luke slows his hand almost to a stop.

"No!" You cry out as your release slips away.

"I already told you princess, your eyes have to stay on your reflection." He says waiting for your breathing to calm slightly before his fingers work you again. This time, you manage to keep your head forward, but your eyes still slide closed from the pleasure. Unfortunately for you your boyfriend is very observant and closed eyes still break the rule, so his fingers slow again.

"Fffffffffffffuck me." You grit out, frustrated from his edging game.

"I'll keep doing this until you get it right mi amor. Keep your eyes open." He says beginning again. This time, you steel yourself. You don't think you can handle another denial. The signs of release return quickly with his hands on you and though your lids desperately want to close you keep them open even as they threaten roll back in bliss as you finally cum with a breathy moan. "That's it, so fucking stunning." Luke says as he strokes you through the aftershocks. Your legs are still shaking and your chest is still heaving when Luke lifts you again. "I'm not finished with you yet, but this next bit will be easier in the bathroom. So you have something to hold onto." He says carrying you into the bathroom. He sets you down facing the large mirror over the sink. "I'd do this in the bedroom but you won't be able to see yourself if I fuck you right up against the mirror." Luke says in your ear and the words send a shiver down your spine. "Place your hands on the mirror sweetheart. Let me show you how badly I crave every inch of you." He says with a hand stroking your ass. You lean forward enough for your warm hands to touch the cool glass. Your eyes follow Luke's in the mirror as they trail over your skin hungrily while he frees himself from his sweatpants. He wastes no time sinking into you with a groan and though he gave no warning you moan at the stretch of him filling you. The look on his face as he settles into your heat can only be described as euphoric and it's one you could never get tired of seeing on him. After a moment his eyes peel open again and catch yours in the reflection. He gives you a smirk before his hands tighten against your hips and he sets a rhythm that explains why you needed something to hold onto. His thrusts are harsh and deep and have moans spilling uncontrollably from your lips. Luke's eyes are locked on yours in the mirror as he fucks you. "God you're beautiful, perfect, you've got the- prettiest eyes that sparkle when you laugh, and look so good rolling back when I make you cum." He hums.

"Oh Luke." You moan part of that was sweet, part if it made your walls clench around his dick.

"You're perfectly soft for hugging or cuddling and it doesn't hurt that I have plenty to hold onto when I wanna fuck you stupid." Luke says and if he weren't currently doing just that you might've laughed at his words, but the moaning makes it hard. "If I could spend all my days wrapped in your arms, buried in your heat- you have no idea how quickly I'd do it." You can feel your cheeks heating up from his, mostly, sweet words, so contrasting from the way he's railing you. "God I love you so much." He groans.

"I- I love you too Luke, more than- more than you know." You pant out.

"Fuck I'm close." He grits out. One of his hands wraps around your waist and finds your clit. It doesn't take much, a few well focused circles of your sensitive bundle of nerves and you're shaking as your orgasm hits, your walls clamping down so tightly around Luke's dick it pulls his orgasm from him too. His hips stop flush against yours as hot spurts flood your inner walls. You practically slump against the bathroom counter as the waves of your release die down. You're not quite sure how he manages but Luke turns you around and lifts you in his arms again somehow without fully pulling out of you. He walks you both over to the bed and lays down with you on top of him, soft dick still buried in your heat. Luke lifts your head from his chest to get your attention.

"I love every part of you with all that I am." He says.

"Thank you. I love you too." You say softly.

"I know insecurities are no easy battle but, yours is a body the Greeks would build statues for. It pains me that you see yourself as less than idolized."

"I'll admit it's much harder to feel that way when you react like this."

"Well I'll just have to make a habit of it then." He kisses your forehead.

"I- can't say I'm opposed to that suggestion." You hum.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And where we on food? Did your appetite come back any?" He asks, hand stroking soothingly down your back.

"Yeah but- I'm too tired to move." You mumble into his chest and he laughs.

"Don't worry I won't make you get up now. I'm sure after a nap your body will convince you to get up and eat, until then let's just lay here."

"Perfect that's exactly what I planned to do." You sigh as you snuggle closer to him. Maybe your insecurities will beat your ass every once in a while, but you smile knowing Luke will be there to fight them with you and that is more than enough for you.

***

[obey-me-disaster]

Hey, I was wonderin if ya could write a headcanon of how the characters could deal with MCs death, if they weren't revived after Belphie killed em in lesson 16.

Thank ya :purple_heart:

A/N: I am not sure if by 'characters' you mean all of them or not. I will do the brothers for now and if you want anyone else, feel free to ask ^-^

Demon brothers x gn!MC

Spoilers for lesson 16!!

Warnings: death and description of it, grieving

MC stays dead for good

Lucifer

He is feeling so many things and none of them are good. MC is dead, his little brother did it, he failed to protect both and it all can be traced back to him.

MC's injuries are beyond healing and all he can do is watch them die and regret everything he has done up until that point. He regrets every time he tried to harm them, he regrets not hiding Belphegor better, far away from them.

When Diavolo and Barbatos appear he lets himself have some hope that they could save MC, only to get hit with the realization that not only would they stay dead, but Belphegor will be taken away for treason too.

If Barbatos decides to reveal the whole Lilith thing, this whole situation will become unbearable to him. He let down everyone he loved and he only has himself to blame.

If he knew how deep of a wound would MC's death leave in his heart, he would have chosen anyone but them for the exchange program. Or maybe not, it was still a privilege to get to know them in the first place.

After MC's death he becomes even stricter with his rules, so none of his brothers can do anything stupid that could get themselves in trouble. He can't bear to lose anyone close to him, especially if he can do something about it.

Mammon

He was the one that held their dying body. All his attention was on them, he couldn't hear the way Belphegor was mocking him for crying over a human.

Despite feeling how they were dying in his arms he was still trying to cling onto the hope that they could be healed. Unfortunately, fate was having something else in mind.

For a good while after their death he could still feel them dying in arms. He is really conflicted over trying to remember that way MC felt in his arms and trying to forget how it felt when they died.

Despite all of that he tries to be of help to all of his brothers. Lucifer can't be the only one trying to keep the family together, especially when he is grieving too. In a way this whole thing reminds him of how all his brothers were after the fall.

He stops takes a long break from gambling and from money making schemes. He really sees no use for the money if MC is not there with him.

He will most likely beat himself over the fact that he couldn't protect them. He was their first man after all, the demon that was put in charge of protecting them and he failed! He is not getting over that guilt any time soon

Leviathan

He thinks it's all a bad dream. Why else would his best friend be dying? At the hands of his brother?? He tries to deny it but it's pretty hard to do so when MC is literally dying in front of him.

He wants to believe that this is one of those moments when the protagonist of an anime is on the brink of death, but through the power of plot armor they get a new power. The only thing MC gets is a one way ticket to the Celestial Realm. guess Simeon and Luke will see them after all

He refuses to come out of his room and face reality. He will rewatch every anime he has watched with them. Will try to recreate the conversations he had with MC by talking with Henry 2.0. His brothers will have to bring food into his room to be sure he doesn't die of starvation.

It takes a long while before he starts going out again, after all, who is The Lord of Shadows without his Henry.

Any and all progress he made on seeing himself in a better light will go down the drain. He will need some time to snap out of it and realize that MC would not want to see him hate himself.

Satan

He knew there was no hope of saving MC bu just glancing at them. That was probably the only time in his life where he cursed all his knowledge and wished he was ignorant. Maybe that he way he could still have some hope that MC will live.

He goes between complete fits of rage and feeling numb. MC taught him how to better feel emotions other than anger and now that they are gone he doesn't know what to do with himself.

He doesn't know who should he direct his anger to. Belphegor for killing them? It seems obvious but it's not enough. Lucifer for creating this situation to begin with? He would love to, but Lucifer is also at his lowest so it doesn't feel right. Himself for not seeing the signs of MC working behind all of their backs? He already does that.

He avoids any and all romance books. He keeps seeing MC in the main love interest and he hates it.

He keeps thinking of all of their injuries and in how much pain they must have been in their last moments. If he wanted to, he could name all of their injuries that he recognized just by looking at their body.

He knows that logically he couldn't do anything, but sometimes the thought of 'if I was better at human medicine/biology I could have saved them'.

Asmodeus

It makes his skin crawl just thinking of the way MC looked as they were taking their last breath. He still has it in the back of his mind. Along that, he also has the feeling of helplessness memorized.

If anyone would think he would stop taking care of himself after MC's death, they would be deathly wrong. MC was one of the only people that didn't like just for his looks, and probably the only one vocal about how they loved his personality. Now with them gone, he thinks there is no one he can show flaws with.

He has to be at his best. To not let anyone know about his imperfections. The demons that don't know him may think he got over MC's death pretty fast, but his brothers that live with him can hear him sob in his bedroom.

He sleeps with a lot of demons and humans in hopes of getting rid of the pain but it doesn't help since he is missing the affectionate, non sexual, touches that MC would give him.

He made a special album of all the photos he ever took of MC. He didn't want to risk the photos from his phones disappearing by accident and lose something important for him. He would hate to not be able to gaze at their face, even if it's just through photos

Beelzebub

This man is crushed. Not only did he lose MC, he lost them at the hands of his twin. He is beyond torn on the inside, and no matter what side he chooses to take he will be riddled with guilt.

At that moment he felt just like during their fall. A huge joke of a protector that couldn't keep his loved ones alive. His nightmares after the whole incident will be nearly a daily basis.

He tries to talk with Belphie about the whole incident, he doesn't want to lose two people at the same time, but he also feels like he is betraying MC's memory by trying to save his twin.

If the whole reveal of MC being Lilith's reincarnation's descendent happens that will literally end him. He couldn't protect the last thing that was related to Lilith.

Just like Satan, his sin is out of control. He goes between long periods of not eating and periods where his gluttony is worse than ever.

The only thing worse than his gluttony is his survivor's guilt. People he loves and cares about keeping on dying/being taken away yet he remains unharmed and for what? Is that a cruel joke of the universe? He didn't even get to protect MC/talk with Belphie during the incident. He literally couldn't do anything but ask himself 'why?'

Belphegor

I already made a post on how MC and Belphegor got to bond before lesson 16.

At first he feels justified. He got his revenge, proved his point and protected his family from having the same faith as Lilith. Yet despite all of that it feels wrong.

Satisfaction from killing them quickly turned into anger at seeing his brothers cry over a 'random human' to regret. He realized that he himself got attached to them, and now that both his anger and MC were gone he was left with nothing. His brothers must hate him now, after all he murdered someone precious to them.

Due to treason he is locked up somewhere away from his brothers so in his mind, he really lost everything. If Diavolo and Barbatos reveal the whole Lilith thing he will literally want to end himself on the spot. He lost his sister, MC, the only remainder of his sister, lived in hate for something that was not even true, betrayed his brothers and lost them. In one night his life took a turn for the worst in a way he could not even imagine.

And on top of all of that, he can feel the way Beel is trying to cope with the loss of MC and feels even more guilty for making Beel go through that.

He also can't make himself grieve for MC cause in his mind, he has no right to do that, after all he killed them in cold blood and laughed over their body.

[klbwriting]

Not Romeo, Not Juliet

Chapter 2: Great Stage of Fools

Fandom: Red Hood

Pairing: Jason Todd x f!reader

Warnings: bullying

Summary: Jason goes to auditions and at Dick's urging, tries to make friends, it doesn't turn out well

When we are born we cry that we are come / To this great stage of fools

— KING LEAR, ACT 4 SCENE 6

               Jason had hoped to just coast through this theater class.  He would get some side part like Fortinbras or Marcellus, in fact he was auditioning for those parts, not working super hard on getting anything right, just knowing he would be in the show and have a group of people who, so far, weren’t that bad.  The other seniors, two guys and a girl, were alright and made him feel welcome as soon as he joined their row in the auditorium prior to auditions. 

               “You don’t look the theater type,” one of the guys, Jackson, said.  Jason glanced over at him and shrugged as the other guy, Matt, muttered something about Luke Evans.  “Ya, but Luke Evans is British, that’s why does theater.”

               “My guardian signed me up, thought it would help me mellow out,” Jason said, trying to make conversation.  This whole situation sucked but he might as well make the best of it, that’s what his therapist was always telling him anyway.  He was reading over the few lines he was doing for Marcellus, ignoring the eyes of the girl, Chelsea, on him. 

               “What is with the white hair?” she asked finally.  The guys stared at her.  “Do you die it like that?”

               “No, was in an accident over the summer, turned some hair white,” he said, very practiced in that response after the first couple days of school.  He was getting a little tired of it honestly and couldn’t wait until everyone just forgot about him being new.  She nodded and turned back to her book, throwing looks at him as she tried to read her lines. 

