#i saw the ending from ten miles away but it was the most hollow thing i’ve seen in a while

[the-darklings]

okay now that it’s been a few days and i’ve really had time to mull it over properly, I think i’ll just come out and say it: I didn’t like jw4 all that much.

I didn’t hate it. even at their worst, these movies are better than most stuff coming out these days, but the plot/character/world inconsistencies in this movie were insane. did any of the critics lauding this movie as the best in the series even watch the previous ones?

[glaciertea]

Masterlist here

Tales the Songs Weave

Ch.23<< >>Ch.25

Notes: He realizes his mistake...

Chapter 24: I'm With You Throughout It, Choose... Busted and Blue

Word count: 3.5K

There he was, locked in his bedroom, languishing all that had taken place.

The room was dark; nothing was able to be seen in or out of it. The only noises that were made in the room were his soft breathing or his footsteps when he got up to stretch his legs.

After the ordeal with Spot, things were a bit difficult at the HQ. Word certainly spreads quickly. The building could be close to ten thousand stories high, but everyone will know everything within a span of six minutes or less. From the whispering disdain to the raucous doubts from the spiders, Miguel was in scalding hot waters, and no one was willing to pull him out.

Peter, Miles, and Gwen ended up using Lyla to present to the hollow man their experiences and scientific research on what they detected during the whole exhibition. Nobody else bothered to show, not planning to deal with Miguel's reactions.

Though some of them wanted to see the look on his face when he was told that he's wrong with concrete evidence, they didn't have the patience or care left for it.

Miguel's sullen eyes glazed when he saw Miles and Gwen's world still standing. The reason why Mayday even exists is because of Miles himself. All of it was flashed and clarified left and right.

It didn't make it any better either when that itch that forever trapped him in turmoil vanished after everything essentially settled down. Now his inner conflicts battered him even more.

Was that sixth sense truly for you? Was this red herring he'd been following for months on end—this entity that's been swallowing him whole this entire time—meant for you? or for the Spot and the damn collapse of the canon? 

He didn't want to believe it, but it disappeared when he came back to the apartment that first night. 

It was all too much.

Halfway through, he wordlessly stood up and sluggishly stepped out of his office, leaving the three clouded and lost. They didn't go after him, as much as Gwen wanted to hammer it into his thick skull.

“Kinda unfair how he leisurely walks away after what he did to you.”

Miles could only shrug. “As long as he understands that he's in control of his future, I guess I can forgive.”

Days crawled by, as Miguel wasn't in the public eye. Somehow, less than before. A handful of spiders did question the main crew who was at the incident, what became of Miguel, and what exactly would happen to the society.

Most went about their lives and, rightfully, weren't ready to really go back to this life. Peter took charge by being an unofficial spokesman, reassuring that they would find a way to refurbish what the society primitively stood for. 

He ended up begging Jess to become the new leader because she knew the highs and lows and the ins and outs of the establishment. She was reluctant with the offer, and Peter acknowledged it, noting to take her time and giving her the much-needed space to relax and prepare for the birth of her child.

And as for his old boss? Not even Peter knew where he was.

But he was still there. Hearing in on all the discussions about this place. He couldn't bear to show his face. Riddled with guilt and utter anguish, he had to hide from the ambivalent conflicts he created.

Lyla was, of course, the only one to be aware of his presence, but she promised to keep his location a secret. So whenever Peter B. or anybody else remotely asks if she can track him down, she raises her arms and waves them in front of her face.

“Not even I can find him, and I'm this super-intelligent creation,” was the go-to excuse.

A couple tried to contact him; even Peter got Jess to attempt, but despite her dangling this grudge over him, she gave it several tries and turned up empty-handed each and every time.

Miguel would let the watch go off for a bit before managing to sever all communications from everyone. Now, when they would try, the line would go dead straightaway. He simply couldn't do it.

It got to the bottom line, where they gave up on their search. There were some braver ones to stop by his apartment, but their spider senses would flare up, ultimately making that area a ‘no trespassing’ zone. The speculation of him hiding in there did rise, but died down when Lyla broadcasted fake recordings of the empty rooms whenever they held suspicion. Going as far as to even make it appear as life footage.

He was grateful for her and her effort.

Miguel didn't know how to face them. He couldn't eat; nightmares kept him up for the long nights, and his thoughts made sure to go into overdrive. It got to a point where he couldn't take the silence or even his own breathing. He added music to the ambience, thankful you allowed him to keep them. It did help preserve some of his sanity—whatever was left of it.

As different chords and harmonies filled the air, he lay up with a baleful stare at the ceiling. His head was rampaging, and his ears took in every note, letting it settle into his flesh and bones. He let thoughts run out in the wild, not caring what they breached.

The canon; all he sacrificed... his osita.

You.

You were one of the main ones he didn't bother to try and push away in his rifling mindscape unpleasantries. In fact, you never left.

He didn't notice you texted him right away. The first couple of nights, he crashed hard onto his mattress and slept, allowing his body to recover.

Then the flood of messages poured in, and he would only stare at the first few words and swipe away each one once you sent. He couldn't do it.

He didn't have the right words to say or how to accept your worries and concerns. It scared him, and it terrifies him that you still have this gentle spot for him after all he has done to you. It wasn't fair; it's not fair that he couldn't fully give you what you wanted.

Each message you gave chipped away at his already destroyed heart. Yet he would mentally respond to them with a very distant reassurance. He didn't have the courage to face you, even though he wanted to.

He didn't deserve your emphatic words, but damn it, did he want to read them? He held an urge to see what he had fully said to him. Hour after hour, day by day, he wouldn't click. He would only wait with full anticipation when your face popped up on the screen. It was some cruel punishment he bestowed upon himself. An infliction that he truly deserved.

Then one day, he finally clicked and scrolled up to read. His wants swelled for you, and his desires to reach out were strong, though he resisted.

Every day, he clutched onto your words, desperately needing something to keep him sane. Like before, he kept his phone on your screen, only clicking out when you began to text, because his cowardice got in the way. He would only go back and read the new ones when he knew you'd be busy with your job.

He was indeed a true coward, but he wasn't going to cause any more grievances towards you.

He was scared to bring you down anymore. So all he could do was watch from afar.

Then one day, they stopped coming in. A spear of despair and anxiety pierced through him, aimlessly waiting for you to contact him. His knee would bounce at unsteady tempos, or he would pace across the room, his phone propped up, eyeing the screen for the three bubbles to pop up.

“Please… please, mi Luna.”

Nothing came from you. Not a single peep. 

And yet, he still believed he deserved it. He drove away the last piece of love he had left, and there wasn't much he could do.

He had nothing.

Eventually, after a few weeks, he began to sneak out of his apartment, taking air shafts and hallways that no one knew up to his office. He still missed his osita and would go chat with her for a couple of hours before heading back. He was able to spew whatever he wanted off his chest with no hassle because the space was barricaded and blocked off from the others.

He only knew it was because he eavesdropped on a discussion between Peter, Jess, and a few spiders about what to do with his section. 

Jess was visiting, showing off photos of her baby boy, Gerry. Peter B. couldn't control his excitement, gushing about all the playdates Gerry and Mayday could have, and the rest cooed, congratulating the new spider-mom. 

Topics lead down one road to another; things are tossed in here and there, and the discourse of Jess leading came into play. The ones surrounding her commended her for being more level-headed and comprehensible in how she handles situations. Overall better fit to be a leader.

Miguel's eye did twitch, but he bottled it up.

Debates were thrown about what to exactly do when Hobie suggested they tear it down and turn it into something more impactful. A statement of some sort. Agreements did weave their way into the air when Peter suggested they leave it. They raised their eyes and eyebrows at that, arguing why they wouldn't want to leave a place of bad memories and faith up if they decided to move forward.

And his rebuttal was simple.

“It is still technically his world. We can't really hijack all of his stuff. He created it, and yes, we may now have some… unrequited sentiments about the office; we should at least leave something more personal for him if he ever decides to return.”

Some were on board, a couple opposed, but after a few more convincing statements and negotiations, they obliged to keep it, and it's up to the person if they want to try and meander down in that direction.

Miguel was slightly glad to have someone try to pull him out.

Only one monitor remained on, the others collecting bits of dust bunnies because there was no reason to have them up anymore. Miguel rambling to Gabi felt oddly therapeutic in a sense. He knew she would be one of the last few to judge him.

Well, possibly the only one. His eyes did occasionally wander over to you. He was only able to watch a few seconds of the video before clicking it off. He did still have your messages open, waiting for you.

He doesn't know exactly how much time has passed by either. He knew it still had to be summer because of the time stamps from you, but this season felt more bleak, with more gray clouds above, covering up the skies. Where was the beacon of light? And even if it were to have been shown, would he have merited that warmth?

All he knew was that this was all he had left. Those couple of hours turned into days, residing next to the one and only monitor. Blanket near him, falling asleep to the sounds of laughter. If this was now going to be his future, then so be it. He would take the mass, doing whatever self-reflection would get him by. Or was it self-pity? He decided to go with the latter.

Lyla would eye his deteriorating state, teleporting foods next to him, but not much communication came from her end. She went on helping the others reprogram and rebuild the HQ, mostly being around Jess, who did consider leading and reestablishing the structure.

All seemed to fall into line. They omitted to seek out Miguel anymore, the spider-beings thrilled at the now-new endless possibilities after learning that they don't have to conform to and rely on this made-up entity. A new beginning was starting for them all, and they couldn't have been happier to be able to control their future.

And there was one who wanted everyone to have a future of their own. Everyone.

Miguel sat on his knees, perched up on his control panel, his eyes going back and forth between the hanging screens. He was slowly dozing off when he heard a certain sound coming from behind.

“I figured you would've been hiding in here.”

Miguel discreetly straightened up, forcing himself awake, and continued to blankly gaze into the blacked-out PCs around him. He pretended not to register Peter, but at this point, it didn't matter if he did. Nothing mattered.

“You know hiding away for months on end isn't the best way to handle your problems.” He climbed up on the platform, dropping to his knees, and turned to the flashing images. “There have to be days when you combat them.”

Miguel didn't vocalize a single sound; only his placid breathing was the only thing escaping from him.

“Lyla told me you would be up here. Don't worry, she made sure to catch me when I was alone.” He ruffled his own hair and lightly chuckled. “Her and Jess have been chit-chatting about new implementations and all.” Peter's eyes scanned for any change of emotion, but nothing was coming from it. So, he kept going.

“Yeah, she's been busy with that, so she asked me if I could be the one checking in on you. I honestly felt honored when she asked me after all that happened, but hey.” He raised his arms above his head and yawned. “Speaking of Jess, her son Gerry is so adorable. Not as adorable as my Mayday, but he's definitely up there.”

He knew Miguel wasn't going to open up so easily. He had already mentally prepared himself when he was making his way. It didn't have anything planned, but he felt that was the best way to come about this. To speak from the heart more than the mind. 

Peter believed that's what he needed. He doesn't need a worker or anything grandiose. He needs a friend to just talk to him and tell him how it is. And there was definitely a lot to unpack, so Peter let whatever his thoughts came out in slow, moving low tides.

“You know what? It's okay. It's okay, Miguel. We fuck up sometimes. I know I definitely did during that whole thing.” Peter frowned when he thought back to how he hurt and betrayed Miles, but he pushed on. “I mean, mine was bad, of course, but you fucked up in the worst possible of ways—but you'll get through this.” 

Miguel tilted his head with a burning sense of death in his eyes before going back to his osita.

“I know it's not the best way of looking at it, but it's true. Everyone keeps trying to out you as this sort of liar, but I have to remind them that you didn't build it on this lie.” He twisted his body to look at the entrance and settled on the bottom before choosing to lie down on the metallic floor. “You built it up on your paranoia. Your fears.”

His muscles tensed at that. Was it his fears? The canon was always a subject that seemed correct and made a ton of sense. One thing leads to another, and so on and so forth. A very structural ‘A’ goes to ‘B,’ and ‘B’ to ‘C.’ So was it truly his constant anxiety about wanting to keep billions alive? Was it not him merely trying to do the right thing that kept this idea up and running?

He turns to your minimized video in the corner and thinks about the night he ended it with you. That was him doing the right thing. Right?

“Miguel, I know you don't like hearing the same thing over and over, but I feel like you're going to need it.” Peter got more comfortable, intertwining his fingers together and placing them behind his head. “It's okay to be scared of the unknown, but now it's up to you if you want to face them head-on. The world is a big place, and the future is an endless zone of things that can be great.”

His eyes shut, enjoying the peacefulness of silence. It has been eventful for Peter, so it was nice for him to take it easy for a bit. “I know it must be hard. To believe in this one thing for so long only to have it proved wrong. Not to add insult to injury, by the way.” Miguel didn't bother to look down.

“But it can be an eye-opener to come at these things differently, and that's what I believe you need.” Peter grunted, sitting back up, letting his legs dangle and his mouth roam free. “You're so used to control, so used to having this hold to make sure things run smoothly, but if you were to look closely, you could see the serrated lines in the seams of the walls. Those cracks were creating a rift in the structure.”

Peter cocked his head before gesturing to Miguel to take a seat when he saw the corner of that red iris.

Miguel brought up the holoscreen and sank down next to Peter. He and Gabi were front and center, as the video with you two stayed hidden in a corner. All that was created and caused, all the blood on his hands—was it for nothing?

“Do you think... Do you think people like me deserve this? Another chance at life.”

Peter puffed out a huge gust of air and ran his fingers through his scruffy hair. “I mean, I would believe so.” He glanced at the child and then towards a familiar face and Miguel, when a determined gleam covered his face. “You know what? Yes. People who have been lost for so long and are wanting to change do deserve a second chance. I was given that second chance after running and doing so much damage that, after Miles and all that happened, I realized that I could have that too.”

He straightened up his stance, that driven look never leaving.

“And you can too. It'll have to start with you needing to make amends. From Miles to Jess, hell, nearly everyone in this place.” Peter eyed the holoscreen with him when his view landed back on your face. “And you need to make them with the person who was helping you break open. Who is willing to take a peek at those walls.”

“She would have looked deep into it.”

“So that wall was a shield. Maybe those cracks needed to make a rift to break down and see the full thing.” Peter grinned when his friend started laughing in front of the camera.

Peter was always the advocate for Miguel because a certain spider taught him he could see the potential in others once they put that faith in them. And he was always ready to see Miguel at his highest points that he could get to.

There was silence for a while as he expanded the video, having him and Gabi in the corner. His eyes never left you. His thoughts never deserted you. You were willing to stand by him and walk beside him. Those gentle and genuine eyes, that love you held for him. 

The love he holds for you always shines.

“You don't have to let the past dictate a huge chunk of you. It's how you go about handling these things, you know?”

Miguel twisted his neck, his heart thumping and his mouth agape. The gawking stare made Peter shift, but he realized what he said. 

“Go to her. You have a lot to do and fix, but I think this would be a good start. She would be a good start to the future for you. Learn to be a better you. It's never too late to start.”

He didn't know what to say; he couldn't think of the right words, but Peter was possibly right. Possibly.

He could possibly get one thing right.

“Do you think she'll even want me back?” But the self-doubt was still heavily engraved.

“That's something you're going to have to seek the answer to for yourself. There is no fancy algorithm or canon to decode that.” Peter brushed some lint off his robe and smiled.

“Now go get cleaned. You reek, buddy.” He patted his back and waved his hand in front of his face. “I'll still keep your location hidden until you're ready to face the rest.” Peter stood up, pulled Miguel on his feet, and put his hands in the pockets of his bathrobe.

“Tell her I said hey, and that Mayday wants to hang out again.” 

The giant nodded before pulling him into a hug. “Thank you, Peter.” 

“Of course. But please, go shower. I actually prefer you smelling like too many coffees and stale empanadas.” He gently removed himself and patted his shoulders.

Opening up a portal for him to go freshen up, Peter gave him a thumbs-up and a wink. “Take care of yourself and do for yourself.”

Miguel was going to hold on to those words. He knew he should.

There was more to this, and he wanted to grab it. He wanted it. And he was going to make these mistakes right. 

He was going to make this wrong... right. 

One string fell loose.

[ellsbclls]

White Winged Dove

warnings ➛ COUNTRY!TOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MY BELOVED!!!!!!!! smut, baby! (PLEASE do not interact if you are a minor), hurt/comfort, minor angst, happy ending: guaranteed!, a handful of swear words, and y/n has no choice but to have a country accent, i don’t make the rules here. extended warnings will be under the cut!

word count ➛ 9.5K

authors note ➛ i saw that gifset of tom taking a shower in cherry and my brain short circuited, so here! have a cupcake!

synopsis ➛ Tom feels like his world is falling apart, so he turns to you, the only person that reminds him of home.

extended warnings ➛ nsfw, fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, multiple orgasms, unprotected f/m intercourse (please practice safe sex, kiddos! wrap it before you whack it!), a tiny tiny tiny sliver of blood!play if you squint with one eye closed.

You remember the night in waves, docile, fleeting waves that tease the rim of your consciousness before reeling back. Golden whiskey licks at the seam of your lips with each pass of the bottle, and the pond is glittering beneath the blinking trails of all the lightning bugs — tens of hundreds of fireflies, dancing in the night’s misty skyglow, rivaling the pale moonlight.

You remember the night in waves, but he is a mighty current.

You can’t scrub the memory of him from your mind, that bleak, hopeless expression that hollowed out his features. You remember how your heart split into a million little shards the second it appeared, and just when you thought there was nothing left to break, his fragile voice pleaded for you to take him somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far.

By the time the sun spilled past your window pane, you were nothing but a drowsy amalgamation of lithe limbs, coated in morning glow as it spilled through the glass.

But behind your eyelids lives an imprint of the night before — a shimmering reflection of the night sky, and the moments that unraveled beneath its sweeping gaze.

9:17PM — You’re belting into your hairbrush, not a care in the world, and pouring your heart and soul out to a crowd of none. Somewhere between all of your clumsy twirls and impromptu choreography, you stumble over the shoebox that was poking out from under your bed, and a flurry of damp tresses and musical giggles fan across your comforter.

The walls in your house have always been notoriously thin, but what could you possibly expect from the weathered planks of wood paneling that lined your bedroom? You could hear your father’s creaky footsteps whenever he ransacked the fridge for leftovers in the dead of night, and the heavy thump of laundry that your mother would throw down to the basement, but once your radio crackles to life, and Stevie’s enchanting croon permeates the air, all those subtle nuances fades to a dull, lifeless roar.

With each passing note, the white winged dove becomes you, and you soar above endless miles of  Mississippi wood. There’s not a soul that can drag you back to the outskirts of town, force you to confront what may become of you when you land, there’s no room for trepidation where you go. There, in your own little corner of the woods, it’s just you, Stevie Nicks, and the moon.

And, technically, Thomas.

Minutes have gone by, you still can’t find the strength, nor the energy, to lift yourself up, and as your downy blankets hug your tired frame, you remain blissfully ignorant of your peeping tom.

Thomas, affectionately penned Tommy, has been your best friend, your confidante, since the very first day of kindergarten. You had pulled a pack of scented markers from your tiny, pink barbie backpack during free time, and he had pulled out the empty seat beside you, plucking, sniffing, and ultimately discarding each and every pen until the box was empty. When you asked him which one was his favorite, he asked you the very same in response, just so you’d “coincidentally” have a shared affinity for coconuts. He was oddly endearing, which is a trait that’s always stuck with him. So, even at a young age, you never wondered if he was just using you for your nice possessions, or trying to take advantage of your courtesy — he always offered himself to you at face value, and you never stopped taking as much of him as you could get.

Had you been aware that your childhood friend was waiting expectantly at your window, you may have handled your alone time with a tad more discretion — but you weren’t, and each act of your private concert forces him into an even harder position. To what extent does he let you embarrass yourself before he makes his presence known, and for how long will you bury your head in the sand before the embarrassment mulls over? He sees your stage dive as a golden opportunity, and seizes it before you begin to stir.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three short, mild raps, uttered in quick succession, jostle you from your lavish daydreams like a bucket of ice water, and you have to squint just to make out his fair features amidst all the darkness shrouding them.

“Tommy?” A flash of his soft, earthy hues tame the wild drum of your heart, confirming your suspicions, and you fight the urge to chuckle when he innocently waves at you.

“Well don’t get all shy on me now. Come in.” You open the window just enough for him to slip through its frame, allowing your eyes to graze the sculpted plains of his back, and admire, albeit shamelessly, how his muscles ripple beneath his fitted t-shirt.

Yet, there’s something about him being in your room, towering over fixtures that once towered over him, that makes you feel uneasy. A part of you adores the way he instantly makes himself at home, but the remainder is doused in fear, fretting over his wandering hands and what they may discover, surveying little trinkets and souvenirs that decorate your desk.

“Hasn’t changed much since the last time I was in here, has it?” He notes, absentmindedly shaking the contents of a snowglobe your grandma brought you from New York, a miniature skyline of Manhattan continuously buried in a flurry of snow. Most of your playdates took place in his house, so as your friendship flourished past elementary school, and the time that spanned between your meetings grew shorter and shorter, you’d found yourselves frequenting his home for all of your endeavors. It was just easier that way.

That’s the sole reason you rarely visited your room. It surely wasn’t the suffocating atmosphere that plagued your home, or your hormonal, angst ridden brain convincing you that you’d scare him to the high heavens if he caught a glimpse of your relationship with your family — how dismal it is. How you build entire worlds, cycle through dozens of bountiful lives, in the luxury of your mind in hopes of retreating.

You’d be lying if you said the poster of Zac Efron, now lurking precariously behind his shoulder, wasn’t a glaring reason as well.

“Yeah, couple things here and there, but it’s pretty much the same.” You try to be discreet as you wander around your own room, Destination: Tiger Beat. Once you reach it, you rise up on your tiptoes to cover as much of the poster as humanly possible, but scramble for an excuse once you notice him turning. “You actually left something the last time you were here. It’s on the top shelf.”

RIP! The poster is crumpled in your grasp no sooner than his back turns to you. You’d have to give a formal apology to your wildcat once you were left to your own devices, but until then, he was banished to the most unsuspecting corner of your room.

“Jesus Christ Y/N,” His thumb fondly strokes a small, yellowed testament to your friendship, a weathered page of loose leaf etched in awry plumes of ink that perfectly encapsulate his very essence — egregiously passionate, regardless of the outcome. He had written it when he was about seven, intending to give it to the “girl of his dreams” once he met her. You can still hear his sweet, little voice echo between your ears, endearingly mistaking his r’s for w’s. “You kept this?”

“Of course I did.“ Candor coats your tongue before you catch yourself, the tail end of your answer turning to dust as soon as it hits the air. You can’t bring yourself to admit just how many restless nights you’ve allowed yourself to clamber up that oak dresser, just to read that letter over, and over, and over again, praying that if you had stared at it for long enough, his messy scrawl would transform into the words you yearned for most — that it was meant for you, that he’s loved you from the very start. “Wasn’t sure if you were planning to repurpose it for some other lucky gal.”

You lock eyes with him for the first time since he appeared at your window, and stowed beneath his reservation are faint embers of warmth, kindling behind ebony curtains as you indulge in the hearth of his gaze. Lifetimes seemingly pass before his eyes are flickering back down to his hands, and it prompts you to offer him the note. “You can have it back.”

“No, you keep it.” Your brows pinch together, and a thousand questions collect on the tip of your tongue. You wonder if he recalls the same memory you do, if he remembers the significance buried in that little scrap of paper, but ultimately choose not to dwell on it. He knows just how much you love to collect memorabilia — keep cherished memories stowed away for safekeeping — he’s just being thoughtful. “Consider it undeniable proof that I know how to read and write.”

“Ain’t nothin’ in here about knowing how to read.” You tease, catching your tongue between your canines as a smirk conquers your lips.

“Ya got me,” He chuckles, smile reaching for, but never quite meeting, his faraway stare. You are so accustomed to his teasing quips, his usual flair for the dramatics, that this half-hearted attempt at replicating it fills you with discomfort. He tries to punctuate his words by tossing his arms to the sky, but they don’t reach high enough to convince you that he’s okay. Something is plaguing him, and you won’t settle for anything less than the truth.

“Tommy,” His name is sweet on your tongue, all honeyed vowels and soft, descant consonants that command his attention. “What’s wrong?”

“No, nothin’, I just-“ he’s avoiding your eyes, which is a clever strategy on his part. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then his are a stained glass mosaic, a vibrant display of all his emotions, and you — you are but an avid observer.

“Hey, look at me,” Two slender digits underline the curve of his jaw, and with a firm grasp of his chin, leave him no choice but to meet your gaze, tender and resolute all the same. “ You don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not ready, but I can tell when someone’s been rode hard and put away wet.”

“I just, I need to get out of here, and I thought I’d ask my favorite distraction to accompany me.” He stumbles over his words, faltering over his messy façade, but you’d rather this over nothing at all.

“And where might we be goin’?” You query. You can tell that this is going to be a long night, but luckily for him, you don’t have any plans that can’t be rescheduled. Your adoring fans will just have to wait another night.

“Somewhere… Anywhere,” He murmurs hopefully, and your heart nearly sinks to the floor. You’ve never seen such a chasm of joy, not in those bright, amber orbs you study so adamantly. You’d almost deem it pain, whatever’s tugging at the frame of his optics, whatever’s depriving them of that usual, warm glow. “as long as it’s far from here.”

9:39PM — “Watch your step.”

“Can you help me?” You whine — one hand reaching out for his assistance, the other firmly clasped around a bottle of Jack Daniels. There is an awkward incline just below you, only a few inches off the ground, but tall enough to make you stumble, and he could already see you bumping your knees on the way down, so he offers his elbow as a point of leverage.

“Atta girl, you’ve got it.” He coos, reluctantly abandoning your grip once you’re safely on the ground.

Mystical, and buzzing with life, you introduce him to the farthest corner of the woodlands. Whenever the walls of your room become suffocating, your legs always give out right about here. 

Your secret hideaway. 

Where you let your most worrisome thoughts roam free, and when those thoughts seemingly wander into nothingness, you chalk it up to wishful thinking, and fail to realize that they haven’t disappeared, they just don’t belong to you anymore. They belong to the babbling brook, constantly replenishing itself and its inhabitants with fresh, spring water, belong to the frogs and crickets as they fill the night with their moonlit ballad, they belong to the night, and it’s reflection, as it wades across the face of the creek; dotted with lightning bugs or the cosmos themself, you weren’t sure. All you know is that you always returned, as if a piece of you was tethered to the very spot.

“Where are we?” He wonders aloud, raking his fingers through his downy, chestnut locks as he explores his surroundings.

“I don’t exactly know.” You confess, making yourself comfortable on the ground. Most nights, you slip off your shoes and sink your feet into the brook, but you know Tom like the back of your hand, know what kind of ideas might venture through that rascally mind of his when he spots you near the water. So, you play it safe, pulling your knees up to your chest as you peer up at him from a safe distance. “It’s nice, though. Quiet. Good place to let your thoughts wander.”

“You ever take a dip in here?” Predictable. You stifle the urge to laugh at his query, sinking ivory veneers into your pillowy bottom lip, and shake your head in response.  “Hell, if I were you, with my own nature-made swimmin’ pool, I’d bring all the boys around.”

“You know I don’t waste my time with no silly boys.” You sigh, sending him a wistful glare. 

“You sure about that?” He counters, mimicking your perked brow with eerie precision.

“Oh, I’m sure.” You huff. God doesn’t build boys the same way he built him, he took his time crafting that statuesque frame, implemented hawk-eyed precision for each and every beguiling detail you’ve come to adore. He is a man, tried and true, from his sharp, angular structure to the neverending bounds of his heart, but rather than inflate his ego moreso, you let him assume the worst. “You can take a dip if you want, though. I wouldn’t mind.”

You wonder if he can tell just how little you’d mind as a mischievous glint highlights his amber hues, but before he can even open his mouth, you’ve already pinpointed the source of his glower, already voicing your adamant refusal. “No, absolutely not. Not a chance, Tommy.”

“But why not?” He whines, bellowing over your feeble chant, conjuring the most convincing set of pleading eyes he can muster. “It’s dark, it’s humid, and ain’t no one around to tell us not to.”

“Sounds like all the more reason to not do that.” You scoff, scooting further away from him and the strength of his hopeful gaze.

“I hate to pull out the big guns, but... what if I told you that it’d make me feel so much better if you accompanied me?” You’re left to wonder what the big guns are supposed to be, if they aren’t the way he is encroaching on your personal space, crawling up the length of your legs until there is only a sliver of space between you. 

“I’d remind you that there are much drier ways to make you feel better.” You could feel your warm breath fanning across his lips, distracting you with the scent of minty toothpaste and your vanilla chapstick, ultimately failing to notice his hands, and how they’re positioned just below your waist.

It would only take one swift move to reach the small of your back, two to scoop you up in his arms, and about six more to drag you into the pond — kicking and screaming, but successfully so.

And he doesn’t chance it.

SPLASH! You’re no sooner submerged in the brooks’ murky depths, reaching out for lily pads and cattails that fail to provide you leverage, and your screams bubble into thick, smothered embers of a once irate flame. He better pray you never emerge from usunder, because he’s merely a howl away from being swept up in the tide — the tide being your arms as they force him to the bottom of the crick.

