#he’s sworn to her in life and death and he’ll follow her into the deep roads just as he did maric

[qunaricatnip]

at work and all I can think about it loghain swearing a knights oath to f!cousland after she spares his life

[bigasswritingmagnet]

The Maker Sent Him Special

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: kinda Hawke/Varric if you squint

Summary:

"They say the Maker sent him special, Always loyal, without pride, So he could be the sworn companion Of the Maker's Holy Bride." They say when a mabari's owner dies, the dog dies of grief. Hawke's dog appears to have decided that instead, it'll get a new owner--Varric. Whether the dwarf likes it or not. That's what it looks like, anyway. There may be more to the dog's arrival than it's letting on. No mabari worth its paint ever let a little thing like death get in the way of loyalty.

AO3 Link

Somebody was going to have to tell the dog.

Varric felt absurdly guilty about that. It was his job to get the word to everyone, his job to find the words to bring their little corner of the world crashing down. He’d dragged Hawke into this, and it was up to him to handle the fallout. But even mabari couldn’t read, and someone was going to have to go to Atlas and explain that Hawke wasn’t coming back. 

The dog had kicked up enough of a fuss being left behind the first time. Hawke had spent ten minutes trying to explain that this wasn’t Ferelden, and a traveler with a dog would be noticed, especially if the dog was a mabari. His mournful howl had followed them out of the city. It had brought Hawke to tears. 

She’d promised him she would come back. She’d promised him this wouldn’t be goodbye. 

She’d promised Varric that, too. 

It was going to be Aveline. She was the only one left, or the only one left who would understand. Fereldans considered her Orlesian, but Varric knew the woman was a dog lord, deep down. She’d understand. 

He tried not to think about Aveline getting the letter. He tried not to think about her telling Atlas. He tried not to think at all. 

Two weeks later, he got a letter back. 

Varric, 

Atlas is gone. 

Telling him was probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. He let out this howl, and Varric, I’ll never hear anything so awful again in my life. If all the grief in the world made a noise, it would sound like that. It went on and on, it seemed like a lifetime. Then he went into her room, curled up on her bed, and wouldn’t move. He stayed there for days, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink, just lay there. 

You always hear stories about mabari dying of grief when their owners go. I never really believed them. I do now. 

Yesterday morning I woke up and he was gone. Just gone. No sign of him anywhere. Finally one of the gate guards told me he’d seen a dog walk out of the city gates early in the morning. It might have been him, but the guard’s not Fereldan so he couldn’t identify a mabari by sight. Donnic said I should send someone to track him down, but I said no. 

Was that wrong of me? If he is going to die, I would rather he do it on his terms, whatever those may be. Whatever death he went seeking has to be better than wasting away in a corner. 

At the very least, he’ll be with Hawke again. Call me a romantic, and I know you will, but it’s comforting to think of them side by side. 

Aveline

Varric thought so too, and he held on tightly to that small comfort for another two weeks. He thought of Atlas trotting into whatever afterlife awaited them, running through endless emerald fields with Hawke and Sunshine. It was a good thought. 

On the third week, he was rudely awakened by a cold nose in his eye. 

He cursed and flailed and shoved himself upright, scrubbing at his eyes. When he opened them, he saw his door was slightly ajar, letting in a cold draft from the hallway. His gaze travelled down the side of his bed, where Atlas stood, smiling an open mabari smile, rear end wagging gently. 

“Oh, shit,” he groaned. With some effort, he sat up, leaning an arm on one knee, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s not here,” Varric said. The dog didn’t move. “Hawke is gone.” 

The dog continued to wait, expression seeming to say “And…?” 

Varric’s jaw clenched. He threw back the covers and dropped down from the bed, which had been built for humans and was just high enough to be annoying. The floor was ice cold, which only stoked the prickling anger in his chest. The stupid fucking dog, weren’t mabari supposed to be smart? This was so damn predictable. The Maker couldn’t let him get out of this one, oh no. He was going to have to tell absolutely everyone, right down to the damn dog. 

“I don’t know if you thought Aveline was lying, or what. I don’t know what you thought you were going to find here, but it’s not Hawke. Do you understand? She’s not here,” he snapped. The dog had stopped smiling, stopped wagging its tail, and was regarding him with solemn eyes. 

“So go!” Varric said, pointing to the door. “Go on. Go back home.”

Still, the stupid mutt did not budge.  

“Hawke is dead,” he said, and his throat went so tight he almost couldn’t breathe. It took him several tries to go on. “Hawke is dead, and she’s not coming back.” 

The words came out cracked and raw and turned the air in his lungs to shards of glass. He’d written the words dozens of times, in draft after draft, trying to find a way to break the news. He’d thought the words, lying alone in his room in the dark, trying to grasp an idea so wrong it made him sick. But this was the first time he’d said it out loud. Somehow, that seemed to make it real. 

Atlas gave him a look of such understanding that for a moment Varric actually thought the dog might prove those old wives’ tales true, and say something. 

Instead, Atlas licked him, right across the face. Varric swore and pushed the dog away, only for Atlas to shove his way past Varric’s hands and begin washing his face in earnest. Varric scrunched up his face in disgust and pushed the dog down. 

“Stop that,” he told him, but Atlas was smiling and wagging at him again. Varric groaned. “You’re here for me, aren’t you?” 

Atlas wuffed, excitedly, tail wagging even harder. Varric pinched the bridge of his nose again. What was he supposed to do, kick him out? Have someone haul him back to Kirkwall? He remembered Aveline’s letter. Hawke would want someone to look after her dog. This would be better than Atlas dying of a broken heart, no matter how inconvenient it might get. 

“Okay,” he said, resigned, and in a flash Atlas was slobbering on his face. Varric shoved the dog away, grabbing tight hold of his collar, and glared at him. “If you do that one more time, I’m sending you right back to Kirkwall, understand?” 

Atlas did not look appropriately chastised, or even remotely phased by the scolding. 

Varric turned back to his bed. He needed a few more hours of sleep before he could even think of how to deal with this. 

There was a scratching sound behind him, and he looked back. Atlas was now seated at the door. He pawed at the handle, staring at Varric. 

I am your responsibility now, the dog’s expression said, and it is breakfast time. 

Varric groaned. 

-

“You’re up early.” 

Varric forced his eyes open and lifted his head from where it was resting on his hand. Blackwall stood over him, an amused grin tucked behind his beard. The warden was one of those obnoxious people who rose with the sun, even when they didn’t need to. 

“Dog needed to eat.” 

“Dog?” 

Varric jerked his thumb. Atlas was licking clean what had formerly been a plate of sausages. Varric hadn’t been entirely sure what to feed the dog, so he just gave him what Atlas usually begged for. He knew there was a kennel around here somewhere; later in the day he’d track down the kennelmaster and ask. Not that he was particularly worried about Atlas getting sick. The dog had spent ten years eating Kirkwall garbage; he was likely impossible to poison. 

“Since when do you have a dog?” Blackwall asked, amazed, which Varric thought was a little unfair. It was no secret that Varric wasn’t fond of wildlife, but dogs were perfectly respectable, civilized animals. Well, Atlas was, anyway. 

“He’s-- He was Hawke’s.” 

Blackwall’s smile faded. 

“I see. Well he’s a fine beast, aren’t you, boy?” the man said, shying away from Varric’s grief. It was clumsy, but Varric preferred that to prodding. 

Atlas, aware he was being discussed, raised his head, licking his chops. 

“Blackwall, Atlas, Atlas, Warden Blackwall.” To Blackwall’s puzzled look, he simply said “Mabari. He likes to know names.” 

“A mabari. I’ve never seen one up close before.” He held out a hand for Atlas to smell. Atlas took a step backwards, expression wary. Uncertainty, and something a little darker, flicked across Blackwall’s face. 

Varric frowned. Hero had a dark past, Varric was sure. Not for the first time, he wondered just how dark it might be.

“Might be because you’re a warden. The last one he met didn’t exactly--” 

But Atlas seemed to change his mind. He wagged his tail and nudged his head under Blackwall’s outstretched hand for a pat. Blackwall rubbed the dog’s ears, a small smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes. 

“Aren’t mabari s’posed to die with their people?” 

“Sera!” Blackwall chided, automatically. Then, “Why are you up this early with a pile of empty sacks?”

Sera grinned. 

“Gettin’ ‘em empty,” she said. “So don’t they?”

Sera was Fereldan, or at least, had grown up there. 

“Guess not,” Varric said. 

“What kinda mabari just chooses a new owner?” she said, sounding almost indignant and ignoring Blackwall’s meaningful glare. “That’s not how it’s s’posed to work.”

“That’s how it works in stories, Buttercup,” Varric said, tiredly. 

“Is it true they can understand people?” Sera asked. Varric did not question the abrupt change in conversational direction.  

“Sure is. I taught him to play Diamondback.” 

“Did not.” 

“I did. He’s not very good.” 

Atlas interrupted with an offended noise. 

“Unless you’ve learned to hide your tells in the last year,” Varric said, dryly, “I stand by my statement.”  

“Amazing,” Blackwall said, and Atlas, always a sucker for compliments, licked his hand. Sera glared at the dog. 

“So what are you actually doing here, then?” 

Atlas sat down, facing her. He tilted his head to one side and raised his ears, the picture of innocent canine befuddlement. Sera narrowed her eyes–and then laughed. It was her low, back of the throat laugh, the one she used when someone told her a dirty joke or clever plan she really approved of. 

“Brilliant,” she sighed. 

“Am I missing something?” Varric asked. 

“No,” Sera said. There was a scream in the distance. The elf shot around the table, paused to ruffle Atlas’ ears, and took off cackling. Blackwall shook his head. 

“That girl,” he said, though Varric heard the fondness. 

“Right,” Varric said. “You go have fun doing whatever it is you do. I’m going back to bed.” 

But Atlas moved to stand in Varric’s way, eyeing him very seriously. 

“Now what?” 

Blackwall chuckled, the laugh of a man enjoying another’s misfortune. 

“He wants you to walk him.” 

“Seriously? You can’t do that by yourself?” 

Atlas wuffed. Varric sighed. Wherever Hawke was, she was probably in hysterics. 

-

The mabari had apparently decided that Varric was not to be let out of sight. Wherever the dwarf went, the dog was never far behind.

He'd snuffle around in the background during business meetings, take up too much room on his bed, and curl up by the fire when Varric worked in the great hall.

“Varric!” 

He sighed. Cassandra was stomping across the hall towards him, expression thunderous. Mentally he scrolled through the various things he’d done that might have pissed her off this time. It might have been the less-than-flattering depiction of her in his last report. It might have been the rumors he’d been spreading about her and the Inquisitor. 

“You little--!” 

A thunderous growl cut her short. Atlas planted himself between Varric and the Seeker. His head was lowered, his hackles raised, stance wide, lips curled, teeth bared, ears flat against his heavy head. This was not a wary dog, this was not a display meant to scare off an intruder. No. This was Atlas prepared for a fight, for the order (bring her down!), for a chance to bloody his teeth. 

“Easy, boy,” Varric said, but Varric wasn’t Hawke, and Atlas’ growl got a little louder. Cassandra took a few steps back, hands raised, eyes wide. 

“Varric--” she started, voice tight and anxious. 

Atlas lunged forward, snapping at the air, growl jumping into a heavy snarl. Varric grabbed Atlas’ collar, for all the good it would do. Varric didn’t weigh much more than Atlas, and they were about the same size. If Atlas decided to go for Cassandra’s throat, there wasn’t a lot Varric would be able to do to stop him. 

Varric planted himself between dog and human. Oh please don’t bite me, he thought, and grabbed hold of Atlas’ muzzle, forcing his mouth closed. The dog tried to jerk away, but Varric kept his grip. 

“Stop. You can’t bite the Seeker. Alright? Look at me. She’s on our side now. She’s not going to drag me off anywhere. So calm down, okay?”  

Atlas fell silent and relaxed, just a little, though he did not take wary eyes off Cassandra, or lift his ears. Gingerly, Varric let go. Atlas backed up a few paces and gave him a displeased look, but did not seem inclined to continue his aggressions. Varric glanced at Cassandra and was startled to see that she was frightened. 

Well, even Seekers had to be nervous about facing a war dog unarmed, he supposed. 

“He was there when you dragged me off to Haven,” Varric said. He hadn’t realized how much of the situation the dog had understood. Cassandra wasn’t actively throwing things at him or holding knives to his throat at that point, but apparently Atlas understood the concept of ‘arrested and dragged away for questioning’. And didn’t like it. 

“I see,” Cassandra said, fiddling nervously with her gauntlets, giving Atlas a wary look, which the dog returned. 

“He won’t go after you now,” probably, “but you might want to give him some space. And me,” he added as an afterthought. 

“Right. I will..speak to you later.” 

Only when Cassandra was out of the room did Atlas relax and return to his spot by the fire. Varric observed him for a moment, thoughtfully. 

“I wonder if I can get you to do that to the Merchant’s Guild,” he mused. Atlas, without raising his head or opening his eyes, wagged his tail. 

-

When Varric received the message to muster up for a mission, he was not surprised to find Atlas waiting for him by the door to his room, but was surprised to see him holding what looked like a studded leather vest in his mouth. 

“What is this…?” 

Atlas dropped it at Varric’s feet and wagged his tail. 

Varric picked it up and, after turning it around and untangling the straps, realized he was holding armor–armor for a dog about Atlas’ size. 

“Where did you even find this?” Varric asked. Atlas woofed, unhelpfully. “You really should be staying here–” 

He stopped. Atlas had very gently taken the cuff of Varric’s coat sleeve into his mouth. Just you try it, he seemed to say. 

“Alright, alright.” 

The rest of the squad was equally unsurprised to see Atlas. The dog had become Varric’s shadow, and everyone was used to him by now. Vivien even gave him a delicate pat on the head, which Atlas received with great politeness. 

“We could always use another hand,” said Trevelyan. He did not quite meet Varric’s eyes, for the same reason Varric had received the summons by messenger rather than in person. Varric didn’t know how to explain that he didn’t think Hawke’s death was the Inquisitor’s fault–not without admitting whose fault it really was. 

“We’ve got rifts to close in the Emerald Graves,” Trevelyan said. Iron Bull grumbled wordlessly. 

“At least the scenery will be nice,” Varric said. Atlas barked and wagged his tail. “That’s right. Just like old times.”

Too much like old times, it turned out. 

He’d never seen Atlas in a fight without Hawke. Every time Varric saw him, for a second–just a split second–he would forget. 

And then he would remember again. 

Atlas harried an archer, and Hawke didn’t come charging in. Atlas came at a man with a shield from behind, and Hawke did not take advantage of his distraction to cut him down. The fight ended, and Hawke did not cluck and coo over a one hundred and fifty pound war hound, telling him what a good boy he was, yes he was. 

Varric was very good at not letting things show, but Travelyan was feeling it anyway. His family were quite devout, and no one did internalized guilt like Andrastians did. It was almost a relief when they found the first rift, and the smell of the Fade–sour ozone–filled his nostrils.

Five demons lurched and oozed around the rifts–fear, despair, and rage. Fitting.  

“Keep them distracted,” Trevelyan said, bringing out his shield. “I’m going to try and close it–”  

Atlas charged. 

“Shit,” Varric said. Iron Bull laughed. 

“I like this dog’s style! Let’s go!” 

Varric followed, slowly. Something was wrong. This wasn’t normal for Atlas. He never charged without the command. Hawke hadn’t trained him to be a first-line dog; he was support. That wasn’t to say he didn’t fight, but it was his job to distract the enemy, to scare them, to be big and loud so they would look at him and not the woman with the broadsword. 

But now Atlas was running the head-down, silent sprint of a war dog with a purpose. Growling and barking was a warning, an intimidation tactic. A quiet mabari was not a threat–it was a promise. 

Atlas drew up to the despair demon, which let out a long, angry hiss, and kept going. The dog swerved around a fear demon without so much as snapping at it. Atlas was not running to the demons. 

For a moment, a song filled Varric’s mind. 

Oh they thought the wounds had killed him,But then he limped out toward the fire.And Hessarian, he shed a tear,As that dog laid on the pyre.

Atlas had not come to Skyhold for Varric. Atlas had not insisted on coming along to protect him. 

Atlas had come for Hawke. 

“No!” 

And the mabari was gone, vanishing into the rift with a swirl of green. 

“What do I do?” Trevelyan asked, panicked, hand still half-raised to the rift. 

“Close it,” Vivienne ordered, freezing the rage demon in place. 

“But the dog’s in there!” It was downright Fereldan of him. 

Trevelyan looked at Varric. 

Shit. 

This was going to be his call? Decide if they should wait out here and face hoards of demons in the hope Atlas might come back out, or leave the rift open to terrorize the area, or let the only piece of Hawke left in the world die the way his mistress had? The weight of it pushed down on Varric, crushing him. He was sure the look he was giving the Inquisitor was as desperate as the one he was getting, both of them silently begging don’t make this be my choice. 

A fear demon burst from the ground in front of Varric. Its howl made him flinch, the tip of Bianca dipping too low. Varric was frozen, unnatural terror pinning him in place. The demon raised a claw, spindly fingers spread wide and glinting in the light. 

Atlas’s powerful jaws shut around the monster’s wrist, dragging it down and off balance. The demon shrieked in fury, and Varric broke free of its hold on him. He raised Bianca--

Hawke leapt from the rift, sword already swinging, face bruised and scarred and twisted with battle rage, screaming defiance. The blade came down hard, cutting straight through the demon, severing its head and arm in one blow. Before Varric could register what he was seeing, Hawke spun around, momentum driving her blade into the frozen rage demon so hard it shattered. 

The Inquisitor raised his hand, there was a burst of green light, and the remaining demons dissolved into ash as the rift slammed shut. 

Hawke set the point of her blade in the ground and dropped to her knees, panting hard. Atlas was on her in a second, licking her face and whining frantically. She raised her free hand and stroked his head. 

“Good boy,” she said, wearily. “Very good boy. Steak dinner for the rest of your life.” 

Her eyes met Varric’s, and she gave him a weak grin. 

"Mabari, eh? Talk about a girl's best friend."

Varric laughed so hard he cried.

[pacificwaternymph]

Heyy I know you currently have many Pirate AU thoughts and I Get It™ but can I ask about Kid!Xornoth bc Wolf Mother is one of my favorite fics rn and I cannot stop thinking about them. I couldn't think of anything specific I wanted to know I just want to hear you ramble about it xD tell us some in-universe headcanons, more about Katherine, idk, whatever you got! (last chapter Broke Me and I need smth)

Ooh okay. I’m gonna talk a little bit about post-main-story, like waaaaaay in the future. Spoilers under the cut

So we already know Xornoth is going to get named heir to the Undergrove (which will get more solidified as an empire in later chapters), but obviously for that to happen, Shrub has to… die first.

Shrub’s death hits Xornoth hard. He was at her bedside when she passed, and her last words to him were that she was proud of him, and that she loved him. It was terrifying for him, because for the first time in his life since he was 13, he was without her guidance. Katherine tried to console him and help out in his early years of leadership, but she only lasted a few more years before she herself died.

Scott’s still around to help him, of course. So is Lizzie. But they’re both dealing with their own grief that comes with being an immortal surrounded by mortal friends.

Xornoth has a lot more time to himself. A new generation of wolves run around the Undergrove, but he misses Lady Aries and Mother Wolf. He spends a lot of his free time taking walks in the forest, alone with his thoughts.

It’s during one such walk that he spots… something, he’s not sure what. It’s a faint glow in the distance. He follows it, curious, and is greeted with the sight of a wolf.

But it’s not a normal wolf. It, for lack of a better word, looks… ghostly. It’s not emitting light, the light bends around it. It’s white fur is translucent, and it’s golden eyes bare straight into his soul.

He’s scarcely gotten a good look at it when the wolf takes off in another direction, and Xornoth chases after it. It leads him deep into the forest, so deep he’s not even sure he’s ever been this far in his entire life. Just as he’s wondering if following the wolf was a good idea, if this was somehow a trap of some kind, he hears a faint noise. It sounds like crying.

He follows the sound, and finds its source: a young girl, no older than five, sitting under a tree and sobbing. She’s wary of him, and it’s pretty clear she recognizes him as lord of the Undergrove, but he keeps his voice soft as he asks her what’s wrong. The girl tells him that she’s lost, her mom led her out into the middle of nowhere and told her to wait, but that was two days ago. She hasn’t come back, and the girl tried to find her way back home, but only got more lost in the process.

Xornoth consoles her, before saying he’ll bring her back to the Undergrove and help her find her mom. She’s still slightly suspicious, but nods and takes his hand when he offers it.

He picks her up and wonders how he is going to get back, when he turns around, and finds the wolf staring at him. Hes not sure how, but it almost looks… proud. Its form flickers for a second, and for a moment, he could have sworn it was Shrub standing there. But then the little girl asks him what he’s looking at, and when he blinks, the wolf is gone.

He takes the girl home with him, and thus the cycle begins anew.

…I just realized you probably wanted fluff. Oh well :P

[jetaime-jespere]

Old Times All Over (Part 1 of 2)

A very special thank you to @sequinsmile-x for the beta!

Exactly six months pass before he can’t stand it anymore.

Aaron takes a risk and goes to Emily while she's undercover in Paris.

Rating: M

Exactly six months pass before he can’t stand it anymore. The weight of her absence is unbearable; it follows him around as if lingering in hidden shadows and settling deep in his soul, an indelible stain that doesn’t fade as the days pass by. He bears the team’s grief, shoulders it and doesn’t let himself handle his own. It feels wrong to mourn her as if she were actually dead when in reality she lingers somewhere very different, another kind of hellish existence. He often finds himself wondering what she’d say about all of it. Emily would have scoffed at the ornate casket, rolled her eyes at the formality of the Catholic service the Ambassador insisted upon. He’d been the one to make the call on the flight back to DC. Elizabeth knew right away why he was calling, and the detached coldness in her tone was merely a coping mechanism, for the older woman’s grief seeped through the phone as he relayed the news. Aaron could scarcely reach her eyes as he offered condolences in person, the words heavy and thick on his tongue. Elizabeth’s questions were answered with the vague formalities that were constructed as part of a grand lie, held together with threads that ran the risk of being unraveled with the slightest misstep.

Read the rest below the cut or on Ao3

Emily’s life depended on the sanctity of those lies, as did his own.

No one can ever find out about this, JJ had whispered to Aaron and Clyde behind a firmly closed door in the depths of that hospital in Boston. It was eerily dark, their heads bent together in near silence as initial plans were laid. For her safety, and all of ours. It felt oddly conspiratorial to plan her disappearance as she laid just feet away, oblivious to it all and very much alive. But Doyle escaped into the night like a ghost, and that meant Emily had to go too whether they liked it or not. It didn’t matter that they hunted monsters like him every day. They knew the moment her heart started again, that she would pull through, that she’d never be free. He’ll never stop looking for her. Clyde’s voice was like rubbing salt in a wound that burned through his skin.The tension between them was thick, laden with the unspoken tension of a tentative truce and a keen awareness of the pain that coursed within each of them. He will go to the ends of the earth to find her.

Aaron disliked Clyde Easter from the moment he laid eyes on the man. Perhaps it was his closeness to Emily - she trusted him, more so than she did Aaron, as was being made abundantly clear. It still stung - that she’d gone to him in her moment of need without even once considering just maybe the team could have helped. Maybe it was the way Clyde knew her so intimately, almost as well as a lover would - a delicate balance of adoration and indignance, a fierce desire to protect the oaths they’d sworn years ago, loyalty and trust woven from years of brushes with peril only to do it all over again. But it was more than that; he knew from the moment Clyde sat before him in an interrogation room in Boston his loathing ran deep. Only later would Aaron realize they both paid a similar price for loving the same woman.

The idea to go to her comes to him once Dave has finally disappeared for the night and the bottle of scotch is empty once again. It’s a ritual they share now, unspoken yet expected, an attempt at burying the worst of their grief. It never quite hits the mark, because Dave doesn’t know the truth. His words are wise and well intended, but he speaks of loss in terms of death, and it’s one thing Aaron can’t think about for too long. But it’s some of the only company he has once the building quiets down, so whenever he shows up at the door, he doesn’t object. Most nights they leave together after a round. The echo of their shoes striking the marble floors is the only noise between them when they pass the framed photos of agents long gone on the walls, now with Emily among them. He wants to shake someone, tell them she doesn’t belong there. “Don’t look,” Dave tells him every time. “It won’t bring her back.”

He always looks.

Tonight Aaron lingers, the idea now an intrusive thought reverberating through his weary mind. It’s dangerous - violates every rule of her disappearance - and puts anyone who knows at risk. He shuffles the files on his desk only to do it once more, rearranges the pens in the cup and flips through a few reports that still require his signature. His phone rings; he doesn’t have to turn it over to know it’s Jessica asking where he is, that Jack is asking for him. He was supposed to have been home a few hours ago. Instead of answering that phone, he digs for a different one. This one has stayed hidden in his desk since the night they returned from Boston. Clyde had pushed it into his hand at the last possible moment before he boarded a flight, his face stony and solemn. “If you ever need to reach me, use this.” It might be the closest thing to a friendship they’ll ever have, a twisted kind of bond that comes along with a shared secret they very well might take to the grave.

“I was wondering when you would call,” comes the lilting British accent on the other end when the line connects. “I thought for sure it would be sooner.” Clyde’s voice is haunting; it takes Aaron right back to Boston when it was just the two of them in that interrogation room, piercing blue eyes up against his darker ones as the pieces fell into place. If you want to stop that man, you have to put a bullet between his eyes yourself. He barely recognizes his own voice; it strains when he explains exactly why he’s calling, once the doors of his office are firmly shut. Even then, it’s a near whisper.

“You do realize what you’re asking of me?” Clyde demands. He’s not exactly surprised by the request, though. After all, he and Aaron had a few things in common. “The risks of all of this?” He’s whispering, the hiss of his voice biting even from thousands of miles away, wherever the hell he might be. “I thought you did things by the book at the BAU.”

“Can you make it work or not?” Aaron’s terseness matches Clyde’s hostility, a thinly veiled shield for his grief that consumes him.

There’s a pause on the other end, followed by a contemplative inhale as if he’s considering his answer, like he holds the power in his hands himself. “You should have more faith in me, Agent Hotchner.”

...

It’s all a little too easy to coordinate once the initial call is made, much to his surprise. For two weeks, things continue as normal, or as close to normal as possible, a period of limbo-like freefall. A case takes them to Portland, another to Providence. While the team is across the country, Clyde takes care of the multiple identities and aliases Aaron will use in Europe, along with a reservation at a nondescript hotel and God only knows what else. He’s barely back in Virginia for an hour when a text message on the burner phone reveals a series of coordinates, a meeting location.

“A direct flight to Charles de Gaulle might seem suspect,” Clyde whispers, nestled amongst the shadows along the Potomac River three nights before Aaron slated to leave. “There’s a flight from Regan to Heathrow, then to Paris. You’ll have a different identity for each, so best not to get confused.”

Aaron bristles at the snarkiness in his tone. “And my cover story?”

Clyde scoffs, as if disgusted by the question. “You’ll tell your team you’re being called to London to consult with Scotland Yard as a favor to a friend. I’ve already taken care of those details as well - a fake case report. Familiarize yourself with them so they don’t suspect anything.” He passes over the thick envelope, holding onto it for just a moment too long.

“How will I find her? Once I’m there?”

“Leave that up to me, Aaron. She’ll be waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” is all Aaron can say once he holds the weight of it in his hands. “I know you took a huge risk to do this.”

Clyde stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and shuffles his feet awkwardly. “I love her too, you know.” It’s certainly the most honest he’s ever been, something that looks like hurt flooding his features. But he stiffens a few seconds later with an authoritative clearing of his throat. “Bloody hell, Aaron, for all of our sakes, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

...

Aaron drops Jack off at Jessica’s. He relays the same details he told the team a few hours before with the same feigned degree of calm assurance and mock annoyance - just a few days away, work related. No one suspects a thing. In fact, the rest of them seem almost happy for him to go. “A change of scenery might be nice,” Dave says as they walk out of the BAU.

It’s risky, inherently a bad idea and yet, it isn’t enough to deter him. There’s an element of betrayal he feels for lying to the team, for they’re still reeling from their collective loss. They miss her just as much as he does; none of this is fair. He drowns it out with a pair of headphones and a stiff drink as the plane roars to life and lifts into the sky as the sun sets.

He wakes up hours later in London with a headache and an all too familiar ache in his chest.

…

It’s another few hours of travel before he actually lands in Paris. He’s completely focused, determined as he collects his luggage and leaves the airport. He destroys the first passport moments after the plane touches solid ground and tucks the next one in his jacket pocket for easy access, the others will stay safely in his travel bag. Aaron calls Clyde on a new burner phone, one of several included in the envelope of documents that was passed over in a shadowy spot by the Potomac. He answers on the first ring, doesn’t even bother with a greeting. Instead he rattles off an address Aaron commits to memory and adds, “she’ll be waiting for you,” before the line goes dead. The address, he soon finds, is a small cafe in the fifth Arrondissement, the Latin Quarter. At first it seems risky, to meet in public, but it’s probably safer than somehow having a record of her address.

The woman at the small table in the back of the cafe is inconspicuous, but he spots her immediately upon opening the door. She could be anyone; she fits right in. One slender leg crossed over the other, a chic knee-length boot peeking out under the table. A simple raincoat, hair cut just below her chin. It’s lighter than it was the last time he saw her but still a rich shade of brown.The only giveaway is the state of the nails on her right hand - not manicured, bit down and ragged. It’s her, exactly where Clyde said she would be. He doesn’t make a big show, just simply sits in the empty seat across from her, his heart pounding in his chest when he sees her face for the first time in months. Emily’s hand is unsteady as her fingers wrap around the espresso on the table. “I’ve been waiting.” It sounds formal; she makes no move to shake his hand or hug him, or display any bit of emotion, but her lips tremble and her eyes well up a little.