               “Jason Todd, Matt Peters,” called the theater director.  Jason and Matt stood, going to the stage.  “Ready for Marcellus and Horatio, Act 1, Scene 1, lines 70-90.”  Jason brought the script up, checked where that was and put it down.  He already knew the lines, had read Hamlet quite a few times, and didn’t want to bother holding the book.  Matt started to look nervous, still holding up the script to read.  As the scene started Jason felt himself slipping away.  He was someone else, he didn’t have to be weird, zombie, ex-vigilante Jason keeping a lid on his emotions and his anger.  He could be this guard, seeing ghosts and just trying to get by without losing him mind.  Ya, he could do that. 

               “Good now, sit down, and tell, he that knows, Why this same strict and most observant watch…” he started.  The words flowed out of him, and he found himself really getting into it.  When the scene was stopped, he stood quietly, watching Matt eye him curiously.

               “Where did you come from?” he whispered to him as they walked off the stage.  Jason shrugged.

               “Homeschool,” he answered.  He sat back in his chair, pulling out Frankenstein, and starting to read that.  He could hear the others discussing him but tried to ignore it.  Then he heard them mention someone named YN and he stilled, thinking back to the alley and her bandaging his hand.  Not the same person probably, but the name just sprung her face into his mind, and he had to shake himself to get back to the present. Weird. 

               “Hey Jason,” Chelsea called.  He looked over and saw them all facing him.  Great, ganging up on him, lovely.  “So this show is going to be in the citywide high school Shakespeare competition in December, and we were thinking of going to check out the competition, Gotham Academy is having an open mic night fundraiser for their theater program on Friday night, how about you come with us?”  Jason was about to say that sounds terrible when he thought about Dick that morning.

               “You should make some friends, it wouldn’t be so bad to have to hang out here if you invited people over,” he had said over breakfast.  “Plus, you’ve never really been allowed to have friends since you were like 10, why not make some now?”  Jason had to admit he was right, once you became Robin it was hard to be friends with anyone, you just worried about them finding out, or them getting hurt.  He wasn’t Robin anymore, he was just Jason, and that thought, being just Jason with no friends, did kind of suck.  So fine, why not?

               “Sure, what time and where we meeting?” he asked.  Matt handed him a crumbled flyer that read Gotham Academy café, Friday night, 8PM.  “Just meet you guys there?”

               “Yes, it’ll be very fun,” Chelsea said.  They were dismissed, the roles would be posted on Monday.  The other seniors walked him out where he saw Dick waiting for him at the car.  “Is that your dad?”

               “No, that’s my older brother,” he said, heading over to meet him.  Dick let him in the car and then joined him to drive.  “Keeping tabs on me, mom?”

               “Yes, I am,” Dick said honestly.  “How did auditions go?”

               “Fine, met a couple people, we’re going to some open mic night at Gotham Academy.  Something about a Shakespeare competition?” Jason said, leaning his head back to the chair. 

               “Good, friends, friends will keep you out of fights clubs,” Dick mumbled.

               “Not likely.”

               Friday rolled around and Jason was heading out when Dick handed him a tracking device.  He glared and snapped it to his leather jacket.  If he didn’t Dick would just have one implanted anyway.

               “You know that’s fucked up right?  I’m not a puppy,” Jason said, grabbing his book and wallet. 

               “I know, but you’re also prone to not being where you say you’ll be,” he said.  Jason grunted.  One time he sneaks out and suddenly he’s never going to be trustworthy again. 

               “You know, sometimes I wonder if Bruce wouldn’t be better at this,” Jason snapped.  Dick sighed, not saying anything.  Jason knew he should take it back, but he was annoyed now so he just left instead, taking the bike from the other night and heading over to Gotham Academy.  It was still warm in the late August evening and Jason didn’t really want to be inside at some café, so he was pleasantly surprised when he parked and saw chairs set up on a grassy lawn next to the school.  There was a staging area on raised pallets and several people were already seated with coolers and bags of food from local restaurants.  He felt more relaxed knowing that he wasn’t going to be confined to a closed in area with people he didn’t know and probably wouldn’t like. 

               He paid for a ticket and moved among the folding chairs, finding the others from school.  They had two coolers and pulled a water bottle for him from one.  He sat down, not sure what he actually expected.  Seeing YN walk on stage at the beginning of the show wasn’t it though. 

               “Hello everyone, and thank you for coming to our open mic night fundraiser to help fund this year’s Shakespeare competition show ‘MacBeth’,” she said and a round of applause sounded.  He looked around, seeing a decent size crowd there, more than he thought would show up for a theater program.  He clapped at first, then noticed the others weren’t.  He frowned as they shook their heads at him. 

               “What?” he asked as the first act started.  They leaned in close so no one would hear.

               “That is YN, she was runner up for best actress last year for her role in The Tempest, she lost to Amber, she graduated last year, but she also caught Amber screwing one of the judges at the afterparty and told the Gotham City theater council.  Got the award taken away.  I mean, so what if Amber wanted to make sure she would win?  She was winning anyway, YN is not talented,” Jackson explained, glaring over at YN who was sitting off the side of the stage, watching the show, checking her notes every now and then.  Jason just nodded and looked back at them. 

               “Ya, we have a great surprise for her after the show, she’s going to regret being such a bitch last year,” Chelsea said.  Jason frowned but didn’t say anything, just sat back to watch the rest of the show.  Maybe these guys were not who he wanted to be friends with after all.  He sat quietly as they headed for the final act, which was YN.

               “Thank you everyone again for coming, as MC I have the honor of the final performance and I’m taking a request from one of our freshmen ladies who really just wanted some Taylor Swift tonight,” she said.  There was a keyboard setup and she sat down at it, playing some chords to a song Jason didn’t know.  Then she was singing, and Jason wasn’t sure if he ever wanted her to stop.

He was sunshine I was midnight rain

He wanted comfortable

I wanted that pain

               Jason listened, staring at her.  He had never heard this song before, but he doubted anyone sounded as good as YN at it.  She felt these words, felt this heartbreak and Jason could feel it through her.  It was intoxicating and he wanted to talk to her, wanted to know her, wanted to make this heartbreak stop.  He didn’t realize that something was placed in his hand until he saw what the other seniors were doing.

It came like a postcard

Picture perfect, shiny family…

SPLAT

               The water balloon hit her square in the face, breaking and dousing her in Koolaid, the red staining the soft purple shirt she was wearing.  Two more went flying and landed on her body as she stood, eyes focusing on the group from Bludhaven Prep, narrowing at the sight of the water balloon Jason had just realized was in his hand.  He looked down at it and then at her.

               “O shit…” Matt said as YN launched off the stage, giving chase.  Jason was slow to react, diving over people as he followed the other three towards the parking lot.  She caught up to him, tackling him from behind, forearm around his throat.  He ran couple more steps before falling to his knees so he could flip her over his head as gently as he could.  She landed on the grass with an ‘oof’ and stared up at him.  She growled, turning around and getting on her knees.

               “Listen…” he said before the fist hit his face.  He reeled and grabbed her fists before she could throw another.  “Hey!  I didn’t know they were going to do that!”  She glared, looking at the bandage on his hand, the cut on his palm healing slowly, and recognition dawned on her.

               “Jason?  Really?  You’re with those assholes?” she asked.  He shook his head.  “O so you don’t go to Bludhaven prep?”

               “Well ya, I go there now,” he said.

               “And you’re in the theater program?” she asked.

               “Yes, I just auditioned a couple days ago…” he said.

               “And the first thing you do when joining them is all decide to come here and ruin my open mic night?” she asked.  Then she stared at him, remembering where he had seen her, where they met.  “Did you tell them where I live?”  He made a face, confused. 

               “No, I didn’t even know you went to Gotham Academy, I was just here because they said they wanted to check out the competition and I was trying to make friends,” he explained.  You looked around, there was a crowd slowly gathering around you two. 

               “Get out of here, and I never want to see you again,” she said, shoving him back.  He stared at her for a moment, seeing her looking around, her face shifting from humiliated, to hurt, and then, her eyes falling back on him, rage.  “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!”  In that moment he wished Dick had left him in the ground.  He knew from her eyes that he had made an enemy for life.  He ran to the parking lot, got on his bike and drove back to the penthouse, unable to get her hurt expression out of his head.    

[journey-to-the-attic]

3rd anni req 7: mammon / rain + hug

ao3 link

note: this takes place during chapter 14, after ik loses her hand but before she wakes up properly - i.e. during the same general period that lucifer's pov section in chapter 15 takes place in! since this slots right into that (and since ik doesn't remember this anyway) this could now be considered canon to jtta!

i combined two separate prompts - 'hug' and 'rain', with hand-loss scene being from the rain request, since i felt like they worked well together, i also did a bit of a play on the rain prompt - requesters, hope you don't mind!! ^^

∎ ∎ ∎ ∎ ∎

It occurs to Mammon that he’s never held someone so small before. He doesn’t remember his brothers being little enough to gather in his arms so easily.

In the beginning, he’d imagined that humans couldn’t feel that different from demons or angels - after all, they’re pretty much the same thing, just in different sizes. And he’s had to pick IK up several times already, but this had been different.

Everything after stepping into the tomb is a blur. His memory only sharpens into focus after Diavolo intervenes. As the prince shouted himself hoarse, he’d looked up, and seen the three of them - big demon, little angel, scarily still human - huddled by the wall.

There had been Luke, barely disguising panicked tears, and Beel’s face had been set and pale. For a moment, it felt to him as if he were watching his brother cradle a corpse, with a mess of smoking wounds where its right hand should have been.

He sits now by Beel’s bed, where he insisted IK rest, and finds himself staring at the haphazardly wound bandages around that same wrist. He wrapped them himself, even though Solomon had told him they were unnecessary - perhaps more for himself than for IK, who isn’t conscious to appreciate the effort.

He’d been the one to carry her up from the tomb, too, insisting despite Beel’s assurances that he could do it himself. That’s the part that sticks with him even now.

It was frightening. IK, as he has learnt, should be lively. She’s a bundle of contradictions, of course - defiant in the face of monsters despite being afraid of loud corridors, bold and brave despite that instinctive polite nervousness - but, out of everything, she is never silent and still.

“Idiot,” He mumbles in the silence of the room. No one hears him - Solomon and Beel are both downstairs, and Levi’s stalked back off to his room.

“...mhh…”

His head snaps up. IK’s eyes are wide open.

The relief is tantamount to being dunked in ice after spending a year in the desert. He scrambles out of his seat, unable to bite back a grin. “Took y—”

Then he stops. Something isn’t right.

IK glances at him without moving her head. There’s something unsettling and robotic about the way she blinks.

“Good morning,” She says vaguely.

It goes without saying that the room is dark. He tries to play along, wondering if he should shout for help - did she hit her head? “Yeah, mornin’, sleepyhead. Finally up, huh?”

“Huh,” IK mimics, and this is where she’s supposed to laugh. She doesn’t. “Hey… what’s your name?”

He feels his heart sink. He tries not to let it show. “You forgot? Honestly. It’s Mammon, duh.”

“Mam-mon,” IK repeats, stumbling, as if the sound is foreign in her mouth. “Ma…mon.”

“That’s it. Good job.” He watches her face scrunch up in discomfort. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Hot,” She mumbles, and she sounds younger than he’s ever heard her. “Ow… ow!”

“Hey, hey—” He springs forward without thinking, using his hands as barriers so that she can’t suffocate herself on the pillow. “—shh, shh…”

Her cheeks feel red-hot against his palms. There’s something he’s supposed to do for that, right? He glances to the side, then remembers the basin and towel on the nightstand.

“Alright, kid—” He makes sure she’s listening. “—I need ya to stay still. Can ya do that for me?”

“Hurts,” IK mutters hoarsely, and he feels something damp trickle over his knuckles. “Mammon…”

“Shh,” He repeats, quieter. It’s strange how naturally it comes to him. “You’ll feel better soon, alright? Won’t be a second.”

He moves as quickly as he dares, dunking the towel in the cold water, then wringing it out again. He turns on the lamp while he’s by the table, and IK’s little tear-stained face is thrown into sharp relief. It just about breaks his heart.

“Deep breaths,” He says absently, and lays the towel across her forehead, like he’s seen Solomon do. “One, two, three…”

He watches the anguish melt from her face, but the relief only lasts a moment - because now she’s blank again, and it feels like she’s staring right through him. IK blinks once, twice. One last gathered tear slides down her face.

She reaches up - with her left hand - and touches her face. “...it’s raining.”

“Sure,” He agrees quietly. “It’s raining.”

It might as well be. The strange, static-y sound in his ears is just like any downpour he’s ever heard.

IK lifts her right hand and reaches for the ceiling - for those umbrellas the twins strung up for whatever reason, years and years ago. They’ve never been used the way they’re supposed to.