“Y/N,” your name scrambles between the slosh of the water and the pounding in your ears, but you manage to break the surface and blink spare drops of water from your eyes.

“I was drowning!’ You gasp, struggling to keep your head above water as you kick, and splash, and writhe around in the stygian abyss.

“In two feet of water? I beg to differ.” You can barely make out his comeback over his fit of giggles, but a part of you would rather this bright, teasing version of himself that what you’ve been dreading beforehand. Taking his outstretched hand, you stumble to your feet and, much to your dismay, find yourself standing in about two feet of water (which, in your defense, is a far more daunting threat to someone your size as opposed to his). You cool his inflating ego with a cold splash of water, dispersing tiny droplets from your fingers as they wave in front of his face.

You splash around in the water for what feels like forever, transforming stray lily pads into makeshift hats, dressing to the nines in the latest collection of aquatic couture, and as the moon casts a pale spotlight on the babbling brook, you occupy it’s centre, huddled in one another’s embrace, swaying back and forth amidst the shallow pools.

10:02 — You're still wet.

Drenched, really.

You’ve resorted to wringing out your hair with your bare hands, twisting the dampened locks between your fists until water pours from the follicles. You’d never once pondered the benefits of freshwater landings, but you were about to find out. A glare threatened to slice through the air, but immediately wavered at the sight of him — desolate, void, so lost in his thoughts that you’d wondered if he were even there.

God, you’re worried sick. You’ve dealt with bouts of sadness, sprinkles of melancholy, but this was downright depressing. You wouldn’t even know what to do if you tried, and that’s what worried you the most.

Thomas, your best friend, your crush, your light — the best parts of you all wrapped up in a clumsy little package while the best parts of him threaten to snatch up your heart, as if it wasn’t already his.

“Tommy?” You break him out of his reverie, but press on, scooching closer to his form, dangerously standoffish, like an uncaged animal winding up to attack, until you cross the threshold into his personal space. With a sturdy hold on his bicep, he melts into the palm of your hand, practically leaning all of his weight into you, stealing a reprieve you didn’t know he needed. “You can talk to me, y’know. It’s just us.”

“She left, Y/N.” The evening air seems still, in perfect tandem with your breath as you fear what might come out once you finally exhale. You know he’d shove all of his feelings down if he caught you shedding a single tear, and this isn’t about you, it never has been. So you hold your breath, latching onto the heavy silence that follows his confession, and pray that your chest is strong enough to smother the sob bubbling beneath its surface.

Fortunately, he takes your silence as a cue to continue. “The closet was empty, and all her cookbooks were gone. I looked downstairs and there was nothin’ there.” You don’t know if he’s finished, watching as he toys with a loose string on his jeans, but he breaks his own silence with a newfound waver in his voice.  “I had a feelin’ she was ‘bout to leave, but I didn’t think it’d be so soon. I thought I had a lil’ bit more time to say goodbye.”

Edie was a good mother, the best of mothers, and never had she drawn a line when it came to who she nurtured. When you were little kids, you’d race each other to his house once the school bell rang, tiny little bodies weaving through the stalks of corn that prefaced the farm. She would follow the shuffling crops with a heavy eye, leading you to the porch with her raspy, whimsical chime, and crouch down to envelop the both of you in a tight hug when you emerged. She was the best of mothers.

But she wasn’t the best of wives. You were both far too young to notice the signs — the nights where you found her sound asleep on the sofa by her own volition, the packed suitcase that hid underneath the stairwell to the basement, the hesitance that laced her tone when she said I love you to his father — and something tells you she wanted to keep it that way. 

Her son didn’t need to worry about his parents, and how fast they were falling out of love, and whether they really loved each other in the first place. Her son just needed to be a kid, and that is a belief she devoted the best years of her life to.

But he isn’t a kid anymore.

That’s why she fled in the middle of night, leaving nothing but a ruby encrusted ring on his dresser — her class ring. The same one he’d snatch from her jewelry box whenever she wasn’t looking. The same one he used to propose to you at the wee age of four, promising you as much of the world as a toddler could imagine.

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as he recounts every detail, and every fiber of your being yearns to just schoop him up in your arms, hold all his broken pieces together with the strongest embrace you can muster. He doesn’t deserve that type of pain, shouldn’t have to relive it, and yet he takes it upon himself to tell you everything, to relive it for your own selfish gain.

You grow envious of the way the moon trails kisses down the slope of his nose, across the high rise of his cheeks, and over the swell of his bottom lip. There were times where you’d find traces of his mother in Tom’s features, lining the curve of his warm smile or, when the sun hit them just right, speckling his earthy hues with tiny rods of gold. Tonight, he is shrouded in a celestial spotlight, mesmerized by its waning body, and if you squint just enough, you’ll find her longing stare hidden beneath his own.

“And the worst part is that I ain’t even mad at her. Not even a lil’ bit.” He concludes, talking more to the sky than to you. “Not even at all.” When his gaze falls back to you, you can only try to cover up the betrayal, wipe the back of your arm across your tear-stained cheeks before he notices they’re even misty.

You inevitably fail, expelling a wistful sigh as he pulls you into his side, comfortingly running his hand over your bicep as he murmurs sweet nothings into the night.

“I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t want you to find out like this,” You furrow your brows, and wonder just how he would want to break the news to you. Would he let you find out for yourself, or would he bring you out to the plantation, and let you sink into the soil until the news began to blossom in the fields? Would they be cornstalks? And would they reach for the sky just like her?  “I didn’t wanna make you cry, but... I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s okay.” Your voice is a wash of dulcet tones, fingers soothingly raking through his damp tendrils in a silent bid to comfort him. “It’s okay, I’m a big girl. I can take it.” You’re quick to clamber to your knees, wrapping him up in an airtight embrace, keeping him from wallowing into a puddle of tears. “I’m right here, Tommy.”

“I know,” he sputters, with an edge of sorrow to his tone.

“I’m right here, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” You promise.

“Don’t say that” He whispers, and shatters any trace of consolation looming over the encounter. Your brow furrows, your heart pounds against your chest, and for a fleeting second, you feel like you're caught in a lie. What if he knows? What if he can tell just how much you’d surrender to be with him? What if he doesn’t want it?  

“Why not?” You’re near hysterics, praying that the intensity in your eyes makes up for the tremor in your voice. “Why not? I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean.” 

“I just don’t want you to make a promise you can’t keep, Y/N.” That sullen gaze resurfaces, chills the air with it’s haunting presence — that hollow stare which fosters the remnants of a bright, contagious joy, and carves a pit, just as empty, in the well of your stomach, one that aches to be satiated. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, but his palm lingers against your cheek, trying to smooth out the heavy creases in your expression with the gentle stroke of his thumb.  “Hell, I don’t want you to promise that in the first place. You deserve more than all this, you deserve the best this life has to offer you, and I’m not gonna keep you from all o’ that.”

You’ve lost track of your heart long ago, it’s dizzying tempo rivaling a hummingbird, nearly undetectable as it flitted uncontrollably, knocking against your ribs until its ultimate descent to the pit of your stomach. 

You pray that he can one day see everything that you see in him, that loving himself is as easy for him as it is for you; you hope that there is a life where he never has to feel as small, or inconvenient, as he confessed, and you wish that this would eventually be that life.

You decide that it’s time to put an end to wishful thinking. 

“Let me make something clear to you, Thomas.” You cup his jaw, firmly, and utter each word without a trace of uncertainty. “I’m not sure exactly what I want from life yet. I don’t know if I wanna spend the rest of it in this little ol’ town, or just pack my things and go as far as the wind will take me. I couldn’t tell you if I tried, but… that’s okay.” Slowly but surely, your lips give way to a sheepish grin, feeling lighter, freer, the further into your declaration. “It’s okay, because there’s one thing that’s for certain, and it’s that I’m all yours. It don’t matter how far I go, I’m always gonna come home to you.”

The silence is deafening. 

All your emotions hang in the air, crippling your air supply with insurmountable regret. But his gaze is what terrifies you the most; just as suffocating, but in a way that sweeps the air from your lungs. You knew that there would always come a time where all the unrequited feelings you’ve harbored would finally boil to the surface, fueled by the hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t as one sided as you thought; but under the void of his empty gaze, you wonder if you’d made a huge mistake. 

Or maybe there really is nothing — nothing to reciprocate, nothing to subdue you, nothing to salvage what little remained of your friendship after such a loaded confession — and so you scramble to assemble an apology convincing enough to overshadow your lapse in judgement.

But he doesn’t even spare you the chance, swallowing your half-hearted excuses with the firm press of his lips, pouring a lifetime of ardent desire, of longing, into the hollow of your mouth. It’s crystal clear that you’re his, the realization comes borderline cathartic. There has never been a day where your heart has not beat for him, and only him, forever threatening to spring from your chest and return to its rightful owner. The days, the months, the years of back and forth felt like a cruel jest from the fates, but now you were here, bundled in the warmth of his strong embrace, tongues curling against one another in an endless battle for dominance, and you would endure it all over again if this was where it lead

He searches for some sign of absolution, paws up and down your back in hopes of grounding himself, and you reverently provide, mustering what little strength you have left to crawl into his lap, brushing against the growing bulge in his jeans without a trace of subtlety, offering him the most sacred parts of you in hopes of bringing him home.

“Y/N,” he sighs raggedly, a half hearted attempt to gain your attention, one that proves unsuccessful as his pleas whittle into a frail, insipid shadow of what they could be. You’re too busy acquainting yourself with the plains of his body, embedding a trail of deep red marks into the column of his neck as your hands slip beneath the hem of his t-shirt. He’s built like a greek statue, you don’t even need to discard his shirt to indulge in the taut muscles tensing beneath your fingertips. “Y/N, darlin’, wait.” He interrupts your greedy ministrations by fastening his digits around your wrists. This is the point of no return, you can feel the fragile divide between friends and lovers, splintering beneath the weight of your heart, and yet you fail to concern yourself.

His digits are free to roam the high plains of your cheeks, pioneering the flushed expanse with beacons of soft, arching butterfly kisses until there’s no skin to cover, ultimately pressing his forehead against yours. ”You don’t- I don’t want you to do anything you don’t wanna do.” Seems almost redundant, you muse, to wonder if you want him when you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’d follow him to the ends of the earth. You are a pillar of salt, and as he showers you in a knee buckling torrent of kisses, you melt into the palm of his hands. If the way you’re draped against his form isn’t evidence enough, then the wetness pooling between your thighs most certainly will be, he’ll come across that confirmation once he tends to the spot you need him most.

You trace the cleft of his chin in delicate pursuit, whining as he tears his lips from their languid path, and peer through your inky lashes to meet his gaze once more. “I want this, Tom. I want you.”

“You have me. I’m all yours.” He echoes your words back to you, reverently, delivering a sacred vow from the hearth of your soul, ove you have, and will continue to, dedicate your humble living to, and you seal that promise with a bruising kiss. 

The weight of his palm melts into the small of your back, pulling your chest flush against his own as it sweeps up your spine, and you moan against his lips when your nipples press up against his sturdy chest, aching to be freed as they strain against their gossamer confines. 

You’ve only had the pleasure of making out with Tom for less than five minutes, but you can already tell that it ranks high on your list of favorite pastimes. Soft, pink petals brush against your own like they’re a flourishing canvas, and he’s trying to even out the brushstrokes, but all he leaves is a scorching flush in his wake, and your clothing, despite being bathed in pond water, do little to ease the blistering heat. It’s suffocating you, and you begrudgingly tear yourself away so that you can rid yourself of the article.

Besides, the less fabric separating you from his anchoring, toned embrace, the better.

“I’m all dirty,” Your meek voice collapses into a fit of giggles, and your feeble attempt to wring out your clothes is thwarted by his hands, venturing up, up, up, and under the hem of your skirt at a teasing pace, savoring the feeling of your warm, silky skin beneath his fingertips. You can tell he’s as desperate as you are, confronted with acres of new terrain to explore, and only so little of his patience to spare.

“I know, I’m sorry angel.” His voice is soft, and soothing, and riddled with mischief. Even if there is even an ounce of truth in his apology, you can still make out the devilish grin that toys at the corner of his mouth. “May I, m’lady?” He croons teasingly, flashing those whiskey glazed hues in a way that you could never refuse. 

“Proceed, good sir.” You counter in the most refined timbre you can dictate, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he bunches the hem of your dress in his palms, hoisting it over your head to expose the breathtaking contours and curves of your body. You can’t remember what compelled you to forego your bra, but the thought is soon pushed to the corner of your mind, making room for the warm, fuzzy feeling that conquers your insides when Tom lays his eyes on you, bared to him and only him. His gaze alone makes you feel like you are a spectacle to behold, the most enchanting vision to ever cross his line of sight. If there was even a speck of insecurity buried deep in the back of your mind, the sight of Tom’s eyes, blown wide with adoration as they worship every sinful inch of your skin, instantly quells those fears. 

He struggles to find his words, to occupy this infinite silence with anything, everything, as his calloused palms caress the sides of your waist, but all he can manage is a husky growl. One that prefaces the reappearance of his tongue, and its feverish descent from the column of your neck to the tops of your breasts, bathing your skin with gluttonous, broad strokes, and coaxing pretty, little whines from the back of your throat.

There is something so unhinged in his actions, so carnal, it summons another wave of arousal to pool against your soiled panties, knowing you have such a strong clutch on his resolve. Though, another branch of your mind races at a mile a minute, consumed by the endless possibilities that come equipped with Tom’s skill. 

You try not to dwell on the little flings that came before you, especially now, in the afterglow of your confession. The taunting, pitious gazes you shared with his hookups in the hallowed halls of your alma mater, toting a reminder that they could indulge in everything you yearned for, scorched you more than the thought of the act itself — but the rumors were just plain inescapable. If even a fraction of them hold a candle to the truth, then you are in for one hell of a night.

“You’re just as sweet as I imagined, angel.” Angel. The nickname sends sparks flying in the well of your stomach. “Can’t wait to taste that perfect little pussy. Just know it’s gonna be even sweeter when you cum all over my fingers.”

You whine softly at his words, but clench hard around nothing, aching to be filled by those unbearably long, slender digits. Nothing could have prepared you for the scene unraveling below you — his lips latched around the stiff peak of your nipple, a husky groan reverberating around the pebbled surface, and head slightly moving against the palm of your hand as your fingers tug at his chestnut locks. The long, covetous laps of his tongue mingling with the vibrations of his contented little hums make you desperate for more, arching, writhing, trembling against him in hopes of finding a semblance of relief for the ache between your thighs.

“Tommy, please.” You plead in the most convincing, fucked out tone you can muster, but he doesn’t budge, showering your other bud with a flurry of quick, relentless kitten licks. Even mother nature joins in his relentless teasing, making you squirm as the gentle breeze blows cool, summer air against the glistening bud.

This is torture, a blissful, euphoric form of torture that, despite your irritability, you would surrender to time and time again. But you fail to notice just how hard your canines puncture the swell of your bottom lip, too immersed in the stroke of his tongue, in the ghost of pleasure that stirs in the pit of your stomach each time you rut against his clothed cock. A sharp, metallic tang seeps into your mouth, hitting the tip of your tongue and forcing a trembling whimper to the front of your mouth.

The pitiful sound piques Tom’s interest, and before you can wipe the blood from your lip, your face is already cradled between his palms. “Fuck, Y/N, look at you,” His eye were wide with concern, and your heart sputters over the blistering scorch of need his compassion arises in you. “C’mere.” Dropping his forehead against your own, his tongue tentatively brushes the curve of your lips, lapping up every last drop of blood that is smeared against it. He applies pressure to the wound, cauterizes it with a searing dance of bloodstained brims, as his one hand weaves into your damp locks. You barely know how to respond, but your body compensates with an untapped sense of hunger, scraping your teeth against his lower lip as you desperately claw at the toned valley of his back.

“Please, Tommy, please. I’m dripping.” You mewl, teetering over the perilous edge of delusion, foraging between your stomachs in search of his free hand. Yet another wave of arousal pools between your thighs at the sight of him, with his puffy, saliva stained lips slightly parted, and his eyes blown wide with the insatiable need to indulge himself, to spoil you. Once your fingers circle around his wrist, you guide his hand to the apex of your thighs and urge him to feel for himself, applying the lightest of pressure against his fingers, urging him to caress your tender lips through the sodden barrier of your panties. To feel what he’s done to you. “You feel that? It’s all for you.”

“All for me,” he echoes back, mesmerized, cognac hues fading into obsidian orbs as he rubs deliberately teasing circles over your covered clit. “And you ask oh so pretty. Let me take care of you, my pretty girl.” Before you even get the chance to reply, he’s pushing your panties to the side, dipping the pad of his middle finger between your silky folds — feeling, exploring, acquainting himself with the tight ring of muscle that he plans on stretching open. 

His hesitation is nothing more than a plight at this point, you are more than willing to take anything he has to offer, and he can gather that much from the wild gleam in your eyes, so he slowly works one finger into your snug, velvety walls and curses under his breath at how heavenly you feel. You’re unlike anything he’s had before, far exceeding the lengths of his imagination as you softly clench around his digit, and it only takes a few seconds to adjust to the lithe intrusion, your walls already twitching against his shallow, testing thrusts, before he adds another.

“So fuckin’ perfect, darlin’. Love the way your pretty little cunt takes me.” A thin sheen of sweat coats your forehead as he rocks his digits at a leisurely pace. Tom is obsessed with the tiny frown forming between your brows, almost like you’re confused by the amount of pleasure building between your legs, struggling to keep your eyes open, your juices spilling past your opening to trickle down the palm of his hand. To say your experience is limited is a bit of an understatement — the whopping two men you’ve slept with prior were merely amateurs in comparison to your lover. Even if there was enough air in your lungs to articulate it, you don’t have the heart to tell him that you’ve never been fingerfucked. Period. The embarrassment almost swallows you whole.

But even without anything to compare it to, you’re convinced that you’re receiving the upper echelon of experiences.

As his pace quickens, prodding against your pulsing walls with an onslaught of keen, ravaging thrusts, you’re too busy gasping for air to notice how he’s switched his angle. Now the heel of his hand is rubbing against your bundle of nerves with each stroke, applying just enough pressure to light a spark without ever setting you off, and as the pads of his fingers pound against your sweet spot, you are reduced to a limbless puddle in his hands, doused in an ethereal glow that only he could surface. “God, Y/N, you look like an angel. My pretty little angel— ‘bout to cum all over my fingers.” he panted, voice biting the air with a wolfish gleam, canines peaking past his thin lips.

“Tommy, I’m so close.” You aren’t sure if you can hold on for much longer, dangling on the coattails of insurmountable bliss, finding a new reason to fall apart with each lewd kiss or sharp thrust. Your orgasm is already creeping up, threatening to crash over you each time he plunges into your slick heat, but you know that you want to feel him — all of him — stretching you to unimaginable lengths as he sinks into your tight little hole for the first time. “I wanna feel you. I wanna- I need to cum on your cock.”

Tom’s brows meet in the middle, and you wonder if you’ve strewn too far, surrendered the remainder of your common sense to lust and her shameless palms. “Such a filthy little mouth for such a good girl.” He whispers, wondering aloud, his free hand abandoning the nape of your neck to cup your jaw as his thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, applying just enough pressure to drag it down before letting it spring back to its pouty default. “You will, angel, you will, but I gotta get you ready first.” He reassures you, and you remember just how prominent his length is, straining against the denim cage of his jeans, and attribute his wavering tone to the sheer restraint he’s been exhibiting. But you have to admit — if his fingers are only a fraction of his length, then you are not sure just how much of him you’ll be able to handle. The thought sends you barrelling toward your climax, but not without the help of his thumb, pressing up to rub fervent, clumsy circles against your clit, his husky tenor cooing sweet words of encouragement into the space just below your ear. “I can feel you, angel, let go for me. I’ve got you.”

With one final thrust, he buries his fingers to the hilt, caressing your g-spot with a tentative come hither motion, until you are ridden with overwhelming waves of pleasure. All you can feel are your tender walls tightening around his fingers, and your thighs starting to tremble under the weight of your high. But he is spellbound, mesmerized by the swirling vision of you at your most content, eyelids hanging low over your blown out hues, your hips absentmindedly grinding against his hand, meeting his timid rhythm as he tries to work you through your aftershocks.

Emptiness soon replaces the stretch of his fingers once he slips them out, but a twitch of excitement follows the path of his slick hand, and you can’t stop from outright moaning at his shameless display.

“Just what I thought,” he murmurs. You are too captivated by the sight of his lips — pink, and kiss-weathered, and frankly obscene —  opening wide to welcome his slick fingers, gracing his taste buds with your juices, and humming around them as they coat his tongue in an intoxicating elixir . “Open up, pretty girl,” You‘re torn from your trance by the pressure of his digits, knocking against your bottom lip, begging for entry. “Come taste how sweet you are.”

Hollowing your cheeks, you graciously welcome his fingers, putting on a show as you swirl your tongue between the two digits, moaning softly as the bittersweet taste that hits your tastebuds. You aren’t prepared for the shallow, tentative thrust of his digits, or how he starts up a slow, steady rhythm against the back of your tongue — but god do you welcome it, softly gagging with each steady downstroke, spit already dribbling down your chin as you try to keep up with his quickening pace.

“Atta girl, that’s it.” He offers you a ginger smile, one that makes the tears pooling in your eyes worth gagging for. “Good girl. Good, good girl. I wish you could see how pretty you look.”

You try to reply over his digits, but your words are muffled and faint as they thud against the wall of your lips. Luckily, he’s coherent enough to notice that you’d like to speak — and who is he to stifle that sweet little voice of yours? “Thank you,” you pant, fluttering your tear-stained lashes up at him as you clamber to fill your lungs, disputing your feverish pleas as you wriggle away from the outline of his cock. The sensation of his waterlogged jeans rubbing against your sensitive bundle of nerves has you keening over him, pushing you further from his crotch, and closer to his embrace, back arched with a near-feline agility.

“Can I?” you ask, kneading your palms over his thighs, feigning innocence as you inch closer and closer to his zipper with each upstroke, and he nods, granting you permission to free him from his denim confines. In one fluid motion, your one hand unzips his fly as the other helps him kick off the remainder of his offending items, and you have to resist the urge to drool at the sight of his cock springing from his boxers, let alone his sinfully perfect, exposed form.

He’s a little bit larger than you expected — what he lacks in length, he makes up in girth, but there isn’t much to make up for in the first place. His shaft is decorated with pretty, ivory veins, ones that would no doubt twitch beneath the hot, heavy weight of your tongue, and the crown of his cock is flushed, glistening with a thin sheen of precum that makes your mouth feel conveniently dry. Your walls twitch at the disheartening reminder of your emptiness, but all out spasm as his fingers eclipse the circumference of his cock, using your juices to leisurely pump himself.

“You’re so pretty.” You sigh, a flurry of giggles floating beneath your words as you reach out to touch him, hovering just above the tip in order to send him a cautionary glance — one he hurriedly accepts, nodding his head fervently as he stutters into his grasp. A rosy hue blooms across the valley of your cheekbones as you encircle him, covering whatever he can’t as he all but bucks into your palm. His heart strains against his chest upon the realization that his hand easily dwarfs your own, watches your smaller fingers barely curl around his engorged shaft and fights the urge to cum right then and there.

No, he needs to feel you.

“Are you sure?” He asks once more, granting you a final chance to salvage what little scraps remain of your childhood friendship, but you are already committed, determined to devour every last, glorious piece of him, to prove that he is the rightful owner of you, all of you, every shimmering shade of you.The sentiment would be almost derisive if not so loving, so noble, and yet you dismiss it with three, chaste kisses upon the outline of his profile — against his forehead, the notch on the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips, warm and inviting.

“I’m certain.” You promise, merely a breaths width away from his lips.

You have never been more certain of a decision in your life, desperate to feel him nestled deep inside you, to blur the line where he begins and you end. Your fingers curl around the base of his cock, their pressure neither here nor there as they coax a hiss out of him, and you line him up with your entrance, tossing your head back as you waste no time breaching your needy hole with the bulbous head of his cock.

It’s blindingly clear that you have been given the reins, what with Tom’s finger’s seeking refuge in the soil beneath him, a low groan rumbling beneath his chest, his eyes rapt with an unspoken urgency as they survey the spot where you connect, and you relish in your paramount. Your knees dig deeper into the ground as you lower yourself onto him, and with little resistance, your walls steadily welcome inch after inch with a searing embrace, etching every delicious ridge and vein of his length to memory until he bottoms out, and you’re left with an overwhelming sense of fullness. There is a dull pain laced in the stretch of your opening, intermingling with the remnants of your last orgasm, and as you twitch and pulse around his girth, he appears like an dream before you, sifting through a thick haze of desire, wispy curls clinging to the thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead, and eyes blown wide with ripples of pleasure, of lust, that long to be indulged.

Once you’ve adjusted to him, you test a few shallow, tentative rolls of your hips, lifting yourself off the tiniest bit before filling yourself up again. He just feels so perfect, like god spent a little extra time molding him just for you, rubbing against parts of you that have never known such ecstasy until now, and you struggle to find a rhythm amidst all these new, dizzying sensations. “Poor little thing, you’re so worked up, you barely know how to take my cock.” It’s funny, how he can make such degrading words sound so sympathetic, and regardless, your body responds long before your brain can register, wildly spasming around his cock. It doesn’t take long for his fingers to return, digging into the curve of your hips to assist you, working you over his length in long, plundering strokes that steal the air from your lungs. “That feel better, angel?”

“Mhmm,” you shakily nod your head, fingers finding purchase in the broad expanse of his shoulders as you dig your nails into the freckled expanse, flooding his senses with the weak little uh, uh, uh’s tumbling from your lips each time you’re impaled on his cock. If he could lap up every hitch of your breath, every wayward sigh, he’d be drunk off the height of your unbridled joy. Hell, he can barely sustain himself as is, ravenously lapping up the beads of sweat clinging to your temple, swirling his tongue around your earlobe in its descent. Yes, yes, he’s swept up in sultry waves of you, and as your pelvis kisses his, as the air is filled with the sounds of your hips snapping against his own, he’s less and less concerned about emerging from your enchanting depths. “You got another one for me, angel? I can feel you squeezing my cock, baby, I know you got another one.” He’s delirious, clawing at the altar of your hips, and nowhere near as close to finishing as you are, but god is he eager to tear another orgasm out of you.

You, on the other hand, are a furnace, taunting flames of embarrassment licking up your insides, pooling in the small of your back, racing up your cheeks, at such arduous lengths as to mix with the coil of pleasure tightening in your core. Tom seizes the opportunity to find some leverage, pulling his knees up to rest on either side of you, planting his feet on the ground so that he can thrust up into your sopping cunt at a punishing pace, and you both can already feel the tell-tale signs of your building pleasure. “It’s okay, Y/N, you can let go.” Nothing more than a faint whisper, you indulge in the way his cock massages your inner walls, how your name sounds so filthy, yet beguiling, as it slips from his slightly ajar lips, how it blends so well with the weak little moans of his own name rolling off your tongue. “Let go for me. I wanna feel that perfect little pussy cum all over me.” His hand dips between your sweat slick forms, firmly swiping his fingers over your hypersensitive bundle of nerves, turning circles into your favorite shape, and his change in position makes the crown of his cock curve into your g-spot each time he pounds into you — so your helpless to the crescendo of pleasure that washes over you. 

A broken, startled shriek tears through your lungs, and you topple over his thighs, digging crescent shaped indents into his knees as you surrender to your climax, walls fluttering and contracting over his length as he works you over the edge.

“Oh, what a good girl.” He coos encouragingly, reaching his hand out to cup the weight of your breast, swiping his thumb over your peaked bud as his pace eases up, and it isn’t until now that you realize he’s leaning back, holding himself up by his forearms while he drinks in your pleasure-ridden form. “My sweet, sweet girl.” You can tell he’s holding back by the way his hips still stutter up into your overstimulated heat, how his cheeks, his forehead, all of his features are set with a heavy flush, how you aren’t filled to the brim with his cum — and you simply won’t allow that. 

“It’s okay, Tommy.” You whisper, carefully lowering yourself until your chest is aligned with his own, sharply exhaling as you feel him push up against your tender core. Your eyes are soft, and dazed, and oh so pretty, glittering beneath a thin layer of unshed tears, but this is about him, it’s always been about him, and as his cock twitches amidst your spasming walls, you firmly believe that you can handle another orgasm if he can coax it from you.  “Keep goin’, it’s okay. I want you to fill me up. I wanna feel all of you.”

“Y/N—” His voice is stern, but your lips are fierce, stealing whatever argument may have been building in the cavern of his mouth as you weakly tilt your hips downward, offering yourself to him once more. When he muscles up enough strength to tear himself away, he only finds a bounty of understanding, of devotion, of love, teeming at the brim of your eyes, and he needs no words to indulge himself, to yield to a mesmerising whirlpool of you, you, shimmering you.