“I got a little lost along the way,” Aaron shrugs a little, keeping his tone light for any ears privy to their conversation. She smiles, probably picturing him lost on the maze-like streets of Paris, the streets that still don’t feel like home to her either. “I’m here now.” It carries more weight than it ever would; all he wants to do is touch her to prove to himself this isn’t just part of the fucking nightmare he’s lived since March, one he’ll wake from wrapped in sheets damp with sweat and a pounding heart. She’s very much real, very much alive in front of him, but what the Emily he sees isn’t the Emily he remembers. Paris might be beautiful but it hasn’t been kind to her. She’s thinner and paler, shades of exhaustion on her face. Over the years Aaron has seen her sleep deprived more times than he could count - the toll of back to back cases added up - but this is something else entirely. It’s the culmination of fear from constantly looking over her shoulder, the toll of the unknown. Would Doyle ever stop looking for her, or would the rest of her days be spent on the run, alone, days that blend into weeks into months and years? Would she ever come home, to the only family she’s really ever had?

Emily studies him too, undoubtedly shocked at what she sees. Time hasn’t been kind to him, either. He’s a shell of what he used to be. A subtle shadow on his face that’s new, he’s weary eyed and tense. She knows it’s not because of the better part of a day he’s spent traveling - it’s much more than that. It’s a haunting look, with the memory of how quickly things spiraled out of control. He’d been helpless to stop any of it; Emily knows the blame he places on himself. If their hurried goodbye in the hospital was any indicator of the torment of what he’s been through the last six months, then she knows it’s been hell for him. Just like it’s been for her. She pushes another espresso, this one untouched, in his direction. “How much time do you have?” English feels foreign on her tongue. It’s been weeks, months maybe, since she’s had a real conversation not in French. It’s an act. This is all an act, but one her life depends on. Every minute she spends walking the arrondissements is a risk. The fear curls around her spine a little too tightly. She glances around the coffee shop, eyes scanning through without spending too long on any one thing. It can’t look obvious, only effortless.

“Not nearly enough.” Aaron wonders how much she knows about this, just what Clyde told her about the logistics of his visit. “We have about forty eight hours.”

He doesn’t miss the longing, wistful look in her eyes when she nods, the slightest tip of her head. It’s not enough time, it never will be. But it’s all they have, all they might ever have. They speak in short sentences, vague and cryptic, as they sip the espresso. It’s stronger than he expected, she seems immune to its effects. She doesn’t call him Aaron, and he’s careful not to call her Emily. He doesn’t know her new name, either. Not even Clyde could give him that information - it was probably better that way. They make superficial conversation - the rain here and the heat there, the bakery on the corner with chocolate croissants and the headlines on the newspaper that sits on the table. He plays along as she explains, as if he fits into this world she’s had no other choice but to assimilate into. To anyone in the cafe, they could be old friends, lovers even, with years of history between them, a casual intimacy spun like a web. The ease of lulls in conversation, a subtle glance every so often, the comfort of the proximity of someone else.

And hidden somewhere in their conversation, behind a facade of lies, is something else. What no one knows, what they haven’t quite managed to forget themselves, is something happened between them once before.

...

It was spring, after the dust had settled from Foyet and the world started to turn again, albeit slowly. Only when things settled into a new kind of normal - the humble experience of single parenting, relying on Jessica like he never had before - did Aaron realize something had changed between them. Perhaps it was the unwavering way Emily stood by him even when he wouldn’t admit to needing it, or how she picked up his loose ends without making him feel like his life was unraveling before his eyes. It was the way she mourned Haley’s death, a steadfast presence at her funeral, and her attentiveness to Jack in the months after.

He’d been divorced for more than a year, separated for at least two. Aaron no longer mourned his marriage, but the loss of his son’s mother, the woman he’d shared more than half of his life with. But someone else started to preoccupy his mind - dark hair, a blinding grin, a wicked sense of humor. It was becoming harder to ignore; she was everywhere. So a few months later in the spring, when he found Emily, nursing a drink at the hotel bar that had clearly seen better days, after a particularly brutal case in Scranton, he knew exactly how the night would end. It would cross a line - railroad through any professional boundary they still maintained. But an unsub had walked free earlier that night, a child was dead, and while it wasn’t her fault, he watched any trace of composure vanish from her face when they got back to the hotel as she retreated into herself.

It shouldn’t have happened that way - definitely not how he imagined it would. But Emily was desperate in her need to forget, he was desperate to help her do so. It was frantic, the clash of her teeth against his an ironic reminder that this was the first time he ever kissed her. Aaron pressed her back against the wall, sucked a bruise into her neck, and buried himself inside of her with one smooth push. He swallowed her moans with his mouth, the snap of his hips brutal and sharp. She reveled in it, her need for him and this, legs hitched over his hips as she clenched around him.

“Wanted you for so long,” he growled as she came around him. Her fingers were like vices around his shoulders, clinging to him as he fucked her through it, unrelenting. “Thought about you, about this.”

“Me too,” Emily gasped, the simple admission triggering his own release until he came apart and took her with him one more time.

Aaron had to carry her to the bed in the middle of his hotel room. It was the most gentle he’d been all evening, gingerly placing her in the center of it, following her down and pulling her into his arms. She was bruised and sore, he wore the scratches of her nails on his back and shoulders. Emily curled into him like she’d been doing it forever, snuggling into his chest. “I still can’t feel my legs.”

“We should have done that a long time ago,” he mused into the darkness, dragging his fingertips down her spine, listening to her slow, even breaths. It’s an admission more than an observation, and the low laugh that comes from her is all the confirmation he needs to know she thinks the same thing.

It happened again hours later, in the middle of the night, this time softer, slow and unhurried. He made her come twice with his mouth, coaxing her through each one. Aaron took his time, marveling at her and whispering praises into her skin. She beamed under his touch, besotted under his gaze. He studied the sharpness of her ribs, the curve of her waist, the length of her legs. And then he held her hands in his own above her head, rocking into her, metronomic and even. He kissed her like a lover should, his lips still wet with her slick, her legs pressed tightly wrapped around his waist as she crested against him. He collapsed against her shortly after, grappling for her hands, leaving kisses along her collarbones - anything to be as close to her as he possibly could.

But it was over after that.

Timing once again failed them. Not because they didn’t have the chance, but because they were both afraid something would change, whatever friendship they built over time, and they wouldn’t be able to take it back. They never talked about it, never even acknowledged anything had happened in that hotel room in Scranton once it was over. It lingered between them, the awareness of it sometimes all-consuming if she got too close or they somehow ended up sitting beside one another on the jet. But things happened - JJ’s untimely departure, coupled with Seaver’s arrival, the grueling toll of case after case. It was buried, hidden behind the burden of their jobs and the baggage they carried, both too stubborn to admit what was right in front of them.

And then she slipped away, shortly after a case in Montana. Emily’s typical professionalism, her unmatched level of skill was marred by uncharacteristic lateness and a short fuse, as if something had settled into her mind that she couldn’t shake. She was secretive and jumpy, slowly withdrawing from them all before his own eyes. And he’d been too caught up in what they weren’t saying, what they were hiding from, to even ask what was wrong.

Aaron never saw it coming. Until it was too late.

…

The cafe suddenly feels suffocating, the four walls trapping them in. What started as an alluring scent of coffee beans and freshly baked pastries now feels cloying, overwhelming. It’s just a little too loud as their conversation fades into silence. After all, there’s only so much small talk that can be made when he only has one question. Why? Across from him Emily shifts in her chair yet still wears her pleasant smile, still playing the act she’s perfected over the last several months. But she’s tearing at her fingernails, a sure sign that she’s nervous. He knows her tells by now, all of them. “What do we do now?” She asks, her voice barely audible. Whether it’s intentional or not he isn’t sure,

He leans in, takes her hand in his own. “Let’s get out of here.”

[gusu-emilu]

miscellaneous MDZS/CQL fic recs (AO3)

broken into sections: Character Study (-esque), Wangxian, Jiang Cheng ships, Yi City (or Yi City-adjacent), Humor/Crack, and Other

Character Study (-esque)

Wei Wuxian

my eyes got used to the darkness by @curiosity-killed (M, Sunshot Campaign era, 4.4k): The funny thing, the thing that makes his lips curl in a grin and his hands shake with laughter, is that all these cultivators with their lofty principles and noble ambitions can’t even notice the ghost among them. Sure, they shiver at his presence and flinch from his cold hands, but not one of them puts it together. Lan Wangji chases him with healing music and Nie Mingjue frowns solemnly at his dancing corpses—and he laughs and laughs and laughs because they just don’t get it. Emilu's commentary: CW for mild body horror.

Jiang Cheng

in our respective ways by @veliseraptor (T, Sunshot Campaign era, 5.7k): Jiang Cheng has his golden core back. But he seems to have lost Wei Wuxian.

You Know I've Fallen, but I Know How High by villainais (M, Post-WWX's death, 2.7k): Jiang Cheng loses both of his siblings in Nightless City. Minutes apart. He trudges home to Yunmeng with one body, holds a private funeral with a single coffin, and allows himself to wear his mourning robes for ten days—permits himself not a single day more. He is still too young and inexperienced, an unfledged boy to the cultivation world, and he is rebuilding Lotus Pier on his own. He will not gift the other sect leaders the satisfaction of seeing him vulnerable. Propriety be damned. Hanguang-jun emerges from his seclusion wearing white. He does not stop.

Nie Huaisang

it deepens like a coastal shelf by @wolffyluna (M, Post-WWX's death, 21.6k): When Nie Huaisang meets Mo Xuanyu, he realises two things quickly. One, this kid is so doomed. Two, this kid would be a great unwitting spy in his plans to bring down Jin Guangyao. It would be so easy to get into Mo Xuanyu's confidences, and so easy to get him to tell him anything he needs. ...only thing is, that wouldn't be very good for Mo Xuanyu's life expectancy. But he'll do it anyway, if it helps him avenge his brother. A fic about man handing on misery to man, the parallels and cycles in the relationships between Jin Guangyao and Nie Huaisang and Mo Xuanyu, and the lengths these characters will go to meet their goals and if there are lines they won't cross.

Lan Xichen

an old man in dried mouths by @tenacious-minds (T, Post-Canon, 3.3k): Xichen thinks. The tea had always stained the crockery red. Emilu's commentary: Lan Xichen and Jin Ling talk about Jin Guangyao.

can you be a quiet man? by @basket-of-loquats (Unrated, Post-Canon, 70.7k+) But something inside him snapped at Guanyin Temple-- and Lan Wangji watched it happen, saw the exact moment that Lan Xichen went from broken to shattered, when he buried his sword into Jin Guangyao’s chest, when his sworn brother stared up at him with wide eyes, blood dripping from his mouth, when he pulled himself closer and closer and closer-- When he whispered "Why don’t you die with me?", and Lan Xichen hadn’t argued. Emilu's commentary: Lan Xichen / therapy with a side of Wangxian.

Wen Ning

breathless (but i'll pretend to breathe for you) by swordsainted (T, Burial Mounds Settlement era, 4.1k): Wei Wuxian is silent for a long minute, and then he looks at Wen Ning, something raw and open and hurting behind his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time, and Wen Ning shakes his head, still smiling. “You’ve protected everyone. How could I hate you for that?”

Mo Xuanyu

stand at the pit's mouth by @eldritch-elrics (M, MXY's death, 9.3k): The dreams and regrets of a man on the edge of oblivion. Emilu's commentary: Surrealist/absurdist screenplay.

Wangxian

I would wait for a thousand years by bleuett (T, Immortality Post-Canon, 10.4k): During the worst of winter, a traveler comes to stay at Lan Wangji's inn. He wears a red ribbon in his hair. “Do you see the rabbit?” Wei Ying asks and points at the moon. “That’s the moon rabbit, he helps make Chang’e more immortality elixir. He keeps Chang’e company.” “I do not wish the rabbit for company,” Lan Wangji says tightly. “You are the one I want by my side.” “And I’m here, Lan Zhan. If you go to the moon, I’ll follow you, I’ll always be here now.” Emilu's commentary: Lan Wangji meets Wei Wuxian centuries later and does not remember the past. There is also an excellent podfic by @forgotten-envies

Look Not With The Eyes by Spodumene (G, Post-Canon, 28.1k): Wei Wuxian returns from his travels to join Lan Wangji on a routine night hunt, but when things take an unexpected turn, Wei Wuxian will have to fight for what he's really looking for. Emilu's commentary: Case fic.

All In A Good Time by bigboobedcanuck (E, Post-Canon, 8k): Lan Zhan is struck by a curse that brings him intense physical pain unless he's being touched. He is stoic and tries to hide his suffering. Wei Wuxian is worried and protective. Perhaps they will finally admit their feelings?

Across a Lake of Glass by Zizzani (E, Figure Skating AU, 92.2k+): Each year, Gusu Skating Club runs a camp for only the most elite athletes of each region. This year brings a new skater from the Yunmeng Club who wears skates lined with red and a smile made for war. He skates like a demon. Figure skating au featuring lots of healthy rivalry, pre and post-competition bonding, and an inexplicable fall from grace through the eyes of the media.

Jiang Cheng Ships

Chengqing

display my heart for you to see by @souridealist (M, Post-Canon Wen Qing Lives AU, 5.5k): Jiang Cheng has his own secrets. Some of them are part of the unburied past; some of them are about how long it's been since anyone has touched him.

while I'm in this body by @souridealist (E, Post-Lotus Pier Massacre, 3.9k): For just a few minutes, alone in her office, Wen Qing allows her self-control to slip enough to cry. It's just her luck that that's when Jiang Cheng comes looking for her. Emilu's commentary: Femdom.

Chengning

it may be that it doesn't matter by @wildehacked (T, Post-Canon, 6.6k) “Are you crying?” Jiang Wanyin asks him, and Wen Ning frowns. Pats his cheek with one hand. “No.” Emilu's commentary: Holy Grail of Chengning.

Whatever It Is by morau (E, Post-Canon, 20.5k): It starts, as with a lot of things, with a very poorly thought out prank, courtesy of Wei Wuxian. Emilu's commentary: A LOT of sex and even more emotions lol

won't run away (we're here to stay) by @qi-ling (T, Post-Canon, 3.5k): "Please don't feel any pressure to accept this, and you can take as much time as you need to think about it." It's a set of robes, in shades of deep purple, complete with leather bracers. Cut in a different style than that of the disciples or household staff, closer to the understated robes Wen Ning typically wears. He reaches out to feel the fabric. His deadened nerves can't sense delicate textures well, but even he can tell it's of a quality on par to Wanyin's own wardrobe. This is startling enough coming from Jiang Wanyin, but then Wen Ning notices the belt. In particular, the silver bell in the shape of a lotus affixed to it. Only recognized members of the Jiang sect may wear the clarity bell. Or, Jiang Cheng has an invitation for Wen Ning.

Zhancheng

By Proxy by @veliseraptor (E, Post-WWX's death, 12k): Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji, looking for comfort in all the wrong places. Emilu's commentary: Hate sex that made me cry

Yi City (or Yi City-adjacent)

Songxuexiao

Heaven Has A Road But No One Walks It by @silvysartfulness (M, Post-Yi City arc Canon Divergence, 123k+): One of the most complex spells of demonic cultivation the world has seen is brought to fruition, and Xiao Xingchen draws his first shaking breaths in over seven years. This, it turns out, is only the start of his problems. Emilu's commentary: Pretty sure everyone already knows about Silvy's happy songxuexiao road trip fic but it has to be here.

Xue Yang & Lan Xichen

Hours On Empty series by @lady-of-the-lotus (M to E, Post-Canon, 57.8k+): AU where Wei Wuxian never came to Yi City and Xue Yang is still running around post-canon disguised as Xiao Xingchen. "Fractured Ice" - Xue Yang whisks a nihilistic Lan Xichen off on a murder roadtrip to raise Xiao Xingchen and Meng Yao from the grave. Because that will solve all of their problems, right? "Control" - "Fractured Ice" retold from Xue Yang's pov. "A Thousand Miles In Its Light" - Alternate ending to "Fractured Ice" and "Control"

Songxiao with Xuexiao Flashbacks

Nothing Beside Remains by @eldritch-elrics (T, Post-Yi City arc Canon Divergence, 21.9k): And Xiao Xingchen is dressed in dark clothing that is not his, and his sight is all of a sudden sharp in a way that it has never been before, and Xue Yang is not here. “He wouldn’t,” he breathes. “No, he wouldn’t do that. He’s too—” “He’s too what?” Wei Wuxian steps a foot closer, face hard-set. “Too cruel? Or too kind?” Or: Xue Yang uses the Sacrifice Summon on Xiao Xingchen. Xiao Xingchen lives with the consequences.

Humor/Crack

The Hangover: A pre-wedding Dramedy series by natcat5 (M, Modern AU, 51.6k): It is not a bachelor party. That was made clear on all the invitations. It is a congratulatory get together for Jin Zixuan, attended by his family, the family of the bride, and the young masters of the other two families in their circle. The gathering is not to go later than midnight, everyone must drink in moderation, and no one is allowed to be hungover tomorrow. Wei Wuxian had promised Yanli, three fingers in the air. Jiang Cheng had rolled his eyes, but promised as well. Saturday morning, Nie Huaisang and Jiang Cheng wake up alone in a hotel room, missing shoes, phones, and almost all their memories of what in the world happened last night. Also missing: Wei Wuxian, brother of the bride, Lan Wangji, esteemed guest, Lan Xichen, esteemed guest, Jin Zixun, cousin of the groom, Jin Guangyao, brother and best-man, Jin Zixuan, THE GROOM, who is due at his bride-to-be's house in six hours. That's plenty of time to find everyone...right?

Jiang Cheng Loves Jar Jar Bombad Mui by @lady-of-the-lotus (G, Post-Canon, 1.7k) Jar Jar Binks washes up on the shores of Lotus Pier. Can he win the lonely Jiang Cheng's proud heart? Neb neb answer is yesa. Emilu's commentary: There's also a podfic by @aowyn. Yes, with a Jar Jar voice.

Other

Nie Huaisang & Wen Ning

By Name by nirejseki (G, Post-Canon, 1.3k): After the traumatic events in the now-collapsed temple, Wen Ning lingered behind and unexpectedly saw Nie Huaisang, the undisputed victor of an all-around terrible evening, sitting on the steps of the temple, looking exhausted and miserable, as if he’d won nothing at all. Wen Ning found himself drifting over to him.

Jiang Yanli & Nie Mingjue

utility by magicites (G, Arranged Marriage AU, 2.3k): Jiang Yanli and Nie Mingjue's wedding is a political one — a gesture of unity between their Sects. A way for her parents to finally get some use out of the plain-faced sham of a cultivator they call a daughter. “Jiang-guniang,” Nie Mingjue says, and the formality in such a setting as intimate as their wedding chambers startles her, “I don’t wish to bed you. Or any other woman, for that matter. It isn’t fair for you to live alone because of my own preferences.” She rests her hand on his arm, cool relief flooding her body like water on a summer afternoon. “If it helps, I don’t feel desire for men,” she whispers.

Jin Guangyao / Nie Huaisang

Pulling Strings by @eldritch-elrics (E, Post-WWX's death, 5k): Nie Huaisang, quite drunk, turns up at Jin Guangyao’s door one night with an unexpected request. Emilu's commentary: Nie Huaisang knows Jin Guangyao killed Nie Mingjue. This interaction is more symbolic than anything else...

[yoditorian]

a law divine - 1

soulmate au!ezra/reader

this is solely the fault of one single anon who called out something i put in the tags and now it’s a whole universe but you know what?? it’s the love of my life. anon i hope u see this 💛 i also just want to say i know there isn’t A Lot of soulmate talk in this one but it’s important for the narrative okay bear with me

playlist // series masterlist // main masterlist 

word count: 7.2k (a Big Boy)

warnings: swearing, my usual allusions to smut bc we keep things neutral in this house, brief food/alcohol mentions, 18+ please no babies

It might be the ugliest ship you’ve ever seen.

Not that you’re really one to judge, the one you charter out when you’re running point on a job is a mismatched patchwork of rusty panels held together with electrical tape and hope. If there’s the slightest possibility you might be a teeny tiny bit disappointed in it, it’s only because agency jobs are usually a little cushier. A little safer for once. You could do with a bit safer. 

Your family might prefer a lot safer, but you’d sooner take your chances in open space without a suit than take a job working scrapyards. At least risking your life on digs gets a decent payout.

“You the danger mouse?” 

It’s not an accent you hear often on the Pug, the majority of the station’s population is human, but you turn with a smile to meet the bright purple eyes of the Thanne. Armour-strong scales and sharp teeth, but he seems kind and mild mannered despite his clear predatory biology. You nod as you readjust the pack on your shoulders.

“I’m Iras.” He holds his hand out to you. A distinctly human gesture made a little awkward by the sharp edged scales and extra fingers, but you shake it nonetheless. He’s your captain for this job after all. You wonder where a Thanne became so well versed in human custom, the species as a whole tend to keep to themselves instead of branching out into the universe like so many others, until his crew members appear on the boarding ramp.

Iras gestures to each of them in turn. Summer, a blonde woman with dark skin and a kind smile, and Milo, an older man with a swirling tattoo above his left eyebrow that matches the navy blue of his eyes.

“Is it just us?” You ask. You could have sworn there was a fifth name on the manifest you’d been forwarded, but teams are always subject to change. You just hope you’ll have your own room.

“Ezra always leaves things down to the wire, he’ll show up right before we’re due to push out.” Summer laughs fondly, throwing an arm around your shoulders like she’s known you her whole life. You’re usually a little wary with brand new teams but the way she’s already chatting away makes you feel at home. The last agency job you were sent on got dicey, fast, somehow you’re sure the same won’t happen with this lot.

“There he is.” Milo leans out of the ship to point out into the docks. 

You turn to see a man sauntering through the throngs of harvesters towards the ship, and it’s odd. The rest of the crowd seems to melt away as he closes the distance, even the weight of Summer’s arm on your shoulders feels not quite there. You take the moment to study him. He looks all business with his dark hair and his charcoal grey shirt and the neat pack slung over his shoulder, but his pants and boots have seen better days and the streak of blonde at his temple makes you smile. It’s nice to finally be with a crew without a single stuffy addition. 

“It’s not often I get to congregate with like-minded souls.” He grins when he’s in earshot, a flash of something feline in his eyes. You don’t want to admit that you like it.

“Like-minded?” You tilt your head at him as you follow Summer up the ramp and into the ship. Ezra slips in behind you just as it starts to raise. Just like the others said.

“We’ve all got the same death wish, Sunspot.”

The launch, at least, is smooth despite the beaten up ship and it’s only about twenty minutes before you’re far enough from the Pug to punch a lane to the next system over. At least it isn’t far, there’s only a day between now and making planetfall. Somehow, you’re not surprised to find that it’s more of a barracks and bunk beds situation rather than each having a private quarters. Last time you were hired by the agency, you definitely got your own room. But it gives you a chance to chat with the others as you unpack. 

Milo explains the air isn’t breathable, so he’ll need to double check to make sure everyone’s filters are running at capacity. But he reassures you that it’s a comfortable temperature, so it’s good to know you won’t be sweltering in your suits or freezing your asses off. 

You pick the bed on the wall beside the door, taking out a few essentials from your pack and tucking the rest safely away in the storage compartment. Just as he did back at the docks, Ezra is the last to find his way to the room. He settles his things on the bunk opposite yours because the universe has it out for you, apparently. 

“Did I hear one of them call you the danger mouse?” 

You struggle not to roll your eyes at the nickname awarded to anyone stupid enough to do your job, although admittedly he doesn’t sound like he knows why. You offer him your name instead and pretend the way he rolls it around in his mouth doesn’t send a shock right down to your bones. You’re not in the habit of sleeping with colleagues, not until the job’s over at least. But you’d be lying if you said you’re not tempted.

“They call me in when a site’s unstable but too profitable to close.” You answer, tugging your sleeves up as the climate control settles to a comfortable temperature.

Ezra raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue, and you pull off your gloves. They land on your thin mattress as you hold your hands out between you. Not even the slightest twitch.

“Steadiest hands on the Pug.”

“So they are.” There’s a challenge in his voice that threatens to send a shiver up your spine. It’s clear he doesn’t doubt your skill in the field, but the return of that glint in his eye from the docks has you wondering exactly what else he’s thinking about as he studies your hands. It’s not hard to work out.

It’s been so long since you had to travel out of the system, you forgot how much inter-system lanes can fuck with the human brain. You’re half asleep for the thirty minutes you spend sorting your things for the morning, barely enough energy to change into the sweatpants and ratty t-shirt you call pyjamas, before you crawl into bed and settle down almost immediately.

Only you don’t get to sleep for as long as you’d like. The rest of the crew seem to have filtered in after you, the shift of sheets and snores float through the dimmed room. Except, it’s not just that. There’s shuffling and bed creaking from further down the line of bunks. A hushed giggle sounds in the silence and-

 Oh god. Oh no.

They’re not. They can’t be, they- they are. 

You’re very awake all of a sudden, eyes wide as you keep them firmly on the ceiling and wishing as hard as you can for an alarm to start beeping or something. Anything to get whoever’s banging Summer to stop. A deep voice hushes her when she laughs again. Iras. Knowing is somehow worse. The mechanics- you don’t even want to think about it. 

You turn onto your side slowly, but loud enough to hint that maybe they should find somewhere else for their escapades, and fold your pillow around your head as a kind of makeshift set of earmuffs. Whether they’ve quieted down or it muffles the noise, you’re not sure, but it seems to have worked enough. You catch Ezra’s eye in the almost-darkness, much in the same position as he holds his pillow over his own ears. 

It’s embarrassing for the both of you, even as you share a conspiratorial look. But somehow, it’s less awkward to have to hear Iras and Summer going at it when you know he’s awake. He winces when a particularly loud squeak echoes through the room, and it takes everything in you not to bust out laughing. You fall asleep again eventually, making faces at Ezra in the dark until neither of you can keep your eyes open anymore.

You’re surprisingly well rested come the morning, when the whole ship jolts as it punches into the system and you’re almost thrown out of bed. So much so that it’s easy to forget that you woke up at all until you shuffle into the main living compartment of the ship. One of the crates by the wall has been cracked open, Milo hands out granola bars for breakfast.

Summer and Iras are sitting in the same chair, feeding each other, and it might be cute if you’d been awake longer and hadn’t been woken up by their activities in the middle of the night. You slump into a free chair,  face twisted in disgust for a moment. You’re pretty sure nobody else sees until Ezra laughs and drops into the seat beside you. They’re nice people, from how they took you as a friend immediately, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s just a bit much for your perpetually single heart to take. 

“It’s a week-long job, they can’t take a break?” You watch as they finally pry themselves apart to start, you know, actually working. But not without a genuinely gross kiss that definitely toes the line of public decency. Suddenly the half-eaten bar in your hand isn’t all that appealing anymore.

“Soulmates take no breaks, Sunspot. I’m sure yours would be hard pressed to be anywhere but in bed with you whenever they get the chance.” Ezra winks and it takes you a moment to remember where you are. A glance at the pair makes your new knowledge obvious, the way they seem to be touching, even now, on opposite sides of the room. 

“I’m not sure I believe in all that red string stuff.”

Once the ship is safely landed a short walk from the site, the days you spend digging pass with ease. The deposit is a decent size, it takes all five of you to cover it completely, and the payout should be enough to keep you all comfortable for a little while even with the agency’s cut. The crew around you fill the time enough that you barely notice the week coming to a close. 

Summer sings in the mornings as she cleans her equipment and readies her pack for the day. Miles talks gently to the cells as though they can hear him, shushing them any time he worries a gem might corrupt. Iras seems to have a secret superpower when it comes to the ration packs, they always taste better when he’s the one on lunch duty. And Ezra spends the afternoons regaling you all with tales of ancient beasts, laying eggs that fossilise into the very gems you’re harvesting. Although you’re not sure how true they are. 

You almost get through the whole dig without a hitch. Almost. But aurelac is a tricky thing, even a change in the wind can turn a site for the worst. You’re all sitting around at lunch when it happens. The telltale smoke wafts up into the air for no visible reason at all and although you’ve collected enough to cover the quota, you’d still rather not lose viable gems.

“Get to what you came here for.” Iras gestures in your direction and you dive into the pit head first.

You’re not even sure you stop to think as you follow the harvesting steps at lightning speed, salvaging half the corrupted cells before someone tugs you out by the collar of your suit. The rest of the site starts to smoke the moment you’re out of range, spitting and hissing and rendering the rest of the gems worthless. 

“Danger mouse indeed.” Ezra chuckles over the comm system, hand still fisted in the fabric of your suit. For once, the nickname makes you smile.

While you all go your separate ways after the ship has docked back on the Pug, Summer makes you all promise to meet later at a club you’ve only heard of in your friends’ messy night out stories. Still, you pinky swear when she holds her hand out to you and try to remember if you have a single item in your wardrobe that’ll pass as club attire. Or at least something that isn’t so worn there are holes in it. 

Even if it’s a song he knows, there’s no chance that Ezra could recognise it with the volume cranked so high through the cheap speaker that everything but the beat is distorted. Still, it doesn’t stop people from dancing. 

He’s a little late, as usual, but he doesn’t need to worry as Iras appears behind him and claps a hand on his shoulder, pointing to a booth across the room where Milo is looking increasingly uncomfortable.

It doesn’t take long for Ezra to spot you and Summer in the middle of the dance floor, as he follows Iras around the edge of the space to the booth Milo’s claimed. You’re both more jumping than dancing, yelling the unintelligible lyrics of the song into each other's faces. He can’t hear your breathless laughter as Summer spins you in a circle, smile wide and bright, but he can feel it in his ribs. The drums of the song kick in at the same time the swirling lights of the club light you up like some kind of celestial being, just as you catch his eye through the crowd. And everyone else disappears. The rest of the world, rest of the universe, fades into the background. Just like they did the first time he saw you, glaring suspiciously at the ship on the docks.