“I can’t reach,” IK mumbles. “I can’t… hold anything. I can’t feel my fingers. I don’t have…”

She stares at the white bandages around her wrist. Mammon suddenly wishes he’d done a neater job. From here, in the dim lamp-light, it looks like jagged bone; he can’t decide whether that’s better or worse than the web of dark scars beneath the clean gauze.

He can’t think of anything he could possibly say. Slowly, IK lowers her hand again.

“Did I make him angry?” She asks. She looks tiny. “Did I… did I do something bad?”

He shakes his head firmly. “No. No way. Lucifer was just being an idiot.”

IK’s eyes widen a little. “You can’t say that. He’ll hear you.”

“So what if he does? I can say whatever I damn well please,” Mammon mutters, thinking that he should’ve socked him properly while he had the opportunity.

IK is smiling at him now. It’s small, almost ghostly, but it relieves him all the same. “You’re cool.”

“Duh. Ya only just noticed?” He tries not to look too pleased. She seems more comfortable now, so he decides to remove the towel.

Her eyes are a little red at the corners. He gives them a dab, then chucks the towel back into the basin, and pats her face dry with his sleeve.

…feels like he’s playing house. Has he ever done something like this before? Even back then, he wasn’t exactly responsible enough to be playing nurse.

“Mammon,” IK says, voice small again, “Am I dying?”

“What?!” It comes out louder than he means it to. He quickly lowers his volume. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“I’ve seen this in movies,” She mumbles. “I feel like… I’m going somewhere. Somewhere really far away. Or maybe you’re going…?”

“I’m right here, kid. Nothing’s gettin’ rid of me.”

And he makes his next decision on a whim. He carefully tucks some of the blanket out of the way, slides his arm beneath IK’s shoulders, and pulls her into a hug that - conveniently - keeps him steadied enough on the mattress to still the trembling in his arms.

IK barely moves, remaining unnervingly still throughout it all, but she hums as if to say thank you. So he stays there until her eyes close again, and for a little while longer after that.

She’ll be alright - IK’s a strong kid. Any human who makes it in the Devildom has to be, but especially one capable of stepping in front of a seething Avatar of Pride, and insulting him to his face, according to Solomon’s account.

It confuses him a little. If he had a spirit like that, he’d be on top of the world, but IK carries herself more like an inconvenience than a presence.

Right now, that presence is small, warm, and alive. She’d been limp and still as he carried her up here, the chill of the tomb clinging to her clothes - small, stiff, each breath laboured, as if they might stop at any minute. It’d been like holding a puppet whose strings had broken.

He doesn’t know when he started caring so much - doesn’t know why he keeps this weird little human nestled in his arms - but it scares him. If something like this happens again, he just might die.

[carrlyn-stan]

Tables?

Pairing|| N/A, Hades!Daughter!OC, mention of Luke x reader

Summary|| Hidden for the first ten minutes of being in the Lotus Casino, Holly has a nice disscussion with Hermes

Word Count|| 626

Warnings|| None that I can think of.

---------------------------------------------------------

Holly has been here for what felt like a while. She knew she shouldn't have even entered the casino. As a god in training, she was supposed to be immune to the effects of the lotus.

"Hey, Holly, welcome!" Holly stopped upon hearing her name. Her frozen head slowly turned to look over at a middle aged looking man. "Come on cos, don't be shy!"

She felt her feet miraculously moving toward the man. She stopped just before the edge of the table. Holly looked up at the man, feeling her eyes start to glaze over.

"Can I say, you've grown since the last time I saw you. You're what? 17 now?" he laughed down at the girl.

"18 in supposedly five days," Holly crossed her arms, she hated being talked down to by the older gods.

"5 days till your pops takes you home? Then what? You'll be a god, but of what?" he asked her.

"Mmm," Holly shrugged, "can't be worse than messenger or god of travellers."

"Well pray you don't get to be the god of tables."

'You're joking."

"God of messengers and travellers, love, how can I be joking?" Hermes asked.

"I-I could be god of tables?" Holly stuttered.

"Well that's about the only unclaimed godly hood," Hermes tapped his finger against the table.

"I didn't think much about that."

"Must be horrible being born thousands of years after the initial myths, not being able to be a proper god."

"Well, maybe I'll be... Goddess of... camps?"

"Is that a question or statement?" Hermes sat up. Holly jumped behind him and to a chair. Hermes quickly looked back toward the teenager.

"A question, maybe? I don't honestly know!" Holly stuffed her face into her hands with an outward groan.

"You are one indecisive teenager."

"Well, I wouldn't be if I could stop having an identity crisis!" Holly snarled.

"You sound like all my kids," Hermes shrugged.

"Yeah, well at least Luke doesn't have to become a god. It seems to me as though he's happier than me."

"What kind of crisis?" Hermes glosses over the mention of his sons name.

"Well the one that's like, oh! You grew up at Camp Half Blood, maybe you should stay and fulfil your destiny here. Then on the other hand, it's like I've known who my dad was all my life, and I've always wanted to live with him, get to know him, but those years are kind of gone."

"I see," Holly could tell by the tone of Hermes voice, he was note paying attention.

"If you play the ace, you'll lose the game," Holly side eyed him.

"You don't know that, nobody could," Hermes laid down the ace.

The next player laid down a card.

"And... i think you've lost," Holly snickered. Hermes stared at the table.

"How could you've known that, you are not the god of foresight!" Hermes snapped around.

"I was trained to play cards, I've won all my games except two. To the same guy as well."

"Must've been one hell of a player."

"Not exactly, he just knows how I play a game. Something about how my eyebrows twitch when I lie, or my foot taps when I'm nervous."

"Maybe you should be the goddess of cards and probability."

"Tyche is the goddess of probability, I'd just be the goddess of cards."

"Who was it who even beat you?" Hermes asked the uncomfortable question.

"You might know him, actually. His name's Luke Castellan."

"Maybe the goddess of cards, camps, and weird decisions is a better title for you."

"He's you're son, and quite a good one at that," Holly smiled, she just realised how much she had missed the boy.

"Well you do you, come, we'll deal you in."

[lomlkenji]

༊*·˚ prettiest | reggie peters

★ summary : luke being a good wing man. 

★ warnings : fluff, jealous reader & angst if u squint <3

── ⋆⋅☆ main masterlist

You were happy seeing your friends performing on stage. But the nerves never leave your body as you control the lights, giving the room more vibe for people to enjoy themselves. 

The stage hand wearing a headset freaked out seeing came out of nowhere and started controlling the panel but he was so focused on the lights and the band, he didn't even remember who was controlling it. 

You were never in Sunset Curve, but you know damn well how to make a show more epic. 

You were the master of light and beats. So before you died, the band was always asking you to help them with their shows. You were more like an honorary member of the band and you wouldn't change it for the world. 

As the song ended you poofed back with the boys, slightly losing your balance. You landed next to Reggie and your hands brushed against each other making you all flustered, quickly retracting your hand back. 

You always had a thing on the boy but he seems to be oblivious to it. Not Luke or Alex tho, they think you're too obvious. 

You were at the front side of the stage, away from the crowd. Reggie on your left, Luke and Alex to your right. 

"That's wild! They could see us when we were playing but not when the music ended." Luke said in bewilderment. 

You nodded, a small smile lingering on your face. His eyes were practically shining with excitement and you smiled softly at him. His passion for music always admired you. 

"We should double check." Reggie said as he moved up to a small staircase and started to roll his hips. 

The sight made you bursted out laughing, not noticing the soft look he gave you when he heard the sound. Your smile made him fill with warmth and to know he's the reason? Whew. 

When nobody paid attention to him he gave up, "Yeah I dont-" and he moved down to stand back beside you "I don't think they can see us." he sighed. 

"I wish I couldn't see you" Alex breathed out. 

"ALEX!" you smacked his arm as your jaw dropped, trying to contain your laughter. 

Alex rubbed the spot you hit him as Luke just laughed at his friends' odd behaviour. 

"Okay people, show's over! Let's get back to class please." the principal announced. 

After most of the people made their way out, two girls stopped at the side, seeming to be having an argument. The girl with purple hair seemed to get Reggie's attention as he moved in front of her. 

"Hey there." he greeted, trying to get her intention. 

"Hi." he tried again. 

"Reggie." he said, introducing himself like the girl could see him. "Could I maybe call you sometime?" 

It brought a small frown on your face as your chest tightens, but you shrugged it off. 

Alex saw the way your face fell and put his arm around your shoulders, "He'll come around." he said softly. 

You sighed, "Don't think so but that's fine." 

Alex gave you a small smile and Luke has a genius plan, asking you guys to poof where Julie was going to walk too. 

The plan was a stupid one, but hey it doesn't hurt to try. So you moved to a spot but realised that it was kind of far, so you moved again. The plan was to scare Julie, Reggie and Alex planked while Luke got on top of their thighs, you were placed in front of Luke, crouching. 

When Julie turned the corner you all yelled at the same time. "JULIE!" 

"AH YOU!" she screamed "Stop doing that! I'm serious!" her tone was more stern as she calmed the sudden spike in her chest. 

You guys all smiled sheepishly as Luke got down, standing up straight and moving beside Reggie. 

"Whoa whoa this one's on you, we were already here. Well actually we were over there and then we came over here" Reggie explained making you let out a chuckle. 

"Are we not gonna talk about what just happened?" Luke exclaimed, his eyes wide with amazement.

Julie nodded her head, "Yeah, the whole school saw you. It's kinda freaking me out." she spoke anxiously. 

Breathing out a sigh in relief, Alex started to ramble, "Okay good! Cause it's kind of freaking me out too.'' Alex continued to say that his clothes are made of air but he still has a wedgie which made you all scrunch your nose in disgust. 

Luke broke the silence, turning to face Julie again. "The only important thing is we rocked that place! They were loving  you." he beamed. 

She looked at him with the same look he has, "Are you kidding? They loved us! That was a great song luke. Thanks." their eyes were twinkling with awe for each other and that made you soft. 

But your grin quickly turned into a frown as Reggie changed the topic, "And did you see the cheerleaders looking at me? I think they were looking at me. Please tell me they were." he begged at Luke. 

Luke sighed and cupped Reggie's face with his hands, "Why find a cheerleader when you got them?" Luke said as his head nudged at your direction 

You almost choked on air at his statement. 

Reggie's eyes widened as he turned his head towards you but you quickly averted your gaze. "I'm just so confused, like how is this possible?" you asked, nervously shifting the topic. 

"The afterlife should come with instructions, you know?" Alex said, backing up your point. 

Reggie moved closer to you as Luke, Alex and Julie continued to talk about the band. "What does Luke mean by 'you got them' " Reggie whispered. His hot breath sent shivers down your spine as butterflies appeared in your stomach. 

"Nothing." you muttered, not meeting his eyes. 

"You know you're prettier than all the cheerleaders in the world right?" he mumbled quietly and started to play with his fingers. A nervous habit you picked up on. 

Your head snapped up towards him, eyebrows furrowed together, "What do you mean?" you asked softly. 

"I'm just saying you're pretty." he muttered, slowly looking up, meeting your eyes, staring up at him like he was the only one who mattered. 

"Really?" you croaked out. How the hell are you supposed to react when your crush says you're pretty? 

He stares at you longingly before whispering, "The prettiest."

reblog for a kiss!💋

[askbensolo]

Journal Entry #42: Call me your brother.

I finally got Fannie to talk, on a picnic blanket by the lake, while we shared a Gungan fish egg tea (which is merely an unfortunate name—they're tapioca pearls).

"I feel...lost," she admitted. She glanced at me, as if to gauge my reaction. "What I mean is...I've been back on Ryloth for almost four years now, doing what I always knew I'd be doing...what I thought was my life's purpose. Fighting injustice, and working to heal those who have been harmed. But...injustice never goes away, and there are always more who need help. The problems will never be fully solved..." She shook her head and bit her lip. "It's gotten to the point where I find it...hard to care anymore. And that truly frightens me. I do not want my heart to be dead."

"Hey," I said quietly. "There's a word for that, you know. Burnout. It's pretty normal."

"Well, it shouldn't be." She blinked out tears and looked at the sky. "How is it that I can listen to these women tell their stories, share their nightmares with me...and feel nothing? Or worse yet...I find myself getting bored. Or annoyed. Waiting for my lunch break. Watching the minutes with impatience while they weep. I feel like such a horrible person, and it's not like me at all. Unless I've changed, or...unless I've always been this way in secret, deep down." She looked terrified at the thought.

"That can't be it. You're the nicest person I know," I said. "Sounds like you're just a little depressed right now. And anyway...it looks like you do feel something." I took a napkin and patted the tears off her cheeks. "Have you talked to Luke about all this?"