Tom wraps one arm around your back, holding you close to his chest while you scatter soft, lingering kisses to his shoulder, smoothing his palm over your damp tresses as he hoists one leg over his hip, prying your legs even further apart so he can fuck up into you — impossibly tighter, and tormentingly more responsive as he slams into your overstimulated cunt. You can feel every square inch of him now, every long sweeping vein, the tiny sliver of skin hidden beneath his tip, it’s all crystal clear as he plunges into your weepy core, and you’re so cockdrunk, so fucked out of your mind, that you don’t even notice your hips slanting down to meet his thrusts. You’re just that greedy for another orgasm, hellbent on tumbling over yet again as he fills you to the brim.

It doesn’t take long for him to work himself to that precipice once again, the coil in his stomach pulled taut with your whimpered chant of his name, with each strong pulse of your cunt tightening over him. He buries himself to the hilt one last time, stuttering into your hips with a loud, frenzied groan, and finally teeters off the edge, dragging you down with him as you sink your teeth into his shoulder blade, pumping his hot seed into you, coating your walls with hot spurts of cum as you milk him for every last drop, the crude sound of your arousal mixing with his own making you shudder.

You both lay there for a second, safe in each other’s warm embrace, basking in the aftermath of your fortuned affair, and you cowered beneath the sky and it’s constellation clad ceiling, feeling infinitesimal, but oh so contented, beneath its glorious gaze. There, wrapped up in one another, two splintered halves mending, healing, into the whole they were destined to become — the sky was but a star in comparison to your light, your bright, everlasting light.

How did we get here? You wonder. How, oh, how is he finally mine?

You follow the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way the moon lounges across his curly lashes in a silver chaise — you survey him at his most vulnerable — and determine that you have more than enough time to find the answer. As long as he’s here, by your side, you don’t plan to wander too far.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! PLEASE LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT, IF YOU ENJOYED!

TAGLIST: @devotion @reawritesthings​

[kashimos-hajime]

the girl in purple (1/8) | r.b.

summary: In his mind, you’re wearing the white blouse and long purple skirt again, long riding boots covering dark pants, innocent smile on your face as you wait for him in the noon sunlight. Or, four years ago, Bertholdt asked for a favour and you said yes.

WARNINGS: swearing, ass jokes, flashbacks and flashforwards, mostly fluff and banter, pining and angst at the end, bertholdt is our soft best friend <3 pairing: reiner braun x fem!reader word count: 5.0k

a/n: pt 1 of 8 of a birthday present for the legend, the icon, the bad bitch herself, ISABEL!!@!@!@ @luciilferss​ ALSO, song not mine! it’s the sea shanty called wellerman.

masterlist

crossposted on ao3 x

You sigh, wiping the back of your hand before grabbing the next hay bale that needed to be lifted to the loft. Your back aching, you grit your teeth as you lug it towards the ladder. It’s the last one and after a sweaty afternoon, you just want to get into bed. Hopefully Annie did end up getting you supper—you had to work through it just so Shadis didn’t get your ass up tomorrow to finish the job.

“Here, let me help.”

“Oh, thank you,” you reply, glancing to see your savior and a warmth shoots through your body when you realize it’s Bertholdt. “You know if Shadis catches you helping me, it’s going to be hell to pay, right?” The boy smiles, shrugging, and you can’t help your own grin as he gestures for you to climb up. Skirting up the ladder, you turn around to take the hay bale and pushing it towards the corner before jumping down and dusting off your hands. Stable clean-up is never fun, but with autumn right around the corner, they all want to get a head start before the chill sets in.

“I wanted to ask you a favour.”

“I knew there had to be a reason you were in here,” you tease. “Shoot.”

“Well, we have visiting privileges next weekend,” Bertholdt continues as you walk around the stables, picking up tools as you make your way towards where the broom is leaning against the wall. The tall boy ambles after you and you shoot him an amused look, curiosity pricking at your fingers. 

Half-way through their training in the corps, and Bertholdt still manages to keep you guessing. You don’t know what it is about him, but your friend’s always been the quiet one. It’s part of why you like being around him, but you just wish his friend liked you. Annie seems more than fine with you.

Reiner, on the other hand, can barely even look at you. It’s a real downer.

“I was just wondering…”

“You should ask Annie,” you cut off before he can finish, picking up the broom to begin sweeping the stray hay into a neat pile. Bertholdt’s spine goes ramrod straight and his cheeks redden so intensely you can’t help but laugh. “I’m pretty sure she would say yes. You guys are friends, right?”

“Yes, but we’re—we’re not—why would I ask Annie, specifically?” he stammers. The horses neigh as you walk past, their necks stretching out for treats but you ignore them, heading for the entrance. “She could go with a bunch of other people.”

“Yeah, but she always goes with me.” Glancing at Bertholdt, your eyes narrow when he smacks his forehead, covering his flustered expression miserably. Poking him in the gut with the handle of your broom, you continue, “And she only likes a few people here. You’re one of them, Bertl.” 

“Well, if you think so. I mean, you’re her dorm mate, not me, so… argh!” he groans as you walk past him, sweeping. “You’re not helping!”

“Helping with what?” you ask innocently, not paying him a second look. You hear him let out a sigh as you brush hay to the back of the stables. “You’re the one who wanted a favour.”

“Yeah, and I still need to tell you.”

“Literally no one’s stopping you, Bertholdt.” Another resigned sigh. “Okay. Okay. Ask me. I promise I won’t tease you for the next ten minutes.” Turning around, you rest your broom against the post between two stalls. A horse nudges at your face and you scratch the stallion’s chin as Bertholdt walks closer. His eyes inspect your own expression, searching for trickery, but you only grin.

Then, he drops his crossed arms and says, “Someone wants to ask you out next weekend for our visit to Trost.”

“Er, okay? Why didn’t they just ask me themselves?” Crossing your own arms, you lean against the post, the lantern hanging above your head and casting everything in a warm glow. It softens Bertholdt’s smile as he shrugs mischievously. “Who was it?”

“Reiner.”

“Reiner?” His name is punched out of you, sharp with shock, and your broom slides off the post, clattering to the floor between the two cadets as you stare at Bertholdt. 

“Mhm?”

“Reiner Braun.”

“Yep.”

“We know the same one, don’t we?”

“Blond, makes ass jokes, this tall?” he shoots back, raising a hand that comes just near his ear. You nod. “Yeah.”

“But he hates me.”

“What? No, he doesn’t. Why would you think that?” Bertholdt’s eyebrows knit together and you stare at him incredulously, not sure if he’s joking or not. Shaking your head, you let out a scoff and bend down to pick up your broom to continue your sweeping. Mind a swirl, you try to reconcile the Reiner, who has never said more to you than ‘pass the grease’ during ODM maintenance and ‘you have dirt on your chin’ after forest exercises, with the Reiner who had to ask Bertholdt to ask you out for him.

Sounds fake, but you digress.

“Okay,” you drawl, unable to help the disbelief from creeping into your voice. “This was a good attempt at a joke, but you need to try harder next time.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Why would I ever believe you?”

“Because I would never li—make something up like that,” he says, correcting himself, and you send him a strange look. “Just… when we get to Trost, you know that bakery that sells the stuffed cream buns. The one you mentioned before?”

“Yeah. Annie likes them,” you inform him pointedly, and Bertholdt’s mouth drops open to argue but he seems to think better of it this time.

“Yes, that one.” Fighting a furious blush on his cheeks, he continues, “If you’re there at noon, you’ll see I’m not lying.”

“And if I’m not there?”

“Reiner will be very sad for the rest of his life,” Bertholdt declares and you can’t help your serious expression from sliding off. “Will you please just consider it?”

Staring at your friend, you study his expression. It’s completely genuine, open, eyes wide and you feel a part of you melting at how adorable he is. For such a tall guy, he’s so goddamn gentle it blows your mind he’s a fighter. You can’t see him hurting even so much as a fly.

It’s for that reason you relent. Because Bertholdt’s never gone out of his way to scheme your downfall. He doesn’t have that in him. “Fine,” you say after a moment. “Fine, I’ll consider it.”

.

When Reiner steps back into the port city, he can’t help but think what he always thinks when he gets off a battlefield. Four years, and every thought is the same. Routine, almost. Or maybe, a habit to keep something alive.

And he almost takes comfort in it. That you would’ve loved it here. In Marley—Liberio, or otherwise. There are so many kinds of sweets, pastries, so many sights to see—the water stretches on for miles and miles, and you could’ve tried seafood. Maybe you would’ve liked it.

You never tried seafood. He promised. He promised—

Fucking hell. 

He steps out of the barracks, insides twisting into a tight knot as the sun blinds him. Lifting a hand, he squints and blinks, trying to get used to the brightness as people pass him by. Galliard’s voice trails after him like a ghost, and he scowls to himself, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He feels like he hasn’t slept a wink, and his body aches in places so deep he can’t rub it out.

“I saw you through her memories. You acted like the tough, reliable type. Not at all like yourself. And you were with that girl. Who was she to you, anyway, Reiner? Because my brother would have never cozied up with the enemy.”

Cozied up with the enemy. It’s as much as implying fraternization as anything and Reiner had barely chained back the words that would’ve torn both him and Galliard to shreds.

Don’t you fucking dare reduce her to just some promise I broke ever again. It stopped meaning something to me years ago.

Shaking his head free of Galliard’s voice, an image of you flashes through his mind to replace it and the urge to send a fist into his own face lances down his arm, but he barely restrains himself from doing so. Instead, he tightens his hand until his nails dig into his palm.

You’re always the one thing he can’t shake, nor does he think he wants to. 

Hollow, his feet drag his battered body towards the harbour. 

As he walks along the water, he hear some of the fishermen whistle and sing their shanties. It takes him a moment to recognize they’re all singing the same song, and he’s thrown back to when he came to the port the first time he was to go off to Paradis, how he committed the shanties to memory so he could take something with him to what was supposed to be an Island of Devils.

It makes his entire body ache, the uplifting tune filling his body up until he can’t possibly breathe. The way the sailors all sing together, smiling at each other—the camaraderie.

“Soon may the Wellerman come, to bring us sugar and tea and rum, one day when the toungin’ is done, we’ll take our leave and go…”

He misses that the most.

.

The sun is hanging in the centre of the sky as you glance from your plate to your surroundings. The fountain is full of life, people milling around the edges, tossing coins in and making wishes, and you hide a smile behind your hand when you watch a group of kids trying to flick their coins to the top most basin of the structure. The tiny plink-plink is barely heard, but either way, their groans of disappointment are far more amusing.

It helps pass the time at least, while you waste away your afternoon waiting for someone you’re not even sure will come. Dressed in a white blouse tucked into a long dark purple skirt that covers your pants, you cross one leg over the other as you wait.

You don’t even know why you’re here. Bertholdt had all but avoided your questions for the past week, and Annie didn’t budge, although, it’s harder for the blonde to slip. Being bunkmates helps, but not that much.

You keep people-watching, glancing up at the sky occasionally to see if any birds pass over, your bread untouched. Glancing up and down the street, you rest your chin glumly on the palm of your hand, elbow resting on the table. 

No pretty blond head in sight. 

Groaning, you lift your head when one of the waiters approaches, asking if you wanted anything more. You shake your head, a warmth spreading over your face and watching him go when a shadow falls over your table. 

“Oh, you got something to eat already.” 

Head jerking to the voice, you look up in surprise at whoever’s blocking your sunlight. Standing upright, your chair clatters against cobblestone as you clear your throat.

“You’re actually here,” you blurt out to both of their surprise and Reiner rocks back on his heels, running a hand through his short hair. His eyebrows struggle to meet his hairline and he smiles sheepishly.

“Sorry I’m late. Uh, sit down. I just… got lost.” You sink back into your chair and he takes the seat down across from yours nervously. He’s dressed in a pale green button up and darker slacks, but for once, he’s not scowling at you and you offer a slight smile. “How… how are you?”

“I’m okay. Slow morning.” He nods. You glance at your plate and nudge it towards him awkwardly. “I got it for you. It’s my favourite. I dunno what Bertl told you about me, or… why I’m even here, honestly.”

He picks up the bun tentatively, and you look down at your boots as he takes a bite, too nervous to watch his reaction.

What if he hates sweet things? What if he can’t drink cow milk? Don’t you remember? What if it makes him shit his pants—

“Oh, wow. I need to come to this place more often,” Reiner mumbles, taking another huge bite and your gaze flits to his face as he chews. His eyes are focused solely on the bun in a way that reminds you a lot like Sasha, and the corner of your mouth pulls into a pleased hint of a smile. “This is heaven…”

“You like it?” 

A noise escapes the blond and eyes jerk to meets yours as if he just remembered you were there and you tear your eyes away, clasping your hands together on the table. You close your eyes. Can the embarrassment just swallow you up already?

Reiner clears his throat, taking the cup of water left out for him after a quick point and your nod. He drains it to buy them both time, and your thumbs rub together. If you just walk away now, would it be too bad? You could probably find Annie or Jean pretty easily. Bertholdt’s probably just exploring the city with… if you had to hazard a guess, maybe Armin? They both like the architecture—stuff like that.

Honestly, you have no idea.

Porcelain rests against wood as Reiner nods. “I do. I didn’t know you had a sweet tooth.”

“Er, yeah. Since I was a kid. We didn’t have much, uh, variety, so stuff like this was kinda a delicacy. I grew up at this orphanage where we worked the fields.” You shift in your seat as Reiner continues to eat, and you sigh silently to yourself. Why did you give up an afternoon looking at paint supplies with Jean for an awkward date like this?

Wait, this is a date right? That’s what Bertholdt said. Ask you out. Those were his words, right?

“Where are you from?”

“Just inside Wall Maria, so when Shiganshina was breached, we had more time to move inward,” you explain briefly. “But we mostly ate what we grew for crops. I mean, it’s not like we could buy cream buns every day, you know?” Reiner nodded silently, and you give him an uneasy smile, feeling the need to elaborate. “Ever since we joined the corps, they send me money for birthdays and stuff. I don’t know.” You clear your throat. “Anyway, I just thought you might like the bun.”

“Even though you think I hate you?”

“Wha—“ A strangled noise comes out of your mouth. “Who told you that?”

“Why would you think that, anyway?”

“Because all you do is glare at me,” you say pointedly. Crossing your arms over your chest, you shoot him a narrowed look. “And scowl. And you generally avoid being anywhere near me. I mean, do I stink to you or something, Braun, because I have news for you—“

“I don’t hate you. I actually really like you,” he tells you bluntly, cutting your rant in half, and your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Reiner looks down at the empty plate, crossing his own arms and leaning forward on them. 

“Y-you like me?” you stammer and his cheeks redden.

“I mean, if Annie likes someone, I’m inclined to believe that they’re worth my time.”

Frowning, your shoulders slump. Gears turning, your expression scrunches up as you think aloud. “But, you asked Bertholdt to ask me out for you. Unless this is a dumb dare—wait.” You sit upright, twisting around to see if any of the other boys are milling around the plaza. Scanning for brown hair, or grey hair, or even blond hair, your cheeks begin to burn at the idea that someone’s watching you embarrass yourself but a hand on your elbow brings your gaze reeling back to Reiner.

A smile curls his lips impishly, but his eyes are resolute, calmer. Even still, he looks like he’s trying to fight a small panic rising up inside him, just like you are as he tells you to relax.

“This isn’t a dare,” he says. “I’m not that cruel.”

“I’ve seen you do worse to Titan dummies.”

“Exactly. I just wanted to get to know you better. Bertholdt offered to help me out since you guys are already friends, and I thought what the hell.”

You turn that explanation over in your head tentatively and a part of you recognizes it makes sense. Despite your hesitation, you know you only said yes because it was Bertholdt who asked you.

Otherwise, how inclined were you to say yes if it had been Reiner stalking up to you and asking you to hang out in Trost? How likely would it have been that you would be sitting here instead of walking along the stalls with Sasha and Connie?

“I’m kinda ashamed I don’t know you that well,” Reiner continues, fighting off tones you can’t decipher laced in his voice. Your brow furrows. “But I want to fix that, if you’d let me.” 

Dazedly, you repeat, “Fix… that?”

He nods and you simply stare at him, trying to get your mouth to work. It’s like he stole all the words from your mouth and time seems to slow as your lips part.

Absently, you realize his hand is still touching your elbow, fingers firm but not tight, and you swallow, studying his expression. Golden light plays on his face, sharpening the shadows of his nose and cheeks and lips, and yet everything about him seems to soften. Normally, you see him as hard rigid lines, like the shape of armour, and there is always an imposing aura around him that has become more muted now that he’s sitting beside you.

And you believe it. That he doesn’t hate you.

Maybe he really, really doesn’t, and you’d be an idiot if you don’t take up the offer.

So you stand up abruptly, and pull your arm out of his grip before slipping your hand into his.

“Fine,” you annouce, pulling him up. His eyes widen and you lead him away from the café with a small grin to yourself. A new plan begins to formulate in your mind as they step into the welcoming sun. Reiner’s long strides catch up to yours and he falls into step beside you. His stare burns into your cheek and you only tighten your grip on his hand as you lift your chin haughtily at him. “What do you say to a game of twenty questions?”

His eyebrows shoot up, but then a smug smile pulls at his mouth and he squeezes your hand back. “Sounds perfect, creampie. I promise, I’ll be perfectly honest.”

“Creampie?” you repeat dumbly, eyebrows shooting up and a horrible burning licking at your heart. Reiner gives you a vulgar smile and you let go of his hand, shaking your head and smacking his arm before looking down at the ground. Half of you wishes the ground would open up and swallow you whole—the other half thinks you’ll die of embarrassment before that. “How do you even know what that is?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

You straighten up, spine straight as an arrow. Flustered, you stutter, “That’s none of your business.”

He tilts his head back and laughs. “Guess that was your first question, then, huh? Bold start. Surprised me, too, creampie, so that gets you bonus points.”

“What? Wait—no! That doesn’t count!”

.

Walking past the hospital every day, it feels almost ritual to look past the gates and into the courtyard. Sometimes there are patients milling around, doing their daily physical activity, or nurses and other workers walking through to get a break from all the depressing shit that must be going on in there, and Reiner always, always, wonders if he should be in there with the rest of them.

It’s why he turns his head on reflex now, peering through iron-wrought gates. No one’s inside except for a pair walking through the path and he stops for a moment, watching. 

One of them is most definitely a woman, a hat covering her head and a long coat the shade of plums. A white Eldian armband is stark against the shade of her clothes. Meanwhile the other looks like he’s been dragged through hell. With one leg, he hobbles along with his crutch, black hair streaming past his shoulders, and he’s ragged, white shirt kind of messy from where Reiner stands. The Eldian armband is wrapped tight along his bicep. But he stands straight-back, shoulders set, the gait of a soldier. Pride keeps him up, not strength.

He’s too far away to hear them speak, and they stick to the shadows of the hospital, but after a short moment, the woman wraps an arm around the one not desperately holding onto the crutch, leaning in closer towards the man as if he has the most riveting thing to say.

For a moment, it is not a woman in a purple jacket and a veteran with one leg but two cadets walking the streets of Trost, sunlight shining down on them warmly. The blond boy leans to listen to the girl beside him, smiling until he thought his cheeks would fall off.

“This is your last question, Reiner. Make it count.”

“Hm… alright, if you could do anything in the world, anything at all, what would you do? No Titans, no soldiers. Let’s say there was no war at all and you had unlimited resources, yadda, yadda, yadda…”

“Oh? Hm… I’d want to live where there’s a lot of water. Like a lake or something. I’d get to try all these foods I’ve never thought of before, and I’d, uh… I don’t know what I’d do for money. I guess I’d figure it out somehow.”

“Chopping down wood sounds fun.”

“Yeah, right! I’d rather chop my fingers off. Hm… Maybe I could raise some kids, like I was raised. Give them a home.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility.”

“I dunno. I like being responsible for things. It makes me feel like I’m needed, I guess. I don’t want a kid to grow up lonely like I did.”

“That… that sounds nice.”

“You could visit, you know. As long as you chop the firewood.”

Reiner blinks, and the two are gone. Not a hint of them are in sight, and a soft breath slips out between his lips. He must’ve been seeing things.

Shaking his head to himself, he turns away.

.

The past year and a half has been turbulent since you became friends with Reiner, but for some reason, you don’t think you would change the thing. 

Not even when Connie would come at ghastly hours in the morning because “CAN YOU PLEASE TELL REINER TO STOP SNORING? We would but we’re too afraid of being crushed by the weight of his entire body. Thank you! You’re the best, seriously.”

Or when they’re studying and Reiner makes one too many jokes about how he could fuck a Titan, despite Bertholdt’s resigned sighs and you throwing a book at him, and it only gets you, “Keep acting like that and I’ll take a bite out of your juicy ass next, creampie,” and a heat that kisses at your face.

Not even after reclaiming Trost and losing yourself in his arms.

You feel something inside you shatter as the smell of ash tickles at your nose. Walking past the combat medics base they set up for the parameter of the recovery effort, you don’t even look up at any of your friends still left as you walk past. Your entire body burns from the aftermath of Trost, and you wonder if you’ll be able to even get up in the morning as you limp over to a secluded alleyway and lean against the stone.

You don’t know if you’ve ever fought for that long or hard in your life, and you can’t feel your legs anymore as you sink to the floor.

Too many bodies. There are too many bodies.

“Hey.”

Looking up, you pull your mask down when Reiner stands before you. Tearing the fabric off your neck, you draw your knees up and rest your arms on top of them, the mask hanging off your fingers limply. A strange relieving wave washes over you to know he’s still here, even surrounded by so much death.

“Hi,” you murmur. “It’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” he agrees simply, leaning in beside you and sliding down. Their knees knock into one another as he tugs his own mask down. Sweat glistens along his skin and his sleeves are rolled up as he clears his throat. “I’m glad you made it out.”

You smile faintly at him but it flickers out before it can find a place on your face. Looking at your hands, you imagine the rough skin of calluses forming on your palms still and you wish you could rip your gloves off but every part of you is too exhausted to move now. Softly, you tell him, “I’m glad you made it out, too. There are a few of us I haven’t really caught sight of. I know Eren’s squad is dead. I—“ you stop yourself. No way Reiner is interested in the fact that you had taken their deaths in stride because you had to in the moment and now you don’t think you can feel at all— “but… Marco. I haven’t seen him in days. Jean hasn’t seen him either.”

“M-Marco?” Reiner whispers and your eyes lift to look at him. “You haven’t found him yet?” Gaze widening at the colour draining from Reiner’s face, your stomach flips and a dread fills your entire being as you sit upright, your legs sliding down, your arms falling to the ground to prop yourself up. Lungs tightening, your lips part as if to form his name but no sound comes out.

You know what his silence means. His silence is death spelt out in glaring red letters—the same shade as blood. 

But Marco?

Why Marco? A caustic voice screams inside you and your nails dig into the cobblestone as Reiner turns his face away, jaw clenching. Trying to breathe, the air stalls in your throat and your gut clenches as your gaze drifts to the street full of combat medics and doctors, other soldiers who still walk. What—what do you mean Marco isn’t one of them? You want to grab Reiner by the jacket, shake him until he makes sense, but instead you search for freckles behind every mask, stumbling to your feet. Marco never did anything wrong. He was supposed to join the MPs. He was our… our leader. He never did anything wrong.

He never did anything wrong. Never. Never. Not Marco. It can’t be. The thought tumbles through your head as you push yourself to your feet but your knees nearly give in on the first step and you stumble to the other side of the alleyway with a harsh noise. Shoulder crashing into the stone, your eyes squeeze tight and hot tears pour down your face as you clench your teeth, trying to chain back the sob that’s working through your body. Head hanging, your mouth pries open as an ugly moan comes out of you, so deep inside you that you want to crumble.

Days seem to pile onto your shoulders until you think your bones will break and your fingers curl into tight fists as you try to stop the tears from falling, but they keep coming, tracing your nose, pushing everywhere and everything is so hot. Shit, you can’t even breathe—

Hands take your shoulders and you let out a ferocious scream, thrashing yourself out of your grip but fingers only slide to your biceps, pulling you away from the wall as your boots slip against the cobblestone and then hands are on your wrists, pushing away your blind fists.

“Let me go! He’s dead, isn’t he?” you scream as he lets go of you for just a second to wrap his arms around you and you let out a shuddering breath as he crushes you in his embrace. “Reiner! Tell me! Marco’s dead!”

“Yes! Yes, he is!”

His words spear through your skull, sending electricity down your spine and your entire body goes limp as he collapses to his knees, you with him. Your arms at your side, your eyes blink open and you feel fresh tears fall down your face as he cups the back of your head, holding you to him and as something wet seeps into your shoulder, it’s as if you are set on fire.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

 On their own accord, your arms come up under his and fingers hook onto his shoulders. Chest to chest, you swear your heart beats in a mournful beat with his, and his entire body collapses against yours. Eyes closing, you press yourself closer, hoping that the heat of his body will chase away the cold that’s rapidly spreading through your body.

Reiner’s arm around your waist tightens. You swallow hard against his shoulder.

“Please forgive me,” he whispers against your neck, wet cheek pressing against your jaw, and your chest stutters as you try to remember how to breathe.

“Reiner…”

You barely breathe his name. It only makes him curl tighter against you.

.

Liberio is colder at night than he remembers. He has to pull the blankets up to his chin, and still, he shivers.

Rolling onto his side, he can nearly imagine you staring back beside him, smiling, hand reaching to touch his face, and his eyes flutter shut when your fingers seem to pass through his cheek.

In his mind, you’re wearing the white blouse and long purple skirt again, long riding boots covering dark pants, innocent smile on your face as you wait for him in the noon sunlight. 

By then, he had known there weren’t any devils on Paradis, but he’d never seen an angel until he saw you cast in gold.

[solarwonux]

Minghao x f!reader drabble

w.c: 2.8k

warnings: angst, slight mention of not eating, minghao be an asshole sometimes

note: I’ve had this one collecting dust in the docs so I decided to upload it today, it was meant to be part of a bigger fic but I decided to not continue though who knows it might be referenced later on in a different fic. Enjoy and let me know your thoughts.xx

Also I’m changing my schedule around a little. So instead of me posting Mon, Weds, Fri, I will be posting Mon, Thurs, Fri. You can find more info on Navi

drabble game || masterlist

There were sides of Minghao  that unfortunately weren’t reserved for you, except for one. The one you hated the most and the one you wished you could stray as far away from. The side that received you with a frown and a bitter cold glare. The side that spoke to you in short sentences, a sour tone that would weave its way through his voice like vines whenever he spoke to you. It sent shivers down your spine and not the good kind. It was the side that you couldn’t break through to get to the side that was reserved for the people he loved and cared about most in the world. And you weren’t one of those people.

Maybe this was the way the universe decided to punish you. A punishment you wholeheartedly thought you didn’t deserve because you were tied at your feet with no way out. When you had been matched with Minghao  by the System it was either you marry or die. And of course, selfishly you choose to live. You knew he resented you for it, but in the year and a half that you two were officially married, you had secretly seen the warmth that oozed out of his pores. You saw the wide smile that would light up the room whenever darkness poured in. His laugh sounded like a sweet melody that you would never get tired of listening and just his presence made you feel like home.

Minghao was a gift, the purest form of art, a being so powerful you swore he would restore the peace in the world. He could resent you, hate you all he wanted, look at you with an overwhelming amount of venom in his eyes. And you’d let him, you could never let yourself regret your final decision because he deserved to live.

Sighing deeply, you pushed yourself off the elevator walls watching as the hallway to your apartment came into view. This was the part you hated most about your day. It wasn’t the part where you woke up alone, it wasn’t the part where you had to go to work and it wasn’t the hour and a half walk home. It was the short walk from the elevator to your apartment. It never failed to stretch out miles as your heart caught itself in your throat because behind that closed door you weren’t sure what you’d encounter.

Sometimes it would be a quiet Minghao , sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table with his headphones on. His studio set up scattered all over, a notebook and his unlocked phone next to him. Sometimes it was him quietly sitting at the coffee table eating take out, sometimes it was him on his phone arguing with his mother as he shot piercing glares at you, probably wishing you weren’t alive. And other times it was a dark and cold apartment, nothing out of place. The silence creeping underneath the floorboards, reigning, occupying its throne in between the walls as it desperately tried to push the two of you out.

For some reason that was the apartment you always found yourself hoping for whenever you stopped in front of your door. Your hand gripping the doorknob tightly every night that it had started getting loose.

This was a routine by now. You’d put the key in the key lock, turn it until you heard it unlock. Then you’d close your eyes, slowly count ten Mississippi’s, proceed to give yourself a pep talk and then finally biting the bullet and opening the door. Anxiety rushed through you quickly when you saw what was waiting for you behind the door, Minghao  on the couch typing quickly on his phone, while the TV beamed with life in front of him. Lighting up the dark living room with undertones of blue.

“I’m home.” You spoke, a shake in your voice making you wish you were stronger. The door clicked behind you, signaling there would be no way out until tomorrow morning so you might as well bite your tongue and deal with anything you’d encounter tonight.