Summer’s dragging you back to the table when the song comes to a close, the both of you out of breath and laughing, and Ezra has to try desperately to remember how to speak when he watches a little bead of sweat slide down the side of your neck. And stop himself from just licking a line straight up it. His silent suffering only increases when Milo holds out a shot of the most potent alcohol the Pug has to offer and you down it without so much as a flinch, winking at him when you return the glass to the table for good measure. 

Milo calls it a night only an hour later, clearly only having braved the crowds of the club to celebrate the job. Summer and Iras are tangled in each other on the dancefloor, or the booth, as they keep the shots coming. You, at least, decide to keep your wits about you, declining every drink after the one Milo had handed you. Nobody’s going to fuck with a Thanne, even in as seedy a club as this, so you don’t worry about Summer as she gets sloppier and sloppier. But there’s no spiky non-human boyfriend looking out for you down here, it’s just you and the knife you keep at your hip.

You pull yourself from the dance floor, eyes tracking the room for the missing member of your party, until you feel a set of eyes on you from above. Ezra’s leaning on the bannister of the stairs, his unflinching gaze set solely on you. And you can’t help but smile. You follow him up to the mezzanine without hesitation when he glances upwards and back to you. The buzz of the shot has mostly faded from your veins, replaced by something much more dangerous by the way he’s looking at you. The way he’s looked at you since you met him.

It’s not hard to spot your friends from up here, leaning over the barrier with Ezra to people watch. He crafts stories about every stranger who catches his eye. The man hunched over the bar in a beaten up jacket, the waitress who fiddles with her necklace any time her hands aren’t occupied, the pair of lovers tucked away in the dark corner on the other side of the mezzanine. You find yourself sliding closer to him the more he talks, wrapped up in the warmth of his voice even in the rundown club. Your shoulder knocks into his as you mindlessly bop to the music and listen to his made up stories. Utterly enchanted. It’s hard to remember a time when you felt this way with anybody, if you ever did at all. To tell the truth, it’s hard to remember anyone before Ezra. And neither of you have even made a move yet.

He's got his arms braced on the barrier, and you find yourself lifting the one closest to you so you can slip in between them. Surrounded on all sides and you couldn’t feel more comfortable. To his credit, he doesn’t falter in his vivid storytelling about the group now settled in the booth your crew had claimed earlier, not even a stutter as you turn in his arms to face him. He’s decided they’re here to celebrate the beginning of a new job, rather than a successful harvest. His eyes flick to you for the barest moment, enough to notice yours are firmly focused on the way his lips move around his words, before searching the club below for another story. Another way to keep his mind and mouth occupied so he doesn’t accidentally admit all the sinful things he wants to do to you when you press your ass up against him like that. 

“Ezra.”

He shouldn’t be able to hear you over the music, but you’re nose to nose and he’d be hard pressed to ignore the way you practically purr his name. He’s expecting you to make another flirty comment in that voice that sends his mind reeling into all manner of indecent places the same way you have been all night.

“Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t expect you to just outright ask him. 

“Yeah.” Yeah. Hell of a time for his eloquence to fail, not that it matters anyway. You’re on him the moment he stops speaking.

It’s like the sun explodes inside him, the way his stomach bottoms out the second your lips touch his. There’s nothing soft about it, not the way he might have imagined there would be. If he’d been so bold as to let himself imagine what kissing you might be like. You’re all warmth and heat and you still taste a little bit like the shot you’d thrown back earlier, and he finds himself falling. Not that Ezra minds, he hopes his parachute never opens if it means you’ll keep kissing him like this. 

You let your fingers roam under his jacket, twist themselves in the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and you sigh into his mouth. God, you knew he’d be good at this. His hands leave a trail of starlight as they trace over your body, never quite choosing a place to rest. They start to settle on your shoulders, only to skim down your arms and squeeze harshly on your waist, to play along the strip of skin he finds just underneath the hem of your shirt, to grip harder than he might mean to onto the meat of your ass through your pants. You gasp, break the kiss for barely a moment, and stop his apology in its tracks. 

He doesn’t protest when you walk him backwards, still groping at each other like it’s just the two of you in the whole club. Ezra only groans when his back hits the wall and you push even closer into him, as if there was even any space left for air between your bodies already. He’s not about to complain. He could kiss you for a thousand years and it still wouldn’t be enough. It’’ll never be enough, not for a soul as hungry as his. You pull back too soon, far too soon, and it takes a solid minute for his brain to kick in and break the vice grip he still has a little too low for the public eye.

Oh, that look on your face. He’s in trouble.

“Where are you off to?” Ezra asks, flushed and breathless, a hand stretched halfway out to where you’re backing toward the stairs.

“Home,” You say with a sly smile, “You coming?”

He can’t push off the wall fast enough. 

You don’t live far from the club, a ten minute walk at the most, but Ezra manages to make it a solid twenty with the way he keeps pulling you to him. Not that you’re about to complain. You’ve been waiting a week to let him get his hands on you. At the press of his lips on your neck, the shudder it sends down your spine, you wonder if part of you has been waiting even longer than that. 

You’re trying, desperately, to type in the keycode to your apartment. If Ezra could calm down with the grabby hands, you might have gotten it right straight away. 

“No roommates?” He asks, kissing along your shoulder, and you take the temporary reprieve to kick your brain into gear and remember the fucking numbers. 

“Hugo won’t be too upset if I make him sleep on the couch.” 

The door slides back into the wall to reveal a dark apartment, a strip of light from the hall falling on a very orange cat. He stares at you for a second, clearly not particularly pleased that he’s been so rudely roused from a nap, before he settles back to sleep stretched out on the couch cushions. Hugo. Ezra is silently relieved that the roommate is just a cat, he’s not sure he’s got the self control to stay quiet tonight. Or to make sure you do. 

You waste no time once you gesture for Ezra to walk in ahead of you, flicking the switch on the wall to slide the door shut and pulling him back to your lips. He doesn’t hesitate to crowd you up against the cold metal. 

Although you could devour each other until the closest sun explodes and swallows the station whole, Ezra has to break away. To think, to breathe, to tease you a little about the moan he just swallowed from you. But you beat him to it.

“Gotta catch your breath?” The smile on your face threatens to make his knees buckle, and with you pressed up against the closed door the way you are? He might just let them. 

“What do you want, Sunspot?” 

You left a lamp on in your bedroom, the door cracked just enough to let a little filter through to the main living space. Still, he’s almost completely silhouetted against the warm yellow glow. As if he’s some kind of ethereal being, maybe he is.

“Make me see the stars.” You pull him in as close as you can and let your lips brush over his as you whisper. His next words make you shudder almost as much as the way he drags the zipper of your jacket down, slowly, tooth by tooth. 

“As you wish.” 

And boy, does he deliver.

You’re expecting things to feel more unfamiliar than they do, as you explore each other for the first time, but it’s like you’ve been here before. Once, twice, a hundred times before. Every move feels oddly choreographed. Ezra knows exactly how to take you apart and put you back together again, the way he pulls every twitch and moan out of you so expertly. You’re no different, as your fingers map the plains of his chest like it’s muscle memory. 

You shake it off, put the thoughts to the back of your mind. You’ve been around the block a little in your time on the Pug, it only makes sense that he has the same kind of experience. But shared experience or not, you can’t deny how much having him so close feels like a homecoming of sorts.

It’s the best sleep of your whole fucking life and, honestly, you’re not that surprised. Ezra makes a damn good pillow. Even if you both wake hours later into the day cycle than either of you normally would. Even if he’s more of a morning person than you are. It’s kind of nice, to sit still snuggled in your pile of blankets and watch him potter around your apartment as Hugo winds around his ankles like he’s been there for years. 

Your fridge, however, is heartbreakingly empty and renders his offer of making breakfast pointless. Instead, he pulls his shirt on and offers to take you to the best little diner he knows, tucked away in the heart of the marketplace. It’s a hard offer to turn down.

“What kind of gentleman would I be to have so much income at my disposal and not treat such a beauty as yourself to a good meal?” He winks as he flashes his credit chit at you as if you didn’t scan in for your paychecks at the same time. You laugh as you empty a food pouch into Hugo’s bowl, and tell him he better show you all the good breakfast spots. You shrug off his raised eyebrow and mutters of a ‘next time’. As if he didn’t already know.

Still, Ezra takes you by the hand the moment your apartment door secures itself shut behind you, leading you through the hall and out into the street, and you’ve never felt more wanted.

It’s like everything’s brighter, walking leisurely through the bustling market stalls with Ezra. The smells are stronger as spices in the air cling to your nose, the cacophony of vendors calling out almost sounds like music, and you start to laugh. Hand in his, in the middle of the maze of stalls full of food and tools and trinkets. As if it’s just the two of you in the whole universe. 

At least Ezra doesn’t look back at you like you’re crazy. He smiles too, just as big, and you feel bathed in warmth the same as when the sun comes out planetside.

You’re both still grinning when he leads you deeper through the market, down an alley and up a flight of stairs to an unassuming door.

“Is this where you murder me?” You joke just as the door opens to reveal a short older woman with an eyepatch, who pulls Ezra down into a tight hug as soon as he’s in arms reach. He introduces her as Merse, the woman who’s run the best diner no one’s ever heard of on the whole station. She slaps his arm for his cheek, but her grin grows twice as wide when she spots your intertwined hands. 

Ezra pulls you through the doorway after him as he follows Merse, chatting about how she always keeps the best table open just in case he brings a friend and you try not to smile too wide when she wiggles her eyebrows at you. He says something to you, but you’re too distracted by the view from the big windows. 

The far wall is completely glass, overlooking the main docks, lined with booths. A small family sits in one of them, their two children standing up on the seats to watch the ships come and go. You’ve never seen it from this angle before, always down in the masses and scanning the boards for new jobs. It’s kind of beautiful. In a rusty, patchwork sort of way.

Merse points you towards one of the booths with a promise that she’ll bring you the best breakfast you’ll ever have, something tells you she’s not lying. 

It’s not long after you slide into the booth that she comes marching out of the kitchen with two plates, wafting steam that makes your mouth water and your stomach rumble. Rice and vegetables and eggs and all sorts of things you’ve never even seen pile high, and you’d worry you wouldn’t be able to finish it all if you weren’t so hungry. 

“You know I won’t break, right?” You push your fork around in the remaining rice on your plate as you watch Ezra absorb your words. He thinks about it for a long moment, dark eyes over you before settling on your own.

“What’s this about?” He knows, you know he knows. More importantly, you know he’s going to make you say it. In the middle of the day cycle, in this family friendly diner. 

“Just,” You exhale sharply, “Making sure you’re aware.” Your body floods with a shyness that’s alien compared to the confidence you had last night and suddenly, your breakfast is the most interesting thing on the Pug. You can practically feel him smiling at you, but you don’t dare look up to meet it. 

He was right though, the food really is some of the best you’ve ever had.

It’s not until you’ve wandered back through the market, still hand in hand, and found your way back to your apartment that Ezra decides to bring it up. He may have been more than a little distracted last night, but he’s sure he spotted a set of old books sitting on a shelf above your couch. You freeze, ready to go on the defensive about how ink and paper will never be obsolete, until you realise he’s genuinely interested. He’s not judging you by any means. Something about the curiosity shining in his eyes makes your heart flutter more than you care to admit. 

He could watch you talk about your books all day, every day, for the rest of his life. How your eyes lit up when you recognised his interest, a paperback lover himself. You can’t seem to stop yourself as you dive into the intricate details of your favourite classics, two or three hundred year old texts that make you feel like you’ve lived a thousand different lives at once. He wants so badly for you to keep talking but the more impassioned you become, the more he wants to kiss you.

You trail off at some point, he loses track when you climb into his lap to point out notes you’ve made in margins and the books lie scattered on the couch beside you as you kiss him until neither of you can breathe. You’re still a little achy from last night, deep in your bones, and you hiss when his teeth scrape across your shoulder.

“Won’t break, is that right?” Ezra chuckles darkly and nips at your jaw, “Can I try?”

“Please.”

You wake at the creak of your bedroom door, sometime in the early hours. Hugo noses his way through the narrow gap and hops up onto the bed, curling up on the unclaimed pillow by your head. Ezra sleeps deeply, face buried in your neck, and you let the warmth of him wash over you. It ebbs and flows like a tide, that familiarity. The undeniable fact that something about this just feels right. You’ve known this man a week and yet you’re here wondering, as he rests in your arms, if he might want more than just this with you. 

Oh, but you are so afraid. Afraid to put a name to anything about him because what then? Will he tell you that you’re simply a placeholder in his life for something better, or that his heart might bleed through his skin when you’re apart? You’re not sure which is worse. Not that it matters, there is no word in any language that would be able to explain exactly how you feel about the man asleep in your arms. It’s enough, you think, to have him with you at all. In any capacity. Whatever pieces of his soul he bares as your breathing evens and his mind wanders. That is enough, and you will protect it with your life.

You have to part ways at some point, of course. Another week of rolling around in your bed sheets together, on the couch, on your pitiful kitchen counter, up against the wall, and Ezra gets a call from the agency. It’s a last minute job, the crew only need an extra set of hands to fit the safety standards, but it’s several systems out from the Pug. It’ll take him away for at least a month. You trail after him at the docks, with promises of messages in his absence and all manner of unsavoury activities on his return. It’s with a deep kiss and a wolf whistle from a couple of dock workers on their break, that you wish him luck. And ask him to hurry back.

Summer’s message surprises you when it dings through on your tablet. Some gajillionaire on Dallore T53 has found an aurelac deposit on the grounds of his new estate and wants it gone. She’s preoccupied, already out on another dig with Iras and a new crew. But it’s the kindness of her even thinking to offer it to you that makes your heart swell. It’s been a while since you’ve had real, honest to god, friends. 

You’d go in alone, normally, for something like this. But now? Now, you’re punching in Ezra’s comm pin before you can even really register what it is that you’re doing. He only got back a week ago, and you made him settle in back home before he could settle in yours. It’s not like the two of you would be doing any resting on his return to your apartment, exactly. The job was a pain, he’d told you, it ran months longer than anyone expected and you’re sure he’s still exhausted. He won’t agree, but you find you have to ask. Just in case.

“Sunspot?” He sounds happy, rested. And you breathe a sigh of relief, at least he can follow your orders when he wants to.

Hugo snakes around your ankles at the familiar voice, the same way he does any time the man himself walks through the door. If you didn’t know that the little orange devil’s alliances lie in who feeds him, you might think he loves him more than you. 

You explain about the job, make sure to stress that he doesn’t have to come. That you don’t even really need to take it if he’d rather you stay close by. Okay, you don’t say that out loud, but the smile you hear in his words through the speaker makes it known that he’s heard you. Loud and clear. 

It doesn’t matter in the end, not when he accepts before you even have a chance to give him any details. You don’t know why you were so worried he might say no.

“Any excuse to be warmed by your light, Sunspot.” Hugo brushes up against your leg at the same time Ezra’s voice practically drips through the speaker, smooth as honey.

“Is that a euphemism?”

“Do you want it to be?”

You choke on your breath and he laughs like you’ve told the funniest joke in the universe. He’ll kill you one of these days, you’re sure of it.

You charter the ship you usually take on private jobs, the space a little smaller than you remember with another person on board, but it’s not like either of you aren’t used to being in close quarters with each other by now. At least Ezra has the decency not to be mean about the beaten up exterior, she still flies true. He’d grinned at that, told you how a rough outside often means the opposite of the interior mechanics. The glint in his eye is enough to know he’s not just talking about the ship. 

At least the planet is in the same system as the Pug, so there’s no need to punch through to a lane. You fly in silence for a few hours, the familiar feel of the controls under your fingers as you guide it through the sky. Ezra’s eyes remain firmly on you although you pretend as though you don’t notice, and it takes him a moment to come back to the present when you ask him to flick a few switches and prepare to enter the atmosphere. 

The coordinates the client gave you to land are only a short walk from the house itself, a great stone castle-looking thing. It’s kind of ugly, the way the limestone juts out above the treeline. A big white block among the rich reds and oranges of the leaves. They grow that colour all year round, perpetually stuck in spring and summer. It must be nice to have the kind of money to find somewhere like that and decide you’ll build a house there. The air is breathable, and a quick look at the planet file proves it’s never too hot or too cold. A perfect place to build a house really. Although, if it were you making that kind of decision, you’d maybe go for a design that’s a little less cubist. 

The deposit isn’t huge, but it’ll be a good payout nonetheless providing the cells are all in good nick. You and Ezra wade through swathes of long grass and wildflowers until you find a spot to set up camp. At least you’re not stuck in bulky suits and having to lug around your equipment.

You couldn’t have asked for a more perfect dig if you’d tried. Each of the cells sit far enough away from each other that even if one were to fail, it wouldn’t corrupt a whole mess of the others. Although with both of your talents, it doesn’t surprise you when you collect every last crystal without a single misstep.

You’d told Ezra the profit would be split down the middle, equal pay for equal work. But it doesn’t stop him from sliding an extra gem into your pack to cover the ship charter. After all, you’re the one who was offered the job in the first place. He’s just following his heart, the one that walks around outside of his body and throws itself into deposits mid-corruption.

You hold one of the little gems aloft in the sunlight and watch as it sparkles.

“I used to think it was weird how rabid people go for these. But the more I dig the more I get it, isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

Ezra tilts his head like he’s studying the rock, but his dark eyes don’t leave yours.

“It’s a close second.”

Sap.

Night falls before either of you realise just how late it is, clearing out the last few cells of the deposit. It’s not worth going back to the Pug now, he reasons, and you find it hard to disagree. The ache of the few days you’ve spent digging has settled deep in your muscles, the thought of having to run through docking procedure when you’re so tired is enough to make you wince. 

You let him take you for all you’re worth under the watchful eye of the heavens, and find there’s more stars behind your eyelids than you could ever hope to see in the skies. It’s all you can do to cry out the name of the only god to ever make you feel this holy. Ezra. 

He wakes with the sun, the same way he always has on jobs, to find you curled so tightly against him that it bubbles up from his toes all the way to his throat and he finds his eyes threatening to spill over. Everything in the universe seems to slot so perfectly together when you’re like this. Ezra sighs, content to never let the moment end. You are so beautiful.

He shifts up onto his elbow a little, still cradling you against him, and lets his free hand trail softly over your face. Tracing the shell of your ear, the curve of your cheekbone, the bridge of your nose. The dawn’s sunlight breaks over the trees and filters through the fabric of the tent, bathing you in soft green light. He could stay here, holding you, until the universe implodes. Ezra doubts he’d notice such an insignificant thing with you beside him. 

But end it must, and he rouses you gently with soft whispers and kisses against your temple. You stretch in his arms, not unlike Hugo, and sigh as your joints pop and settle. Packing up happens slowly, moving around each other so naturally it’s as though you’ve done it a thousand times before. Every time Ezra passes, you drop a kiss wherever you can reach. His shoulder, the arm of his jacket, that little patch on his jaw. He pretends not to blush when you catch his hand and carefully press your lips to the little tattoo between his thumb and index finger, you pretend not to notice when he does.

You’ll be the death of him, he’s sure of it. The way you keep watching him out of the corner of your eye, the way your smile is so bright when he catches you that he can barely stand to look at it. With the tent and equipment packed up, his fingers itch to thread through your own as you start the walk back to the ship, there’s not a word in the universe strong enough to describe just how much he hates that both his and your hands are too full.

It’s odd, thinking about it. How you met by pure chance, hired by the agency just because you were on the same station at the same time. Would he have ever met you if you’d chosen a different career path, if he had? Maybe somewhere, centuries before or after this moment, where you’re meeting again. Different lives, different times, spanning across all of existence. Maybe, right here and now, you’re starting to feel the way he does about you. Just a little. Maybe he’ll get up the courage to ask what you think, how far you want to take things. He’d give himself to you in a heartbeat, without question. In a way, he already has.

Ezra can’t stop himself.

“What do you make of the red string of fate?”

“All you’ve seen of the universe and you still believe in soulmates?” 

“Maybe I’m more foolish that I made myself out to be.” He shrugs, trying not to let his eyes fall to the little finger of his right hand. Trying not to clench his fist to show you exactly how much your disbelief affects him down to his bones, as though his soul itself is frowning. You’re smiling. Uncharacteristically quiet, but you seem appropriately pleased by his answer and stray a little further out into the long grass.

Curiosity gets the better of you.

“Can you see yours?” You have to call out across the gap you’ve unintentionally created, yellow stalks swishing in the breeze between you, and for a moment you’re not sure he heard.

Ezra looks at his right hand, at the thin red string tied neatly at the knuckle of his little finger, and follows the line as it threads through the grass to where it’s knotted at your left. 

“No.” 

TAGLIST (add yourself here):

@bee-dameron @keeper0fthestars @thevoiceinyourheadx @firstofficerwiggles @1800-fight-me @ew-erin @chatterbean @gotta-have-faye​ @freeshavocadoooo​ @darnitdraco​ @greeneyedblondie44​ @fire-is-catching-always

[sfb123]

Sapere Aude - Part 5

Book: The Royal Heir

Pairing: King Liam Rys x Queen Riley Brooks

All characters belong to Pixelberry.

Catch Up Here

Series Description: I developed a theory of what I think will happen in TRH Book 4, and I was encouraged by some very lovely people to turn my theory into a fic, so here it is. Basically, Riley is recruited to join the Via Imperii, this series will follow her as she joins them to try and bring them down from the inside, and all of the drama and bombshells she learns along the way. Sapere Aude is Latin for “dare to know” it seemed like an appropriate title.

Rating: PG-13 Adult language, allusions to smut (but nothing graphic), discussions of death, conspiracy, blackmail, and other adult themes.

Warning: The Royal Heir Book 3 Spoilers all over the place.

Word Count: 3,189

Notes: This is kind of a transitional chapter, no major plot movement (but there is some major Uncle Drake time, if that helps). If I had combined it with the next chapter, it would have been way too long. I promise I’m going to make up for it in the next chapter. 

As always, one love to my pre-readers @texaskitten30​ & @txemrn​, I’m surprising you both with some extra content that was not in the preread (chapter 6 got way too long, so I took the opening fluff and added it to the end of this chapter). And thank you @twinkleallnight​ for my moodboard!

Tags: Everyone is tagged below, whether or not you get notified of said tag, I guess that’s in the hands of the Tumblr gods 🤷🏻‍♀️

Riley’s eyes slowly fluttered open as she took in her surroundings, she was in an ornate bedroom that she didn’t recognize. “Oh good, you’re awake.” Mara walked toward the bed from the corner of the room where she had been sitting. 

“Mara, what happened?” Riley asked.

“You passed out, you had me worried for a moment there.” Mara poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. 

Memories started coming back to Riley, she remembered being at the event and taking mental note of the members in attendance. Then she remembered the speaker approaching the podium, it was Liam’s mother. Nope, that can’t be right. I had already passed out at that point. That was a dream, some weird Wizard of Oz shit. Just then, there was a knock on the door. Riley watched as Mara rushed over to the door, opening it slightly and saying something to the person on the other side. Riley tried, but she was unable to hear what was being said.

“Who was that?” Riley asked as Mara closed the door and headed back to her bedside. 

“Just someone checking on you. Tell me what you remember about what happened?” 

“Nothing really, I remember being in the room and looking around, then everything went black. I had the weirdest dream while I was out though. Liam’s mother, she was up at the podium, giving a speech.” She took in Mara’s serious expression, and started feeling uneasy again. “Mara, that was a dream...right? Liam’s mother died a long time ago.”

Mara took a deep breath, “Actually, that was not a dream, Eleanor is the leader of the Via Imperii’s Cordonian chapter.”

“But why? How? She’s been alive this whole time?” Just when I thought this couldn’t get weirder. Maybe I’m still dreaming, I haven’t woken up yet. Yeah, that’s it. She pinched her arm and quickly flinched in pain. Nope, definitely real life. Liam’s mother is alive, she has been this whole time. Liam has spent most of his life mourning a woman that not only betrayed his family, but that wasn’t even dead. How is it possible that things are still getting worse? 

“I believe that is something she is more qualified to answer herself. She is outside waiting to speak with you. Should I let her in?”

“I don’t know. What do I say? How am I supposed to act? What does one say to their dead mother-in-law that isn’t actually dead?” There was a slight tremble in her voice. “Mara, I’m freaking the fuck out here. What am I supposed to do?”

Mara sat on the side of the bed and put a comforting hand on Riley’s shoulder. “It is entirely your decision, but I promise you, things will become much more clear once you speak with her. I know this is a shock, but just listen to her.”

Riley closed her eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, trying to center herself. “Ok, let her in.” 

Aside from a few creases along her mouth and eyes, you would have sworn that the woman entering the room had stepped right out of the many photographs Liam had shown Riley over the years. Damn, I guess faking your death is a pretty good anti-aging cure. As Eleanor approached, Riley sat up further on the bed and leaned her back against the headboard. 

“Riley, I can’t tell you how happy I am to finally be sitting down with you. We have so much to discuss.” Eleanor took the chair from the vanity and placed it next to the bed.

Understatement of the century. “I have so many questions, I don’t even know where to start.”

“I’m sure you do dear, and I will answer all of them, but you have already been through so much tonight. You need your rest.” She patted RIley’s hand soothingly. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright. I would like to come by Valtoria tomorrow for brunch, we can talk then.”

“Valtoria...my Valtoria? But you’re supposed to be dead, everyone will see you. Drake will see you, he’ll know who you are.” Riley started to panic. “Eleanor is there...I mean, my Eleanor...Eleanor the second?” 

“Shh, it’s alright Riley. As much as I would love to meet my granddaughter, you are absolutely right, she and Drake can’t know that I am there. Just tell them you have a meeting, and ask Drake to take her out for a bit. Knowing him, I’m sure he’d be more than happy to take her on a little nature walk. As far as being seen, I’ve managed this long without my secret getting out. Don’t worry, I have my ways of running under the radar.”

Riley could only nod, her head still swimming with all of these thoughts and questions. Eleanor stood, giving Riley a kind goodbye and leaving the room. 

After a little more rest, and time to process the conversation she just had, Mara escorted Riley out of the estate and brought her back to Valtoria. Riley was looking forward to the comfort of being in her own home, and seeing her daughter. Eleanor was no doubt asleep already, but even just checking in on her and seeing that little face, was the most calm Riley could hope for at the moment. 

As she entered her daughter’s bedroom, she smiled to herself. Eleanor was asleep on her Uncle’s lap, while he also snored soundly, the book they were reading long forgotten on the floor in front of them. Riley gently lifted her daughter out of Drake’s arms, causing him to stir. 

“Hey Brooks. Sorry, she must have really worn me out.” He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he stood out of the oversized armchair. 

Riley gently laid her still sleeping daughter in the bed, and kissed her forehead as she tucked her in. “Trust me, if anyone understands it’s me.” She turned to her friend and gave him a hug. “Thank you so much for staying with her, Drake. I always feel better leaving her with a friend when Liam and I can’t be there.” 

The exhaustion and stress were evident in Riley’s voice. A concerned Drake nodded toward the door, signaling that they should leave Eleanor to sleep. “Are you alright? You’ve been acting weird, different, all day.” He asked as he gently shut the door behind them.

“Yea, I’m good, I promise.” Riley lied. “This event tonight, it was just one of those things that would have been so much easier with Liam. I mean, they all are, but you know what I mean.” Drake nodded as he put his arm around her shoulder and they walked toward her room. “Hey, do you mind taking Eleanor out for a bit tomorrow, like late morning-ish? I had someone tonight request a meeting, and it’s kind of time sensitive.”

“Of course, that’s what I came for. Maybe I’ll take her fishing. Would that be ok? I’d love to teach her.” 

Riley smiled at his enthusiasm, but the smile didn’t quite meet her eyes. Drake noticed. “I think that would be a great idea. I believe the gear you got her for her birthday is in the sporting shed.” 

“You know I’m not going to let this go, right? Something’s going on with you and Liam. You’re my best friends, I’m not going to just sit here and pretend something isn’t bothering you guys.”

Riley checked either side of the hallway before leading Drake into her room. As she shut the door with one hand, she raised the other to her face, signaling for Drake to be quiet. She grabbed her phone and opened the notepad app, typing a message to Drake.

Do you know how to check for bugs?

Drake furrowed his brows and nodded his head. 

Do it. 

Drake did a full sweep of the room and the balcony, and returned to Riley, who was now sitting on the bench at the end of her bed. “Alright, we’re good. Now what the hell is going on?”

She explained about the Via Imperii to Drake. She didn’t tell him everything, and she definitely didn’t tell him that Liam’s mother is alive, or that that was the meeting she was taking tomorrow. Drake listened intently to everything, his only interruption was a ‘fucking Neville’ when she was telling him about the other members. She told him that one of the higher ups from the organization wanted to meet with her tomorrow, not a lie, and that’s why she wanted him to take Eleanor out of the estate for a while. 

Everything that had happened since she and Liam stepped out of the palace doors that morning suddenly made sense to Drake. And it now made sense why Liam had asked him to go with them instead of Maxwell. He wanted protection for his family, not just someone to keep them company. 

“Ok, so who else knows? What can I do?”

“Liam wanted to wait until we had some more information to tell anyone else. I know I probably should have waited to talk to him first, but tonight was awful Drake, just so damn awful. And I can’t call Liam and tell him, because I don’t know if they’re listening to our calls, and I can’t keep it all to myself for another 48 hours.” She sighed deeply and ran a hand through her hair. “He just didn’t want us accidentally telling someone that was part of it. I’m so sorry we didn’t tell you. It’s not that we didn’t think we could trust you. It’s just, finding out his mother was involved, it hit him hard, Drake. I think he just feels so betrayed by her, it’s making him extra cautious of our inner circle.”

Drake pulled her into a hug and held her close. “Hey, it’s alright, I totally get it. If I found out something like that, I mean, I can’t even imagine.”