Fannie sighed. "A little bit. Your uncle is so kind and a wonderful teacher and has good advice...but I don't think that's enough to help me. It's not like before, when I lived with him and the other Jedi and had their constant support. I go through my days alone now. And I don't know what to do."

"You're not alone," I told her. "You just have to reach out."

"Yes," she agreed. "But surely you know more than anyone that it's not as easy as it sounds, when you feel darkness all around you."

I nodded. She was right.

She laughed a little. "Imagine: me, talking about feeling darkness all around. Me, with my knitting and my ribbons and my bright pastels." She held up the corner of her sky-blue tunic with the pink ruffles she had sewn herself, and let it fall with another sigh.

"Hm, yeah." I bumped my shoulder against hers. "You know...I know a guy with a ton of black turtleneck sweaters he never wears. Maybe he can lend you some."

That got her to laugh, more genuinely this time. It felt good to make her laugh.

"Seriously though," I said. "It doesn't matter that you're Little Miss Ribbons McRuffles. Life can get anyone down. And just because you feel like this right now doesn't mean you're not still who you've always been. I know you're still you."

"Well...thank you, Ben." She smiled a little.

But then something else seemed to cross her mind, and her smile vanished like air being sucked out of an airlock. Her face grew dark and concentrated. I noticed her fingers start to twitch in her lap—a phantom knitting project.

"...Fannie? You okay?" I scooped up both her hands with one of mine and made her lose count of the invisible stitches. She looked at me, surprised, and shook her head.

"No...Ben....there's...well, there's something else going on."

Her hands were quivering. I had a feeling this was bad.

"Okay," I said solemnly. "Spill."

"It's—" She stopped abruptly, as if desperately holding back the words from leaving her mouth, then tried once more. "It's my—" She choked again and planted her face in her hands.

I got on my knees and shuffled around so I could face her. "Hey. It's okay," I said. I gently pulled her hands down.

Her eyes shot open, like sharp unseeing daggers. I jumped a little and almost withdrew my hands from hers.

"It's my youngest sister," she blurted. "Pennie." Her voice was strained, yet monotone. As if she could not feel. "My father...Pentarra..."

Then she started to crumble, her lips trembling, her eyes blinking rapidly and darting around like panicked fireflies. She took a few jagged breaths, in and out, in and out—then suddenly she locked eyes with me and spoke hoarsely.

"My father has made my sister one of his dancers."

The statement hit like a space freighter slamming into me. I stared at her.

Fannie had often told me about her family on Ryloth, her story unusual to someone who'd grown up in the Core Worlds like me. How her father Ruut Pentarra, a rich and powerful Twi’lek, had several "wives" who were really more like slaves—one of whom being Fashha, Fannie’s mother. She’d told me about her three younger sisters, Connie, Ginnie, and Pennie, and about her nine other half-siblings. And she’d told me how Pentarra praised his sons and treated them as such, but seemed to ignore his daughters.

Well...until now, at least. Ew.

"...How old is Pennie now?" I asked, after a long silence. I was thinking of my own sister, Rey, who was thirteen. I couldn't remember, but I hoped Pennie was older—not that it would make things much better.

"Nineteen," Fannie said. "But she is still more girl than woman."

I didn't know what to say. My first thought was something along the lines of "that has to be illegal," but we'd had that conversation so many times before. Ryloth was an independent world, not part of the New Republic, so their laws and law enforcement were different from ours. And anyway, Pentarra's influence and wealth protected him from a lot. Fannie had told me stories of things he'd gotten away with that I couldn't believe.

“Pennie is too immature to understand,” Fannie went on, staring hard into the distance. “She has always felt overlooked. So now, she is pleased to receive what she sees as extra attention, a recognition of her adulthood, and an honor not given to any of her sisters. And Pentarra sees Pennie’s hunger for love, and uses it to his advantage. I tried to speak to my sister, to convince her to leave, but she is so blinded by delusion that she accused me of being jealous. My heart is broken for her."

Fannie's lips curled into a faint odd smile, and she looked straight at me. Her brown eyes, normally soft and kind, were intense.

"I would love to spill my father's blood," she stated calmly, sweetly, with an eerie lilt. Her lips pulled back to reveal a feral, toothy grimace that sent a chill down my spine. "And drink it. Drop by drop."

I could only look back at her, shocked. Not at what she said, because I felt she was entitled to that sentiment (well, okay, maybe the drink-it-drop-by-drop part was just a little unhinged)—but shocked because it was coming from Fannie, the good girl Jedi who had asked me not to use swear words in front of her.

And then her eyes widened and she looked all scared and she shuddered all over and turned away. "Oh my goodness. It just came out. I'm so sorry. I can't believe I would say such a thing. You see? I'm not myself." She gave a distracted whimper and went back to her imaginary needles and yarn.

I chewed on my lip, thinking carefully. All right. Well. This was...a lot. Like...a lot a lot.

After a pause, I reached out and took her hands in mine.

"...Okay," I said slowly. "So. You're not going back to Ryloth. At least, not after we go back and get your stuff. You're gonna stay here with me for a while."

She shook her head again without looking at me. "I told you already, Ben. I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to be roommates with a boy."

"Hey." I swiped my knuckles against her cheek playfully. "I'm no boy, sister. I'm a gentleman."

“Maybe if you’d been wearing a shirt this morning, I’d believe you.”

There was just a hint of a smirk on her face—the mischievous side of her that rarely revealed itself. I rolled my eyes.

“I’m just teasing you,” she said with that tiny smirk, then cleared her throat and picked at some fuzz on the picnic blanket. “But…I don’t know, Ben.”

"Come on. I lived in the same house as Rey for three years and she's a girl."

She gave me an exasperated, are-you-stupid kind of look. "Well, of course, Ben. Rey's your sister."

"Not by blood," I reminded her. I was going somewhere with this. "What's that Twi'lek thing you always used to say? Kartakk..."

Her eyes told me she'd picked up what I was putting down (even if my Twi'leki pronunciation was atrocious). "Kartakk erai de numa,'" she finished begrudgingly. It was the phrase that Twi'lek slave women were said to have whispered to one another in passing to show camaraderie. Fannie had said it to me many times in the past.

"Which means...?" I gave her a nudge with the back of my hand.

She sighed. "'Call me your sister.'"

"Yeah. See? You're my sister, too."

“But...I can't leave Ryloth. I have my work…”

“Which is…?” I prodded. She blinked.

“...Holocounseling.”

“Exactly. You can do that from Naboo.”

She was quiet.

"...Hey," I said. "You had fun today, right?" She nodded slowly. "Well...maybe getting away for a bit is just what you need. You said you feel like you face every day alone, so...maybe it could be good for you to be less on your own. At least for a little while."

She stayed quiet. I saw her counting stitches in her head.

And then...

"...Well...maybe I can stay with you for the summer," Fannie said finally. "For just a couple of months. Till...till I can get back to my old self again."

She smiled. Genuinely. It was like that time I'd called her a month ago. Like sun breaking through the clouds.

I smiled back. It was good to see her smile.

[smurphyse]

Bunny and the Lie

Smurph's Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Part 10 of Bunny and the Beast

Warnings: Emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, toxic relationship behavior, love confessions, canon typical stories and violence

Summary: The BAU stop by the house to learn what Spencer has about Scratch

Spencer waited anxiously in the kitchen,  biting his nails as he gazed out the window. JJ was talking from one side of the room, but he wasn't really listening. 

He wanted to be back upstairs with you, cuddling close and listening to your breathing. He wanted to bury himself inside you to forget what was happening. Instead, he'd asked the team to come by before you woke up to discuss next steps with Scratch. 

He had his eyes on you. It was only a matter of time before you were gone, and Spencer wasn't ready for it. 

"... we move you to the safe house," JJ's voice came through, and Spencer's head snapped to her. 

"We're not leaving the house," he told her sharply. 

"Reid, if Scratch is coming for you both, it would be safer," Emily said quietly.

"No," Spencer huffed, holding onto his coffee cup for dear life. It was the only thing grounding him in the moment since your heat wasn't there to soothe him. "I'm not telling her anything about this."

That got all their attentions, and Luke rested what was supposed to be a comforting hand on his shoulder, but Spencer pulled away from him before he spoke. It felt like cheating now, "She needs to know. Bunny's young, but she's not an idiot. She has to know something's up with you."

"She doesn't know anything and she's not going to," Spencer snapped, and Luke flinched back. "She's…sweet and innocent, and I'm going to keep her that way."

"How old is she anyways?" Rossi asked, picking up one of the many photo frames you had placed around the house of him and you.

"Twenty five." 

That earned a round of faces from them, making him only more irritated, "I'm not apologizing for sleeping with someone younger than me."

"Spence, we didn't even know you were in a relationship until a few hours ago," Tara pointed out, "Let alone with a college student."

"She's not a college student, she's a software engineer," he sighed. Rubbing his temple he sighed again as his annoyance grew, "I wouldn't have told you if I didn't have to."

"Why?" Penelope asked, her eyes going wide and hurt. "We love you, Spencer. We want you to be happy."

Spencer stiffened at her words. They didn't even know him, or care to sometimes. Not in the way you did. "Because everything this team touches turns to shit. I'm not letting the BAU anywhere near her if it means she'll be safer."

"The best thing to do is move you both, then," Emily told him firmly. 

Spencer set down the cup as he had the urge to throw it. Since prison his temper was on a hairpin trigger, especially when it came to things like work. He brushed back his hair and held the back of his neck as he tried to keep himself calm. 

"I won't end up like Hotch," he said quietly, hardly above a whisper. "I won’t lose her and end up broken. I'm not letting her end up like Maeve. I won't take her and hide and lose everything else in my life. She has a good home with me, and I'm happy here."

"Spencer, did you make coffee?" your voice came from the hallway, making them all turn toward the door. "I think I'm dying, I'm so ti-."

Your voice came to a halt as you skipped into the room in nothing but one of his shirts. Spencer was just glad it came halfway down your thighs and at the moment you had no visible bruises. Your face went red and you subconsciously tugged on the hem, your eyes going wide as you laid eyes on them. 

"Uhh, there's strangers here," you said, embarrassed, locking eyes with him. He could tell you were a bit angry by the set of your jaw, and embarrassed even further when you saw Luke. 

"Hey Bunny," he said cheerily, throwing you a wave. 

"Hey Luke…" you murmured, but you looked to Spencer for direction.

"I'm going to work from home this week to spend Christmas with you, so the team was just dropping off files on their way to the jet," he told you, and you nodded. 

"Hmmm," you hummed, "Nice to meet you all. I'm going to go put on some pants." 

You turned and hightailed it back to the stairs, your little feet stomping up the wood. Garcia grinned and flashed Spencer a look, "Bunny?"

He dragged a hand down his face and glared, "It's a nickname."

"If you don't want to tell her about Scratch then what do you want to do?" Emily asked, irritated with his attitude and he knew it. 

"I don't… I really don't know. I just don't want her to be scared if she needn't be."

"Well, I'd start by putting cameras that cover the perimeter," Luke offered, and Spencer was grateful for him taking charge. "Change the locks, put alarms on the doors and the windows."

"I already have someone coming tomorrow," Spencer said. 

Luke shrugged, "Get her a dog, a big one."

Spencer shook his head, "Dogs hate me. Plus, if Scratch hurts it, it'll just devastate her."

"Then you're doing everything you can do, kid," Rossi told him gently. "She's a city girl. In the meantime, she knows how to take care of herself."

Spencer wanted to believe that was true, but then he thought about how easy it was to coax you into sleeping with him that first day. You went limp and pliant without much provocation… but the realistic part of his mind knew it was because you'd had a crush on him for a long time. He'd noticed you the moment you moved in next door, heard you night after night through the walls…

After months of holding himself back, telling himself how bad an idea it would be having you always next door, he just had to have you. It was just supposed to be a romp in the sack, nothing else, but good lord he'd made the stupid decision to go and fall in love with you. 

There was no way in hell he was letting you go now. 

-----------------

By the time you came back downstairs, Spencer's team had already left. Spencer was leaning on the counter in the kitchen, rubbing his temples and looking pissed off as you stepped inside. 

"Where'd everyone go?" you asked, a bit disappointed. Spencer never talked about work, but he talked about his team. 

"They're busy, bunny, they had to work," he sighed, not even bothering to look up at you. 

"You don't want me to meet your friends?" you asked quietly. 

That got his attention, and he straightened up to glance your way. He beckoned you with one hand, holding it out for you to take. Pulling you close when you did, he hugged you tight and kissed the top of your head. 

"I'm not enough for you?" he asked, and you frowned. He didn't let you pull away, just clung to you in that way he had been, like you might disappear. 

"I just want to meet the people in your life, Spencer. You talk about them all the time."