“Welcome, I ordered food but wasn’t sure if you wanted any.” He shrugged, locking his phone and setting it by his side. He crossed his arms in front of him and turned his attention to the TV.

“It’s fine I’m not hungry anyway.” You took off your shoes by Minghao’s worn out ones. The hunger swirled inside of you, but you pushed it aside, telling yourself that you’d find something to eat once he was asleep in the guest bedroom that by now had become his room. “Mhm, you are eating right?” He said a hint of concern in the back of his throat, but that could’ve been your mind playing games on you. Though the question had caught you off guard and you weren’t sure how to answer without lying because in truth for a while now your appetite had severely gone down.

“I am, had a big lunch with one of my coworkers.” Minghao  nodded at your answer, finally turning to face you, furrowing his eyebrows. You tried to ignore his gaze, relax your body as much as you could and placed your bag down on one of the highchairs in front of the kitchen island. “My family’s coming over tomorrow, my mom wants to cook dinner…you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.” He blurted out the last part, hollowing out the part of your heart that was reserved for him. You loved Minghao ’s family as much as you loved him, but unlike him they had been very welcoming of you. Embraced you with open arms and you found comfort knowing that at least a part of him loved you.

“I’ll be there.” You whispered, shrugging off your coat and placing it on the back of the chair. “I have a day off tomorrow so I can clean up around here before they come over…I mean if that’s fine with you and all, I don’t want to make things uncomfortable.”

“Do whatever you want.” He spat out leaning back on the couch. His tone returning to the one you were used to hearing and you knew you had overstayed your welcome in the living room. “Right, I’m going to bed then.” You nodded walking past him and straight to your room, closing the door behind you quickly and resting your back against it. You breathed out a sad sigh of relief feeling the tears build up behind your eyelids, the hunger gnawing its way through your stomach ripping it to shreds. As well as your need for some sort of comfort, as you came to your first realization of the night. Just like it washed over you every single night and for once you wished you didn’t feel so alone, when the person that was supposed to love you stood on the other side not caring.

Oddly there was a side of you that loved Minghao  and maybe it was the side that kept holding onto the hope you first felt when you were given the news. Or maybe it was the image of him that you created in your head from all the fragments of light he let out whenever he thought you weren’t looking. But you loved him, that was something you were confident in because you saw him for who he was, flaws and all when the two of you weren’t alone.

“Fuck.” You pushed yourself off your door throwing yourself on your unmade made and grabbing the turtle stuffed animal you slept with every night. It brought you a small sense of comfort and any comfort you could get you would grab and indulge in it blissfully. It was small and useless in the long run.

You buried your head into the head of the stuffed animal, finally letting the dam loose and the sobs came in full throttle. Thankfully the TV in the living room was loud enough to muffle your sounds. It wouldn’t matter if he could hear you anyway because you knew he wouldn’t be running into your room like a knight in shining armor and save you from yourself. He just didn’t care and that was the second realization you would have every night. Each time you did, it sent a jab through your body, cracking the little wall that kept the small sliver of light you held onto dearly. Each night though you felt it flicker slowly losing its innocent glow. Sometimes you’d wonder when the light would finally die out, when the numbness would finally overtake your body and you could go on with life without feeling like you were worthless. Without feeling anything.

“Can I come in?” You sat up on your bed at lightning speed. Minghao ’s soft voice sounding from the other side of your door. A knock following in between syllables. Your breathing sped up and you brought your hands up to your cheeks slapping your tears away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of him seeing you in this state. “U-Um yeah.” You spoke moving to rest against the headboard of your bed, grabbing your laptop on your bedside table and opening it to make it seem like you were doing something other than crying.

“I brought you chicken as I couldn’t finish it all.” He walked in, a styrofoam container in his left hand. His aura took over the air in your room and you felt as if you were suffocating. You watched as he slowly took in your room and your face heating up as you remembered the untidy state of your room. His eyes lingering on the wall of polaroid’s behind your even messier desk.

The girl in those pictures, the one whose smile reached her eyes and laughed still lingered in the small cracks on the walls of your room was someone that was unknown to you now. On days when you couldn’t bring yourself to get out of bed you looked at her as a sign of motivation. Telling yourself that that person was still within you and that she would come back you just had to fight through whatever you were going through. At the end of the day she always came back.

“Oh, I’m not hungry.” You closed your laptop and set it aside, the forgotten google tab opened waiting to be used. “I can have it for lunch tomorrow though.” You brought your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them. To avoid his curious gaze, you looked out the window, the moonlight shining down at the skyline. You wondered if they were at peace unlike you.

“Why do you cry every night?” Minghao  blurted out. He had placed the container on your desk and sat down on the foot of your bed. His back turned to you. The question had caught you off guard as you searched through the files in your brain in order to come up with an excuse. Yet, you came out unsuccessful and decided to just finally confess to him. You had nothing left to lose. “I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you?” You choked out biting your lip to keep the sob that threatened to spill locked away in the back of your throat.

“You can’t love…you barely know me.” He turned to face you and for the first time in a long time you couldn’t read the emotion that was playing against his features.

“Maybe I don’t love the person I’m faced with everyday, but I do love the person I see whenever you let your guard down around your friends and family.”

“But aren’t you tired of all of this? He raised an eyebrow, lifting his palm up and signaling all around the room as if the extra gesture would help prove his point.

“Exhausted.” You breathed out your shoulders falling as you felt yourself fall apart little by little in front of him. “Then why not hate me?” Minghao  brought his legs up to your bed and crossed them underneath him. This was the longest the two of you had spoken or been in each other’s presence and although it was suffocating there was a small ring of light that lingered between the two of you.

“Because as much as I want to sometimes, I can’t bring myself to hate someone that’s hurting inside as well.”

The deafening silence that the two of you had grown accustomed to entangling itself in the warmth that was lingering above the two of you now. Somehow bringing the two of you a sense of comfort in the midst of this confusing situation you found yourselves in. Although you could feel like you could breathe again, the question that still kept you up at night stayed put in the back of your throat waiting to finally be let out into the world. For months you had pushed it back, deciding you already knew the answer to it. But as you sat in front of Minghao , his soft eyes dancing between your puffy ones you weren’t sure anymore. So, you put your preconceived notions aside as well as your pride and opened your mouth, letting the question run out to freedom. Your heart raced as you anticipated his answer.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

“I don’t hate you, truthfully I don’t think I could ever hate you.”

“Then why can’t you love me back?” You whispered, shutting your eyes. Your hold on your legs getting tighter.

“Because I can’t bring myself to do so no matter how hard I want to sometimes, especially when I listen to you cry every night. I wish…I want to set everything aside and hold you. I want to make you feel less alone…but I can’t.” Minghao  let out a frustrated sign running his hands through his hair and tugging at his roots in desperation. The sight made your heart wrench. You wanted to reach over and hug him, give him the comfort you craved.

“W-Why?”

“I feel guilty.” He nodded resting his forearms against his knees, finally breaking his eye contact with you. Searching your room rapidly for another point of focus and finally settling on the humidifier on your bedside table. “I feel guilty because before I met you, I had chosen to live, not knowing that I would be the reason why your light would start to fade as the days went by.”

Without a second thought you let go of your legs, maneuvering yourself around your bed and wrapped your arms around him tightly. Finally breaking the barrier that silently lingered between the two of you.

You buried your face into his neck letting your tears run freely for the second time that night. Though this time instead of feeling the loneliness you had felt earlier, you felt a sense of relief wash over you.

Minghao  felt himself hesitate for a moment feeling overwhelmed as he felt your touch for the first time, not knowing he missed it. A thought he couldn’t explain because how was he missing something he had never had the pleasure of feeling. But he pushed it aside and hugged you back, letting the tears he had kept in for far too long out in the open. He wasn’t happy but he felt like he could be happy if this was what it felt like to finally have you in his arms. He held you tightly, gripping onto you and burying his nose in your hair taking in your scent, one he decided right then and there he would never grow tired of. The two of you basking in each other’s arms, your hearts racing against one another and it overwhelmed the two of you greatly.

“I know we have a lot of things to get through but I’m willing to start over if you are.” You whispered, removing your arms from his body and sitting back on your knees. You wiped your tears with the back of your hand, letting out a small laugh and shook your head in disbelief before holding your hand out for him to shake.

Minghao  smiled widely, chuckling before taking your hand in his. The feeling was enough to send shivers up his spine. The good kind.

For the first time that night he had a realization. A secret that he would carry out to his grave, unless you prodded it out of him and with how things were going, he was sure that you would succeed at it too. But for now, he would keep it to himself and enjoy the way your touch felt against his skin and the way your smile was enough to have his heart beating out of time.

“I’m Minghao, your husband.”

[ill-rip-myself-apart]

FREAK - FRANK MORRISON X READER

*female reader

*Race Neutral

*TW ; small descriptions of gore, yandereish frank, blood, mentions of murder, mentions of anxiety and severe fear. Minors DNI

The days were winding down quickly, almost taunting you of what's to come. The cold month of February usually brought on the most snow in your little town. The population nothing more than 6000 people, although as the years went on it seemed like the number grew small and smaller. Part of you wondered if your whole town would cease to exist at one point. As if some entity would bring it down.

You pulled yourself out of your thoughts, moving away from the mirror in the bathroom you shared with your uncle. It's design was rather drab and plain, just how Charlie liked it although it'd be weird if it was any other color at this point. You have grown custom to the old scenery within your home. It was comforting.

You grabbed your dirty clothes off the floor, chucking them into wicker basket by the sink, making your way towards the door you were greeted with your uncles face. His bushy brows were raised.

"You'd just take a shower?"

"Yeah I did, don't worry I turned on the fan."

"Good, I don't need the room to be all steamy while I'm taking a shit."

You backed out of the bathroom with a snort, your uncle was always frank. No filter on that mouth of his but it was part of the charm. With a sigh you started heading towards the kitchen. It was just 10 minutes past 9 and the clouds were already in the sky, blocking any and all sunlight that dared shined today. It was never any match for the heavy clouds of rain or it's friends that consist of snow and fog. Chilly temperatures that seeped through your skin and past your bones, hitting you where it hurt most.

You washed your hands at the sink, looking out the window where it showed nothing the endless trees and hills of snow. These trees stretched out for miles, escalating till they reached the top of Ormond. The largest mountain in Canada. Surrounded by a backwater town no one ever heard of.

Every branch was weighed down by the white sparkling powder, it looked beautiful but beyond the shadows something sinister lurked. Creeping by in the dawn of wake, at least that's what the rumor was.

"Tomorrows the 14th, you think your admirer is gonna come again?"

Charlie's tone was nothing short of being playful but to you? The question felt like a itch that couldn't be scratched.

You dreaded thinking about this, cause you asked yourself the same question. Would they come again? Whoever they were and why?

About two years ago, on your birthday you woke up to a rather unsettling sight. It was a cold December morning (just for the sake of the story, pretend your birthday is in December) you looked outside your window from the second story of your house and what you saw was shocking. In the snow was a red heart. Maybe you think it's for someone else but it couldn't be when your name was right underneath it.

Only two questions ran through your head, one, how did this person know your name? And two, what was the red liquid? Was it paint? Food dye? Blood?

You feared the answer to either question but not as much when it happened again on Valentines Day, after that it happened again on your next birthday, same with valentines day. Just your recent birthday is when it seemed to stop, but you couldn't be so sure. It bugged you to no end that this person knew your name, your birthday and where you lived. Everyday felt like a checklist, lock the doors, scout the front yard, look behind your back... This anxiety of being watched was eating you alive and felt like everyone was mocking you. Your uncle somewhat seriously but mainly thought it was just teenage doings. Your friends saw it as a romantic gesture, instead of a threat or personal attack, and the police? They thought you were insane. It was frustrating, no one took you seriously and you starting to doubt everything yourself at this point. Trauma does that to you.

"y/n? You okay kid? You're kinda out of it."

Your eyes darted to your uncles, he stood in the doorway that separated the kitchen and the living room. It felt cold and dark, you started tugging on your shirt sleeves. The black fabric brought a certain comfort to your hands. Nodding, you turned to look at him.

"Yeah, no I'm okay. Still waking up a little."

Your voice waivers, he can tell your on edge. You and Charlie had a close bond, so he picked up on your moods rather quickly. His forehead creased, a sympathetic look crossed his features.

"Your still thinking about it, huh?"

You nodded, arms folding over your chest. That feeling of being watched crept back up, you felt exposed.

"Well, maybe it's a kid from your school? I wouldn't assume the worst y/n. That's a bad way of thinking."

He could be right, it'd make the most sense. Maybe you were negative, maybe it was the anxiety you had since you were little, maybe it was the excitement, nothing ever really happens here in Ormond. Deep down this could be just you wanting something more in life. You tried to calming yourself down, a deep sigh rustling out of you.

"Yeah, maybe you're right. I don't know, it just feels weird."

You decided maybe some food will settle your stomach, you went to the cabinet and pulled out some bagels. Ready to start your Saturday the best you could.



The clock had just striked 8 o'clock, by now it was dark out and your uncle wouldn't be home for an another hour so you were left to your own devices. The snow was falling rapidly on the ground, an inch already covering your yard. It looked feathery and light. The cold air perfectly whispy as the wind roared on, leaving the pine trees to shake in their wake. They looked like a puppet show, each tree black as silhouettes, covered by the dark night. It was a new moon tonight, something you could of enjoyed if your fear hadn't been eating you alive.

You really did try to take your mind off of  things but it wasn't easy. Your mind wasn't one to rest, you overthink a lot and this was something that couldn't possibly pass by you or your mind.

Currently you were curled up on the couch, huddled into a ball with a warm blanket, the t.v. was playing in the background but it felt like it was static to you. All you could do was sit and stare, checking windows and the front door every other hour. The darker the night got, the more your anxiety burned. Your stomach felt like a hollow hole, your chest was heavy. Each beat of your heart felt like the seconds ticking by, almost as if it was racing against the clock. All you wanted was this night to be over.

Ten minutes passed and that's when things started happening, you looked to the left of you where one of the large windows sat. Next to an old bookcase that was adorned with nicknacks and thick books, all of which you read through. Your E/C eyes darted to the window and nearly fell out of your seat. You could of swore you saw a figure. Tall and broad shoulders, a gray hood, covered with a Navy blue jacket.

You could practically feel the bile climbing up your throat. It burned at your esophagus, fear had rattled your heart, leaving it to drum against your ribcage. The stuttering of your breath could of been mistaken for how cold you were, but it was fear.

Rushing to the window you plastered your hands against the glass, the cold caused your warm hands to tingle yet you felt like you were on fire. Your skin was hot and flushed, you wanted to rip off your hoodie.

Frantic orbs scanned the perimeter, seeing nothing but the long lines of trees and and darkness. We're you dreaming? Did your anxiety get that bad to the point you were seeing things? Your legs felt jittery, weak almost. Like they buckle at any moment.

Footprints, you could see footprints that tracked in the snow. Leading to the backyard. Quick to connect the dots, the back was a view you could see from your bedroom. Not that it was much different, the area was heavily wooded but that wasn't the only standing factor. The backyard was usually the place your so called "admirer" left their messages. They were here, you had caught them in the act!

Well, not really. Granted you were still in the house, sitting on the floor as your skin ignited with heat. You ripped off the heavy garment before tossing it to the side, left in a black T-shirt with a skirt and stockings, the cold wooden floor was definitely soothing but it didn't help ease any of your fear nor lessen the feeling of nausea twisting in your stomach.

They were here, you knew that much. You weren't crazy, or imagining things. The fear was real, which made it all the more worse.

With a quick dash, you found yourself in the kitchen raiding one of the drawers. Pulling out a rather sharp kitchen knife. You spotted yourself in its reflection. Wide, shakey eyes darted in every possible direction, seeing if they caught up with you in the home. Did they know you were here? Or did they think you were asleep? So many different possibilities ran through your head. It felt like a rush, your brain made everything feel woozy. The bile was practically in your mouth, your heart was burning.

Above every option you thought about, the one that seemed to make the most sense was to go outside. A scratch that you've been dying to itch for so long. Finally you could know who this person might be, with baited breath you tucked your knife into your side, buried in your skirt before grabbing some slip ons, facing the dark truth. Once and for all.

The cold air was like a shockwave. Instantly your skin was covered in goosebumps. A chill sinking into your flesh, hitting you where it hurts the most. But you continued on, across the street was your neighbors house. All the lights were off which meant they had been asleep, pale lights from the street lamps flickered on and off. A few moths circled around each pole. The snow had stopped completely and you felt alone. It was desolate on your street and your not sure how to feel about it.

You found yourself following the trail of Muddy footsteps, whoever this person may be, they definitely weren't clean. The tracks in the snow were large, gritty. They must be wearing boots. That definitely didn't help the sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach.

You stopped, there was it was. The red heart in clean white snow. It was splattered almost perfectly. Crimson red deep in icy thickness. The letter "I" Was before the heart and after it was the letter "U". I love you. Underneath it all? There layed your name ever so delicately, as if it was written with care. You swallowed the vomit in your mouth. You felt raw.

There was no mistaking what the color could possibly be. Too thick to be paint and too dark to be food dye. That was blood, the crimson color always ran deep, all of this felt surreal. You had to be dreaming, this wasn't real. You were imagining it all, why would anyone do this? The fear was getting to you, distorting all of your vision. Black dots floated around your vision as your breath slowed. We're you dying? Or are you gonna pass out? You couldn't tell. All you could feel was a blanket of nerves draping over you, collapsing into the snow, your whole body felt light. It was so warm yet so cold, and soft. God was the snow always this soft?

Wait, no you shouldn't fall asleep here. What's that saying? Don't fall asleep in the snow unless you never plan to wake up? But how could anyone resist? You felt ethereal. Like a bunch of morphine had been injected in your system and it was taking it's course.

Before your eyelids were too heavy, all you saw was your vision spinning slowly. The dark sky was perfect in your view, an ocean of stars reflecting with the crystal snow. Every bit of fear had left your body but deep in your psyche you were still scared. The fear was hidden away from the heavy feeling in your body. You were too tired to do anything.

A masked man had came into your view, peering down at you with heavy breathing. The mask had been a simple design, two eyes with a smile. It looked dirty and worn, multiple scratches had craved deep in its plastic interior. A swipe of blood across that mouth. What stood out the most was a tattoo along this persons neck, you feel like you've seen it somewhere. Maybe it was a dream? But before you could figure it out, your eyelids gave out. Only left with hearing the last thing your heard before you slipped into the abyss of darkness was heavy breathing and the sigh of your name.

Authors note ;

So I finally posted something 👉🏻👈🏻🥺, the ending is rather vague so you can imagine how the scenario might of ended, as always if you wish this to be written in either a different gender reader (male, female, non-binary, demis, I mean any and all) or maybe race specific just shoot me a pm! I hope you like it lol, I spent like three days on this and tumblrs formatting is kinda weird compared to wattpad so forgive me if I did this wrong lol.

.

[carbscartoons]

Aoi drabbles

Aoi sat alone in her room, sobbing softly to herself. She had just witnessed the brutal murder of Leon, and he himself had brutally murdered a fellow friend. Tensions were high, and trust was deteriorating fast. Aoi hated it. Everyone was sensing a growing barrier between each other, and Aoi had never felt more alone in her entire life.

Aoi constantly had thoughts running through her head, and without companionship she had no outlet. Her brain felt like it was going to explode. Back home she always made sure she was with someone, because she feared the thoughts that would come if she was by herself. Now she was alone, and her self deprecating thoughts were amplified ten fold by the fact that she was literally in the middle of a murder game. She hated herself most of all for doubting the loyalty of everyone else. She wanted to believe in them, but already two of them had proven themselves capable of betrayal. She hated herself for being no help whatsoever during the trial. She knew she was stupid. She felt utterly useless and powerless. She loved having control over her life, and here she had none.

She tried to form friendships with the others, but all of their interactions felt so hollow. How can you act normally under such crazy circumstances? She was always very painfully aware of the cameras watching her every single move. She wondered if there was anyone out there, watching her. Seeing her in all of her idiot glory.

Aoi did not form permanent friendships. She kept everyone at arms length because she feared what they’d think of her if they got too close. She knew she had a habit of rambling, and being overly excited and loud. She didn’t want to put people through her company longer than they needed to be. Here though, she was locked in. The walls were literally closed in around her and there was no way out. She felt suffocated. She was being pulled between two desires: to hide away from everyone and to seek companionship to somewhat settle the voices in her head. She felt helpless because she knew either way she would hate herself.

Aoi committed herself to trying to befriend everyone, that way she could space out her time spent with individuals.

“Celeste hey!! Do you want to maybe walk around for a bit? I actually saw some cards in the recreational area and I know you like gambling so I thought-“

Celeste put up a hand to silence her. Aoi clamped her mouth shut.

“Not at the moment I am afraid. I am much too preoccupied in my own pursuits. Besides, I’m not so sure you would be a suitable playing partner.”

“Oh.. okay..” Aoi stood in the hallway as Celeste walked away. Of course she didn’t want to hang out with her, Celeste was much to smart to be affiliating with an idiot like herself.

She felt dejected but pushed it down. She was going to find someone else.

As she wandered into the kitchen she spotted Makoto and Chihiro sitting at a table together. They had seemed nice, so maybe they’d be more receptive to company. She walked over.

“Hey guys! Would u mind if sat with you for a bit?”

Makoto beamed up at her. “Not at all Hina! Chihiro was just telling me about a game that she had begun programming before she ended up here.”

Chihiro blushed and looked off to the side, “i-it’s not actually that big of a deal... just something I was doing on the side. It’s kind of stupid.”

Aoi slammed herself down into the seat next to Chihiro, “HEY!! No bad talking yourself like that. Dude you’re literally the ultimate programmer! If the ultimate programmer made a video game, I KNOW I’d play the heck out of it!”

Chihiro blushed harder and stared intently at the table in front of her, but a small smile twitched at the ends of her lips. “Oh... that’s very nice of you to say Hina. Thank you.”

Aoi slapped the girl hard on the back, causing her to slam forward into the table. “No prob— oh! I’m so sorry Chihiro are you okay?!”

Chihiro looked a little pale but nodded her head quickly. Ugh stupid!! She should’ve been more careful with someone as fragile as Chihiro. “Gosh I’m really so sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.”

Chihiro forced out a small laugh. “It’s fine please, do not worry.” Chihiro smiled kindly at her, “I admire how strong you are actually.”

“Oh!” Aoi was taken aback by the sudden compliment, and she actually felt pretty good about herself. “Well thank you! I guess I got some pretty big muscles huh? That’ll happen when you are doing almost nothing but swimming all day. Plus a few hours at the gym and my daily 20 mile runs. I just like the feeling of exercising you know? The slight ache in your muscles, the adrenaline coursing through your body. I always push to my limit, and then I go even further than that! When it hurts you know you’re getting stronger!!! My coach always told me that I worked too hard. He would say “Aoi. You’ve been swimming nonstop for almost 3 hours. If you keep going you’re going to have a stroke.” I laughed at him because that was a really good pun! And when I told him so he said it wasn’t intentional, but I think it was. My coach is just a pretty naturally...”

Aoi suddenly stopped and looked at the two people in front of her. Chihiro was staring at the table again, although the slight smile from earlier was gone. She actually looked like she might be on the verge of tears. Meanwhile Makoto was watching her with a smile, but Aoi could tell it was somewhat strained.

She was upsetting them. She was boring them. She’d interrupted the probably really interesting conversation that they’d been having to just go off on some tangent about herself. Why couldn’t she just be normal?

There was a slight awkward silence before Makoto chipped in. “Huh. That’s really interesting Hina! It sounds like you work really hard.”

It wasn’t interesting. “Yeah, I guess I do haha. But uh, Chihiro! I’d love to hear more about this game that you were talking about! What’s it about? Is it fantasy? Science fiction?”

Chihiro lifted her head and she suddenly looked very tired. “Ah.. it would probably be considered science fiction yeah. But like I said it’s not that big of a deal. Also it’s been a really long day and I think I might be ready for bed. It was great talking to you two though! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Chihiro got up quickly and without looking back walked through the doors. Makoto tried to make conversation about how good the food was here, but all Hina could think about was how tiring she must be to everyone around her.

——————-

This is just a short drabble to kind of get a grasp of my take on Aoi’s personality. I think from this the main takeaway is that most of the things she does is motivated by her low self esteem. She vacillates between throwing herself into social situations and distancing herself from people before she get’s too close for fear of letting them down. Her intense exercise regimen is also an attempt to push out her constant barrage of negative thoughts.

Anyway I want to write a Sakuraoi fic and I’m getting a feel for the characters so yeah :)

[kaibacorpintern]

yuugi and kaiba... platonic... maybe a lil angst like kaiba doesnt know how to have friends and yuugi just accepts him as he is and kaiba can be a kid for once.. for the minific prompt pls? :) thank u.. luv ur blog btw

just thought you should know that when i read this prompt i instantly turned into this and wrote almost 5,000 words. it’s a little angsty and about friendship, but it’s also about loneliness and food and depression, with a few jokes peppered in here and there. DSOD didn’t happen but atem is alive, because i say so. i want kaiba and yuugi to be friends so freakin’ bad.

long story short: i went nuts. thanks for the prompt!!

***

Every day, little by little, Kaiba looked greyer. The lines of his shoulders slouched. The hollows under his eyes deepened, like holes being dug in the dirt, on hands and knees; a slow, miserable burying. To hear him speak was worse. Yuugi heard his voice from thousands of miles away, like he was on a different continent, a different planet, and the light of every thought was crossing the staggering empty silence of space. It terrified Yuugi, to think of Kaiba as fading, that someone who raged with all the thrill and fury of a storm could slow down like this. But he was fading. 

“Hey. Are you alright? You seem down lately,” Yuugi tried, on one of the rare mornings where he caught him alone in the elevator, on his way up to the game design department. With no one else around, he usually felt emboldened to drop the act: not an employee with his boss, maintaining proper deference, but someone who’d known Kaiba for a very long time, and knew him like few others did.

The glass-walled elevator whirred as it rose. Kaiba stood there with his arms crossed, impassive, his back to Domino. The city streets unfurled below them.

“The elevator’s going up, Yuugi,” he said, after a full seven seconds of silence. A weak dismissal, by his standards, made even weaker by a toneless delivery.

“Sure. But - ”

With a polite ding, the elevator opened onto the game design floor. 

“You’re running late,” Kaiba said, nodding him pointedly out the door.

“Bro, I’m fifteen minutes early,” Yuugi said.

“Don’t fucking ‘bro’ me, ” Kaiba snarled, with all the sudden, twitching ferocity of a nervous dog. Yuugi smiled and slowly backed out of the elevator, his palms turned out, long enough to make his point: he'd come in peace. Kaiba frowned at him, bristling, until the elevator doors started to close. The last Yuugi saw of him, before they touched together, were a pair of blue eyes, their fiery energy winking out like a popped spark, falling shut with a sigh.

At his desk, Yuugi toyed with his phone for a good ten minutes, ignoring emails and his coworkers’ good mornings, his thumb hovering over Mokuba’s contact info as he rehearsed in his head. Hey, how’s Stanford? You enjoying your classes so far? Making friends? Of course you are. Great. Well, so, I’m calling because I’m worried about your brother - 

A call like that would put Mokuba on a plane within an hour, honestly. But maybe Mokuba would want to know. Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe if he left his first quarter of college and returned to Japan, just because his brother had a few bad nights or something, Kaiba would punt Yuugi off the top of the building. 

Maybe Atem? The only person Kaiba ever “talked” to about anything, if  pummeling each other with card game holograms could be called a conversation. Which they did.

YUUGI What’s eating Kaiba? Is he alright?

He stared at his phone a while longer until remembering it was the middle of the night in Egypt. He put his phone away, put Kaiba out of mind, and got to work.

***

Atem texted back mid-afternoon.

ATEM I don’t know. Go find out

YUUGI Okay but i’m not you lol he won’t tell me. even with a duel

ATEM GO

ATEM FIND

ATEM OUT

YUUGI OKAY I'LL DO MY BEST

ATEM And tell that stuck-up bastard to answer his fucking phone one of these days

Odd. Kaiba never ignored Atem.

YUUGI I’m on it

He finished work late, packed up his things, and headed downstairs to the lobby, moving quickly to catch his train. He had most of a mind to save the Kaiba question for later, go home, and flop face-down on his bed until he roused himself enough to pick at leftovers. The elevated metro station was awash in a crisp dusk light, the navy purple night descending on the day’s final line of gold. His train was coming in three minutes; the next on the same line in thirty-four. He'd just made it.

If he stood at the far end of the platform, craning his neck, he could see the long strip of windows at the top of the KaibaCorp tower. Dark. Kaiba had gone home early. Yuugi frowned, biting his lip, as his train arrived. 

He let it go, jostled and swaying in the flood of people flowing in and out of the carriages. The next train took him far from home, flying with sleek electric ease through the glittering glassy black monoliths of the city, and into the leafy, overgrown estates beyond the far edge of town.

