#i did not expect this chapter to end like this

[cressidagrey]

Brighten Up the Sky

This started as a prompt from the lovely @satiresunflower, (though it is pretty much unrecognisable from the prompt she actually gave. She did give me permission to go wild though, so this is what you get lol) 

This starts in Chapter 14 of ACOWAR, so some of the sentences are taken verbatim from the original text. I did change it into 3rd person, because me trying to write in 1st person never ends well. I also think there is a longer story in this particular idea, but quite frankly, I don’t have it in me to write it right now. 

Summary:

A Mating Bond between her younger sister and the Night Court’s shadowsinger was the last thing Feyre had expected to spring up…but then, maybe it did make sense. 

Warning:

Public Displays of affection, kinda Nesta bashing, but like...she has her reasons?, Cassian being annoying

(Lovely dividers thanks to @cafekitsune)

“Where are my sisters?” Feyre asked, the thought clanging through her head as jarring as a pealing bell. 

Her sisters

Rhys paused for just a moment, his hand slipping from her hair as his smile faded. “Elain and Nesta are at the House of Wind.” He straightened, swallowing. “I can—take you to them.” Every word seemed to be an effort.

But he would, Feyre realized. He’d shove down his need for her and take her to them, if that was what she wanted. Her choice. It had always been her choice with him.

Feyre shook my head. She wouldn’t see them—not yet. Not until she was steady enough to face them.

“They’re well, though?”

His hesitation told her enough. 

“They’re safe,” Rhys answered quietly. 

"That’s good," Feyre murmured as she took a deep breath in an attempt to calm the swirling, churning emotions inside her chest.

Her sisters...her sisters were safe. That was something. That was enough. For now. 

Only then she realised something else.

“You said Nesta and Elain are at the House of Wind,” Feyre pointed out, her hands clenching, her heart beating faster. “Where’s Alana?” she demanded, singling out her younger sister…singling out her half sister. 

The result of their father’s dalliance with a maid during her mother’s pregnancy with Feyre. Alana was just 6 months younger than her. Alana’s mother had died during childbirth…so their father had been saddled with another squealing infant that his wife was ill-pleased with. 

Nesta liked to say that that affair had eventually killed their mother. Feyre thought it to be ridiculous. It had been a fever and Alana had nothing to do with it, because she had been a literal child…and Alana had lost her voice to the very same fever. Feyre could still remember her singing like a pealing bell when she had been a child…and then…then she hadn’t been able to anymore. Even talking was near impossible for Alana, her throat unable to produce any sounds. 

Even as Alsna had been thrown into the cauldron…Her mouth had been open in a silent scream, but no sound had come out of her mouth. 

A shudder ran through her at that memory.

Alana. Her sweet, quiet younger sister. The sister that always smiled too sweetly and saw too much with those sharp eyes of hers. 

"Where is Alana?" She repeated. The silence in the room hung thick in the air as Rhys continued to hesitate.

A prickle of unease started to make its way up her spine. 

“Rhys, where is Alana?!” she demanded, her voice rising. 

“She’s safe, I swear,” Rhys hurried to promise her. “She’s not staying with Nesta and Elain but she’s safe. She should be here soon. I think…everything else…you should ask her about that.”

His words did little to soothe her worries, the unease that now clawed up her spine stronger.

“You’re not telling me something,” she pointed out, her brow furrowing. “Rhys, what are you not telling me?” 

She thought back to the last time she had seen her sister…thought back to her being poured out onto the wet stone floor from the cauldron…not a noise had come from her…nothing. She had…She had been poured out of the cauldron and had just kneeled on that stone floor as they had forced Nesta into the cauldron after her. 

She hadn’t…she had been…absent. Like the cauldron had taken too much from her. 

And then, in the moment as Mor had pushed Lucien away from Nesta and Elain, Feyre had seen Alana lunge. 

Not for the King of Hybern. Not even for Mor, who would have been closer to her…But for Cassian and Azriel for some reason. She wasn’t sure what had been Alana’s reasoning. Wasn’t sure what…Rhys had grasped all three of them and winnowed them away. 

Her heart was now hammering.

“What did you do with her?” Feyre demanded, her voice growing panicked. “What did you do with Alana? Why isn’t she staying with Nesta and Elain?” Feyre asked, her voice forcedly calm. “Rhys, what is going on?”

There was another moment of hesitation, another moment of silence, before Rhys finally replied. "She just…opted to stay elsewhere."

Those words did little to reassure her.

"Where?" Feyre pressed, her eyes narrowed. 

Rhys sighed. “How about you get into that bath that should be ready by now?” he suggested. “I’ll…tell you some of what happened. But I do think that some of the things should come from Alana and not from me,” he pointed out drily. 

The last thing she wanted to do right now was take a bath, the last thing she wanted to do was to be pacified with pretty words and nice things. That was the last thing she wanted.

But...he was right. She needed to be clean. 

Feyre growled at her mate, but stomped into the bathing chamber, stripping out of her clothing. Her fingers were near-black with dirt and caked blood. 

Rhys snapped his fingers, and her skin was nearly instantly pristine again. “Tell me what happened,” Feyre said flatly, as she sunk into the blood-hot water. “Why isn’t Alana staying at the House of Wind?”

Rhys was silent for a moment as he looked at her, his mouth in a grim line.

Then he let out a deep sigh, sitting down on the edge of the bathing tub. “A lot of things happened,” Rhys said drily. “But the biggest reason why Alana isn’t at the House of Wind is mostly that…I can’t guarantee Nesta’s safety, if she keeps spewing some of her venom in Alana’s direction.”

Feyre’s brow shot up at that, her heart skipping a beat. “What?” she demanded. “Rhys, what are you talking about?” That didn’t sound—didn’t sound like...

To say that Nesta and Alana didn’t get along was an understatement. Nesta gave Alana the fault for seemingly everything and Alana…well, she played deaf. And even more mute than she normally was. Even when Feyre‘s sister hadn’t been able to talk, she had been more than able to communicate if she wanted to, either with her expressive face, or her hands. And still, Alana had pretended like it wasn’t happening. Elain was no better to her…Elain liked to ignore Alana’s very existence.

But Alana wouldn’t have done anything…Alana wouldn’t have…

“Alana doesn’t lose her temper,” Feyre said carefully as she looked at Rhys. “She doesn’t.”

“She didn’t,” Rhys said drily. “My spymaster did.” 

A puzzled frown crossed over her face at that. “Azriel?” Feyre asked, her eyebrows furrowing. “What did he do?”

Azriel had lost his temper with Nesta? 

“If Cassian hadn’t been there, I think Azriel would have torn out Nesta’s throat with his bare hands,” Rhys said with a grimace. “It was…bad.”

Feyre’s jaw dropped.

Azriel, tearing out Nesta’s throat? With his hands? That…that didn’t sound like him. Not at all.

“I...” Feyre had no idea what to say. Why would Azriel have done that?  Feyre couldn’t…Of course, she knew that Azriel was capable of great violence, but he had never…she had never seen him lose his temper with a member of his family. Had never even through that that was a possibility. Whatever Nesta had said, must have been…

If he had gotten this angry on Alana’s behalf…What exactly had been said?

"What did Nesta do? What did she say?" Feyre asked, her voice hard. "What did she say to warrant that reaction from Azriel?" 

Rhys grimaced, shaking  his head. “You don’t want to know,” he said, his voice low. “Trust me, you do not want to know what she said. It's...complicated."

"Complicated, how?" Feyre demanded as she towelled herself off, walking back into the bedroom and pulled on comfortable clothing, her worry mounting. "What could possibly be so bad that you don't want to tell me?" 

If it was bad enough that Rhys didn't want to tell her what exactly happened...what exactly had been said.

"Well, that…” Rhys trailed off.

"Tell me," Feyre demanded again. "What exactly happened after…Hybern?"

Her mate gave in, holding out his hand and she joined him sitting on the edge of their bed.

Their bed.

She was home. Finally.

Rhys sighed.

“After Hybern…Mor dropped Nesta and Elain off at the House of Wind and then came back to the Townhouse. I had…I had Azriel and Cassian, and Alana too” Rhys said quietly and Feyre swallowed. Azriel and Cassian were healed. Rhys had told her that…but somehow she hadn’t been able to believe it…until she had seen it. 

“Amren tried to stop the blood flow from the literal hole in Azriel’s chest. I didn’t notice at first…Alana was kneeling at Azriel’s side…covered in his blood…holding his head on her lap…” Rhys’s violet eyes seemed to be far, far away, as he nearly shuddered, just thinking about it. “Azriel was…in and out of consciousness…but he was just…he was just holding onto her.”

Feyre’s heart was lodged in her throat. Azriel, nearly dead, was just…holding Alana. Her head was spinning as her mind worked hard to comprehend this. 

“The mating bond snapped for them,” Rhys finally said quietly. 

Feyre’s eyes widened. Her mouth went suddenly dry.

The…the mating bond? Alana and Azriel? Mates?

“The mating bond,” she echoed faintly. “The…the mating bond.” 

Feyre was quite sure that her jaw dropped. And that she stared at Rhys like he had just grown a second head.

“Azriel and Alana?” Feyre asked, unable to believe that. Azriel and Alana?! The brooding shadowsinger and spymaster of the Night Court and her youngest sister?

Azriel, who seemed to have a thing for Mor and had never looked at another female as far as Feyre was aware?

Rhys winced at her look.

"Yes, I know," he said quietly, wincing. "That was…my reaction too. I didn’t see it coming. I don’t think that anyone saw this coming...especially not Azriel." 

Feyre’s mind was racing.

Azriel and Alana. Mates.

She couldn’t…she never would have imagined it. Never seen it coming. Not in a thousand years. 

“Have they…” she wasn’t even sure what she was asking.

“Three days late,” Rhys said with a sigh. “They were not willing to wait.” 

“Three day?!” Feyre demanded. As far as she knew, Alana had never even entertained the thought of a suitor. Not that there had been any men that had looked over the fact that she was a bastard…and mute. They had never bothered to look further and Alana had never fussed about it either. 

"Three days," Rhys repeated. "The moment Azriel was well enough to be mobile again, they mated."  Rhys shuddered, his face scrunching up in distaste. “They are insufferable. The both of them.” 

"What do you mean, insufferable?" Feyre asked. A million thoughts were running through her head. Alana and Azriel…mates. They mated. 

"They could not stay away from each other," Rhys said, shuddering again. "They were...touchy. All the time. And so very...cutesy and sweet with each other. Gods, they are nauseating."

Feyre’s eyebrows rose at that. Alana and Azriel. Touchy? Cutesy and sweet? She could barely even imagine it. Alana...and Azriel. Being affectionate. 

"She’s sitting on his lap constantly," her mate groaned, rubbing his eyes hard. "And he is just…constantly touching her. I don’t even think that they have gone a whole five minutes without touching each other."

"And the looks," her mate continued drily. "Gods, they are exchanging these  looks. You would have thought that they are the soppiest, lovesick couple in existence. I did not ever need to see Azriel making heart-eyes at Alana. That was…traumatising."

Feyre pressed her hand to her mouth to muffle a snort. Azriel, making heart-eyes? That was a sight that she could not quite imagine. She…she hadn’t even thought that Azriel was even…capable of making heart-eyes. 

"Cassian and Mor kept poking fun at them. At every opportunity, which they definitely got often. Alana just…ignored them. But Azriel…" Rhys’ lips curled into a smirk. "He was not as amused as Alana by their teasing. He kept threatening violence every five minutes."

Feyre’s eyes widened at that, a laugh escaping her.

Azriel threatening violence for every five minutes that someone teased him about his new mate? She could not picture that either. 

"Cassian started making kissy faces at Alana just to see if Azriel would lose his temper," her mate said, a broad smile on his face. "And let me tell you, he nearly clawed out Cas’ eyeballs for it."

"So she's staying here?" Feyre asked carefully.

Rhys shook his head, his expression growing more serious. "She's at Azriel's house," he explained with a sigh. "It's...the cauldron left her with some...abilities. She’s a daemati…of sorts, at least,” Rhys said with a grimace. “We are still trying to figure out…how exactly it works. You and me…we need to concentrate if we want to read somebody’s thoughts. Alana…she said it was like she was standing in the middle of a market square and everybody is shouting at her,” Rhys said quietly. “We haven’t yet found anybody with shields solid enough to keep her out.”

Feyre swallowed at that. Alana, a daemati…of sorts. Having no control over whose thoughts she heard. No control over how loud everything was. 

“It’s like every mental wall, doesn’t even exist for her," Rhys said with a sigh. "Being around Amren gives her a headache too apparently. Azriel and Cassian are the most relaxing to be around according to her. There minds seem to be...even, analytical."

It sounded like a living hell. No control, no shields. Nothing.

“Is she…” Feyre’s voice was quiet. “Is she doing alright? Considering everything that happened.” 

“She’s fine,” Rhys promised her. “Alana is probably doing the best of them all,” Rhys said, something like amusement bleeding into his voice. “She can tell you all about it."

There was a knock at the door at that moment.

Feyre tensed as her eyes flew to the door.

“That’s her,” Rhys said quietly, placing a soothing hand on her leg. “Are you ready?” 

Feyre took a deep, steadying breath, pushing down her worry and her nerves.

“I’m ready,” she said. 

“Feyre!”

Her sister's voice. Her sister's voice.

Feyre’s heart skipped a beat as her body went rigid.

She couldn’t…she couldn’t believe it. After so long…after believing…believing for so long that she would never hear Alana’s voice…

Feyre remembered with a shudder the sight of small, slight Alana in her translucent nightgown…being poured out of the cauldron onto the stone...She looked nothing like she did now.

She looked well.

That was the first thing Feyre realised. Colour on her cheeks, dark, pin straight hair pinned away from her face and these devasting doe eyes…

Feyre’s eyes roamed over her sister, drinking in the sight of her. Alive. Well. Whole.

She could barely believe it, her mind struggling to catch up. 

"You can talk," Feyre whispered as Alana hugged her.  

She grimaced.

Kinda. This is easier though, she answered, her mental voice slipping into Feyre's mind without her even noticing. My throat hurts if I talk too much.

It was strange, having a voice in her mind that was not her own. Different from when her mate spoke to her down the bond. It was more…pronounced. Clearer, somehow. 

"Are…” Feyre’s voice broke again, her eyes roaming over Alana again. “Are you really alright, Al?” 

She drunk in her sister's face, the pale skin, the freckles that covered her face...she had been pretty as a human but as a fae...as a High fae she was gorgeous.

Alana’s eyes, her sister’s eyes, were still the same. Still that same dark, endless brown that had always seemed to hold so many secrets. She had never met anyone who could hold as many secrets as Alana had.

She looked so healthy, so well and Feyre felt a lump form in her throat. 

She had to fight the sudden urge to cry, as she pulled her sister into another hug. Her sister’s slender arms wrapped around her, pulling her in tight. Like she was never going to let her go again. 

I am alright, Alana promised fiercely. I am better than alright. I am...I am so happy, Fey.

The thought in her mind brought another wave of tears to Feyre’s eyes. She held on to her sister tighter, burying her face against her neck as a sob escaped her and she inhaled her sister’s familiar, comforting scent. Pomegranate and Vanilla, with an underlay of Azriel. 

He treats you well? she asked, cradling her sisters face in her hands. She didn't think that Azriel would...mistreat her but...

Alana’s eyes darkened as she thought of Azriel and her expression softened as a faint smile crossed her face. 

Feyre swallowed again. This was different. This was…her sister had never smiled like that. So open. So happy. So filled with…love. 

And then, very carefully, Feyre felt how Alana pulled at her mind in some sense and then dropped a memory.

For just a moment, it felt like she was in her little sister's body. And she stared at Azriel who looked at her, at Alana with utter and complete adoration, scarred hands cupping her cheeks so gently.

Feyre’s breath caught in her throat at that.

She could feel, could understand the feeling of Azriel’s warm, scarred hand against her skin. The way how the pads of his fingers ran over her jawline, the way how his thumb traced over her lower lip. The way how those hazel eyes of his were filled with nothing but love. 

A shudder ran down Feyre’s spine. That look, the way how Azriel had looked at her sister…it was like the expression in Rhys’ eyes when he looked at her. 

Her eyes flickered to Rhys, where he was patiently waiting in a corner.

He was looking at her with that same look in his eyes. The same look that Feyre knew was mirrored in her own eyes. It was the same, that look. Pure, utter devotion. 

It was the look of a man completely and utterly in love. 

Feyre swallowed as she turned back to Alana, her mind whirling. This was…Alana, her sister…her quiet, shy, closed-off little sister. And Azriel, the Shadowsinger and Spymaster of the Night Court. The one that no one saw as anything but sharp and deadly and a ruthless killer. 

He didn’t hurt you, did he? Feyre asked weakly. She didn’t think he would but…

Alana’s expression softened. Her hand gently came to rest on Feyre’s arm and she shook her head, a small smile on her face.

He was gentle as possible, Fey, Alana promised quietly. Gentler than I would have expected. He made sure to go slow, to be careful. He was…he was everything I could have wished for. He has never hurt me more than I wanted. 

Feyre let out a long, shaky breath she didn’t know that she was holding.

She…she had been worried. Worried for her sweet little sister, being together with a man like Azriel. Who was dangerous and deadly and…and lethal. 

What do you mean with no more than you wanted? she demanded suddenly. Alana just grinned at her, her laugh like a pealing bell.

A shudder ran down Feyre’s spine again. Alana’s…her sister’s voice, the sound of her laugh. It was the most wonderful sound that she had ever heard. She could’ve started bawling like a child, but the thought that Alana dropped into her mind just completely derailed her.

He knows what I like, and he’s happy to oblige. 

Feyre’s eyes widened and she choked on nothing.

She…oh Gods. Her face heat in a blush as Alana just continued smiling at her innocently. 

This was her sister. Her quiet, shy, closed-off sister. That was how she remembered her. And now…and now…she was standing in front of Feyre, smiling at her like a cat who had just devoured an entire bowl of cream, telling her that her stoic, broody, deadly Spymaster of a mate was apparently…into things… 

Her sister smirked at her. Alana! Her shy, little sister, who had never even so much as looked at a male with interest, stood in front of Feyre, a smirk on her face as she told Feyre that her mate knew what she liked. 

I was surprised too, you know, Alana’s voice echoed in Feyre’s mind. But well…I like it, and he’s happy to oblige. He’s very good at it… 

But the look on Alana’s face, the utter contentment in her eyes, and the feeling of…of lust from her sister, made it even more mortifying. 

Alana was happy. Her sister was happy and well, and she just radiated happiness. Feyre’s heart soared, seeing her sister like that after so long.  And even the horrifying bits, Feyre could push past.

Seeing her sister happy like this…that was worth a bit of mortification and discomfort. 

So she swallowed her mortification, and just pulled a face at her smirking sister.

Enough with the gory details, for the love of the Mother. she chided her in her head. Alana just let out another pearly bell kind of laugh.

You should come downstairs. Nuala and Cerridwen have given Lucien some clothing and showed him to a bathing chamber. Lunch should be served soon, if you are hungry, Alana said into her mind.

I am famished, Feyre confessed in her mind. “Lead the way,” she said aloud and Alana just rolled her eyes, taking her by the arm and pulling her downstairs. 

And then something else came to her mind. What did Nesta say to you?

Alana sighed. Nothing that matters, her sister said easily as they reached the dining room. Azriel and Cassian were waiting for them.

And then Feyre saw how her sister turned from happy to radiant as soon as she saw Azriel. 

Feyre watched with ill disguised horror, as the spymaster’s shadows came over to Alana, seemingly swarming around her. Whatever bits of naked skin they could find…in this case her hands and face, because she wore a long sleeves high necked gown, they caressed. Nearly sweetly. 

Alana absentmindedly drew her fingers through one tendril as she floated over to Azriel, sitting down onto his lap like that was an utterly normal thing to do. Feyre could just stare as Azriel pressed a kiss against her sister‘s cheek, one scarred hand possessively spanning her waist.

Like this was normal. Like this was something they had done dozens of times…like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like this was their usual routine…and Alana smiled at him, broadly, pressing a kiss against his cheek in greeting. 

It was...it was surreal, watching Alana like this. So much more open, less reserved than Feyre had ever seen her. And the way how Azriel looked at her...Feyre had never seen him express such open and utter adoration before. 

Cassian made a retching sound, catching Feyre’s attention. Azriel’s eyes darkened as he threw an icy look in Cassian’s direction. Alana just snuggled deeper into Azriel’s chest. 

Azriel let out the smallest of chuckles at Alana’s behaviour in his lap, one of his hands coming up to gently play with a strand of her dark hair as he pressed another kiss to her forehead. 

The quiet, brooding Spymaster of the Night Court, who could be downright terrifying when he wanted, completely and utterly smitten by her little sister. 

Feyre could just stare. 

She had not for one moment thought that they would…would be a good match. But here they were. 

Alana...Feyre had never seen her sister like this before. So open, so happy. So...unreserved. She was like a cat, settled in the lap of her male, letting him pet her like she was...like he owned her. And it seemed like Azriel would gladly claim ownership too. The possessive, proprietary look on his face told Feyre all she needed to know. 

“Get a room, for the love of the Mother,” Cassian drawled with a disgusted look on his face as Azriel buried his nose in her sister’s hair and Feyre shot him another dirty look. Alana just stuck her tongue out at him. 

Azriel just bared his teeth at Cassian, a silent warning to watch his tongue in the direction of the woman in his lap, who was busy playing with the buttons on his fighting leathers. 

“What did Nesta say?“ Feyre repeated as she sat down herself. 

The reactions were immediate. 

Azriel growled.

Feyre couldn’t help but flinch slightly. That growl...she hadn’t heard him make that sound before. It sounded utterly terrifying. Alana didn’t even flinch. She just touched Azriel’s chest in a soothing gesture and Azriel immediately quieted down, holding her even tighter. 

It doesn’t matter what Nesta had to say, Alana’s voice echoed in her mind.

“It absolutely does,” Feyre muttered, feeling some anger rising in her. Her sister deserved better than what Nesta had to say. 

I don’t care what she says, Alana replied in her mind. She can believe whatever she likes. She is entitled to her opinion. 

“She can be quiet about her opinion,” Azriel hissed. Only then Feyre realised that her sister must have been projecting her mental voice so that everybody could hear it.

"Azriel." Alana's voice was soft. "It's alright. We both know the truth. It doesn’t matter what she believes"

Azriel looked down at her and a slight frown appeared on his face. He gently cupped her sister's chin, his hazel eyes staring into her dark ones. Feyre could practically hear the silent conversation between them. 

Cassian sighed. "Nesta found out about the mating bond between Azriel and Alana and she didn't take it well," he told Feyre drily.

Of course, she didn’t. Of course, she didn’t. Feyre ground her teeth together. 

"So what exactly was said?" she asked sharply.

Cassian and Rhys shared a look as Azriel let out another warning growl. Feyre ignored him. 

I want to know, Feyre snapped towards Alana. Her sister stiffened. 

Feyre, Alana’s voice echoed in her mind, a hint of warning in her tone. Feyre pushed down a wave of irritation. 

Tell me, Feyre demanded. She was done with secrets. Done with not knowing things. 

It’s nothing, Alana tried to brush her off and Feyre’s irritation flared up in her stomach. 

It is not ‘nothing’. Feyre snapped at her. Her sister’s face was a stoic mask as Azriel let his hand span across her stomach. 

Nesta made a comment about how she was surprised that Azriel hadn't ripped me apart during our...mating. But maybe she shouldn't be surprised because I was a whore anyway, Alana finally answered. How a brute like him was all I amounted to, given that I was a bastard...and then there was some more stuff in that rant about how unfair it was that I had landed on my feet but Elain is...well...Elain isn't doing so good, Alana answered flatly.

Feyre felt her blood boil in her veins. Of course, Nesta would say something like that, the bitter, twisted...- Feyre bit down on the string of curses burning on her tongue. 

Nesta isn't doing well, Feyre. You can't take what she is saying right now to heart, Alana warned her softly. You haven't been in her mind...it's...it's bad.

Feyre felt some of her anger cool down ever so slightly. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t pissed off at Nesta for what she had said. Even if...even if Nesta wasn’t doing well. 

That doesn’t change anything about what she said, Feyre said through gritted teeth. 

I am not defending her, Alana said firmly. I love Nesta. Doesn’t mean that I like hearing her talk about Azriel like that. But Feyre... her voice grew softer. I have seen her mind. Her thoughts. She isn’t in a good place right now.

Feyre grimaced, feeling her anger slowly disappear. She didn’t like it. She didn’t want to. But...maybe Alana was right. Nesta was her sister, and Feyre loved her. Even after everything that had happened between them. 

Still...what she said... Feyre said weakly and Alana’s lips quirked. 

I know, she said gently. I was angry too. I nearly tore her head off. But Azriel...he was furious. I’ve never seen him like that before. 

Feyre didn’t need to be told how furious Azriel had been. The look in his eyes, the clenched jaw and the growl that Feyre had heard...she didn’t need anyone to tell her how the usually stoic male had been absolutely furious about what Nesta had said. 

"I'll talk to her," Feyre said aloud.

She ignored the dubious look that Cassian and Rhys were giving her. Her sister just smiled at her softly and nodded. 