He groaned in annoyance, and suddenly you felt quite bad, like you'd intruded on something. Kissing your head again, Spencer picked you up and set you on the counter. 

Watching you for a moment, Spencer put both hands on either side of you, caging you in with his big frame. You simply watched him back with wide eyes until you couldn't handle it anymore and reached out to cup his face with your hands. 

"I want to be a part of your life," you told him gently, and he finally closed his eyes and leaned into you. "We're supposed to be making one together, that means with our families too."

"You don't even talk to your family," he grumbled, piercing your heart. You'd told him that in confidence, and he was trying to use it to justify keeping you away from his. 

You pulled your hands from him, and his eyes snapped open as you glared at him, "That's a choice I made for myself. There's more than one way to have a family and you know it."

Spencer grabbed your hands, desperately placing them back on his cheeks, "I know, I'm sorry. I guess I mean I have my own issues with the team I'm not ready to show you. We're so new and I want us to be solid before I introduce you to that… dysfunction."

"You think waiting will make it any less shocking when I do see it?" you asked lightly. "I already know how crazy you are. How bad can they be?"

His eyes welled, his jaw quivering just before Spencer burst into tears. You went stock still as he dropped, burying his face in your thighs and clinging to your waist. 

"Spencer?" You brushed his hair to see him, but he refused to let you, instead sobbing and soaking your leggings in his tears. "Hey, c’mon. Talk to me, honey."

He wouldn't look at you, so you let him cry until he was spent. You'd never really seen this side of him before. The last time he'd gotten this worked up he'd hid himself behind you in the tub and you'd allowed him that, but not this time. 

You pushed at him until he moved off you, covering his face with his hands and avoiding your gaze. Gripping the front of his shirt, you led him to the couch in the living room and sat down. You tugged on him until he sat with you, plopping onto the couch and resting his head on your lap. 

Turning on the TV and setting the volume on low, you played with his hair with one hand, rubbing his back with the other. You felt him begin to cry once more, so you just hushed him and did your best to soothe. 

"I keep telling you I'm not going anywhere," you murmured, "why don't you believe me?"

"Because everyone always leaves. One way or another," Spencer sniffled, hot tears staining your cotton pants. "It always ends with me… alone again, trying to figure out how I got there."

"Sometimes people don't mean to leave, Spencer," you said quietly, and he stiffened. "Sometimes they just go, but sometimes they come back. Not everything is forever."

He sat up slowly, rubbing at his face. You gave him a gentle smile and brushed his tears away, "There he is, my old man."

Spencer scoffed, but he let you wipe his face and smiled back. It was gone quickly, though,  too quickly, "That's the problem. Everything is so temporary. I don't know how to make it stop."

You cocked your head and looked at him sadly, "In the million years you've been on this planet, haven't you realized you can't control everything?"

"I'm just trying to be the man you need me to be, bunny."

Lacing your arms around his neck, you pulled yourself onto Spencer's lap. His hands smoothed up your clothed thighs on instinct, eyes watery and grieving for something you couldn't see. 

"I need you, okay?" you said, but he didn't look too sure. "I don't need kisses, or even sex as amazing as it is with you. I just need you to be here with me, not with all those damned ghosts in your head.

"I love you, Spencer," you finished as he opened his mouth to interrupt, and his jaw promptly snapped shut. "I love you, and I'm here, and I need you to be here with me."

And then you were being hoisted from the couch, yelping when Spencer shot up unexpectedly. He carried you upstairs without a word, promptly dropping you on the bed and mounting you. Hovering above, he leaned in close, his lips just a few millimeters from yours. 

"Tell me again," he whispered, watching you with a queer gleam in his eye. 

You gazed back up at him, as always unsure of what was running through his head. Reaching out, you brushed back his hair, making sure to scratch his scalp like he liked. 

"I love you," you told him simply. There wasn't anything else to say. 

Spencer pressed his lips just next to yours as he often did when he wanted to be soft, holding himself there a moment as if to stain it into your skin. He pulled away just enough to move to the side and whisper in your ear, "I need you."

You sighed, of course this was where this led to. His mind seemed to always be on a circular track when it came to things like this: emote, fuck it out, forget. 

You put a hand on his chest as his hands moved to your waistband, "Not right now."

Spencer pulled back like you'd burned him, but you didn't give an inch. He tried to kiss your cheek again, but you pushed him again. 

"Not right now," you said again. "I have to go to the store, I'd rather not be bruised during that."

Spencer squinted at you, "We're not going anywhere today."

Wriggling out from underneath him and getting off the bed, you scoffed, “Okay, you don’t have to come.”

His hand shot out to grip your wrist, tugging you back. You eyed it warily, then him. That pinch was back between his eyebrows, the angry one you’d seen only a few times before. His hold on your wrist was tight, and you tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let you.

“Spencer, you’re hurting me,” you whispered, that same odd feeling you’d had last night when looking out the windows creeping up on you… fear. 

He pulled you to stand between his legs as he sat on the bed, easing his grip a little. He rested his hands on your hips to hold you where he wanted you, gazing up and saying firmly, “We’re not going anywhere today.”

Your brows furrowed as you watched him. You couldn’t read him, but the look on his face said you didn’t have much choice in the matter. “Are you saying I can’t leave the house?”

“I’m asking you not to. Stay here with me.”

“You haven’t asked me anything.” 

Spencer sighed and rubbed his face with his hands, that same way he often did when he was trying to contain himself. Finally he stood and waved an absentminded hand, “Fine, I’ll go with you to the store.”

“I don’t want you to go with me," you spat, turning on your heel and heading downstairs. You barely made it to the bottom step before he caught up with you, his hand landing on top of yours as you grabbed your purse. 

"Spencer, what the hell is going on with you?" you asked, ripping your hand free and taking a step away. 

He straightened himself slowly, watching you in a way that made you feel small. He showed you his palms before lacing his fingers behind his back, "Please stay home with me."

"Why?"

Spencer's eyelids fluttered shut as he sighed in annoyance, that emotional openness he'd shown you just minutes ago gone. He opened them and said in a measured tone, "There's some things going on at work, and I'm anxious for you to be alone."

You crossed your arms and squinted at him, "Am I in danger?"

He paused, swallowing thickly. Taking a steadying breath and letting it out, he said, "No."

Your heart beat wildly in your chest, unsure and a bit scared of whatever was going on in this man's head. He never let you in, and when he did it was so fleeting it may as well have never happened at all. 

His exhaustion seemed to seep from his bones, bruising his eyes and weighing heavily on his shoulders. You could only imagine the things he saw every day, and he wouldn't let you take any of it from him. You did what you could but…you could only do so much. 

"You worry too much, honey," you said softly. 

"You worry me, bunny," he replied, just as quiet. "I see bodies every day and my biggest fear is one day one of them will be you."

You couldn't help the way you softened, not when he looked so pathetic and fearful. You went to him, smoothing your palms up his chest and stepping on your tiptoes just so you could bump your nose with his. As you went flat footed, he took your hands in his. 

You didn't want to forgive him. His behavior was possessive and not right and you knew it, but you let out a long sigh and said, "You can't control everything, Spencer. You can't control me either."

He nodded so you continued, "You can dominate me in bed, I won't wear panties at home because you like it, but I'm my own person and I've spent a lot of time on my own. I can handle myself, and I know you're here to protect me. I trust you, I do, otherwise I wouldn't have moved in with you."

He mulled it over, chewing on your words the way he chewed on his cheek as he looked down at you. Even so much taller than you he looked small, smaller still as he whispered, "Can I go to the store with you please?"

You got up enough to peck his cheek and patted his chest, "C'mon, let's go, old man."

Notes: Please tell me what you think! What is going through your mind as Spencer starts to slip????

CM Forever Tag:

@thedancingcostumeyoungadult @muffin-cup @simplyparker @spencerreidsmommy @hotchandspencearedilfs @gspenc @kbakery @nomajdetective @givemeth @hoshihiime @halloween-is-my-nationality @reidselle @thisiscalmanditsdoctorreid @dreatine @thebloomingeagle @fortheloveofwonderland @theforgottenwinter @parkerreidnorth @reidselle @randomhoex @scargarcia-magshotchner @stitchwrites @pygmygoat-bicyclehelmet @cle13 @aysixdy @elhotchner @directioner5life @elhotchner @loveeee2134 @preciousbabypeter @la-stuffs @stories-you-wont-hear @hotchlover @fortheloveofwonderland @lokiandhisdagger @bellanutellababyyy @dark-night-sky-99 @straightforbuckybutgayfornatasha @maltamurdock @charelletjee @kansas-reid @zephyrmonkey @spencer-reid-wonderland @spencersprettyslut @im-sure-its-fine @tvdstelenaforever @teddylupintonks  @lilibet261 @kneelforloki @dirtytissuebox @almostgenerallyalways @whovian378 @cl0udyqu33n @thegettingbyp2 @averagestudent03 

[justonemorechapternicercy]

Could you do any yandere nicercy?

Hey, anon, let's pretend you sent me this ask a few weeks ago, and not more than a year ago, okay? Okay. ❤️

Also, I just want to let you guys know that I'm going through some things, and I'm not that excited over PJO - or any fandoms, really - nowadays. So, as a personal challenge to get me back to writing and reading PJO content, I'll try to answer the asks in my inbox, writing those prompts. I'd like to ask you, not to send me any prompts for the next... Uhh... Until the next time I post something about it, okay? I'm in two PJO projects that are very important to me (one with Fee, the other with the Camp Elysium server), that I just couldn't touch, so I'd like to be able getting back to them.

Thank you ❤️

Now, back to the story-

Spreading out on the satin covered bed, still a bit breathless from their previous activities, he could hear them talking. He didn't appreciate when people stole Nico from him, when he had to leave their bed so soon after completion, but he couldn't complain. It was Hazel, after all.

Nico would do many things for his step-sister, even leave him all alone in their bed.

Their conversation was quiet before, but now they raised their voices enough he could understand the words they were speaking.

"I'm taking Percy with me," Hazel stated firmly.

He felt his heart drop. The chains around his left leg rattled as he moved, but it didn't bother him. The words, on the other hand…

"No, Nico, you can't keep him here like this! It has been years since he was seen! He wasn't even on his sister's Dark Baptism! This is not right."

Estelle? It was already Estelle's sixteenth birthday? She had her Baptism? That's nice… but that didn't mean Hazel had any right to tell Nico what he could and couldn't do. She had no right to want to take Percy away from his dark angel.

Nico was saying something he didn't hear, and then, "... you're wrong! I love Percy and he loves me! I'm taking care of him, I'm not letting anybody use him."

"THIS IS LOVE TO YOU?" Hazel shrieked, causing Percy to jump again in fright. He didn't like loud noises. They were… not good. "This isn't love, Nico. He doesn't deserve it, you can't force him to stay with you."

Percy furrowed his brows, not understanding what she was insinuating. He loved being with Nico. He loved Nico. He wasn't forced to stay there. He quite liked it, actually. After all what happened with the Dark Lord Kronos, and his servant, Luke… Percy didn't like going outside. Being in a crowd, meeting with people… no, it was not for him. The bed was very comfortable, safe and secure. And he had Nico.

"I'm not forcing him. He loves being here," Nico drawled. His voice relaxed Percy. Nothing bad could touch him if he was there.

"Why are you doing this, Nico?" The witch asked, voice trembling. She just didn't understand it. She didn't understand them.

"I can't lose him. I won't lose him," Nico answered. Percy's heart ached for him. He didn't remember much from before, but Nico told him what it was like. How reckless he was. How stubborn, yet easy to manipulate. How he almost died more than once without Nico to help him. He knew how much it still pained the other warlock. "I love him too much to do that."

"I know you love him, but you can't keep him chained up. It's not right!" Percy started to feel more and more uncomfortable. What right did she have to judge them? To judge Nico?! She knew nothing! It was for his own safety! Nico did everything he could to keep him safe, and Hazel had no right.

"And it's right to send him out to die? No. I won't let him die, not if I can help him." Percy smiled, caressing the black iron around his ankle. Nico would keep him safe.

"You aren't helping him. He is barely living; you are killing him in a different way!" Hazel said sadly. Percy huffed, he hoped Nico wouldn't listen to her. He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to part from Nico. He needed Nico.

He loved Nico.

"Stop lying!" His love shouted angrily. Percy shuddered. Shouting wasn't… It wasn't good.

"Nico…" Percy could barely hear her voice as she whispered. For a few seconds the only thing he could hear was his own heartbeat. 

Then, Nico. "No. I don't have to listen to you anymore. Leave." Percy unconsciously nodded. Hazel had to leave. Before she could change Nico's mind. Percy had to stay with Nico. He needed it.