***

Kaiba's estate was a brisk walk from the last station on the line, along the side of a road without sidewalks, and through a tunnel of trees that laced their branches together over the road. By the time Yuugi got to the gates, his feet aching in his sneakers, night had fallen. The trees were thick with shadow and wind, whispering to each other in fairy tale voices. It was the kind of night that urged people into their homes, with the doors locked, away from the ancient things that lurked in the undergrowth, wild and forgotten and stronger for it. He was relieved to reach the gates, on the edge of the illumination around Kaiba's mansion, held in the center of the light like a toy castle in a snow globe.

The gatehouse was empty. A security camera peered down at him from the top of a wall, nestled in a thick swell of vines. Ignoring its glossy little eye, Yuugi studied the door in the wall beside the gates, pushing more vines aside to find the keypad. If he called ahead, the chances of Kaiba buzzing him in were next to nothing. They were next to nothing on a good day.

YUUGI do you know the key code for the door?

ATEM 445241474F4E#

ATEM that took me literally years to get

ATEM go around the back. he won’t open the front door

YUUGI you're the best <3

He tapped in the code, carefully. What if he got it wrong? Would a trapdoor open up below his feet? With his back to the quiet road, and the dense, rustling woods on the other side, he swallowed his laugh. 

The door opened with a faint click. Yuugi slipped through and began the long walk up the drive to the mansion, sneakers crunching the gravel underfoot. On either side of the drive,  the lawns were pristine, every petal of every flower and every leaf on every hedge perfectly in place, holding the poses nature’s hand had fixed them in with effortless ease. Somewhere across the grass, shrouded in the night, came the distant murmur of a fountain. 

The mansion itself was an ugly, graceless brick of a building, so rigid and square in its design that its position in the center of this wooded estate seemed an oppressive intrusion. Per Atem’s instructions, Yuugi skirted the front, with its twin dragon statues and Roman columns and imposing front door, and went around to the back, padding silently through the grass. Like the top of the tower, the windows were dark. Every glance through the glass, checking for life, made him feel like he was looking into the bottom of a well, deep and cold and watery, a tomb for hopeless wishing. 

At the back of the house was a large patio, with a view of the sprawling grounds, which rolled downwards in a gentle slope, all the way to a line of trees. There, the grounds gave themselves back to the wild. Even on a shivering night like this, it was easy to imagine what the patio was like in the full splendor of high summer, drenched in sunlight and everything shimmering in golden-white heat.

A thin light cast a hazy cloud onto the patio through a pair of sliding glass doors. Yuugi stopped, halfway across the patio, questioning himself for the nth time that night. And if he was overreacting? So what if Kaiba was in a mood? Kaiba was always in a fucking mood. Yuugi had no doubt Kaiba would thunder at him for a while over the arrogance, the audacity of his presumptions or something, and then throw him out by the scruff of the neck. Oh, god. The embarrassment burned in his face already. 

Yuugi firmly shoved his own feelings aside. He was a gamer - a gambler - by nature, and he’d learned enough over the years to bet on his  own instincts. He gamed it out, in his head, shuddering into the warmth of his jacket as the breeze rolled through him:

He checks on Kaiba, and everything is fine: he goes home feeling awkward and Kaiba avoids him at work for the next three weeks. Acceptable outcome.

He does not check on Kaiba, and everything is fine: he goes home, and the whole night gets written off as a weird, secret little adventure. Acceptable outcome.

He checks on Kaiba, and everything is not fine: unacceptable, but now someone knows. Acceptable outcome. 

He does not check on Kaiba, and everything is not fine: Unacceptable outcome.

He stole towards the sliding glass doors. They led into a glossy modern kitchen, as pristine as the grounds, and full of clean, gleaming surfaces. It was completely free of clutter like mail, or keys, or coffee mugs, or any of the other odds and ends that usually piled up over the course of normal days. A bowl of flowers sat on a kitchen table in a breakfast nook, starting to wilt. At the end of the kitchen island was a bowl of fruit. A still-life painting split in two. 

Sitting at the island, perched on a bar stool, was Kaiba, his head resting in his folded arms atop the counter. His face was mostly hidden in the crook of his elbow; through the limp tangle of his bangs, Yuugi saw his eyes were closed. His black leather satchel leaned against the leg of the bar stool. The rise of his back as he breathed was slow and subtle, the only thing that convinced Yuugi Kaiba had not turned to stone in his seat. Asleep?

No. 

A small blue light rose up from Kaiba's phone, lying on the counter. One hand slowly unfolded, silenced the call, and refolded itself. A gesture that made less than a ripple across the still water of this tableau.

Awake.

Lifelessly, doing nothing. Not even staring into space, but retreating into the space behind his eyelids, a space Yuugi knew intimately well: shallow and lukewarm and wordless, a space for letting hours and days drift by, uncounted. It had been a long time since he’d visited - not since he’d solved the Puzzle - but it was a space he never wanted to revisit. It was a space that stayed with you for the rest of your life, once you’d been there, and yet a space more distant than the farthest star in the universe, beyond the boundaries of both light and love. A place of perfect solitude. 

Quietly, carefully, Yuugi tried the handle of the sliding glass door and found it unlocked. He slid it open. 

Kaiba startled, pulling himself upright as though yanked by a puppet string on his neck. He turned to Yuugi, still and alert, not quite comprehending. As he understood who stood there, the pieces clicking into place, his eyes hardened in his pallid face, speechless, furious. 

“Before you say anything,” Yuugi said, as Kaiba opened his mouth, “I have a story. Let me tell you, and then you can kick me out.”

“This is my fucking house. I can kick you out whenever I damn well please,” Kaiba snapped.

“It’s more of a puzzle, actually. I don’t think you’ve ever solved this one,” Yuugi said. 

Kaiba looked at him sideways, now more confused and suspicious than alarmed.

“And if I solve it?” he said, because ah, yes, of course, stakes. Nothing ever for the joy of it.

“Bragging rights.”

“If I don’t?”

“Nothing happens,” Yuugi said. 

They stared at each other. Yuugi ventured a smile. Did he dare walk in? He was still standing on the threshold. 

“Fine,” Kaiba said, a word more like a sigh. “Come in and tell me your stupid puzzle.”

***

Every house has its own particular smell, its character, its self-contained story about those who call it home. Yuugi took off his shoes, setting them beside the glass door, and frowned. Kaiba's smelled like clean linens, a touch of dust, cool air. A muted smell with no character. He didn't know what he expected. Something else, something thick and wet and heady, like oncoming thunder, or concrete after rain.

On this side of the glass doors, the kitchen was even more exquisite, temptingly so. He knew, from his lusty late-night Internet searches, that the knives in the wooden block alone cost more than several thousand dollars. Untouched! He refused to let them go to waste. Such things were more beautiful when they were held and used and loved, doing what they were made for. And despite the marbled silence, the thin white lighting, this was a house, not a museum. Yuugi dropped his backpack on the floor next to an empty bar stool and turned to Kaiba, who was sitting upright, hands atop his thighs, watching him.

“Uh - do you have anything to eat? I haven’t eaten since lunch,” he said, slinging his jacket over his backpack.

“No. Every night I just plug in and recharge,” Kaiba said dryly. “I believe that’s called a fridge. Those have human food.”

Yuugi bit his tongue, hiding his smile as he went around to the other side of the island. At least Kaiba was still capable of snark. He opened the massive fridge - sparse offerings, sparsely touched - and rooted around, not quite sure what he was looking for between the limp carrots and slabs of smoked salmon. Only the cheese drawer yielded interesting spoils, unspoiled and exotically European.

“The pantry?” he said, nodding at the door next to the fridge. 

“Presumably.”

Yuugi found a loaf of sourdough bread on a shelf in the walk-in pantry - a fucking walk-in pantry! - and returned to the counter with his haul: the bread, the butter, a wedge of Gruyere, and a brick of Emmental. “I’m making a grilled cheese. You want one?”

“If it makes you happy,” Kaiba muttered.

“It does, yeah,” Yuugi said, unsheathing one of those glorious, mirror-polished knives from the wooden block. He rolled up his sleeves and attacked the cheeses with relish. “So - the puzzle goes like this. You’re fifteen years old. You’re small for your age, underweight, painfully shy. You get shoved around a lot at school. Before school, after school. Whenever, honestly. No one really sticks up for you, although you try to stick up for them, when you can, and no one really talks to you, because you live in your own little world. Your head’s always in the clouds, and you get really excited over a lot of things no one else really cares about.”

As he spoke, he unearthed a frying pan and set it on the gas stove, slicing off several pats of butter. As they melted, soft and yellow-white, he carved several slices off the loaf, shuddering with secretive pleasure at the fresh crunch of the crust. 

“Next time, just bring me your high school diary,” Kaiba said. 

Yuugi snorted, buttering the slices and laying them carefully into the pan, where they began to sizzle. He draped the slices of cheese on top. “So you can read everything I wrote about you? No thanks. Anyway. You have one friend, but she’s not always around - her family travels a lot for work. So here you are, a bullied, lonely little oddball, and one day someone gives you a gift. A puzzle.”

“A puzzle in a puzzle.” 

“Right,” Yuugi said, pressing down on the slices of bread with a spatula. The butter crackled and spat; a thick, warm smell wafted through the kitchen. “And if you make a wish on the puzzle, it grants your wish when you solve it. So you make your wish, and you solve your puzzle. You know the rest.”

He turned back to Kaiba. “Now I’m here in your kitchen, making you a grilled cheese. So. What did I wish for?”

To his credit, Kaiba was taking it seriously, offering no snide comments about magic or wishing, leaning forward with his arms folded again on the counter. Yuugi let him study him, eyes narrowed and thoughtful, knowing he was running back through all eight years of their shared history, doing the math. 

“Well, no one shoves you around any more,” Kaiba said. “Not even me, judging by the fact that I can’t even get you to leave my house. I should’ve known better than to try.”

“Ooh, a compliment. Thanks, I’ll treasure it forever,” Yuugi said, grinning, flipping the sandwiches. Melted cheese oozed from the sides. The bottom slices had toasted to a golden brown. His mouth watered. “Plates?”

“Up and to your left.”  

Yuugi opened the cabinets and, standing on tiptoe, eased out two matte black stoneware plates. Fancy.

“You wished for strength,” Kaiba said. 

Yuugi slid the grilled cheeses onto the plates and severed them in half with the spatula. 

“Nope,” he said, leaning across the island counter to set the steaming grilled cheese in front of Kaiba. The semantic point that his friends and his strength were one and the same seemed irrelevant. He was speaking to Kaiba. He needed to speak in Kaiba’s language. “Strength wouldn’t have solved anything for me.”

“You just said you were getting shoved around  - ”

“I wished for friends, Kaiba,” Yuugi said. “Yeah, I was tired of getting shoved around. But I was even more tired of being alone.”

“I - “ Kaiba cut himself off, pressing a sigh through his nose with a tight, pinched expression. Within seconds his face soured. “You make a wish on your magical little trinket, and you get just what you always wanted. How fucking fantastic for you - ”

“Don’t do the aggressive-aggressive thing, it’s not cute,” Yuugi said. “And don’t test me, either. You and I are way past that. Just look me in the face and tell me, honestly, you want me to leave.”

Kaiba turned that ferocious blue gaze on him, silent.

Yuugi waited, holding his gaze. 

Thin, languid tendrils of steam rose from their melting grilled cheeses and folded away.

“Don’t tell me you think of me as one of your magic wish friends?” Kaiba said.

“There’s nothing magical about our friendship, no,” Yuugi said, and to his delight Kaiba snorted with amusement. “Now eat, before it gets cold.”

***

They ate, the evening quiet of the kitchen magnifying every fried, crunchy bite. Yuugi had hoisted himself onto the bar stool next to Kaiba, congratulating himself on a well-made grilled cheese. He would’ve made it work even without the expensive knives.

"Don't tell Mokuba," Kaiba said, dabbing at crumbs on his plate with a greasy scrap of bread, "or Atem."

"Don't tell them what?" Yuugi said.

"How you found me. On hour six of staring at a wall.”

"I won't," Yuugi said.

"They don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself," Kaiba insisted. 

"You can, but are you?" Yuugi said. 

"Mmh," Kaiba murmured, resting his elbows on the counter and his chin atop his laced hands. “Don’t tell them that, either.”

His eyes rolled sideways, his gaze drifting around the kitchen, through the arched doorway, through the rest of the house, where all the lights were off. Yuugi slid off his stool and selected two pears from the fruit bowl, heavy with ripeness, rinsing them in the sink.

“Did... something happen? Did you get in a fight?” he ventured. “Atem says you’re not answering his calls.”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

The kitchen swelled with silence.

"They left," Kaiba said finally, as Yuugi considered how to cut the pears. A basic wedge cut was too childish. "And I told them to go, enjoy it, make the most of it. They have their own lives to live. Mokuba must've asked me a thousand times if I'd be fine without him if he went to California, and I said yes, go, because I don't need him around. I'm fine. And there's no point in getting angry with someone for leaving if you don't need them in the first place."

The effort must've been massive, Yuugi realized, slicing into the pears, to keep the anger at bay. To dig into the wound and wrench the thing out whole, raw and throbbing, without duels or rubbled islands, and without the help of the people who loved him the most. No wonder he looked so exhausted, so limp; no wonder he was again sinking towards the counter, arms folding, his head dropping like there was a hand on the back of his neck, guiding him down with animal docility. 

“How long have you been feeling like this?” Yuugi said.

“What the hell do you know about it?” Kaiba said, semi-muffled by his elbow. 

“It feels like there’s this dark little pit in yourself that you can’t stop digging,” Yuugi said, “and when it’s deep enough, you’re gonna curl up and bury yourself at the bottom and sleep for a year. Right?”

Kaiba said nothing, heaving another sigh.

“Sit up. Eat this.” Yuugi thunked a plate of pear in front of Kaiba, each slice wafer-thin, almost translucent, dripping with light. Kaiba dutifully pulled himself up and removed several slices of pear, with jenga-like precision, careful not to damage Yuugi’s artful pinwheeling. “Well?”

“I always feel like this,” Kaiba said, a startling confession, all the more terrifying for the blithe, dismissive tone with which he confessed it. “So what if it’s a little worse than normal? I’ll find my way out of it.” 

Yuugi leaned over the counter, hands clasped atop it, business-like. 

“I have no doubt in your ability to get out of this,” he said. “But I don’t think you should do it alone. See, I don’t want you to leave, either.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah?” Yuugi said. “I challenge you to a duel. My deck’s in my backpack. I have some new strategies I’m dying to test, and you’re the only one who makes me really fight for it. How about it? Wanna duel?”

Kaiba exhaled, resting his elbow on the counter, his cheek against the back of his hand. He plucked out another pear slice, not eating it; instead just letting it dangle from his fingertips, watching a tiny pearl of water roll off the edge and break apart on the plate with monumental indifference. 

Watching him, Yuugi allowed himself a brief, private moment of grief, for Kaiba, knowing he wouldn’t want it, and he’d be insulted if he knew. To have your heart broken by what you love was one thing; to swing from love to hate was another; but to stand still and feel your love go, leaving nothing in the hollow it left behind, was the worst.

With a light flick, Kaiba released the slice of pear, his gaze drifting again. 

“No. I’m tired of fighting,” he said sullenly, so dull a sound that Yuugi sucked in a breath, two dueling thoughts colliding with concussive impact in his chest. Good, stop fighting, why don’t you finally get some rest, and the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and shout no! keep fighting! I know you’re in there! 

Kaiba lifted his head, looking at Yuugi with an air of steeling himself. “Okay. What... what do you want from me?”

Yuugi almost laughed, but caught himself. No good things came from laughing in Kaiba’s face. 

“Other way around,” he said, drawing a circle in the air with his finger. “This is about what you want from me. Whatever you need. Whatever you want.”

Kaiba frowned, thinking.

“Do you seriously believe the magic of the Millennium Puzzle helped you make friends?” he said.

"Um. Well, it was more like a domino effect, you know? A chaos theory, butterfly hurricane kind of thing - “

“Magic had nothing to do with it. It was all you,” Kaiba said, with more heat and passion than he’d shown in weeks. “But you have to understand I’ll never be your ‘bro’ - ” couching the word in air quotes, a disdainful pair of twin finger twitches - “and I’m not one of your little pals, like Jounouchi, or whatever. That’s not who I am. That’s not how I do it.” 

“I know,” Yuugi said. “Listen - ”

“I don’t - ” Kaiba huffed and scowled at the counter, at his blurred, misty reflection. “I prefer to handle things on my own. I always have. I don’t - know how - ”

“Kaiba.” 

Kaiba looked up, shoulders stiffening, his face tight and stricken. 

“I know,” Yuugi said. He let that hang between them until Kaiba’s shoulders had eased out of their anxious coils. “Don’t worry. I’m not adding you to the group chat or anything. I don’t expect anything from you except the occasional bitchy comment, and maybe a good, boisterous laugh, from way deep down in your chest, like when you draw Blue-eyes in a duel. You know, the ‘I got you now, fucker’ laugh.”

Kaiba laughed - a laugh at half-power, lacking his usual trumpet blare of triumph, but a laugh nonetheless. “You are an oddball.”

“Birds of a feather,” Yuugi said smugly, and checked his phone. It was getting late. “Okay. I think I’ve bothered you enough for the night - ”

“You’re not bothering me. Are you taking the train back into the city?”

“Yeah.” 

“What line?”

“Red line,” Yuugi said, and was struck by an idea. "Why? Somewhere you wanna go?"

"I'm in the mood to get out of the house for a while," Kaiba said. "It's too fucking quiet in here without Mokuba."

Yuugi fixed him with a look. "Yeah, so one of the interns was telling me about a new arcade that just opened off the Ishibashi station. I was gonna go after work with the guys to check it out some time, but..."

He didn't even need to finish the thought. Despite his best effort to hide it, something hopeful had bloomed across Kaiba's face, rich and warm. It made Yuugi ache to see that look, and to wonder what he would've wished for at fifteen, freshly cast from the forge and still hard and brittle and white-hot with rage, burning everyone who touched him.

"Get your coat, let's go," Yuugi said, and Kaiba almost sprang off his bar stool. "Wait - finish the pear. I cut it fancy for you and everything."

Kaiba rapidly ate the pear. "The grilled cheese was excellent, by the way."

"Really?"

"Yes. If you come back and make me another, I'll make all the bitchy comments you want."

Yuugi laughed. "Deal."

***

ATEM did you talk to him? 

Yuugi leaned against the polished wooden edge of the pool table, his thoughts whirling in his head lazy and kaleidoscopic. He was halfway through his third beer. They'd gone through air hockey. The racing games. The shooting games. Foosball. Kaiba had spent fifteen minutes at the claw machine, winning a plush Kuriboh for a middle schooler and pressing it into her hands with a firm explanation of how the machines were rigged against her. 

Then they'd found the pool tables, in a dim little corner, the green felts shining like tropical islands in a shadowy red-brown sea under the hanging lights. Yuugi was still smarting from the whipping, which Kaiba had delivered with almost careless ease, drink in hand. 

"Yuugi. Look," he said, leaning over the table, aiming the pool cue at some bizarre constellation of pool balls, his long shadow falling across the felt. 

"Give me a sec," Yuugi said, and swiftly rescued Kaiba's sweating old-fashioned from the edge of the table.

YUUGI ya. now he's showing off

YUUGI trick shots at the pool table

ATEM so he's fine?

"You're not looking," Kaiba said, lifting his head. "Look."

"I'm looking," Yuugi said.

The cue moved smoothly between Kaiba's fingertips as he aligned his shot - sleek, frictionless, silent - with a quick, sharp thrust he sent the pool balls smashing into each other, cracking like lightning across the table and vanishing into the pockets. The last ball rolled towards the last pocket with slow, melodramatic flair, teetering over the lip, like it knew exactly who had struck it, and what kind of show it needed to put on. 

It dropped in, clattering into its fellows at the bottom of the pocket.

Kaiba laughed, triumphant, glowing with youthful glory, catching the victory by his hip with a yank of his fist.

YUUGI he will be

"Did you see?" Kaiba said, turning to Yuugi. The lines under his eyes were still there; the seams that held him together, pulling apart. Those would take some time to repair.

But for the moment he was radiating with energy, beaming, star-like in the dim electric gloom of the arcade. Not hidden in the blackness of space, but brighter for it. Despite it.

"I saw," Yuugi said.

[lo-55]

Shattered Chains of Fate Ch. 1

Through a misunderstanding and a poorly read application, Ichigo Kurosaki gets a chance internship at the Chaldeas Security Organization. It changes everything.

 It felt good to stand in the sunlight.

 Ichigo had spent so long in Chaldea it felt good to have the sun on his skin, warming him from the outside in.

 He had gotten so used to having the solid presence of his Shielder at his side that standing alone on the platform from the train felt more like standing naked in the streets of his hometown. Not a pleasant feeling. His family wouldn’t be there to see him, and they weren’t. He wasn’t supposed to be home for a few more days at least. How could it be that everything that happened to him, all of the fighting and all of the bloodshed and all of the war would have happened in the span of just a few days? How could his years have been spent and yet nothing but him had changed?

 It was enough to make his head spin.  

 He needed to get home.He didn’t think he could ever really finish explaining everything that had happened to him, but he would tell his family the truth. There had been an accident at the facility, and he was home early.

 Even though it had never been an accident.

 *

 There was smoke. Smoke and the scent of blood and spilling gas lines and raw metal twisted beyond recognition.

 He barely heard Dr. Roman yelling at his back, telling him to come back. Ichigo had never shied from danger and he wasn’t going to start now. He dove into the smoke, choking him and clinging to his clothes. Pods of people were disarrayed around him, their bodies still and blood leaking out like creusom caskets. He couldn’t get their doors open, no matter that he tried, but there was one person who was not there. One person who wasn’t him, blocked from the first mission for his bad attitude towards the Director. Nevermind that the director was just a kid herself.

     “Bulkhead closing in 180 seconds. All Devision 2 personal, evacuate immidiately-”  

 Ichigo didn’t understand what that meant. He didn’t know what most of what had happened today meant, just that his little summer internship wasn’t even remotely what was on the flyer. But he didn’t pause as he scrambled over and massive chunk of rock, stuck through with wires that cut his hands like an oversized porcupine.

 A flash of white out of the corner of his eyes gives her away.

 There, lying under the debris, her small body crushed an broken and leaking blood, was Mash.

 It was Mash but all he could see was Yuzu, her wide eyes huge and terrified and filled with tears. Not a girl he’d met an hour before, after passing out on the floor. Not the best meeting.

 The ground was slick with blood and water, turning Ichigo’s white shirt a pale pink where it splashed on it when he dropped to his knees next to her. She was trapped, and the rock was too big for him to even be able to budge it.

 That didn’t stop Ichigo from trying.

 The overhead voice was still talking, and Mash was muttering at him, her voice too weak to make much sound. She was dying. Dying, her tiny body crushed until she coughed and more than just blood came out.

 Ichigo howled with rage and denial and shoved harder, harder. It was hot and smouldering and his hands blistered and blackened with burns. The light above them changed from blue to red and it burned into his retina until he couldn’t see anything else. Just red. Red blood, red light, and his body gave out. Too much smoke, he couldn't breath, he couldn’t see. He was helpless. He couldn’t do a single thing and its burned more than fire.

 Mash’s small hand found his. Her grip was weak, but she was alive. She was still alive and he couldn't just let her die-

 He grabbed her hand with both of his. Holding tight.

 The overhead was still talking, her voice robotically calm and detached. Small paws from the ferret, or whatever it was that had brought him to Mash landed on top of their joined hands.

 “Sen-pai,” her voice was a whisper, and wet with blood. The smell was making him sick. “Please… r-run.”

 “No way,” he denied firmly, gripping her hands tighter. “Not without you.”

 “Senpai…”

 Someone else is yelling at him. A ripple in the air. White hair and panicked eyes. The director, the one Ichigo had pissed off. He reaches for her without thinking, and his hand grasps hers.

 And then he didn’t see red. He saw blue, light that poured across his skin and came from beneath it, rushing like water across the burning room. A circle in the sky, a hollow moon of blue and Mash’s hand in his.

 * *

 He knocks on the door, feeling more stranger than family. His key is long gone, he’d dropped it somewhere in Rome, he thinks, but its hard to keep track of trivial things like that when emperors are trying to gut you like a fish.

 It’s Yuzu that answers and he can’t help it.

 The second she’d within his sights he drags her into the fiercest hug he can manage. He’s gotten taller, he realizes. It’s not a surprise. He spent three years in less than a week, and even if he hadn’t…

 “Ichigo?” Yuzu doesn’t fight him, and he’s grateful for it. She must be confused, because as much as Ichigo loves his sisters he’s not the most physically affectionate person in the world.

 “Hey,” Ichigo doesn’t let go for a long time. “Sorry I was gone so long.”

 “Huh? But you’re home early…”

 Ichigo doesn’t say anything. He’s loath to let her go, but eventually he has to. Karin is at soccer practice, of course she is.

 Ichigo feels his dad coming at him from a mile away, trying to sneak up on him from the clinic next door. He’d seen Isshin through the window, a glance in the corner of his eye and the flying kick thrown at him isn’t stopped with violence for the first time in ten (thirteen) years.

 Ichigo catching him around his middle, holding him off the ground, and Isshin has little choice but to hand there, his arms around Ichigo’s head.

 “Son?” there’s a question or two or a thousand, but Ichigo doesn’t know how to answer all of them. He doesn’t put Isshin down until they’re in the living room and even then he sits right next to him. Knee to knee. Yuzu brings in a can of tea for him.

 “There was an accident,” he tells them. “Chaldea, there was an explosion. So everyones been sent home.” Everyone who survived. Everyone who made it through the initial explosion and wars that followed.

 “Huh? I thought it was supposed to be a security organization, and there was an explosion?” Isshin scowled.

 It was sabotage. It was death. It was the world turning red and the future being stripped away from human hands.

 “It’s fine,” he says, even though it wasn’t even remotely. There were a million things wrong with what has happened. “I’m not hurt.” Which is true enough. He can see his dad sizing him up, trying to read between the lines. He had to look older. He’s taller, his cheeks are sharper and he’s lost baby fat. He’s always been fit, but now he's stronger, built for endurance and running for weeks on end. Tempered by wars and helplessness and a desperate bid to save the world.

 “I’m fine,” he said again, and Isshin let it go. Ichigo didn’t exactly know how to feel about that.

 He spends the rest of the day flitting from family member to family member. School starts again in four days and he heavily considers skipping it to hang around his      dad    of all people.

 He can’t help thinking about Mash. She didn’t have anything like this.

 * * *

 They move from one fire to another.

 Ichigo knows if he stays among all this smoke he’s going to end up with permanent damage. Because you know. Fuck him. He has no idea what happening, just that he thinks he’s teleported and apparently magic is as real as ghosts are. And he’s not dead, Fou sits on his shoulder.

 He doesn’t know where Mash went but he doesn’t have time to worry about it. Some kind of skeleton gang, at least five of them are approaching. Skeletons, living, breath - well, moving in any case, skeletons. Half of them have swords. One has a spear.

 Ichigo thinks he’s broken his hand when he throws the first punch, but the skeleton crumble into a strange yellow powder that tastes like what Ichigo assumes a graveyard would. Death an d decay and strangely damp.

 He can’t stop with one but by the time he’s kicked the absolute shit out of the last of them the sky lights up with another shade of red. Like a handful stars falling from the sky, and he realizes belatedly that there’s no way for him to block whatever the fuck is flying at him.

 So he tries to run, but there’s a flash of purple and pink and Mash is in front of him. Only she’s taller now, older, and she’s holding a shield bigger than her body is. She’s not alone. White hair, snake-yellow eyes. Olga Marie, the director that had been pissed at a ‘commoner’ like Ichigo was with her too. Only, she wasn’t really there.

 It had been years since Ichigo hadn’t been able to tell the dead from the living, but this time it takes him a few minutes to realize that Mash is very much alive, if not apparently a magical girl, and Olga Marie is anything but alive.

 They don’t have time to worry about it, because they’re under seige and Ichigo is apparently a      wizard    .

 He should seriously be more surprised.

 But he’s not. It explains a few things. Like how he can see ghosts on the regular, and why his punching skeletons actually works.

 They pick up another stray on their way, a wizard named Cu Chulainn. He and Mash swear themselves to Ichigo as his ‘servents’, familiars who he supplies with energy and they fight on his behalf. It almost reminds him of Chad, except here he’s entirely outclassed.

 The helplessness tastes bitter and vile.

 A third servent appears, a woman this time who likes to turn people to stone.

 “You’ll all join my garden,” she tells them, hanging off a petrified man. Ichigo can vaguely remember reading something about a person like this. The eyes, he thinks. It’s her eyes.

 He meets them squarely and bonks her harmlessly on the head. He’d have more luck punching the statues than her.

 “Hey,” his voice is gruff. “Stop being a lunatic. We’re all getting out of here. So either come with us or let us go.”

 “You- what?” Everyone is staring at him. Bewildered, but Ichigo had never done what he was supposed to. He does what he wants, and even though she’s threatened them somehow he can feel her. Like the rush of scales across his skin, cool and potentially threatening but if she really wanted to kill them-

 Well, they’d just been hanging out by the river. If nothing else should have taken his head off with her curved spear.