Talk to her gently, she urged in Feyre’s mind. Please. And don’t...don’t try to defend me. It will only start a fight. 

Feyre winced. Even though, she didn’t like the thought of it and not defending her sister went completely against her nature, she knew that Alana was right. And her sister could read her thoughts with ease anyways. 

I’ll bite my tongue, Feyre promised her. Alana smiled at her again, that smile that lit up her entire face. Feyre felt her heart clench at the beautiful sight. 

“Thank you,” Alana said happily, her voice like the most wonderful sound. Feyre had a feeling that that was the thanks not only for agreeing not to defend her but for just...not making a scene. Feyre felt a small, answering smile tug at the corners of her own lips.

Instead, she watched her sister pick up a piece of bread from the plate in front of Azriel and hold it up for him to eat without another word. A silent gesture of acceptance.

Azriel’s lips twitched as he looked at his mate, sitting on his lap like she belonged there. But he obediently opened his mouth, a subtle sign of complete surrender to Alana. 

Cassian made another retching sound. Alana ignored him.

Azriel was the one who kissed Alana.

Feyre could have gone quite a long time without that sight. Especially because it wasn't a simple peck on the cheek or a quick kiss to her lips. 

Feyre could have gone forever without seeing her sister like this, settled in the lap of her mate, their bodies pressed together tightly as Azriel kissed her, devoured her, his hands possessively splayed out on her slender waist. 

"Now you are just fucking with me," Cassian said with a sigh.

Alana just broke out in a fit of giggles as Azriel threw a glare in Cassian’s direction. 

“Maybe I am,” Azriel mused, as Alana settled back into his lap. Azriel’s one scarred hand was back to playing with a strand of Alana’s hair. “Jealous?” he asked lightly and  Cassian actually growled at him.  Azriel snorted, his hand possessively covering Alana’s stomach, who was smiling like the happiest person in the world. 

“Shut up,” Cassian huffed. “I am not jealous. I just don’t want to know what you two get up to at night.” 

"Only at night?" Azriel asked drily. "Brother, you have much to learn."

Feyre groaned internally at the hint in Azriel’s voice as Cassian looked a little ashen, while Rhys burst out laughing and Alana let out another one of her pearly-bell like laughs. 

“Stop tormenting him,” Rhys said with a chuckle as Cassian tried to recover. “He’ll have nightmares for weeks if you continue like this.” 

“That sounds like a you problem,” Azriel replied, completely unrepentant, “not ours.” Alana was still giggling, a sound like tinkling bells in Feyre’s ears. 

“Of course you say that, you bastard,” Cassian said with a sigh as Azriel’s hand on Alana’s stomach started to slowly wander upwards. 

Feyre could see how Alana’s cheeks flushed slightly in response to the possessive touch. How her breathing quickened ever so slightly. Azriel’s lips twitched as he noticed it too. 

"We'll let you deal with Lucien," Alana said suddenly, gaining her feet quickly. "We'll see you at dinner. Az?"

“Coming, sweetheart,” Azriel said and Cassian made another retching sound as Feyre could feel the waves of possessiveness coming off Azriel in waves. Her sister was his. 

In a matter of heartbeats, they were gone. Feyre was left with Cassian and Rhys who were both looking at her intently. 

"Yes, they are always like that, if you wondered,” Cassian said with a roll of his eyes. "I think they are still in the Mating Frenzy."

“Most likely,” Rhys agreed with a chuckle. “But they also don’t seem to care who sees it. Mor is still horrified from walking in on them a few weeks ago.” 

“So would I be in her shoes,” Feyre said honestly and Cassian snickered. 

“They are insufferable, aren’t they?” He said with a grin. Rhys just chuckled. “So utterly happy.”

“Yes,” Feyre agreed, the image of the two of them, completely oblivious to the world around them still in her mind. “Unbelievably so.” 

“They’re also completely and utterly devoted to each other,” Rhys mused. “It is…kind of sweet.” Feyre nodded thoughtfully. 

It was sweet. The way Azriel looked at her sister, how he was so utterly possessive about her. And Alana…there wasn’t a hint of hesitation about her when it came to Azriel. 

"As long as she's happy," Feyre said quietly. As long as Alana was happy.

[flowering-thought]

Back with part 5!

Laswell comes in clutch as she should, God I love Laswell-

Thinking about having dedicated chapters to each of the boys so they all get their special moments with their cute nurse-

Masterlist

WARNING - MINORS DNI

AFAB reader and reader is described as feminine and chubby/plus sized.

Yandere themes, obsessive behavior, hints at stalking

Cod Psych Ward Unit × Reader

The ride was surprisingly quiet.

Most of the boys anticipated you fighting and cussing and were expecting a more rowdy trip.

But you spent half of the ride asleep or occasionally waking up for only a moment, looking for something to soothe your throat. It ended up with Graves being on water duty next to you and Konig tilting your head to meet the water bottle in his hands.

Halfway through the ride, you ended up becoming more coherent. You woke up with a massive headache, moaning out in pain as you struggled against the tight hold of Konigs arms.

Price looked back in the mirror, watching as your eyes slowly blinked away the sleep, your brows furrowing in confusion as you woke up.

You looked up to see Konigs mask, immediately tensing up at the odd sight, "What?" You croaked out, your voice hoarse from the combination of your throat being dry and aching. You had your head leaning against Konig's torso, facing to see Graves and Soap looking straight at you.

Out the window, all you could see were trees passing by, light snow in some areas. You felt your heart race as you struggled inside the tight bundle of blankets wrapped around you. Your limbs felt heavy, but your mind felt clear.

You could barely remember what happened earlier, the boys showing up at your door and the rush of things happening around your apartment and how you were carefully handled. You could barely remember the faint pets and the way they took care of you.

"What's going on?" You asked, noticing that in the row of seats in front of you, Gaz, Ghost, and Horangi turned their heads to look at you. Gaz had a relieved smile that you seemed to be better, while Ghost was just glad you were awake.

Horangi was looking at some of the others, wondering how to explain this situation. He sure as hell did not want to be the one to explain.

Ghost looked over at Price, unspoken communication between them before Price nodded, giving Ghost the go-ahead.

Ghost turned to face you as best he could, Konig helped you unravel the blankets a bit much to his disliking. He liked having you all bundled up in his arms, but he knew how uncomfortable you felt, so he helped your arms out, the simple soft shirt you wore as pajamas ruffled underneath.

Graves smiled at your disheveled appearance, watching as you tried to make a little bit of distance. He could feel your legs tensing up on his lap and tried to keep his hands still on your legs.

"Listen love, what I'm about to tell you might sound ridiculous, but it's true." He warned, watching as your eyes focused on his, your features matching his serious expression.

He began with how he, along with Price, Soap, and Gaz, were apart of the same task force, Nikolai being someone from Russia they could trust and who's saved their ass several times.

He tried to ignore how your brow raised, looking at him like he was insane while he continued, telling you about how Konig and Horangi are apart of another team with whom they have shared missions with on rare occasions.

At the end of it, you noticed he left out Graves and looked over at the man next to you, "What about Graves?" You asked, your brow raising questionably.

Ghost frowned as Graves smirked, "He's leaving me out cause me and 141 aren't exactly friends. I blame it on the cartel." He said. Soap looked pissed, jabbing his elbow into Graves, making him double over, holding his abdomen.

"We were friends till you and your company nearly killed me! Not to mention how you treated Alejandro. All to make a damn profit, you bastard!" Soap yelled, his lips pulled into a scowl. Ghost chuckled at Graves' pain, a semblance of a smirk showing behind his mask. You noticed that Prices' stare in the rear view mirror looked like he was smiling at the bit of chaos caused by Soap.

You watched as Graves and Soap argued, taking in the information Ghost continued to tell you. Each person here had decided to book dates to retire a couple of months away from each other, but they wanted a chance at maybe living a normal life.

You listened as he explained people high up in their government's weren't exactly happy at the news and attempted to goad them into staying longer and it ended up with them getting locked in that hospital as a way for them to "think about it".

While you played around with the information in your mind, you realized that it did make sense. It was a ridiculous story, but with how they acted and their chart? It just didn't make sense that they were in a mental health ward when they didn't seem to need it as badly as you knew others did.

They seemed well and able to take care of themselves and not in a crisis. Even in long-term wards, most patients need more care given and clearly need that care. It's not a matter of how sane a person is but how they need to be cared for until they can feel decent enough and maintain themselves enough to be let back into society.

Plus, with how lax the ward was, it made even more sense. You let out a sigh, leaning back into Konig. "So world governments being shitty made you speedrun breaking out of a hospital. I can believe that, for the most part." You say, hearing a few relieved sighs at your claim.

But you looked straight at ghost again and then pointed at yourself, "So why am I here with escaped mental patients? That's the only thing I don't understand." You ask.

They were all silent at that, looking at each other before they then looked at Price, hoping him or Nikolai would come up with something. Nikolai even coughed into his hand a bit, shaking his head a little at the rest as a signal to shut their mouths.

At their silence, you pulled your blankets back around your shoulders and shut your eyes, "If you won't tell me, then I'm going back to sleep. I'm tired, and I can feel my limbs protesting at me for moving. Wherever we're going, you better explain why I'm here when we get there." You warned, yawning as you cuddled up against the blankets, trying to ignore the embarrassment of practically snuggling into Konig on his lap.

Konig was just thankful you couldn't see the blush reaching his neck and couldn't feel the buldge forming thanks to the blanket wrapped around you.

He had to adjust a bit, careful not to disturb you too much as you settled back in his arms.

Normally, it takes you a bit to sleep, but with the hum of the car engine and the soft motion of the car paired with you still having a fever helped you nod off. Konig pulled your head to lay back on his chest, giving your head some pets once he thought you were fully asleep. He didn't know that the light sound of his heartbeat helped lull you deeper into sleep.

The moment they went off road, they were careful to turn off the car lights, the moonlight bright enough. Price had Nik tell him where to go and which way to turn. Nik was way better with directions and locations than any of the others, so it was the best solution.

Once they saw a cabin come in veiw they stopped and hid the car behind some trees.

Price had Soap and Ghost go check out the cabin and clear it first. Even though it was Laswell, he never knew if someone intercepted their call. He couldn't risk getting caught now.

Ten minutes passed, and he saw the familiar figures of Soap and Ghost with Laswell by their side, standing in the doorway with a look that said to hurry up. Now that he was sure he brought the car up to the cabin and parked.

Everyone was glad to finally stretch their legs. It was about three in the morning and cold as hell where they were. Once they got everything inside, they had Konig bring you in the cabin, taking you to the bedroom so you could finally get a proper rest.

With you finally resting in a secure room, many of them felt safe to rest. Ghost was the first to splay out on the couch in the living room, his head tilted back as he closed his eyes.

Nikolai immediately took the big reclining chair and propped it up, his hands coming to rest together over his stomach, leaning back in the chair and groaning like a bear.

"Haven't sat in a chair like this in a while." He said, noticing Laswell approaching while Soap laid himself on Ghost, laughing when he groaned to get off him.

Gaz joined in, piling up on Soap.

Price chucked as he pulled a chair from the dining table and sat down. Konig decided to stand, his legs felt locked up and achy from being in that car for too long, and Horangi tried to move some legs off the couch so he could sit on the edge.

Graves had taken a shower the moment they arrived while everyone was bringing things in and arrived too late to get to sit, so he leaned against the wall, mumbling a complaint despite the fact it was clearly karma for not helping out.

Kate placed down a few files on the coffee table, Price lifting them up and going through them silently as she spoke, "I can't get you sanctuary in any of your home countries. Since most of them complied with letting you stay in that ward, they all agreed that even if you got out, you were out of their hands." She explained.

She looked over at Price and continued, "There's houses, three of them that I could find. They all have land and adequate space to house all of you. One in Switzerland, another in the Netherlands, and one in Sweden. All equally big with modern amenities even if the houses look older. They might need some fixing up here and there, but I trust you guys can do it.".

Price looked through the properties before handing the filed over for the rest to see.

And they all were the perfect place to stay hidden and out of sight. Without a proper reason, these countries wouldn't let a foreign government complain that their best operatives took asylum in their country. And it looked like Lasewell had already taken the proper steps to get them there.

And they all knew they couldn't incriminate them with anything. They had followed orders well, and every mission of theirs is blacked out so well in their mission reports that even if they tried to fit something incriminating in there, they could never prove it.

While the boys were busy discussing, Kate snuck away to check on you. Price only briefly mentioned you when they escaped and called her. She didn't think being sick and moved like this, likely without your permission, was leaving you in a good state. So she brought out some of the clothing they packed for you and a towel to leave for you when you woke up.

What Kate wasn't expecting to see when she opened the door was your disheveled form struggling with the lock on the window, confused as to why it wasn't unlocking.

She chuckled, starling you and making you turn around at the sound. You looked at her like a deer caught in headlights, your back against the window and wall.

Kate smiled softly before raising her hand to gesture to the bed, "I think I better explain some things before you think about escaping into the wilderness." She laughed out, watching as you sat down on the bed.

Kate leaned against the wall in front of you. Before you could ask anything, she started explaining everything just like the boys had.

From her perspective, it sounded even rougher than how the boys described it. How she didn't even know what happened and how she lost contact with them one day. How due to certain groups in government made it hard for her to find them until they finally made contact with her.

Kate sighed as she watched your reaction, your brows furrowed in frustration and a frown on your lips. She couldn't quite tell what you were thinking. This wasn't the typical meeting she was expecting.

"So all they said wasn't BS?" You asked, looking to Kate, who nodded. You let out a sigh before laying back on the bed. "Ugh, I knew the government was corrupt and shitty but putting military in a confined space where they have no control is an asshole move.".

Kate couldn't help but laugh and nod along with your observation. "You're right about that." She agreed, smiling before she approached the door.

She looked back to your form on the bed before saying one last thing, "I know it doesn't make sense that you're here. But the boys don't trust just anyone. And they don't treat anyone as carefully as they treat you. They don't have the same morals as most, but they'd never hurt you.".

She left you to yourself after that. You decided to use the shower in the bathroom connected to the bedroom, glad to finally rub away all the dirt and grime. You hated how heavy your limbs felt. Being sick wasn't fun, and you can't remember the last time you got this sick. You also cant remember the last time someone took care of you like the boys had.

The only bonus you guessed was that you finally weren't nauseous, and the steam from the shower was helping to unblock your nose. Unfortunately, the headache leftover from your fever was still plaguing you.

When you were finally out of the shower and dressed, you gladly plopped down on the bed. You stared at the ceiling before letting out a sigh. What were they going to do with you?

Okay, they cared about you, so they kidnapped you? You couldn't deny how nice it felt to be taken care of, and even when on the run they made sure you were hydrated and your fever did end up going down.

But you just couldn't get past them bringing you with them on the road.

You thought about getting up, looking over to the window where the sun began to rise and noticed the giant woodland outside the cabin.

Even if you could get outside the window and out of the cabin, you had no clue which direction in Alaska you went to. You don't have a clue how to survive out in the wilderness, and since Kate confirmed that they are indeed highly skilled operatives, even if you could get away, they'd track you down in a heartbeat.

Plus, it didn't look like the boys were going to hurt you. If anything, they probably cared for you like a sister, maybe...."Maybe.." You mumbled, your mind going to all their flirts and compliments before you sat up and shook your head.

Nope, they couldn't like you. Or that's what you told yourself.

Soon, a knock on the door followed, and the first man to walk through the door ended up tackling you to the bed, excitement running through his veins, "Lass!! You're up!".

You groaned at the sudden impact, watching as Soap hovered over you and stared you down, his eyes wandering over you carefully before realizing the position you two were in, a silly grin reaching his lips before he let his body lay on you and hug you close.

You tried to push him off, but damn was he heavy, "Soap! Get off!! Hey, you know, just cause I look and feel better doesn't mean you can't get sick!!" You warned.

He gave you a cheeky smile as his hands snuck down to your hips, grabbing them lightly as his face burrowed into your neck. You shuttered at the feeling of his breath on your neck and just as Soap opened his mouth more figures came in the room, including a very ticked off Price, "Johnny do you have no damn manners? She wasn't doing well just last night!" He warned, his hand reaching to grab the back of his shirt.

You watched Price pull off Soap and an annoyed Gaz lightly kick his shin, the two glaring at each other.

As the men filed into the room as though they were prepping for a military debrief, you sat up and wrapped a blanket around your shoulders, deciding that you felt a little safer with another layer on. Plus, you still felt a little shivery, and with your current headache, you'd take any amount of comfort you could get.

You felt a lot like a cornered animal with nowhere to run. It wasn't really with how tall these men in front of you were, but it was their sheer size. Mostly muscles, and even if they had some fat, it wasn't the kind that would be soft and easy to try and get away from.

You did think that they would be very comfortable to lay on if they had a bit of a tummy. Something nice and comfortable instead of hard. But you kept that in the back of your mind before opening your mouth.

"So, are you going to tell me why I'm here?"

[strvberrydoll]

CRIMSON TRAILS | Running Gun

Pairing: John Marston x F!Reader CW: mentions of past abuse, animal death, gun fight, period typical violence, injuries, blood loss, needles, in my mind John is 6’0 ok?? let me dream. WC: 7k A/N: and the story begins!! im giggling posting this eheh took me longer than expected to finish the chapter ‘cause i needed it to be impeccable. It’s nowhere near perfect but i fear my brain will melt if I look a second more at its google doc. As always let me know what you think and if you’d like to see more. Likes, reblogs and comments are highly suggested so I know what’s going on in your minds. Also! let me know if you want to be in the taglist

series masterlist | masterlist I AO3 link

The house always felt colder at night. Its long, empty hallways stretched out like an intricate maze, darkened by shadows that seemed to dance and twist with each flicker of candlelight. You had grown used to the chill that clung to your skin, used to the hollow feeling that echoed through the grand, oppressive mansion. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the distant tick of the grandfather clock at the end of the hall and the occasional clink of glass coming from the dining room downstairs.

You couldn’t sleep, like most nights, and wandered the corridors alone. Your little bare feet were silent against the polished floors as you wandered the empty corridors. Thankfully the second floor was empty, as all the maids were now occupied with a business party your father was hosting downstairs.

Not that it mattered, the maids barely looked at you anymore, and when they did, their eyes were sharp, filled with disdain. You heard them sometimes, whispering about you—how you were a burden, something unwanted. "The little ghost," they’d often call you, mocking how quiet and small you were. But it was the way your father looked at you that hurt most. Like you were the cause of everything wrong in his world. Like you had stolen something precious from him the day you were born.

Your chest tightened at the thought of him, and instinctively, your feet carried you toward the only place you ever felt safe.

A faint, warm glow spilled from beneath your brother’s door, a welcome contrast to the darkness of the house. You didn’t want to bother him, but you needed him. You always needed him. He was the only one who actually saw you, who cared for you in a world that seemed determined to treat you like a ghost and push you far away.

With a soft push, the door creaked open, revealing your brother, sitting on the edge of his bed. He was hunched over something, his dark hair messy from a long day. With the candlelight contrasting his frowning expression, he looked older than his sixteen years, but his eyes lit up when they met yours.

“Hey, Birdie,” he greeted, his warm voice chirped, though you could hear the exhaustion beneath it. “Can’t sleep again?”

You shook your head side to side and stepped into the room. The familiar scent of freshly washed bed sheets contrasted his usual scent of hay and tobacco wrapping around you like a blanket. He always smelled like the outdoors, like freedom. The kind of freedom that Governess Constance, the only person in that house aside from your brother that treated you like you were supposed to treat an eight years old kid, would read to you in one of your goodnight books.

“Come on then, sit here with me,” he said, patting the bed beside him. His voice was gentle, and as always, it soothed the growing ache in your chest. You scrambled up onto the bed, crossing your legs as you sat next to him.

On his lap was something wrapped in a soft cloth, the fabric fraying at the edges. He was working on it, carefully running a strange stone over the surface with long, practiced strokes. You watched in silence, following his every move with big curious eyes. The steady rhythm of the blade against the stone hypnotic.

“What’s that Isa?” You asked after a moment, your voice barely a whisper as you hugged one of his cushions.

Isaiah—your brother—hesitated, glancing at you from the corner of his eye before slowly unwrapping the cloth completely. Your breath caught in your throat as the object inside was revealed—a dagger. Not just any dagger, but a beautiful, intricately crafted one. The hilt was white adorned with swirling patterns with silver detailings, the blade gleamed in the candlelight, sharp and polished to perfection. A dangerous beauty.

“It’s for you,” he said quietly, holding it out for you to take.

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “For me?” you asked, your small hands trembling as you reached for it. The material of the hilt was cooler against your skin, the weight of the dagger much heavier than it looked. “W-why are you giving me this?”

He sighed, running a hand through his tangled hair, avoiding your gaze for a moment before putting one arm on your shoulder in a sideways embrace. “Because I can’t always protect you,” he said softly, the sadness in his voice startling you. He looked back at you then, his eyes shadowed with something you didn’t quite understand. “I’m not gonna be here much longer, Birdie.”

The words hit you like a punch much more painful than your father’s drunken beatings, knocking the air from your lungs. You stared up at him, your heart pounding in your chest. “What do you mean?” Your voice cracked, tears started to pool in your eyes and the dagger trembled in your hands. He didn’t respond and looked down.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head in denial. “You can’t. Y-you can’t leave me. You p-promised you’d stay. You promised!” the weight of the situation made your stutter come back. Your training with Miss Constance to tone it down out of the window in this moment.

“I know,” he said, his voice breaking with the weight of the lie. “I know I did.” He reached out, his rough hand cupping your small face, brushing away the tear that slipped down your cheek. “But this family? This life? It’s killing me. And I don’t want to end up broken like him.”

Your chest felt tight, like you couldn’t breathe. The room spun around you, and all you could focus on was the weight of the dagger in your lap, the one thing that felt real. You clutched it tighter, trying to ground yourself, trying to keep him here with you.

“But you’re a-all I hav-h-have,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “What am I supposed to do without y-you?”

Isaiah pulled you into a fierce hug, his arms wrapping around your small frame. You buried your face in his chest, breathing in the scent of him, trying to memorize it. “Oh, my sweet, sweet sister, you’re gonna be alright,” he whispered into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re stronger than you think. And one day, when the time comes, you’ll use that dagger. You’ll protect yourself.”

Your tears soaked into his shirt, heavy sobs shaking your entire body. You didn’t want him to leave. He was the only one who cared, the only one who made you feel like you were more than just a shadow in your father’s house.

“Promise me you’ll come back,” you whispered, your voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt. “Promise me.”

He pulled back, placing a soft kiss on your forehead. “I’ll come back for you, little Birdie,” he said, but there was something hollow in his voice. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You better.”

He smiled then, a small, sad smile. His eyes looked down at an identical set that was looking up at him, and for a moment, it was just the two of you. Two siblings, bound together in a world that had been cruel to them both since their birth. You wanted to hold onto him forever, to keep him from slipping away, but deep down, you knew you couldn’t. He was too restless, too wild for the cage your father had built around you.

In the morning, his room was empty. His bed was cold. A deep voice boomed through the halls calling his name, and then—

You jolted awake, your breathing unheaven as the remnants of the dream clung to your mind like a fog refusing to lift. Your heart pounded loudly in your ears, and for a moment, you thought you could still feel your brother’s arms tight around you, hear his voice whispering sweet promises he’d never keep. You laid there, staring up at the canvas roof of your tent, blinking against the bright light of the morning sun that filtered through the holes in the fabric.

You sat up slowly, rubbing your tired eyes, trying to shake off the memories that had followed you out of sleep. But they lingered, like the heavy, humid air that surrounded you.

Your hand drifted beneath your makeshift pillow, where his dagger laid sheathed. The leather now worn and cracked with age. You reached out and ran your fingers over it, the familiar pattern in the hilt soothing you like one of Miss Constance’s lullabies. It was the only part of him you had left, the only piece of your old haunted life that still mattered.

Your brother had told you you’d need it one day.

He’d been right.

But as much as you liked to extract yourself from reality and go to the comfort of your memories there was no time to dwell on the past. The present had demands of its own. The sun was already high in the sky, and the dry heat of October had begun to seep into the air of West Elizabeth, even though summer should have been a distant memory by now. It was unusual for the weather to be so hot this time of year, but the West had always been unpredictable. Today was no different. The earth around you was baked and dry, the sparse yellow grass crackling under your boots, and the few trees that shielded your camp offered little cover from the relentless sun.

You sighed and pushed yourself up to your feet, dusting off your floor length red skirt, stretching the stiffness from your limbs. Your camp, hidden in the Great Plains just outside of town, was modest—a second hand tent, a few basic supplies scattered around the campfire and your horse hitched on a nearby tree. It wasn’t much, but it kept you out of sight and away from trouble. Most of the time, anyway.

You washed your face, water splashing away the last remains of sleep and made a mental note to soon refill your bucket. As you prepared your coffee, your thoughts drifted back to your brother, to that final night you’d spent together. You wondered what he’d think of you now. A wanted woman. An outlaw, just like him. Though you doubted he’d wanted that for you.

But choices have consequences and your consequences, for better or for worse, led you to this life.