"Nico…" she whispered. Percy could hear Nico walking, stalking his prey. He knew those steps by heart, he could not mistake them with anything. He was pissed.

"I. Said. Leave." His voice was hard, devoid of any emotion, but it was clear he was at the edge of his patience. Percy could picture him, his face set in hard stone, eyes blazing, mouth pressed in a thin line. He was glad the expression wasn't aimed at him.

"I just want to help! You are killing him, Nico," begged Hazel.

"Don't come back again. You won't like the consequences."

Even Percy through the closed door could feel Nico's power. His eyes rolled back, his body tensed, both with phantom pain and arousal. Nico liked to use his powers on him on some occasions. Percy both dreaded and loved those times.

He could hear Hazel leaving, then footsteps nearing the room. Nico stopped outside of the door, and Percy felt a sudden dread in his stomach. Why was he waiting? What was he waiting for?

His breath catched when the door slowly unlocked, creaking as it opened. Years next to Nico go by a second when you live as long as witches and warlocks did, but Percy found himself waiting impatiently, his body knowing when its owner was nearby but not close enough.

"My good boy," Nico smirked, eyes ranking over Percy's naked body sprawled across their bed, his voice rich and lovely, nothing like the one he used with Hazel. It wrapped around Percy like a lover's caress, so intimate, he could almost feel it.

"She is gone, right?" Percy asked, reaching a hand out, touching those brunette curls, dark enough they might even be considered black. But he knew Nico was a brunette; he could vividly recall any and every part of his lover's.

His skin was soft, Percy loved to touch it, to taste it. He wasn't sure when and how it all started, but he could honestly say he could no longer live without Nico di Angelo.

The warlock leaned into Percy's touch, his lips brushing against his palm in a barely kiss, before knotting Percy's long hair between his fingers, and pulling him up in a bruising kiss.

It isn't sweet. It isn't nice. It's nothing that sort, but it is wonderful and Percy could feel the sparks of their mixed magic dancing across his body, burning him up, like a cauldron bubbling inside him. Their bodies fit together well, like a puzzle's missing pieces. It feels right, like they were made for each other.

Nico moved to suck at his neck, harsh and painful as his sharp teeth grazed at the sensitive skin, but pleasure soon took over with his tongue as a soothing counterpoint. He gives himself wholly over to the sensations, to the pain and pleasure, to the sweet whispered words and razor-edged dark magic that ran through his body.

Nico's nails clawed against his shoulders, pinning him in one place as if he could ever run, his mouth exploring Percy's exposed pale neck as if he's never done it before. 

"Always so lovely," he murmured. "Always mine," he growled, digging his nails deeper, tearing into Percy's soft skin, drawing a few drops of blood.

They stared into each other's eyes; he could see nothing, but swirling blackness, deadly pools of poison, the literal abyss. He wondered what Nico saw in his. He wondered if he was mirroring Nico, or he still had his soul, that thing he signed up to Dark Lord Kronos with his own blood.

But those fleeting thoughts flew away when their lips met again, Nico biting Percy's lips, hard, and the coppery taste of his own blood filled Percy's mouth. It was a familiar taste, welcomed, even.

He just took whatever Nico pleased to do with him; taking the marks he left on his body, the curious fingers creeping down on him to their hidden destination.

"Mm, you are still so open for me," Nico hissed, his lips curving in a lascivious smile, fingering Percy's still loose hole. The slightly older warlock nodded, legs unconsciously opening wider. "You are so good for me," he murmured. He waved his hand, and immediately, his previously hot fingers turned into almost like icicles. Percy shuddered and whined; it was bordering unbearable, yet the contrast between his heated, slick hole and the ice-cold touches could have been enough to send him over the edge if Nico would have allowed it.

His fingers were nimble and sure, painful and pleasurable, knowing how to cause the maximum at both. But they were nothing compared to his cock, thick and long, so big Percy always questioned how it fit into him. But it did; he could feel himself stretching and expanding, accommodating to the girth. His ears were ringing, he could only hear his begging through a thick layer of fog. His cock was throbbing, his hole was stretched to the limit, and he could do nothing but take and take and take.

Nico always knew better than him what his body could take. After all, he could take anything Nico wanted him.

The brunette captured Percy's mouth one more full force, his tongue sliding in and out, in parallel how he was fucking Percy into the mattress. Percy felt devoured, completely at Nico's mercy. He was at his mercy.

Nico's hips continued their rhythmic, mind-blowing movement, back and forth, slower, faster, deeper, shallower, making Percy's body thrumming with restrained power. His eyes were closed as he came, giving himself over to the feeling. He was probably saying something, praises or unintelligible words, but he didn't care about that. He only cared about the feeling of Nico's release deep inside of him, his alluring powers filling him up to the brim.

Opening his eyes, there was a long moment where they stared into each other's eyes, and Percy was falling, and falling, unrestrained into the deep abyss. He found himself learning towards Nico unconsciously, who kissed him once more, their lips moving in tandem, their breaths mixing, limbs tangled together until they were one.

One kiss, another, then Nico moved away, pulling his clothes without speaking, needing to go, do his own thing.

He left Percy splayed out on their bed, naked and beautiful, knowing he can't go anywhere, even if he would finally take off the chains on his leg, he wouldn't run.

Percy was his, forever.

[that-intp-vampire]

anti honesty hour: why are you as old as you are

Right

*Sips pomegranate juice in a wine glass*

Once upon a time the planets and fates and all the stars aligned. He and I ended up in the same room at the same time. And the touch of a hand lit the fuse. Of a chain reaction of counter moves. To asses the equation of him. Check mate I couldn't lose.

It wasn't accidental, no sire not at all. It was one magic book and one curious darling in love with the idea of vampires. She sifted through the tome and found the spell that would make her one. Forever. She just had to find her Sarah J Mass type mate, who was hot 🥵🥵🥵🥵 and 🔥🔥🔥 and super duper problematic. And she was supposed to murder him (him because SJM only does straight ppl mates) and sacrifice his blood on the altar of the....goddess of wisdom and peace. So I met the guy, he made my blood boil because how can someone be so problematic abt their views and at the same time so self conceited that they think that they're the only one who cares abt social justice?? Had no regrets I tell you.

So like I did something with a blender, it was a long time ago I tell you so I don't remember what but I think it was a chocolate shake and how did I even have a blender? My alien friend Mark gifted it to me. Electricity? That magic book.

Right so my smoothie in my tummy I did the ritual and like this is the part where everyone asks me "Hey it hurt a lot didn't it? The loss of you humanity and the whole growing fangs business and thirst for blood?"

No. No. It was so beautiful. So many sparkles and so much or confetti had never been seen and it was literally a complete barbie magic fairy transformation moment. It has been wonderful since then, the whole idea of being a vampire but luke once a month I have to take some animal blood but otherwise we're good. Oh and garlic doesn't hurt and sunscreen solves the sunlight problem so we're all good. And I still have morals and flaws plus an eternity of trying to be the best I can be which is a truly enriching life experience.

Oh and the goddess gifted me a magic closet which is equipped with great clothes all the time because apparently I could really use a wardrobe glow up.

[soletlunasims]

Ares gets a phone call early one morning. It's from Luke.

Luke *over the phone*: "Can you come over here anytime today? I'm very excited to show you what I did to the site."

Ares: "uh... I can come after work? Is that okay?"

Luke: "so, like 5:30? I'll be here. That's fine."

Ares shows up around 5:15. She practically rushed over as soon as she got home and changed.

Luke greeted her with a very excited look.

Luke: "Ah! Yes! Come in!"

He takes her by the hand and leads her over to the computer.

Ares: "Damn. You are excited. What could you possibly have to show me?"

Luke beams. He motions to the monitor: "Tadaa! It's a campaign donation button! And..... It's animated!"

Ares looks impressed: "Oh my Watcher. Okay. That is pretty cool!"

They talk about the inner workings of the coding that went into setting it all up but during their chat, Ares had a creeping feeling. Or feelings, even.

Guilt and sadness.

Guilt because she was having way more fun doing all of this with Luke than planning her own wedding.

Sadness because she would rather be doing this..... Than planning a wedding.

She took a seat in one of the chairs behind Luke as he continued the conversation.

Luke: "So right here, next to the site login, I'm thinking we can sneak in a little shortcut to the donation page. It'll be right outside of the login button so it'll be easy to 'accidentally' click it."

Ares was listening but she was getting noticably less enthused. Not at the shady suggestion Luke just gave her (in this line of work, tactics like that are more than normal) but her brain was telling her that all of this was wrong. It often did. She often didn't listen. Or tried not to.

Ares: "It's a very good idea, Luke. Sounds good...."

Luke continues, seeming not to notice the change in Ares demeanor.

Luke: "We can do this for mobile as well. In fact, it'll work even better on mobile because most people will accuse themselves of fat fingering their phone screens."

Ares was losing him.

Ares: "Mhmm...."

Luke looked up at her.

Luke: "Hey. You good over there? Ah, shit. Did I finally bore you?"

Ares: "Oh, no!....I'm just.... I'm having a tough time focusing right now."

Luke looks at her confused.

Luke: "You have never seemed the type to lose focus.....something's bothering you."

Luke puts his phone down.

Luke: "Let's stop talking about this for today. What's on your mind?"

Ares takes a deep breath. She tries to give him the short version of it all but she starts to ramble. She doesn't even notice that she paced her way over to Luke where she finishes off her speech with "Am I a bad person?"

Luke blinks at her.

Luke: "So.... I caught about 85% of that. How about we take a seat and talk at a bit more of a digestible pace?"

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Free Day Thursday

(Part 2 of yesterday's snippet!)

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. 

Luke had been so sure of himself when he'd entered the chamber. He knew what he had to do, and he knew there was always a chance that he would die in the attempt. But his friends -- no, his family -- were trapped in this facility, and Luke would not let them die.

Yoda didn't understand. He claimed to have watched over Luke all his life. He criticized Luke for looking to the future and not the present. 

If the present is so important, Master, if you can see so far, why didn't you see that Leia's been tortured by Vader before? How can you be willing to let her fall into his hands again?

No. Luke would never let that happen. His friend was more important than his training: he would never choose to let someone die for his own benefit. 

That's not the kind of Jedi I'm going to be.

And so he had chosen to fight.

But there was a problem. 

Darth Vader had chosen not to fight.

The man's presence filled the room like smoke, billowing and curling around them both as though it could cut off every escape route. Maybe it could. Luke was not foolish enough to believe that Vader was vulnerable, just because he refused to draw his sword. The Force was with him, after all. Corrupted, used for selfish purposes, but nevertheless a powerful ally. 

But Vader did not attack.

Again and again he admonished Luke for his aggression. A hint of scolding. A hint of fond exasperation. As if he were a teacher correcting a favored pupil. 

Or a fa-

Luke cut off the thoughts in fury. His enemy was underestimating him. Patronizing the would-be Jedi, so sure of his own superiority. 

This was not a Darth Vader he had seen before. Where was the cold pragmatism? The apathy towards others? Clearly it had been in play when he had harmed Han and Leia and Chewie. 

"I have no specific grievance against those you keep company with."

And that was worse. Infinitely worse. Everything he had done to his friends -- to Leia! -- and he didn't even have any particular issues with them?! If he could torture someone he didn't hate, what would he do to someone he did have a grudge against?

What will he do to me?

Now he walked down the stairs, ignoring Luke's lightsaber, speaking calmly as though he could pretend he hadn't just used sentient beings as bait to draw him here. It didn't work like that! He couldn't just make Luke drop his guard with honeyed words. Every child raised on Tatooine knew the danger of those who spoke sweetly and held a transmitter behind their backs. Luke wasn't going to fall for it and he wasn't shy about saying so.

"The jakreb learns to listen before he runs," his enemy quoted suddenly. He sounded amused.

That was an old saying on Tatooine. A proverb to teach children to watch carefully for signs of danger before making a move. There should have been no reason for Vader to know it.

None whatsoever.

I don't like this. Something is wrong.

Something plucked at his memories. A tickle at the back of his mind, like a spider crawling across his skin. Nothing concrete, but a nameless, formless, something. 

"The dragon who moves too soon is a dragon who starves," Luke shot back, a little rashly.

Another old proverb. Less about wariness and caution and more about patience. 

I know what you're doing, old man. You're the dragon. I'm the jakreb. So which one of us is going to move first?

But Vader kept walking. After all this, after the horrible things he'd done just to get Luke here, he was just...just leaving?! But that didn't make any sense!

“You want me to drop my guard, so you can kill me. Just like you did to Ben!” he accused.

He turned his blade to a more horizontal guard and stepped up to the high ground. 

If Vader was trying to lure him in close enough to run him through, he was going to be disappointed. 