 “Am I gonna have to repeat myself? Damn, I said we’ve got bigger things to do than fight you, lady. So just come with us, or let us go!”

 “Master!” Mash takes a startled step towards him. “Please step away from her! She could kill you!”

 “Why would she do that?” Ichigo demanded, turning towards them, “We haven’t even done anything!” It’s not like he’s against fighting. He fights all the time. But they need to get out of here. He needs to get back to his family, to his own damn      time    .

 Besides that, he can see her power. He isn’t sure how, but he can see her strength and that of the two other Servants. Not see, maybe, but he can feel it. Like he can feel ghosts even with his eyes closed. Either way, she’s not strong enough to beat both of the others at once, even if Mash is a novice.

 “This is a war…”

 “Look,” he spun to face her, staring fearlessly into her eyes. “Just say yes or no already!”

 She blinks. Once, twice, thrice.

 “Yes?”

 So with three servants in toe, he sets out to fight the ones who holds the holy grail. All of this destruction, a city of fire devoid of the living and ghosts both... Only servants and masters remained, all because of a cup.

 All for the sake of a wish.

 Was it really worth it?  

 * * * *

 Ichigo’s bed is equal points familiar and foreign.

 He ends up going to sleep on the floor, the bed too soft and too warm and he feels like he’s going to suffocate.

 All he can think of are late nights spent in Chaldea with Mash, with Roman, and Di Vinci, and countless others. He misses the solid presence of Mash and her near encyclopedic knowledge of history. Everywhere , everywhen they went. He misses the sharp bite of Mordreds tongue betrayed by her sea-dark eyes. He missed the quiet, hulking form of Asterios, always well within reach. He missed the sharp bite of his guard dogs tongue and the quiet prayers of the saints at sunset. Even Kiyohime, her claws digging into his arm, afraid she’ll be abandoned again-

 He’s up before dawn.

 Ichigo puts together enough breakfast for twenty people. Rolled omelette and rice and foreign things. Shakshuka and fried green tomatoes.

 His family stares when they come down for breakfast.

 Ichigo stands, in his dads ‘kiss the cook’ apron, with a bowl of matcha stirring swiftly in his hands.

 “Are you sure you’re okay?” Karin asks, looking him up and down, trying to find something. Isshin’s stare is particularly disconcerting. Like a scientist trying to understand something new, he’s never seen his father look that way, especially not at his own son.

 Ichigo has to turn away from their staring.

 “The time is different there,” is the understatement of the century. “I wanted to make breakfast.”

 “There’s enough here for an army!” Yuzu cries, gesturing to the spread out in front of them.

 Or enough for two Berserkers.

 “We can have leftovers for lunch?” is about the only explanation he has. How does he explain that he used to cooking with EMIYA enough for an actual army?

 “Yeah… I guess so,” Karin is still staring.

 Isshin pitches himself at the portrait of their mother, sobbing grossly.

 “Masaki! Our son is growing up so fast!”  

 * * * * *

 Lev Lainur has an ugly smile. Everything about him is slimy and distrustful and Ichigo has seen enough ghosts to know, just by looking at him, that he is      not    human.

 So when Olga Marie tries to go running to him, Ichigo wraps a firm arm around her middle and holds her back.

 “Let go!” she shrieked, clawing towards the slimy man, “It’s Lev! Lev will fix everything he’ll-”

 “He’ll kill you.”

 Olga Marie freezes in his arms, looking towards Medusa. Rider. Her eyes are narrowed and her hair writhes with snakes, hissing a spitting venom.

 “Kill her?” Lev laughs, a sound like metal grating and children screaming. There’s nothing pleasant about it. “I already have! I planted that bomb directly under her feet, I have no idea how she’s even here!”

 Ichigo knows.

 It’s because of him. Because of his interference in the explosion. The other hand he’d grabbed, it must have been Marie’s. And they’re all here together.

 “W-wait, no. I’m not dead! I can’t be!” But the fight goes out of her. She lets Ichigo hold her, and when Lev beacons gravity shifts and the world tries to pull Olga Marie from his arms. He tightens his hold and barks at Medusa. Chain snake out, lashing them together and to the ground and holding them there, even as Lev pulls until it feels like his skin will come off. Ichigo can feel it again, the drain on his energy. Mana, magic energy, pulled when the servants fought. He has no idea how much he has but it must be just enough for Lev to scoff.

 He shows them the red earth again. The world, the future. Humanity, all gone. Destroyed in an instant, and they the only survivors. All of the past, all of the future.

 There is nothing left of it, save him, Mash, and the ghost in his arms.

 Something inside him writhes and snarls, thirsting for vengeance and at the same time is keens a wailing cry of anguish.

 It’s his mother all over again. Laying on the riverbank, bleeding out and Ichigo helpless in her arms.

 It’s Mash in the command room, crushed under burning stone and Ichigo only able to hold her hand.

 No, no, no, no!

 He won’t allow it. He will not let himself be so      useless    .

 There’s a flare of energy and Medusa gasps. Mash and Cu straighten up like dogs that heard a whistle and their fight turn on a dime. The archer falls, and his king a second later until all five of them stand before Lev. United.

 * * * * * *

 School starts.

 The world turns on.

 Everything is the same, and nothing is at all.

 * * * * * * * *

[rosemaidenvixen]

A Secret’s Worth

Chapter 11: Toby

Ao3

It felt like if he pushed himself any harder his heart was literally going to explode. Squashing down the pain, Toby forced himself to peddle even faster. By the time he pulled into the cul de sac going what felt like fifty miles an hour his lungs were on fire and an impressively painful stitch had formed in his side “Jim--” he gasped, unable to take in the air he needed to carry his voice “Wait!”

Jim’s gaze flickered over his shoulder, proof that he had heard and understood him, before he  quickly pressed the button to open his garage door and darted inside without hesitation. Toby biked after him as fast as he could, desperate to catch up, but despite giving it his all the garage door shut well before he reached it. 

For a few moments he stood there straddling his bike in the driveway, staring at the shut door. There was a fierce ache in his side and a burning pain in his lungs, but both of those things were nothing compared to the crushing disappointment.

In theory Toby could still knock on the front door or try calling Jim, or even use the walkie-talkies, but he’d spent two solid hours trying all three of those things yesterday with nothing to show for it. He doubted today would be any different.

Guess there was no point to hanging around then.

Grudgingly, Toby turned and trudged back to his house, feeling heavier with each step. 

Parking his bike outside, he entered and shut the door as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake Nana up from her afternoon nap. He had hoped that if he left school early enough and really hurried home, he could catch Jim before he managed to lock himself inside his house. 

But even that had failed. Just one more thing to add on to Toby Domzalski’s ever extending list of fuck ups.

Well today was a wash, might as well get some dinner.

Toby forced himself to get out a bowl and a box of cereal and took a seat at the table.

It wasn’t like Jim had dropped off the face of the earth, he was literally right across the street. Tomorrow morning Toby could try to confront him outside his house, or even follow him to school. But if Jim was able to cut and run so quick going home, he wouldn’t have any problem doing the same when he left in the morning. 

And knowing Jim, he could keep this up for a long long time.

Toby stared down into the empty cereal bowl. His stomach was empty but he still felt like puking.

Even if he did manage to pin Jim down, he probably wouldn’t give any more than the same stony silence he gave when Toby cornered him in the locker rooms yesterday when he’d learnt the awful truth.

So who the hell was he trying to kid by thinking he could accomplish anything?

Jim might not have fallen off the face of the earth, but he might as well have.

Toby flopped facedown on the table, head laying between his slumped arms. His stomach was hollow and grumbling but making the cereal seemed like more trouble than it was worth at this point.

He was an idiot. Probably the biggest idiot on the face of the earth. Scratch that, the biggest idiot in the known universe, and probably the unknown universe to. 

His best friend had been going through hell for years and Toby hadn’t even bothered to notice.

It wasn’t like there hadn’t been signs. The curfew, the weird rules, strange behavior. The real question was why the hell it had taken this long for Toby to see what really went on in the house across the street.

His eyes burned in a way that had become far too familiar in the past two days. 

In the end Toby had never seen Jim’s life for what it really was; it was Mary, Darci, and Claire who literally shoved the truth under his nose.

But even when they’d told him, when Jim himself had all but admitted it, Toby still didn’t believe, not really.

Not until the girls had shown him the photos.

And when he saw those claw marks on the basement door it felt like the earth was torn out from under his feet.

Toby hadn’t felt steady since. 

A lead ball of guilt sank deeper into his belly.

If the girls hadn’t uncovered the truth, how long would Toby have plodded along none the wiser to what Jim’s life with Dr. Lake was really like?

Part of him wondered if he ever would have noticed.

So what else had he missed? There had been more signs over the years that had flown under his radar. Toby propped his head up on his chin and wracked his memories for the slightest clue.

No Halloween. No sleepovers. No guests over after dark. Their camping trips were family only--

Wait. 

Jim and Dr. Lake camped a lot, it was kind of their thing. So why didn’t they take any pictures on their trips?

Well that wasn’t exactly true, they did kind of take pictures. They took a few pictures, but only one or two with a really old polaroid camera, that they only ever used on camping trips.

It didn’t make sense. Nana and Dr. Lake probably had a documentary’s worth of digital photos on a shared Google Photos account between the two of them. Taken using a combination of phones and digital cameras. So why didn’t Jim and Dr. Lake take normal family photos during their camping trips? Were they doing something they didn’t want anyone else to see?

Then why the polaroids?

Toby didn’t know, he had know idea. His brain hurt trying to stretch itself to unravel the solution to this puzzle. Grimacing, he forced himself to set aside the camping photo conundrum for now and go back to re-evaluating his memories.

The next thing that stuck out in his mind was Jim’s birthday meltdown during the first week of school last August. But Jim had just been upset about his dad, it had nothing to do with--

Toby’s train of thought screeched to a halt, a horrible icy feeling blooming to life in his gut.

He thought back on those few weeks, desperately rifling through his memories. Searching for any recollection of Jim telling him that he’d been upset about his dad.

To his dismay he found none. 

And now that he thought about it, Jim had never told Toby why he was upset at all. 

In other words Toby had jumped to the most convenient answer and Jim had just gone along with it. 

His heartbeat picked up, what else, what other signs of abuse had he seen over the past decade that he’d just explained away to himself?

Stay here I’ll get the scissors

His forehead hit the table with a dull thunk. No doubt there were countless times Toby had seen something telling that he could search his memory for, but he was too exhausted and wrung out to keep going.

God he was the worst friend ever.

The evidence was so obvious it might as well have come labeled exhibits A, B, and C; anyone who looked twice could tell that Jim’s mom was hurting him. And every time Toby had seen the signs of the abuse that was going on he’d either justified it or flat out ignored it.

Why?

Why had he ignored Jim’s suffering every day for ten years?

The guilt rolling around in his stomach got ten times heavier. 

Like he didn’t know damn well why already. 

Because Toby liked having a cool friend with a cool mom that included him and let him tag along for everything they did. He liked having a little surrogate family of his own. And lying to himself was a lot less painful than having his so-called happy family disrupted.

Toby pushed the cheerios away. Eating anything right now would be a mistake.

He and Jim had called themselves best friends for over ten years. They’d sworn to always have each other’s backs through thick and thin. But in the end Toby had let him down in the way that mattered the most.

The cold face Jim made when he started claiming his mom had never locked him up flashed in his mind.

But now, after years had passed, was it too late to help him?

Toby turned to rest his cheek against the cool wood and shut his eyes. A little voice in the back of his head was shouting that he still couldn’t give up, that Jim needed him now more than ever, that he should force down some cereal and try to get a good night sleep so tomorrow he would be ready for round two. Part of him wanted to listen to the little voice, but the crushing guilt was a lot louder. Not to mention Toby was too wrung out to even consider moving.

He stayed there slumped on the table like that for a long time. The determined part of him urging him to get up, and the burnt out part telling the rest of him to shut up.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Jerking up ramrod straight, Toby came face to face with his Nana, concern etched deeply into her wrinkled face.

“Toby pie, why on earth did you fall asleep at the table?”

“Huh?” Toby snapped his gaze towards the window, he was stunned to see that it was pitch black out, guess he really had fallen asleep.

She gave his shoulder a squeeze “What’s wrong?”

That’s Nana for you, legally blind but could spot boo-boos and hurt feelings from over a mile away. For a moment he considered lying and telling her everything was fine, but knowing Nana she’d see through that in nanosecond.

“It’s kind of...a lot of things,”

Without missing a beat she pulled up a chair right next to him “Want to talk about it?”

Did he? Toby honestly wasn’t sure. This was... a lot, for anyone to take in, let alone Nana, who’d know the Lakes just as long as he had. Would she even believe him if he told her?

But then again, she might know a way to help Jim, more than he’d been able to accomplish anyways. 

And the way everything had been building up inside him, practically suffocating him for the last two days; the thought of getting at least some of this off his chest was too tempting to pass up.

Toby decided to try and approach the subject from the side, test the waters, see how Nana responded “The way Jim and Dr. Lake do things, with the super early curfew and the weird rules, that...isn’t normal, is it?”

The look she gave him was sad and sympathetic, but much to his shock, not surprised “No. It isn’t,”

“Wait…” Toby leaned forward in his chair “Have you….always known that?”

“Yes, I have,”

Red hot indignation exploded to life in Toby’s chest, but he squashed it as fast as he could before it could start to show on his face. With how long it had taken him to notice what was going on with Jim and Dr. Lake he had no right to be mad at anyone else. 

But why, if she’d known why hadn’t she said anything, done anything? Jim had been living through hell and she had just sat back and done nothing.

“If you knew, why didn’t you ever say anything?” Toby barely kept his voice from cracking “Call Dr. Lake out, tell her she needed to shape up? Tell Jim ‘screw what your mom says’ and go live your life,”

Nana let out a heavy sigh and scooted her chair closer, close enough to wrap both arms around him “Because I don’t think it would have done any good,”

Despite the tension, Toby softened into the embrace almost instinctively, resting the side of his head on her shoulder. He still had over a thousand questions, but he could sense Nana had a lot more to say.

“Sometimes when people experience something traumatic, it affects the way they perceive things,” Nana tightened her grip on Toby ever so slightly “This is nothing you should repeat to anyone else, but I think that when her husband walked out, Barbara became so afraid of losing Jim to, that she let that fear cloud her judgement with every decision she made going forward,”

Toby forced himself not to react, but on the inside all the pieces were flying into place. It made sense. Too much sense. It was the kind of thing that would cause Dr. Lake to lock Jim up at night while still acting like a regular mom during the day.

She wanted him to be safe and stay with her so much that she’d started using wooden doors and locks to do it. And Jim loved her back so much that he let her.

On one hand it made him feel a little better. Dr. Lake wasn’t some two faced psycho who acted all nice in public but turned into a monster when no one was looking.

But on the other…

How could he get Jim to fight back when she was doing this out of some messed up kind of love?

A slight edge of shame crept into Nana’s voice as she kept going “There have been many times I wanted to say something to her, but no matter what I said or did I don’t think I could make Barbara change her mind. If anything, I think it just would have made her double down and isolate themselves even more,”

Nana pulled away just enough to give Toby a gentle, reassuring smile “But while I don’t agree with a lot of the choices Barbara makes, deep down I know she wouldn’t do anything that would put Jim in harm’s way,”

Toby’s heart froze; a cold, jagged lump stabbing him from the inside even as he fought to keep his face neutral.

She didn’t know.

She knew about the curfew and weird rules but not the rest.

She hadn’t connected the dots with the strange photos, with the excuses and lack of explanations.

She hadn’t seen what was on the basement door.

All the implications of what she did and didn’t know flew through his head as the ice in his heart slowly turned to steel. 

At that moment Toby made an ironclad decision.

No matter what happened, no matter how far this went. Toby was never going to let Nana learn what he knew. Never let her find out that Dr. Lake had locked Jim in the basement. 

Because if she did, if she found out just how deep Dr. Lake’s fear ran, she would never forgive herself for not protecting Jim.

Nana was family, real family in more than just biology. She’d been there for him since day one, she was the one who took on everything once his parents were gone. And she’d been his rock even while he knew she must have been mourning her own son. 

And she would never throw him in the basement and lock the door.

Now it was Toby’s turn to protect her, even if it meant he had to take care of this by himself.

Fortunately his moment of panic went unnoticed as Nana continued “Barbara’s my friend and I know she would never hurt Jim, but if I had ever suspected she was taking things too far, I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to tell the right people,”

That made him start “What-- really!? I thought Dr. L was like, your BFF?!”

“Barbara is a dear friend,” Nana said patiently “But I have a duty to Jim, to ensure that he is safe and well cared for. Having to make that kind of call would tear me up inside, but if I had to I would do it in a heartbeat,”

Hearing those words from her was like someone ringing a tuning fork inside his skull. The raging storm of anxiety and despair that had been roiling inside him for the past few days vanished like a puff of smoke. Leaving the solution crystal clear.

 Toby sat up straighter, resolve filling him, making him feel steadier than he had in days. Washing away every last drop of uncertainty and doubt.

He knew what he had to do now.

The thought practically made him sick, but it was the only way to get Jim the help he needed.

“I know it’s hard and can feel like you’re not doing enough, but the best way to help Barbara and Jim is just to be there in whatever way you can. Be a friend, be someone they know they can trust. Be an example and show them that there’s another way to live, does that make sense?”

Toby stood up and wrapped Nana in a bear hug, which she just as readily returned.

“That helps a lot. Thanks Nana, I feel a lot better now,” 

*

Right now Toby was the most nervous he’d ever been in his entire life. He was pacing so frenziedly he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d worn a rut into the bathroom floor.

Was this the ideal place for a serious conversation, or even a good one? No way. But Toby happened to know for a fact that Jim stopped by this bathroom almost every day before language arts class, and desperate times called for desperate measures.

Not to mention this was the last stop to get off before he took the nuclear option.

If this conversation didn’t work out the way he hoped, Toby knew what he had to do, was willing to do it when the time came.

But he still really really didn’t want to. 

That’s why he’d decided to try talking to Jim one last time. Deep down he really wasn’t sure Jim would be any more vocal now than he had been the past few days, but he and Dr. Lake deserved one last chance to come clean.

Toby owed them that much.

The door swung open, causing Toby to jolt with surprise before scurrying back to press himself against the wall. Jim walked in, door swinging shut behind him. The sight of his friend filled Toby with equal parts unease and relief.

He quickly shuffled to the side, maneuvering himself to block the exit. 

Jim turned at the sound, the second his eyes landed on Toby his face blanked.

Toby didn’t waste a second “We need to talk,” 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jim ducked his head and tried to sidestep around Toby to the door, but he didn’t budge.

“Oh yes we do Jim. This isn’t the kind of thing we can just forgive and forget. This is a big freaking deal,”

Jim’s expression twisted into something deeply pained “It isn’t-- Mom’s not like that,”

Sucking in a deep, grounding breath, Toby took a step forward “You remember my twelfth birthday? We were at Disneyland and I kept asking you why you could never have sleepovers?”

Jim wouldn’t look him in the eye, but Toby still caught the flash of recognition on his face. 

“You said you wanted to tell me why, but you couldn’t, it was a secret,” he took another step closer, he and Jim were only a foot apart now “Well now I need you to trust me with that secret,”

Jim hadn’t moved, still looking stubbornly down at the floor, but even he couldn’t hide how badly his shoulders were shaking.

Emboldened, Toby reached out and laid both hands on Jim’s shoulders, trying to steady him “I promise, whatever it is, whatever’s going on at home, you can trust me. And if you tell me everything, right here right now, I promise I won’t go to the cops. I don’t want Dr. Lake to go to jail any more than you do,”

It was true, he didn’t. His hope was that if he could get Jim to stand up to his mom the two of them could confront her and make Dr. Lake to go to therapy or counseling or something.

Jim glanced up, meeting Toby’s eyes, mouth twisting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

Toby felt his heart fluttering with hope. Hope he hadn’t dared to let himself feel before now. 

Ths was it, Jim was going to tell him everything, then they could convince Mary, Claire, and Darci to back off, and make Dr. Lake get help, and they could all figure this out together and then Toby wouldn’t have to--

Without warning Jim dashed around him and ran out of the bathroom. Leaving Toby staring numbly at the door slowly swinging back and forth. 

The hope that had been rising inside him just seconds ago had now fallen and lay shattered on the ground.

The disappointment of Jim turning away from him stung, but hadn’t been unexpected. The knowledge of what he had to do now made him queasy, but he had gotten better at powering through it.

But what hurt the most was realizing Jim didn’t trust him.

After everything they’ve been through, over ten years of being best friends, his only friend in Toby’s case, when it came down to it Jim didn’t trust him.

Not enough to share this.

Toby allowed himself a few minutes to let his emotions settle, before steeling himself and heading out the door, but not to his next class.

Once he did this there would be no going back. All the fun family stuff with Jim and Dr. Lake would stop cold. No more dinners. No more holidays. No more anything. Toby knew that and had made his peace with it. That’s why he didn’t get the girls involved with this choice, the fallout would land on him and him alone. And there would be fallout.

But Toby couldn’t pull his punches now just because things were going to get ugly.

Swallowing his doubts, Toby forced himself to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even as his heart pounded faster with each step.

He’d been letting Jim down in a thousand different ways every day for the past decade.

Well one way or another, that ended now. 

[writeblrfantasy]

a king and his knight | part 3

“i don’t even know your name,” the prince said, his face filling with color. “i’m so sorry, i wasn’t even thinking to ask.”

the knight was disappointed that his worst fears were confirmed, the prince really had no idea who he was, but it more than made up for it when he told the prince and the prince said his name with a smile, soft vowels and gentle tone. he introduced himself by his first name, which the prince already knew, of course, but felt odd calling him by. the prince insisted, however.

every day the knight rode a bit out, searching for signs of the battle and stopping when he heard it, the sounds lesser every day. three days passed before the knight deemed it safe enough to return. the ride back was slow and tense. neither knew what awaited them. the knight couldn’t even enjoy the prince’s arms around his waist.

the castle finally came into view, along with a sea of red on the ground. bodies everywhere. the knight had expected nothing less, but the prince let out a small gasp. it took a moment for the knight to realize he wasn’t looking the same way. he was looking east, where two familiar bodies lay. the knight started to say something, but what could you say? he wanted to shelter the prince from this pain, but he didn’t know how to make this any easier. he’d had fears this might happen himself.

he’d failed in his duty to protect the king and crown prince or die trying, but he didn’t feel like he’d failed anything.

the prince jumped off the horse before the knight had even pulled it to a stop, hitting the ground hard and running over to the bodies. the knight quickly dismounted and followed him, hand on his sword, looking around for anyone that might be alive, though he doubted anyone was. everything was eerily quiet.

the prince wasn’t crying. he didn’t appear upset. he didn’t look like anything. he was kneeling beside the bodies, frowning. he was clutching his brother’s bloody hand. his lips moved in prayer. the knight knelt across from him, closing his eyes and praying.

“they didn’t even say goodbye to me,” the prince said, his voice hollow and blank. “they didn’t even tell me there was an attack, i overheard some knights talking about it. they cast me aside for so many years, from the day my brother began his training as crown prince. my mother died having me. my father couldn’t give me a glance. so why do i feel this way?”

the knight still had his father and sister miles and miles away in a small village, but he hadn’t seen them in years, since he’d joined the knighthood. the memory of his mother’s loss with illness a decade before still made his chest seize up. “because they’re your family. because they were all you had.”

the prince stared at the bodies for a long moment more, then stood. the knight heard voices and nearly drew his sword, but it was the quiet talk of townspeople from the town down the hill from the castle. they were looking over the carnage, probably some of them mourning lost brothers or sons. every knight had been slaughtered, but every enemy soldier lay dead, too.

“whatever you want to do...i’ll take you wherever you want to go now,” said the knight. he watched villagers and castle residents slowly approach the prince, most of whom had heard little of him and seen him maybe once. still, they looked at him with curiosity, desperation, silent pleas in their eyes.

the prince looked at them, and the knight saw the moment he made his mind up.

“no, i will stay here,” said the prince. “they need a new king. someone who can rebuild this. it’s the logical thing. i was born to be insurance, after all.”

the knight nodded, tight lipped.

and that was how the prince became king.

the king did indeed rebuild. he made a treaty with the south to discourage more war, he encouraged men from the village and from villages all in the kingdom to repopulate the knighthood, and the knight gained new brothers to teach and train. he fell into the role of commander without meaning to, since there was no one else who could. he liked his job and was good at it, but was he was still most devoted to was the king, who now wore a golden crown on top of head nd sat in a grand throne.

he always looked a little flustered when someone addressed him as majesty, at the constant attention and admiration he got, how eager people were to hear his opinions. he’d never had that sort of attention before, which made the knight ten kinds of mad, especially since he wasn’t getting to bestow the kind of attention he wanted to. but that was just a silly thought. he spent more time in the king’s company now than he ever had before the slaughter, bringing him reports of how the knights were doing, reports of scouts around the area. the king always thanked him kindly and appreciated his work, and many dubbed him the king’s right hand man, senior knight.

the knight was more than grateful for the time he did get to spend with the king now, but it was not enough. he wanted so much more than this, if anything, he’d fallen more in love with the king now that they’d grown closer. 

the king did make him his personal knight and personal guardian, which was what the knight had always wanted, even if the responsibility made his stomach heavy with nerves at times. it was more than the daydream it’d once been. he would feel very different if the king died under his oath than he had when the last king died.

he continued to bring the king gifts, made easier since he didn’t have to pretend to read in the library in order to figure out what the king might be wanting, he could worm answers out of the king with questions like did anything cause you difficulty today or is there anything else you require? this made it riskier since there was a higher chance the king would figure out who it was, if he only brought these things up to the knight, so the knight made sure to wait for the king’s wishes to become fairly common knowledge.

one day the knight again rose late after working on a gift all night, perhaps his favorite one yet: a beautiful set of red cushions made from the softest fabrics he could find in town, since the king always complained about the hard, unforgiving seat of his throne. he’d joked that his father must’ve grown ill of back pain.

sewing them himself had been no easy feat, as he’d barely remembered his mother’s lessons from childhood, but after sheepishly asking the seamstress, he’d gotten there in the end. they were as good as they were going to get, so he put them in a wide box and made a new note, a bold, the color of these, blood red, represents the blood i would spill for you, others’, my own, whatever it would take to keep your own blood from being shed. he knew it was likely that only a knight would write such a thing, but perhaps he wanted the king to realize who it was who’d been sending him gifts over the past few years. the knight would be kindly rejected, but maybe he’d be able to move on. maybe.

he still remembered vividly that morning when he’d caught the red on the king’s face, his soft smile as he admired the straps, and couldn’t help himself from waiting around the corner for the king to open his door. the king had chosen not to move rooms after his ascension, he said he liked his rooms just fine. the knight had now been in them and seen all of his gifts displayed and admired by the king, on shelves and bookcases.

the king opened the door and picked up the box, smiling at the note. he didn’t blush, but he held the cushions with shallow breaths, like they were precious jewels. he closed his eyes and kissed one of them gently, making the knight’s heart clench. he didn’t know how he could want the king any more, but he did, and the desire to engulf the king in his arms and give him as tender a kiss as the king had just given that pillow had never been stronger. he recalled the weight of the king on his chest and felt tears prick his eyes.

he sniffled, forgetting where he was, thinking it’d be quiet, and instead caught the king’s eye around the corner. the two stared at each other, still and silent, and the knight watched the king’s eyes dart from the cushions to the note to the knight and back again. the knight watched the moment he figured it out, eyes widening, mouth opening.

the knight ran.

he didn’t show up to his evening report with the king, he was too scared to leave his quarters and seek dinner in case the king was in the dining hall. he sat on his bed, head in his hands, mind refusing to quiet down, wondering why he’d ever thought it’d be a good idea to have the king know who was sending the gifts.

when his hunger and thirst finally won out, the knight opened the door and found a folded piece of paper on the floor. his hands were shaking as he picked it up. now the king was mocking him before he let him go, was he?

the letter was in perfect courtly script.

my dear knight, i know a simple letter is nothing compared to all the wonderful gifts you have given me, but if you would be willing to have it, you are welcome to the gift of my heart. i realized i never thanked you properly for saving my life that day. between that and everything else, you have given me so much more than that. thank you.

the knight blinked, but the words were still there. when he looked up, the king was leaning against the corner of the wall in his sky blue coat, white fur, gold crown, and the most beautiful smile he’d ever worn. it reached more than just the lovely curve of his mouth, his eyes, his posture.

“you can’t be serious,” the knight said.

“i am, i mean it,” the king said. “i’ve suspected for a while it was you. the gifts were too well tailored to me, the notes too personal, like i knew you. you knew me.”

“you didn’t know me before we left together. you didn’t know my name, you’d never even seen me.”