Finishing your coffee you put out the small fire as best as you could. You approached your horse Willow—a beautiful Ardennes with strawberry roan you managed to steal away from home. She nickered softly as you approached and gave her a gentle pat on the neck before slipping the saddle onto her strong back. You had errands to run today, groceries to buy and supplies to collect. The trip into Blackwater made you uneasy every time, but it couldn’t be helped. You needed to eat, and there were only so many supplies you could steal without drawing attention to yourself. So far, you’d been careful. You’d kept your head low, using a fake name, and stayed out of sight.

But Blackwater was dangerous territory. Given that it was the second largest town in the untamed west, the law had eyes everywhere, and bounty hunters passed through the town circling like vultures over dead meat.

Your wanted posters had been plastered all over the North East American regions. The first months after the day that sealed your fate you found the paper manifesto in a town nearby where you grew up. The paper inked with some vague artist’s rendering of your face and beneath your portrait written in all capitals was your name with a 500$ reward for whoever caught you, preferably alive. The portrait didn’t resemble you enough to get you caught. Yet, you decided to completely flee the region, finding yourself wandering in the famous uncivilized west.

Mounting your horse you steered her out of the camp, the town of Blackwater looming in the distance. The ride into town was quiet, the road dusty and empty save for the occasional wagon passing in the distance. The heat was oppressive, the sun beating down on your head, making sweat bead on your forehead. By the time you reached the outskirts of town, your shirt clung to your skin, the dry dusty wind doing little to cool you off.

Blackwater was bustling with life by the time you arrived. The town had grown over the months you spent in the region, more folk moving in, more buildings popping up along the main street. Wagons creaked along the dirt roads, horses snorted, and people moved about their business with the kind of hurried energy that only came with trying to escape the midday heat. You kept your head low, as you guided your horse down the main street.

“Cornwall City Railway expanding ever more with rumors of the works coming to Blackwater. Come and read more Ladies and Gents!”

The newspaper seller shouted as you dismounted outside the general store and tied your horse to the nearest hitching post. Your eyes scanned the street for any signs of trouble, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary, just folks living their lives as usual. For a brief moment, you let yourself relax.

Inside the general store, the cool air offered a momentary relief from the unforgiving heat outside. You greeted the shopkeeper and moved through the aisles quickly, picking up fruits, canned good, coffee, and a few other essentials for camp. The shopkeeper, an older man with a long thick beard, barely looked at you as you placed the goods on the counter.

"That all?" he asked, his voice disinterested as he bagged your items. So much for customer service.

You nodded, sliding a few bills across the counter. He took them without a word, and you turned on your heel, leaving the store as quickly as you’d entered. The exchange was quick, with no questions, no lingering looks, you wondered if that was for the best. You stowed your items on Willow's back, gifting her an apple before resuming your chores.

Your next stop was the post office.

As you entered the wooden building you were met with a couple of empty benches, the wooden building almost empty save for the post office clerk and another man. The post office clerk, a tired-looking man with silver thinning hair, was shuffling through a stack of letters when you approached the counter.

“I’ve got a parcel,” you said, your voice calm and steady.

The post clerk barely looked up. “Name?” he asked, his fingers still rifling through the letters.

“Deliah Hill,” you replied. Your fake alias coming out of your lips like second nature. The man shuffled to the shelf behind him, after a few seconds he turned back.

“Nope, no letters or parcels under that name.”

You shifted on your feet. Biting the inside of your cheeks you pondered on your options. Could she have used your real name to send you your parcel?

You looked around, the post office was deserted enough. With a sigh, you asked the man to search under your real name. Years passed from the last time you used that name. The moment your name left your mouth, you felt a shift in the room. A chill ran down your spine despite the heat. The clerk’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he looked at you before going to retrieve your parcel. For a moment, the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the pounding of your heart in your ears.

The post office clerk handed you the parcel. “Thank you,” you said, your voice steady despite the panic rising inside you.

You turned to exit the building and behind you, someone shifted—a man, leaning against the wall by the door. You could feel his eyes on you now, sharp and calculating. Recognition flickered across his expression, and a slow, dangerous smile curled at the corner of his lips.

Bounty hunter.

You kept your face neutral, your fingers twitching closer toward the dagger on your belt. Your steps were slow as you walked out of the post office, the weight of the man’s gaze heavy on your body. You could feel it, the way his eyes followed your every movement, like a predator stalking its prey. The moment the sun kissed your skin you wasted no time. You stalked down the street towards your horse when a man bumped into you making you almost lose balance.

“I’m so sorry, Sir” you quickly apologized. He stared down at you from under his tall hat with pensive eyes and a stretched smile under his thick mustache. He was dressed in a two piece black suit, definitely too warm for the weather. “Where wolves prowl, ravens follow.” he said and gave you a last glance before continuing his path. What a strange man.

You shook your head and mounted your horse, hands steady despite the adrenaline flooding your veins.

Don’t run. Act normal. Keep calm.

As you rode down the street, the hot air seemed to thicken with tension. Your heart raced in your chest as you prayed he wouldn’t follow you. Willow’s hooves kicked up dust as she made her way toward the edge of town, your mind racing with possibilities trying to form an escape plan and get back safely to camp. If you could make it to the woods, you’d have a chance to disappear and take a shortcut to camp. He wouldn’t follow you there. Not without backup.

But as the last building passed you by on the outskirts of Blackwater, all your hopes vanished. A shout boomed in the air.

“Hey you! Stop right there!”

Your pulse spiked, and you kicked your horse into a gallop, dirt flying up behind you as the sound of hoofbeats thundered from behind. You didn’t need to look back to know what was happening. The hunter had been waiting for you.

Judging by the sounds of hooves on the dirt there were three, maybe four of them. Their shouts grew louder as they gave chase. You risked a glance over your shoulder, your heart pounding harder as your eyes spotted them—three middle aged men with rifles strapped across their backs and pistols in their hands, their eyes hungry with the promise of a reward.

One of them fired a shot, the crack of the gun slicing through the air. The bullet whizzed so close you could feel the heat of it landed on your side. You cursed under your breath and leaned low over your horse, urging it to go faster.

The woods weren’t far now, but the hunters were closing in, their shouts carrying over the wind like hyenas laughing at their prey.

They weren’t going to stop. Not until they had what they wanted, and that unfortunately was you.

The air seemed to shimmer with heat, dust kicking up in a haze covering the surrounding area as your horse rode across the dry, cracked earth. The world around you blurred, but your mind was sharp, every instinct screaming at you to ride faster, to outrun them. Your heart hammered in your chest, its pulse loud in your ears.

“Come on, lady,” you whispered to your horse, digging your heels into her sides as you urged the animal to go faster, gaining back a strained neigh from Willow. The woods were close now, the trees loomed ahead like a dark sanctuary, the thick branches of the trees casting long shadows over the dusty trail. If you could make it there, you could lose them. You could be free.

But the bounty hunters were relentless.

You looked back at them once more. A man with a scar running down his cheek, leveled his rifle and aimed. The sharp crack of his gunshot echoed in the air. You turned to look ahead of you, squeezing the reigns in your hand in anticipation, and then you felt it—a jolt beneath you as your horse staggered.

“No!” you screamed, your heart plummeting.

Willow let out a terrible, guttural cry, her body lurching forward as her legs buckled for a moment. Blood spurted from her side where the bullet had hit, staining her coat. But she regained control and kept running, her strong legs carrying forward, even as the wound drained the life from her with every step she took. You felt tears sting your eyes as you urged your horse onward, knowing the animal was running on sheer survival instinct alone.

“Ardennes are war horses, they might not run like Arabians but they’re strong,” Mister Anderson, your riding instructor once told you.

“Can you teach me how to ride one?” You were met with a bitter laugh, one you were far too accustomed to. He wasn’t laughing with you, but at you. You knew that it was near impossible for a thirteen years old girl to control such an animal but there was no harm in trying. You felt anger bubbling up in your body as you eyed your father’s Ardennes.

“Just a little more,” You whispered, your voice strained with desperation. “Just a little more then we’re safe.”

The woods closed in around you, the thick trees swallowing you whole as you crossed into the shade. The bounty hunters' shouts grew more distant, their voices muffled by the forest, but you knew they wouldn’t stop. Not yet. You could still hear them faintly, calling out your name, their taunts carrying through the trees like a ghostly echo.

“Come on out, girl! We’ll make it quick if you give up now!”

“You can’t run forever!” another voice shouted.

But you weren’t listening anymore. Your mind was solely focused on your horse, your only friend, who had carried you through so much, and who had never once let you down. The mare’s breathing was ragged now, each step slower, more labored than the last. Blood dripped hot from her side, staining the dry grass beneath you, second after second you could feel the horse’s strength fading.

The horse collapsed to her knees, unable to carry on. She let out a weak, broken cry as her legs gave out beneath her, sending you tumbling from your saddle into the dirt. You quickly scrambled to your feet, your breath catching in your throat as you rushed to her side.

“Willow! No, no!” you shouted, kneeling beside the mare, your hands trembling as you reached for the horse’s injury. Your hands stained with blood in mere seconds. The animal was breathing heavily, her eyes wide with pain and fear, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Blood pooled around you both, thick and dark covering the woods’ floor.

You ran a hand over the horse’s coat, your fingers brushing through the mane as tears blurred your vision. “I’m sorry,” you choked out, your voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

Willow let out a soft, almost pitiful sound, her head resting heavily in the grass. The horse’s body shuddered, life slowly draining from her eyes, but even now, she was trying to stay strong. It was like she didn’t want to leave you. Like she didn’t want to fail you.

Everything stilled, it was as if you were trapped in a bubble. You didn’t know, or care, where the bounty hunters were, but they were still out there, combing the woods for you. You could hear their voices, faint and taunting, calling your name but none of that mattered in that moment. All you could see was your horse, your loyal friend, dying in your arms. Another life lost because of you.

You pressed your forehead against Willow’s, your tears falling onto her soft, velvety nose. The pain in your chest was overwhelming, a grief so deep it felt like it might burn you from the inside. This horse had been with you through everything—through your escape from the hell that was your home, through lonely nights when you had no one else. And now you were losing her. You were losing the one good thing you had left.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered again, your voice shaking. It was the only thing you could think of. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

You pressed a trembling kiss to the mare’s forehead. A last goodbye. “You were brave, girl. You can rest now.”

The horse’s breathing slowed, and as if following your command her body shuddered one last time before she went still. You could feel the life leave her body.

For a long moment, you stayed there, your hands resting on the horse’s neck, caressing her, as if your actions would ease her soul. You wanted to scream, to rage against the world, but there was no time. You snapped back to reality as the voices of the bounty hunters were getting closer now.

You forced yourself to stand, wiping your tear-streaked face with the back of your hand. Your heart ached, but you couldn’t stay. Not if you wanted to survive. The bounty hunters would be here soon, and they’d show no mercy. You had to run.

With one last, heartbroken glance at your horse, you turned and sprinted deeper into the woods, your legs carrying as fast as they could. Your boots thudded against the soft earth, your breathing ragged and uneven as you darted between the trees, your mind racing.

The forest was dense. Branches whipped at your face as you ran, one in particular caught on your skirt, tearing the fabric to your knees. You fell, knees burning from the scratch. Your lungs burned with each breath, but you couldn’t stop. You had to keep going.

Then, through the trees, almost as an apparition you saw it—an old, crumbled wooden cabin, barely visible through the thick underbrush. The wood was weathered and covered in vines, the roof sagging in places, and one of the walls had partially collapsed, leaving a hole covered by some planks big enough to enter in the side of the building. It looked abandoned, forgotten by time. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A place to hide. A place to catch your breath.

Without hesitation, you sprinted toward the cabin, using all the energy left in your body. You could still hear the bounty hunters behind you.

The planks on the side creaked loudly as you pushed them to open the hole, the wood groaning under your weight. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the smell of mold, the floorboards creaking beneath your boots. Cobwebs covered almost every corner of the room, and broken furniture was scattered across the room, but it didn’t matter. You weren't looking for comfort—you were looking for survival.

You put the planks in place and crouched low behind an overturned table near the back of the cabin, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you tried to quiet your racing heart. Your hand rested on the grip of your dagger, your knuckles white. You knew it was nothing against their rifles but at least if they found you, you wouldn’t go down without a fight.

For now, all you could do was wait with your heart heavy with the loss of your horse and your mind focused on staying alive.

The footsteps of the hunters grew louder outside, their voices drawing nearer. You held your breath, your body tense as you listened, praying they wouldn’t find you here.

This cabin was your last chance.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, louder than the whispers of the men searching for you. Then, beneath the irregular sound of your own heartbeat, you felt something else—something sharp and burning.

Your hand drifted to your side, fingers pressing under your ribs. Warm, sticky blood coated your palm. Panic flared in your chest as you realized—one of those bullets they fired didn’t scrape you but had actually hit you. You hadn’t felt it before, the adrenaline masking the pain and pushing you forward. But now as the effect started to die down, pain took its place. A shot, not deep, but dangerous enough. You gritted your teeth, wiping the blood on your torn gown, willing yourself to stay conscious, to stay alert.

You needed to figure out what to do next—escape, hide, something. But then, the cold sensation of the barrel of a gun made contact with the back of your head. You closed your eyes for a second before turning to face your fate.

Fate took the form of a man, no older than twenty-six, lean but muscular, his long dark brown hair falling messily over his sharp features covered by a faint beard. His piercing gaze was cold, focused. You could sense he carried himself with the confidence of someone used to the dangerous weight of a gun in his hand. And there it was—pointed right at you. You looked up at him from your kneeled position, completely at his mercy.

From the shadows, next to the man, another figure stepped forward. The second man was much older, his weathered face marked by lines of age and experience. His silver hair combed back. His eyes, though, were sharp with curiosity as he took in your state. His eyes seemed to look into your soul and that terrified you more than the gun pointed at your head.

You could feel both their eyes on you—taking in the tear-streaked dirt on your cheeks, your disheveled hair, the blood staining your skirt tored from the knees down. But more than anything, their gazes linger on the dagger clenched tightly in your hand, its intricate hilt glinting in the dim light filtering from the cracks of the cabin. Your brother’s dagger.

“Don’t move,” the younger man said, his voice cold and steady, the barrel of his gun unwavering as he clicked its safety off.

Your breath hitched, and without thinking, you raised the dagger in your hand, pointing it toward him in a futile attempt at defense. Not really a wise choice since he had a gun pointed directly at your head, but you were cornered, wounded, and outnumbered. Most of all you were tired.

The older man—his voice smoother, almost soothing—spoke next. “Easy now, no need for more bloodshed.” He stepped closer to the younger man, placing a hand on his arm. “John, calm down.”

John. The name floated in the air as your grip tightened on the dagger, your eyes flicking between the two men. The tension was thick, your body tense, ready to lash out or flee, but the older man kept his gaze on you, caging any movement. His eyes calculating but not unkind.

Outside, you could hear the voice of the bounty hunters calling for you.

“Come on out now! It’ll be easier if you don’t make us drag you out!”

“Miss,” he says softly, eyeing your trembling hand, gripping the dagger like a lifeline. “You're hurt. And from the sound of it, those fellas outside ain't exactly your friends.”

John’s grip on his gun tightened, his eyes flicking toward the door before settling back on you looking you up and down. His gaze piercing. “We can’t trust her, Hosea,” he mutters under his breath. “She could be one of them.”

Hosea didn’t look away from you, though he rolled his eyes at the younger man's sentence. “Does she look like one of them to you?” he asks, his tone calm but with an edge of irritation. His eyes swept over you again, the blood, the tear-streaked face, the bleeding wound on your side. “She’s in no shape to be hunting anyone.”

You have no idea who these men were, but something about the older one’s voice was reassuring, like hot milk and honey on a cold night. But the younger one—John—you couldn’t say the same, his distrust was palpable. Your instinct told you to run, to hide, but the growing footsteps outside told you otherwise. You were trapped.

“You gonna fight off all those men out there with a knife?” Hosea asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or would you rather come with us?” At his proposition the younger man lowered his gun in disbelief, eyeing the older man with fury.

You swallowed hard, feeling the blood drip from your side, the sharp sting of your wound biting deeper making your thoughts hazy. You’ve always been alone, fending for yourself, trusting no one. But here, now it wasn’t a choice between trust or caution. It was life or death.

“I—” you started, but the sound of boots crunching outside the cabin silenced you.

You felt your heart almost beating out your chest. Run or fight? Die here cornered like an animal or continue to fight. Who were these two strangers, could you even trust these men? Why were they willing to help a wanted woman? Your mind struggled to come up with an explanation and under the exhaustion you gave in.

“I’ll come with you,” you muttered, lowering the dagger, your fingers numb from the tight grip you’d held onto it with.

John scoffed. “You sure about this, Hosea?”

Hosea nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, I think she’ll be more use to us alive than dead.” He outstretched a hand towards you, helping you up on your feet. “Let’s go, before those boys outside kick the door down.”

Without another word, Hosea moved toward the side of the cabin, looking outside before gesturing for you to follow. John, still glaring at you, holstered his gun but kept one hand hovering near his hip, ready to draw at any sign of trouble from you.

You slipped out, moving quickly and quietly through the dense underbrush. Your side burning with every step, and the world seems to tilt dangerously, your vision blurring as you stumbled after them. The sounds of the bounty hunters behind you fade as you made your way deeper into the forest, but your legs started to grow weaker, your strength fading with every drop of blood you lost.

Hosea led the way, his steps sure and practiced, while John brought up the rear, gun ready in his hand and eyes darting around as if he expected an ambush at any moment. They moved fast, and you could barely keep up. Your head spun, your breathing labored as the last remains of adrenaline slowly ebbed away, leaving only the raw, gnawing pain storming in your body.

“I’m not your enemy,” you hissed through gritted teeth, as you felt John’s eyes studying you. The effort of speaking sent a sharp, stabbing pain through your side.

“But you sure as hell ain’t acting like a friend either.” He replied, his tone harsh. He took a step closer, his gun never leaving his hand. “And from where I’m standing, you’re more trouble to us than you’re worth.”

Your blood boiled at his words, and despite the dizziness creeping in around the edges of your vision, you lifted your chin, his height making you glare up at him “You don’t know a damn thing about me,” you spat, your voice shaking with the weight of your fury and exhaustion. “If I was trouble, you’d already be dead.”

John’s lips curl into a smirk, but there’s no warmth in it. “Is that so? You’re half-dead on your feet, bleeding all over the place, and you think you’re in any shape to make threats?”

“I can handle myself.”

“Yeah? Doesn’t look like it.”

The sound of Hosea’s voice urging you two to move along snapped you out of your staring contest with the man.

After some more walking you reached a small clearing, in the distance you could see two horses tethered to a tree, a large black morgan snorting impatiently and a silver turkoman with various pelts on his back. You stopped in front of the horses, the memory of Willow’s death fresh and painful making you still. John stopped at your side, his eyes narrowing as he looked at you.

“You’ll have to ride with me.” He urged, the words clipped. Your eyes locked with his gray ones briefly before looking back at his horse. Though for a moment you hesitated, you clumsily climbed on the saddle, the sharp pain in your side restricting your movements. He climbed behind you, his arms circling your waist to keep you from falling off. You heard a clicking noise behind your ear and the horse started to move. The world blurred as your vision wavered, your fingers gripping tightly on John’s forearm muscles as exhaustion threatened to consume you. You could hear Hosea saying something, his voice distant and far away.

“Hold on tight, or you’ll fall off.” John’s gruff voice cut through the haze.

You wanted to snap back at him, but you couldn’t respond. Your strength long gone. You pressed your back against John’s chest. The pain in your side too intense, the blood loss catching up to you. Your grip slackens on his arms making him let out a curse.

And then, darkness took over you.

───── •✧✧• ─────

Consciousness returned slowly, like the gentle light of the sun after the rain. You blinked against the light coming mostly likely from an oil lantern, your vision a hazy blur of shapes and colors. As you tried to focus, you became aware of three figures looming over you, their faces shifting in and out of clarity. Panic fluttered in your chest for a moment as you struggled to push yourself up, your body heavy, the pain in your side reminding you of what happened previously. The last thing you remembered was John’s arms tightening around you and his low voice saying something in your ear.

One of the figures stepped closer, the soft glow of the lamp in the other man’s hand illuminating his features. It was an older man with a ginger mustache and hollow eyes, a look of concern etched deep into the lines of his face. There’s something kind about the way he looked at you.

“Easy there, Miss,” he murmured. “You’re safe now. Just relax.”

The other two figures remained just beyond your sight, their silhouettes casting long shadows across the room. One came beside the ginger man, a tall woman with a stern face, her arched brow furrowed in concentration as she spoke to the man. “—got to make sure it doesn’t get infected,” the woman said, her voice crisp and commanding. “If we don’t stitch her upright, we could lose her.”

As you laid there, struggling to grasp the situation, a wave of warmth washed over you, followed by a sharp sting in your side. You flinched involuntarily, the sensation jolting through you like lightning. That’s when the man with the mustache spoke to the woman beside him “Give something to this poor soul!” he exclaimed, and the other two turned their attention toward you, eyes widening as they saw your pained expression

“Stay still,” the woman commanded, her hands deftly working as she threaded the needle through your skin. “You need to let us do our job, Miss.”

The sharpness of the needle pierced you again, and a low groan escaped your lips as you squeezed your eyes shut, fighting against the pain. “W-what are you doing?” you gasped, panic rising again as the burning sensation spread across your side. Who were these people?

“Just sewing you up,” the man replied, trying to sound comforting, but his eyes held a glint of urgency. “It’s going to hurt a bit. Just keep breathing.”

The third figure, the man with the lamp in hand, stepped back, circling around the woman to give her more light, allowing you a clearer view. His face was familiar—Hosea. You remembered him from the cabin, the kindness in his eyes when he had convinced you to trust him and follow him and John. He watched you intently, a mixture of worry and sympathy written on his face.

“Hang in there,” Hosea said softly, his voice grounding you as the woman continued her work. “You’re going to be alright.”

You felt a rush of warmth and comfort at the sound of his voice, the sensation short lived and quickly replaced by the sharp stab of the needle as it pierced your skin once more. You winced, tears springing to your eyes, and the woman frowned.

With each stitch, the burning intensified, the pain nearly overwhelming. Your screams were agonizing and you tried to thrash against the cot beneath you, but a strange sense of exhaustion settled over you. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized you needed to focus on something, anything else. You thought of your brother—his laughter, the way he always made you feel safe, the last memory you had of him giving you that dagger, his last gift of love and protection.

“Don’t close your eyes, stay with us,” Hosea urged, as if sensing your thoughts drifting. The woman pressed a bottle into your hand. “Here, drink this. It’ll help with the pain,” she instructed. You blindly gulped down the liquid realizing after a few seconds that it was whiskey. The liquid sharp and burning as it travelled down your throat, making you cough slightly. Soon you felt its effects dulling your senses, a warm haze began to envelop you. “I can’t—” you started, but another wave of pain crashed over you, and you could feel your eyes fluttering, the world around you dimming again.

“Stay awake,” Hosea said, his voice soothing and steady. “You’re safe. Just breathe.”

You tried to focus on his words, tried to keep your eyes open, but sleep spread through you. The voices around you faded, the edges of your vision darkened, but not before you caught a glimpse of one last figure—the younger man, John—stood in the corner of the room, his expression unreadable.

He looked different now, less like a threat and more like someone who understood your pain. But as you slipped back into the void, your last thoughts were of your brother, his smile and the warmth of his embrace.

And then, with a final flicker of awareness, you drowned into the darkness, your mind drifting away on a sea of memories.

———————————————

taglist: @laylasredemption @starlightt180 @photo1030 @oceanwaves1998

[aihoshiino]

chapter 161 thoughts

Chapters Since The 143 Kiss Happened And Went Entirely Unacknowledged And Unaddressed Count: 18

Aqua Hoshigan Status: For the future

Never has an OnK chapter gone from It's Hoshinover to We Are Oshi no Back quite as hard and fast as this one. I have issues with this chapter in terms of what it implies about the story's overall structure and the fact that it sort of ruins 153-4 by association but this chapter's back half is so fucking good and the chapter itself works so well in isolation that much like 153-4, I kind of uhhh don't care about the structural issues because the story's heart is, for the most part, not just intact but beating harder and more passionately than it has in a long time.

To get what I don't like out of the way, the story seems to have settled on Super Evil Serial Killer Mastermind Kamiki as his final form characterization with some helpful Tsukuyomi exposition to just straightforwardly Tell Us things the manga probably should have spent some of the last 70something chapters Showing Us about Hikaru. The basic idea of Hikaru being some sort of serial killer so dedicated to upholding Ai's legacy that he kills women with the potential to surpass her was more or less always where I expected his character to land and this settling of his character does at least preserve what I think is the most important thing: that he genuinely loved Ai and his bent towards villainy only came after her death.

What I don't love as much is that this chapter seems to continue leaning into Uber God Manipulator Mastermind Kamiki like last chapter. I already talked at length about my issues with this framing in my previous chapter review so all I'll reiterate here is that the story's attempt to frame Hikaru as being equally or even more culpable for the actions of Nino and Ryosuke fall entirely flat to me, especially when the manga itself does such a pisspoor job of actually explaining how or why Kamiki was able to control and/or predict their actions to the extent that he supposedly did. And ESPECIALLY especially given that Nino and Ryosuke seem to have already been dangerously obsessed with Ai by the time they approached him.