“Luke.” Vader shook his head and continued to descend the staircase. Again his voice was sickeningly compassionate. “Obi-wan allowed himself to be killed. What his motives could have been, I do not know. He told himself and everyone around him such pretty lies that I am no longer certain that even he knew what his motivations were. But I assure you that whatever he did, he did so deliberately.”

The bottom seemed to drop out of Luke's stomach. There was so much anger hiding in those words. Maybe Vader didn't have a vendetta against Luke's friends, but it was very clear that he'd hated Obi-wan. But why?

Ben said that Vader betrayed and murdered his father. He said nothing about Vader betraying him. And he'd given no hint that there might be particularly bad blood between them. Did he just think it wasn't Luke's business?

But Luke knew that Vader was right about one thing: Ben had chosen to die at that particular moment. “To give us time to escape," he said defiantly. Lightsaber at the ready, he cautiously began to descend the stairs after Vader. "So we could destroy your Death Star! Worked out pretty well, Vader.”

“Indeed?” 

Vader glanced back over his shoulder at Luke, then stepped off the edge of the platform. 

What the kriff?!

He was leaving! Why? Was this room a trap? Would he activate one of those machines as soon as he was out?

Oh no way. Not a chance. You don't get to walk away from me, Sithspawn.

Luke scrambled to the edge of the platform in time to see Vader stepping into one of the maintenance tunnels.

“That is a topic for speculation, I believe," the rumbling voice echoed back. Luke definitely caught some sarcasm in his tone. "But for all the times your “Ben” betrayed me, it is fitting that in his final moments he unwittingly revealed you to me. Returning what he stole all those years ago.”

What.

The reverberating breaths faded out, and Luke stood at the edge of the platform. He tried to piece together what he'd just heard logically.

Had Ben stolen something from Vader? If the Sith wanted it, it was probably a good thing Obi-wan had taken it. Whatever it was. Maybe a weapon?

Luke's heart sank as he looked down at the brilliant blue glow of his saber. 

Vader killed his father. He might have felt that Anakin's lightsaber rightfully belonged to him.

What do I do?! This is my lightsaber! My inheritance. It's all I have of my father and I will not let him take that away.

Luke's emotions twisted around each other, bending back over themselves in a discordant jangle of mismatched rhythms as he tried to understand what was happening. The grip of the saber was slick in his hands. 

I'm…

No, no, I can do this.

I'm scared 

I can do this!

He was being torn in two different directions. Every fiber of his being begged him to flee. To not walk into what could very well be a trap. But at the same time, something down that tunnel was calling him. Like a cord wrapped around his heart, steadily pulling him to an unknown destination, he felt the whispers more than he heard them.

I'm scared. 

It's alright to be scared. I'm here.

They weren't words so much as sensations. Faintly brushing against his memory like a butterfly's wing, the whispers seemed to promise that everything would be alright, he just couldn't look back. 

Frightened, but determined, Luke clipped his saber to his belt and eased over the edge of the platform. 

It's okay. I can do this. 

I can win.

Just don't look back. 

The instant Luke stepped into the tunnel, the lights snapped on. He had a feeling that he was walking into a trap. But then, the place he had just left felt like a trap, too. 

Kriff kriff kriff.

Stupid jakreb hopped right into the snare.

There was a control room at the end of the tunnel. 

There was a Sith Lord at the end of the tunnel.

Luke had his lightsaber out almost before he had time to think. 

A grate slid shut over the tunnel mouth behind him, cutting off his retreat.

Well. 

At least he could see in this room.

"Put down your weapon, young one," Vader said again. He did not even turn away from the holographic map to face Luke. 

"Not. Happening." Luke bared his teeth and forced himself to take two steps forward. "You have to answer for what you did, Vader. To my friends, and the galaxy, and the Jedi...and my father."

Quite suddenly, Vader's shoulders fell. He leaned against the projector as if he were bone-weary. 

"Child, I have done nothing to your father."

He still did not turn.

"He is a contemptible, pitiable wretch, too quick to give his loyalty to those who do not deserve it. But he is a powerful wretch. Powerful enough to conceal your existence from the emperor for the last three years."

Luke stumbled back. His father's lightsaber hung by his side uselessly.

Present tense.

Darth Vader was speaking about his father in the present tense.

Anakin Skywalker. 

Present tense.

"You...you're lying."

No please, please don't be lying-

I can't…

Don't toy with me you sleemo

Don't you dare use my father's memory as a ploy-

At last, Vader turned to face him. "I have done what I can, Luke," he said simply. "But now we are out of time."

"I have done what I can"

Something cold and clammy slithered in Luke's gut. It knotted in coils around his spine to sink its teeth into his heart. Against his will, tears sprang to his eyes.

He knew Darth Vader was evil, but this was a cruelty he had not expected. The carefully laid trap, baited with words, and the insinuations eased between sentences, struck deeper than any lightsaber's blow. He played on the memory of Luke's father -- of his loneliness, his lifelong yearning for his father -- and twisted it. Perverted it into an attempt at manipulation so blatant it could hardly be believed.

Did he believe it was an attempt at manipulation?

What if it was worse? What if Vader actually believed what he seemed to be implying? Pointing out how illogical it was could quickly become dangerous. But Luke was past the point of caring.

"You...you aren't half the man my father was!" he hissed. 

Something bitter and almost amused dripped from the Sith to puddle around Luke's fear.

"An ironic statement."

"You don't know me!" Luke continued gamely on as if he had not been interrupted. "You think you're the first person to play mind games with my memories? Huh? Kriff you!"

He swung the blade up in a ready position. 

Darth Vader tilted his head to one side, considering.

"This is not going to go the way you think."

The spiders were back, creeping across his brain. Luke blinked and shook his head to clear it. Losing his focus here would be fatal.

"Don't fight it."

Vader raised a hand towards him, almost reaching out. 

"You have been running for a long time. It is alright to rest, now."

Was the Sith doing something to his mind?!

But Ben said mind tricks only worked on the weak-willed! And Yoda was always complaining about how stubborn he was!

"Get out of my head!" Luke shouted. Don't panic, don't panic-

"It is not me." 

Oh, gentleness did not sound right coming out of that voice.

"You have forgotten who you are, and yet from our first encounter your memories have tried to reestablish themselves. Stop fighting them, Luke. Let them flow."

Luke stopped pretending he wasn't afraid. He was terrified. He was alone in an isolated place, too far away to call for help, and trapped with a deadly enemy who meant to prey upon his very sense of self. 

His hands were shaking too badly to hold up his father's blade. This was so stupid, he was so stupid, he never should have come here! He had to get out, there had to be a way out!

Luke scanned the room frantically for an exit. He backed away from Vader and edged towards what looked like a corridor. 

"Luke."

"No!" 

Luke stumbled over a bundle of cables on the floor and nearly fell. He managed a graceful recovery despite his terror and kept moving.

"Stay away from me!"

Vader did not. He began to move at last, slow and purposeful and relentless. 

The Force moved around them like a frigid tide, pulling machinery from the walls to land behind Luke. He was cutting off his escape. The trap had been sprung.

"Stop running, Luke."

"Leave me alone!"

He was pleading now.

All sense of bravado, of dignity, had fled.

Obi-wan was right. I'm not ready. I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die-

If Leia lives, it's worth it

But I don't-

I don't want to die

And then at last, he could go no further. His calves caught on some discarded hunk of metal, and toppled him. Sharp, broken pieces dug into his back as he landed. The pain felt distant, like something that was happening to someone else. Luke's increasing disorientation muffled everything but his fear.

This was the end. Luke, on the ground at Darth Vader's feet. If the encounter didn't end in immediate death, his interrogation was likely imminent. 

But Vader 

Knelt.

He kneeled down beside Luke and rested his gloved hand on Luke's cheek. Luke was very sure that his heart was going to stop.

Oh. He's going to snap my neck. At least it'll be quick.

"Enough, child." A deep bass growl vibrated through the words. He sounded as though he was finally angry. "I am not going to kill you!"

Before Luke had time to process that, he added, "I am trying to save you."

Save me?! From what?!

Luke swung out with one arm, trying to push the dark lord away. Vader caught his wrist easily and squeezed it. 

"You know me." Each syllable dripped with an unexpected urgency. "Search your feelings: you will know it to be true. Remember, Luke. You must remember."

"No!" Luke tried in vain to pull away. "S-stop!"

He was pulled, gently, but firmly, up into a sitting position. 

He was pulled, less gently, by the thread around his soul. It reached out, straining for something it had once known. A sense of something missing. 

A sense that was being answered in kind.

And he felt something. Something he had felt before. 

Or rather 

Someone.

Luke knew the answer to the question his soul was asking. 

He didn't want to know. 

He didn't want to face it. 

No, no please-! 

"You have forgotten what you once knew," Vader murmured. "You have forgotten me. And I- I believed you had died."

Seething shadows coiled around them both. 

"The Emperor will suffer no Skywalker to be free. If he is not entirely beneath the emperor's thumb, then he must die. If you lived, his hold on me was jeopardized. Luke, he told me you were dead. But here you are, alive again!"

Skywalker. 

Vader was referring to himself as Skywalker. 

The Force resonated. A great bell seemed to have tolled, and with each reverberation the jagged pieces were forced together. 

Darkness and Light.

Hunter and quarry. 

Lost and found. 

Father and son.

Luke could not see through his tears. He didn't need to. He could feel. 

The Force was no longer a counterpoint around them. It was a harmony. And that was the hardest truth of all.

Shhh, you are safe. I'm here, I'm here.

The same soundless lullaby that had soothed his childhood nightmares. The thing he had forgotten.

His father's voice. 

I know you. 

"Oh." Darth Vader lifted him free of the machinery as easily as if he were still a little child. 

He pulled Luke into his arms. Luke did not have the strength to resist.

“There you are.”

[merrysithmas]

*puts on my anakin apologist hat again* anakin as double-agent of the Force

The force created Anakin specifically to be the Chosen One (demi-god) bc it needed an INHERENTLY GOOD PERSON who was both powerful enough to learn and withstand the DARK SIDE and powerful enough in his inherent goodness to RETURN FROM IT.

It couldn't have been anyone else BUT Anakin. It had to be the most powerful force user in the galaxy who was so good his soul would withstand (& survive under) the Dark Side he was destined to shoulder for decades.

In order to full the Prophecy, Anakin had to essentially survive both years of torture (borne of the Dark side) and survive the GRIEF AND REGRET from falling (borne of the Light) without completely losing or giving up on himself and submitting to the Darkness eternally.

Someone weaker in the Force could never accomplish this because if they fell they wouldn't be strong enough in the Light of the Force to withstand a fall & return. they'd just fall. Essentially the Force, by creating Anakin, is saying no one else could have done it - not Yoda, not Obi-wan, no other Jedi, or person, or Sith. Only Anakin.

Anakin was essentially a "double-agent" of the Force. Unknowingly.

Padme was always right. There was good in Vader. She saw the truth. Obi-wan also eventually saw the truth, seeing good in Vader (perhaps eventually realizing it was Anakin mercifully freeing him from guilt in OWK), causing him to sacrifice himself in peace for Vader's destruction & Anakin's assured return.

The Force created Anakin specifically to fulfill the Prophecy of falling in both the eyes of the Jedi and Sith because it knew that his inherent goodness would remain in tact enough for him to destroy the Sith (Sidious), not claim the Dark throne for himself afterwards, and also hand control over to the Light (Luke).

BECAUSE he felt GUILT STRONGLY ENOUGH (his goodness) after ALL THAT TIME (20yrs) BURIED IN THE DARK (necessary as per the force to get palpatine in a vulnerable spot) to STILL RETURN TO THE LIGHT afterwards (by killing him Palps/saving Luke).

The Force put him in the hardest possible position because it KNEW that no matter what the dark could throw at him:

ANAKIN WOULD SURVIVE AND PULL THROUGH BECAUSE HIS true ALIGNMENT WITH THE LIGHT (as a demi-god) WAS THAT STRONG.

Anakin was a demi-god created to fulfill a Prophecy and was tortured and misunderstood for this by everyone, including himself, which is what absolved his human half and allowed him in the end to become a Force Ghost. He didn't see himself as a demi-god with free reign to create chaos. And thus he felt genuine guilt for his crimes.

He accepted culpability for them (despite being predestined) which is what makes him a tragic hero. It doesn't matter if it was a prophecy or destiny, if he could help it or not, Anakin still feels regret.

His genuine guilt for his misdeeds & evil and his acknowledgement of them in the end yet again proved what the Force knew to be true. Anakin is inherently good.

Through his young life Anakin didn't say "hey I'm a demi-god I can do whatever I want" he fought the Prophecy for a very long time. He longed to be a Jedi and dreamed of helping others.