“i knew your face. i had seen you. those shelves in the library aren’t solid, they have slits. i always wondered about you, a fellow avid reader.” the king was still smiling in an enticing, intoxicating way. “but i bet you weren’t reading at all, were you? you were fishing for ideas.”

the knight swallowed. “please tell me you’re not joking. that you’re not just pulling my leg.”

the king pushed off the wall and approached him. the knight, struck with realization only a moment before it happened, could only stand there as the king reached up on his tiptoes to curl his fingers into the knight’s hair and pull him down enough to kiss. the knight was too shocked to react, but the movement of the king’s mouth grew fainter, more hesitant, and he started to pull back when the knight finally shocked himself into movement and wrapped his arms around the king’s waist, pulling him closer and kissing him with years of pent up passion.

they broke apart for breath, but only an inch or two. “i am not pulling your leg,” the king said, and the knight was trying to be a gentleman, but his eyes were glued to the king’s pink lips, “i find you unreasonably attractive and wonderfully kind and gentle and caring and sweet and gentlemanly, trustworthy and strong, easily lovable, i could go on and on and on. please tell me, because i need to know, that you meant all of those gifts, although i don’t know how someone could spend so much time on those and not mean it.”

in answer, the knight knelt at the feet of his king, the man he loved most in the world, the man he would die for without hesitation. he took the king’s soft, smooth, freezing hand in one of his and looked up at him through his lashes. “i meant every gift, every note, with every ounce of my heart. i have loved you for years. i think you are gorgeous and kind and fair and underappreciated. i would consider it no greater honor than to serve you for the rest of my life. i will do whatever i must to give you anything and everything you want. i am hopelessly devoted to you. i always have been.”

the king’s breath caught and he went beet red, which made the knight’s knees weak. with what restraint he had left, he kissed the back of the king’s hand gently, still looking up at him through his lashes. the king’s breath caught again and he pulled him up by that hand, and jumped into a hug that squeezed him tightly. the knight felt tears prick his eyes again as the king whispered, “i love you,” with his arms crossed tightly around the knight’s neck, his head resting on his shoulder, his legs wrapped around the knight’s waist. the knight shifted his hands under the king’s thighs and kissed the side of his neck, simply unable to believe that the man he’d loved for years was clinging to him and hugging him like he’d die if he let go.

“i love you too,” the knight said, embarrassed of how shaky his voice was. the king pulled his head back to give the knight a sweet, heavenly kiss again. the knight was sure he’d gone to heaven. this was the best thing he’d ever had. there was nothing better than the sweet press of the king’s mouth against his, the one warm part of him. he curled his fingers into the knight’s hair again, and he kept letting out little happy noises that made the knight want to drag more of them out of him over and over again.

the knight’s strength gave out and he gently set the king down, leaning down to plant kisses all over his face, unwilling to let him go for a second now that he knew he was allowed. the king giggled and pulled him closer, and the knight felt like his heart would burst again as he watched the king’s face turned red. he couldn’t keep the smile off of his face long enough to kiss the king again.

the knight slept in the king’s bed that night, wrapped around him in the way he’d dreamed of for years. he had all he’d ever wanted, he got to protect the king, shower him in kisses and hold him close, tell him that he was beautiful and breathtaking and cute and wonderful and talented. “you’re so cold, but i can warm you up,” he whispered in the king’s ear, making him go red again.

the king turned to seemingly kiss his neck, then whispered, “you’re hot.”

when the knight spluttered and gasped, the king said, “what? like you said, you warm me up. i never want to leave your arms.”

the knight’s mouth hung open, unable to form words. the king smiled and kissed him.

the knight remained as the king’s right hand from that day onward, his guardian, his loyal servant, but also his lover. he refused to give up his jobs and responsibilities to rule with the king no matter how many times he asked. “i do not wish to rule over a kingdom. all i wish is to serve you.”

and he did, and the king continued to love him just as deeply and passionately as he had since the knight had saved him. the knight continued to bring him gifts and little love notes in script as terrible as always, and was always there to see the king’s blush and smile. only these times, he was rewarded with a kiss. their bond was unbreakable, their love never-ending.

and that is the story of the king and his knight.

these two can have a ridiculous amount of cuddling and kissing. as a treat

thank you all so much for reading, this was an absolute dream to write and i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did <3 i’ll definitely be posting more gay romance shorts in the near future, if you’re interested in those, i might start a taglist for it! let me know if you’d like to be on it!

[emybain]

For the kiss prompts. Maybe 42 or 3 for nodrian💙

why not both hehe. no joke ive been trying to post this for two days now. i finished it the other night but i just keep forgetting to post lol. these are NOT connected in any way and they are both post supernova. The first one is a little aged up and fair warning, it’s a bit on the pg-13 side (im so sorry to all my cinnamon followers just LOOK AWAY)

3-a breathy demand:”kiss me” - and what the other person does to respond

42-distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead

ao3

Nova peeked into the art studio of Adrian’s town house, pushing the door open enough so she could see him. Yep. He was still at his easel. At least he had chosen to pull up a barstool instead of continuing to stand; he had been painting for hours. 

Times like this weren’t uncommon. For both of them. It was normal for them to not see one another for hours whenever Nova came over or vice versa, and there was nothing wrong with that. Sometimes, it was just comforting to be in each other’s presence. And it wasn’t like how they used to be, co-depending on one another after the supernova and inseparable. No, after a mutual decision to give one another a break, here they were four years later, going on a stable three years together. They were better now, after both receiving much needed therapy and time to think over everything. It wasn’t easy, especially for Nova, who felt as though she had no one to go to after the supernova, but it gradually got more attainable.

Except for now, when Nova was getting an itch for, well…special attention, and she hadn’t seen Adrian since their early dinner. Before he had let her know he was going to go work on a project, she was going to subtly suggest they extend their date night a couple hours. It was fine, Nova was fine. She figured he would only disappear for a little while and rejoin her in the living room, where she decided to pick up a book from his bookcase. Except he didn’t. So now she had to take things into her own hands. 

“Hey, Babe,” she greeted softly, entering the room slowly. Sometimes, he got so caught up in his work that he didn’t notice Nova until she touched him, which, based on past occurrences, messed him up. “I brought you some water.”

She stepped into his line of sight and set the glass down on the small table beside him. He didn’t respond, though from the tilt of his head, she could tell he heard her. Sigh. 

“You’ve been working really hard, you know. Maybe it’s time for a break?” She took a step toward him, biting her lip and bringing her hand up to the cotton button down she was wearing, fingering the top button. He grunted in response, quietly thanking her for the water. Nova rolled her eyes. Come on. She knew she got like this, too, but tonight, she decided it was ridiculous. She wanted attention, damn it. 

Walking behind him, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and leaned down. He tensed at first, but relaxed just as quickly. He even turned his head around and pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek. Well, it was something. 

“Come to bed,” she murmured in his ear, lips brushing against the top. “I miss you.” To prove it, she kissed behind his ear. She felt him stiffen again, even as he continued painting. Her lips trailed down his neck, holding back a smile. 

“I’ll come in a little bit.” The satisfaction she got from his shaky voice was delicious. “Let me just finish this one section and I’ll be there, okay?” 

Oh, that wouldn’t do. He cursed when she nipped at the hollow in his throat, making sure her hair hung over to expose her neck. Just to tease him. “Why not now, though?” she hummed against his skin, deepening every kiss. His name escaped from her mouth in a sigh, a desperate need. She couldn’t help herself. 

“Shit, Nova.” He leaned back a little, much to her delight, as her hands went up his shirt, nails scraping against his chest. She stopped her caresses for a moment to blink at him innocently. A warm feeling washed over her at how dark his eyes were, a deeper brown than usual. They were breathtaking. 

Nova wiped at a dried paint spot on his cheek. “What?” 

He let out a long sigh, took one look at the unfinished painting, and set down his supplies. Nova grinned. She moved to sit in his lap, not really caring where she got attention as long as she just got it. But Adrian had other plans. 

Nova screeched as he stood suddenly and scooped her up into his arms. Their laughter echoed down the dark hallway and into Adrian’s bedroom, where it continued well into the night. 

__________

They were the only ones in the training hall, save for a few runners or weightlifters with earbuds in. Nova ducked as Adrian threw a punch at her, rolling to her left and pouncing back up, landing a kick to his side. He grimaced. Nova would’ve felt bad, except he had been the one to suggest a quick hand-to-hand combat fight. She pushed her sweaty bangs out of her eyes. Feeling generous, she took a few steps back to give Adrian a moment to collect himself. His eyes followed her as she circled him, knees bent at the ready. When he smirked at her and motioned her forward, she scrunched her face up. 

With a battle cry impressive enough for long-dead gods, she charged him. He blocked her blow and grabbed her forearm, twisting her around to hold her in a choke-hold. But Nova saw it coming. She rammed her heel into his foot, causing him to let her go. Nova rolled away, landing in a crouch. While he was distracted, she swept her leg out, knocking him to the ground. Before he could get back up, she had him pinned down, holding his wrists down with her knees. 

They were both breathing hard, staring at one another in silence. A dull pain rose up in Nova’s side where Adrian had got her earlier. It was worsening slowly, no doubt forming into a nasty bruise. A fight less than ten minutes had stolen all of her energy. 

“I win.” She grinned at him, leaning over and patting his cheek with a gloved hand. Ever since the supernova a few months ago, Nova made an effort to wear gloves whenever she was training with another prodigy. Adrian was the only one who said she didn’t have to around him, that he trusted her, but they still helped her feel more at ease. The rest of her team was still wary around her, and Nova only wanted them to be more comfortable. Sure she could still knock them out with any skin contact, but her hands were her biggest weapon. She hadn’t even been on patrols with them since the supernova, choosing instead to do jobs around headquarters. Just something to keep her busy, and to show the Renegades that she was on their side, for real this time. Some of her jobs may have been made up, like going to bother the Council about anything she thought would help in the process of transitioning into a more democratic government. It was a very, very slow process, but at least she was beginning to see progress. See what her father had envisioned so many years ago.

Adrian interrupted her thoughts by managing to flip them over. Nova’s back hit the foam mat, air rushing out of her body. He held both of her arms over her head with one of his. “No, I think I do.”

“Asshole,” she grumbled, squirming under his weight that only seemed to get heavier the more she moved. “That doesn’t count.”

Her heart raced as he brought his head closer, eyebrows raised. She could smell his cologne, that wonderful pine scent. She chastised herself for breathing in just a little deeper so she could catch more of that intoxicating fragrance. Tilted her head a bit to the side to avoid his intense gaze. Because, well, they were broken up. Nova knew they needed it, that choosing to continue a relationship after what happened would only end in flames. Much as she hated to admit it, it was unhealthy. Adrian had been the first person to truly see Nova for who she was instead of just a pawn on the chessboard or a lie or whatever the media liked to come up with every morning after they had their coffee. He understood her and her trauma. To just…let him go like that…was agonizing. But she knew it was only temporary, that they still both harbored deep feelings for one another. Maybe in a few months and after dozens of therapy appointments, they would be able to talk about getting back together. At least now, after a couple months of coming to terms with the break up, she could handle being alone with him again. Being friends, laughing and spending time together. Well, for the most part. 

To put things simply, Nova was very thankful at that moment that the Council had changed the rule that uniforms are mandatory even in the training hall. And she was very thankful that Adrian had discarded his shirt two minutes into their five mile run earlier that morning. 

“Someone’s just bitter they owe me breakfast.” Nova scoffed, remembering their deal earlier. She jumped suddenly, eyes widening at his hand on her cheek, caressing it. His brows were furrowed. “I didn’t know I got your face. I’m sorry about that.”

Holding her breath, Nova placed her hand over his. He met her eyes and blinked. “It’s fine. Probably just from the mat.” Her voice was barely over a whisper. 

She definitely saw his eyes dip down and focus on her lips for a moment; she couldn’t help but do the same. Somehow, all of her weaknesses regarding him, weaknesses that she had been suppressing for months, were all laid out in front of her. She wanted nothing more than to just…just…

“Kiss me,” she breathed, only slightly noticing how demanding she sounded in that moment. 

He stilled. “Nova, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Yet his voice was gruff. Yet he didn’t move from his position over her. 

“It’s not.” She licked her lips.

His eyes softened and he bent his head down. Nova raised hers up greedily to meet him. It had been an eternity since she had tasted his soft lips. 

But just as their lips brushed, sending a current of electricity down Nova’s spine, Adrian was gone.

Nova sat up and could only watch as he walked away, grabbing his shirt and roughly pulling it over his head. He didn’t look back.

[sariasprincy-writes]

Hollow Point - Epilogue Part 2

One // Two // Three // Four // Five // Six // Seven // Eight // Nine // Ten // Eleven // Twelve // Thirteen // Fourteen // Fifteen // Sixteen // Seventeen // Eighteen // Nineteen // Twenty // Twenty-One // Twenty-Two // Twenty-Three // Twenty-Four // Twenty-Five // Twenty-Six // Twenty-Seven // Twenty-Eight // Twenty-Nine // Thirty // Thirty-One // Thirty-Two // Thirty-Three // Thirty-Four // Thirty-Five // Thirty-Six // Epilogue Part I // Epilogue Part II (here) 

Epilogue

Part Two

The Ghost of You

15 Miles outside Venice, Italy

“I don’t like this. It feels like a trap.”

“Yes, but the question is by who?” Sakura asked.

A deep frown etched into the corners of her mouth. In the driver’s seat beside her, Kakashi raised his binoculars, his sights set down the street to a tavern that appeared otherwise unopened and unoccupied. They sat in a plain rental car. Only a few buildings down from the meeting point that had been provided to her. A small tavern in the middle of town.

Sakura still wasn’t certain Itachi had been the one to contact her. After all, he was dead. And so far, no one had come in or out of the pub.

“Itachi was the only one who ever messaged me that way,” she continued, her tone more withdrawn.

Kakashi lowered his sights to glance at her. “We witnessed his funeral,” he told her gently. As if she could ever forget. “If word got out about your attachment to him, it would be an easy trap for the CIA, Madara or even Kisame to set up.”

“The CIA would be most likely,” she said. “Shisui knew about our relationship and I don’t doubt he blames me for Itachi’s death. That doesn’t exactly give me a warm and fuzzy feeling. And if Itachi was alive, I don’t understand why he wouldn’t have contacted me before now.”

Kakashi didn’t reply to that and a moment of silence passed before he asked, “If it is the CIA, I wonder why they would have you meet here.”

“That’s another thing I don’t understand,” she agreed. “All of those three – the CIA, Madara and Kisame don’t have any territory here. This is neutral ground. Why ask to meet here?”

Not having an answer, he didn’t reply. Another few minutes passed before Kakashi finally asked, “So, do you not want to go in?”

Sakura inhaled a deep, silent breath. “No, I do.” Then she glanced at him. “You have my six?”

Kakashi flashed a quick smile in her direction. “I always do.”

His unwavering support steeled her nerves. Without another word, Sakura slipped out of the car. She pulled the collar of her jacket tighter around her neck as a breeze kicked up. She passed one last, purposeful gaze over the street. Other than a few pedestrians the block was empty. There weren’t even any lingering eyes in the windows.

Still, Sakura withdrew her gun as she stopped before the obviously closed tavern. She expected the front door to be locked, but the handle turned without resistance. It was utterly still inside. The door closed with an ominous, echoing thud as she shut it behind her.

The main bar was eerily silent upon her entrance, only her footsteps echoed against the polished wood as she stepped further inside. The teak chandelier was lit above her head, making the liquor bottles behind the bar flicker. In the lowlight, they looked like faces laughing at her.

Sakura turned away. She didn’t believe in ghosts.

The rest of the pub was empty. Totally and completely deserted. She didn’t understand why her mysterious stranger would send her here. It seemed like no one had been there since closing the night before.

Huffing a breath through her nose, Sakura turned back towards the door, intent on leaving when music reached her ears. It was faint, the gentle tinkle of a piano from somewhere else further inside the tavern.

Tightening the grip on her weapon, Sakura followed the sound. Towards the back of the room was another doorway. It led to a second bar that was a little smaller than the first. Off to one side, a wall of high-end liquors were lined on a the shelf behind a bar of polished mahogany. A number of square tables each with four chairs around them were set up about the main floor, all strategically placed to have a view towards an empty section of the room where a small band could set up.

In that space now was a single piano. And behind it sat Itachi.

If every cell in Sakura’s being hadn’t frozen on the spot, her gun would have slipped through her fingers and clattered to the floor. The world quit turning, the fire flickering in the fireplace stopped swaying and the tinkle of the piano faded into silence.

Itachi was here before her. He was skinnier than the last time she had seen him, the harsh contrast of shadows making his face appear more gaunt and his hair was a little shorter than before, but it was him.

Apparently, there was such thing as ghosts.

“The world becomes a dangerous place when you’re angry with it,” Itachi finally said.

As if someone had pressed play in the crescendo of a symphony, all of Sakura’s senses rushed back to her at once. Her hands trembled and she could feel the frantic beat of her heart in her chest like a bird trying to escape its cage. Noise, so much noise, filled her ears. The roar of the blood in her veins, the crackle of the fire, the tinkling of the piano. She just wanted it all to stop.

Sakura’s grip on her gun tightened until her knuckles turned white. If this wasn’t a hallucination, she didn’t want to shoot him on reflex and kill him. Again.

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

Immediately Itachi’s hands stilled over the keys as he looked up at her. “Are you disappointed?”

She didn’t know if it was the lighting or if it was because it had been so long since the last time she had seen him, but in that moment, he was the most handsome he had ever been. His skin was pale against the dark blue button-down shirt he wore under his jacket. His jaw and cheekbones were emphasized by the firelight, but it was his eyes that pierced through her soul and kept her rooted in place. They were like twin pools of liquid midnight.

He looked like death that had warmed over. An angel of darkness.

She had missed him so terribly. And now he was here before her. She didn’t know how, but it was true. All those sleepless nights and terrible moments of guilt and grief. Her hands shook. It took her a moment to realize it was out of anger.

“I saw your funeral,” she said accusingly. “You have a tombstone in Arlington.”

A strange expression passed over his face, as if he was grieving his own death. “The CIA thought this would be a perfect opportunity to send me deeper undercover.”

Astounded, Sakura could only stare as she relived that day. Her heart had shattered into a million different pieces and guilt had left her bedridden for nearly a week. And here he was, telling her all that she had witnessed was a lie?

“Does your family even know you’re alive?”

Again, a brief but painful look settled on his features. “Shisui and my mother do. Unfortunately to keep my brother safe, I have to keep him in the dark until my mission is complete.”

Taken aback, Sakura’s lips parted but no words escaped. It felt like someone had shoved her down onto the cold, hard concrete and kicked dirt into her face. She was full of grief and heartbreak and anger and betrayal, so full she thought all that emotion might crush her heart and explode out her chest.

When Itachi’s hands returned to the piano keys, she became even angrier. He was playing her song. And it wasn’t those shaky, four notes anymore. It was an entire verse, over and over again. That song no longer gave her an escape from reality. It reminded her of everything she’d had, could have had, and would have had if she hadn’t made her worse miscalculation of betraying Itachi. And here he was, playing her mistake right to her face.

“I don’t play anymore,” she snarled.

Itachi had just enough time to withdraw his fingers from the keys before she slammed the fallboard closed. He simply looked up at her like a parent watching their child throw a tantrum. All forced patience.

“That’s a shame. I did always enjoy watching you play.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How can you just lie to your brother like that?”

‘Lie to me.’ She didn’t say the words but they were heard just as clearly.

“I do not think you can lecture me on lying to those closest to me.”

“You should have contacted me before now!”

“I couldn’t!” Itachi suddenly snapped, all that patience gone. He stood abruptly, nearly knocking the wooden bench over in his haste. He still stood a head higher over her, but she didn’t flinch away from those impossibly dark eyes. “Not without the CIA finding out. And I needed time to heal. I did almost die, that much is true. I flatlined in surgery twice and was in a coma for nearly a week. I had to put my health first.”

Sakura wanted to argue, but she couldn’t find fault with his justification. It had taken months for her shoulder to mend; it still wasn’t completely healed. Itachi would’ve had a much longer recovery time.

Automatically her eyes drifted down to his stomach, where she was certain he would have a scar to match her own. The death grip on her gun loosened before she raised her other hand towards him. To touch him and feel him; to make sure he was really there.

She pulled her hand back before her fingers grazed his shirt.

“For the last nine months, I thought I had killed you,” she said, her voice suddenly soft in the wake of Itachi’s outburst of anger.

He inhaled and exhaled a silent breath before he replied, his tone equally as quiet. “You did.”

Not physically at least. But peering up at him, she could see the heartbreak lining his expression even now. There weren’t enough people in the world that could help shoulder the weight of all her guilt.

“Why did you come back? You could have stayed dead if you really hate me so much.”

“I told you already,” Itachi said not unkindly. “I have a mission to complete.”

Sakura’s shoulders stiffened at that. It suddenly occurred to her for the first time that this mission could very well be to dispose of her. He would be the perfect assassin for the job.

The sudden urge to turn tail and run nearly overwhelmed her, but her curiosity got the better of her. She had to know.

“Which is?”

Itachi’s expression was utterly unreadable. Like a Greek God, he might as well have been carved from stone. “What I’ve been doing all along: tracking Madara. Only this time, he won’t escape.”

Relief swept through her like a torrential downpour, only to dry up as quickly as it came as Itachi continued, “Because you’re going to help me.” From his tone, she clearly heard that he was telling and not asking. “I know you have been keeping tabs on him. I know you know where he is. You owe me at least that.”

He scrutinized her patiently but expectantly, like he wouldn’t leave until he got an answer from her. Still, Sakura hesitated. She wondered what he would do if she tried to walk out; what would happen if she told him the truth. Would things go back to the way they were, or would he disappear on her again as he hunted down his target?

“Madara’s in Hong Kong. He’s been there for the last four months.”

Itachi stilled, as if surprised she had told him without more persuasion on his part. Then he did the last thing she expected him to do. He cupped her face with both hands and bent his head until he sealed his mouth to hers.

It took Sakura by surprise, but she reacted an instant later, her eyes falling closed as she reached up with her empty hand to grip the open fold of his jacket to tug him closer. Itachi wasn’t gentle by any means. His kiss was bruising, putting all his emotions into that single action. His anger and heartbreak, but also his desperation and sorrow. It made her realize that he had missed her as much, if not more than she had missed him.

When Itachi finally pulled back, they were both panting slightly, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room. He reached up to smooth her hair away from her face, his gaze tracking the action before his eyes dropped back to hers.

Then his expression hardened. “If you ever pull that shit on me again, we are going to have a problem.”

Even with his warning, Sakura couldn’t resist the corner of her mouth twitching in the start of a smirk. She trusted Itachi would follow through with his threat should she try to mislead him again, but she wasn’t concerned. Because if there was one thing she was certain of, it was that she wouldn’t let Itachi go again.

She holstered her gun before smiling up at him innocently. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

A vaguely disbelieving expression crossed Itachi’s face before he released a defeated sigh – as if he was just realizing for the first time that he was in love with an asshole. Even so, he kissed her again, only pausing some minutes later for Sakura to send Kakashi a text telling him not to wait for her.

Because she was going to spend the rest of the night with the man in front of her. And tomorrow, they would work on taking down the bastard known as Uchiha Madara.

end.

xx

So, this is the happiest ending I could give. It's not really a happy ending cause all the shit they've been through, they're going to go through again. But for now, they're happy.

This wasn't the original ending I had for the story. Originally, I wanted to write a sequel that had Itachi coming back much later to hunt down Madara. Together, Sakura and Itachi catch and kill him, but while protecting Itachi, Sakura gets killed. And that's how it ends, but I don't have as much time to write as I used to, and I did lose motivation with this story.

That being said, I still love this story and I'm happy with how it came out. Thank you everyone for your continued support. To those of you who have been with me since chapter one and those of you who just came across this fic, thank you for your reviews. They are incredibly motivating and I cannot say enough how much I appreciate them.

Still to come:

Not the Only One - MadaSaku/TobiSaku (continuation)

Under the Knife Edge - MadaSaku

[outshinethestars]

The Stars are Bright Enough, my Dear

For the first five years of her life, Winry Rockbell lived in a modest apartment in East City.  Her parents were both doctors, but her mother only worked part-time so she could look after Winry, and both her parents found time for her and loved her very much.

When she was five, her father sat her down and told her that he and her mother were going to have to go away, maybe for a very long while.  That they still loved her very much, but that they were needed somewhere else.  He told her that he and her mother were going to go to Ishval to help people, and she was going to go to Risembool to live with her grandmother.  He told her all this very simply and very seriously and asked her if she understood.  And Winry, five years old and very, very brave, whose parents had taught her kindness all her life, said, “Yes, Daddy,” as solemnly as she knew how.

So, a couple months later, Winry hugged her parents goodbye on the train platform, and she cried a long time, and she was a little scared to be going away to live with her grandmother, who she only knew from a few weeks visiting in the summers and monthly phone calls, but she pretended not to be.  (And her parents hugged their little girl, and they wiped their tears away before they could really begin falling, and they were very scared to be going off to a warzone, but of course they pretended not to be.)

That first year, Winry probably spent more time at the Elric’s than her Grandmother’s.  Nothing against Granny, of course, Granny was wonderful, but the Elric boys made more interesting company for a little girl, and Mrs. Elric made the best cookies.

Looking back on it, Winry would remember that first year in Risembool as a sort of pinnacle of her childhood, a time full of lighthearted adventure, a time when nothing bad had ever happened, and it felt as though nothing ever could.  That isn’t true, of course.  It is a hard thing for a child to lose everything she’s known, to lose her parents.  Those first few months, especially, were difficult, with everything so quiet and strange.  But the Elrics, then and always, were like a force of nature, so much louder and larger than life, and they swept her up with them in all their adventures to see the world as they did, and for them, 1904 was the year before things began to go wrong.

The year that Winry was six years old, Mr. Hohenheim went away.  He did not sit his sons down very seriously and explain where he was going and what he needed to do, he did not ask them if they understood, and he did not say a tearful goodbye on the train platform.  He simply stood up one day and left.

Edward Elric was enraged, six years old and ready to fight the whole world, but mostly his father (whom he only called “That Jerk” because he didn’t know the word “bastard” or “Fucker” yet) if he could get his hands on him.  Alphonse was mostly sad and confused, and he trailed after Ed like a baby duckling, partly because Ed was his older brother, and Al clung to him in a world that no longer made sense, but also because even at five, Al considered it his job to look after Ed and make sure that he didn’t get himself or anyone else hurt.

“Maybe,” Winry said to Ed one sunny day, “Maybe he had a good reason to leave.  Maybe he had somewhere he needed to be, maybe there’s something important he needs to do.”

“Bulshit!” Ed said.  “Shit” was a word Ed had only learned recently, and he knew his mother didn’t like him to say it, so he used it sparingly, exactly, like a hidden knife to be pulled out as a last resort.

“That’s bulshit,”  Ed said, “That Jerk didn’t have a good reason.  There’s no such thing.  Parents aren’t supposed to leave their kids, not ever!”

And Winry, Winry didn’t know what to say to that.

Mrs. Elric died on a late spring morning almost a year after Mr. Hohenheim left.  Winry went to her funeral, it was the first funeral she had ever been to. 

Ed and Al stood on either side of her, like they couldn’t bare to stand next to each other, like maybe if they looked at each other they’d hurt each other with their sadness.  Alphonse had sobbed silently, shaking, with tears streaming down his cheeks so hard and fast that Winry was vaguely worried he’d get dehydrated, but not making a sound.  Ed had sniffled violently, dashing his tears away with angry motions of one hand, while he held on to Winry’s so hard with the other that it hurt.  Winry had been the only one who cried like a normal person, noisily, with snot getting everywhere.  She felt a little silly doing it, because Mrs. Elric wasn’t her mother, but Ed and Al were both so quiet it scared her, and someone had to break that silence, and anyway, she couldn’t stop.

Edward took to grief with anger, as if he could beat it into submission.  But since there was no one to be angry at in this instance, he was merely sullen and bad-tempered and prone to blowing up at everyone at the drop of a hat.  Al was a forlorn and equally stubborn shadow following him.

Both brothers refused to move in with Granny and Winry.

Winry was seven years old and not prone to patience, and she didn’t understand people yet, quite as well as she thought she did.

“I wasn’t this silly when I was five,” Winry said.

“What do you know?”  Edward yelled, “It’s not like your parents died.”

Winry would get a letter from her parents twice in a year, if she was lucky.  She had learned to write sending them letters, she wrote to them every single day at first, until her little hands ached and sloppy letters filled the page.  She knew that they never received most of them.  As time went on her letters dwindled, until now she only thought to write to them every few months.  The last time Winry had written to her parents was soon after Mrs. Elric’s funeral.  She had been halfway through writing it when she realized that her parents didn’t really know Mrs. Elric, and she broke down crying and never finished the letter.

Winry listened to the radio and wondered how much of what it said was true.  She was seven years old and just beginning to understand what war was, beginning to see the edges of it.  She helped Granny with the soldiers stumbling home, saw their scars and missing limbs, saw the things even Granny couldn’t fix, and heard their stories sometimes, when they thought she wasn’t listening.

“It’s not like your parents died,” Ed said, and Winry screamed right back at him.

“They could have!  They could have died months ago, and we wouldn’t know.”