In general, Hikaru's character is honestly just so inconsistent at this point that making any sense of his actions feels fruitless. If I really dig into what's going on, I can infer that maybe he fell into the same trap as Aqua by overcompensating for his trauma-induced helplessness by becoming overly controlling and guess that his fucked up trauma response to Ai's death combined with those terrible words Kindaichi gave him at Airi's funeral lead him down he road he's traveling now. I can even extrapolate that Aqua showing him the DVD message in 153-4 pushed Hikaru to this extreme and now that he has nothing to lose, he's lashing out at his children too - though, it should be noted, that the manga still hasn't actually established what Hikaru's culpability is in Nino's attempt on Ruby's life, outside of Aqua saying "well you didn't use your psychic powers to perfectly predict nino's actions so it's on you".

But like - this is all stuff I'm having to infer and extrapolate and guess, reverse engineering logic from our end point in an attempt to create a stable foundation for this characterization. The manga has done such a poor job of properly establishing Hikaru both as an antagonistic force and as a consistent character that I feel like I'm trying to assemble a coherent image from two different puzzle sets with all the fucking corner pieces missing and that's with Crow Girl looking into the camera and Explaining Him to me.

And listen, I am a bitch who LOVES to infer things. One of my absolute favourite pieces of fiction of all time ever is Umineko no Naku Koro Ni, a mystery story that literally does not contain any straightforwardly explicit, textual confirmation of the culprit's identity or motives because it believes so strongly that you, the reader, are smart enough and empathetic enough to put in the time and effort necessary to understand it regardless and it deeply, deeply values being able to give you that experience. But OnK feels less like it's intentionally encouraging me to think hard and enjoy the process of putting my head and my heart to work - it feels like it's leaving its homework unfinished and letting the reader do the actual hard work of sewing up the internal logic.

I probably won't talk much more about Kamiki this chapter cos I'd just be saying all this shit over and over but I really just am struggling to understand from a perspective of authorial intent what the vibe is even supposed to be. Like I mentioned in a previous ask, if this is where Kamiki's arc is reaching its conclusion then it means that the Movie Arc was essentially a whole-ass waste of time in and out of universe. Blech. Hate that.

Also, before I move on, I don't want to leave this just implied - making Kamiki explicitly a CSA victim and then ending his arc on Aqua (and implicitly the narrative) dismissing him as being too broken/corrupted to be saved is a really major misstep that I think represents a huge black mark on OnK's handling of CSA as a topic. The idea of an eternal defilement or an unfixable core wrongness in the self is already something real life CSA victims struggle with in the process of unpacking their trauma and having our likable and supposedly morally superior protagonist espouse this unchallenged in a work as prominent and relevant as Oshi no Ko is irresponsible bordering on dangerous. It's incredibly disappointing that after all the care Aka and Mengo seemingly took in handling this topic that it was whiffed so badly at the last second.

ANYWAY!!! Now all the beef's been dealt with, we can cleanse our palettes and move onto everything else I liked which was… basically everything else in this chapter!

Admittedly, Aqua's overall arc is still suffering from us being kicked out of his head from like 123 onwards for no real apparent reason and while 150 was a welcome refresher on where he's at in this part of the story, it still feels a bit like the story is prioritizing preserving the surprise factor of its twists over making these surprises feel earned. Compare it to volume 1 - you are basically told exactly what is going to happen to Ai, especially in the manga when Saitou and Gotanda outright say as much - but her death is still incredibly impactful and upsetting. I think this chapter is very effective, but could've been a lot moreso if we'd spent more time in Aqua's head leading up to it.

THAT SAID… If the intention of keeping us out of his head was to recontextualize Aqua's behaviour across the past ten or so chapters in this new light, I don't hate it as much as I might have. I initially took issue with what felt like the story off-screening and not addressing the resolution to Aqua's suicidal ideation so whipping back around to prove that it was still very much present puts some particular Aqua moments over this past volume into a very different light. As some people pointed out, Aqua missing Kana's pitch - literally dropping the ball in responding to her feelings - and his wide-eyed look of alarm in 151 seemed very ominous omens for the success of her confession and that beat of him covering his face when Kana approves of his dream… very incheresting knowing Aqua was still struggling with 'love or revenge' at this point.

Most interesting of all to reconsider is Aqua breaking down in tears in Miyako's arms in 155 when she addresses him as her son for the first time. At the time it read like catharsis but now I can't help but wonder if this was Aqua grieving for something he desperately wants but thinks is out of his reach.

i do have to say though. i get the general vibe of this plan and think it works fine as the apex of aqua's self-sacrificial protectiveness for the people he loves but how is being the daughter of a serial killer somehow any less scandalous for her career than being the sister of someone who killed one dude. does aqua think they just won't notice that kamiki happens to be their biodad or something. wasn't that the whole point of the movie. goofy ass plan.

What really saves this whole scenario is the emotions at play, though. This really does feel like Aqua at his most Aqua in a really long while and this chapter has so much love and respect for his life as Aqua and the bonds he has formed as a result. The dreams Aqua lays out are so agonizingly simple, too - he wants to pursue the career he finds rewarding. He wants to date the girl he likes. He wants to accept Miyako as his mom and Himekawa as his brother and to make things right with Akane after hurting and using her. He wants to see Ruby achieve her dream and be there to support her when she does.

But Aqua's always considered his dreams impossible, hasn't he?

I fully admit; I got spoiled with the full page spread of Aqua stabbing himself way in advance of the chapter and initially hated it as a twist. But with the full chapter as context and the sheer weight of Aqua's longing to just fucking live and find joy, it's not just effective but absolutely gutwrenching. It is the synthesis of Aqua's series-long battle to choose love or revenge and it resonates perfectly because it has never been one or the other for him - Aqua's revenge has always been rooted in the fact that he loves others so wholly and completely and hates himself so utterly that he thinks sacrificing himself to preserve their futures is the only path for him to take. It's the culmination and final release of the suicidal ideation Aqua has been dealing with since he was four years old and like Ai's tragedy before him, there's a horrible sense that maybe there really was no other way this could've gone.

Aqua being the character who actually takes the knife also firmly cements him as Ai's narrative echo in the text which has me barkin and howlin because it's what I've been saying all this time. Not just that, but so many of Aqua's expressions in this chapter pointedly and deliberately echo Ai's after she was stabbed. Not just that, but Aqua's achingly simple dreams echo Ai's own heartrendingly simple regrets - all the two of them ever wanted was to be happy with the people they love.

This also reframes the story's prior establishment of Ruby as paralleling Ai and seems to place the twins in the position of echoing not Ai in her entirety but Ruby as 'Ai of B-Komachi' and Aqua as 'Ai Hoshino'. This was actually something I outlined in one of my very first meta posts on the series, but I think making it more specific to 'Ruby as Ai the idol' and 'Aqua as Ai the human', this actually gives Ruby's arc in relation to Ai a bit of breathing room. Don't get me wrong, everything I've said about her post-BH writing being underbaked and inconsistent is still the case, especially when it comes to how confused the story is on whether Ruby is her own idol or New And Improved Ai 2.0 but giving it less ground to cover helps in terms of her writing no longer being spread quite as thin.

Speaking of Ruby, that beat of her seeming to react or sense something is up the moment Aqua takes the stab. 'Something happened to my loved one far away and I just Feel It' is a trope I'm always a sucker for and I really dig it here.

"The public don't care about the truth, so let's tell them a lie" is such a crazy hard sentiment to go out on too. Holy fuck.

There go our boys…!!! Quite a few people predicted they might go over the edge when Aqua showed up in his Mephisto fit (Mefitsto) and I'm interested to see if we get any parallels to the ED's imagery in the next few chapters. Overall, though, I'm really excited for where things are going - I don't think Aqua will die, but I do have some theories about what might happen. I can't think of a more traditional misogi purification experience than the middle of the ocean in late December, after all…

No break next week! Woohoo! While the delay of episode 12 means we won't be getting them on the same day, that is the same week S2 of the anime will be concluding and Aka does like lining up his bombshells with the anime. So who knows what we'll see.

seriously tho aqua. everyone already knows kamiki is you and ruby's biodad. HOW IS THIS ANY BETTER THAN HER BEING THE DAUGHTER OF A SERIAL KILLER AS IT ALREADY STANDS

[peakyswritings]

Heart, Body and Soul || Tommy Shelby x OC

PART XI

Summary: the situation complicates further as Tommy’s stay in Sicily nears its end. It’s time for conversations, and things that have been buried for too long are brought to the light.

Warnings: mentions of arranged marriage, slow-burn, small age-gap (Tommy’s 30, Nina is in her early 20s), time-typical misogyny, references to past attempted assault, harassment, violence, angst, English is not my first language. This chapter is 18+, smut (I’m still not used to writing it but here we go). This is set between season 1 and 2.

Like in some previous chapters, some conversations are supposed to be in Italian but for obvious reasons I kept them in English.

A/N: sorry this is really long. I hope it makes up for the wait!

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

SERIES MASTERLIST

Dividers credits

Tommy’s proposal to Agnese had brought quite the hustle in the Ferrante’s property. A stream of relatives and friends had been coming to congratulate the new couple in the past few days, and people continuously came and went to make the arrangements for the wedding - or simply pry in the family business. And with the engagement party being held that night, it was impossible for Nina to step out of the house without bumping into some caterer or seamstress or, if she was particularly unlucky, some cantankerous old aunt who would stray away from her as if she were the Devil incarnated.

Her mood, which was already dark to begin with, had considerably worsened, forcing her to withdraw into isolation to avoid all possible conflict. She was easily irritated, she couldn’t stand her mother’s complaints, her father’s deceitfulness, her brothers’ haughtiness, and she couldn’t help herself from talking back or snapping when something bothered her. She could tell they were fed up with her insolence, that she was treading on thin ice, but she drew a twisted satisfaction from getting on their nerves. It was the only way she had to get back at them for the hell they were putting her through. Her role in the family, the impossibility of being something more than she was expected to be, the threat of a forced marriage with Stefano that was becoming less of a prospect and more of a certainty with each day that passed. And now that. Having to watch as the marriage between Tommy and Agnese took form, pretending with her cousin she was genuinely happy for her.

It was tearing her apart from the inside. At this point, Nina couldn’t wait for them to get married, so that Tommy would leave her house, her country, and set her free from the deep ache she felt every time he was near. It would be difficult, at first, but in time she’d forget about him, about the way he made her heart race, about how safe she felt in his arms.

“I’m going over to aunt Rita,” her mother hastily walked into the kitchen, holding a sewing box in her hands. “I’m helping her embroider the bedsheets for the trousseau.”

“Mhm.” Nina merely raised her eyes from the book she was pretending to read. Hearing about bedsheets and trousseaus was the last thing she needed in that moment, especially if it had to become yet another excuse to reproach her for not having the intention to get married anytime soon.

All of a sudden the book was soon snatched from her hands. When she raised her gaze, her mother was looking at her with a stern look on her face.

“Your friend has been invited to the party,” she said bitterly, as though the matter was somehow her daughter’s fault.

Nina’s heart fell to the pit of her stomach. It didn’t take a genius to understand who said friend was.

“The whole Spinietta family has been invited,” Maria went on, slamming the book on the table.

She swallowed harshly, the implications of that gesture rapidly sinking in. “Are you serious?”

“I warned you,” her mother pointed a finger at her. “If you had listened to me, maybe it would’ve been Angelo, not him.”

Nina rolled her eyes. Again with her friend’s son. What did she want, to put a death sentence on the poor man? She grabbed the cup of tea that had grown cold in front of her, and got up to pour its content in the sink.

“Did I tell you he’s a teacher?” Maria started again. “I bet he acts all intellectual just like you.”

“If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll intellectualise away from me. Unless he wants to get on the Spiniettas’ bad side, that is. Or dad’s.” She started to aggressively scrub the cup, taking out her anger on the fragile item. “And who says he’d be interested in me anyway?”

Her mother looked at her as if a second nose had grown on her face. Despite her unusual behaviour, Nina carried herself well, looked nice, had an education that most girls could only dream of. Her Italian was outstandingly clean, almost devoid of dialectal influences, and clear. Her brain worked incessantly, she had complex thoughts, and it was often difficult to keep up with her. Not to mention how she managed to give even men twice her age a hard time with the sole power of her words.

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Maybe he’d find me ugly,” Nina shrugged, “or stupid.”

“You’re my daughter, you can’t be ugly or stupid.”

Nina let out a sigh, drying her hands on a towel. There was no point in arguing. In those situations, it was better to let her mum vent until she got tired of talking with a stone wall and gave up.

Maria dropped the sewing box on the table with a thud. Once she had her daughter’s attention back in her, she started speaking again, a grave expression on her face. “I don’t think you understand the situation you’re in. If your father says yes to Stefano, then he won’t be able to say no anymore,” she said lowly. “You need to act before he says yes.”

“He can’t force me.”

If her father really decided to go through with it, she’d drop the bomb on him that she wasn’t a virgin anymore. Maybe she could do it in front of Stefano, for the pleasure of watching his smug grin disappear from his face. Would she be irremediably deemed as a whore? Yes. Would she bring shame upon her whole family? Absolutely. It would still be better than being Spinietta’s wife.

“You can’t change my mind on this, mum,” she concluded in a tone that didn’t leave any room for discussion.

Her didn’t mother didn’t reply, but the disapproval was clear on her face.

“You know what?” Maria picked up the box from the table again and put it under her arm with a nervous gesture. “I don’t care. Do what you want,” she said sharply, leaving the kitchen.

As soon as she heard the front door closing, Nina exhaled deeply. That was another issue she’d have to deal with, apparently. She wasn’t sure her mother would give up so easily, and she was scared she’d try to act behind her back like her father was.

Her father. Her blood boiled in her veins as her mind went back to the reason why the argument she had just gotten out of had started in the first place. It was time to talk to him, to make it clear that she would never accept to marry that bastard, that she didn’t need time to decide cause she had already made up her mind. The sooner they had that conversation, the sooner all that would end. Hopefully.

Animated by a fiery resolution, Nina strode through the house with large, quick steps. She didn’t pay attention to her brothers, who were heading to the kitchen to have breakfast, nor to Tommy, who was waiting in the large hallway for her father to let him in, and was now looking at her with a puzzled look on his face.

She stormed in her father office, slamming the door behind her. He raised his head from the papers he was signing, looking at her questioningly, but not without a hint of reproach for bursting into his private room without even knocking.

“What does this mean?” Her voice came out more high-pitched than she intended. She stopped in front of the dark wooden desk, forcing him to pay attention to her.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Her father leaned back in his chair, rolling his cigar between his fingers, keeping his oblivious facade. A new wave of rage ran through Nina, but she was careful to contain it. “You invited the Spinietta family to the engagement party,” she explained through gritted teeth.

Unimpressed by her accusations, he stubbed out his cigar, then folded is hands on his lap. “The Spiniettas are close friends of ours,” he said calmly.

“Right,” she let out a humourless laugh. “You became pretty close over the last month.”

“Business is growing.”

“Ah,” she nodded, raising her eyebrows. “Business.”

Her father clenched his jaw, and from the way his shoulders had stiffened she could tell he knew exactly where the conversation was going. And that he didn’t like her mocking tone.

“Is there a problem, Nina?”

“You tell me. Is there something going on that could be a problem for me?”

She wanted to hear it from him. She wanted him to admit it out loud. She was tired of being treated like she was crazy, like she was imagining things. She wanted honesty.

Vincenzo pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as if hit by a sudden headache. “I need to talk to Mr Shelby, can we-”

“You’re talking to me,” Nina said firmly, raising her voice.

Her father straightened his back, leaning with his elbows on the wooden surface in front of him. He fixed his gaze on her, his features hardening with austerity. “Mind how you speak to me, I’m your father,” he warned her.

“So I should stay quiet while you make decisions about my life,” she spat out. The way he was trying to impose his authority on her just because he had no arguments to defend himself made her stomach churn.

“I’m not making decisions.”

“You are,” she slammed a hand on the the desk. “Do you really think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

Her father reached his hand out, keeping his voice still low. “Calm down.”

“I will not calm down!”

Ferrante took a deep breath, raising from his chair to properly speak to his daughter. If there was one thing he didn’t tolerate, it was disrespect, but getting angry wouldn’t work, not now, at least. It would only make Nina more stubborn. If he wanted her to listen to him, he needed to get his point across nicely.

“What do you want to do with your life?” he asked her, apparently changing the subject.

Nina furrowed her brows, taken aback by his question. She could sense he was trying to direct the conversation somewhere, and she was quick to pull herself together.

“I want to study,” she said steadily.

“You’ve finished school,” he countered.

“There’s university.”

“Women don’t go to university.”

Nina squinted her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “Then I want to work.”

“Poor women need to work. Do you want to ruin your hands in a factory?”

A glimpse of irony flashed across his face. Once again, his purpose seemed to be to make her feel stupid, or naive, like she had no idea how the world worked. The thing was, he was right, to some extent. Nina had little experience, she didn’t know everything. But there were things she knew, things she didn’t like, and she wasn’t going to accept them just because that was how life was.

Vincenzo walked around his desk to approach her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, his expression softening. “I’m only worried about you,” he said. “About what your life will be like if you go on like this.”

“It’s my life, dad,” she whispered, feeling the tears well up in her eyes against her will. “Maybe you’re right, and I’m ruining myself with my own hands. But the choice is mine to make.”

Despite everything, she thought she could make him understand. There had to be a way to get through him, to make him see, she didn’t want to ruin the bond they had always had. Because she would make her own decisions either way, and she wished for him to support her. She needed him to support her.

“You’re my daughter. I can’t stand back and watch you do that to yourself,” he shook her slightly. “Let go of these fantasies, Nina. Real life is something else.”

Of course. How stupid of her to imagine that he could even try to understand. She shrugged his hands off, forcing back her tears. “You’re wrong.”

Her father nodded to himself, taking a step back. “We’ll see,” he simply said. “As for Stefano, I told you already. The choice is up to you, I’m not forcing you to do anything,” he reassured her, but his condescending tone had the opposite effect.

“You’re not forcing me to do anything, but that son of a bitch is always around.”

“Language.”

Nina scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. He didn’t see the point. He didn’t want to see the point. He only cared about business, about power. Why was she wasting her time?

She made her way towards the door, but she stopped in her tracks when her hand grabbed the handle. After a moment of hesitation, she spoke again, but she didn’t around to look at him.

“You’re making a mistake.”

Tommy watched as Nina strode out of Ferrante’s study with a face like thunder. He had heard the screams, but he hadn’t been able to make out what the fuss was about, the long sequence of Italian sentences unfamiliar to him.

Those kinds of arguments had happened frequently, over the last three days. Nina had become unmanageable - not that she had ever been the manageable type. But she had gotten worse. If someone so much as glanced at her the wrong way or said one word too many, she’d turn it into an excuse to fight. She was sensitive, and snappish, and she seemed to have lost the ability to put on her mask of coolness and indifference. As a way to heal his wounded ego, which still burned from the things she had said to him, he told himself it was a good thing she had rejected him. If she had the gall to talk back to her father like that, there was no doubt she’d act even worse with her husband, and he had enough headaches already. And for sure, he would’ve never wanted to be at the receiving hand of her temper.

Nina stopped in front of him, recollecting herself, and Tommy couldn’t not notice she radiated the same frigidity as when they had met for the first time. “My father wants to see you, Mr Shelby,” she said coldly.

Ah, now she called him Mr Shelby. As if she hadn’t been whimpering his name in his ear a few nights before.

“I think we’re way past the formalities, sweetheart.”

His remark was enough to make her falter. She blinked up at him, shocked by his bluntness.

“Way past,” he repeated, raising his eyebrows.

“Will you lower your voice?” she hissed, taking a look around to make sure no one was near.

Tommy held back a smirk at her flustered state. Her usual frown had deepened, and a tinge of red had crept up her cheeks. Had the situation between them been different, he would’ve gladly went on. He had to remind himself he wasn’t in the position to tease her anymore. Nina had said it very clearly, she didn’t care about him. What had happened between them had been a mistake, she regretted it. She regretted him.

Then why were her eyes telling a different story?

Nina huffed, tucking a rebel strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s waiting for you,” she murmured.

Her arm brushed against his as she walked past him, sending a spark of electricity through his whole body. Leaving him wondering when he had gotten to the point where the slightest contact threatened to make his self-control crumble.

Nina examined her figure in the mirror, a niggling uneasiness taking over her. She wasn’t used to doll herself up like that. She had put on a beautiful dress for the occasion, done her makeup, managed to tame her long hair, and she had half-hoped she would be happy with the result once she was done. However, in her silk dress, in her makeup, with her hair away from her face, Nina felt like a fraud. Ridiculous, even.

She had always been the ugly duckling of the brood. When her cousins had started to bloom into beautiful women, she was still all elbows and knees, drawing the petty comments of her aunts, poorly hidden behind harmless jokes. She remembered all too well the embarrassment she felt every time they pointed out her flat chest, joking about how if she cut her hair she could be mistaken for a boy. She was ashamed to admit that even though she wasn’t that gawky kid anymore, those words had stuck with her. She tried to convince herself she didn’t care about being pretty, that her mind was her primary concern, but the truth was, sometimes she wanted to feel pretty.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself and just pretend, she told herself, straightening her back. It was a little exercise she had trained herself to do over the years. Head high, impassive face, don’t let them get to you, act like you know exactly what you want, walk like you know exactly where you’re going. It worked, most of the times. Maybe if she pretended long enough one day she’d be able to convince herself as well.

Once ready, she crossed the upstairs floor of the house, reaching the separate corridor in which her parents’ bedroom was located. Her mother was standing in front of a full-length mirror, fixing some pins in her hair. Nina leaned against the doorframe, and allowed herself to stay in her company for a while.

Out of the comfortable clothes she used to wear, out of the kitchen, out of the restraints of her role as a wife and a mother doomed to annihilate herself, she looked years younger. The dress she was wearing was modest, elegant, and the dark blue shade perfectly complimented her complexion. The shadow of a rare genuine smile grew on her face as she put on her pearl earrings, mixed with an emotion Nina couldn’t quite recognise. She could almost swear there were tears in her eyes. Nina realised she didn’t even remember the last time she had seen her mother taking care of her appearance like that, and that finally having the chance to do it must be a source of melancholy as well as joy. Was that what a life dedicated to the care of a whole family had done to her? Had she forgotten herself to that degree?

“What are you looking at?” Maria asked gruffly, glancing at her daughter through the mirror.

How sweet. Nina pursed her lips to hide a sly grin, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Nothing.”

Her mother frowned, smoothing down her dress, then she turned around to face her. She looked at the ground for a moment, then back at Nina, a hint of uncertainty in her eyes. “How do I look?”

A pang of sorrow spread in Nina’s chest at the thought that her mother might feel anything else but beautiful. “Stunning, mum,” she said truthfully.

“Is this too much?”

“No,” she shook her head. “It’s perfect.”

The older woman turned to the mirror again, her features softening. “Go downstairs, tell your father I’m almost ready.”

Reluctantly, Nina mustered up the courage to get out of her hiding, mechanical step after mechanical step, like a man facing the gallows. She didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to feel her relatives’ judgmental stares on her. She didn’t want to see Stefano. She didn’t want to watch Tommy and Agnese be officially presented as a couple. Husband and wife. It made her feel sick. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw Tommy standing on top of the staircase, checking the time on his pocket watch, handsome in his formal attire.

His head shot up upon hearing the sound of her footsteps, and for a while it felt like the whole world had stopped turning just for him to have that moment. That moment to look at her, to take in the sight of her in her long, light blue dress that enhanced her tanned skin; with her ebony hair pinned up, exposing her delicate neck and cleavage, instead of hiding her as usual.

“You…” Tommy’s breath hitched in his throat, his mouth dry. You’re beautiful.

He didn’t dare say it.

“Hi,” Nina murmured, fidgeting with her own fingers. She had no idea of what to do or say. Standing there and staring at him like an idiot was clearly not an option, so she decided to approach the stairs. But one look at the long series of steps was enough for her to understand that there was no way she could descend it in her heels without making a fool of herself. Had she been alone, she would’ve gripped the railing like her life depended on it and ungracefully stomped her way down.

As if he had read her mind, Tommy offered her his arm without uttering a single word. He limited himself to peering at her, his gaze indecipherable, intense. Nina accepted his help, trying not to think about how natural it felt to have her hand in the crook of his elbow as they climbed down the stairs. Her legs were shaking, probably not because of the shoes, and she just hoped she wouldn’t trip over her feet and ruinously fall on her face. When she walked down the last step, she realised she had been holding her breath the whole time.

“Thank you,” she whispered, letting go of his arm.

Tommy nodded, taking a step back.

He needed a drink - or possibly two or three - to give him the strength to get through the night. Now more than ever he felt like he was putting handcuffs around his wrists rather than a ring on his finger. He had been telling himself that everything was going reasonably well, that following the plan which had been made over a month before was the best thing to do. He was going to marry the woman they had chosen for him, a beautiful woman, who would make him look good. Agnese was sweet, and gentle. She would take care of the house, of him, give him children. He would have a good life with her. She would bring him peace, turn his house into a safe place away from the wickedness of his business.