As they separated, Riley let out a yawn. “I should probably at least try to get some sleep. Thanks Drake, for everything.”

“Yea, of course. You guys are my family, I’ll always be here. You sure you’ll be alright?”

Riley nodded and walked him to the door. They said their good nights, and Drake headed down the hall to his room, while Riley shut the door and changed into her pajamas. She laid in bed, staring at the ceiling. She spent most of the night wondering what Eleanor would say to her tomorrow, and listing out all of the questions she was going to ask. She was grateful that she was given a chance to gather her thoughts before having to go too deep with her. She would finally be able to walk into a Via Imperii interaction prepared. Or so she hoped. 

Riley never got a good night's sleep when she and Liam were apart. She had grown accustomed to falling asleep in his arms, and no weighted blanket on the planet could replicate that feeling. The emptiness of her bed, combined with the events of the night before, and Riley wasn’t sure anything that happened over the last couple of hours could even be considered sleep. She nodded off a couple of times, but every time the REM cycle started to kick in, she would see Liam’s mother and be jolted awake. Finally, she couldn’t take the tossing and turning any longer, so she got out of bed and decided to work with Gladys to make preparations for their meeting. 

Before she did that, she wanted to go get Eleanor and make sure she was up and ready for her fishing date with Uncle Drake. As she entered her daughter’s bedroom, she saw Eleanor sitting at her table, with her back to the door, having a tea party with her stuffed animals. “Good morning, Princess.”

Eleanor turned and smiled, immediately running up to her and wrapping her arms around Riley. “Hi Mommy, come have tea with us!” She grabbed her mother’s hand and walked her to the small table. She moved one of the stuffed animals out of it’s chair, kissing it on the nose and placing it on the bed. “Sorry Woogie. Mommy, sit.” She pointed at the now empty chair. 

“Eleanor, remember our manners?” Riley raised an eyebrow at her. 

“Mommy sit...please?” She looked up with a questioning expression. 

“That’s my girl.”

They sat and ‘drank tea’, Eleanor explaining every moment of her evening with her uncle the night before with so much enthusiasm. Riley watched Eleanor’s arms gesture wildly as she talked about the game of hide and seek that they played. 

Eleanor stopped her story at the sound of Riley’s phone ringing, and squealed with excitement at the sight of her father’s face on the screen. “It’s Daddy, it’s Daddy!”

“Here, you answer it, he’ll be happy to see your face.” Riley swiped accept on the video call request, and handed the phone to Eleanor. 

Riley sat back and watched the two most important people in her life talking and laughing like there wasn’t a care in the world, when Riley knew that that world was actually in the process of crumbling. She made sure that Eleanor got the phone first so that she could take that time to compose herself before she talked to Liam. They would talk, but she couldn’t tell him anything about last night. Even if she could, a FaceTime call was not the way to deliver that news. She snapped out of her thought when she heard Liam from the other side of the phone.

“I love you too, princess. Can you please give the phone to Mommy?”

As Riley took the phone, she stood from her seat, giving Eleanor a kiss on the head. “I’m going to go talk to Daddy, Finish up your tea party, Uncle Drake is going to be taking you fishing soon.”

“YAY! Fishies!”

Riley exited the room and leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath before holding the phone up to her face. “Good morning, handsome.” She smiled softly at the sight of her husband on the other end.

“Hello, beautiful. How did you sleep?” 

“Do you really need to ask? You know you’ve spoiled me all these years, I can’t fall asleep without you.” She was determined to keep the conversation light. If it veered away from that at all, she wasn’t sure she would be able to hold back. Especially with the lack of sleep she was experiencing. 

“Trust me love, I understand. I’m already on my third cup of coffee, just one more night, and we will be together again.” His eyes said everything he wasn’t able to say in that call. They were having a silent conversation about how awful the previous night had been for Riley, and how sorry he was , how badly he wanted to be there to hold her and make it all go away. 

“It’s going to be the longest night of my life, just so you know.” She sighed, checking her watch briefly. “Liam, I have to go. I had a last minute meeting come up, and I have to go get everything ready.”

Liam nodded, knowing exactly what the meeting was in reference to, or so he thought. “Of course, I have to get ready for my day as well. I will call you later on to check in. I love you Riley, I will see you tomorrow.”

“I love you too, Liam.” She ended the call, and a single tear trailed down her cheek. She wiped it away and stood up straight. She didn’t have time to break down, she had a brunch to host. 

Riley worked with Gladys to prepare the solarium for her brunch meeting. Liam had told her how much his mother loved the gardens at the palace, so she thought that this would be an appropriate setting for their meeting. Sure, the circumstances were anything but pleasant, but this was still Eleanor Rys. This woman brought Liam, her Liam, into the world. No matter what happened in this meeting, or what became of this relationship, she would be eternally grateful to this woman for giving her the love of her life. 

She impressed on Gladys the importance of privacy for this meeting, all food and beverages were to be set out ahead of their guest’s arrival, chafing dishes and coffee carafes sat on one of the tables to ensure no servers needed to enter the room. Once the door was shut, nobody was to enter until the Queen said so. Eleanor had gone this long living under the radar, Riley certainly wasn’t going to be the one to ruin her life as a dead woman. 

Once the instructions had been laid out for the staff, Riley moved to the entryway of the estate to see Drake and Eleanor off on their fishing adventure. She walked in just as Drake was handing Eleanor her mini, hot pink, fishing rod. “Here you go, kiddo. Make sure you hold it up like this, so that you don’t poke anyone while you’re walking.”

She got a mischievous gleam in her eye. One that Drake instantly recognized from the countless times it flashed across Riley’s face, right before she’d do something that drove him crazy. Eleanor turned the rod, holding it horizontally, and jabbing it into Drake’s shins. “Poke poke poke!” 

Riley burst out laughing causing Drake to snap his head in her direction, and giving Eleanor the encouragement she needed to continue her assault on her Uncle. “To be fair, you kind of asked for it. You gave her step by step instructions.”

“Of what not to do! I guess I forgot who's kid I was talking to.” He gently took the rod out of Eleanor’s hand. “Here, I’ll carry it out to the car for you princess.”

“Thank you Uncle Drake!” She ran into her mother’s arms. “Bye Mommy!”

“Bye baby girl. Be a good princess, and make sure you do everything Uncle Drake says.” She gave Eleanor one more squeeze and let her go before approaching Drake. “Thanks for doing this, I know you didn’t expect to spend the whole weekend on babysitting duty.”

“Hey, it’s nothing. I wanted to get some fishing in while I was here anyway, always nice to have a little company.” He ruffled Eleanor’s hair as his face turned more serious. “You going to be ok?”

“The image of my daughter ramming a fishing rod into your shins should be enough to get me through it.” 

“She hangs out with you too much. She needs to spend more time with Liam so she can learn that stoicism shit.” They both laughed as he pulled her into a quick hug. “We’ll be back in a few hours.”

Riley waved as they exited the estate. Yup, that’s my daughter. Taught her everything she knows. She smiled to herself at the thought. She saw Mara approach out of the corner of her eye, and turned to face her. 

“Your appointment is here ma’am, she’s waiting for you in the solarium.”

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Tags: @txemrn @texaskitten30 @kingliam2019 @anjanettexcordonia @twinkleallnight @mile9213 @kittypryde-bipride @motorcitymademadame @kat-tia801 @bebepac @gkittylove99 @khoicesbyk @jessiembruno @queenrileyrose @athena-penrose @pixie88 @eadanga @choicesficwriterscreations @iaminlovewithtrr @hopelessromanticmonie @annarenee355 @burnsoslow @shewillreadyou @imturaxamara

[suca-loca]

it’s been a long year since we last spoke (how’s your halo?)

Read on Ao3

Words: 11.5k 

Tags: Hurt No comfort, Angst, No Happy Ending, No beta we die like Wilbur

Warnings: Body horror, Blood, Death, Suicidal Implications/Thoughts, Mentions Of Torture, Beating/Fighting

Author's Note: I tentatively present you all this fic as my ticket to board the Dream SMP Fandom. I took some creative liberties with this, such as hints of Niki and Wilbur being childhood friends, as well as Niki living near Techno's cabin, and making Niki respawning to restock her hunger bar during her spiraling/villain arc one of her canon deaths. Also, despite Niki wearing a new skin she has stated that her character still wears Wilbur's coat. Just adding that in here so people don't comment that I got her outfit wrong during a certain scene. And finally, even though I feel this is obvious, this is about the characters and not the streamers themselves. With that out of the way, enjoy the fic!

Summary: 

"Time down here is like stars, Niki. We're dead, dead for thousands of years, but to them," he points up, "we still shine. It'll take light years for them to realize they are staring at just a memory."

She tries to take a step back, but she's rooted where she stands. "Wilbur," she weeps. "How long have you been down here?"

He laughs.

(There was a time it made Niki's heart stop. It still does, but for different reasons now)

"Eleven years."

Niki covers her mouth to stifle a broken cry.

or; Niki tries, unwillingly may she add, the whole being dead thing. Oh, and Wilbur is there to "help"

The worst part about it is that Niki's whole life doesn't flash before her eyes. It doesn't happen in slow motion and neither is there some comforting, bright light for her to walk towards. It's simply this: one second she's at Church Prime and the next she's falling into pitch blackness.

Then again, she should have known better than to expect any of that dumb cliche stuff 'cause it's not like she died or anything. Not really. Her communicator may say she did, but she knows the truth. She was teleported.

So why does this feel like dying?

foolish girl breaking at the seams from using the same stitching of a burning flag to put yourself back together again. you think the afterlife cares how you arrive? the entry fee is the same for all

She comes in screaming and doesn't stop even when that's all she is anymore. Her body is unrecognizable to her, turned inside out, muscles stretching and bending and snapping in an attempt to mimic the shape she once was.

(She wishes her muscles luck in regressing back into a memory because oh primes, oh dear primes did she try, try again to be the girl wore a white and blue uniform with pride, but that girl only exists now in dreams and sometimes nightmares)

But they can't, for her organs and bones and flesh do not know what it means to not be confined (but they should know, they really should, because she still finds it hard to breath in small spaces ever since Schlatt caged her between iron bars and dirt and Sapnap left her in a hole in the ground over a fish) and so they shake. Convulsing and spasming until she is just sound, just an echo of shrieks that are happening in the past or the present or the future depending on how fast it travels down this tight, narrowed cave she lands in.

Wait, lands in?

She finds herself laying flat on the ground. She blinks. Then does it again for good measure to make sure she's not imaging having eyelids.

She touches her face. Feels the crook of her nose, the curve of her chin, and her soft round ears.

It's all skin. No muscle, no tissue, just her.

Still her.

(For now)

Her body is back. Not whole though - never whole - for she will always be a walking empty space within a solid object, but for now, her body is right. Her body is here. She closes her eyes in relief.

Someone is staring down at her when she opens them again.

"Hello Niki," Wilbur says. "It's been a while."

(It's Doomsday. His name shows up on your communicator and so you become a lit match. The fire eats you away just like the bark of a tree, like the walls of a bakery, two things you once loved most, and you're watching them both burn with his coat over your shoulders, which doesn't help you ignore who you must look like, who you're acting like, whose footsteps you're following in; and doesn't it hurt to know that what's before you isn't just a friend but a reflection?)

She's already scrambling back before she's even fully sat up.

She doesn't get very far, not with the way her wrists twist and bend before finally buckling under the pressure, and she can't find the strength to stand up and run. So all that's left to do is hyperventilate at the way his eyes land on her face, roaming, analyzing, absorbing, trying to read her like a book, unaware she's ripped out the pages long ago. At the way his shadow covers her and maybe once it felt like a blanket, but that time has passed, now all it is is heavy, suffocating, pinning her down. At the way he wears his Pogtopia outfit, pressed and cleaned when the last she saw of it it was covered in ash and black feathers and red, so much red.

But it never comes. In fact, her lungs don't move at all. Almost as if she doesn't need to breathe. As if she hasn't been breathing since she's been down here.

Is that why it was so easy to keep screaming?

"You're not here," she whispers. "Not really."

Wilbur tilts his head to the left.

(Does it in a way a predator would while observing its prey from afar, waiting for the right moment to strike)

"Oh? Where am I then, Niki?"

"My head," Niki responds, practically blurting it out. "Yeah - yeah, that's right. This is just my head playing tricks on me again. A horrible horrible trick, but that's all it is. I - I know it."

Wilbur hums. He sits down as if this will take a while. As if she won't blink and he'll be gone. "Well, that's a damn shame. I was hoping it'd be a beach. Mexican Dream has been talking a lot about La Jolla lately. Sounds like a nice place."

He smiles, suddenly.

(No, not smiles, more like baring his teeth. His very normal teeth that give off the impression that they should be very sharp and very large and very deep in her throat right now)

"Let's hope I don't blow it up."

(Niki is shouting for Wilbur over the chaos when her communicator pings in her pocket. It gets hard to breathe as she reads what it says, and it isn't because every inhale of smoke and pulverized concrete from the tumbling buildings poison her lungs. There's a ringing in her ears, and it isn't because of the TNT that just detonated in front of her. She feels broken, and it isn't because the force of the explosion knocks her back and she skitters across the field, hitting rocks and choking on dirt until she stops on her stomach, limbs bent at weird angles. Her communicator lands right beside her, the screen shattered and static flashing, but she can still catch glimpses of what is on the screen, as clear as day, like a taunt: WilburSoot was slain by Ph1lza)

Niki scrambles to her feet, presses herself as much as she can against the walls, and maybe, just maybe, she'll glitch and go through it and suffocate in a block.

She immediately throws herself away from it when she realizes what she just thought.

Wilbur stands with her. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding," he says. "I thought it would lighten up the mood. So, how are you?"

"How am I?" Niki echoes. "I'm imagining my dead best friend even though I thought I was getting better and I could have sworn I was, I was I swear I was, and this place, this place, I don't know where this is but it, it just feels - I don't even know why - so familiar and so - "

She pauses.

She looks around.

She was so busy panicking from Wilbur's presence that she never took in her surroundings. She stares at the smooth stone walls, the occasional hanging vines, the little aquarium in the corner right next to the entrance, and, finally, the stand. The stand with two signs on the front that read -

No. It can't be. It just can't.

She won't believe it until she's seen the whole thing.

She walks further in, each step hesitant.

And she notices the way everything around her seems so devoid of life. Almost colorless. Close to numb. She thinks it's her body shutting down, the stress finally getting to her, but no. This is worse. Something's going on. She doesn't know what it is exactly, but she knows it isn't her that's wrong here.

(This time)

Wilbur follows closely behind and, as if to prove her point, his footsteps sound muffled, distant, apart from him, like in the way you hear something underwater.

Maybe she is underwater because everything is getting blurry and her face feels wet.

(Or maybe the better comparison is like hearing something behind glass. She's been tapping against the window of a caravan for months as men in suits discuss a country she bled for just as much as them, if not more, without her. The tapping turns to banging, but it is not the glass that shatters. Not the glass that breaks)

She stills as she catches sight of the small wheat farm in the back room, dried and frail and unkempt.

(Like a flower shop)

It really is her bakery.

"No," she mumbles. Then, more stern, as if it'll blow this place away, as Wilbur should have done the first time. "No no no no this can't… this can't be true. I, I shouldn't be here I - it doesn't make any sense, how how how - "

She whirls on Wilbur, the tears coming in waves now. "What are you doing to me?"

(It's his fault she's back here. It has to be, he's the reason you wanted to burn the memories why this is all gone why this should be gone why isn't this gone gone gone gone)

foolish girl who has become like the nation she despises, you are a crater, there is a hole inside of you where a soul once was and it was caused by your own hands because the only destruction you're good at is your own. you couldn't even kill a child with a nuke, so what makes you think you can end a small room on the side of some hill?

"What do you see?" Wilbur says, and the voice in her head disappears. She can't remember what it said. She shakes her head as if the words will fall out her ears.

Suddenly she can't remember why she's shaking her head.

Her next words come out frail.

"My… my bakery. But how? This shouldn't be possible I, I destroyed it - I - "

"Limbo is different for everybody," Wilbur interjects. "For me, it's a train station."

"Limbo? What are you talking about? What is going on? I was nowhere near L'manburg I was - " Niki's mind blanks.

(Smooth quartz all around her and she feels safe there, that she remembers because there is no killing here, the one place bloodshed does not haunt her, and then crushing disappointment that turns into actual crushing as her body gets shredded, mangled, undone like a ribbon except it does not look pretty)

Wilbur gives her a slicing smile. It cuts her down. "This is the afterlife, Niki."

She blinks. She tries to take a step back, but she's rooted to the spot. "What?"

"The afterlife," he continues, eyes sparkling. "Hell. The void. Eternal darkness. Whatever you wanna call it. I call it home."

"Home?" She repeats, shakily.

foolish girl with no place, no one to call home because she's an expert at finding comfort in things that don't stay, of course he sees this place as home. Although if he really wanted to surround himself in emptiness so bad then he just needed to wait a few months for you to become just that

"I'm not dead," she mutters. She attempts to laugh, because if she laughs then this will sound like a joke. Wilbur would joke about such a thing. After all, he poked fun at exploding L'manburg just a while ago. So of course this is a joke. It has to be. It is, and she will not allow her breakdown to be the punchline.

At Wilbur's unflinching smile she says it again, with more conviction. "I'm not!"

"How else do you think you're talking to me? How your bakery is still in one piece? Sorry to be your grim reaper Niki, but you're dead. And now you're here, in the afterlife, with me!" He leans in close, close enough that she should feel his breath on her.

There is nothing. He is nothing.

(And maybe, so is she)

"Isn't that great? We're together again! You and me, just like the old days. And look," His eyes glance at what she wears. It's the coat. Specifically, Wilbur's coat, wrapped around her shoulders.

"We're even matching," he coos.

She thinks she might scream.

She throws herself away from him, almost throws the coat too, but into the furnace next to her.

('I gotta burn the memories I need to destroy it I need to destroy it I need to destroy it,' she once screamed to no one but herself. History repeats itself)

How she ever found comfort in this ratty, old coat she'll never know. And she'll never care to find out. Not when Wilbur is acting like this, like before, like a loose city wire, all dangerous and unpredictable, each word an electric spark, and Niki is trying not to get stung. She remembers how that story ended.

But her's will not end. Not yet.

"I can't be dead," she argues. "I don't remember that I would remember something like that so I - I can't be dead, and I have two lives left so, no, no I can't be I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive and I'm in bed I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive and you're not real, just a nightmare. I'm alive I'm alive I'm - "

"It's really me, Niki," Wilbur says, and the fire from the furnace roars in response as if his words fan the flames. It's the first time something in this wicked place has felt alive. "In the flesh. Or, rather, a close imitation of it. I think my corpse must have liquified by now, swelling up for months before bursting open, leaving nothing but a skeleton behind. What about you? What did you leave for them to find?"

She covers her ears. "Stop! Stop it stop it stop it!"

"Remember it. Remember your last moments."

"Wilbur, please - "

"Feel your wrist," he says. No, orders. And she does. Because she, at her core, is still his soldier.

(She says that she is loyal to him and he responds by saying he wants her to be loyal to L'manburg. She remembers being confused, for she saw them both as the same. Wilbur is L'manburg and L'manburg is Wilbur, one cannot coexist without the other. A few months later, amongst the wreckage of her nation and a father's anguished screams, she'll realize too little too late how true her statement holds)

She doesn't find her heartbeat.

For a second she thinks she made a mistake. That she has her fingers in the wrong place, but no. A soldier knows where to look for life so that they may snuff it out. She can't be making a mistake.

Still, she presses her fingers down, harder this time, nails first, that blood draws, and sobs as she's still met with nothing.

She has no heartbeat.

She is dead.

She chokes. She clutches her chest, not because it hurts to know what she lacks in her chest, but because she remembers. Remembers it so intently, remembers it happening in the snap of a finger, literally, from a smiling God (and maybe it is quite a fitting end, for she goes out the same way she lived, giving second chances to men who don't deserve it) and how the world tilted as the ground slipped away.

But what's worse is the realization that comes after.

"I didn't leave anyone anything to find," she says.

Wilbur raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"I didn't leave anyone anything to find because I didn't die," she says again, but weaker. More horrified. "I was teleported. I was on the holy lands when - "

"Teleported?' Wilbur interrupts. His features, just a second ago, eccentric and mad, turn curious. "Wait wait wait, hold on a second, are you telling me you were sent to Hell, Hell, on the fucking Holy Lands? "

Niki weakly nods.

It goes silent.

Suddenly, a snort. A snort that does not sound like it once did, back before the war for independence, before the election, before banishment, before it all, when all there was was a caravan and the worst of their worries was getting Sapnap a vegan hotdog. It's meaner, more shrill, and laced with a madness that seems to roll off his tongue so easily nowadays.

If she weren't watching how hard Wilbur's shoulders shake she'd have never guessed such a sound would come from him.

But there's something else about this snort that chills her to the core. Although she never could have imagined it coming from Wilbur doesn't mean she hasn't heard this kind of laugh before.

It's almost breathless, almost like something left on a stove, steaming, almost like the sound of  -

(Dream and Wilbur worked together, both wanted L'manburg gone, both almost killed a kid, both cut off attachments, both lost trust in others, all things Niki has done too, and if Niki is like Wilbur and Wilbur is like Dream then that means - )

(No. Please, no)

"That is -," Wilbur wheezes, wiping away a tear. "That is horribly ironic."

"DreamXD!" She shouts, head tilted up. "Take me back! Take me back right now!"

Wilbur shakes his head. "Oh, no need to try that. I've been there. The whole shouting for help thing? Yeah, will do you no good. No one can hear you down here."

"DreamXD! I'm here!"

"Scream all you want, prime knows you don't need to breathe down here so nothing's stopping you from doing it for forever, but when your screams are all you hear for eternity… well, it'll drive any person mad."

"DreamXD," she shrieks. And her lungs don't shake, don't even give a small quiver, she knows it. Nothing in her does, for the gears don't need to be turning to keep this machine of a body that's been on autopilot since an explosion knocked her off her feet alive anymore. "Please!"

"You stop talking after a few years of just endless screaming for your voice becomes a reminder of your entrapment. But then the silence itself, after a few years, is unbearable. Yet you don't dare speak or make any noise, so it's just madness of a new kind."

She pushes her way past him and makes her way to the exit of her bakery. "I - I liked the magic trick, DreamXD! I really did! You - you can teleport me back now!"

"Too scared to make a noise, but too scared to keep quiet. So you stand still. Your body deteriorates, muscles numb from lack of use, and all you do is use your nails to scratch marks onto the walls to mark how many years have passed since… since absolutely nothing."

She stills. She slowly turns around.

(L'manburg is surrounded by a wall. A wall so mighty and tall she never thought she'd see the day it'd be torn down, much less by its own inhabitants. But this wall right here, the one between her and this old friend, this is a wall that will never meet the same end as its predecessor)

"Wilbur," she whispers. "What do you mean by years?"

Silence.

Wilbur has a far-away look in his eye.  

(That look was born in a dirt hole on the side of a small hill and Niki doesn't learn that lesson for she builds her bakery in a similar place. Two places, so small, so cramped, started with hope, have become their worst downfalls, their unfinished symphonies. She parallels him in all the wrong ways)

"Time down here is like stars, Niki. We're dead, dead for thousands of years, but to them," he points up, "we still shine. It'll take light years for them to realize they are staring at just a memory."

She tries to take a step back, but she's rooted where she stands. "Wilbur," she weeps. "How long have you been down here?"

He laughs.

(There was a time it made Niki's heart stop. It still does, but for different reasons now)

"Eleven years."

Niki covers her mouth to stifle a broken cry. She was paralyzed before but now, with fear pumping through her veins, she runs. Fear is a more dependent motivator than strength or bravery could ever be, for fear, unlike any other heroic emotion, can't be beaten out of you. Can't be threatened out of you by a friend on your birthday as you try to stop him from pressing a button. Fear only grows, like a weed, you can try to get rid of it all you want, but it multiplies the more you struggle.

She finally gets to the exit, nearly throwing herself at it, only to find a stone wall staring back at her. It's been cemented shut.

She's trapped.

(She is in a cage, a zoo animal for Manburg citizens to point and laugh at. It is cramped, it is humiliating, and it is her home, her everything in wake of becoming nothing to people she once considered friends, Schlatt tells her. Until Quackity frees her. But there is no one to free her now. Except herself)

She pulls up her sleeves and begins mining with her bare hands.

She's been torn apart before, but at least it was quick. This, the way her flesh slowly peels off at each scratch is its own kind of torture. Not because it's painful, but the torture in knowing what you're willing to do to yourself just to see the sky again.

She keeps going.

(She does not throw up at the sight of chunks of flesh dangling where nail once was because she is a soldier and she has seen worse. Seen a child trapped in a box screaming for help and she's unfortunate enough to have a seat in the splash zone. Helped patch up Ponk's wound where his arm should be, afraid she might lose him to blood loss because whoever chopped his arm off didn't cut across the joint to avoid the bone and therefore had to hack again and again and again to get through the bone. Sewed Fundy's head back together from when Schlatt beat him over the scalp with a beer bottle before dying in the caravan; it took a couple of hours to finish because his fur made it hard to spot the bits of glass sticking out his skin. This is not the first or last time she will wash blood off her clothes, she just has to hope it will continue to be someone else's and not her own)

Wilbur comes up beside her. He doesn't even try to stop her, much less flinch at all the red on the wall. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it. Tommy did."

She snaps her head to him, her clawing ceasing. "Tommy was here?"

He nods. "Arrived a few years ago. I have to admit, when a space opened up here I thought it would be him again, not you. Not that I'm complaining. Don't get me wrong he's a good kid but, well, you know how Tommy gets."

(Everyone you've ever hated, everyone you've ever sworn to end; Schlatt, Tommy, and although you do not hate Wilbur or Jack you're relationship with them is complicated because they remind you of when you spiraled, you lot are all connected now, bound together from sharing the similar experience of death. She can never separate herself from them. Will be rever grouped in with the people she can't stand most)

"How long was Tommy here for?" She asks softly.

Wilbur clicks his tongue. "Two months I think."

She closes her eyes.

(She wanted to look deep into the crater Tubbo's nuke made and confuse Tommy's charcoal, burnt body for obsidian. She wanted to catch Tommy's choked last breaths in a bottle and get drunk on it every night. She wanted to leave spruce wood on his grave as a sort of flag marking her latest conquest. She wanted to stop thinking that if Wilbur was wrong for believing in Tommy then that means he might have been wrong for believing in her)

She doesn't want Tommy dead anymore and although they're still not friends even she wouldn't wish this on him.

"Two months," she says, and it sinks in.

Is that how long she'll have to wait until someone comes looking for her?

That is if someone even cares to look.

(Puffy doesn't respond to any of her messages after their first date. She turns Jack away when he tries to pull her back into the obsession of caving Tommy's head in. Everyone grieving L'manburg remembers her setting L'mantree aflame. Anyone in the Eggpire is too far gone to even care about themselves. She doesn't have a Tubbo. Isn't anyone's disk. She's just Niki, forgotten, ignored Niki, the first ghost of the server before Ghostbur. Why spare a glance at someone transparent? Someone, not all there?)

No one will come for her.

Wilbur cracks his fingers, and Niki winces, for her bones are still on flesh display and slowly repairing. "Well, now that we've played twenty questions let's move on to a new game. You up for some solitaire?"

She rises to her feet and numbly nods. She might as well have something to do to, to try and prevent the inevitable insanity with a card game.

Might as well accept her fate.

Wilbur reaches into his pocket and pulls out the cards. He sits down on the ground. "Sorry," he says. "I'd offer we play on a table but there are no tables in a train station and I doubt your bakery has one either." He hands her half of the deck. "Help me set it up."

But Niki doesn't take them, for she's focused on the word table because -

(There's a table, a weird table, made up of this block she's never seen before. It's sponge-like, with a hole on top decorated by a blueish-green frame, and she's about to ask where they found it when Phil suddenly apologizes for exploding her bakery. At her shocked expression, he explains he'd like to air out all possible tensions before starting their first-ever official Syndicate meeting so that no past grievances keep them from working as an effective team. Techno merely snorts, saying it's not their fault her bakery was on government land, and Phil responds by shooting him a glare fit for his title as Angel of Death. She'd have laughed, she'd have cried because such a look was once how Phil got Wil to eat his vegetables if it weren't for the fact she tells them they have nothing to apologize for. Tells them she left the oven on the day before the attack and by next sunrise, it was already burnt to the ground. Ranboo doesn't blink once from where he sits across from her as she talks. She sees in his eyes that day, how her laughs and her wails blend in with the chaos around her, as if it belongs there, as if she is one with it. And maybe she is, for the fire that consumes her bakery grows and grows and grows but Niki just gets smaller and smaller and smaller as if she has to sacrifice bits of herself to keep the fire going. Perhaps she is, for every monster requires an offering, and her bakery is that. A representative of the old her burning alive to make room for the new, merciless, unhinged her. Good. She looks down at the flint and steel in her hand and in the reflection of the metal she sees a boy with mismatched eyes standing behind her, staring. And then he takes out his book and writes. It feels like Ranboo has placed a noose around her neck. The memory fades and she holds her breath. She waits for him to say something, to call out her lie. This time, Ranboo undoes the knot. He looks away)

Because she needs to tell Ranboo she appreciated his silence that day. Needs to joke about how all this snow reminds her of an ice cream shop and watch Ranboo nervously laugh as she lightheartedly punches him on the shoulder.

Because she needs to know how that story Phil was telling her about his adventures with Techno on another server, something about an Antarctic Empire, ends. Needs to feed the crows with him to make sure he doesn't stare at their wings for too long.

Because she needs to braid Techno's hair one last time while they talk about how pink is clearly the superior hair color. Needs to thank Techno for giving her these becauses, for they wouldn't exist in the first place had he not offered her a place in the Syndicate.