Yet, when he confronts Padme on Mustafar he says exactly that! Exactly what an all-powerful god turned to the dark would say. "We can rule the Galaxy. Make things the way we want them to be," going mad for a moment with power. But then he mourns and regrets his fall for the rest of his life (even as Vader he mourns Padme, spares Reva, absolves Obi-wan, he is struck silent & numb by slavery in the Empire in the comics). With his guilt, he returns from the dark as predicted.

This, as per the Force, proves Anakin was good at heart and had to fall to destroy the Sith. He committed predetermined deeds but he recognized his deeds as morally wrong regardless and mourned, suffered, and burned for them as Vader in the context of the Tragedy. This was the Force "punishing" his human half despite making committing these deeds essentially his destiny.

He was absolved because he genuinely regretted it. He couldn't get off scott free despite being a demi-god because he is also half humanoid. He needed to suffer for his choices despite his situation being predetermined. That's another thing he endured. As Vader he was to suffer and "pay" for the evil as a human would by human standards. He fully believed he was deserving of this and damned himself continually.

Yet after all that he was still strong enough in the Light to withstand that suffocating darkness and emerge again - saving humanity alongside understanding the totality of the Dark Side (!!!), achieving universal balance (!!! inner and outer), and sacrificing his own soul to give the Galaxy future hope in Luke and Leia.

Vader was both his test and destiny - forging a true tragic hero who accepts the outcomes of his actions. A god of balance who lived a life realizing the truth of our souls is often in the middle, whether our actions are good or bad.

Vader may have been the Force's destiny for Anakin, but he chose to make Vader/his actions his responsibility, and that is how he displays his inherent goodness and worthiness of the title Chosen One.

[chickwiththepurpleguitar]

Gotta a prompt of sorts for you... Something happens to Bobby ( accident or something).. How do the boys respond. Or maybe something bad happens to Carrie and the guys see Bobby falling to pieces. Saying stuff like everyone he loves leaves him..maybe he says he must be cursed to lose everyone he cares about. He should have insisted that Carrie's mom keep her so she would be safe from him. Stuff like that. Anyway just figured I would throw that out there. Good luck on getting to 100 stories. 🙂

Thanks for the prompt, I hope I did it justice!

This doesn't take place in a specific series of mine, it's just a vague post-canon. Angst warning.

Send me girl prompts! (I only need 6 more for the month)

Carrie doesn’t call 9-1-1, because it was ingrained into her at a young age that Wilsons don’t trust anyone they haven’t personally vetted in times of crisis, but the accident still requires her to make some phone calls.

First, to the family pilot, because Trevor does have to get to the hospital somehow, and the helicopter’s the fastest way to get him there. Then, to Trevor’s PR manager, to make sure the media doesn’t have a field day with this rare show of celebrity vulnerability. Then, to his lawyer, because the PR manager has about a 50/50 shot of succeeding at her job. 

A few years ago, Carrie could’ve taken care of all of that with one well-timed call to her dad’s expert assistant, but Katie’s been retired and living very comfortably in Australia ever since Trevor Wilson stopped making music. Carrie calls her anyway, leaves a voicemail. Katie deserves to hear it from her and not the gossip mags.

She calls Dr. Crystal, because as soon as her dad gets out of the hospital, she’s sure he’s going to want an appointment. 

And then, once she’s curled up in an armchair much more comfortable than any hospital room furniture should be, her dad sedated in the bed next to her, Carrie calls Julie.

“Hey, Care!” she picks up after only a few rings. “What’s up?”

Carrie takes a deep breath. She hasn’t cried— she’s not sure she’s going to— but there’s still a weird lump in her throat that makes it hard to say, “Julie, are your ghosts there?”

“Uh.” Julie pauses. She must be doing that soul-searching thing she does to locate her bandmates. “Luke’s here, but Alex and Reggie are at the beach. Why? Is something wrong?”

“My dad…” Another steadying breath. “He had an accident, or something, his heart… Anyway, we’re at Cedars-Sinai, he’s got a private room. He’ll be okay, I just—”

She cuts herself off with a strangled scream as Julie’s three ghost boys pop into the room. Two of them are in swim trunks. The bassist is covered in sand.

At least Luke has the decency to look embarrassed. “Hi, Carrie. Sorry, I— went to get the boys as soon as you said ‘accident.’ Is he—?”

“Shit, Bobby,” Alex murmurs, leaning over the hospital bed. “Carrie, what happened?”

“I don’t really know,” she admits. “He said his chest was hurting and then he just… collapsed. They’re doing tests.”

Reggie’s voice is choked and wet: “Is he gonna die?”

“He can’t,” Luke insists, and he sounds angrier than Carrie’s ever heard him, his eyes shiny with tears. His fists are clenched at his sides. “We’re not gonna let him.”

It’s weird. Carrie knew these boys of Julie’s were her dad’s friends back in the day, but it didn’t really hit her until now how much they still care about him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, and then feels stupid for saying it.

But the boys just nod. Alex says, “Of course. There’s nowhere we’d rather be.” And they come over to sit next to her, hold her hand, and wait for her dad to wake up.

--

Taglist: @whenweremarried @sunsethimb0s @pink-flame @penguin0613 @fighttoshine @sunsetcurvecuddles @teenagedirtbag-dot-jpeg @brightattheorpheum @queenmolina @jandthephantoms @lexilucacia @sapphossidechick @acnhaddict @shrimp-colours @sunset-bobby @lenacarstairspotterstewart @conversationaltreestump @burntchromas @julieandthequeers @joyandthephantoms @it-tastes-like-lizard @jatpfs 

[thornescratch]

Ask game: prison au 😈

Some author who is much cooler than me wrote a really good prison AU for Star Wars called “Help is coming one day late” in response to an anonymous writing prompt (that I may very well have actually sent you in the first place, I think this was before we actually were talking to each other) and even though modern SW AUs rarely satisfy me, this one had great Oz vibes and made me sit up and go "Ooooh?"

So then I joined her server and awkwardly tried to make friends with her and then blurted out HEY CAN I WRITE SOME MORE OF YOUR PRISON AU because frankly I wanted to write the sex scene that would follow the end of the last piece she wrote, and she was nice enough to say yes.

The thing that fascinated me about the prison AU is that, as I mentioned, SW modern AUs don’t always do it for me because the original SW characters and settings are really hard to translate and transplant easily into modern settings, and for me, there has to be some fundamental similarities or connections to the canon setting or material, and if there isn’t, you have to adequately do the setup or arc for why that is, or how that change takes place, and what that then impacts. (I mean, that is, for me to generally enjoy writing or reading it. People can and should do whatever they want; my preferences do not have any bearing on that.)

So it was interesting to me to read and then contemplate how Luke, who is generally the most powered up character in the standard SW setting, ends up at the bottom of the heap in this prison AU; how will his normal arc and abilities eventually translate over? Will they? Oz was a great show with all the multiple characters and bonkers storytelling it carried, and it did a really nice job of showing people in their different areas of strength and knowledge, and how that adapted over times. Luke, Din, and Boba aren’t actual analogies to the characters and connections of Beecher, Keller, and Schillinger, but there’s enough similar plot and character beats between universes to have fun playing with-- I mean, someone getting a hand cut off is totally a major plot point for both canons.

But really it was the lure of writing a nasty-ass shower sex scene, since Mark Hamil was nice enough to have filmed Circumstantial Evidence for inspiration. And the whole figuring out of how three people fuck in a major prison setting. Anyway. You’ve seen most of this already, Dark, and bits of it are scattered over discord, so this is just that most recent bit you’ve seen with a few lines tacked on the end.

"Losing a fight isn't the worst thing in the world," Din tells him seriously, when they're sitting at a cafeteria table for breakfast. On his other side, Boba snorts and Din kicks Boba without looking. Boba doesn't so much as flinch; Luke does, but he's been getting better about that.

Today, Din is across from him and Boba is sitting next to Luke, with Vizsla perpetually on Luke's other side; they shift back and forth on who sits with Luke, but they rarely sit next to each other now. It didn't make sense to Luke at first, given how open they were normally about being together, until one of the evenings where he was next to Din and Boba was across from him. One moment he was pushing macaroni around his plate, and in the next moment, Boba had one foot on top of the table and was lunging up and across, already airborne; Din shoved Luke partially under the table, just in time to keep him from getting kicked in the head by Vizsla who also went over the top, and then from his vantage point half on the bench and half under the table, Luke saw Din blindly backhand swing a tray into someone's face, and then join the fray. Like most prison fights, it was over in under three minutes, and everyone was back to their seats except for the single semi-conscious Sith member bleeding on the floor, before the guards could even begin sorting out what had happened.

Two things are pretty clear to Luke after that: he's a weak spot, which he already knew, and they're covering for it. For now, anyway.

"We all lose fights at some point," Woves says. "Better to put the effort in. Take damage, give damage. There's always another fight down the road."

"Oya manda," someone says from farther down the table.

Luke makes a humming noise of agreement. After several months of it, he'd rather not have to always resort to fighting, all things considering. But he's not about to say that, and in any case, no one seems to expect it from him yet.

"It happens," Din says. He shrugs. "Once, a while ago, I had my car stolen. They straight up stripped to the frame almost, and they were towing it off when I got back."

Boba sniggers again, and Din kicks him again. This time Luke doesn't flinch, though it's more because he's distracted by the story.

"So what happened?" he asks.

"I chased them down—fuck, they were in this modified ridiculous shell of an RV that wasn't street legal at all but they'd done something to it to make it work. Followed them all the way back to their chop shop and I was ready to burn the whole place down at that point." Din shakes his head. "It was a shit car, too. Not sure why they wanted it."

Vizsla nudges Luke hard enough to almost knock him off the bench. "Ask him what happened next," he says.

"Um," Luke says. "Did you burn it down?"

Din sighs. "No. There was another group of them I didn't know about, and they caught me by surprise. They came out from a blind turn and t-boned the bike I was on, so they got away."

"You’re leaving shit out," Vizsla says. "Who was this group of thieves?"

Din just grunts and stabs his scrambled eggs.

"He got his shit wrecked by a gang of kids," Vizsla says, with palpable delight "Just a bunch of twelve-year-olds who helped steal cars. And they hit him with a dumpster that they pushed out of the alley, and then they took off while he was still pinned under the bike."

"They weren't twelve," Din says. "Most of them were teenagers. Some of them probably had driver's licenses."

"You lost a fight to a bunch of kids who live on the street and steal cars?" Luke asks.

"He definitely did not win," Vizsla says at the same time that Din says, "It was more of a chase than a fight."

"I lost my first fight that really mattered," Boba chimes in, unexpectedly. "I was trying to kill the man who killed my father." He taps his spork on the tabletop.

"When was that?" Luke asks. Boba rarely gives up information about himself; anything Luke gets tends to be secondhand off Din or the others, and he can't help but want to know more if Boba's in the mood to talk.

Boba hums, chin propped on his hand. "A long time. I was thirteen. First time I went to prison."

"You went to prison at thirteen?" Luke says. His ability to ask questions without his voice rising into overly horrified range has been tested this morning.

Boba pats Luke's thigh, his hand heavy and warm. He leaves it there. Maybe Luke wasn't as smooth as he thought he was about covering his flinch. "He's dead, and I'm not," Boba says. He shrugs. "I'm in prison. But he didn't put me in this one. I still won the war."

"The point is losing a fight isn't always that big a deal," Din says. "Most of the time, you can recover."

"Unless you're dead," Vizsla says.

"Yeah, try not to do that part," Woves adds.

"Noted," Luke says. He uses a floppy crust of bread to push his eggs around on the plate, like that will make them in any way more palatable or transformed from the powder they were reconstituted from. The crust just bends. They don't actually get toast, just regular cheap bread slices. One more little indignity in prison, that the toast is never actually toast.

A foot taps his shin lightly and Luke looks up from his tray. Din pushes his fruit cup across the table to him. "Eat it," he says.

"You don’t have to—" Luke starts, and then Boba's hand tightens on his thigh.

"But you do," Boba says, unyielding. And Luke shuts up and takes the fruit cup.

He peels the top off, careful not to let any of the syrup spill out, and he's about to start eating because he already ate his own and it is better than anything left on his tray, when Boba takes both it and the spork from him.

"Open up," he says, and the mild, pleasant expression on his face could mean nothing or anything.

Luke can feel the eyes on him, Din's included, and tries not to notice it; he folds his hands in his lap, leans forward, and opens his mouth obediently. It's just part of his role, here at the table and overall.

Boba gives him all the peaches first, his favorite, and then on to pineapple, and finally the pears. "Look at that," Boba says as they get to the end, "a cherry." So there is, unnaturally red, balanced on the bowl of the spork.

Luke leans forward even further before Boba can proffer it, and takes it carefully between his lips, holding it there for a few seconds before letting it disappear into his mouth