Nina would’ve brought him the storm. With her, a life of confrontation, of compromise, maybe even conflict would’ve awaited him. He would’ve had to answer to her, to accept her sharp edges and the sides of her that weren’t easy to deal with.

No, he was lying to himself. Confrontation, compromise, conflict had been his daily bread since he was a kid. His restless nature had never cared for peace. His skin was thick enough not to get cut on her edges. And pain had never scared him anyway. But that didn’t matter. The wedding would be in two weeks, then he would leave that place behind. Leave Nina behind. He’d forget about her like he had forgotten about Grace. He had done it once, he could do it again. Even if he’d prefer to rip his heart out of his chest.

For the engagement party, Agnese’s family had chosen to celebrate in the garden that surrounded the two houses. Everything had been planned with the outmost care: there were tables, flowers, candles, waiters balancing trays of champagne, musicians playing mesmerising tunes. A whole team of chefs had been hired for the delicious dinner. Nina had been pleased to find out that she wouldn’t have to share the table with Stefano, this time, who had sat with his family and other guests far away from her. Nevertheless, she had barely touched her food. Her stomach was still twisted from the events of the day. Now she was standing aside, watching as some couples gathered to dance. Including Tommy and Agnese.

They were both beautiful. Exceptionally so. Agnese was radiant in her ivory dress, she glowed with the happiness of a girl who was about to see all her dreams come true. Tommy held her in his arms with great gentleness as they swayed to the rhythm, and despite the vicious bites of jealousy, Nina was unable to look away. He’d fall in love with Agnese, of that she was sure. Her cousin was stunning, and sweet, and caring, all things Nina was not. Tommy would fall in love with Agnese and realise how blind he had been for ever setting his eyes on someone like her.

A tall figure came to stand by her side, and she was engulfed by the smell of a strong cologne mixed with cigar smoke. The man exuded an aura of power, dominance, along with a calm that was nothing more than a cover for something far more dangerous, unpredictable. Vito Spinietta. Her body tensed, and she instinctively crossed her arms over her chest. Sending him a sideways glance, she was met with his calculating gaze. He was inspecting her, assessing her, searching for any weak point as though he could read into her.

“Good evening,” he said, not taking his eyes off her.

“Good evening.”

A heavy silence followed. Nina wasn’t a fool, she was aware that if Stefano’s brother had taken the trouble to go speak to her it wasn’t to make small talk. The heir to the Spinietta empire was too practical a man to waste his time on pleasantries, and certainly wasn’t there for the pleasure of her company.

“I know there’s no point beating around the bush with you,” he said, confirming her suspicions. “So I’ll be direct. I’m here on behalf of my brother.”

Nina tilted her head in amusement. Had it really become a family matter? Had a no on her part caused such commotion?

“Stefano’s a good guy,” he announced solemnly. “It’s just that sometimes he acts the wrong way.”

Nina had to hold back a dismissive laugh at his statement. A good guy. It was almost as pathetic as the excuse he had made up for his behaviour.

“What am I supposed to do with this information?”

“He cares about you.”

“So you’ve taken it upon yourself to play Cupid,” she said bitterly, with a little edge of sarcasm, earning herself a stern look. “It doesn’t suit you,” she shook her head, mocking him behind an expression that was meant to feign innocent honesty.

Vito raised his chin, reacting with silence to her insolent replies. “It would be good to unite the families, considering the circumstances,” he said instead. “And a rejection could be seen as…” he paused, searching her face. “An offence.”

His words had Nina knitting her eyebrows in a frown. He had pronounced them in an ambiguous, vague way, but she hadn’t missed the gloomy undertone. “Is this a threat?”

“What do you take me for?” he asked, clearly just pretending to be offended. “I’d never threaten a woman.”

He was playing the card of the man of honour. As if he and his brother hadn’t done even worse to the girls of the town. She had to say something now. Too long had she let Stefano scare her, she wouldn’t make the same mistake with Vito. The Spiniettas weren’t the only ones who got power, she came from a tough family as well, and she would no longer forget who she was.

“Listen,” she started, turning to properly look at him. “I’m not scared of you, or your brother, or your threats.”

Vito clenched his jaw, his mouth twisting into a grimace.

Nina took a step towards him, further decreasing the already short distance between them. “You two think you can do as you please because I am a woman?” she narrowed her eyes. “Think again. Cause one word from me and you’ll see your whole organisation fall around your ears.”

“Is this a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”

Nina wanted to see his mask slip. She wanted him to reveal himself, like Stefano had revealed himself not so long ago, when he had put his hands on her in her own house. She wanted him to give her a reason to draw her knife on him, there, in front of everyone. But Vito wasn’t Stefano. It would take a lot more to make him lose his composure.

Vito took a step back, observing her. He could see why his brother was so adamant on having her. Stefano had always loved a good challenge. He didn’t want someone obedient by nature, someone who would listen to his every command. He wanted someone difficult, someone he could take his time to bend. Or break. It would’ve taken way more than a few slaps to break that one.

Their conversation came to an end when Stefano walked up to Nina, holding out his hand to her. “Wanna dance?”

Nina took a look around. Her situation hadn’t gone unnoticed: most of the guests had been peering at her and Vito, trying to figure out what was going on, and now that Stefano had entered the picture, they were sending them subtle glances, waiting to see if Nina would’ve accepted his invitation. Her first instinct was to say no, but leaving him there in front of everyone would cause quite the stir, and surely take the attention away from the new couple. That was Agnese’s night, and she didn’t have the right to ruin it for her. Not after what she had already done. So she placed her hand in his, and unwillingly let him lead her to the dance floor.

His hand was light on her waist as he lead the dance, yet that contact felt heavy, violent. It made her skin crawl. She focused on the ground behind his shoulders, trying to ignore the weight of people’s stares on them. She was afraid to raise her head and find out Tommy was watching too.

It didn’t take her long to detach herself from her surroundings. She didn’t hear the music, she didn’t see the couples dancing around them, she was only uncomfortably aware of Stefano’s proximity, of the heat of his body, of the burning marks his hands seemed to leave into her flesh. He had the predatory eyes of a raptor as he scrutinised the uncovered parts of her body, taking on the appearance of a beast waiting for the right moment to bite.

“I love you, Nina,” he whispered in her ear, his tone pleading. “I want to make you happy. I want to give you everything.”

Nina could read it on his face. He did think he loved her, he was truly convinced that his sick obsession was love. It’s wasn’t merely a matter of wounded ego, he was sincerely hurt in his own, twisted way. And that was something that could potentially make him even more dangerous. A shiver ran down her spine, but she forced herself not to shy away, and she let him speak without interrupting him.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes with you, and I want to fix them. Let me make it right.” His arm tightened around her as he brought her even closer. “I can be good to you.” There was desperation now in his voice. Nina tried to put some distance between them, but he didn’t let her. “I can be good to you, and you can be good to me. I’ll teach you how to be good to me.” His fingers curled around her hand in a painful grip. “Think about what we could be together. Say yes.”

Nina squeezed her eyes, overwhelmed by his insistent touch, his urgent words; disgusted by the image of them living in the same house that had forced itself into her mind; repulsed by his eagerness to mould her.

The music ended, bringing them back to reality. Nina was relieved to be able to pull away from Stefano, whose grip had finally loosened. He was out of his mind if he thought she could ever forget what he had done to her. A wave of rage ran through her, but she was careful not to let it show. Straightening her back, she looked him dead in the eyes, and just one word left her mouth.

“No.”

Stefano’s face fell, disappointment and anger battling in his irises, and his fist clenched by his side. However, Nina didn’t stay there to wait for a reaction. She turned on her heels and walked away from him, from the dance floor, from the crowd of nosy guests. Her inner turmoil grew with every step, and her state of panic was such that she didn’t even realise she had entered her house. With an irritated huff, she hastily fumbled with her impractical shoes and left them at the entrance, then sought refuge in her bedroom.

She took some deep breaths, rubbing her face. It felt like the more she tried to fix things, the more she made them worse, and there was no way out of that endless cycle. What was she supposed to do? How was she supposed to act? Who was she supposed to beg to drag her out of that situation? Because it was becoming clearer and clearer that she wouldn’t be able to make it by herself. When had things taken that turn? Had there been a mistake, a single, fateful mistake she had made that had caused all of that? Or was it someone else’s fault? Or was it no one’s fault?

Too many questions, not enough answers. Racking her brains to find a pattern, to put order to the events was useless. They were too tangled, too intricate. It hadn’t started when she had made love with Tommy, nor when he had kissed her, nor when he had appeared in her life. It hadn’t even started when she had pointed a knife at Stefano’s throat, nor when she had let him get close to her all those years ago at school. Had it started, perhaps, when she had insisted on studying? Was it her punishment for wanting more than she could have? More questions, still no answers. The worst thing was, she couldn’t see a way out.

There was a soft knocking on the open door, and when Nina turned around Tommy was there. He looked exhausted, as if the evening had drained him of all his energy. It was unusual to see him like that, he wasn’t the kind of man who let his distress show. For the first time, she realised how much the whole marriage situation had taken a toll on him.

If the reasonable part of her wanted him to leave, the other - the one she seemingly had no control over - needed him close to her. It was absurd how reassuring his presence felt. Maybe that was what had drawn her to him in the first place. When everything around her was swirling, when there was nothing certain or reliable, Tommy was stable, solid. Something to hold on to.

Nina forced those thoughts away. She was losing her mind. Tommy was the least stable thing in her life. He wasn’t there to stay, he would leave in two weeks time and she would never see him again, except for a few occasions, like Christmas or maybe weddings. Indulging in that kind of fantasy would only make things harder.

“Is this your plan?” Tommy suddenly asked, a hint of accusation leaking out of his neutral tone. “Say yes to Spinietta?”

Nina felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over her, and her musings disappeared to give way to pure surprise. “What?” she asked in disbelief, widening her eyes.

“You heard me.”

“That’s ridiculous, I’d never do that.”

“Is that why you were dancing with him?” he raised his eyebrows, pointing at the door with his finger, as if Stefano were outside the room.

Nina shook her head, still not believing they were actually having that conversation. “You shouldn’t mix whiskey with champagne,” she said dryly, her voice coming out harsher than she had intended. But Tommy didn’t seem fazed by it.

“You looked rather intimate,” he noted with a touch of contempt, too upset to realise how preposterous his assumptions sounded.

Nina’s mouth fell agape. She hadn’t missed the inflection in his voice. Was he… jealous? She squinted her eyes, taking a step towards him. “What’s this?” she inquired.

Her question seemed to catch him off guard. He wavered, and an emotion difficult to define flashed across his features. It was more than simply pain. It was like all the resentment Tommy had harboured since that fateful afternoon was flowing out, inexorable, making him unable to think with a clear mind. Biting back was the only way he had to protect the feelings he had foolishly let show. Guilt ate at her stomach at the sight, and she had to remind herself she had done what she had done for him, before anyone else.

As if finally coming back to himself, Tommy clenched his jaw, and took on his usual, impassive expression. “I can’t believe you,” he murmured. “After everything he’s done to you.”

Nina nervously fidgeted with her fingers, not knowing how to make him see that he couldn’t be more wrong. Did he think so little of her? “I’m not..” she trailed off, torn between her sense of guilt and her pride. The latter took the upper hand. She frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. “You have no right to lecture me.”

“True,” he nodded. “I have no right. Cause what happened between us was a mistake and you don’t care about me.”

That was the point. That had always been the point. Tommy thought she had cruelly played him, maybe even used him, just to discard him when she didn’t want him anymore. She exhaled deeply, not meeting his eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s not like that,” he let out a humourless chuckle. “You said it, you’re taking it back now?”

“Stop it.”

“Eh?” Tommy’s voice raised, overlapping hers. “Are you taking it back?”

“I said stop.”

“You said-”

“I lied!” she snapped.

A tense silence fell in the room. Tommy blinked, and all the bitterness faded from his features. “Wha… what?” he stuttered, a confused frown forming on his face.

Nina didn’t regret her admission. She was so tired of pretending, of lying, of hurting him, and saying it out loud lifted a weight off her shoulders.

“I lied,” she repeated, more softly. “I never meant to hurt you. I…” her voice cracked. “I did it to protect you. To protect both of us.” There was no going back now. Her walls had been breached, and the words she had fought hard to keep to herself were leaving her lips before she had the chance to measure them. “Do you have any idea how much we’re risking? I’m risking? We talked about it, I told you how these things work.”

Tentatively, Tommy broke the distance between them, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head up. “Is this what you’re scared of?” he asked incredulous, searching her face frantically, his frown deepening. “I’d never let anything bad happen to you. I’d never let anyone lay a fucking finger on you. You hear me?”

Nina believed him. He would stand between her and harm’s way without a second thought. But that was the problem. She took his hand in hers, rubbing her thumb over it before pulling it away from her face. “And what about you?”

“What?”

“Do you really think you could’ve changed your mind? That they would let you, at that point? You made your decision when you started courting Agnese.”

“Maybe they would’ve understood-”

“No. Her father would’ve wanted your head for humiliating his daughter. The deal would’ve been off and you would’ve been six feet underground in a matter of hours.”

And I’d never be able to forgive myself if something happened to you because of me, she wanted to add.

Tommy didn’t reply, but the pain in his eyes spoke for him. He knew she was right.

Nina gently stroked his cheek. “We never had a chance,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m not worth starting a war over.”

Tommy squeezed his eyelids, shaking his head as if to chase that unbearable thought away. Then, impetuously, he kicked the door shut and crushed his lips against hers. The force of the kiss knocked Nina’s breath out of her lungs, but she was quick to wrap her arms around his neck, pressing their bodies together.

Tommy backed her towards the dresser behind her, then he hoisted her up in his strong arms and sat her on it. A groan left his lips when Nina hooked a leg around him, bringing him even closer. His hands roamed down to her hips, gripping, squeezing, his tongue exploring her sweet mouth. He relished her warmth, her scent, her soft hands caressing his face, trying to imprint every little feeling into his memory. He wanted her, in the most raw, primal way. Because it was the only way he had to have her. Or at least, to delude himself he did. She was like water in his hands, she slipped through his fingers again and again, never letting him hold her, never letting him keep her. But with his fingers digging in her skin, she almost seemed real.

Pulling away to catch his breath, Tommy dropped his forehead into her neck, grabbing her waist. “You’re killing me,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You’re fucking killing me.”

Tears began to stream down Nina’s cheeks. She felt like the worst person alive. She was causing so much pain, to him, to herself. She gently stroked the back of his head, sniffling. “You should go,” she compelled herself to say, although in that moment she wanted nothing more than for him to stay. “They’ll notice your absence.”

“They’re all drunk, they won’t,” he contradicted her.

“Agnese will.”

“She’s with her sisters.”

“But-”

Tommy’s head shot up to look at her, silencing her with his icy glare. “Fuck them,” he husked, wiping away her tears.

Fuck them.

Their mouths collided again. Blood rushed through Nina’s veins as Tommy kissed her hungrily. She could feel him everywhere, she was completely enveloped by him, by his smell of soap, whiskey and cigarettes, by the feeling of his rough hands, and yet she wanted more. She wanted to crumble and be brought into a new existence, to melt in his arms and become one heart, one body, one soul.

They only parted so she could help Tommy get free of his jacket. He was back on her right away, leaving a trail of kisses from her neck down to her chest, his teeth grazing the soft skin from time to time, making goosebumps ripple down her skin. He impatiently lifted her dress, fingers brushing against her smooth legs. More free to move, Nina allowed him more space, and her insides clenched with desire when she felt the bulge in his trousers against her.

Tommy’s hand ghosted over her clothed sex, making her squirm in anticipation. “Tommy,” she moaned, urging him to touch her where she needed the most. Pushing her underwear to the side, he slid two digits into her wet entrance, coaxing a sinful, beautiful sound out of her lips. Nina held onto his shoulders as he started to move his fingers, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Look at me,” Tommy commanded, cupping her chin with his free hand. Her eyelids fluttered open, showing him her glossy eyes filled with pleasure, causing his cock to painfully twitch.

He pumped his fingers in and out of her, working her open, eliciting small gasps from her that threatened to make him lose his mind. His thumb went to stroke her clit, the unexpected motion making her yelp.

Fuck, she was so beautiful.

“Tommy, please…” she whispered, clutching the soft material of his shirt. “I need you.”

She didn’t need to say it twice. Wasting no time, Tommy slid his fingers out of her to get rid of her knickers, discarding them somewhere on the floor, then fumbled with his trousers, finally freeing himself from all restraints. He grabbed Nina’s thighs, pulling her closer to the edge of the dresser so he could position himself between her folds, then he entered her with one swift thrust, burying himself inside of her. Nina hid her face in his shoulder, one hand coming to cup the nape of his neck, the other clutching the fabric of his shirt. Tommy began to rock his hips, firmly yet slowly, giving her the time to adjust to the feeling of him stretching her walls.

Nina clung onto him as if he could shield her from the unknown, as if he were a shelter, a place where she could forget, even for a moment, the uncertain future that awaited her. A future she tried to escape from, but the more she ran, the more she found it on her heels, ready to catch her, to drag her into the darkness that had been threatening her for years.

Tommy’s pace quickened, becoming more desperate, almost brutal, arms wrapped around her waist, bringing every inch of their bodies together. Nina was surprised to find that was exactly what she needed in that moment. It kept her anchored to him and only him.

“You feel so good,” Tommy growled, digging his fingers in her flesh, and her cheeks burned at his words.

He set a merciless rhythm, pounding into her with sharp thrusts. Nina barely recognised the sounds that were coming out of her, but she was too lost in her pleasure to be worried about them. Breath hitched in her throat when he reached a particular spot that made her see stars, and he hit it again and again, drawing shaky whimpers out of her. With each minute that passed she felt closer and closer to her release, and Tommy must’ve been aware of that too. She let out a strangled noise when he brought a finger to her swollen clit, the fire in her abdomen too much to bear.

“C’mon, love,” he rasped. “Cum for me.”

He drew small circles on her sensitive bud, pushing her over the edge. Her walls fluttered around his cock, shockwaves gripping her body as she came undone. Tommy kept on thrusting into her, hips ruthlessly snapping as he chased his climax, until with a last, powerful thrust, he emptied himself inside of her, grunting in her ear.

For a while, neither of them moved. They stayed in each other’s embrace, panting, savouring that ephemeral semblance of peace. Nina nuzzled her cheek against his, the comforting scent of his aftershave filling her nostrils. Neither of them seemed to intend to let go first.

God, she didn’t want to let him go. Before she could control them, tears filled Nina’s eyes again, and she tried her best to prevent them from falling. Why did it have to be so hard? Why did she have to fall for the one man she could never have? Why did her happiness have to cause so much damage? The most irrational part of it was that despite all of that, being in his arms felt like the rightest thing in the world. They perfectly moulded together like they had been created just fit into each other’s arms, to fill each other’s voids. Nothing she had ever felt could compare to it.

Eventually, they moved apart. They fixed their clothes in silence, pulling themselves together as best they could. Not that Nina cared at all. There was no way she was going back to the party. No one would notice anyway.

“Go,” she whispered, brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen on his forehead. “They must be looking for you.”

Tommy gently cradled the back of her head, pressing a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll come to you later,” he promised.

Nina nodded, forcing herself to smile. But tears started flowing as soon as she watched him walk out the door.

Heart, Body and Sould tag list

@zablife @queenofshinigamis @raincoffeeandfandoms / @justrainandcoffee @call-sign-shark

@kmc1989 @babayaga67 @kmhappybunny240 @diorrfairy @mariaelizabeth21-blog1

@gaslysainz @brummiereader @loverhymeswith @fairypitou @prettywhenicry4

@mysticalbouquetwolf-posts @woofgocows @girlwith-thepearlearring @goblinjnr @outlanderuniverse

@citylights31 @neonpurplestars89-blog @outlanderuniverse @red-riding-wood @evita-shelby

@look-at-the-soul @gathania93 @wonderlanddreamer @thelastemzy @meadows5

@emotionalcadaver

General tag list:

@iamngoclinh08 @lilywinchesterlove @fandom-puff @capitanostella

@caelys @lucillethings @peakyxtommy @queenofkings1212 @lyarr24

@kmc1989 @call-sign-shark @jomarch-wannabe @ce1iat @areyenotfondofmelobster

@red-riding-wood @optimisticsandwichgladiator

Tommy Shelby tag list:

@50svibes @bellabarnes1378

[toodelusionalforreality]

Azriel x OC | Chapter 5

Relic

Both his brothers are mated. Both his brothers are happily in love. But after five centuries of rejection, Azriel doesn’t hope for such luxury in his life. When he meets the bar owner who is too mysterious even for the spymaster to decipher, his intrigue turns into more. Lines between mystery and secret blur. The more he gets closer to her, the more his instincts warn him to stay away.

Word count: ~4.6k Warning: None [not enough editing/formatting]

A/N: This is an experimental piece of work. I'm testing a writing style, so feedback is welcome. Going to pretend to be some big shot writer and dedicate this chapter to the ones who encouraged me to keep writing. And my favourite reader (you know who you are, hopefully).

Previous Chapter: Shadow

The doorknob twisted under his fingers and Azriel gritted his teeth at the soft click. Mercifully, the door made no more sound. Darkness and quiet awaited him on the other side, while a haunting aura loomed behind him in the hallway under the fading sunlight. The hag was nowhere to be found.

Everyone except Ayla had known who he was, yet something changed after that day.

The last time he walked into the bar, Raya glared from across the room stopping him in his steps. She and Uri exchanged hissed whispers before the server led him out to the streets. He croaked out a “We’re closing soon anyway” with an apologetic smile and shut the rusty door in his face.

And, the hag—gone were the expectant eyes and the grateful smile when Azriel returned the next night. Instead, he faced a creature twice as large as him with knitting needles in one hand and jagged talons out in the other. 

Nonetheless, it warmed his heart and calmed his mind that Ayla was cared for.

Grumbled curses seeped through the wall on his side. His shadows wound tight around him. Clapping his wings close, Azriel wedged through the gap and shut the door carefully, praying it didn’t alert the hag.

A second passed and another. Sweet silence embraced him.

‘We’re closed.’

Azriel whirled around.

The room seemed to stretch far and long in the darkness with thick curtains shielding the windows. Stacks of wooden trays, empty glasses, and filled crystal decanters piled on the counter. Behind it, Ayla reached on her toes and placed a bottle on the shelf. A lone lantern burned a muted golden above the bar illuminating her.

‘I really need a drink,’ he uttered the first words that came to his mind, cursing himself for the senseless fool he was.

Her hand went rigid. Ayla stilled, and time and space froze with her. If not for the wisps of hair fluttering with her every breath, Azriel would have believed so.

None of their previous encounters ended on a good note. After the last time, he needed to clarify himself. If his mate deemed him vile, Azriel preferred she hated him from close. But in her silence, it struck him. She could be the one behind her friends’ defence, commanding them to keep him away.

‘Lock the door.’ She said a moment later, adding another bottle to the display. ‘I don’t want anyone else to believe we’re open yet.’

Resisting a smile, Azriel tested the knob again. He and her, alone in the empty bar—dreams truly did come true.

Once he settled across from her, Ayla faced him. She looked at him, unblinking. 

Azriel waited. So did she. He fumbled into his pockets and his fingers caught in the leather. His heart sank. He remembered stuffing a pouch with gold marks explicitly to bribe the hag if needed.  

Ayla laughed, the sound echoing through the air, chasing away every thought from his mind. She had blessed him with her smiles before. But this, it was beautiful—more so than her melodies, like the chime of a willow.

‘I was expecting your order.’ Her shoulders shook as she picked a glass from the pile. ‘Spare your money. The bar is still closed, remember?’

Heat crept up his neck. Azriel smiled yet ducked his head low. His shadows swayed on his shoulders as if laughing along with her. Traitors.

Ayla pulled a decanter from under the counter, simpler than the ones above, and poured a mouthful for him. He took the first sip and her eyes never left his face. 

A thick sweetness coated his mouth, the aftertaste lingering on his tongue. A drink was surely an excuse for his cause, but he expected a real one in a bar. Azriel almost said so when his throat tightened. His vision clouded. Bitterness exploded along the back of his tongue before morphing into a burn that settled in his throat. An undignified cough escaped his lips.

Amusement sparked in Ayla’s eyes. ‘I can find you something light if you’d like.’

‘It’s fine.’ Azriel cleared his throat. His voice was hoarse when he got the words out. ‘I didn’t expect. . .that. What is it?’

‘Poison. Didn’t your instincts warn you?’

His shadows danced along his back and wings, but they were quiet and calm. Azriel studied her blank face as he took a subtle sniff. It smelled quite like her—a jumble of spices and sweetness. 

Ayla laughed again. ‘I’m not daft to kill you in my own bar. It’s something Raya and Uri have been experimenting with.’

‘So it could be poison.’ Azriel smiled and tested another sip. It tasted easy this time. When she paused to fill his glass, he gave her a nod.

Her eyes fixated on his shoulders. ‘And for your companions?’ 

The wavering darkness stilled. His shadows that sensed the insensible and expected the unexpected, skidded down his back as though her question had rendered them awed. One ever wondered what they did for him or could do for them. In five centuries, no one asked what they wanted.

Their whispers quieted, and in that eerie void, Azriel seemed to hear a word echo back to him. Far, far away. Ayla.