Ironically enough, she always knew she'd die before she could give back all that she owed them. But only because what she owed them was too long a list, too difficult to be expressed in any way that captured what they deserved.

(Somewhere, in a snow biome, there is a family. They're different from each other, too different at times, and yet Ranboo and Techno could wear each other crowns, each fitting perfectly on their heads and no one would know of the switch, except for Phil of course. Right now they're probably looking at their comms around the dinner table, confused by the last message. 'Nihachu fell from a high place.' They aren't worried. Not yet. But in a couple of days, months for her, they'll start to pace. Phil will stand at the edge of the roof, ready to step off, only to remember he doesn't have wings, can't look for her high up in the sky like he used to when she was a kid. Ranboo will force himself through experiments, lose sleep, break himself in, trying to learn how to teleport so as to cover ground faster in the search, to do more than just let his powers go to waste when they could be what brings her home. Techno will grab her rainbow sweater and put it to Steve's snout, but the trail will go cold every time until eventually all of Niki's clothes don't smell like her anymore. They'll do this every day. Nothing will change but their hope, dwindling away each day. So will they just stare at that last message, her unintentional goodbye, looking for some sort of explanation? For some secret message? Some coordinates until they go mad? They won't think she's dead until they've found a body. Won't stop looking, won't leave a corner of the server untouched. Won't stop till they have something to bury)

She can't do that to them.

She slaps the cards out of Wilbur's hands.

"No," she growls, trying to sound tough and less like a kid throwing a tantrum. Perhaps slapping the cards away was not the best start. "I am not going to waste my time playing Solitaire when I could be spending it finding a way back home. And I will if it's the last thing I do."

Wilbur frowns. Niki has the inkling suspicion it has more to do with the cards being all scattered about than from her declaration. "There is no 'last thing I do anymore.' You dying was the last thing you'll ever do. All you have now is this. This is your forever. Our forever."

She turns away from him, just for a second. Away from the sight of his furrowed brows and the crinkles in the space between them where her index finger would go to poke as she teased him. Away from the scrunch of his nose she would joke made him and Techno finally look like twins. Because despite everything, despite all the months that have settled into their bones since the last they saw each other and the wars they've fought on land and in their minds, it's still Wilbur's face. But only in the physical sense. After that, he stops being her Wilbur.

This would be so much easier if his face had physically morphed into a stranger, to prove to her how much he's changed, what he's become over the months, is not all in her head.

Somehow, she finds a way to start.

"You know, not too long ago I'd have stayed with you here. I wouldn't have even put up a fight. I'd have just laid down, closed my eyes, and let the vines on these walls grow over my body until I was just moss. I was… I was so tired, Wilbur. A part of me always will be. I understood. I finally got why you acted the way you did. There was a time I was on half a heart and instead of eating I would - "

Her body begins to shake so hard she almost expects to look down and she cracks in the ground from an incoming earthquake. The only cracks see she's are her own.

She can't say it. Not like that. Not yet.

" - I would respawn to restock the hunger bar," Niki chokes out instead.

(She respawns with dried blood on the back of her head and bones still rattling from the fall. Along her jutting spine, in an almost perfectly straight line that could be confused for an unkempt path lost to weeds and drought, are bruises. She doesn't feel them. All she feels is the urge to do it again)

She blinks and her hand is in her hair, looking for the bump. She pulls her hand away as if it's a hot furnace. "But I can't stay. Things have changed. I've changed. This is not the first time something dark has tried to consume me, but I can't let it win this time. I can't let this place turn me numb and unhinged, or worse, content. Not when I have people to go home to. Not when - "

She looks down at her hand, the one that traced her scalp, and sees it has clenched into a fist.

(At the count of three, Niki throws rock. She groans as she notices all the other hands make paper. Ranboo and Techno exhale as if the losing sentence wasn't shoveling the front lawn, but death. Or worse, going shopping with Phil for a refrigerator to put in the Syndicate meeting room. Ranboo lost that one. Niki points at Techno's hooves and says it's cheating since they can't ever tell which shape he chooses. She demands a rematch with the same tone one uses to declare war. A few minutes later, they're shouting, going over the rules of rock, paper, scissors, and they only stop when Phil comes home and pulls out the dad voice. They begrudgingly agree to do a rematch another time, once they've cooled down. That was yesterday)

She holds her fist close to her heart. The hand was never her rock, it was always three men in a snowy cabin, handing her a mug of hot cocoa. "Not when I have a lawn to shovel."

Silence.

Then, Wilbur sighs. "You know," he says. He places his arms behind him and leans back to get a better look at her. Somehow, even on the ground, he looks to hold all the power. "Years ago your determination would have been a sight for sore eyes, but here's a reality check. I've been here for almost a dozen years. Eleven years of letting the passing train rip right through me in the hopes it would send me to another layer of hell or maybe propel, heck, even drag my body to the next station. But every time I'd wake up back in the train station as if nothing had happened. Like my body breaking under the wheels was nothing."

He is an avalanche, growing and picking up speed with each word, and Niki realizes, too little too late, she's about to be buried alive. She tries to step back, but Wilbur is up quick and approaching. "There is no escape. The limbo is our stage and we have our lines, our cues, but we do not have a curtain call. We just keep going and going, an endless loop. You can't not play your part. It won't let you."

"I have to at least try," she says.

"Why? What's the point? They'll never know you tried."

Her fear turns to disgust. "Is that why you think I'll try? For the sole reason that one day they'll know what I've done for them? That's far from the truth."

(People built statues of Tommy, for all he's done, for all the influence he had on this server. Niki knows they will not give her the same treatment. But that's fine, more than fine. All she needs is a grave in the snow, beside a little cabin)

She didn't want to look at Wilbur's face before, but now, glaring at him straight on, all she sees staring back is Phil.

The day they found out Wilbur didn't inherit Phil's immortality was the day Phil looked like he should, centuries-old instead of thirty-three, the age when angels stop physically aging. Niki will never forget how deep the lines on Phil's face ran. They might as well have been cracks. And maybe it was, for Phil was breaking as he held his dying son - not dying now, but for an immortal, every second a mortal breathes is just inevitable death - in his arms.

But what still haunts Niki the most after all these years are his eyes. They carried the weight of the world in them. She could feel it, even now, pressing down on her shoulders. All the wars, the fall of cities, the birth of them, children with big smiles and even bigger graves.

Niki was not a soldier yet. She was just a nine-year-old girl who wanted to sleep over at her best friend's house.

She threw up in their sink and they mistook it as her reaction to the news. She didn't correct them.

The only reason she slept easy that night was from the knowledge she would never see those eyes on Wilbur's face. And yet, lo and behold, here it is, like a punch to the gut.

Except now, Niki has had time to numb herself to it. It's hard to get surprised by such a dead look when it's on the face of your roommate.

(Phil's screech - no, not a screech, a caw, high pitched and grief-stricken - is like an alarm clock. Except, instead of Niki waking up to the rising sun outside her window, it's to moonlight and blinking stars. This is the fifth time this month she's met Ranboo and Techno outside Phil's cabin, armed to the teeth, ready for war. The door creaks open, loudly, but they don't wince, for they know it won't wake him. Nothing really does when he's in this state, except for one thing. Techno holds him down and it's weird, will always be weird, to see Techno use such force, such retaliation, on Phil of all people, and then Phil nearly throws Techno through the wall with just a brush of his fingers, and she remembers it's necessary. This isn't Phil they're dealing with, it's the Angel of Death. It takes a while until Techno can get all of the Angel's limbs down, but even then they know it won't last long, and that's when Niki throws a slowness potion on him. Ranboo, meanwhile, turns around all the photos of Wilbur in the room, a safe distance away. They told him it's best he handles that since he's built like a stick, putting him anywhere near a powerful avian would be an accident waiting to happen. It definitely has nothing to do with them freezing up whenever they see Wilbur's smiling face, all happy, and so very alive. Phil's movements turn sluggish as the potion kicks in and Niki holds his face, murmurs soft words, and Techno gives his own weird, but comforting, comments. Something about how Phil can't afford to lose sleeping beauty to these night terrors, what with his old age. Niki snorts. Phil's eyes open immediately. Phil sucks in a sharp breath, like he's forgotten how to breathe, his fist clenching and unclenching. The eyes are back. Based on Techno's face Niki knows then she's not the only person that has seen them. They look at each other, nod, and hold him as he cries. They don't need to ask. There's only one person that could cause such a look. They force Ranboo, who is awkwardly standing to the side, to join. Eventually, they break apart, and Techno coughs. He says he hates them for making this all emotional and bans such an awkward event from ever happening again. And yet, when Phil keeps waking up with eyes too dark around the corners, Techno is there. And so is she and Ranboo)

She will not be the reason Phil's eyes age another year.

"It's about Phil, Techno, and Ranboo deserving someone who will never stop trying to find their way back to them," she says, with conviction. "I'm sorry you're too twisted to see not all actions stem from reward or acknowledgment."

She expects a laugh, a glimpse at his forked tongue spewing words so sweet she could use them as sugar in her desserts, only to take a bite and realize it was salt all along. But what she gets is silence. The type of silence before a storm.

"Phil?" Wilbur whispers.

Niki closes her eyes.

She should have never said their names.

She also should have never opened her eyes again, because Wilbur is looking more like Phil each second. Not because of the eyes. No, worse. Because she sees a boy, a boy with his arms spread open wide and flapping about in an attempt at mimicking his father's wings, and they're both running around in circles in the backyard as he tells her how she'll never have to walk anywhere ever again. He'll carry her when she's tired, when she's not tired, whenever she wants wherever she wants. They stop running around in circles flapping their arms when too much time has passed and his wings still haven't grown in, but the acceptance that it never would did.

She blinks and the memory is gone. Slipping through her fingers like sand.

"How is he?" Wilbur says. His voice wavers a bit. He hides it quickly with a cough, but Niki catches it. Niki thought she always would.

(But then a button was pressed and she realized just how untrue that was)

Niki hesitates. She thinks about the night terrors again. She almost mentions them but falters as she remembers Ranboo telling her how it was Phil who gave him a place to stay after L'manburg was blown up for the last time. How as Technoblade hibernates there's a blanket over his shoulders that wasn't there before and a stick missing from the fireplace. How he always places Niki's plate of breakfast down before the others, as if he knows of her first canon death.

He is a kind man, but that is not why he does these things.

"He misses being a father," she settles on.

Wilbur's shoulders slump. Somewhere, in a different life, Niki's hand is there, squeezing comfortingly. "Is he… is he mad at me?"

"No." She answers quickly. "He's just tired, Wilbur. We all are."

Wilbur laughs. It sounds defeated. Mournful. "Understatement of the fucking year."

He slumps against the wall and Niki is sure it's the only thing keeping Wilbur on his feet. His head hits the smooth stone when he suddenly throws his head back and laughs. Niki doesn't know if she winces from the loud crack the impact makes or from the shrill, unhinged laugh.

"I told him to kill me," Wilbur chuckles. His eyes are blinking rapidly. "I told him to fucking kill me."

(The diamond sword has collected dust. Sometimes, everyone jokes, Phil looks like he has to. Playful teasing about how he's a walking antique that should be displayed in a museum. Phil always laughs them off. But it's moments when he stands too still, alone in his thoughts for too long, that Niki wants to put him behind glass with signs that say 'do not touch,' because all it takes is one gust of wind for an artifact to shatter. But that is no way to live and Phil is not so easily breakable. Worn down a bit, rusted from the loss throughout the eons, yes -  who hasn't on this forsaken server? -  but not breakable)

Niki thinks she might throw up. "I know."

Wilbur looks at her. His eyes are red, but there are no tears. "You said you understood me. You get why I had to ask him to do it."

"Wilbur - "

" - And so you also understand why you have to stay here."

"What?"

"We've changed Niki," Wilbur starts. "For the worse. Don't you feel it? How that server has destroyed every cell in our body? A slow painful death eating us from the inside out until we've just withered away into someone new, someone unrecognizable?"

(Niki feels she's in a never-ending house of mirrors. Constantly encircled by reflections that are her and not her staring back, each representing different points in her life. Some are unrecognizable, stretched, or squished beyond identification, like a fuzzy memory of a girl carrying a backpack, skipping down a path she was told by a best friend would lead to a nation with yellow and black walls. Some are too terrifying, demonizing her features, giving her slits for eyes and claws for nails holding flint and steel over TNT. All of them she wants to smash)

Wilbur either ignores the horrified expression on her face or doesn't see it. "We killed our old selves as a sacrifice, an offering, to the monster we saw lurking in the edges of our mind. And once you let the monster in there's no going back. All we know from then on is to destroy, to rip apart all we once held dear with no remorse until there's just ash and dust. We thrive, no, revel in it."

(Nemesis, she names herself. Goddess of divine retribution and revenge. Maybe that's who Niki sacrifices herself to. Why she felt such an attachment to the name. A remorseless Goddess said to have led Narcissus to a pool, knowing full well he'd be too captivated to leave his reflection for food or warmth. He died there. It's no coincidence a few weeks before she lived the story herself, leading Tommy to his death in the form of a hot blast of air at the speed of light and seeing it as justice)

"I'm not having this conversation with you," she says, voice shaking. She whirls around, nearly tripping over her feet, fully willing to ignore him as she looks for an exit.

But his next words make her go still.

"Phil didn't know what I'd become. That's why he had to be the one to do it."

She winces. "Don't."

"He didn't even pull out the sword, his arms were too busy holding me, holding me, as if the shape of me still fit against his chest even though I felt so hollow, so much thinner - "

"Wilbur - "

" - he stroked my hair too. Even though it was dirty and unkempt and a mess like everything else about me and I'm pretty sure his fingers got stuck a few times he just wouldn't stop untangling each knot with such care and precision that I remembered my last thought being - "

"Wilbur - "

" - could he have brushed away all the knots and twists in my soul like this? Cleaned me up on the inside like he's doing on the outside? I thought I went crying, Niki. Maybe I did. I'll never know because all I felt was his tears ricocheting on my face - "  

"Stop - "

" - he tries to wipe them off. He's cursing at himself, apologizing profusely through hiccuping sobs and, and I don't understand why he's so sorry when it feels like, like when he'd lick his fingers and scrub the grimes of our faces after we played outside too long. Do you remember that Niki - "

"I don't wanna - "

" - because I do. We'd screech so loud, saying it was disgusting and unsanitary as we slapped his hand away and ran, but he'd always catch us a second later because of his wings. I don't wanna run away this time. I'm relishing it, craving every stroke because I'm starting to go cold - "

"Please - "

" - and I wish you weren't teleported here. I wish you had died instead - "  

"Wil - "

" - so you would know, so we could relate to what it feels like for the limbo to claim you. To mark you. It's like, it's like being mutilated over and over again. A mallet to your bones, a hole in your brain, everything from your skin to your tendons unraveling before you - "

"Wil listen - "

" - spilling out and about like confetti, and you, you are confetti! You're shredded pieces, everywhere and nowhere all at once, and just as the mangling begins it stops, replaced by the limbo trying to put you, no, force you back together again. It's the same sensation, but in reverse, almost a loop, a tunnel with no light at the end, and all you can do is scream  - "

"WILBUR SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME!"

Something shatters

Wilbur falls silent.

Niki looks down. There is a puddle, slowly growing at her feet. She looks to her left. Her hand has punched through the aquarium. Blood trickles down her hand, some get over the glass. She doesn't pull her hand away.

"You never listen," she mumbles, but it seems so loud to her ears. "No one does. No one wants to. I talk and I talk and I talk and yet no response. Not even from the wind. I am a voice box stuck on rewind, repeating myself as life moves on without me."

Niki can hear her voice ring down the bakery, bouncing around with nowhere to settle. Until it does, in Niki's chest, rattling, crackling like a fuse has been lit, and perhaps it has, for her anger feels sizzling. "You used to always say how words were powerful. How they could stop wars, how they could build nations." She lets out a laugh. It burns her throat. "But what would I know?! You and everyone else never gave me a chance to use my voice! Always talking over me whatever chance you could. Even before Pogtopia you walked all over me! Even when I was screaming at top of my lungs you'd - "  

She gasps. The glass presses deeper into her skin as her hand trembles. She does not feel it. "Oh primes, oh primes Wil, didn't you hear my screams? I came here screaming, Wil. I, I do know what it feels like for the void to take you. I still feel it, even now, why, why do I still feel it - "

Wilbur staggers to his feet, so quick he promptly falls. He catches himself halfway on Niki's wrist.

His hand scratches on the glass. He doesn't even flinch. Their blood mixes.

(They are one)

He doesn't even grip too tight, and yet it hurts. Stings. "You do understand," he grins. Wide, too wide for his face, that she almost expects his nose and eyes to sink into his skin to make more room. "You do, you do oh thank primes. I'm not alone in this. I've been alone for so long but now, now you're here and you understand! Oh, Niki, I'm so happy you're here."

"You're… happy, I'm here?" She mutters. "You're happy I'm dead?"

He nods frantically. "It's more than that Niki," he says. "DreamXD, whoever that man is, he's my hero for sending you here."

(Parallels between Wilbur and Dream and her and now Wilbur and Dream and DreamXD no no no she can't be them she can't she can't she won't she won't - )

"You don't mean it," she cries. "You don't mean that Wil. Say you don't mean it."

The grin, somehow, becomes wider. She realizes then his eyes don't have to disappear. They're already gone. Replaced by a black hole, too dark in the corners and its gravitational pull making it hard to look away even though she knows staring at it too long will get her sucked into an endless void.

He leans in close like he's sharing a secret. "I only wish he had sent you here sooner."

(Wilbur's life, Niki is realizing, is like a house of mirrors too. Except Wilbur has smashed every mirror. No, actually, not true. Niki sees, if she squints, that Wilbur has abandoned the sledgehammer and is observing a still intact mirror. He didn't keep the mirror depicting a little boy sitting on the steps of a home, their home, trying to play a song and failing because the guitar is too big for his body, but he refuses to buy a smaller one because "this is my Dad's guitar Niki! So, therefore, it's by default the best guitar in the world". Or the one of a father panting heavily on a couch, cursing his human legs while Niki is doubled over laughing because there is a baby fox is running on all fours around the house at 45 miles per hour who doesn't want to be put to bed. Nor the one of a leader, handing out purpose and meaning in the form of a blue and white uniform with a soft smile. No, it's the one of a man who's just pressed a button. Who long before L'manburg's destruction, always felt like he was breathing in smoke, but now kept warm by the ash and dust of his nation flying up to the red sky, it feels - for the first time in a long time - easier to breathe. Niki can't believe he didn't destroy it. He's… preserving it. Why is he preserving this version of himself of all things?)

foolish girl with dreams for a better nation, better server, better future, too much better somethings, you've ruined reality for no one but yourself. think for once about what is and not what was or could have been. he is different. changed for the worse. he's preserving it because he doesn't care about you. can't you see how happy he is over your death? how there's light in his eyes for the first time over yours being snuffed out? how he shows no sympathy in your entrapment here, forever away from Techno, Phil, and Ranboo because it benefits him. so give in and fight fight fight fight

She sees red.

Her fist collides with Wilbur's nose.

She doesn't even wait to hear the crack before she's already reeling back her arm for the next hit.

This time she aims for the jaw. She feels something split. It could be Wilbur's lip or bone. Maybe her mind. She doesn't know and she doesn't care.

What she does know is how familiar this is, having something break under her knuckles. It's easy, familiar even, throwing punch after punch, like some sort of autopilot response. Perhaps it is, for every punch is instinctive, out of body almost. No longer is there a before in the blows, only an after.

Except, that's not true. Not entirely. Because Niki is realizing why there is no before. Because before each blow there is always a struggle from your opponent. Flailing limbs trying to make contact with something, choked wheezes, an attempt to curl into a ball, and, sometimes, begging.

Wilbur does none of that. He's silent the whole time.

It's almost like he takes it willingly.

clever girl with hands too bruised, too scarred, too violent to ever be held so gently. a finger trained to pull the trigger is not meant to bear a promise ring. who's fault do you think that is? you've held back for so long, don't stop now. so give in and get revenge revenge revenge revenge

A swing at his eye. A swift kick to the ribs. A fistful of his hair so tight she could yank his scalp off if she twisted her wrist just so.

It's all a flurry of movements really, too fast for even her own eyes to catch. Half of the time she's lost on where the hits land, totally dependent on wherever the blood leaks the most and the bruises that weren't there a second ago to tell her. Eventually, the damage starts to blur, too much of his face has swelled up to spot any new marks and too many limbs bend at weird angles to differentiate what is and isn't broken, so she stops trying to guess.

Which is why she doesn't know which strike finally gets Wilbur to fall, all she knows is that he does. He doesn't even sway. One second he's on his feet and the next he's on his back.

It's kinda pathetic really, that this was her general.

For a second he's still, too still, and then he spits out a tooth. He licks his gums with a grimace, looking for the gap before finally speaking.

"I see Technoblade's been training you. Do you feel better now?"

clever girl who's seen her fair share of men with livewire tongues, spitting rogue sparks at your skin in the form of harsh words to quiet you down. do not be silenced once more. you let him speak before and it cost you a nation. this time silence him, and I will secure you a limbo without him. so give in and maim maim maim maim

She screams. She thinks she does. It's hard to tell over the deep reverberated banging of Wilbur's head against the stone floor.

The first slam simply causes blood to trickle down his forehead.

The second one caves in the front of his scalp.

The third one he's unrecognizable.

The fourth one there's nothing left to bash.

She keeps going anyway.

"Shut up," she pants between each crack and occasional splat. "Shut up shut up shut up shut up SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP."

Wilbur tries to say something. All that comes out is a gurgle, wet and sharp and loud. So very loud. And it keeps going, stringing along and along and along longer than the large chunks of skin and brain on the pavement. It shouldn't be possible, his mouth, along with everything else, is practically gone. Nothing but a small pit inside a bigger pit.

Yet it continues, getting increasingly louder in pitch.

And then she gets it.

He's scared.

clever girl of never-ending war zones, jumping from one horror to the next. this is the last one. and I know that's been said before but you can trust me. just end it and you can finally rest. wouldn't that be nice? so give in and kill kill kill kill kill

She smiles. It hurts her face.

She picks his head up from the ground one last time. She's humming, like a lullaby. Maybe it is. She's putting the baby to sleep. She knows he can't die again, but wherever he goes after this, if the limbo keeps its promise, it can't be pretty.

"I said," she laughs. "Shut up."

She brings his head down.

She blinks.

Her empty hand meets black stone slabs.

"Niki?"

She looks up and immediately regrets it. Everything is too bright, scorching, a burning gaze on every inch of her skin, but what really hurts are her eyes. She thinks they're sizzling, like actually sizzling, because her sclera feels as if it's bubbling and her iris is definitely melting into her brain and there are so many spots dancing behind her eyelids.

And then the voice, soft and familiar, speak's again.

"Do you have your stuff?"

It takes a while, and a lot of blinking, but her eyes eventually readjust.

She gasps.

The first thing she processes isn't that George and DreamXD stand just a few feet away or that it was George speaking. No, it was how absurdly colorful, everything was.

Here there was life. Life. It was like she poked her head through a kaleidoscope, what with how the specks of a rainbow illuminated itself in the clear blue water of the fountain and the sight of shimmering white quartz glistening under the sunbeams that poured through the purple-tinted windows. No longer was everything dulled around the corners and drained at the center like anything in her dreadful, cramped space of a bakery she shared with -

Oh primes.

Her bakery.

This isn't her bakery. This is Church Prime.

"She's back," DreamXD exclaims. He turns to George, bouncing on his heels excitedly as if expecting some sort of reward, but George pays him no mind/ He's too busy looking at Niki, or, more so, through her.

"What happened?" He asks.

She opens her mouth, then slams it shut.

She's alive. Dear primes, she's alive and she's back and she should be happy, cheering, jumping up and down to feel the livelihood ache in her bones but…

She looks back down at the floor. The floor should be covered in blood. Wilbur's blood, and his bits of flesh and tissue and muscle and -

Oh primes. What has she done?

Or better yet, what didn't she do?

"George," she whimpers. "I don't know what's going on. I, I don't know what's going on here."

She hopes it was her imagination. It had to have been. Otherwise, she hosted Wilbur's head up by the splits of his hair, pushed down as hard as she could and -

She wouldn't. She couldn't, not anymore at least. She left that side of herself in a gate full of slaughtered chickens as Jack demanded they try and kill Tommy again. That side of her is as dead as those chickens.

Right?

She prays so, for this is a church after all, and that means prayers have to be answered here. They have to come true. They have to.

There's a smile in DreamXD's voice when he speaks again as if he knows how much this torments her. "I sent her to hell and then I brought her back."

No.

She sobs. She looks down at her hands. Their bear and yet they feel so heavy. As if the ghost of Wilbur's blood and gore is still there, a new thick-coated layer of skin.

She tortured him. Broke him brick by brick again and again and again even as he tried to beg. Her best friend, her general, her family, begging at her feet, and she kept going, would have kept going too, with an ear-splitting grin, like it was some sort of game.

And it had felt so good to finally get a checkmate.

Wilbur is not a demon. He's just seen too much in too little time. Too much pressure on too little shoulders. Too tired to be all there. It's not an excuse for all the pain he's caused, far from it, but it shows his actions didn't come from a place of malice, but rather a cry for help. Niki knows this, she gets it, and she'll say it time and time again. But all she could think about at that moment, before the final strike, was how happy Wilbur was about her death. He deserved a piece of her mind, but not like that. Never like that.  

What is wrong with her?

No, no it wasn't her. It was that place, that voice. It was a parasite, burrowing deep within her brain and planting itself in the center, telling her what to do and what to say. Telling her to slaughter left and right. It was so loud, rattling around in her head and echoing like war drums. She couldn't just ignore it, it was too much. So, no, she is free of guilt, free of responsibility, hands all clean.

But she knows that at the end of the day the host still needs to be somewhat conscious for the parasite to thrive.

Oh primes. Is this what Techno deals with every day?

Then, she jumps to her feet.

Techno, Phil, and Ranboo.

It's coming back now, that memory of fury in her eyes, that fire in her voice as she told Wil she had people to go back to. How she was willing to claw her fingers down to bone to make an exit. But that voice, that stupid stupid voice, it told her she could rest, could get revenge, and against her better judgment she listened. It caught her at a moment of weakness, Wilbur's words of memory lane, of Phil, of everything that came before and after his death, she was at a low point. And like a moth to a flame, she was there one moment and gone the next. Back to the old her.

She thought she had left that version of herself behind when she joined the Syndicate. She was so sure she was getting better with Techno, Phil, and Ranboo around.

But all it took was one voice to ruin all her progress. 

Her chest constricts and her head feels heavy. 

She needs to find them. She needs to tell them what she saw. She needs to tell Phil. She needs… she needs…

She just needs them.

"What did you see?" George says, snapping her out of her thoughts.

This time, her mouth has no problem moving. "George," she starts, voice trembling. "I have seen things. I... I... I have seen things. I don't know what's going on here but I don't know if I should - "  

Niki gulps. It's getting so hard to breathe. She should feel thankful that she can breathe in the first place, but every inhale stings as her lungs try to remember to do a motion so foreign to her.

How long has she been down there?

She doesn't want to know.

She just wants to go home.

She walks away, backward, from the two, eyes fixated tightly on them and barely blinking. She remembers the last time she let her guard down around DreamXD. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry George. Good luck with him but I - "

She doesn't finish, because she's already out the door. She wants to run, but she's so sure her lungs would explode at the first push forward of her heel. So she walks.

And walks.

The world walks with her, with each rotation. As if they’re friends taking a stroll. As if it hadn’t cracked open and swallowed her whole, chewed up everything good in her and spat her out when she turned bitter. Returned her back to a world that didn’t change one bit while she was gone, despite her herself changing so much. 

It’s like what happened to her didn’t happen at all. 

And then she realizes a horrible thing. 

Everyone on this server is going to see today as a normal day. 

Is it bad that a part of Niki wishes something like the Green Festival could happen right now, so that they could all feel the monstrosity of today?

She stands still. Stationary, like this Earth wants her to be. She thinks she could do it, stay like this forever. She feels numb enough. 

Somewhere above, a crow caws. 

She burst into tears.

[standbi-ghost]

Burning Bridges

Part 4 of the Dying for Dummies series: 1  2  3

Words: 1,564

TW:  detailed gore, implied underaged drinking (though could be replaced with gasoline since it’s not explicitly stated), technically suicide and major character death (is it major character death if he’s already dead-ish and continues to die-ish?)

AO3 as always

A seemingly invisible branch smacked him, like a slap to the face. He bit back a curse as he tenderly rubbed the injured spot. He shot a glare at the offending branch before walking off, shattered ego in hand.

It had been a long day for Dash.

To start off, it was a Tuesday; the worst day, in his humble opinion, of the week. A mockery of the seven-day week system. Mondays always went by quicker than anticipated, maybe because your mind was still laid out on Sunday’s bed and hadn’t fully woken up. Or maybe just because of the bad stigma surrounding the day. Up for debate. Wednesday offered the relief of being smack in the middle, a sign that you were halfway through the week. Plus, how could anyone hate the iconic “pink / hump day”? Thursday’s a reminder of what’s to come. Friday is just around the corner and Thursday was it’s biggest cheerleader, and who could deny a sexy cheerleader? Did he even have to explain the weekend crew? Friday, Saturday, and Sunday were the A-listers of the week, but with less criticism and more fun. But Tuesday? Tuesday laughed in the face of students. You’re awake, aware of what’s to come. Tuesday roundhouse kicked you in the gut and called you all kinds of slurs.

Tuesday also marked the date of his Physics exams so he may be a little biased. He could never wrap his head around the subject. Give him a poem to analyze, a historical event to write a report on, hell, even a sonnet to play, but ask him Newton’s laws and he’ll respond with a blank face. It wasn’t like he didn’t study either. He had weekly study sessions at Fentons’ house, and while Danny had been a huge help, that didn’t stop him from failing this exam.