‘Nothing.’ He dropped his gaze to the drink, smiling. It only served right that they suffered his agony too.

Leaving the liquor beside him, Ayla tended to her shelf. 

It was a cold, cruel world outside. A woman who hurt her and promised worse lurked beyond that room. A court wanted to whisk her away for a reason he knew nothing of. But Ayla had no worry. She drifted back and forth, shuffling the bottles in an innate pattern only she saw until the colours bled and blended into a seamless artwork, a mosaic of reds and browns and amber in the faelight.

How could she be so carefree while her life was in danger?

She preferred the lonely, Uri had said. Even with Azriel mere feet away, she was alone, in her own world—getting her bar ready for the evening, and he was content watching her.

Cradling a bottle against her chest, Ayla leaned back against the counter.

If he set his glass down and reached a little, Azriel could trail a finger down the arch of her spine. He could feel the smooth curve of her waist under his palm. A little lower, her shirt crinkled, right above the swell of her— He tore his eyes away and cleared his throat.

‘You don’t have to act tough,’ she said. ‘No one shall know the big bad shadowsinger can’t drink. It will be our secret.’

Azriel looked up. Ayla moved down the bar, away from him, towards the unattended pile. A teasing smile tugged at her lips. And her face lacked the hatred he believed she felt for him.

Had he been wrong? The times he met with her, she was polite—ignoring her threat—and she talked without hesitance.

‘You were gone for a long time. Where were you?’

‘Shouldn’t you know that already?’ Ayla wiped the glasses and stacked them on the tray one by one. The rings on her bracelet clinked with her every move.

‘I’m a spy,’ mumbled Azriel, ‘not a stalker.’

She chuckled, so light it was almost a breath. ‘Don’t the lines blur for you?’

Always a quick question thrown his way to draw the attention from her. Azriel was used to rudeness, anger, and even snark. But Ayla, she was something else. Her words were a weapon, sharp and precise, and always found their mark.

His shadows gathered over one shoulder, coiling and threading into dark ribbons, inching towards her. Ayla glanced at them and a smile curled her lips. With that, she shattered his resolve.

‘Drink with me,’ said Azriel.

Her hands froze and the smile faded. She peered at him, assessing him.

‘Drink with me, Ayla.’ He said again, only gentler.

For a breath, she didn’t move. Then she abandoned the trays, glasses and bottles, and walked back to him. 

Snagging the drink from between his fingers, she took a sip. Her brows pulled together as she pressed the back of her fingers to her lips and gasped. Azriel grinned.

‘Gods, that’s horrible.’ The veins along her neck strained as she swallowed again. ‘They should not be making that.’

‘A bar owner who can’t handle a drink. It’ll be our secret.’ Azriel poured another glass.

‘Ah, so it begins. Is this how you interrogate your suspects?’ Ayla crossed her arms on the bar. It brought her closer to him.

Azriel nodded. ‘Right after a meal of their choosing.’

‘Sure, sure. We don’t want to lose them to exhaustion. And when does the screaming start?’

There were two kinds of women—ones who idolised him and ones who feared him. Neither cared who he was underneath his mask of Night Court’s Torturer. And they definitely did not joke about it. 

Azriel chuckled under his breath.

Ayla drank again. ‘It’s still not my secret to share if that’s why you’re here.’

‘Not the part where you’re involved. That’s yours to tell.’

Her eyes didn’t waver. She observed him as though she could stir through his thoughts and pull them apart until she took what she wanted. 

After a long minute, she muttered, ‘I’m starting to see why you’re a spymaster.’ She tucked a fist under her chin. ‘I’ll tell you what. You find out where Hamra is and I’ll give you—’

‘She just passed the borders of Winter. If she moves west in the next two days, she’s heading to Autumn.’ 

Ayla blinked twice. Her lips parted and closed. She shook her head and slowly, a smile made its way onto her face. ‘Not a stalker,’ she mumbled, brushing the loose strands away from her eyes. ‘I met her five years ago.’

Azriel brought the glass to his lips and hid his smirk behind it.

‘I had to stop at an inn on my way back from a trip. I never do because they are always loud and crowded. That place was no exception.’ Her brows furrowed, yet her smile remained. She stared at the wood between them, ‘I almost left until I saw her. She was cursing at three men who were trying to hold her down and she was soaked in blood. I couldn’t tell whose it was. But she was fighting back. And those who wished to help were afraid of her.’

‘You helped her.’

Ayla nodded once. ‘Not right away. I wasn’t sure if she was innocent. But, she was cornered and outmanned. One of them even had a rope to tie her down like a beast. It didn’t matter though. The next minute, she was waggling a knife at them. Almost took an eye out of one.’ She laughed, shaking her head. More hair spilt from her knot. ‘I still don’t know where she got it from. After I had her cleaned and fed, she offered me gold for my horse and promised to let me ride him if I offered her protection.’

Azriel grinned. He expected nothing less from the spitfire of a child. ‘Who was she running from?’

‘Her sire.’ Ayla hesitated for a beat, then sighed. ‘Hamra is a half-nymph. When she came of age, many coveted her for her beauty and suitors poured in from every court. Her sire is a lowly lord. After he married a high fae to keep his bloodline pure, her mother hid her birth from him. But news of her existence spread when she bore more resemblance to him than her mother. Since Hamra carries his blood and passes as a fae, like any arrogant male, he claims to the right to decide who she weds and beds to further his lordly dreams.’

Different courts, different times, but the same tale.

Anger coiled in Azriel’s gut. Hamra was a mere child. Almost as old as when Mor endured the same or Gwyn.

‘Who’s her father?’

‘I’ve spoken more than I promised.’

‘And the woman, is she here on his orders?’

Ayla stole the drink from him and took a long sip.

‘Tell me the child is safe to travel alone.’

She lifted her chin, her eyes scrutinising him. The glass hung from her fingers by the rim. ‘And why do you care?’

Azriel didn’t know what trick she was playing. How could one not care? The sight of Mor’s naked body, bloody and bruised, on the ground still haunted him. He couldn’t condemn another to the same fate. ‘Shouldn’t we when her life is in danger?’

Ayla sipped again. Another minute of silence passed before she smiled. ‘You’re kind.’

The words felt wrong even from her lips. If she knew his true intentions, that the fae had been a pawn to get closer to her, she wouldn’t feel the same.

He looked away, ‘It’s not what people say about me.’

‘Maybe you’re listening to the wrong people.’

Her gaze was heavy on him. The urge to hide gnawed at his chest. But they were alone and his shadows had their own will around her. They peeled away leaving him exposed, bare and whole. 

Aware of the little time he had before they were interrupted, Azriel stole the drink from her. ‘Is that why you refuse to work for lords? For her safety?’

‘I don’t find them reliable.’ She shrugged, ‘Most are entitled and self-aggrandising.’

‘Rhys isn’t like them.’ At the least, not after one knew him.

Ayla clicked her tongue. ‘Your High Lord must pay you well if you endorse him while drunk.’

Azriel chuckled. He itched to defend his brother and convince her that he wasn’t as evil as she believed him to be. But he wanted to stay with her more. 

‘Why the bar?’ He asked instead. Her brows furrowed. ‘You make weapons and yet, own a bar.’

‘I liked the house.’ Azriel must have failed to mask his confusion because she added, ‘It’s in the middle of the city. I have a view of Sidra and the mountains from my balcony. And on solstices, I can see every celebration. The lights, the decorations, the music. For months, I tried to negotiate with the owner. But he wouldn’t sell it without the bar.’ She sighed, waving a hand between them. ‘You would know if you saw my house.’

His heart lurched.

‘Tell me this,’ she leaned forward on her arms. ‘Doesn’t it contradict your purpose if you declare yourself a spymaster?’

Azriel grinned. Of course, his mate would be bold enough to ridicule him. ‘I have others working for me. And everyone expects a shadowsinger to spy. There’s no point hiding it.’

Ayla rolled her eyes. ‘Excuses. Admit that you’re terrible at your job.’

’You don’t even know what I can do.’

‘You couldn’t find out where I was.’

‘But I found Hamra.’

‘She probably spotted you. Your shadows aren’t as subtle as they should be.’ She took the drink from him. The warmth of her skin grazed his fingers.

Darkness swarmed and writhed over his shoulders at the insult. A low chuckle escaped his lips. ‘Why the singing?’

Ayla frowned at the sudden shift. ‘You seem to be very curious about my life. Are you sure this isn’t an interrogation?’

‘You’re not screaming yet,’ teased Azriel.

She drew a breath and the corner of her lips twitched. ‘Among my people, women are supposed to be pretty things who do pretty things.’

Azriel waited for more. But she answered with silence.

Sire. Her people. Your High Lord. Her choice of words was strange for a commoner in the north, or even a lady. But she carried no markers of the southern courts. Even when she spoke of Hamra, she refrained from naming a place.

From the way she talked of her people, only two places came to his mind. 

Azriel knew the chances were slim but, for someone whose every word was calculated, she was bound to correct him rather than reveal the truth herself. ‘Autumn?’

Ayla grinned, ‘Do I look like I’m from Autumn?’

Hewn City then. Azriel hid his smirk by taking a sip. ‘I didn’t know making swords was a craft fit for a lady.’

‘Spoken like a true man.’ She exacted her vengeance by snatching the glass from him. Her gaze lingered on his hands as she drank and his fingers twitched on their own. 

He clenched his fists and turned away. He couldn’t bear that look from her—like he was that weak, helpless boy who cried for help, someone reduced to his past and ghosts.

‘We all have scars, shadowsinger.’ Her voice carried a note of tenderness. ‘You bear yours on your skin.’

When Azriel turned back, she was peering at his fists unfazed. She didn’t flinch away with disgust or cower when he caught her inspecting them. 

Ayla opened her palms to him. ‘May I?’

The last time she touched his skin, Azriel was too lost in her to notice. This, he wasn’t prepared for, nor could he forget.

‘You can refuse me,’ she said. Her hands rested on the counter between them as a sign of reassurance that the choice was truly his. 

Many had desired what Ayla asked of him. Even Mor at one time after she learnt the truth from Rhys. But it was Azriel who always chose who and when he touched, never the other way around. The only person he ever let feel his hands was his mother once the bandages were removed.

Slowly, he offered his hand to her. At the graze of her fingertips on his knuckles, he sucked in a sharp breath.

Ayla held his gaze, waiting, allowing him the chance to kill her curiosity. When Azriel didn’t resist, she comforted him with a smile before lowering her eyes. 

For a long time, she only observed, taking in every ugly ridge and wrinkle on his skin. She held his hand in both of hers, her fingers barely touching him. Her thumbs weaved through his digits and stroked his palm, eliciting a jolt through his spine with each traversed path.

We all have scars.

What scars did she possess? Were they a reminder on her skin like his? That thought alone birthed a hunger in him to inflict pain onto the world. 

How could anyone wish to hurt her? A woman whose eyes beheld compassion instead of pity for a cursed soul like him? The one who cradled his marred hand as a sacred relic deserving of her utmost care? The one whose face softened with a kind smile as she marked every inch of his scars with her smooth touch?

‘I wish,’ Ayla breathed, ‘they had treated you better.’

Azriel realised it then. Why Mother burdened him with a loveless life for five centuries. Why Mor didn’t accept him. Why Elain was never meant to be his. 

So he could belong to Ayla. And he would endure the heartache again for eternity if Mother promised him one lifetime with her.

Her fingers stilled, hovering over his palm. ‘Did they pay for this?’

Ayla’s face was that of an ardent believer of forgiveness—warmth radiating from her every time a smile adorned her lips. She cared for Raya and Uri. She protected a child endangering herself. She sheltered a homeless hag.

But Azriel had also witnessed her choke a male defending a fae. 

Which one was he—one worthy of her generosity or her wrath? 

Was he the same innocent boy deserving of justice after the blood he spilt with his own hands? Or was he a sinner for how he punished his half-brothers? What would appease the woman in front of him cradling his hand with a gentleness that rivalled a mother’s touch—that they were forgiven and shown the path of kindness, or they were ripped to shreds by his own tortured hands like they deserved?

No, the word inched closer to the tip of his tongue, ready to satiate his mate with a simple lie. One to keep her from running away from him. ‘Yes.’

The corner of her lips curled up, ever so delicately, and she murmured. ‘Good.’ 

When a frown etched between her brows, he knew her next question well. He grappled at everything he learned of her to lead her elsewhere. 

‘Can I see your dagger?’ She asked softly. 

Azriel almost laughed. One minute, his heart ached with the weight of his past, and the next, with joy and need.

Her back arched over the counter and she leaned low. She narrowed her eyes, prodding at his palm and pinching his fingertips. ‘Do you need special hilts? For your hands, the grip on them should be interesting.’

Oh, Azriel would prove his grip all right.

His shadows buzzed by his ears sensing his insidious thoughts. 

‘Maybe next time,’ he said, easing his hand out of her grip. What an idiot he was denying her the very thing he craved—her skin against his.

Her brow raised but she smiled. ‘Planning ahead, are we?’

It was neither a threat nor a refusal.

Refilling the glass, Azriel nodded at her wrist. ‘Did you make that?’

Ayla glanced at her bracelet before emptying their drink. ‘Orvin did. Leather and innovation are his specialities. I’m better with traditional weaponry.’ She poured another glass and Azriel grabbed it before she could. ‘I don’t carry weapons, so he made it for my travels.’

So close, the rings appeared more silver than gold but lacked the lustre of either. ‘What is it made of?’

‘It’s something I’m working on.’ Ayla threaded her third and fourth fingers through the rings and pulled, slowly revealing the cords. A trilling echoed in the air as they strummed from the strain. ‘See,’ she looked up at him, her eyes bright and eager. ‘It’s malleable under tension. It may not look like it, but it’s tougher than steel.’

She flexed her fingers and the rings whizzed back to the bracelet in a blink. Her smile widened.

Azriel set the glass down and reached for her wrist. Then, he stopped. When he turned to her, she nodded twice, extending her arm towards him. 

His fingers were thicker than hers. The rings barely slipped past his nails. The heat from her skin still warmed the metal. 

Ayla leaned close and Azriel held his breath. She curled his fingers, trapping the rings between his knuckles.

‘They are meant to be a little loose to manoeuvre them.’ She pointed at his half-closed fist, ‘You can’t get proper control if they’re snug. There’s also the danger of breaking your fingers during a fight.’

Azriel nodded and tested a little tug. His fingers trembled at the tension as though the cords fought back against him. Both times Ayla used it, she did so with an impressive ease that almost shamed his Illyrian strength.

She traced her fingers along the width of the bracelet. ‘Here’s where the tethers go. It remembers its form and reverts to it once you let go.’ Then she frowned, ‘But it’s not perfect yet. Leather gets worn out soon. We’re trying to replace it with metal but the slide and friction are hard to get around.’

Words tumbled out of her lips about metals and temperatures and mechanics. The more she talked, the further she edged towards him.

Azriel narrowed his eyes.

A smoky tendril teetered over her shoulder, one to the other. It coiled and wove itself with the loose ends of her hair, curving along her jaw carefully to not touch her skin. 

As the rogue shadow nudged against her collar, swaying too close to her ear, he gritted his teeth. 

Ayla looked up at his silence.

Azriel nodded, bringing his gaze back to her face. Or did she ask him something?

He stared at his hand, the rings still in his grasp. He coiled the cord around his fist like she did on that first night. She was right—he could tolerate the strain better. He tugged and her hand slipped on the table, almost knocking the glass off. She caught it before the liquor spilt on him.

‘Hey,’ she laughed—sweet and soothing. His shadows sighed at the sound. ‘Careful!’ 

Azriel released the rings, letting go of the tether, letting go of her.

But Ayla didn’t move back. She drank, smiling. 

Lights hit the crystals on the shelf right and their glow echoed around her like a gentle halo—turning her into the ethereal being she was. Her eyes sparkled with mirth and her cheeks flushed warm. She licked the remnants of the liquor from her bottom lip as she emptied the bottle and nudged the drink towards him.

Azriel willed himself to breathe. He placed his finger on the rim and turned the glass around. When he brought it to his lips, his tongue darted out to gather the wetness still stuck to it, where her lips had been not a moment ago. He took a long sip, savouring every drop of the burning nectar she offered.

Ayla stared at him—his parted lips, the column of his throat as he swallowed. Her inhaled breath stuck in her throat. As Azriel set the glass down, her eyes followed it before they flashed to his. 

Far, his mind screamed, too fucking far. 

But Azriel noticed the slight twitch of her lips before her gaze flicked to his side. A thread of shadow curled around his ear. 

A lock clicked beyond the wall. Ayla looked over her shoulder at the closed office door, sinking her teeth into her lip.

Raya, his shadows announced.

‘That’s my bartender,’ her voice took on a lower note, more melodious than ever. She swallowed a breath and turned to him. ‘We’ll be opening soon.’

Azriel waited. 

Ayla didn’t move.

He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her to him, pressing his lips to hers. 

Metal clanked and scratched against the wood as her fingers splayed on the counter. When her lips moved with his, Azriel buried his other hand into her hair—her beautiful, silkened hair. 

He swiped his tongue on her lips, wide and hungry. Honeyed sweetness from their drink lingered on them, and beneath it, he tasted her. A shiver raked through him, every nerve in his body awakening at her kiss. When she gasped, he stole the little breath from between her lips. She didn’t resist. 

Gods, not once did she resist.

Azriel kissed her. 

He kissed her with every piece of his heart. He kissed her for the centuries he waited for her. He kissed her for the moments wasted between them, and the moments he would miss until next time.

Here.

Feet stomped close on the other side of the door.

Azriel pulled away, dropping his hands.

The door opened.

‘People generally rest in their bed,’ groaned Raya entering the room. Her mouth fell open when she spotted him, her wide eyes darting between him and Ayla.

Azriel only watched his mate. Her hair, ruined by his hands. Her cheeks aglow golden with a flush. Her lips pursed—wet, swollen, and all the more inviting.

But the light in her eyes, the playfulness, faded.

He stumbled back from the stool. 

‘Thanks for the drink.’

And he left without looking back.

[nectarinesalt]

Cornflake Girl

...he showed up all wet on the rainy front step wearing shrapnel in his skin and the war he saw lives inside him still...

pairing: drafted/military/PTSD Eddie Munson x reader (whose brother died in the same war)

warnings: war, language, angst, death. terrible childhood, poverty. talk of domestic violence. eventual PTSD, eventual smut.

word count: 1k

author's note: slightly thinking about making this into a multi-chapter. tell me what you think.

~~~

The exhaust from the line of buses in the road choked you like the clammy, stone grip of Death himself. You found yourself in a trance - staring at the weeping mothers, the trembling young men - the only thing to shake you back to reality was a familiar firm grip on your own shaking fingers.

“...before you know it. Trust me, Wink.”

You stuttered over a response. “W-what?”

Your older brother Zeke raised an eyebrow at you with amusement. It’s the exact look that he had been giving you for weeks, and quite frankly, it pissed you off. How could you be so fucking casual about being drafted, Zeke?

In simple terms, the world as you knew it was ending. Your best friend, your big brother, your savior - he got that goddamned letter in the mail. 

Of course, Ezekiel Elliot Winkler didn’t bat an eye. Did he expect it? Well, you were sure he did. The newspapers talked about nothing but war. But… did Zeke want this? Your mind suddenly ran past all of the memories of the previous years; him and your father shoving each other around, Zeke ripping bottles of wine out of your mother’s frail hands. 

Your brother, only eleven months older than you, covering your ears in the stuffy closet you shared as your parents smashed dishes in the kitchen during a fight. You recalled how bad you shivered in the closet that night - probably because the furnace went out again, and no one had fixed it in months.

Probably as much as you shivered now. Zeke’s chocolate brown eyes were different from yours, lighter almost. His gaze flickered between your pathetic scowl and your hand, where your anxious thoughts manifested into a severe cuticle picking problem.

“C’mon, quit the picking, sis. How’s an engagement ring ever gonna look on a chewed up finger like that?” Zeke winked at you, knowing all too well that you swore off marriage over a year ago.

His sense of humor didn’t fade one bit, not even as the heavy bag slung over his shoulder. You helped him pack it the night before, last minute as always. 

You really want to pack this much? 

He smiled that toothy smile of his, dimples catching the shadow from the bare bulb above you both.

It’s all I got, Wink.

A deep gasp rose in your throat and you squeezed your eyes shut. Your memories escaped you suddenly, but then came rushing back with the enveloping squeeze of Zeke’s long arms lifting you a few inches off the cold pavement. He had always been at least half a head taller than you.

Ignoring the scrutinizing gaze of your mother, Zeke mumbled in your ear. “Just… hang in there. Please? Someone needs to take care of her while I’m gone.”

You fought the urge to argue, to protest. You didn’t want to watch over your drunken mother. You’d be eighteen within six months - who’d be responsible for her then? After all of the nights you both went to bed hungry, the narcissistic comments as puberty hit you like a semi truck. What the fuck did you owe her? 

She didn’t attend the funeral of your father when her car wrapped around a tree… only for her to walk away with nothing but bruises.

You were shocked that she had the motivation to leave the couch to send off Zeke. Hell, right now, you were stunned she was even slightly sober in the parking lot of Hawkins High School. But that was probably for her reputation's sake, not for her only son being drafted like a pig to the slaughter.

A sudden flash of silver caught your eye.

Snapping like a twig in the middle of a dry Indiana January, your neck craned instinctively towards the sight: two buses down, the flicker of a silver chain on the strap of a man’s duffel bag. 

Eddie. Your best friend.

Well, your former best friend. Before you had to start wearing a bra. Before your PMS and family stress turned you into a hormonal monster. Before he popped boners every time you smoked behind the bleachers with him during cheer practice. Before… before he did nothing but obsess over Chrissy Cunningham. 

You sighed.

Eddie Munson, born the same year, nearly the same damned month, as Zeke, got the letter in the mail, too. Duty called to him like a whisper in the night, beckoning him with a curling finger, looking at all of his failures, insecurities; Eddie didn’t think he truly had a future in Hawkins. So why not embrace the draft?

At least, that’s what you imagined it was like. Now, your puffy eyes drew to him like a magnet. Eddie looked drastically different, yet all the same. His hair was buzzed like it was when you were in 5th grade. He kept his back awkwardly straight as he spoke silently to his uncle, Wayne. That tiny family was always so good at trying to make life easier for each other. 

You silently begged them to let the walls down. Shed tears. Hug deeply. But no, nothing like that happened. 

Zeke said his farewell to your frigid mother as you focused on the sparse Munson family. Eddie held a firm grip on his uncle as he pulled him in for a brief embrace. As your childhood best friend turned for the bus, he immediately froze at the sight of you across the parking lot.

Fuck.

A whistle sounded nearby, tearing you from the invisible silver chain that connected you to Eddie.

“Zeke!” you choked out, refusing to let go of the strap on his bag. “Write to me. Please tell me you’ll write.”

“I thought you hated my handwriting?”

“Shut up!” You gripped his strap harder, pulling him forward in a gut-crushing hug, trying to ignore the feeling of Eddie’s eyes on you. 

The last thing you remembered was the easygoing smirk on Zeke’s face as he waved through the bus windows.

[speedofsoundsketches]

The shadow manga that came out has a lot of issues from Shadow being drawn off model several times to Maria not behaving as the Maria we see in the Shadow game or sa2, to the implication that maybe BD was behind Maria's death. Ruining a large part of Shadows story. I feel a lot of fans just blindly love it because 'it's Japanese! Then its cool!" If Idw released this story I'm 100 percent convinced it would have met with more critism.

Before answering, I feel it’s helpful to know that the Magazine that publishes it, CoroCoro, typically specializes in gag/comedy stuff aimed for elementary school children. It’s actually hilarious how something as intense and more serious as Shadows manga is sandwiched between goofy comics about poop jokes and such lol. The works in it do seem a biiiit rushed and lower in quality to the likes of Shonen jump but considering it’s a very short prequel with only 5 chapters, it’s a bit expected it’ll prob not be this particular artists best work and will just be “serviceable”. That said, I think as a tightly written, fast paced story it’s fine. I can forgive the mistakes because it’s also extremely cheap (like 4 dollars in USD).

Personally I thought Maria was fine in it. She had such limited time in the games and I don’t feel anything in the manga contradicted those appearances that much? Felt more like it expanded on what was typically just implied, like her playfulness or weaknesses due to her terminal illness. I like the aggressive side being highlighted, which makes sense she’s got it to be willing to sacrifice herself like she ends up doing (or punching enemies in SHTH lol). The SHTH cutscenes with her and young Commander showed she played with him and they were like normal kids. Her trying to prank Shadow and make him have fun felt like more of the same.

I got the impression that it’s less so BD was behind her death and more that this is likely a distorted illusion based on Shadow’s memories which is what BD did in the Shadow game as well. I mean, she got shot no where near the escape capsule where it was always established she got shot while sending Shadow off, not before. We’ll see in the next chapter if this is the case so I think it’s a little early to call it inaccurate. (hopefully the magazine threatening to discontinue it because of the mass pirating was a bluff...)

[baronessvonglitter]

Cherry, Cherry 🍒 Chapter 18 🍒 "I Wanted It To Be You"

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: 7,467

Summary: Moving on from Joel, your life takes many unexpected courses: college, marriage.. yet you keep wondering What If..?

(Warnings contain spoilers, so please check beneath the cut if you're curious)

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, age gap (the difference is 17 years, and there are a few time skips throughout this chapter), starts in late 2003 and ends in 2023, Angst Angst Angst, brief mention of jailtime, breakup, parental issues, heavy on the mom guilt, underage drinking, dry humping, anonymous drunk sex (never ever do this, folks), vomit, reader going through a slutty era after getting her heart broken (just like Joel in Chapter 14), allusions to smut, time skips (labeled), panic attack, mention of drugs and alcohol, rough sex, creampie, surprise pregnancy, infidelity, lil bit of a makeout sesh with Tommy, semi-public sex, pussy pronouns, light degradation, Ellie is Joel's daughter, mention of cyberstalking (not as serious as it sounds), mention of reader having a therapist, Joel and Tess are married. If I left anything out, please LMK!

Author's Note: this took forever to write because the more I edited the more I wanted to add. And I know this chapter has quite a few time skips, I just wanted to highlight the important parts as much as I could. ALSO: I apologize for the unrealistically speedy law process at the beginning. I have no idea how that situation would pan out, but it would almost definitely drag out for months if not years.

So much angst here, but now the reader is all grown up! I wanted to add the convo with Sarah but this chapter was already getting so long, and I think it'll fit better in the next installment anyway.

Series Masterlist

"I would've said yes."

You've lost count of how many voicemails you leave Joel, who's been ignoring your calls, but this is the only time you say it, that you admit your love could have gone a different way if you'd just gotten back to that hotel room together.

You replay that night over and over in your head, but with different endings. In a perfect world, your father would never have even been there in the first place. In a separate, less perfect world, you would not have called out to him, just ignored him the way he ignored you. Then you'd have some peace of mind, and you'd belong with the man you love.

Each time you call Joel, you expect to hear his gruff voice on the other end of the line. And soon enough the ringing stops and goes straight to voicemail, where you leave him the words of your bleeding, broken heart:

"I would've said yes."

You haven't taken the ring out of its box, worried you'll jinx whatever luck you have left. Joel is supposed to kneel, take your hand in his, and place the ring on your finger. You've never envisioned what getting engaged would look like, but it definitely bears some semblance to tradition.

When Chris refused to press charges, the law stepped in and did it for him. Thirty days in the Bexar County Jail is what they sentenced Joel. That was why you couldn't reach him, why you felt like you were hitting a brick wall. It's a relief when you're finally able to speak to him.

"I'm so sorry," you cry to him over the phone, his voice like a warm and soothing balm. You imagine yourself curling into his embrace, allowing his arms to enfold you, make you small and safe, hidden from the dangers and ugliness of the world.

"You ain't got nothin' to be sorry for," he grunts.

"I love you." You sound pitiful over the phone but you don't care. "Joel, let me come see you and we can work it out. Please."

He sighs. "I got somethin' I need to tell you. Might change your mind how ya feel about me."

"What?" you ask quickly, your young mind scrambling to imagine what he could say, as if to fortify your already shattered heart. Your stomach sinks, nausea threatening to make the bile rise in your throat. "Joel, what is it?"

He's quiet for awhile and when he speaks it's monotone. "I've been seein' someone else."

It sounds like he's speaking a foreign language. You shake your head, looking at your wall calendar. It's only December. You last saw him in late September. The biblical manger scene on the church calendar your mom put on the fridge is an evil harbinger of time now lost.

"Who?" you ask, dreading the answer.

"Doesn't matter," he says gruffly, sounding uncomfortable.

"Tell me who," you insist.

With a deep sigh he relents. "Hailey."

Again, it's like hearing a foreign language. "Hailey? The girl I worked with? The one who went to Sarah's party? That Hailey?"

"Yeah."

"How.. how did this happen?"

"Ran into her at a bar my first night out of jail. I was lonely and she was.. she was there for me."

"What do you mean? Did you-" you take a moment to breathe, try not to let your emotions take over.

"I slept with her. That's all it is between us, just fuckin'."

It's like a punch in the gut. No, worse. It's a blade plunging into your heart over and over.

In a blur of upset and disappointment, you utter the words of anyone who's ever had a broken heart: "How could you do this to me?"

There's no answer for it from his side. His refusal to go into detail feels like he's hiding his fling with Hailey on purpose, withholding part of his new life to you, but you never stop to think he might be saving you from the pain he knows is due.

You cry after hanging up on him. You cry more than you did when he left you in San Antonio. You cry until you can no longer see because your eyes are puffy, nearly tiny slits that still somehow shed tears when you think of Joel with your ex-friend.

Once the sadness has been cried out, there remains only rage, simmering and profound. With small, practiced movements, you take the engagement ring in its box and mail it to Joel's address. No note, and no explanation needed.

"You're not yourself," your mom mentions one night when you push your plate away, your dinner barely touched.

"Not hungry," you mumble.

She sighs in exasperation. "I don't know what to do with you. You won't talk to me." She pushes her own plate away and downs the rest of her cheap wine. "You come home from God-knows-where, with a damn bruise on your face."

You touch your cheek where your father had accidentally knocked you backwards, wishing it was the only physical pain you endured from that night.

"..you don't bother with the chores anymore, you lock yourself away in your room, probably not even studying. Do you even attend classes anymore? Do you even care about your future?" she continues.

"No," you say quite simply.

"No??"

You shake your head and shrug, as if answering something as easy as 'do you want to watch a movie later?'

"I don't. Give. A shit."

Anita scoffs, refilling her glass. "Great. That's just great. Maybe I'll drink this entire bottle and give myself alcohol poisoning. Then I wouldn't have to deal with your shitty attitude anymore."

The scrape of your chair as you push away from the table is as loud as nails on a chalkboard. "You want me to talk? I'll talk." You lean forward, relishing this moment where your mom looks scared as shit.

"I said I was in College Station, but I lied. I was fucking Joel every weekend I was away. We met up in hotel rooms and fucked each other's brains out. And the best part of it all was that he loved me," your voice breaks but you're wickedly delighted by the look of shock and disgust on your mother's face.

You're on a tirade now that can't be stopped. "Two months ago I found Dad in San Antonio. I did," you nod, a psychotic kind of laughter breaking from you when she gawks. "And do you know what? He's forgotten all about us. He has a new family, new kids, new young wife. And he doesn't give a shit about you or me. He never really has, has he?" You realize you're standing, towering over her as you spit out all the venom she's ever poured into you right back at her.

"Now.. how does it feel to have the truth shoved in your face? To be deprived of the fantasy world you wanted so badly to live in, cushioned by your idiotic pretenses? Because I'll bet you could've gone your whole life not knowing, staying innocent. Well, Mother Dearest, fuck you."

Without a word you pack your things, your body moving way ahead of your brain, stuffing every necessary item into a couple of bags before you leave her house, with the intention to never return again.

Summer 2004 Louisiana

Staying with friends in a shitty apartment, you finish the rest of the semester before transferring to another school. Three schools in one year probably isn't a very good look on your transcript, but it's the first choice you make that is truly your own. Working two jobs over the summer you finally have the money you need to survive as you begin a new chapter in Louisiana.

You do everything in your power to get over Joel. The first step was deleting his number from your phone, even though you've already memorized it by heart. To be safe, you also delete Tommy's number, and Sarah's. It feels final, and a small part of you wishes they could get a notification informing them you no longer consider them important enough to keep, even as data.

It still stings when you think of Joel with Hailey. She's older, more experienced, and can probably do whatever he wants without being asked. After you've deleted the Millers from your contact list, you hover over Hailey's name, pressing it and, in a moment of antagonism, send her a text. I thought you were my friend, Turns out you're just a fucking slut Then you delete and block her number.

Dating other guys doesn't come very easy. It's as if they can smell the heartbreak on you, sense your loneliness and unease, the untempered anger simmering below the surface of your smile. You're a walking red flag and you know it, but that doesn't stop you.

You grind on a guy at a club after he buys you a few appletinis. Never mind that he's twenty five and trying to get you drunk so you'll fuck him. With your twenty-dollar Charlotte Russe dress hiked up as you drag your sopping panties over his clothed hardness, he sucks the apple flavor off your tongue, one hand gripping your hips while the other slips inside your underwear to rub your clit and you come for the first time in months. So loud, in fact, that you're caught and promptly kicked out of the club. When your partner (you never remember his name) asks to continue at his place, you decline, already walking to the next bar.

Once the high wears off, you are consumed with guilt as you think of Joel. What would he say if he found out? Would he even care? Maybe he's fucking Hailey right now.

And it hits you that it's already been a year since you first slept with him.

You pause in the middle of the street, coming back to earth when a car honks at you, cursing at you to hurry up and fucking move dumb bitch!

Walking on, you can't get the memory of the feel of Joel out of your head: the way his tongue licked into your mouth, fingers traveling down to play between your folds, telling you he needed you nice and wet before he fucked you, those thick fingers slipping in and playing you like a well tuned instrument, his lips gliding over your throat, resting just above your pulse point, then finding their way down the slope of your breasts, taking each nipple between his lips, his beard rasping against your skin.

You try to force the thought away, but it returns manifold. His mouth, the stiffened warmth of his tongue lapping at your cunt, drinking up every fucking drop and telling you you taste so sweet. He doesn't stop until you come more than once, finally fitting himself inside you, teasing you with the first few inches. Sure you can handle the rest, babygirl? before sliding in in one smooth thrust, joining you body and soul, moving against you just how you need.

You cover your face with your hands and wander into an alley, overcome with despair at the loss of your love, the loss of what innocence you thought you had. Both of those things given to someone who only saw fit to fuck you as he wished and discard when he couldn't handle the reality of your personal life.

"Are you okay?" a voice asks, approaching softly from behind. You turn and see a man, another college student like yourself, dressed in jeans and a striped button down. His features blur together until all you hear is his soft Southern accent and all you smell is his Curve cologne. The next thing you know you're kissing him, begging him to touch you, fuck you, and then he's spinning you to face the wall, dress hiked up, panties pulled down. Your arms support you against the wall as he pushes into you from behind and all you think about is him fucking the pain away, pumping into you hard and fast. He's nowhere near as big as Joel, but you've been so touch starved that the sounds coming out of your mouth are shameless.

Without warning you vomit, splashing your shoes and the wall in front of you with appletini puke, and the guy pulls out immediately, getting away from you as fast as he can, tucking himself back into his jeans.

You rest your forehead against the cool brick wall, spitting out the sour taste in your mouth as tears weep freely from your eyes.

September 2004

At the start of sophomore year you're the only one who doesn't have family come down to help move in, to visit with and take silly, memorable photos with. Nobody comes to your dorm and helps you decorate and put your belongings away. By the time your assigned roommate comes with her parents and little brother you're already set up, fresh sheets on your twin bed, your side already claimed.

You're reading when she comes in, a young girl, freshman, with hope in her eyes, excited to meet you, looking forward to her new life away from Montana or Missouri or wherever she says she's from. You're barely listening.

Who you do notice is her dad: mid-forties, slight beer belly, wearing a polo shirt and cargo pants with brand new New Balance shoes. You make eye contact immediately before he shifts his gaze away. His daughter, your new roommate Jessica, starts to unpack, asking you questions about the classes, what student groups to join. You offer what advice you can, stretching out on your bed in your tank top and running shorts. Her dad's eyes roam over your curves when his wife and kids aren't looking, and you unabashedly flirt back, making sure your shorts ride up, pulling down your tank just a little to expose more cleavage.

Once they leave for a quick tour around the campus you're back to your reading.

Jessica's dad comes back. Alone.

"I think I forgot my wallet in here," he says, giving a forced look of timidity as he checks his pockets.

"You didn't," you smirk, putting your book down and sitting up. "But you can stay if you want.."

He doesn't make an excuse about his family and you wouldn't care if they walked in anyway. Once the door is locked his hands are on your body, grabbing your ass while your hand goes down his pants. You tell him exactly what will make you come, and he does it so willingly it almost touches your heart.

Later as he's leaving and you're trying to get his cum off your bedsheets, he's asking you not to say anything to his daughter, as if you'd proudly exclaim that you fucked him, having barely remembered his name.

You're learning that a lot of men are the same at their very core.

You're a fantasy for the older ones, a college coed with daddy issues and an IUD. Having already been with an older man, you know just what they like, and when you give it you live for the way their eyes light up, and a little of their youth comes back to them for a moment.

It's almost pitiful how easy you figure out the opposite sex. Once you know what they want it's easy to become that, to dress how they want, to feign interest in the things they like, even to keep your thoughts to yourself. You learn to live inside your head, which until now has been the hardest thing to do.

But it's necessary when you're holding onto the headboard of some frat guy's bed while fake moaning as he's holding your hips, going as fast as he can because that's what they do in porn. Each and every guy has a Scarface poster above the bed, or Playboy centerfolds taped to the walls, neon lava lamps on the nightstand along with CDs by Kanye West, Franz Ferdinand, or Velvet Revolver. Your thoughts are elsewhere as you give halfhearted head.

You learn to feel nothing, not even pleasure, because they certainly can't tell that you fake every sigh and gasp.

But the older men, the professors, TA's, even men you meet off campus at the bars in town.. they are what interest you. It's not common for you to find yourself bent over a desk during your professor's office hours, or with your panties around your ankles when a one-on-one study session turns to something else.

You fuck men who remind you of Joel because you can't fuck Joel. It's his hands on you instead of theirs, his breath hot on your ear.. but no one else can fill the part of you that Joel hollowed out for himself when he made you his on a hot Texas summer night.

Though you think about him every day, soon enough, you start to wonder whether he was ever even real, or just someone you made up.

March 2006

Spring Break finds you at a beach house on the coast. The friends you came with are nowhere to be found, and you're pretty sure your drink is laced with something. The music is so loud that you hurry out into the night, seeking solace before the roaring waters of the gulf, black water topped with silver waves. Their rushing sound is soothing, yet you sink to your knees because your world is too heavy.

"I'm dying," you whisper to yourself, crying. Your chest feels tight. It's so hard to breathe, and it feels like your heart will explode.

Only one person on the entire planet comes to mind, and after all this time you still remember his number. You dial it, fingers savoring the press of each button on your phone. How many times have you called Joel and hung up before he could answer? There have been a couple of times when you dialed him while having sex, not sure if he ever picked up, hoping that he heard you moving on and moving away from him. That'll show him.

But you can't even breathe to talk to him. And what if he doesn't answer? What if he's changed his number?

You leave all his numbers entered on the screen but you don't hit the call button. Not yet. You have to think of something to say. Tell him you love him before your body rejects the air it's trying so desperately to claim into your lungs.

"Hey, are you all right?" a gentle voice asks behind you, and a hand is on your shoulder.

You flashback to that night in the alley, the guy who took advantage of you, but this time it doesn't go that way.

A man with soulful eyes and a kind smile kneels next to you, his hand remaining on your shoulder. "I think you're having a panic attack. Can I help you with that?" His voice is as kind and gentle as he looks, and you nod.

"Can you breathe for me? Like this." He inhales deeply and slowly, and when you try it it feels so foreign but you manage it.

"There you go," he says quietly. "Now breathe out.."

Soon he has your breathing back to normal, and you don't have to force your body to do what it naturally does.

"Tell me five things you can see," he continues.

A shaky breath in. Hey, at least it's a breath. "Um.. the water.. the sand.. the moon.. you.."

That's when you get your first good look at him, beyond the smile that works its warmth into your heart, and the eyes that search yours, exuding humanity that you haven't experienced in a long time. He's really cute. You can't deny that your heart skips a couple of beats.

"One more thing?" he says, his voice soft.

You snap back to reality. "Uh.. a ship.. out there in the distance?"

He glances behind him at the water, seeing the great big liner, possibly a cruise ship, on the inky horizon, and takes a seat next to you. "How are you feeling now?" he asks.

"Good.. I think. Better." You nod. "Thank you."

"May I?" he lifts your hand from your lap and turns the palm up, his fingers poised above your pulse point. You nod again.

He presses his touch to your wrist, and you watch his eyes calculating, his lips silently moving while counting. Despite everything you've been through the past two years, this is the most intimate thing you've felt.

"Your pulse is normal." He gently places your hand back on your lap. "Do you want to go back to the party or do you want to stay out here a little longer? If you want to go back," he adds, "I'll be with you, make sure you're okay."

You opt to stay on the beach, embracing the quiet for a little longer. This is the first time a man has had you alone and hasn't tried to fuck you. It's nice, for once.

Towards the end of the night he leads you back to the party house, guiding you through the throng of people there, the air rife with alcohol and the pungent aroma of weed. You're holding his hand, you realize as you walk together. He's your lifeline in this very moment. You grab your jacket and purse from one of the bedrooms, passing by couples making out, some slipping into rooms to do much more than kissing. To think you could have easily ended up there with a random guy makes your skin crawl.

"What was your name again?" you shout to him over the music.

"Justin!"

"Dustin?"

"Justin!"

You both laugh. You tell him your name and of course he mishears you.

He drives you to the small motel room you're sharing with your friends who are inevitably crashing at the beach house, too drugged or drunk or fucked to return for the night.

Justin smiles at you as the engine idles. "Is it okay if I ask you out?"

You exchange numbers, your heart thrumming with a pleasant nervousness. You haven't had a boyfriend since..

..not since Joel.

Don't think about him.

"You can reach out to me if you ever just feel like talking," he says. "I'm here."

So you do, and after a week of texting and a couple of late night calls and getting to know each other, you go for a date for the first time in three years.

Justin picks you up in a Honda Civic, and as you get comfy in the passenger seat you breathe in the scent of the black ice air freshener and his spearmint gum. The radio blasts Smashing Pumpkins at a level you know is too much but it only adds to the excitement of the evening.

He's a year older than you, native to Louisiana, and on leave from the Army.

Living just a half hour from your campus, you start to spend much of your time together. Movie dates, dinner dates, and dates where you just drive around, talking about nothing and everything.

You only sleep with him three months into your relationship, desiring to take things slow for once, to know him better than you have ever known anyone.

It's nice. It's like what you see in the movies, two people wrapped up in each other, soft, no words needed. For once your head isn't forced down into the pillow, or your pussy spit on. For once it's just normal, and normal feels so good.

June 2008 New Orleans, LA

Bourbon Street is alive, electric, no matter that it's a Sunday night. People will drift into work tomorrow still drunk on Zombies and Hurricanes. The entire street reeks of piss, but people either don't care or have been here long enough that it no longer harasses their senses. But more often than not, people are having too much of a good time to care.

You're behind the bar at little hole-in-the-wall place, slinging daiquiris and kamikaze shots when you hear a familiar voice and a tap on your shoulder. "Hey there, Cherry."

You turn and your eyes go wide. "Tommy!" You reach over the bar to hug him, nearly spilling a beer on him in the process. "It's been ages! How are you?

He looks older, more mature, even though it's only been five years since you last saw him: he's letting his facial hair grow, but his eyes still sparkle with mirth and kindness. "It's good to see you, girl." He's no longer with Sofia, their romance having ended a few years before, on friendly terms or so your cousin claimed. You always blamed yourself for the demise of their relationship, believing that your breakup with Joel cast a shadow over her own connection with Tommy.

"What are you doing here?" you ask.

"We're good, just here in town, expanding the business."

"We?" Your hands start to shake, and you put away the bottle of gin you have your grasp on. Your heart starts to pound before the next words even leave his mouth.

"Yeah, me and Joel are lettin' off a little steam, wanted to toss back a few before we go back to the hotel."

You feel his eyes on you before you're even aware that he's here. Looking up, at a small table near the entrance, is Joel Miller. Your heart stops, and you don't know how it is you're still alive. He looks you up and down, appraising every feature and detail about you, and you wonder if you've changed in five years or not. You wonder if he still loves or hates you.

"...and we thought this was that bar where girls dance and pour tequila down guys' throats, but this is just as good 'cause you're here."

Tommy manages to snap you out of your trance. "Oh.. you mean Coyote Ugly.."

"Yeah, they opened one in Austin a couple years back but this one ain't never wanna go nowhere," he motions back with his head to Joel.

You return your gaze to the older brother but he's no longer looking at you, his glance dotting along the crowd, following a younger woman as she saunters up to him, smiling, flirting. Your stomach turns and you force a smile at Tommy.

"Whatever you want is on me."

Tommy's smile and laughter is infectious. "You sure about that, Cherry?"

"I'm sure," you say, pouring out a shot for yourself. "You know, nobody's called me that in a long time."

"What's that?" he catches a bright sparkle on your left hand, and quickly takes it within his own. "Cherry, you didn't tell me you were engaged!"

Joel must have one ear straining to listen because Tommy's outburst got his attention right away and he swivels his head to look at you.

"Yeah.. he's a nice guy." That's how you describe Justin to everyone: he's a nice guy. He'd proposed last year after your one year dating anniversary. "He's in the Army, they're shipping him out a week after our wedding. And I'm going with him."

"He's a good guy if he's an Army man," Tommy approves, just as Joel approaches, the woman he was talking to now gone. "So? Are we invited to the weddin'?"

You can't tell if he's teasing or not, and Joel's poker face gives zero indication as well. "I already sent out save-the-dates, but if you'd like to come I won't object. The more the merrier." For the first time you see Joel up close and your heart stutters, an irregular beat that you'd gotten used to in the aftermath of your disastrous breakup.

He's still so fucking handsome: the dark brown of his hair fading to what you can already see as gray, with gray patches in his beard. There are more lines around his eyes. There's still that jolt of electricity when your gazes meet.

"You happy?" he asks, his countenance giving nothing away of his true feelings, so it's difficult to gage whether he's legitimately asking, or simply being nice.

"I'm happy." But it sounds forced, like taking the pliers to your own mouth to fix your own abscess.