Speaking of Danny.

Their relationship was slowly, but surely, getting better throughout the years. After being dragged to therapy by his family, he’d gathered up the balls to not only stop the tormenting of his fellow peers but formed a well-versed apology- his magnum opus, to Danny. The kid just waved his apology off, as if it were the least of his worries, water under the bridge, but that only served to fuel his need to get closer to him- no one waved off years of bullying that easily.

To say Dash worried for Danny was an understatement. While the bullying ceased at the end of Freshman year, the daily bruises Danny wore didn’t. There was a higher probability of winning the lottery than to catch the kid without some kind of injury.

And he was skinny. Deathly so. Malnourished more likely than not.

It could be neglect. Hopefully not abuse. Dash knew the Fentons were over-indulged in their work, gluttonous even. He really hoped that, amidst all of their work, they set aside time from their children. Ghosts were important, sure, but why have kids if you don’t look after them. And by the looks of Danny-

But Jazz was a different story. She seemed to be the mirror image of her brother, both siblings passionate and wise beyond their age, but that’s where the similarities seemed to end. Jazz was the perfect everything. Perfect student, perfect daughter, she was beautiful and graceful and seemed to light up the world around her. Where Danny was cold and distant, Jazz radiated warmth and greeted everyone with open arms. Where Danny was pale, gaunt, and sharp in his features, Jazz was vibrant, bright, and soft. Jazz was a compassionate canine; Danny a cornered cat.

That alone raised so many more questions. Did the Fentons favor Jazz? Did they feel that Danny hadn’t lived up to the legacy Jazz left behind? Did they hate Danny? It sure seemed like they did. What could Danny- sweet, dopey but kindhearted Danny- have done to garner such fierce hatred towards him? From his parents no less.

He pushed the thoughts away as he trudged past the park’s populated hiking trail into a more obscure one.

One of the activities he picked up from his therapy days was hiking (although hiking was a generous term to describe the early morning and nighttime walks he went on). It allowed him time away from all the drama at school, all his responsibilities. Out here, it was just him and the trees.

He knew these trees better than he knew the bottom of his bed. This coming from the kid who used to be afraid of the monsters in his closet and slept under his bed countless times. Take that as a metaphor if you’d like.

The trees were his family, the trees were his home, the trees listened to his rants and tears and joys all the same. This time venting his frustration over the taunting 50 he’d earned. And they were usually alone, just him and the trees, but Tuesday seemingly had it out for him. Among the trees was the boy inhabiting his thoughts- Danny.

He was dressed in his usual dark jeans and oversized NASA tee, a flannel draped loosely over his arms, threatening to fall at any sudden movement. Combat boots dug into the dirt beneath him with his weight pressed against a Rum Cherry tree, he was the blueprint for nerdy punks across Amity Park. Stealing glances at a notebook held tightly in one hand, he was taking swigs of water out of a pastel pink hydroflask. He looked- peaceful.

Feeling like a creep, Dash continued to watch as he let his notebook fall from his hands as he drunkenly fished in one of his flannel pockets. Horror washed over Dash’s senses as he watched Danny pull out a matchbook and strike one. Mischief lit up his eyes. Before he could take even a single breath, he watched Danny fill his mouth with what he was now convinced was definitely not water, before taking the flame to his lips.

In an instant, flames licked up his face and Dash ran on autopilot. He dug his own water bottle out of his backpack and spent no time rushing up to his burning friend, dousing him in liquid life. Conspicuousness be damned.

“Fuck”

Concern flooded Dash as he took in Danny’s appearance. His face was glazed, like the grease off a re-heated pizza slice. The pepperoni blisters only further drove their likeness. Singed hair wilted only to be pushed back up by a somehow conscious Danny, only to reveal a melting eyeball. Like a goblet of wine, it dripped lazily, hypnotizing Dash for only a moment before feeling a tug deep in his stomach. He was caught in a battle between wanting- no needing to throw up and rushing to help his friend.

He didn’t win.

“Shit, Dash, how long have you been here?” Danny gurgled out, words swishing in his mouth, meaning only salvaged by the sheer luck of Dash’s presence. If he hadn’t been there-

“Dash?!”

Maybe it was because it was his name and it was familiar, but he could’ve sworn his name spilled out in a much clearer light. He didn’t want to look up. He didn’t want to take the chance of throwing up again. Vile still stained his tongue as he asked,

“Are you okay?”

The question was stupid, obviously he wasn’t okay, but it still hung in the air for a few excruciating seconds. Dash squeezed his eyes shut and turned to Danny’s general area and opened his mouth to say something, anything to cut through the ugly tension between them. Danny cut first.

He had the nerve to ask, “Are you okay?” and Dash blanched. He didn’t know what to think of Danny. Was he selfless for asking, or just plain brain dead?

“Am I okay?” he drawled out.

“I mean you kind of just ruined my shoes with your puke, like, how am I s’pose to wash this out?” he said. This time he didn’t imagine it. His words were much easier to decipher. Not oozing with moist vowels and quivering consonants, but clear and coherent thoughts. And, was he teasing him about the throw-up? The same throw-up caused by his near-death experience?

“You set yourself on fire!? In the middle of the park no less! You could’ve died! You could’ve-“ mid-way through his little speech he dared to look up only for the words to die on his lips. Danny looked fine, generally at least. His face was now adorned with light scar tissue where previously dark burns marred his fair skin.

“Uh, that was kind of the point?”

At that, the tug at his stomach returned. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes at the very thought of witnessing Danny’s suicide attempt. It was much worse than he thought.

“Danny-“

“Wait no, that came out wrong.” Danny sighed and ran a shaky hand through his now unkempt, but otherwise fine, hair. “look Dash, you might wanna sit down for this one.” He gestured to the tree he had, just minutes ago, been resting on. He shakily took a seat on one of the tree’s massive jutting roots. Danny followed. In minutes, his view of the world shattered. Everything he thought he knew about ghosts was thrown out the window and he found himself back in school Freshman year, back at seeing a ghost for the first time.

He hated Tuesdays.

[absynthe--minded]

on Fëanáro and Fate

based on this post by @finelythreadedsky who is wonderful and you all should follow her like right now

okay so I’m going to make a brief way too long aside to say: this is specifically about fate in the Silmarillion. fate in The Lord of the Rings is actually a fairly positive thing, way moreso than in the Silm - this is perhaps best demonstrated in a series of choices and interactions that Frodo has over the course of the books. Gandalf, in Fellowship, tells him essentially that since he has the Ring, he was meant to have it, and this is an encouraging thought because all their actions are foreordained by a presumably benevolent power acting in their best interest. Frodo is at first not comforted, but does find himself feeling better in the next book when Sam basically says “hey, we’re in a story, and look at these heroic legendary figures who were ALSO in stories who did way more dangerous shit than we’re doing and who made it out okay!” he takes comfort in the idea that Beren and Lúthien snuck into Angband and stole a Silmaril, because that means that by virtue of still being in the same story as they were, things might work out okay. (”Do the great tales ever really end?” no, they don’t, they just echo back on themselves) you could read Frodo's rejection of arms and armor in Mordor as his ultimate acceptance of the fact that he’s a creature of fate now - he has no real agency, he’s driven on by dooms beyond his control, and he rejects things that give him the illusion of being able to change that. but. like I said, fate in LotR is a good thing, and so Frodo is rewarded for his acceptance with rest and restoration and healing.

anyway. fate in the most famous fantasy trilogy of all time, and being part of a greater narrative with limited agency and little control over one’s actions and ending? this is a good thing, probably because JRRT was a Catholic and God being in control is a good thing.

I tell you that so we can talk about everybody’s favorite walking dumpster fire, Fëanáro “Fëanor” Finwion. this is supposed to have a cut, so if it doesn’t, I’m So Sorry Mobile Users. this was also written in a fatigued haze so I’m Sorry In Advance For That. no sources we die like the Eldar.

I’m actually gonna open with something that @yavieriel brought up in a series of DMs, which is the opening to the 2000s anime Princess Tutu and its arc words of “Those who accept their fate find happiness; those who defy it, glory.”

I do that because glory in Tolkien is a double-edged sword - glorious people go on to die in glorious ways. they usually don’t have long and happy lives. the wisest members of the cast are crotchety old souls who want Zero Adventures Thank You and who get dragged along on greater stories because that’s what must be done to make the world a better place. but this is a good contrasting point between Frodo and Fëanor (I’m going to call him that bc that’s what he’s called in the Silm, hopefully we all know my feelings on Sindarinized names by now) because Frodo does accept his fate and find happiness, and Fëanor... well.

I’m making this post at all because the Great Fate Post (called the GFP going forward) pulls a lot of examples from Western literature of characters being aware they’re in a story but being unable to do anything about it, or being guided to an inevitable end. and it’s a great post! it talks about Hadestown and Hermes and it’s a good post. I agree with everything in it. except for the fact that the quote from the Silmarillion that was used to showcase this sense of greater acceptance of one’s limited agency (even through terror/being driven on to a bad end) was an excerpt from this line: 'We have sworn, and not lightly. This oath we will keep. We are threatened with many evils, and treason not least; but one thing is not said: that we shall suffer from cowardice, from cravens or the fear of cravens. Therefore I say that we will go on, and this doom I add: the deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda.'

Now. The guy saying that is Fëanor. Currently, he and all his people are in deep shit with the gods because they committed kinslaying. Like, serious kinslaying. we never get an in-universe body count but it’s severe enough that everyone even tangentially involved gets cursed by the resident god of death. this is called the Doom of the Noldor, which is the ethnic group whose members committed the atrocity. it’s a big fucking deal. it essentially says that you’re doomed, you will die, and all your works will come to nothing, and the gods will not look on you with pity, and thanks to your stupid choice to do the murder thing you’re all going to come to sorrows so great that the tears you shed will be unnumbered due to their ubiquity. and for a race with no natural death, being told outright “you’re going to die” is terrifying! elves are so immortal that the halls of the dead aren’t actually an underworld you stay in they’re a respawn point - you go, you heal from the pains of life, and then you get a new body and you get to go forth into the world again. the only way you opt out of this is either by opting out of the summons to the halls of the dead or by opting out of leaving entirely, both of which you can totally do. and being immortal and knowing that all your works and efforts will ultimately be destroyed and meaningless? well fuck.

Fëanor’s response is the above quote. He says this immediately after his people have been told by a literal god who can see the future “hey, assholes, you’re fucked.” He’s staring down the barrel of the gun marked “fate” and he says “actually, you know what? no. you’re wrong. even if you’re right about some aspects of this, I still have control, I still have agency. We will not be forgotten, our works will not come to nothing. History will remember us, and only history can judge us.” And it’s interesting to examine this in the greater context of the GFP because unlike other characters that are cited there, and even unlike his own sons, Fëanor doesn’t feel the weight of doom upon him. He assumes he’s the protagonist of this story, and as a result anything and everything he does will turn out okay. He’s perhaps the smartest incarnate being to ever have lived. He’ll think his way out, or demand his way out. It’s worked before and it will work again.

And the signs are there that he’s wrong, even as they’re subtle. It’s a bit like playing on long-abandoned train tracks. Someday, there will be a train, even if you’ve never seen one yet.

Fëanor dies in a spectacularly disastrous fashion almost immediately after this. Like. It can’t be more than a year later, and for immortal elves, that’s a blink of the eye. he’s the only elf, really, to have this defiant “fuck you” approach to doom. everybody else who comes under the weight of it either accepts it without causing a fuss or tries to resist it before ultimately failing and giving in. elves are bound to the world, to its circles and its story. they cannot jump the track of fate, they must ride the train to the station, regardless of whether or not the bridge is out.

and ultimately, despite his defiance and his frustration, Fëanor is no different from any of them.

[smol-and-grumpy]

Cross My Heart - CH.15

Pairing: Bodyguard!Dean x Reader; Chuck Shurley x Reader

Summary: After opening up a letter, the life as she knows it, changes forever. Her husband hires Dean Winchester to protect her but is Dean really who he said he was? And is her husband really worried about her safety?

Warnings: Flangst

WC: 2636

SERIES MASTERLIST

Y/N manages to get Dean to sit down on the closed toilet lid because she wants to tend to his wound. He only has a towel wrapped around him. A small one too, for that matter, because she has the last big towel wrapped around herself. 

She’s standing between his spread thighs and Dean sits perfectly still, only flinches a little when she takes his band aid off, which prompts her to laugh, “Oh, come on, you are a big tough guy,”

“Well,” Dean chuckles, “You’re not exactly a light handed doctor, ripping it off like that,”

“I’d be careful what you say,” She warns him before spraying disinfectant on the wound, shielding his eyes with the palm of her hand. Dean flinches again, his hands coming up to touch the side of her thighs.

She’s working swiftly while he skims his fingertips over her thighs, rubbing up and down, distracting her.

When she peels the band aid out of it’s foil, Dean has managed to tug at her towel so hard it comes right off, and pools around her ankles. 

“You’re distracting me,” She says, and moves closer, to place the band aid directly over his wound. He’s close enough for her to feel his hot breath on her chest. 

Dean only chuckles lightly, his big palms stroking up her thighs and higher, until he has both her ass cheeks in the palm of his hands. “You’re distracting me,” He says, throwing her words back at her. 

Before she can step away, Dean’s holding her back, his face comes forward, suck in her nipple, his tongue tickling it inside of his mouth until it hardens and she keens, placing her hands behind the back of his neck.

Y/N looks down to him, sees the towel tenting around his hips and she has to laugh, “What’s wrong with you? We just fucked and you’re ready to go again?”

He releases her nipple, looks up and places his chin on her stomach, smiles at her with a boyish smile that makes him look younger than he is, “Can’t help it. You turn me on so fucking much.”

She rolls her eyes, peels herself away from him and he just chuckles.

“Anywhere else you’re hurt?”

Dean grins and places his index finger to his lips, “Yeah, here,”

He’s totally cute. She doesn’t want to admit it, though. Leaning in, she pecks his lips, parts only so much that she can talk, “Anywhere else?”

“Yeah, but that would mean that we’ll get dirty again.” He says with a wink and she has to laugh before she pushes herself up.

While she puts the first aid kit back into place, Dean’s phone rings and he walks out to pick it up.

She follows and she can’t help but watch him. He’s standing there in only the little towel around his hips, the tent still very much erect and the way he talks with his hand, chest muscle moving, it turns her on, too.

Slipping into the bedroom, she gets dressed, leaving Dean some privacy to talk. When she walks out, she hears him ending the call and he looks at her, a frown etched deep into his face.

“What now?” She asks, because really, what is it now? 

Dean shakes his head, “I’ll get an email. I’ll tell you when it’s here.” 

She’s sitting at the table and waits for Dean to get dressed. When he walks out, she can hear a ping, it signals that an email has arrived.

Sitting down on the chair next to her, Dean clicks on it. It opens up to a copy of a document and he tilts the screen towards her, “Does this look familiar to you?”

Y/N squints her eyes and then her jaw drops. She gasps, clasps her hand over her mouth but she can’t tear her eyes away from the document. There’s something written in big bold letters LIFE INSURANCE. And there’s her name, and Chuck’s and it’s a sum of $10 million in case of her death. 

“You didn’t sign it, did you?” Dean asks to be sure, even though he can see from her reaction that she’s never seen it before in her life.

“This is the first time I see this,” She feels her heart racing, “No, no, no.” She says, over and over. There’s something clutching at her chest, it makes it harder for her to breathe.

Dean immediately picks her up, walks her to the couch and sits down with her on his lap. He pulls her head to his chest, “Breath, baby. Breath with me, alright?”

She listens to his heartbeat, listens to his even breathing and tries to match hers to his.

After a while, when her breathing got back to normal, Dean made her look at him “You okay?”

“Not really,” She sighs, “How did you get this?”

“Ash’s my tech guru. I ask him to do some digging,” He huffs out a breath, “This is fucked up. I guess he won’t stop until you’re dead.”

Ash. The name does ring a bell. That’s the guy he went to see while she talked to Cas. Dean already suspected Chuck back then. 

“Well, that’s really reassuring,”

Dean scoffs, “You know what I mean.”

She does. 

“What can we do? Shall we contact the police now?”

“That would be the best,” He agrees and places his lips to her temple, lingers there, “Let me make some calls. I know just someone who could help.”

 ***

 It’s a day later that Dean manages to reach the person he wanted to. Benny, he said. He was an ex-marine as well. It seems like they are a well-knitted bunch of people who once have sworn to fight together and trust each other. She admires that. Admires their loyalty. It’s nothing close to what she has. Meg is an exception to the rule here.

Benny is now a detective with the police but he’s not responsible for this district, but maybe Benny could help contact the right people. Dean’s been nervous about contacting him. He said that he hates to ask for help from anyone. 

Dean walks out of the bedroom where he has been talking to Benny, a little smirk on his face, “Good, he said we’ll have to send him what we know and he’ll see where he can direct it to.” He sits down on his laptop and begins to send all the files that he has. 

 *

 It’s later in the afternoon that she feels her boobs hurting. It’s not a good sign. Dean’s in the kitchen, doing some dishes when she walks in, “I think my period is approaching.” She says it like it is, there’s no need to hide because they’re sticking together like glue and she needs tampons.

He looks at her, one eyebrow raised, “I’ll go get them.”

How did she know that he’ll say that?

“I’m coming with you,” She crosses her arms over her chest and watches Dean dry his hands before walking over to her, rubs at her upper arm, his lips pressed into a thin line, his dimples are showing. 

“I should have never promised,” He mumbles, his hands come up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“You crossed your heart,” She reminds him which makes him smirk. 

He walks out into the living room then, grabs his duffel, takes out something and she follows. When she’s close enough, he throws a little square plastic thing to her, she manages to catch it. 

“In case someone needs to see it.” Dean says.

Turning it around in her hands she sees the word KANSAS. It’s a Kansas driver’s license. And there’s a picture of her, there’s her name but it’s not her last name. Instead of Shurley, there’s another name.

WINCHESTER.

Dean made her a fake ID? With his name? 

“When did you manage to pull this off?”

His smile is cocky, “Remember when I went into town the first time?” He asks and puts on his leather jacket, “You told me that you’d like a new identity. Bobby made it.”

“So, what am I to you? Your sister? Your wife?” She teases him because she likes to see the blush of his cheeks.

“You could also be my grandmother for all I know,” He says with a straight face and a shrug of his shoulders that makes her roll her eyes and maybe she’s pouting a little. 

Dean walks closer, the smile tugging away at the corner of his lips. He takes her jacket from the back of the chair and holds it out to her, “Come on, before you bleed to death.”

She wears it, and he drapes one arm over her shoulder, pulls her in for a peck on her forehead, “Granny,” He says and laughs and she elbows him in his ribs. 

 *

 They arrive at the nearest store, which maybe, she thinks, it’s also the only store around here. 

Dean gets off the bike first and takes off his helmet. She takes hers off too and magically, Dean produces a baseball cap out of somewhere and places it on her head before he lifts her off the bike. 

Before they go in, he turns to her, “Okay, we go in, get what we want and then we’re out, you understand? You go look for your, whatever you need, and while I’m here I get some more things.”

“Condoms?” She asks, smiles smugly. 

He has to laugh out loud, “I think it’s too late for that,”

“It’s never too late,” She says with a straight face to which Dean raises an eyebrow.

“Do you want me to get them?”

She laughs then, thinks it’s so easy to rile him up. Standing on her tip toe, she cranes her neck, whispers into his ear, “No, I like for you to fuck me raw.”

Standing back, she watches him. Watches his face change from confusion to being turned on at her nasty words. 

He spreads his lips, his grin cocky, and he lowers himself, to whisper into her ear, “Good, because I love to feel how wet you are for me.” Dean boops her nose before he turns and starts to walk towards the entrance, turns around again to call out for her to follow. She’s been frozen in place, her face flush.

The bell rings when they step in and she immediately feels like all eyes are on her. Which is probably not the case. She just can’t shake off the feeling. 

She walks past a stack of magazines, sees some tabloid ones with her face on the front page. Thankfully it’s not a big picture. Dean quickly takes her hand and pulls her to the back, searching for the sanitary aisle with her. 

He did leave her to look at what she needs while he goes and buys some other things and while she stands there, she can swear that the young teen girl is staring at her. She pulls her cap further down her head. 

Grabbing at a package of tampons, she heads out of the aisle to search for Dean. It’s not a big shop. It’s probably the smallest grocery store she’s been in. Probably six long aisles, at most, so it’s not hard to find Dean. 

What she didn’t expect, though, is to find Dean talking to Liz. She has a young child with her, the boy is probably about six years old if she has to guess, but she’s never been good at guessing the age of children.

She stands there, dumbfounded, has the feeling that she’s intruding if she interrupts. Dean’s talking to Liz and then turns his attention to the little boy. He looks remarkably like Dean. And it shouldn’t affect her, because they’re nothing official — in fact, they’re probably as far away from official as it could get — but it does. There’s little pin pricks she feels in her heart.  

The boy tells Dean something and he kneels down to understand him better. They were talking and laughing. Dean’s so gentle with the boy and his smile is so wide and bright. She wonders if Dean ever thought that his life would be better if he would have stayed with Liz. He wouldn’t have to be on the run, he wouldn’t have to risk his life again. They could be a little happy family. She wonders if Dean ever wants children. And if yes, if he wants them with her. Which is a stupid thought, if she’s honest. They aren’t at the stage yet where they are in the position to discuss the future. If there’s a future at all.

Chuck never did want kids. The company was Chuck’s child. That’s why she agreed to the IUD. She thinks that the last time, she didn’t even needed to replace it because they stopped having sex way before that but she got so used to it, that’s why it’s still there at all. 

“Hey,”

Dean’s voice jerks her back to reality. 

She watches him walk over to her, a basket with groceries in his hand, and he holds it out for her to drop her package of tampons inside. She keeps her head low, doesn’t want the teen to come around snooping which prompts Dean so place his hand on the back of her neck and he lowers himself.

“Look at me,” He whispers, “You okay?”

Looking up a little, she tries to smile but fails. She can see from the corner of her eyes that Liz is staring at them with annoyance in her eyes, “I— there’s a teenager staring at me. I think she might have recognized me.”

“Okay,” Dean says, takes her hand and looks around, “Let’s go,” 

They walk past Liz who loudly calls out after Dean but he doesn't stop. He brings her to the counter, and opens his arms for her to crawl into while they wait for the cashier to scan all the things, shielding her from curious eyes. And after he pays, they walk outside and she gets on the bike while Dean secures their groceries on the motorcycle behind her. 

He comes to stand next to her after, taking the cap from her head and holds out her helmet for her to take. 

“Liz obviously wasn’t finished talking,” She says bluntly, because she sees inside the store and Liz is still looking at her like she’s something really disgusting to look at.

Dean braces his hands on his bike, caging her in and  looks back over his shoulder to see where Y/N’s looking at before he turns back with a scoff. He looks back at her, the corner of his lips turning up into a grin, “You jealous?”

“Nah,” She tries to laugh it off.

He grins some more, before his face comes closer. Dean’s just an inch away, she can feel his breath on her.

“Liar,” He whispers before he kisses her. His tongue teases along her lips and of course she lets him in, welcomes the velvety smooth of his tongue, welcomes the taste of him. She can never get enough of it. He parts before it can get too heavy but she still feels something warm and wet between her thighs that she’s sure is not blood.

Dean pecks her nose and chuckles, “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“I’m no—,”

“Of course,” 

“But is that her child?”

Dean leaves a lingering kiss on her forehead before he sighs, “Let’s get you back first, okay?”

He winks before he gets on the bike and puts his helmet on. He waits for her to put on hers and she can see that Liz is walking out, her lips pressed into a thin line and a frown etched deep on her forehead. 

CH.16

[violet-knox]

Returning Home

Part 2 of Conflict of Interest

Pairing: Severus Snape x Reader

Summary: You head back to Hogwarts to fight for the Order during the battle and find Severus to get answers to your questions.

Warnings: Angst... with a capital A 👉👈👉👈 Death, Blood, Voldemort and more angst

Word Count: 8386

A/N: This takes place a few months after part 1 in the middle of the war. I’ve pasted a few quotes from the book which I’ll mention at the bottom to avoid spoilers and obviously the credit for that goes to JKR.

Obviously I've been writing too much fluff lately soooooo...... I'M NOT SORRY!

Part 1

~

Everything was in ruins. The castle in a worse state than the night you’d left, abandoning your home, the responsibility you had to the students that now lay dead on the floors of the one place they were supposed to be safe, the place their parents had put their faith in when they agreed to send them back in September. You’d abandoned your love, your life, everything you’d held dear. A job that gave you everything yet left you feeling so unfulfilled. But what choice did you have? Severus Snape, Headmaster of Hogwarts, your partner and thought to be soulmate had done exactly what you’d feared and led the once great school into war. And where was he now? Hiding away somewhere to save his skin? Or perhaps he truly was the Death Eater everyone but you believed him to be, gone to stand by his Master’s side. Oh how the great have fallen, crashing and burning to the ground with nothing to show for but betrayal and loss. What would he say to you now that your nightmares had all come true? All that hope you’d carried for him gone. How could he possibly explain this chaos and exonerate himself from the horror he’d caused?

Every corner you turned you were greeted by more bloodshed. Innocents dead, Death Eaters throwing every type of Dark Magic left and right. Not a single stone in Hogwarts walls was left undamaged; some chipped or torn out from its place and most others displaying the blood of students, staff members, Aurors… your friends, ex-colleagues and peers. The sight made you wish you’d both arrived sooner and never shown up at the same time. It made you wish you’d done more than the petty hunting you’d taken part in these last few months. What good were a few caught Death Eaters now that they’d all gathered and attacked the school, destroying the place you’d left to protect?

Heading down to the end of the corridor, you turned towards the loudest of the three halls the castle offered you, filled with nothing but chaos and found a few Aurors, some you recognized, others you thought were too young to enter such a racking fight, defending themselves against a bundle of Death Eaters. You quickly joined them, throwing curse after curse, standing by their side, holding your own against the Dark Magic thrown your way. 

You’d barely begun defending the school when suddenly, the wall behind the Death Eaters you fought exploded outwards, sending rockets of stone their way. You quickly shielded yourself, casting protego and watched as the school defended itself. Every Death Eater was thrown off their feet, some greeting death as soon as they hit the ground and others finding themselves not so lucky, facing wounds that would defeat even the best Healer in the world before facing down the end of an Auror’s wand. 

Holding your wand up stead, you made your way towards the rubble, casting the killing curse towards a Death Eater the second you saw them twitch and stepped over the broken wall to a sight even worse than that you’d previously been greeted with. Groups of students lay dead as others ran down the corridor only to fall at the hand of another Death Eater. You couldn’t stand the sight and your anger grew the more you thought about how insignificant your helping hand really was these last few months. You were only one person, what could you possibly do to truly help these poor kids?

Making your way down the hall, you did what you could, saving as many students as possible until you heard the familiar sound of a voice you could have sworn could only belong to man of the hour himself, the Chosen One; Harry Potter. But it was him, it had to be, who else would be so bold as to use the name of you-know-who so openly, especially at a time like this?

"You need to find out where Voldemort is, because he'll have the snake with him, won't he? Do it, Harry- look inside him!" You couldn’t recognize the girl's voice at first, the fear hidden in her tone masking her usual confidence, but of course it had to be Miss. Granger. 

Silence fell a while and you edged closer towards them, still hiding behind the broken wall, keeping your presence scarce. 

"He's in the Shrieking Shack,” Harry finally spoke. “The snake's with him, it's got some sort of magical protection around it. He's just sent Lucius Malfoy to find Snape."

Your heart nearly stopped at the mere mention of Severus. So, it was true. It was all true and you’d been too blinded by love, convincing yourself his words were enough to believe when they were nothing more than lies. Your vision blurred as you placed a hand over your mouth, trying to keep from falling apart, tears running down your cheeks. You slumped to the ground and all the noise, all the chaos around you disappeared as you spiraled down the rabbit hole of grief. There was no need for a spy now, no need to pretend during this wad and if Harry’s words were true, that left you with one obvious conclusion; Severus Snape was a Death Eater. 

"He's not-he's not even FIGHTING?" Hermione had never sounded so outraged before, her risen voice snapping your mind back to reality. Your head pounded, fighting your heart which begged to find another explanation for Severus, anything to prove what you had with him wasn’t a lie. You wanted so badly to believe you’d hallucinated this conversation, that Harry had made up what he said was true but the more they spoke, the more your hope faded along with your dreams of a pleasant reunion. 

"He doesn't think he needs to fight," said Harry. "He thinks I'm going to go to him."

You closed your eyes, unable to hear anymore. Your head felt like it was about to implode from rejecting the fact that Severus had lied to you, telling you he was fighting, spying for Dumbledore when he’d double crossed the Order, he’d double crossed you. Placing your face in your hands, you brought your knees up to your chest, taking deep breaths as you tried to clear your mind. Now was not the time to panic. Now wasn’t the time to feel resentful. A war had broken out and you were in the midst of it. The important thing right now was to fight and win this battle before all was lost to the darkness that had enveloped your love. 

But if Severus had been truthful to you, the one person in his life you knew he trusted more than anyone, then perhaps there was something going on greater than these attacks. Something you were unaware of. Why was Harry Potter looking for that snake and why was it so heavily protected? If anyone knew, it would be Severus, and if Potter and his friends were planning to make their way to the Shrieking Shack then it was only logical for you to go with them. Even if Severus had betrayed you, even if there was no deeper plot, you could still do your part and protect the boy who lived. He was supposed to be the key to winning this war after all, so the best thing you could do for the sake of the Wizarding World was find the truth and protect him. 

Just when you’d finally made a decision and jumped back up to your feet, you heard two Death Eaters shouting for Potter, approaching him with their drawn wands. But Miss. Granger had beaten you to the punch, attacking them before making a break for it. With the sudden chaos that ensued, you could no longer spot them. You honestly weren’t sure if they’d decided on their next move, but you knew at least one of them would head to the Shrieking Shack which meant they would all do what they could to assist. 