Joel only nods as you pour a couple whiskeys for them. "To Cherry getting married!" Tommy beams his salute and the three of you down the shots quickly.

It's sometime after your shift, and you're in the parking lot with Tommy, his arms around you as he presses you to the side of his truck. Or maybe it's Joel's truck. You don't know and you don't care, all you want is to feel something again. The nearness of Joel all night has rewired your brain, and as Tommy deepens the kiss, you're disappointed that it's not Joel's taste, not Joel's scent that surrounds you. Luckily he's not a bad kisser, and his hands roam everywhere you want them to be.

Better the wrong Miller than no Miller at all, your whiskey-soaked brain tells you.

"Always thought you were pretty," he whispers, hands palming your breasts over your shirt. "But you were Joel's from the moment he set eyes on ya, told me so himself. Leave that one alone, she ain't for you.'"

"He didn't want me enough.." your voice cracks as tears spill effortlessly down your cheeks.

"Don't cry," he says gently. "I don't got any tissues with me." He uses his thumb to wipe away your tears. "Still want me to give you a ride home?"

You nod, telling him you need to make a quick trip to the ladies' room to fix your makeup, and in the narrow hallway where the restrooms are hidden from the rest of the bar, you run into Joel.

"Sorry," you mumble, trying to get around him, but he puts his large hand on your shoulder to stop you.

"You gonna take my brother home and fuck him? Then marry some Army jackass?" he says as in disbelief.

You put your guard up, tougher now than you were five years ago. "What I do is my business. By the way, how's Hailey?"

"Who?"

"Don't play dumb." You push past him and start for the women's room to fix your makeup when Joel stops you again.

"You ain't gonna fuck my brother tonight, or any other night, babygirl," he utters.

There's a fire lit under you now. "Oh? What are you, the Morality Police? Fuck off."

"Fuck me," he says. "You know you want to. You're probably wet from Tommy, and I appreciate his gettin' ya ready for me, but I notice the subtler signs: your eyes are glistenin', you've been lickin' your lips every time you look at me, and you probably haven't noticed, but your nipples are pokin' right through your shirt. I bet they're just beggin' for attention, huh?"

He says all this while just standing in front of you, not crowding you like any other guy would. And you realize he's not even trying to rile you up. He's giving you a choice.

"What makes you think I want you? I have a good man who loves me. He's all I need."

"Needs and wants are different, babygirl. Once you're married you're stuck with him til' death. Hope you realize that."

"I'm aware." But it's already hit you: you'll be with Nice Justin for the rest of your life. You'll be a Nice Wife and maintain a Nice Home for the inevitable Nice Kids you'll have. You hate Joel for putting this thought in your head.

"He fuck you like I did?" he asks in an intimate tone.

You shake your head, already pulling him into the restroom with you. "Joel, no one's ever fucked me like you did."

Your body delights in the quick, sweet reunion with him. It's as if time has never separated you, as if both your hearts are whole again. His mouth greedily devours your kisses. He tastes like whiskey and cigarettes, the latter a bad habit. You're shoved into one of the stalls, fumbling with the lock while Joel's hands find their way across your body, one under your shirt, palming your breast, the other going into your jeans, expertly finding your soaked panties, crooking his fingers into your cunt.

Your back is pressed against his broad chest, his cock already hard inside his jeans, rubbing furiously against your lower back until he bends you forward to press against your ass, finally pulling your jeans and panties down in one go.

Too much time has passed for you to be gentle or even careful. He presses you to the stall door, nothing but heat and raw need between you. Words not needed, your only communication grunts and whispered curses that echo against the tiles of the cramped space.

"You ain't takin' no slow and gentle with me, sugar. i ain't got the patience for that right now." He nudges against you and it's a wonder you don't burn up with all the fire that inflames you. After so long it's a labor of love to fit him again, but as his fingers add pressure to your clit you get wetter, opening for him as easily as you did years ago.

"There she is," he says. "Been waitin' for me, been needin' a real man to fill ya up, ain't ya, babygirl?" he huffs in your ear, breath warm against your skin. "Answer me, baby."

"Yes.." your voice comes out in a hiss, your brain only thinking about his cock, the way it stuffs you, the only thing that completes you.

"That's what I thought. These lil' college boys don't know what to do with such a tight, pretty pussy. And neither does your fiance." He hikes one of your legs up, tucking your knee under his arm, keeping you nice and open, watching himself slide in and out of your weeping slit, slamming himself against you as he sinks his thumb into your puckered asshole, eliciting an all-but muffled gasp from you. "I know you called me just so I could listen to them fuckin' ya.. I know you never came with them, not once. This pussy is mine, has been from the very start."

You're no longer a virginal high school grad, and he takes what he wants from you, giving you what he knows you need.

The door opens but he doesn't stop, just quiets his own noises and clamps his hand over your mouth to squelch your sounds. The stall door jiggles and you put your hand over it until the person grumbles and walks away, muttering about having to piss. When they're gone Joel pumps into you relentlessly, chasing his pleasure and yours. He knows by now what will make you come, which combination of touches and kisses make your knees weak and your clit stand at attention.

"Fucking come for me, you little slut," he whispers, his tone almost loving if you didn't know better, and when you let go the pleasure is almost painful. Years of need and pent-up longing are released as your cunt squeezes around his rigid cock, milking him, smiling when you feel the warm spurt of his come as he presses deep at your cervix.

"That's my girl," he says proudly, your come spilling out already, lining his dick with a mix of both of you. "She's wrecked, split wide open like she's meant to be.. gonna send you back to your man drippin' with my come, used up like a good lil' whore."

His words add a sweet sting to the pleasure that has yet to ebb, resounding through your veins like thunder that takes its time in rolling away from the storm. Whore.. well, he's not wrong.

When your heavy breathing has subsided, you feel him start to slip out of you and you put your hand back on his thigh, a silent gesture to hold off.

"Missed you.. needed you," you mutter, tears of joy and relief and heartache brim in your eyes, until you allow the pleasure of the moment to take over without thought or feeling.

"I know.." he says softly, slipping out of you, careful as you're still sensitive.

That could have been the end. You could have gone your separate ways, but you're drawn to each other, and that doesn't go away easily. When you emerge from the rear entrance of the bar, Tommy looks up, and you can tell he expected that you'd end up with Joel instead. He simply nods as you pass him, walking with Joel to the tiny apartment you share with Justin, who's out of town visiting family. And as you and Joel spend the rest of the night locked in each other's embrace, you realize you don't care if he walks in on you, kicks you out, breaks off the engagement. You're with Joel and nothing else matters.

By dawn you wake up to find that he's gone, leaving only the scent of him on the pillow next to you. No note, no explanation, no goodbye. And once again you're sure you only dreamed up Joel Miller, used him as a mental escape for the life you were tying yourself down to.

It's very atypical for you to forgo a period, even at your most stressed, you can count on seeing that bright red stain on the toilet paper around the middle of every month. And when, by mid-July, you haven't even spotted, the first thing you do is take a pregnancy test.

All the men before have been careful, or you've been fortunate enough not to have a scare. But when you finally force yourself to look at the the little blue plus sign developing on the test strip, you realize this is no scare.

You're pregnant with Joel's baby.

The wedding takes place as expected, and your heart sinks when you walk down the aisle, seeing the joy on Justin's face. You've told him the baby is his, and he doesn't doubt it for a moment, that's how much he loves you. But for a fleeting moment you want so bad for it to be Joel at the altar instead.

The ceremony goes by in a blur, as everyone warned you it would. Group pictures are taken, the videographer is capturing the moments that photos alone can't encapsulate.

"Over here, honey!" photographer gets your attention. You barely hear him as you watch a figure walking out, one of the last guests to leave the church. From behind he looks like Joel, but you can't quite tell, and when your eyes fully focus, he's gone, and your own vision can't be trusted.

Tommy gave his regrets that he couldn't attend, and Joel simply never RSVP'd. But in your heart you know it was him, you know he had to come and see for himself that you're moving on, growing up and growing away from him. The only tether you have to him is the baby growing in your belly.

"Front and center, Mrs. Williams," Justin smirks, giving your cheek a soft kiss. "One more picture then we're onto the reception."

March 2009

Your daughter is born in the springtime, a loud and howling child from the moment she leaves you. The only time she's quiet is when she's in your arms.

"We need to decide on a name," Justin says, a little miffed that his daughter cries when he holds her despite his best efforts to soothe her.

"I told you, I like Ophelia," you say, gathering her into your arms to feed her.

"It's such a prissy name. And I can already tell she's not gonna be prissy."

"Then what do you suggest?" you ask tiredly. He doesn't seem to understand you've gone through labor for twenty four hours, only thinking of himself.

"Eleanor, after my mother."

You groan. "I always hated that name."

"Please, babe. It'll make her so happy to have her granddaughter as her namesake."

"Fine. Fine. But her middle name is Ophelia."

"Deal." Justin smiles as he fills out the paperwork.

"Eleanor.." you tell your baby. "But I'm going to call you Ellie."

Your mother once told you that when you become a parent, your life is not your own anymore. She said it as a kind of warning, a prophecy yet to be fulfilled when you were just a pre-teen, rolling your eyes at her warning you away from all kinds of danger.

You never expected she'd be right. Every waking moment holds more weight than ever before. Ellie is completely dependent on you, even as she grows and becomes more independent. It's you she looks to for validation when she does something right, and you she looks to when she knows she's in trouble.

She's smart as a whip, quick with a comeback and well versed in anything she can get her hands on. She excels in sports too-- individually, at first. As she gets older you notice a little bit of a mean streak in her. While she craves friends and wants to be part of a team, she has trouble making connections sometimes.

You have to wonder if part of that comes from Joel, his stubbornness and his lone wolf tendencies. Has he unknowingly passed down the most insecure parts of himself to his daughter? Sorry, his secondborn daughter?

Now there's literal proof of Joel Miller as a person, in human form, and she's trudging upstairs with her field hockey equipment and slamming her bedroom door.

Between the years of 2004 and 2008 you could almost convince yourself that he didn't exist, that he was a figment of your runaway imagination, born of a father complex and attachment issues. You work on yourself in therapy, feeling small as you divulge the innermost secrets of your heart and the intrusive thoughts, even going so far as to reveal that you've looked for Joel on social media, now that everyone has a profile.

Born of an intrusive thought, you type his name into the search bar on Facebook. Getting quite a few findings of those with the same name, you narrow the search. Joel Miller, Austin Texas His company logo comes up as its own page, and you notice it's changed, probably Tommy's idea as Joel never liked change.

Searching further you find his picture. There it is: Joel Miller, Boston Massachusetts

Huh?

You click on his profile while your heart thumps strongly within your ribcage. You wish you could let it out, set it free.

There he is, looking older than the last time you saw him, the grey more prominent in his hair, looking serious in his selfie. Even though it's just a selfie, a random moment in time, you can't help blushing, as if he's looking at you through the screen, appraising your own measure of aging. You wonder what you were doing that exact moment he took the picture.

But your hunger for knowledge needs to be fed, and scrolling down you swear you misread it at first.

Relationship status: Married

There's a roaring in your ears as your mouse hovers over the name next to those words: Tess Servopoulos

From there you check out her profile, see that she's from Detroit, five years younger than Joel. While his profile pic is only of himself, hers shows them together, on a hiking trail somewhere, Joel's arms around her from behind.

You slam the laptop shut, your blood buzzing in your veins. You feel distractingly alive, the heartache spreading through every muscle and nerve ending. Your past is brought to full fucking focus.

Against your better judgment you open the screen again and search through Tess's photos, specifically the ones of Joel. Most of the comments are from a couple of guys named Bill and Frank, who after some digging you come to find are married, and friends with Joel and Tess. You hit the jackpot when you find a video she uploaded, a fifteen-second clip of Joel holding a baby. Your heart stops when you realize the baby isn't his but Sarah's, and he's now a grandfather.

It feels like you're spying on them. You know so much about them by now, and the one glaring omission is children. They don't seem to have any.

Going back to Joel's profile, you hover the mouse dangerously over the Add Friend button. When you click it, it's the strongest rush you've felt in ages.

Weeks later, he hasn't accepted it. The sparkle of your anticipation is dulled, and with a heavy heart you click to cancel the request.

A couple years down the road you get a notification from Facebook Messenger while you're watching Narcos.

Message Request. Sarah Miller Hey! It's been forever! How are you?

dividers by @saradika-graphics 👑

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[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 53 (Detective Gordon's New Precinct)

While work kept Heather busy, Conrad spent his days learning the ropes at his new precinct in Brindleton Bay, where crime was less organized and the cells full of mostly petty criminals. Smuggling could be a problem at the docks from time to time, but they never stayed in port long to avoid getting caught, and never added much intrigue or danger to the town.

Gord couldn't join him when he spent his days on patrol, but this only motivated ambitious Conrad to prove himself even more.

He liked the sleepier lifestyle, the less dangerous crime scenes, and the supply of NesbeetsLT faux meat sandwiches in the break room vending machine. But he didn’t love leaving his beloved partner at home with the cats. None of his human partners could sniff out a suspect the way Gord could!

Conrad had better instincts than most of the detectives at his new precinct, and they invited him along to learn the ropes after a local barfight ended in a robbery. But rather than learn the ropes, Conrad solved the case. As a reward they let him process the booking - and all the paperwork, too!

He didn't mind. He was happy to show them how good he was. The guilty sim asked how he knew it was her while he took her fingerprints, and Conrad smiled.

"I followed the clues. You just left more behind than you thought."

He quickly proved himself worthy of several promotions until he was back to being a detective again, just like he’d been in San Myshuno. He was thrilled to have proven himself in less than six months. And now he could bring Gord on the job with him again.

And Gord was thrilled to be back inside a police station, ready to sniff out the next bad guy just like he used to do in the city.

"Okay, Gord, like we talked about, just be cool," Conrad pressed. "Stay calm."

Gord turned up his chin and gave an affirmative ruff.

Inside, the other detectives were happy to meet their new "deputy" Gord. Brindleton Bay was a pet-loving town, and it seemed silly there'd been no canines on the local force until now!

Gord leapt into the arms of Josephine, Conrad's human partner.

"I'm so sorry. He does this a lot more than he should." Gord barked as Conrad shot him a sideways glance.

"It's fine!" said Josephine with a laugh. "I think I'll like having him around."

After Conrad grabbed some lunch and put in a workout in the gym upstairs, he came back down to find Gord at Josephine's feet in the chief's office. "Gordon, you've got a great dog. If I'd have been in charge then, I'd have let you take him out with you when you first got here," said the chief.

Josephine smiled. "I'm supposed to retire in a year, but I could stick around for Gord alone. Where did you find this one?"

"We busted the puppy mill where was born back in the city. But honestly, Gord found me. My first partner named him when he followed me back to the cruiser. He passed K-9 training with flying colours, and he's been my partner against crime ever since."

Gord barked happily, rubbing his head against Conrad's pressed pant leg. Josephine pulled out her phone. "Can I take a picture to send my grandson? He just loves dogs!"

One evening, Conrad and Gord returned from work to find the cats playfully stalking the chickens in the yard. Heather hadn't asked him to pick up Ash on his way home, but for that he'd expected to see them both when he walked in.

"Heather?"

He set down his keys, but only the cats came running.

The house was eerily quiet. ->

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I hadn't figured out how to get Gord to the precinct and @deardiaryts4 just casually said "I guess you'll have to pose him there without a mod" and it melted my brain. Like I had never heard of or done this before in my life, but it opened up a whole new world of sim storytelling and poses for me and I'm so excited!! Thank you so much for the advice so I could at least pose Gord at work!

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Art References for Chapter 5 of undernearth the sunrise (show me where your love lies)

Yes, hi- surprise epilogue time!

Moonlit Night on the Dnieper, Arkhip Kuindzhi, 1880

“Let me get your old bones up on the roof, grandpa,” Monty says, flashing Edwin a smirk.

“You are three years younger than us, do not act like we are cradle snatchers,” Edwin says with a roll of the eyes even as he fixes his gaze on the door to the roof, a determined glint in his eyes that sparkles against the dark attic like Kuindzhi’s moon over the Dnieper river. He unbuttons his suit jacket and rolls back the cuffs on his button-up to whistles from both Monty and Charles. “God, why do I put up with you two?”

“Because you love us,” Charles says at the same time that Monty says, “Because we’re fantastic influences and you know it.”

The Gates of Time Square, Chryssa, 1972

"The thing about going to England is that Monty kind of expected it to give him a new perspective on Edwin and Charles. To tell him more about the places that they grew up, the places that shaped them, the places that raised them.

And it has, in a lot of ways. It showed him the kind of people that they could have turned out to be but didn't. Because they were better than the world that they grew up in. Because they were more open-minded, because they were determined to become better people, because they have always been the brightest thing in every room they’re in, as neon bright as Chryssa’s tributes to the city that never sleeps."

Symphony of the sixth blast furnace, Evgeny Sedukhin, 1979

"Nowadays, Charles isn’t as nervous about taking up space. About knowing his own worth. He could have gone up to Simon and told him exactly what he thought and not been afraid of the consequences. 

But Monty deserves a place to be brilliant, too. A place to take up space without fear. A place to be as explosively bright as that Sedukhin painting he showed them last month in his Modernism textbook, rambling on about light and values and the tenets of Soviet Realism."

Young Woman in a Niche with a Parrot and Cage, Gerrit Dou, 1660-65

"Monty thinks about Esther and Tommy and that studio apartment that should have meant freedom but instead kept him trapped within his mother's arms with only the illusion of freedom. He was a bird able to leave its cage, but never able to fly away from its master, like one of the several copies Gerrit Dou made of his ladies and parrots and cages."

Nocturne, James McNeill Whistler, 1870-77

"As they descend out of the clouds and onto a waking Atlanta, Georgia, where they'll transfer to their flight to London, Monty can’t help but think about Whistler’s Nocturne series, the grays and blue and golds, the early morning light bleeding into dark in the same way that Whistler’s nighttime scapes did."

The Boulevard Montmartre at Night, Camille Pissarro, 1897

"Monty has taken to driving to the sports foundation’s tiny office at the local high school in order to pick up Charles after his own shifts at the museum, where Monty finally went full-time at the end of the summer, leading to him finally being able to quit his gas station job. He’s been so much more at ease since then, finally in his element, bright as the lanterns flickering in one of the Pissarro paintings that Monty loves so much."

@deadboy-edwin @icecreambrownies @anonymousbooknerd-universe @ashildrs

@tragedy-machine @orpheusetude @jaysbraindump

@pappelsiin @itsbitmxdinhere @rexrevri @sweet-like-h0ney-lavender @saffirez

@the-ipre @sunnylemonss @days-light @agentearthling @helltechnicality

@sethlost @catboy-cabin @secretlyafiveheadeddragon @vyther15

@anything-thats-rock-and-roll @queen-of-hobgobblers @every-moment-a-different-sound

@nix-nihili @mellxncollie @tumblerislovetumblerislife @lemurafraidofthunder

@likemmmcookies @wr0temyway0ut @thelakeswillbreakourfall

[occasionallyprosie]

"Hiding Behind Plaster and Ceremics"

Chapter 3

Wind reveals something. This marks the beginning of something new.

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Read On AO3

Finally actually just ending this one, I've had this chapter drafted so long I feel bad not posting it but I really don't think there's much more to be added to this fic.

----

Legend really didn't like the new status quo. Twilight was very defensive of him, which he was on the fence about to be honest, and Warriors just kept giving him weird looks. Contrast that with the fact he couldn't get any space because Hyrule and Sky were trying hard to get close and he'd promised Twilight he'd try not to be as mean.

Which really just meant he couldn't force the others to just leave him alone. Even after he got over the sickness, they stuck close and he could feel his nerves turn to fire as he couldn't get time to himself.

He was biting down on his tongue, trying desperately to avoid them without breaking his promise to Twilight. Now, not only was he trying to avoid getting attached, he was also just trying to not snap as every nerve, every coil, every spring prepared to get set off because everything was just too close.

They were just starting to make camp when Wind chose his chore for it.

"I'm going on patrol!" He declared.

"Fine, but take someone with you," Warriors reminded him, the usual rule for leaving the larger group.

"Come on, Scholar!"

Legend startled as Wind grabbed his sleeve--not his arm, his sleeve--and dragged him off. He quickly pulled himself free but meeting Wind's eyes--Ocean's eyes, bright and expectant and far too smart--meant he was following him.

Wind happily moved across the rainforest floor, seemingly accustomed to brushing aside underbrush as tall as they were.

Legend decided not to ask why and just followed, letting a distance form between them and letting himself just... relax in the silence and space.

They did a number of expanding loops around the chosen campsite, only coming across some tektites at a nearby river and some Deku Babas here and there. As they turned to go back, having been silent the entire time, Wind spoke up.

"You need more time?" He asked, facing him with an overly knowing expression.

Legend frowned. "What?"

"More time alone and away from everyone?" He clarified, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. "Don’t tell me our ever-aware spitfire didn't notice I dragged him off so he wouldn't explode on everyone."

Spitfire. He'd been called that before by exactly one person, the kid in front of him. Not that he'd say it first.

"Oh," he responded, definitely with the eloquence of the scholar he was nicknamed for. "Why?"

Wind laughed. "Please, I could tell you were getting antsy, I just didn't want to find out if you getting overwhelmed by people is the same now as it was in Hytopia."

Legend stopped in his tracks, Wind noticed immediately and looked at him, a wryness in his eyes.

"You--"

"You think I couldn't recognize you?" Wind scoffed, as if insulted. "I recognized you when we met, but, well, you never said anything, and then you snapped at everyone and cursed out the Rancher when he tried to scold you for your language 'cause of the Smithy and I." He sighed. "It wasn't until you got sick and--" he grinned a bit, "you were hiding behind the Rancher, and his pelt-cloak thingie made you look so much smaller, that I knew I was right. You just didn't say anything."

Legend stared at him but Wind just smiled brightly.

"Which is okay," he said, still just as warm as when he'd asked if he was ready to head back. "I get things change... I get that you've changed and I can tell that something about all of this scares you--you haven't changed that much, Apple."

Legend grimaced. "I'm not scared."

"Can't be courageous without a bit of fear," Wind retorted with a still-wry grin. "But my point is, I noticed you were getting antsy and needed some time away from everyone. So do you want more time, more space, or what? We probably have another hour before we need to get back."

Legend ended up just backing up into a tree and slumping down to the ground, Wind hummed lightly as he followed and sat in the grass in front of him, a solid three feet of space, if not more, between them.

Silence settled, and if Legend closed his eyes, Wind was somehow so silent that as long as he ignored his magic, he could pretend he was in complete solitude.

They stayed like that for a while until Legend broke the silence. "Why aren't you mad at me?"

Wind made a confused noise. "What'd'ya mean?"

"I mean--For not telling, for not saying anything, why aren't you mad?"

Legend wouldn't admit he probably would've completely shattered if Wind was ever genuinely mad at him, Forest was their big brother, yeah, but it had been Ocean who he'd stared at and tried so desperately to mimic during Hytopia, from the casual singing of work songs to the way he fought. All of that had been Ocean, and even the blue cap he still wore to this day was the one Ocean had given him when they'd separated, sure it had been mended and resewn and altered to fit his larger head, but it was the same cap.

Wind laughed at his question though. "Why would I be? It's been years for you, I don’t think you realize how obvious it is that you've been through a lot, and what's probably only obvious to me is that it all hurt."

Legend opened his eyes and looked over at him, Wind gave him another warm smile.

"It's been years for you," he repeated, "but just over one for me. I think you've forgotten how well I know you, how well I can read you, and how little you've actually changed."

Legend stared at him. "It has been years, I'm not the same kid anymore."

Wind raised an eyebrow. "Well you have all the same tells as you did before."

"I do not."

"Oh yeah?" Wind leaned forward to poke his arm. "Then why did I know you needed to be away from everyone? It's almost as if you've been introverted since the day I met you and Hytopia was constantly getting on your nerves because of it, hmm?"

Legend couldn't help but smile a bit as he huffed and swatted him away. "I wasn't doing a very good job of hiding anything."

"And yet Forest didn't have a clue, the oblivious dumbass. I don’t know how he found out but I'd bet a gold rupee that it wasn't until you called him by his name or something."

Legend snorted. He couldn't even argue because Wind was exactly right!

For the remainder of the hour until Wind's necklace chimed with Wild's voice asking after them, they just talked and Legend didn't realize until that evening, just after dinner, that he hadn't even thought about his fear, about what was to come.

He'd reconnected with Ocean, he hadn't even thought twice about it either, which made it worse. He'd just forgotten exactly why he had been spending this whole quest sharpening his edges.

He'd forgotten that it was useless to reach out for them, as they were just going to be ripped away.

And as much as it hurt... he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Not when Wind joined him in his corner of the campsite and just laid down beside him, not chatting his head off, but quietly humming.

His heart felt softer, lighter, but even if he couldn't bring himself to regret it now, bringing his ocarina to his lips and putting a ringing tune to Wind's hums, he knew in his mind that it wouldn't last.

The quest would end and he'd be all alone again, whether or not it would be his breaking point was a different question, he thought Marin had been the breaking point but he still hadn't reached it even after her and then Ravio. What would he do then?

He didn’t know, but he’d have to concede here, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t be able to fend off both his brothers, which meant… well, it meant he was done. It meant this was the beginning of a new chapter, at least with some of the other heroes. It meant he couldn’t keep running, and once this was over, the pitfalls of grief would catch up to him… but he couldn’t stop it, and he had to just accept that.

[cassofheartsss]

Suburban Legends

a/n: This is inspired by suburban legends by taylor swift and this is the second thing i’ve ever written so don’t expect it to be the best

It was your 5 year high school reunion and you were outside in the parking lot waiting to go in. The reunion was being held at hawkins high school and you knew you’d see Steve again. Everyone expected you and Steve to walk in together but you broke up about six months after graduating which shocked everyone. You saw some of your old friend group and immediately greeted them and walked in with them. “Oh my god hey i’ve not seen you in like forever” Nancy said with a smile. You and Nancy had always been close. “Hey Nance it’s so nice to see you again” You say hugging her. “Heyyy” Robin said when she saw you. “Hey Robs” You replied hugging her too. “Are you excited to see Steve?” Jonathan asked. “It might be nice to see him again” You said and Robin gave you a look. She knew you still liked him it was so obvious to everyone actually. “So how did the breakup actually happen?” Nancy asked. “I paced down his block, I broke my own heart cause he was too polite to do it” You said and Nancy,Robin and Jonathan instantly understood what you meant. You then started talking about what you had all been doing since you graduated.

After a few minutes Steve walked and you immediately looked at him. He walked over to you and the rest of the group and greeted everyone and just nodded at you. He then walked over to the drinks table to get a drink and you followed him. He was so magnetic it was almost obnoxious.

“Um hi” You said to Steve and he turned to look at you. You smiled at him and also grabbed a drink. You was hoping this wouldn’t be awkward especially since you hadn’t talked to each other since the breakup, which was four and a half years ago.

“Oh hi it’s nice to see you again” He said with a smile. Thank god this wasn’t going to be awkward. Obviously it wouldn’t be was Steve Harrington he was Good with women.

“It’s nice to see you again too” You said and then music started playing on the speakers. The song that was playing was the song you and Steve always used danced to.

“Do you wanna dance?” Steve asked with a smirk not waiting for your answer and pulling you to the dance floor. He put his hands on your waist and you put your hands around his neck and danced together. You wanted to say something but you had no words. When he holds you, it holds you together.

You were getting closer and closer to eachother and you knew this probably wasn’t a good idea but you didn’t actually come here to make friends. “I know that you still remember we were born to be national treasures” You said to steve finally thinking of something to say. “Y’know I had the fantasy that maybe our mismatched star signs would surprise the whole school and i’d end up back at a class reunion walking in with you. You’d be more than a chapter in my old diaries with the pages ripped out and i was hoping i’d be sharing this moment with you right now” You continued.

“I always hoped we’d get back together” Steve said smirking. “We were born to be suburban legends” He continued. You both leaned in closer and your lips met. Oh god he kissed you in a way that’s gonna screw you up forever. For the first time in almost five years everything seemed normal again. Maybe just maybe your life wouldn’t be ruined and maybe Steve would once again be a page in your diary.

[tryalittlejoytomorrow]

tip for writers: working on a fic on the day that taylor releases a new album might not be the best idea unless you're okay with going angstier than planned because your poor soul has been tortured and stepped on

[queenerdloser]

i just finished dark heir

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

Bury Your Gays

Horror

a scriptwriter in hollywood who’s getting attention & an Oscar nom after working in the industry for years, but is being pressured by algorithm-obsessed producers to kill off the queer characters in the season finale of the show he writes

and when he starts getting stalked by the monsters he wrote (based on traumas of his past) he has to figure out how to survive, along with his best friend and boyfriend