You quickly sprinted towards the Entrance Hall, encountering Death Eater after Death Eater on your way, but finally you’d found yourself outside the castle doors, spotting Potter and his friends running out of range of a giant screaming ‘Hagger’. You couldn’t even stop to question the giant and his eagerness. Time was of the essence. You watched them sprint towards the Whomping Willow and remembered the story Severus had told you about the time he’d caught Sirius Black. 

He’d told you about how he’d found him in the Shrieking Shack by following Potter into a secret tunnel under the Whomping Willow. He’d never told you how he knew about the tunnel, but at the time, you hadn’t thought to question it, enticed by Severus’ bravery and ambition instead. Whatever the case may be, his story clearly had some truth to it and could help you find your own way to the Shrieking Shack after those kids who suddenly seemed to have disappeared.

No matter, you knew exactly where they were heading, and they couldn’t be too far ahead of you. Soon enough, you’d managed to make your way to the tree that had begun aggressively swinging its branches in every direction. You quickly found a nearby branch and made your way to the knot under its trunk, immobilizing it as soon as you hit it, just as Severus had described. Ducking into the opening under the tree, you found yourself completely in the dark with nothing but silence accompanying you. Taking out your wand, you cast lumos and began making your way down the seemingly endless tunnel. 

Eventually, the end came near and you felt your heart pound aggressively against your chest, your adrenaline beginning to wear as the fear of what you might encounter on the other side of this trap door ensued. You’d come all this way, there was no going back now, no backing down. This is what you’d come for, what you’d left Severus for; the chance to help end this war. 

You summoned up every last ounce of bravery you had to spare and pushed aside your doubt along with the trap door, climbing into the Shrieking Shack and immediately found yourself met with an agonizing scream coming from the room next door. You slowly edged your way to the exit, staying with your back pressed against the wall, wand at the ready and found Potter, Granger and Weasley all crouched down, listening in on whatever was happening in the next room. When the commotion settled and you heard he-who-must-not-be-named leave the room, you watched the trio walk in with a lack of defensive precaution.

To say you were baffled by their motions would be an understatement. Clearly there was still someone in there and to head in acting as if they’d been called for dinner without their wands at the ready was completely absurd. You quickly moved forward gripping your own wand tightly, ready for whatever it was you were about to walk into as you followed them into the unknown room. But no amount of precaution or training could have prepared you for the sight you saw as soon as you turned that corner. 

“Severus,” you whispered in complete and utter shock. He was lying there with his throat cut out, his hands desperately grasping at Potter as the floor was painted red with his blood. You felt your heart collapse, your head spin in agony as you rushed forward, pushing past Granger and Weasley, throwing yourself on the ground beside Severus. You’d never felt so helpless, so useless before in your life. You wanted to help, you wanted to save him, but you didn’t know how. 

A terrible rasping, gurgling noise suddenly issued from Severus’ throat and your attention was brought up to watch his eyes desperately begging Potter for something you could never begin to even imagine. 

"Take...it...Take...it..."

Memories oozed out of his mouth, eyes and ears but you couldn’t be bothered to wonder what he was doing, you couldn’t accept this. He can’t die, he can’t. He hasn’t explained himself to you yet. He hasn’t told you how wrong everyone was to call him a Death Eater, how he truly was fighting for the light, how he was simply doing as he was told standing by the side of you-know-who as Dumbledore had asked. He hasn’t told you how much he loved you. 

You looked down at your wand and blinked away your tears. This can’t be it, it simply can’t. This is not the end, it just can’t be. Hovering your wand over his neck, you began muttering every healing charm you could think of, holding on to the hope that one of them would work despite the fact that you knew deep down those marks on his neck indicated snake venom was running through his veins, poisoning him and ripping out any smidge of life he had left to give. 

You didn’t stop, you couldn’t stop until you felt those familiar slim fingers graze your hand. Severus had motioned for you to halt your motions, but you couldn’t accept that, shaking your head as your eyes filled with tears, looking into his. His hand felt so weak, so cold, colder than usual and his face was so pale. He was dying and you couldn’t do anything but beg and plead for him to stay. 

“Please… please don’t leave me,” you whispered, leaning as close to him as you could, placing your hand above him as you dropped your wand. 

Severus kept his eyes glued to yours, a few more memories escaping his lips as he focused on your touch, the delicate features of your face, your hair. He’d missed you so much these last few months; they were torture without you and he knew he’d only made it as far as he did with this mission because you’d been by his side. Even when you’d left, it was the thought of seeing your face once this was all over that kept him going. How poetic must it be for your face to be the last he’d see now. 

"Look...at....me..." he whispered, bringing your attention from the second flask Granger had used to capture the last set of memories he’d given up and back to him. Your eyes met one last time before that twinkle behind his black orbs vanished, his hand slipping between yours and thudded to the ground.

“No.” The word stumbled out of your mouth as you desperately went to reach for his hand, grasping it tightly with your own and bringing it up to your chest. Your swallowed screams came out as incoherent whines as you tried searching his eyes, finding nothing but emptiness. He was gone.   

You’d barely had two seconds to process what just happened when suddenly, the voice of he-who-must-not-be-named echoed through your ears, filling your mind with vile thoughts of anger and fear atop the grief you’d felt for your lost love. 

"You have fought," said the high, cold voice, "valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery."

You closed your eyes, somehow hoping that would shut him out, that it would shut out the world to leave you be or wake you from this hellish nightmare you were living. But you were given no such luck as he continued to speak, his voice resonating the agony and despair you felt. 

"Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste. Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured."

Dispose of your dead. He spoke as if the lives lost during this war were nothing more than trash to him and why would he care? He who never learned to love, never cared for someone as you had Severus. You couldn’t bear looking at his eyes anymore knowing they’d never look back at you. His hand lifeless in yours, never to hold you again. Placing two fingers over his eyelids, you closed them and placed his hand over his chest before reaching into his robes where you knew he stashed his wand to retrieve it.

"I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you.” His voice still rang in your ears and you finally remembered you weren’t alone. There was still a battle to be won, a war to end, lives to save. “You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour."

"Don't listen to him," said Weasley. 

"It'll be all right." Granger’s sudden wild tone threw you back and you felt yourself go stiff under all the stress and grief this war had brought. "Let's-- let's get back to the castle, if he's gone to the forest we'll need to think of a new plan--"

The trio all stood to make their way out, but you couldn’t move a muscle. Eyes closed, you hung your head and planted your palms on the ground. You had to wake up, this couldn’t be real. These last few months, they must have been a dream. You’d dreamt it all and you were back in bed with Severus in his chambers at Hogwarts sleeping next to him after making up. It was the only reasonable scenario because this simply can’t be real, it can’t.

“Professor.” But Granger’s voice had just proved you wrong. This was your reality and it was too much for you to withstand. You wanted to stay with Severus no matter what it may bring, yet you knew you couldn’t. You had to protect the children, the students and help the Order fight against that monster. 

You took in a deep breath and shoved your grief into a cupboard in the depths of your mind, locking it shut before jumping to your feet, griping hold of your wand along with Severus’ and the flask of memories Granger had left for you. You followed Potter and his friends back through the tunnel from which you came, nothing but silence passed between the four of you as you tried to wrap your head around the events that just occurred. 

You couldn’t think straight. It was all just too much. You wanted answers, you wanted to help and that was supposed to be the point in your trip to the Shrieking Shack but instead of having your questions answered, you’d been shown nothing but what you’d lost and could never regain. 

The darkness accompanied you out of the tunnel as you exited out of the Whomping Willow and dragged yourself to the Great Hall, following the others. You felt unhinged, like this reality wasn’t your own and perhaps it wasn’t. It was the cruel reality of fate, rejected by those who’d stood over their love’s empty vessels. 

You somehow felt yourself envious of those mourning the ones they lost in the Great Hall because at least they could mourn knowing they were loved, hugging those still present in the land of the living. Walking down the room, you gazed upon the students, Aurors and staff members lost in the war, the survivors huddled in groups where the house tables used to stand. Nothing more than hardship and devastation passed from one person to the next. 

Fresh tears streamed down your face at the thought of Severus lying there alone in the shack where you’d left him. He should be here. You should both be huddled in the corner alongside the others thanking Merlin you’d survived this long instead of this loneliness you felt accompanying you as you found your way to the nearest wall, throwing your back up against it and sinking down to the ground. 

You brought your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them, instantly rocking back and forth in an attempt to comfort yourself. You’d never felt such a cascading rush of emotions before, thoughts of anger and resentment replaced by agony and remorse the second you saw Severus on the ground. In that moment, it didn’t matter to you what side he was on. He was your heart, your soul, your everything and he was gone. 

You could never speak to him again, never see him or touch him. It wasn’t fair. You’d never gotten the closure you needed after you’d left and now you felt like you never would. You’d hoped the end of this war would give you the means to find the closure you needed, whether that be accepting Severus as the Death Eater he was or the brilliant and brave man you’d come to know him as. You’d never thought of the possibility you’d be faced with his death instead because he’d always seemed so invincible to you. He was an amazing Wizard with skills you were sure would have rivaled Dumbledore at his best. The possibility of his death seemed laughable back then. Even now as you sat there, playing back what you’d seen, what you’d heard, you weren’t sure what had happened, why he-who-must-not-be-named would kill him when he’d gained his favour last year, becoming his most trusted follower after killing Dumbledore. 

Questions upon questions piled up in your mind and suddenly it became clear to you what you had to do next. The war no longer mattered to you, the battle felt like it had taken place eons ago. You needed answers and the flask Granger had handed you may very well be the only thing you had to provide you with what you needed most. 

Quickly standing to your feet, you began making your way to the Headmaster’s office, your pace fastening the second that gargoyle came into your line of sight. You were about to mutter ‘Dumbledore’, hoping Severus hadn’t changed the password since you’d left when the gargoyle spun open with none other than Harry Potter stepping out of it. Your eyes met and you both froze in place, each one aware why the other was there. It was you who’d moved first, taking a step toward the open door before you heard him speak.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice small and shriveled. “I didn’t know.”

You looked back at him and watched as he handed you his flask, unsure of what he meant. You took it regardless and gave him one last look before making your way into the office. You’d spent many nights here, speaking with Severus, watching him take orders from Dumbledore’s portrait. You’d resented the place honestly, feeling it too crowded, too grand. You much preferred his old office next to the potions classroom, but with the way he looked when he first entered the room, clearly ecstatic about it all had you keeping your opinion to yourself, letting him enjoy the bit of luxury he’d been given. 

Your eyes finally met with the pensieve, unsurprisingly pulled out of its place. Slowly, you made your way towards it and looked down at the two flasks in your hand. Without a second thought, you put away the one Harry had given you, opening the second one and poured its contents into the pensieve. The blue and silver looked beautiful swirling around in the water and you only hoped the memories you’d see as you dunked your head in would be just as alluring a sight. 

The room spun and you felt yourself falling into darkness until a clear image of Diagon Alley rolled into view. You looked around and noticed the lack of people roaming the streets. It didn’t take long for you to spot Severus in his oversized robes, making headway towards Flourish and Blotts. I remember this night, you thought, smiling to yourself as you quickly followed him into the shop. 

Severus made his way straight for the academic section of the shop knowing exactly where to look as you let your eyes roam around the store searching for… 

“Hello.” Ah, there you were. “Do you need any help?” Your cheeks burned red, feeling awkward at how innocently young you looked back then. You were so clueless back then and it almost hurt to watch you interact with Severus. Though despite the clear lack of love between you both, at least your past self had the pleasure of speaking to him at all. It was more than you could ever hope to do now. 

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Severus looked you up and down, seemingly unimpressed with you but looking at him now, you realized he’d hidden a small smirk behind his ‘better than life’ attitude.

“That obvious?” You’d cracked a smile at him, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Yes, you could remember this day very clearly now; he was the first customer to have actually struck up a conversation with you while working here and it made you nervous. 

“No,” he replied, looking down at the book he had in his hands. Leaning in closer, you realized he’d done that thing he always did when he was nervous and let his hair fall in his face to hide his growing smirk before composing himself and looking back at you. “I shop here every few months and this is the first I’m seeing you.”

“Ah, a regular. Perhaps I should get to know your name then,” you said, pushing yourself to do as you’d been told and show the customers nothing but a willingness to help as you offered him your hand. Severus looked down at your open palm, hesitating before firmly grasping it. 

“Severus Snape,” he said, looking into your eyes and shaking your hand. You could almost feel his slim, dry fingers grazing the inside of your palm just looking at the figures you knew were just memories. But you couldn’t help the tears that gathered in your eyes, it was so good to see him so full of life again.

“Well, Severus Snape, do you always shop in the boring section or do you ever explore the rest of the store?”

You chuckled at your own joke, whipping away your tears and immediately looked at Severus, watching him scuff in response before the memory washed away, snatched from you just when you felt yourself reconnecting to him. 

“No!” You shouted into the nothingness surrounding you, turning in your place as colour began to settle into place revealing the empty streets of Hogsmeade with Severus standing in the middle of the road, looking as though he was contemplating doing something regrettable.  

You ran up to him, standing before him and examined the look on his face. All you wanted to do was cup his cheeks, wait until his eyes met yours and ask him what was wrong, but it was just a memory. You knew if you reached out, you wouldn’t feel a thing. He’d pass right through you and you just couldn’t handle that disappointment. So you held back, waiting for him to make a move instead. 

After taking a few more moments, he finally began to walk down the street, stopping right in front of The Three Broomsticks as if he was afraid he’d run into someone undesirable the second he walked in. He paused once more as soon as he’d stepped inside, looking around before making his way to the bar. You followed his lead and walked with him as you searched the practically empty pub; the few people who were present all seemed to be minding their own business, nothing out of the ordinary really. 

You watched him slump into a seat, clearly nervous about being here for reasons you didn’t understand. You’d come to this pub with him multiple times and he’d never acted this way. Unless, perhaps, this was the first time he’d stepped foot in Hogsmeade since the night he was thrown out The Hogshead, that would definitely explain his nerves. 

Severus suddenly went completely stiff and as you followed his line of sight, you realized why.

“What can I get you Severus.” Your younger self had immersed once again, this time as a bartender. The shocked look on Severus’ face amused you. He’d never looked so confundled before he’d met you for the second time. 

“Are you following me?” He shamelessly let out. 

“Me?! I’d do nothing of the sort,” You placed a hand on your chest adding a bit of sarcasm to your tone, acting as though he’d offended you to the highest degree while offering him a small smile. Severus eyed you a moment and you laughed at the interaction, realizing now how silly it looked from an outsider's perspective. 

“Firewhiskey,” he finally said, adjusting himself in his seat to get comfortable. “Double.”

You looked over to the bar and watched as you reached for a clean glass and a bottle of Firewhiskey. “So, what brings you to Hogsmeade?”

This was the second time fate had brought you together and you remembered thinking it had to be some sort of sign, that coincidence couldn’t possibly explain this encounter when you’d done nothing but think about finding him again after you left your old job. You were nervous that night when you saw him again, wondering if you should go as far as to get to know him a little.

“I work at Hogwarts,” he said, watching you pour his drink before pulling out a second glass and doing the same for yourself. “What are you doing in Hogsmeade?” 

You tore your eyes away from the drinks your past self was pouring and looked at Severus to find an oddly curious look on his face. He seemed intrigued rather than skeptical as the tone in his voice perceived. 

“Fate,” you said, smiling to yourself, keeping your gaze on the bottle you had in your hand as you sealed it and went to put it back on the shelf behind you. “I got let go at Flourish and Blotts. Said they didn’t need me after the school rush anymore, so here I am.”

You picked up both glasses and offered him one. Watching the interaction had you suddenly feeling the aftertaste of the Firewhiskey on your tongue as your own image take a sip. At this point, you remembered wanting to know more about Severus. He was intriguing to you, different than those you’d met in England thus far. He seemed to have lived a long life despite looking to be in his late twenties. Looking back at Severus, you began to wonder what he thought of you the first time you’d met.  

“So, what do you do at that mysterious school?”

“I’m the school’s Potion’s Master,” he replied before taking a large sip of his own. “Have you never been to Hogwarts?”

He rose a brow at you and you could see his curiosity peek. You’d never noticed it before, but knowing Severus now, he must have thought of you as something special if he’d shown you any sort of interest.

“Nope,” you replied with a little too much enthusiasm. “I was sent to Beauxbatons because my parents thought it was more conservative.” 

You shook your head, blushing at the sight of yourself speaking of your upbringing. Keeping your eyes on Severus instead, you began examining his expression, trying to memorize every detail of his face. But once again, the image before you began to vanish, and you found yourself in the darkness once again. It seemed as though fate also had a cruel sense of humour, taking away the thing you love just when you felt yourself ready to grab hold of it again.

Spinning around, you tried searching for the new image that should have formed around you by now, but you could only make out a few lights to your left and you’d begun to think something had gone wrong until you realized you were in the dungeons of Hogwarts. You were standing in Severus’ old chambers, before he’d become Headmaster. All you could make out was the pale tone of his face reflecting the yellow candlelight and his hands which were held up close to his neck.  

Walking closer to him, you realized he was standing in front of his mirror, tying his ascot, looking nervous once again. You smiled and simply admired him as he looked his reflection up and down, obviously unhappy with what he saw, but you couldn’t say you felt the same. He looked perfect to you, even his hair which he couldn’t seem to stop fiddling with. 

You’d never seen him like this before, so worried about his appearance, unable to stand in place. Finally, he walked away from the mirror, whisking away into the sitting room where he began pacing, debating something you could see he was on edge about. You bit your tongue, wanting to ask what was wrong until you realized how stupid that was. He wasn’t really here, this wasn’t really him and you’d clearly been shifting through these memories long enough to forget that. 

You frowned, just standing there waiting in anticipation for him to make his next move. Eventually, he composed himself enough to open the door to his chambers and make his way out towards the Entrance Hall where you finally remembered what night this was; your first date. 

This was the first time you’d seen him out of his teaching robes, all dressed up in his navy-blue formal attire. You’d been waiting on the other side of the doors he’d opened, probably more nervous than him. He’d visited you many times at the Three Broomsticks after your first encounter there, finally offering you a tour of Hogwarts months later when the students had all left for the holidays. 

You watched yourself step inside from the cold, shivering with your arms wrapped around yourself. You let out a giggle as you realized how nervous his first date with you had made him. It was adorable, though you knew what Severus would say if he’d caught you using that word to describe him. ‘Kittens are adorable (Y/N), I am not.’ Though you would respectfully disagree of course. 

“I trust you weren’t waiting too long?” He said as he closed the doors. Your younger self was busy brushing snow off your jacket, but you could see the concern in his eyes. You knew that look and it saddened you to see him wear it so early in your relationship. How had you not noticed before his worry over disappointing you had started before you’d even officially began to date?

“Not at all. You’re just on time,” you replied, meeting his gaze with a warm smile. “This school is huge! Will we have time to see it all today?”

“No, but I thought I’d show you the more grand parts of the castle before dinner,” he said, accompanying you down the hall.

“So, does that include your classroom?” 

You followed the figures, watching Severus closely, his eyes beginning to soft as he grew comfortable with you. It was an amazing first date and you were happy to relive it. 

“If you wish.”

The figures suddenly disappeared as they walked down the hall and you found yourself standing in the dungeons again, this time outside of the Potions classroom where Severus was hesitantly leading you. You remembered this part of the tour; the best part of the castle, unable to help yourself from imagining him teaching a classroom full of students, but it was clear Severus didn’t feel the same way. His nerves were back and he looked unsettled as he opened the door to let you into the room.

“Wow,” your younger self said under your breath and you just couldn’t help but roll your eyes. You were exaggerating your interest and it made you wish the next memory would appear already to relieve you of this embarrassment. But you held out and kept watching if only to remember the lust you knew would blossom between the two figures in the memory. 

Ignoring your weak attempt at flirting, you instead resumed your admiration for Severus, trying to read his thoughts through his expression, but all you could see was the unsettlement he’d shown back in his chambers when he was preparing for your date. His eyes darted back and forth from one table to the next, analyzing it as if he was searching for a reason to punish some non-existent students. Was he nervous about the state of the room? Is that why he’d hesitated when you begged to see his classroom earlier that evening?

“So, is this where you work? This is your desk?” You spun around at the sound of your own voice, following Severus’ line of sight to watch you run your fingers over his desk at the head of the class. 

“Indeed, it is,” he said cautiously walking up to you. You followed along and watched him approach you as you leaned on the edge of the desk, smiling as if you were about to do something devious. A moment of silence passed, both figures exchanging looks before you spoke again. 

“Thank you for today Severus. I enjoyed the tour,” you bit your bottom lip and pushed yourself up so you were standing but a small grasp away from him. There it is.

You sighed out of sheer joy when you saw Severus’ breath hitch as your figure leaned in, placing both hands on his shoulder and pressed your lips to his. He went stiff and you could feel his lips press against yours as you watched, your fingers instinctively hovering over your mouth at the loss of contact you felt. 

Your smile grew and tears formed under your eyes when he began kissing back, wrapping his own arms around you, pulling you in tightly before your image quickly pulled them both back a step, enough so that you could jump onto the desk without ever parting from him. The kiss quickly became heated as you wrapped your legs around him, his hands slowly making their way up the desk as he leaned forward, your back pressing against the wood of the desk. Your first kiss looked so normal from here, but at the time, you felt it to be the most magical moment you’d ever experienced. He was amazing the first few months you’d spent together, you could relive every second of it and you only wished you could. It was nice to see this moment again, but you wanted more. You wanted to feel him, to feel the emotions you felt when you were with him back then, not just observe the faint memories of you both falling in love with one another. 

“No,” you whispered as the classroom behind the two on the desk began to fade. “Not again, please!” 

You begged the nothingness that gobbled up one of your happiest memories, but it was too late. They were gone and you found yourself in yet another memory, a more recent one by the looks of it. You were in your shared chamber; the Headmaster’s chambers. You heard the door slam shut and began looking around, trying to find your figure along with Severus.

“No,” you said when you spotted him, realizing what memory this was. “No, Severus please. Why would you show me this night?”

You spoke to the figure as if he could hear you but of course, he ignored you and slumped into his armchair, the light from the dying fireplace illuminating his outline enough for you to kneel right before him, looking desperately into his heavy eyes, tears forming, threatening to fall down your cheeks as they did his. This was the night you’d left, the night you regretted full heartedly and it hurt to see the aftermath of your fight; the broken man that sat before you. 

“I’m sorry Sev, please, I shouldn’t have left, I’m sorry,” you said desperately before giving into the one urge you’d been fighting during this trip down memory lane and tried to place your hand over his only to have it pass right through. You couldn’t bear the pain anymore and felt yourself break down as the memory kept playing. You placed your face in your hands and let your heartbreak escape through the tears you shed. 

You’d do anything to take it all back if you were given the chance. If you had a time turner to spare, you’d sit there spinning it until you went back to the right moment to fix things, no matter how long it took. If you’d stayed with him, you could have helped save him, you should have stayed to convince him to fight for the Order. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You never should have left! 

Was this your punishment? To be reminded of what you could have had with him? What you’d lost after making the biggest mistake of your life? You kept your head in your hands until you heard Severus shifting in his spot and you opened your eyes just in time to watch him pull out a box from his robes. You looked down at it, focusing your vision to watch him fiddle with the box, the same nervous and disappointed look you saw from your first date, the first time you met now scribbled all over his face once again. 

“Oh Sev,” you whispered as you peered inside the box he was slowly opening, revealing a small, but elegant engagement ring. Your vision blurred again as fresh tears formed at the realization of what you’d done. You wanted to scream, to cry until time reversed itself and gave you the chance to rewrite history. He loved you. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you and you’d slammed the door in his face, rejecting him before he could even ask, all because you let this battle, this damn war cloud your judgment of him. 

Severus suddenly stood and you instantly rose, staying as close to him as you could while he walked over to the fireplace, picking up the clock you’d given him for Christmas the same year you’d begun dating and popping out its bottom. He slid the ring inside the clock and reassembled it.

“Oh Sev, I wish you’d asked,” you said through tears despite the fact that you likely wouldn’t have given the same answer back then as you would now. It was true what they said; you really didn’t know what you had until you lost it, and it took losing Severus to know that what you had with him was real and true. It took losing him, knowing you could never speak again to realize how much he meant to you, no matter which side of the war he stood.

Looking back at the clock, you watched it disappear along with the fireplace. 

“No, no not another one, please I can’t take anymore,” you pleaded, but it was no use, Severus was gone and once again the scene around you changed and you were back in the Headmaster’s office. For a second, you thought it to be over, that you’d been freedom from your ward, but when you looked to the side of the room, you saw the pensieve was put away and all the figures in the portrait present, which meant this was yet another memory. You let out a defeated sigh, feeling as though this truly was a punishment you weren’t sure you could bear any longer. 

“Severus, you made a promise.” You spun around when you heard Dumbledore’s voice, trying to search for his figure, but it was Severus you’d found instead, standing in front of a portrait, looking as broken as he did in the last memory. “You must stay by Lord Voldemort’s side until the time is right. You’re the only one that can do it.”

“You should have picked someone else,” he said looking as miserable as ever. You’d in fact never seen him like this in all the years you’d known him; broken, hollow, left with no ambition, nothing left to live for. “(Y/N) left yesterday. I’ve lost everything to this war.”

You walked closer to him, realizing what he was saying, what he was asking to do. He wanted to come after you, to abandon his post, the position he’d worked too hard to gain, killing Dumbledore, betraying everyone he cared for, all to become he-who-must-not-be-named most trusted follower. He was ready to throw it all away for you. 

“You said-”

“I know what I said! I was wrong!” He spat at the portrait. You took another step towards him, ready to make the same mistake you’d made earlier and attempt to hug the memory only for it all to disappear before you. This time, instead of a new memory replacing the darkness, you felt yourself being grasped and pulled out into the real world. 

You feel back onto the floor, losing your balance when you came out of the pensieve. All those memories, everything you’d just learned was all too much. Severus hadn’t betrayed you after all, he wasn’t a Death Eater, he was a hero and he’d died just that. You should have gotten up, returned to the battle that was sure to resume any moment now, but you couldn’t. Your body couldn’t handle any more. You couldn’t do anything but lay there on the floor, crying until you had no tears left to shed. 

It all felt so meaningless now; winning the war, defending the school. What was the point when you felt like you’d already lost? The hour was up but the chaos had yet to resume. You barely had the energy to drag yourself up and recollect all of Severus’ memories let alone join the others and see what would become of Hogwarts. 

Closing your eyes, you took in a trembling breath, trying not to think about the breakdown you felt was on the verge of exploding out of you and gathered yourself enough to leave the office. Standing there as the gargoyle closed, you looked down the hall that led to his chambers. You weren’t ready to revisit the place where it all fell apart yet that’s where your feet were taking you. 

Everything was right where you’d remembered it, nothing had changed, not even the picture you'd taken together at the Yule Ball, still propped up on the coffee table beside the armchair. It still smelled just like him, the closet in the bedroom still full of clothes; yours on the left, his on the right. He hadn’t bothered to throw a single thing away, your comb, your toothbrush, your journal still sitting exactly where you left them, nothing had changed. 

Waking over to the bed, you picked up his pillow and pressed it to your nose as you closed your eyes and slumped down onto the mattress. Hugging his pillow with the upper half of your body pressed against the black silk covering the bed was the closest thing you felt you’d ever get to feeling his touch, smelling his hair or finding comfort in his arms. Still it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough. 

You missed him so much, more so now than you had the last few months you’d been apart. Your body shock but you had no more tears left to shed. Your mind searched for memories of Severus, but you couldn’t find any more left to mourn over except the last moments you had with him. His eyes slowly glazing over with darkness as his soul escaped your world, leaving you behind. 

He’d spent his last breath sharing all of himself with you and you had to honour that. He died so that the Wizarding World may prevail, and you couldn’t let that go in vain. You composed yourself the best you could, thinking of the victory you had to win for him and dragged yourself back to the sitting room.

You looked over the bleak outlines of the furniture you’d spent hours sitting in with Severus before making your way to the fireplace. Picking up the clock, remembering that Christmas morning you shared together, you turned it over, popping out the bottom to find the ring he’d hidden still sitting there, waiting to be worn. You removed it and placed the clock back in its place, shifting the ring around between your fingers to reveal text engraved on the inside of the band: ‘Always and forever yours’.

It was a beautiful ring, small, but you were never one for theatrics and he knew that. The diamond in the middle was crystal clear, pure as he’d once described you to be. Beside it, two small emerald stones were placed on either side, signifying his promise to you; that he will always be with you no matter what the future held. Looking at it now, the memory of him holding it in this exact spot where you stood, you could almost feel his presence around you, as if he’d just proposed and you’d abruptly accepted like you so desperately wanted. 

You quickly whipped away the single tear running down your cheek and slowly slid the ring on the ring finger of your right hand, symbolizing what should have been but never was. He was gone yes but his legacy would live on, you would make sure of that. 

Before heading out, you searched your pockets and removed the flasks carrying the last memories of your lost love and placed it next to the clock on the fireplace, removing his wand from your person as well, carefully laying it before the clock. 

“You can rest now Severus,” you whispered, hoping that by some miracle, he’d hear you from the afterlife. “I love you so much, I hope you knew that.”

And with that, you slowly backed away from the fireplace and withdrew your wand, ready to fight for the good of the Wizarding World, for Hogwarts, for love, for Severus Snape and everything he stood for. 

~

A/N: Ok, I'm sorry 😭😭😭😭

Scenes taken (and edited) from the books: Harry looking into Voldemort’s find to find his location and the heartbreaking shrieking shack scene.

~

@marvelschriss @bush-viper-cutie @moonie-writes

[peakyswritings]

Dancing with the Devil pt.4

Luca Changretta x Italian!reader

A/N: I’m sorry it took this long to write this chapter, but I was kinda stuck. I hope you like it!⭐️ Also, I took some quotes of the family meeting from the show⭐️

Warnings: swearing, drinking, mentions of death and murder

Summary: when Luca Changretta comes to Birmingham for the vendetta, he perfectly knows what he wants. “No one will survive”, that’s what he always says. Y/n, a close family friend of the Shelbys, makes a deal with Luca and tricks him into thinking that she’s on his side. They’re sworn enemies, on opposite sides, in a position where you can choose to kill, or to be killed. They both plan on killing each other. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer, they say. But Luca and Y/n have no idea of how close they’re going to get.

The gif is not mine, credits to the owner

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

The next morning, you and the Shelbys were all gathered around the table in Michael’s hospital room for a family meeting, John had moved from his room to attend to it. The family had previously agreed to put an end to the war between them, at least until the vendetta was over. Tommy stood up and cleared his throat, glancing around the room.

“Changretta took us by surprise on Christmas morning” he started “Michael and John were shot because we killed someone. Vicente Changretta. His son Luca has come to take revenge. Men from New York and Sicily here in Birmingham, these men won’t leave our city until our whole family is dead. That’s how it works, an eye for an eye. It’s called vendetta.” he explained the situation again for John and Michael, who couldn’t attend the last family meeting due to their critical conditions.

“With John and Michael here, there are two empty seats that must be taken. Finn” he pointed at the youngest brother, who was standing next to Isaiah “sit at the table.”

The boy had to hold back a smile as he sat between Arthur and John. He had waited for that moment for a long time. Arthur suddenly pulled him close by the neck with a proud smile on his face.

“Little bastard” he said with his husky voice “doing men’s work”

“You’re a man now, Finn-boy” John chuckled and ruffled his hair.

“Y/N made a deal with Luca Changretta”

At Tommy’s statement, the room fell silent. Everybody looked at you, trying to understand what that was all about.

“She’ll pass him information. Well, the information we want him to know. She’ll make him believe that she’s on his side, she’ll be working from the inside and passing us informations”

Polly’s head quickly turned to you, her eyes full of worry.

“That’s suicide. I vote against it.”

You had known Polly for all of your life, she loved you as if you were her own daughter, she would never put you in such a dangerous situation.

“I met him yesterday” you explained, talking for the first time “we already have a deal. I’ll see him again tomorrow, he’ll expect me to pass him some information”

All of a sudden, everyone started talking at once, no one liked the idea of you getting in trouble. You were like family to them, you were not disposable. It took you a while to convince Tommy as well, but you both knew that you had to do everything you could to survive.

“The decision has been made” he raised his voice to be heard “She’ll have all the protection she needs.”

Ada shook her head.

“You can only protect her as long as she stays in our territory. When she goes to the place the Italians are staying in, there’s nothing you can do to assure her safety. And sure as hell they won’t let her in with a gun” she argued, crossing her arms over her chest.

“He had the chance to kill me yesterday, but he didn’t. He needs me for information, I’ll make sure he needs me for a long time”

For a while, nobody talked anymore. You all knew that you were stuck in a serious situation. That war didn’t involve business or money, it was personal and for that reason, it was ten times more dangerous.

“The bullet’s been written” Arthur broke the silence, pulling a bullet out of his pocket “it says Luca. When the time comes, and it will come...me as the oldest brother, will put this bullet into his fucking head”

******

You took a deep breath before knocking on the big wooden door. You were walking right into the lion’s den, without protection or the actual certainty of being safe. One of Luca’s men opened the door with a gun hidden behind his back.

“Who are you?” he asked with a strong Italian accent.

“Y/n Y/l/n. I’m here to see mr Changretta” you said, putting up a confident facade. He seemed to recognise your name, because he nodded and put away his gun.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but you have to take off your coat and I have to verify that you’re not armed”

You nodded, handing him your coat. You tried to ignore the nasty feeling you got while he put his hands on you to check you out. Once he finished, he moved away from the doorstep, letting you in. He led you to a hallway and he knocked on the third door.

“Come in” you heard a familiar husky voice say from the inside. The man in front of you entered the room.

“Y/n Y/l/n è qui per vedervi, signor Changretta”

(Y/n Y/l/n is here to see you, mr Changretta)

“Falla entrare”

(Let her in)

The man got out of the room and held the door open for you, then he closed it behind your back. Luca was sat at his desk, rolling a toothpick in his mouth, a bunch of papers was messily scattered on it. He raised his head and he leaned back on his chair, putting away the toothpick.

“Y/n” he grinned “please, take a seat” he gestured towards one of the chairs in front of his desk. You sat down, crossing your legs, trying your best to maintain your mask of confidence.

“Now, do you have something to report?” he asked, referring to the plans of the Shelbys.

“Yes, I think you should hire some female employees to check out your female guests, mr Changretta. It’s not pleasant to have some random man’s hands on you” you stated, crossing your arms over your chest. He stayed silent for a moment, looking at you with a mixture of astonishment and amusement. He knew that you weren’t exactly an easy person to deal with, but he didn’t expect you to have the nerve of talking to him like that and criticise the way he handled things. Much to his surprise, the thing didn’t bother him not even in the slightest. He shook his head, holding back a smile.

“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” he pointed at you.

You have no idea, you thought, but you stayed quiet.

“Anyway, I already told you that you can call me Luca. If we have to work together, we need to be close” he affirmed, without losing the spark of amusement in his eyes.

“Of course, Luca” you said, emphasising his name “we had a family meeting yesterday. With John at the hospital, they’re a man down. Finn joined the business, but we all know that the guy cannot replace his brother, he’s too soft. Polly is too worried about Michael to actually help Tommy, and she basically hates him. I won’t go into details, you already know their story. There’s a war between them, they’re not sticking together, they’re weak, Tommy’s weak, but he has men on their side. As long as he stays in Birmingham, you can’t touch him”

You had previously agreed with Tommy on the things to reveal and the things to lie about. You both believed that saying a half truth was the best way to gain Luca’s trust.

He nodded, tapping his hand on his desk, looking at it in deep thought.

“So, the only way to kill Tommy is to bring him outside Birmingham” he stated, probably thinking about his next move.

“Precisely. But he won’t leave Birmingham alone without a reason, he’s not stupid”

He stayed silent for a while, then he abruptly got up. You followed his movements with your eyes, trying to predict his intentions. You tried to hide your nervousness, keeping your head high. He walked around the desk, placing himself in front of you, leaning on it.

“So, we have to find a way to make him go outside the city. How?” he asked, looking at you.

“I need a couple days to think about it” you said “he won’t leave the city without a valid reason. I’ll let you know as soon as I come up with something” you added, standing up, ready to go away.

Just as you were about to walk past him, he firmly grabbed your arm, without hurting you, but with enough force to make you turn to him. You raised your head to look at him, you had never noticed how tall he was until that moment. You nervously swallowed as he slowly leaned towards you.

“Se dovessi scoprire che mi stai mentendo” (If I were to discover that you’re lying to me) he said in a low voice “non avrei la minima pietà o compassione per te” (I wouldn’t have the least bit of mercy nor compassion on you)

The change in his tone and the look in his eyes sent chills down your spine. With his apparent cordiality and good manners, he could conceal his true nature. You knew what he was capable of, but somehow he was able to perfectly hide it. The way he said those words to you, reminded you of who he really was. It didn’t matter how polite and elegant he showed himself to be, he still was cutthroat and unforgiving. He carried hatred in his heart and he used it as a weapon. That was what made him dangerous.

“Non ti sto mentendo” you affirmed, looking him in the eyes.

(I’m not lying to you)

He let go of your arm and you took some steps back, neither of you taking your eyes off the other. After one last look, you turned your back, walking towards the exit.

“Our deal is still on. I think you’ll bring a lot of benefits to my company, when you’ll be working for me after the vendetta is won” he stated when you opened the door.

“I’m glad to hear that” you replied, walking out the door and closing it behind your back, without a look.

******

“So, what are you gonna do with her after you’ll win the vendetta?” Matteo asked, pouring some whiskey in two glasses. They were both sat on the couch in Luca’s office, talking about the plan.

Luca leaned back on the couch, drinking the liquid in his glass in one gulp.

“It’s simple” he shrugged his shoulders “I’m gonna kill her”

“I thought you considered killing her a waste” Matteo replied, taking a sip from his glass.

Luca thought about it for a moment, pondering the situation, then he shook his head.

“I’m going to kill them all, Matteo. Thomas Shelby has to pay. None of them will survive”

[emmaannaelisabeth]

PART 13 of sailor-wife!kaz everyone!! this feels very meh, but i hope it's decent.

kaz raises his weary head. he forces his eyes off the floorboards. they aren’t helping anymore; he takes his gaze off them, looks into nothing, into thin empty air. the room is dark - is it night? is it day? how long have i been here? kaz doesn’t know. minutes? hours? days?

is it late?

he breathes heavily, twists his hands in each other; he tries to listen, to feel, to hear her silence. where are you? please, just tug at my edges.

his mind reaches out as far as it can; like roots to a dying tree it desperately reaches for water, like a drowning man it tries to swim to the surface, like a bird without wings it tries to fly. like a man who had flown too close to the sun, kaz feels like he’s falling.

he swallows and leans his head back against the wall, closes his eyes. where are you know? he wants to sob.

is it late?

kaz sobs. inej’s voice fills his mind. eleven minutes past eleven, she whispers, and it’s almost as if he can feel her gentle fingers on his temple, as they brush the hair out of his face. and he wants to lean onto her touch, even though she’s not there. even though he knows, even though it’s true, that she’s not in this world anymore.

always, he thinks, and a desperate frown forms on his brow. he grits his teeth against the treacherous taste of despair and tries to breathe. it was never our time, never our time to spend.

it’s always the borrowed time, always the dead man walking. perhaps death finally caught up with him, perhaps his luck finally run out? and she had to pay for his sins. what if jordie will too?

kaz draws in a sharp breath, shakes his head, feels as if reality is crumbling beneath him, as if his mind is on the verge of collapsing, as if he was standing on the edge to an abyss of is this truly real or not? and he’s just about to fall into it. because he can’t even handle the mere thought of losing his boy.

jordie. jordie. jordie. it’s always jordie, isn’t it?

papa?

kaz snaps his eyes back open, his heart takes a leap and his soul screams at him to run, to find his boy, his son. but jordie isn’t there. kaz frowns. he could’ve sworn he heard-

papa?

jordie! kaz’s heart jumps, staggers, searches desperately for the voice that echoes around him. back and forth, back and forth. above him, under him, behind him, in front of him, everywhere, he can hear his small boy. he can see his shadow, but as he tries to nail it down with his gaze, it is already gone. jordie?!

papa? papa? look! look!

kaz’s body twitches, he wants to jump to his legs, run, search, find his boy, and he looks around, gaze wild. where is he? where’s my boy? jordie? kaz barely breathes at all. he tries to stand, but he can’t, his side throbs with pain and he groans and falls back against the wall.

nothing to regret, she says, as she swings the doors open to his memories. “inej?” he whispers, feels his heart tremble with pain. she cannot be dead, please, no she cannot be dead. the mother to my son can’t be dead.

but she is, he knows she is. he can’t feel her, no matter how madly he tries. and there’s nothing kaz can do. nothing but hope it was painless. and a sob tears through his body.

the rest might just be heaven, she says. and then the memory replays. brown glittering eyes, looking into his. her bright smile, the butterflies in his stomach. no, no, no, stop. it’s too real. he can see her, almost feel her.

this, kaz, is a little piece of heaven, the woman in his head continues. it’s not her, he tries to tell himself. but it’s hard when she’s got the same dark hair, the same bronze skin, the same gentle curves and the same small bump on her belly. it’s so fucking hard when the hand that takes his and puts it on her stomach is hers, and was hers and will forever be hers.

always. always her. but then the image of her fades, and she’s gone. and kaz is left alone in the darkness, without his morning star to guide him. never really mine, he thinks, feels his soul give in, feels himself fall into that deep dark hole of what life is there without you?

she always managed to make it feel that way, as if she stopped his heart from fifty feet. but now, in one weak moment, when he’s no longer dirtyhands, no longer brekker, no longer rietveld, not even ghafa… now, when he’s only a broken and shattered kaz, he wishes it was true. that she actually did stop it from fifty feet.

please, i just want to feel you near. i just want to be with you. see you. hear you.

kaz breathes heavily. in, out, in out. the world blurs. the room spins. wind. it howls in his ears. waves, crashing into him. he shakes his head. they’re not real. what is real, is the aching in his bones, the pain in his heart, the terror that pulses through his veins. his every heartbeat asks him if jordie’s has stopped, if this is the first heartbeat that beats without his son in the world.

it pumped and danced and skipped a beat, it truly did. so many times. when he lifted inej into his arms the first time, when she sat there beside him in the bed with tears on her cheeks and told him he couldn’t give up now that there were three of them, when jordie took his first step, said his first word.

kaz closes his eyes. when i sleep, my soul… you keep. he hates himself for wanting to give up, from wanting to escape this pain and this constant fear and this pressure. he’s held many lives in his hand before, but - he hates himself for thinking it - no one nearly as close to his heart as this small one, young one. he can’t screw this up, he just can’t. he mustn’t. one wrong step and jordie loses a leg or a hand or both or worse.

kaz bows his head, feels his heart fall apart again and again and again. he’ll never see her again. ever. what if he’ll never see any of them? what if the last memory of jordie will be his outstretched arm and desperate face, his voice crying out PAPA!

the last thing he saw of inej was her small body in the waves. i fucking shook my head, inej. i fucking told you not to follow.

kaz sobs, but tries not to. i need to be strong for jordie. jordie; the miracle she gave him; they boy he’s currently failing to keep safe.

i’m sorry, nej.

he closes his eyes. wishes she was dead when the sharks came. wishes more than anything that she never had the time to see him pass out, that she didn’t have time to see

i wish for you to be happy. (don’t be mad at me if i fail this)

i wish for you to be free. (i hope you’re letting your hair out in the wind.)

i wish for you to be fearless. (i hope you have the courage to look away.)

he knows that’s three wishes. but he needs one more.

i wish for you not to see what happens to me.

because, kaz knows. this won’t end without blood. and he’ll do whatever he can, he’ll do anything, to make sure all that blood is his, and not jordie’s.

please forgive me.

[lukecastellandeservedbetter]

15. An Aggressive Dine and Dash

a/n: @book-lover-like-no-other comments on literally every single fic and it makes my heart so happy so this is another part dedicated to them! 

read the others!: Masterlist

There would’ve been bloodshed if weapons were allowed in the Forum. 

The shots were coming from the Argo II, and Luke saw Jason and Piper being surrounded by an angry mob. Piper’s charmspeak was failing, and Jason looked absolutely distraught over the people he grew up with turning on him, thinking he had turned on them. 

“I’m on your side! I’m on your side!” He shouted desperately. 

Luke’s heart ached for him. 

“Percy!” Hazel and Frank came running over to meet the pair, watching everything in horror. 

Annabeth and Reyna came over the hills as the cavalry marched in. Reyna ran past, trying to stop the legion from attacking, and Annabeth looked around before spotting the four demigods and headed over. 

“What’s going on?” Percy yelled to Annabeth, over the commotion. 

“I’ll tell you what happened!” A voice shouted from above. “The Greeks have turned their ship against us! Their friend Leo is shooting fire at us right now!” 

Octavian. 

“I don’t believe it,” Annabeth muttered. 

“I saw him with my own eyes!” Octavian continued. “Romans, kill the intruders!” 

“We need to get out of here, and fast.” Luke told them, looking over at where Jason and Piper were still struggling. 

“Please,” Jason looked like a scared little boy amongst all the chaos, and Luke could finally see the child Thalia had described to him once. “Please, Romans, I’m on your side!” He cried out, trying to shield Piper as best he could. 

A brick soared through the air, and Jason crumpled to the ground from the impact. Piper screamed, and the Roman’s hesitated. 

It wouldn’t last long. 

Percy gave Frank and Hazel a choice. Luke couldn’t hear what was being said over the commotion, and he elbowed a Roman that was coming for an unsuspecting Annabeth. “What’s the plan Perc?” He asked, watching Hazel climb onto a horse and take off. 

“Up to the ship, c’mon,” Percy took off, leaving Frank behind. 

Luke, Annabeth and Percy scrambled up the ladder, and Luke made the mistake of looking back. 

“Is that a fucking dragon?” Luke shouted over the wind to Percy, his scar throbbing for just a moment at the thought of his last encounter with a dragon. 

“No, that’s Frank!” He shouted back, helping Luke onto the boat. 

Luke figured Percy had to be joking. 

“Leo!” Annabeth yelled. “What are you doing?” 

Leo turned to them, his eyes glazed over. “Destroy them,” He said dreamily. “Destroy them a-”

Luke tackled Leo to the ground. Leo’s head bounced off the deck and he went slack. 

“Annabeth, get us out of here!” Percy shouted, rushing over to help Luke. “Luke, unload that canon, we don’t need it going off.” He commanded. 

Both demigods sprang into action as the huge dragon flew onto the ship, gently setting an unconscious Jason and hysterical Piper onto the deck before morphing into the body of a regular 15-year-old boy. 

Okay, so Percy wasn’t joking. 

The ship shot up into the sky, away from the burning of New Rome. 

-

Luke stared at the Imperial Gold short sword, though in comparison to his usual Celestial Bronze one he would call it more of a long dagger, and wondered how the hell he managed it. 

It was an instinct, he supposed. Even he wasn’t impervious to the Hermes kids' inclination towards kleptomania. In fact, before making it to camp, he was an expert lock picker and thief- he had to be. It was a matter of life or death back then. When he got to camp, he didn’t need to steal, so he didn’t. But some part of him thought he needed this dagger, so his fingers moved on their own accord. 

Percy came into the lounge and looked at Luke perplexed. “I didn’t even see you grab it.” He said surprised, Annabeth following suit. 

“Child of Hermes,” He reminded Percy, shaking the knife at him jokingly, before slipping the short sword into the sword holder in the chair, right with his celestial bronze one. “How’s Jason?” 

“Resting.” Percy nodded. “He’ll be fine though.” 

Luke nodded and looked at the images of Camp Half-Blood. “And what’s your verdict with Leo?” He asked, looking at Annabeth. 

Annabeth sighed, obviously tired as she took a seat next to Percy. “He said he did do it.” She said finally. “But he said it was like he was watching himself do things he didn’t want to do.” She looked up at Luke with a different sort of expression- for once all the anger she had against him seemed to dim. “I figured that would be your area of expertise.” 

Luke leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. “When Kronos…” He hesitated, swallowing a little bit, his eyes finding his hands. 

Talking about this while feeling the ship hit the water was putting him back in that space, and he didn’t like it. 

“It wasn’t like I was watching myself do it. When I was awake… I knew it was him doing everything. I was watching a lot from inside my own head, like, watching the memories as he made them.” He furrowed his eyebrows, the pulsing of a migraine behind his eyes coming like it always did when he thought too hard about his time trapped in his own mind. “I don’t know. But I wouldn’t describe it as watching myself do things I didn’t want to do. It wasn’t forced. He just took over my motor ability.” 

“You also wanted it, right?” Annabeth pressed, but it wasn’t full of the coldness it usually was- she was just making a point. “Maybe not all of it, but you knew what you were going into. You let him in.” 

“I highly doubt it was Kronos, or the Roman equivalent that possessed Leo,” Luke told her. “I had to dip into the River Styx, and train to get strong enough for my body to be strong enough to hold him, and even then he was slowly burning my body away from the inside. Any deity, even a minor god, would’ve killed Leo instantly.” 

“So your friend Leo did do it then.” Percy’s eyes darkened. 

“He was with Octavian, maybe-”

“No, he said Octavian didn’t make him do anything.” Annabeth interjected and sighed. 

Leo came into the lounge with Hazel and Frank in tow, and Percy got up. “Annabeth said you did do it,” Percy glared, taking a step towards Leo. 

Annabeth got up, placing a hand on his chest. “I don’t think it was Leo who was in control. But we’ll figure it out later,” She commanded. 

Leo looked at Luke, fear in his eyes. Luke nodded to him, hoping he looked a little more encouraging. He didn’t think the kid that made sure he had a training space in his room because of a hunch and used his test flight time to take him back to Manhattan to see Sally would intentionally try and blow up the allies they so desperately needed, especially with Jason and Piper on the ground. 

And he still didn’t trust Octavian. 

“We need to make sure we can fix the ship before we do anything.” She turned back to Leo. “What do we need?” 

“Festus did a scan, and there’s an island not far from here that has the lime and celestial bronze. We also need tar, but you can get that from any home improvement store.” He explained. “We should go out in groups, retrieve the stuff.” 

“Splitting up doesn’t really sound like a good idea…” Percy rubbed the back of his head. 

“It’ll be faster,” Hazel piped up. “Besides, demigods can only go out in groups of three anyways, or they attract too much attention.” 

Annabeth nodded. “That’s why we have the Argo II, it covers our scent, and protects us. But if we are going out it shouldn’t be more than three people.” 

Percy threw an arm around Annabeth. “Well as long as you’re my partner I don’t care.” He said finally. 

“Frank, that dragon trick was great, you should go with Percy and Annabeth, you can fly them into town.” Hazel told him. 

“I mean, I could, yeah. But what about you?” He frowned. 

Hazel shrugged. “I’ll go to the island with Luke and Sa… Leo.” She caught herself in time. “We can take Arion.” 

“Your horse won’t be able to take more than one or two people,” Luke told her. “I’ll stay here, that way Piper can stay with Jason and I can keep watch.” 

Everyone had their roles, and agreed to meet back at the boat before dark. 

As the two groups departed, Luke sat on the upper deck of the ship, taking a deep breath. “Well we didn’t die,” He mumbled, his eyes closed. “At this rate, I call it a win. Thanks dad. I’ll burn an offering at dinner, when everyone gets back.” 

The wind was soft and calm and for a moment, Luke could’ve sworn he heard an almost familiar man’s voice whisper ‘be safe’. 

But the wind fell silent once more, and Luke was alone. 

[eat0crow]

Jasonette first meeting please?

I’ve written a couple Jasonette first meetings already but I was scrolling through a prompt list and -You just snuck into my apartment and wait is that blood-stuck out to me. Hope you enjoy!

This fic was beta-read by the lovely @the17thtearoom

Is That Blood

Kwami knows that Marinette is a scatter-brained mess no matter what time of day it is. She would like to deny it, but really, no one would believe her. She blames Tikki, even if she was a disaster before the little fortune god came into her life. Nino has the proof, and has justly been sworn to silence.

There is never a need to relive the fourth grade. Never.

There’s a general swirl of chaos that follows Marinette wherever she goes: Paris, London, New York, now Gotham. It’s one of the reasons, maybe even the reason that despite desperately needing someone around to help out with the rent—Gotham charged way too much for a studio apartment, how the hell is it more expensive than Manhattan—she’s never looked for a roommate. Not after spending a month bunking with Alya, and driving the girl insane.

Alya hadn’t been the one to ask her to leave, she’d claimed Marinette was fine. Marinette had seen the way her eye twitched after the fourth time, in a week's span, she had come home tracking some dark, vaguely sticky substance behind her.

For the sake of their friendship, Marinette had moved out a little over a week later.

With this in mind, Marinette thinks she’s being overwhelmingly okay with the situation when her first question, upon stepping foot back into her apartment, happens to be, “Is that blood?”

Not, “how did you get in here”, or “who are you?” Is that blood? When did her life get this weird? Oh yeah, when she—a newly turned fourteen-year-old girl—was entrusted with guardianship over some of the most powerful deities in creation. That’s when.

It’s only after watching the man for an uncomfortable amount of time that Marinette notices the sickly crackling of unnatural magic clinging to the air around him. There’s a pool of dark magic sitting in her living room. It’s coating him, clinging to his very being and dripping, toxic, onto the pale beige carpeting.

God the carpeting, blood stains are a bitch to get out. At least he had the sense to push back the coffee table, and not sit on the couch that Marinette’s fairly sure, has been in this apartment since before she was born.

The stranger pauses his stitching mid-action, needle freezing halfway through the gash on his leg. Marinette is concerned.

“No, it’s cranberry juice,” he says sarcastically, even as he presses a towel, her pink bunny towel no less, against his leg. It’s clearly an attempt to hide the murder scene she just walked in on, but honestly, the towel is turning a disgusting shade of rusty brown.

Marinette takes one fortifying look around her living room, paying particular attention to the sticky wet spot her home invader is sitting in. He had better not have touched her one true love. If the coffee maker is broken she will break him.

“You should finish stitching that up before you bleed to death all over my carpet.”

“I’m not going to bleed out in the middle of your living room.”

Marinette grabs her emergency first aid kit, the one she keeps tucked safely in the umbrella stand. It’s a beast, and maybe Marinette had been a little obsessive when it came to putting it together, but she had spent a good portion of her life fighting. She liked to be prepared, even if being prepared meant carrying around a walking pharmacy.

Delicately, Marinette did her best to avoid mashing the blood further into the carpet. “I have a tourniquet in here just in case, but it doesn’t look like we need it. You did remember to disinfect the cut before you started stitching, right?”

She’s close enough now, knelt next to the man, to really make out his features. The pressure she forces down on the wound makes him wince, and Marinette blinks. Green eyes, there’s an aura to them that reminds Marinette distinctly of Tikki’s magic, a faint light just barely visible—Lazarus light. Well, that explained the corruption clinging to the air.

“I didn’t think you would be too thrilled with me poking around your bathroom,” he hisses out, sharp and very clearly in pain.

Marinette would usually let a lie like that go, but her patience is getting dangerously thin. “You could have spent another minute grabbing the peroxide from the medicine cabinet. It’s not like I can’t see your bloody footprints marking your trail. You grabbed my favorite towel, but not the one thing that prevents a staph infection. Who taught you first aid? Honestly! ”

A dark brow raises upward, clear interest taking over the strangers face. “You’re remarkably calm for someone who just found a random stranger dripping blood all over their apartment.”

“I’m more than a little pissed over that. You owe me a carpet cleaning.” Marinette grabs the travel-sized bottle of peroxide out of her kit, along with her sterilized needle, lighter, actual stitching thread—why the fuck is he using dental floss? Why?—and a roll of gauze. She’ll probably need more later, but for now, this is good. “You’re giving yourself way too much credit. This isn’t even close to the strangest thing I’ve seen this week. Now, this is going to sting like a bitch, but you broke into my apartment so, you deserve it.”

He lets out a long string of curses, biting down hard on his hand as Marinette pours the disinfectant over the wound. It’s a good three inches long and at least a centimeter deep. He needs a hospital but, seeing as his first choice was breaking and entering, Marinette’s probably as close to a professional as he’ll see.

“Fucking shit,” he grounds out around clenched teeth. Marinette has to take out the stitches he’s already done. They’re uneven and sloppy, probably because he’d been using the needle from her sewing kit. She slips her surgical scissors, the fresh pair she just held under her lighter, against the floss. His face loses all color as she carefully works the four rows he made out. “I know you’re pissed, but I don’t deserve this.”

Marinette casts him her most deadpan expression as she lights the curved stitching needle on fire. “Who's the dumbass who didn’t disinfect his—what? Stab wound? It looks like a stab wound, do you have any idea where that knife could have been? You’re lucky I’m nice enough not to let you get a blood infection.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Nice enough. You’re a regular ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”

“You’re the one who broke in.” Marinette takes satisfaction in stabbing her needle into the skin and watching as his smirk turns into a grimace. “How did you get in here anyway? The front door was still locked.”

“I kicked in the back door,” he admits, with just the faintest hint of shame. “It was hanging on by a bolt and a decades worth of rust.”

“You’re lucky you’re already bleeding.”

“I was in a hurry, okay,” he says defensively. “My friend lives in the same apartment number one complex over. I apparently was off a bit with my directions. I promise, I don't usually break into random people’s homes.”

“Guess I’m just special then.” Marinette has to hide her smile by occupying herself with cleaning up. She’s angry at him, damn it!

“I’ll fix the door for you if you want? And I’ll pay for one of those rug doctors Walmart rents.” He carefully stretches out his leg. He’s a bit unsteady on his feet. A mix between pain and blood loss no doubt. Wordlessly she offers up a bottle of Tylenol.

She regrets handing it to him a nanosecond later when he takes a double dose and then, throws back a third for good measure.

“Oh, you’re going to be paying my cleaning bill all right, but the door can wait,” Marinette says, getting up, and heading over to her kitchen. There is no problem in the world food doesn’t make better. “You look like you could really use some breakfast, and I’ve had nowhere near my daily dose of caffeine. We can figure everything out after we’ve eaten.”

The man follows her over, leaning heavily against the wall to support his weight. It’s a sorry sight. He makes an aborted move to help her before deciding that nope, he really can’t stand for all that long. “Did I tell you how weird you are yet? I feel like I should have.”

“Would you rather I call the cops and kick you out?” Marinette asks, pushing the coffee maker to the very edge of the counter. He can reach it if he tries. Marinette fully plans to make him. With a bit more force than necessary, she slams down her jar of coffee mix. “Clearly you’re lucid enough to make some coffee while I fry up some eggs.”

There’s a spark of amusement in the stranger's eyes. His smirk is back, and he watches Marinette with something like glee. “Sure thing, firefly.”

“It’s Marinette,” she corrects, not bothering to turn away from the stove. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I’d say it’s nice to meet you but...you did break into my house.”

“That’s fair,” the stranger agrees. Reaching for her phone instead of the stack of coffee filters. The bastard, doesn’t he realize how thin her sanity is stretching? “Jason Todd. You mind if I use your phone for a minute. Roy can stop by Home Depot, and get you a new door. So we won’t be reinstalling something that was already on its last legs.”

Marinette feels a headache coming on. “I’ll make enough for three then. Just have him pick up some kind of cleaner so the stain doesn’t set in.”