Ed and Winry didn’t speak to each other for a long while after that.

“It’s our house, Winry,”  Al explained in the end,  “We can’t just leave it behind, because if we moved in with you it would still be our house, and it would still be right there, just sadder.  We can’t live next door to us, it wouldn’t work.”

The Elric house had belonged to Mrs. Elric’s parents before they died.  Ed and Al had lived there all their lives and so had their mother.  Winry supposed that Granny could remember a time when the Elric house hadn’t been built yet and there weren’t Elrics living in it, but most people probably couldn’t.

Winry’s memories of the city were growing fuzzy around the edges, so far away it felt like another world.  And even then it had only been the apartment, and her parents had only been renters.   But Granny’s house was still Granny’s house, the place she’d come to visit every summer of her life.  Even after two years it still felt like a long, extended visit, even if she had begun to have an unpleasant, twisty feeling in her stomach that her parents were never coming back, and she would stay here forever.  Even if she had the even more unpleasant twistier feeling, that she couldn’t picture a world where her parents did come back.  She couldn’t imagine living in a place where she didn’t know everyone by name in a ten mile radius, couldn’t walk down to the general store by herself and do the shopping, couldn’t wander all across the hills and half-drown herself in the creek with the Elric brothers. She couldn’t imagine ever leaving Risembool now, couldn’t imagine leaving Granny or the Elrics.  But still, it was Granny’s house and not hers.  It was different for Ed and Al.

“Okay,” Winry said, and that was the end of it as far as she was concerned.

Granny, of course, had her own opinions, but in the face of steadfast Elrics, there’s really nothing that anyone can do.   Ed and Al ate and washed their clothes with Granny and Winry, and they even took their baths in Granny’s big copper tub, but every night they went to bed in their own house.

For another two years things were alright, they were comfortable.  Winry and the Elric brothers continued to be the young terrors of Risembool.  They didn’t spend so much time playing games of pretend, games began to feel a little too hollow, the real world to spread about them a little too real, for them to want to play at being legendary alchemists or heroes of myth.  At least Winry supposed that was Ed’s reasoning.  She herself had never been that passionate about larger than life fantasies, only happy to follow in the brothers’ wake and familiarize herself with the wide, sprawling country.  They still wandered, free as the wind, ditching school to alternately be an annoyance underfoot, and help out in the surrounding farms.  Ed and Al studied their father’s books, advancing in alchemy in leaps and bounds, while Winry spent more and more time helping Granny with automail surgery.  But the year that Winry was nine, in the spring shortly after Alphonse’s birthday, the Elrics left.

It was an inevitable sort of thing, the Elrics were never the sort of people who stayed, and there had been a kind of frantic energy in them, ever since their mother died, that only built and built as time went on.  They said they had learned all they could from their father’s books, and were looking for a teacher, which was fair and true enough, even if Winry would have preferred if they were more patient.

“Those boys,” Granny said, “Will either kill themselves or change the world.  There's no stopping them either way.”

As someone who had spent two years trying and failing to tell the Elrics what to do, Winry supposed she was an expert.  

As for Winry, she felt a little lonely and strangely left out, but she didn’t have much time to dwell on it.  

Not long after, in that same year, the Rockbells received a telegram.  Winry’s parents were dead.

Winry stared blankly at the typed words.  There wasn’t much in the way of typewriters in Risembool.  Print was for the newspapers and schoolbooks, impersonal, having nothing to do with her.  Winry stared at the odd, blocky letters, and it didn’t feel real, like a story from somewhere far away.

Well, she supposed it was that, technically.  

Granny had tears in her eyes.  That was the surrealest part of all.  Granny and crying did not belong in the same universe.

Winry didn’t cry.  She thought she should.  She had cried for Mrs. Elric, she should cry for her own mother.  But she didn’t. 

It didn't feel any different, was the strange thing.  She caught herself forgetting.  Wondering if her parents would send a letter, wondering if she should write, and then remembering that they were dead.  She hadn’t written them in months.

When Mrs. Elric died it had been like the entire world had shifted, like she had left an eternal hole In Ed and Al, a gaping, black void that could never be filled.  There had been a fire in Edward’s eyes, a rage, all consuming, roaring, unstoppable.  There had been an emptiness in Alphonse’s, less noticeable, quiet, but vast, and to Winry, at least, who knew them so well, both before and after, far more frightening.

Winry looked at herself in the mirror, and she didn’t see any difference at all.

Then she did cry.  Curled up on her bed, wondering what was wrong with her, that she wasn’t broken, and feeling ridiculous for it.  She cried.  For her parents, for Ed and Al, for something she couldn’t reach, and didn’t know.

The Elrics, she knew, were hardly a good template for healthy grieving, but they were the only example she knew of children who had lost their parents.  

She had grieved her parents once, when she was five years old and lonely.  She had been so very sad then, those first few months.  She tried to remember it.  Tried to feel what her younger self had felt for parents who were so very large and kind and real.  But all the edges were blunted.  She thought her mother’s hair had been light brown, but she couldn’t be sure.  She wondered if it had actually been blond, and she had blended her with Mrs. Elric.

She had grieved once, when she was five years old, but she had not understood then.  And she had been so sure they would be back soon.  Maybe a few months, maybe a year, and for a five year old that was practically forever, but then again it was nothing like forever at all.

She had not quite grieved when her parents left, and now, four years later, it was too late, and she grieved the loss of her grieving.

The Elrics came back in March, just after Winry’s tenth birthday.  The Elrics came back as, Winry realized, she had never doubted they would.  She and Granny welcomed them home with plenty of yelling, and all the hugs they would allow (some, in Al’s case, and very few, accompanied by loud protestations in Ed’s).

Ed had always had a knack for getting into fights, and Al had always had always had a knack for getting out of them, one way or another.  But now it seemed that someone had gone and given them actual training, which was vaguely terrifying.  They also seemed to have found their alchemy teacher, and were brimming with alchemical ambition.  

Given all of that, and given that Winry herself was now something of a full time apprentice/assistant to Granny, and had to attend school at least three days out of five because Granny said so (and Winry wasn’t the sort of girl who ran off and disregarded everything her legal guardian said just because she wasn’t her “real parents”) they didn’t spend as much time together as they used to.  But still, it was good to have them back, even if “back” sometimes just meant she could see the lights on next door at three o’clock in the morning.  It was comforting to know they weren’t off who knows where in the wide, wide world, like somehow she could watch over them.

What time they did spend together, they mostly spent in Mr. Hohenheim’s study, talking.  Ed and Al were only interested in Science, they considered themselves to be adults now, and had left more childish pursuits behind.  At barely-ten-years-old, Winry thought this might be just a little premature, but then again, who was she to say no to Science?

So she and the Elric boys spent long happy hours debating the merits of different metals and alloys.  Ed and Al knew all sorts of things about atomic structures and the interactions between elements that Winry was eager to learn.  They seemed to have returned from their journey of self discovery with a keen interest in anatomy and human biology, and Winry happily answered all the questions she knew, and looked up what she didn’t with them. 

There were some things, of course, that Winry didn’t know, and neither did Granny, automail was hardly a general field.  Risembool didn’t have a library, or much that could satisfy the Elrics’ voracious appetite for knowledge.  Mr. Hohenheim had quite a bit about biological alchemy, but of course the boys had read it all through multiple times by now.

My parents would have known, Winry thought.  Odd, how she thought of them more now that they were dead than she ever had when they were alive.

Thinking of her parents, though, gave her an idea. “We could take the train to the City, just over the weekend,” Winry said, “They have the library there, it’s free and they let anyone read the books, at least the medical ones.”

“Why didn’t I think of that,”  Ed said.

Winry asked Granny’s permission to go to the City, because she was polite (yes, really) and not an Elric.  Granny gave it in the way that meant she knew perfectly well that her asking was just a formality.  The way of a person who did not exactly think that her grandaughter taking an overnight train to a large city with only two other children for company was exactly a good idea, but who had more or less discovered the uselessness of “putting your foot down” when a couple of recently bereaved little boys had concluded that the concept of adult supervision was optional.

It was strange to be in the City again.  She had forgotten what it smelled like, and yet it was simultaneously the most familiar scent in the world.  She hadn’t been here since she was five years old, and early childhood felt like another dimension, which she was now looking in on from the outside, too big to fit in it, and too small to reach its bigness.

Ed and Al took the lead as they headed out through the city in search of the library, and that was its own sort of strangeness.  Edward always led the way at home, of course.  He was, as he was always reminding her, the oldest.  But Winry could remember when they were all very small, and she told them stories of the City, how she had told them there were buildings made of concrete that went up and up and up, and had metal inside for bones, and how Eward and Alphonse had stared at her with wide, wide eyes and didn’t believe a word.  Now they were Men of the World, and she was only a little girl from Risembool, who could hardly believe that the buildings went up so high without falling over, even if they were smaller than she remembered.

Or, well, really Ed and Al were still only a pair of small, country boys, even if Ed thought he was a man, and they were doing their fair share of wide-eyed staring.  But Alphonse knew how to weaponize that, and got them good directions instead of muggings.  As always, Alphonse was a little terrifying. 

They reached the library and Ed and Al were in love.  The rows upon rows of books were certainly impressive, but personally Winry preferred places with more grease and metal and an actual human patient, alive and messy.  Books were important and necessary for understanding what you were doing, but she preferred the doing, she’d take metal and gears and good old fashioned elbow grease over the library any day.  But then, that was alchemists for you, alchemy was all theory that sometimes somehow became reality.  Or blew up in your face.

That being said, Winry still dove headfirst into this treasure trove of knowledge, and she was surprised to learn just how much she already knew about medicine.  Ed and even Alphonse were geniuses in such a loud, flashy sort of way, they shone so very brightly, that Winry had never thought of herself as anything exceptional, she was the ordinary to balance out their ridiculousness.  So it was a bit of a shock to realize that at the age of ten she knew more about, say, the human nervous system than most doctors.

Eventually though, Winry got bored of arguing with the Elrics about exactly how much selenium there was in the human body (answer: who the hell cares?) and wandered over to the mechanical engineering section instead.

Looking back, Winry could hardly believe she hadn’t realized the boys were about to do something incredibly stupid, as though as long as they were right in front of her nothing bad could happen.

One night Winry was woken by a loud, metallic banging sound.  When she ran down the stairs and opened the door, a huge suit of armor was carrying most of Edward Elric. 

Winry had never once been sick at the sight of the parts of a human that were never meant to be seen beneath the skin and flesh, and she refused to be sick now.  Instead, she scrambled to stop the bleeding and tried to remember what blood type Ed was.  Granny was there moments after Winry was, and together they managed to mostly keep him from leaking and get him to surgery where they got some replacement blood into him.  The suit of armor had Alphonse’s voice, but that was a problem for later.

Ed wasn’t dead. That’s all that could be said for him, really, he wasn’t dead.

In the end, Alphonse told them the story of it, how he and Ed had tried to bring their mother back, how Ed had traded his arm for Alphonse’s soul and sealed him into the armor.  It all sounded like some sort of nightmareish fairytale. 

She and Granny manhandled Ed into a wheelchair in the morning, and manhandled him into the Granny had made up for him all those years ago when Mrs. Elric died.  He looked terrifyingly small with half his limbs gone, he looked terrifyingly small, broken and quiet and defeated.  Ed spent the days sitting in his wheelchair, silent and unmoving, like a dead thing.  Alphonse sat next to him in a heap of metal, silent and perfectly still, like something that had never been alive.  It was difficult to keep from staring at Ed.  Winry was used to seeing people who were missing limbs, some of them chose to get automail and some of them didn’t, but it was Ed’s quiet that was so loud, so wrong, so impossible to ignore. 

Winry didn’t know what to do.  She wanted to scream at Ed, she wanted to help somehow, she wanted to snap him out of it.  But Winry had matured since she was seven.  She knew that wasn’t how trauma worked, she knew better than to yell at people who were hurt.  So Winry tried to be quiet and she tried to be kind.  It only added to the bizarreness of the situation, and if Ed were in any state to notice would have found it very creepy.  (Alphonse did notice, and later he would tell her that he appreciated the effort, but please never be nice again.)

Then, a random soldier walked into their house, yelled at Ed, and snapped him out of it.

If anyone asked, Winry wouldn’t have been able to explain why it needed to be her who made the automail, she just knew that it had to be.  It had something to do with Ed, the way that he prickled at charity, the way he could never quite trust Granny, even if he loved her very much deep down, and it had something to do with Winry, the way he was her best friend, the way she felt responsible, and the way that this felt like a milestone with no turning back, one the Elrics had already crossed and she needed to be a part of.

Winry was ready.  She knew her way around a wrench and a scalpel.  She had been helping Granny for years, and she was very good at it.  She knew she was ready, and she knew it had to be Ed.

Granny did not ask questions when Winry told her what she wanted. She only looked her up and down, as if weighing every inch of her.

“Alright,”  Granny said, “Do it properly then.”

Winry did do it properly.  She kept her construction of the arm and leg simple, even though her mind was buzzing with innovations she wanted to try out.  She only made sure that it was easy to modify as Ed grew taller and she found ways of improving it.

And at the age of eleven, Winry performed her first surgery.  

When Winry Rockbell was eleven years old she walked with her two best friends to the train platform.  She hugged Al even though he couldn’t feel it, because she knew he would appreciate it anyway.  She didn’t hug Ed, because she knew he wouldn’t appreciate it, and because she thought if she hugged him she might never let go.  She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry, she had been sure she wouldn’t, but she cried, a little, anyway.

“You understand why we have to go, right?” Ed asked, with that pinched look he had always gotten on his face when she cried for as long as she could remember.

“Of course,”  Winry said with a firm nod of her head.  Because despite all the times over the past year she’d yelled at him and called him an idiot, all the times she tried to change his mind, of course she understood.

So the Elrics went away to join the military, and Winry stood on the train platform in Risembool and watched them go.

[ansgar-martinsson]

Fair Winds and a Following Sky - Part 3

Kaffe Lilljekvist,  Malmskillnadsgatan 50, Stockholm, Sweden. 9:42 am, 20 July.

Fair Sky hitched her backpack higher on her shoulder. Between the heft of it, the heaviness of her fatigue, the heat of the day, and the lurch of jetlag, she felt as if the world were weighing her down. 

The pockmarked, tattoo-necked teenager at the fifteen-dollar-a-night hostel had told her that the cafe’ was within walking distance -- just a left and a few rights and another left and she’d be there in no time. Well, she surmised after getting lost, consulting the maps app on her phone, after plotting and replotting the route, after twenty-five minutes of walking -- that the Swedish must have a different idea of “walking distance” than she, or most Americans, did.

By the time she arrived at the end of the street named Malmskillnadsgatan - a name that had taken her five tries to even pronounce correctly - she figured she’d walked at least two and a half miles; and by the time she’d reached No. 50 on that street, her feet were, quite literally, dragging beneath her.

She’d intended to get there at half past nine, with the understanding that Ansgar Martinsson would be there at quarter ‘til ten; and that she could have a cup of coffee and some sort of unfamiliar Swedish pastry, take a few minutes to collect herself, and be fresh for when she....

When she....

When I what? She sighed, lowering herself gingerly, achingly into a padded, high-backed armchair, a small table before her and a massive window beside her. She dropped her backpack on the floor, the weight of it making a loud whump! and slumped into the chair, elbow perched on the arm, chin buried in her hand. “How the hell am I supposed to do this? What do I say?”

She sat up, straightening herself in the chair. She adjusted her high ponytail, faced out the window, took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. “Hello,” she whispered, trying out the phrase. “Hm, no.” She shook her head, grimacing. “How about.... Been a while, hasn’t it?” Again, she rejected that, clearing her throat. “Or....” she groaned, her breath held while her mind churned. “Fuck....” she swore, and swiftly dropped her head into her hand. “You’re an idiot, stupid... stupid....”

“Kan jag hjalpa dig?” 

“What?” Anna jumped, startled. “Sorry, I...I don’t,....”

“Oh, English, ja,” the waitress smiled, took a breath and spoke again. “May I help you? Would you like a kaffe?”

“Yes, please, I...,” she stammered. “Just... just a black coffee.”

“Iced?” the girl inquired, pointing out the window with her pencil. “Sunny day... it’s hot outside, no?” 

“I... yes” Anna replied, feeling somehow calmed by the idea of an iced coffee, by the girl’s manner, by her quite un-Swedish looking rounded face and dark hair. “Yes, that would be nice.”

“Right away,” the girl nodded, stuck her pencil in her apron pocket, and stepped away. 

“Wait,” Anna stopped her, a hand on her elbow. “Just a second, please.”

“Would you like something else, miss?”

Anna sighed, “I... um....,” she hesitated. “I guess I’m looking for someone, someone who should be here by now, but I haven’t seen him come in yet.” She pointed out the window toward the front door. “He probably should have been here about five minutes ago.”

“Are you meeting him here?” the girl peered around the nearly empty cafe. “Not too many people today, not with the heat.”

“I’ve been told he comes in here a lot... for... for... what’s that called?”

“Fika?” the girl smiled. “Everyone who comes in here is having fika.” The girl lowered herself down to Anna’s level, sitting back on her haunches. “Tell me, though. What does he look like, this man you’re meeting? Maybe I can help you.”

“He’s um....” Anna began, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “I haven’t seen him in a long time, but, well... he’s tall, very tall, and fit, about thirty-seven years old.” She licked her rapidly drying lips. “He’s got blue eyes, kind of longer, brownish wavy hair... and I think... he has a little beard thing, around his mouth,” she indicated, her fingers circling her lips. “Sort of like that.”

“Handsome, is he? Dresses well?”

“Yes,” Anna nodded. “That... that sounds like him.”

“Hm,” the girl’s lips twisted and her eyes narrowed -- a sage, knowing, yet wary expression. She braced herself on the edge of Anna’s chair and turned her head, her neck craning to peer toward the back of the coffee house, up through a square opening in a dividing wall. “Looks like he’s sitting in his usual spot, if that’s who you’re looking for.” She lifted her chin in indication, and shifted her gaze back to Anna. “Are you, by chance, looking for Herr Martinsson? Ansgar Martinsson?”

Anna followed the girl’s gaze, and caught sight of the back of his head. Him... unmistakable, even from the back. Him... Her blood went cold. She swallowed, inhaled hard, and exhaled sharply. She sat back in the chair as if she could hide within it, as if it could swallow her up and transport her magically, Harry Potter-like back to Oklahoma. Her hands had gone numb and her eyes felt dry and hollow at the sight of him, even from a distance, at the sound of his name... of his real name. 

“I er... I suppose I am.”

The girl stood and peered down at Anna, still smiling. Her face lost no sign of amiability, but her words cut Anna to the core. “Good luck with that,” she said, not sharp or unfriendly, but not warm either. “You’ll probably need it.”

“Please,” Anna breathed, her fingers once again twisting in her lap, “don’t tell him... don’t... don’t say anything to him about... about me.”

The girl nodded. “Of course not,” she lifted one shoulder, her lips curling downward in an ennui-laden expression. “We don’t ever really talk to him. And you know,” she added, pointing out the window, “you wouldn’t have seen him if you kept watching the front door. He always comes in the back way. Anyway, I’ll just go get you your kaffe.”  And with that, she was gone.

And Anna was left, once again, alone.

She shuddered, hunkering even further down in her chair, if that were at all possible. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, and peered, shaking, out the window. After a moment, she turned her head, cocked it, and chanced a second glance through the square opening, and found him still sitting there, his straight, proud back to the rest of the cafe. “Fuck this,” she spat, once again whispering to herself. “Fuck this... fear.”

What is he? Is he some kind of asshole? Will I end up hating him? Will he... will he send me away? Was I wrong about him? Was he... was he dishonest with me? Well, of course, you idiot. Of course he was dishonest with you. Never even told you his real name!  But... was he... did he pretend to want me? Did he pretend to ... to like me? Oh, God... God, was I wrong... was I wrong to come here? 

She closed her eyes and forced herself to rest back into the chair. She breathed deeply, trying desperately to calm herself, to meditate on the voice of her spirit, of the voice of her mother, listening for her wisdom, her spirit. And, as always, her mother came through. “Remember him, think of him as he was with you, that is who he is, let your spirit find him and you won’t be afraid....”  

And so, she did. Just for a moment -- fleeting, a split second -- did she find him. Him. The feeling of who he’d been with her -- it was suddenly all there, all at once, all in place. She saw him clearly in the eye of her spirit.

Him... with a tool belt slung low around his waist, shaggy beard, long hair tied back in a ponytail, baseball cap on his head, borrowed old t-shirt and jeans covered with sawdust and whitewash paint. Happy. Smiling. 

Oh, that smile -- he took a tall, icy, dripping sweet tea from her hands and drank deep, bursting forth with a loud “ah!” at the end of it. The plastic cup clattered as he slammed it, satisfied, on to the saw horse. He swept her close to him with one arm, his other still curled casually around the rung of the aluminum ladder. He kissed her then, long and hard and wanting. With a moan, he pulled back, grinned yet again, and asked, a wicked glint in his eye, “What’s for supper darling? I’m fucking starving,” he winked. “Or maybe I’m just starving for a fuck.”

She felt herself relax, even smile a little, as she breathed. Her spirit cleansed her, washed out all the doubt, all the negative opinions of others she’d heard over the last twenty-four hours. For a moment, she actually felt him beside her, felt his presence; his presence a wonderful thing -- the light to drown out all of those that called him a “shark” or told her “good luck” when it came to talking to him, those in the media who had called him ruthless, crude, arrogant, sharpish, and shrewd. 

She sighed, deep and long, and, feeling ready, feeling centered, feeling... brave...  she finally opened her eyes.

“Ah! Shit!” she cried, scared out of her wits by the man himself, standing, no... lording over her. His shoulders were square, back straight, his hands folded calmly at his waist. Yet, his hardened, fixated eyes, tight lips, and sharply cocked eyebrow telegraphed his confusion, shock..., and anger.

“Do you mind telling me what the fuck you are doing here?”

[civilorange]

once i was here,

yasha remember those months. // ao3

________________________________________________________________

Whole forevers pass as you sit in the quiet place inside yourself.

Deep within the recesses of your mind you linger with a palpable fear of what exactly you’re capable of. You watch hands that have always been yours raise the rusted edge of Skingorger and plunge it into the soft stomach of a weathered monk in blue—his eyes bulge, and his mouth parts in a harrowing howl.

Bodies do the strangest things as they die—they shake and tremble, thrumming around the edge of your blade as their muscles contract and press harder on the untended metal. And then something inside goes far away, and they slacken.

You’ve always known this, but watching it now as you are—a guest (a ghost) in your own body—you really see how the color crawls away in his eyes. You see the exact moment he dies.

“Oh, wonderful, Orphanmaker,” Obann drawls, his oily presence sliding through your mind, inking through the edges and pushing you further and further away from the view of what your body is doing. “You’ve made me such a lovely playground to play in.”

Tearing your blade free, the blood spurts and he slumps—his blood so red against the pale floor, the sound of his body collapsing echoing through the halls.

Before that night in the cavern—before Obann, before the Laughing Hand, just before—there had always been the faintest roll of thunder in your ears, just for you. Reminding you that no matter what might seem to be, you’ve never really been alone.

But now there’s only silence.

Cold and heavy.

You strain, trying to rush forward through the dark to throw yourself back into your body—to control those red soaked hands of yours. They’ve been red for weeks now, Obann doesn’t care how it makes your heart ache to see the red grow brown and stiff on the joints of your fingers.

How you watch it flake off in the night, the tips of your fingers rubbing together to turn it into the finest of dust. Absent, considering.

You keep a tally in your mind—one, two, three—of how many bodies you leave in your wake—ten, eleven, twelve—but after a while you stop. You stop trying to remember what your body does in your absence, what your horrible hands do with no hesitation as Obann whispers bitter little words into the shell of your ear.

“Soon, Orphanmaker,” he says often, late into the night, the rattling wheeze of the Laughing Hand growing slow and sluggish as the hours pass in almost silence—the softest chuckle drifting from what must be the litany of mouths carved into his enormous bulk.

.

Some nights, long after the sun has fallen, you’re given a gift.

It isn’t every night, it isn’t even one night in a handful, but often enough—there’s a voice. A twinkling voice that makes you feel lighter, makes you feel less like the monster you know you are—and probably have always been.

“Heey Yasha, it’s me—Jester.”

Always soft, always like she’s trying not to wake someone. You wonder where she is in the world—the Empire? The Dynasty? Somewhere totally new?

You can’t close your eyes where you are so deep down inside, but you can imagine her—bright eyes, infectious smile, a warmth to her that had nothing to do with heat. A warmth that bleeds across miles—realms for all you know—and touches the cold edges of you. “Just—wanted to let you know what we’ve been doing. We made a friend—she’s an aasimar! Do you know—…”

You want to respond, you know logically you can—but you’re unable to. Your fists clench, and your mouth parts—you can feel it, but nothing comes out. You sit in silence.

Always silence.

.

Except when there isn’t.

.

“Heey, Yasha. Did you know Fjord’s accent isn’t even real? He actually sounds pre-tty sophis-i-ti-cated. He told Uk’otoa—(Uk’otoa)—to go fuck off and threw—…”

.

“We—lost Nott today, she died and this might not even reach you. And you’re lost too, and I don’t even know what we’re doing—…”

That had made something inside you crumble, something otherwise untouched—a piece of you that Obann couldn’t scratch away with dirty nails and oily words.

Nott died? Jester had sounded sad, had sounded despondent, but—she didn’t sound devastated. You think of how she had screamed your name as those doors closed, how no one had ever sounded so…broken…about you.

You’re the one left behind—or, you were, before you started leaving first.

No, she didn’t sound devastated.

So you hope.

.

“Soooo, thought about that message and was like Oh My God, Yasha probably thinks Nott’s dead, and no, no, no, we got her back. She—…”

You’ll never know what she was going to do, say, or be, but you’re relieved. As relieved as you can be as your body burns with anger and your sword gouges through another hapless body. Fodder, Obann had laughingly called them. People who had no hope of standing against you, no hope of holding up the weight of your downward swing—you’re so very good at killing, even before Obann you’d known this, but there’s a disconcerting freedom now.

As if the shackles that cage you now are so very different from the self-imposed ones you’ve always chosen to bind yourself with.

You’ve always been a tamed monster, but now—now you’re on the loose.

Tethered only with the ill-intention of a creature burning red with hellish eyes.

.

“Heey, it’s me—again. Just—checking in. I—saw today. You…probably feel pretty bad, and I want you to know I know it isn’t—…”

There’s a crackle in your ears for the first time in so long, the electricity skittering over your chin and down the back of your neck eases the burn of Obann’s command. The voice—Jester’s voice—eases you even more. The Stormlord might be your salvation, but Jester—Jester’s something more tangible. On your best nights you think of her as family, the entire Nein, but on your worst nights you consider them your punishment.

Those who you’ll always disappoint.

But tonight, with Obann’s burn in your blood, and the Stormlord’s lightening crawling across your skin, you need her. You need this simple connection of someone who cares—this reminder that you are you, even if your body isn’t.

“—oh, sorry I got cut off. It isn’t you, and we’re going to get you back, I promise. Promise, promise. Keep fighting, Yasha. You’re so—…”

Because Jester thinks Yasha, and that is you.

It will always be you.

.

As the clouds whisper away and the sky is clear, you find the most beautiful flower. It’s gold, and purple, and red—swirling together, you’ve never seen one like it before. Your chin against the new breastplate Obann has fostered onto you—wrist thick tusks curling over shoulders, cracked leather and metal sticking to the blood and sweat on your skin.

You want to hold it, this beautiful untouched piece of nature—you want to touch something without ruining it for the first time in months.

You watch absently as your hand reaches out and graces just a fingertip against a petal that reminds you so very much of Mollymauk.

Somehow, you know that you can force your fingers to pluck it free, you know that Obann doesn’t see any worth in this silly little weed. You know. So you swim closer to that slanted reality that is just beyond you at every moment, for you don’t sleep when your body does, for you aren’t your body—you just exist in darkness.

You coax, and encourage, and plead, and after much hesitation, your body plucks it free from the ground—so simple, but it’s something you want.

It’s brilliant as you spin it between your fingers, the colors blurring into a kaleidoscope. You smile, your body does too, and with a smooth effort that gives you more hope than you should have—especially months into this—you tuck it away into your breastplate before Obann can see.

Before you’re forced to be just that much less you.

.

Obann talks. A lot.

The words drift and spin in the hollow emptiness around you, and you think he simply must like the sound of his own voice.

“Soon, Orphanmaker,” he says it so often, plodding along with a whip of the tail and a twitch of his wings. Soon to what, you don’t know. To the Angel of Irons, to a menagerie of death dealers, to some inevitable bloody end.

“She’ll love you,” his voice is soft, and you don’t think it should be. It should be razor blades and warning klaxons, it should be bright red and viciously wrong. “You’re perfectly broken. Your chains self-imposed and your hunger ageless.”

He’s whispering the word lovely while reaching out to cup your cheek, but there’s a splash of electricity over the curve of your jaw and into the growing black of your hair.

The darkness from where you’ve existed these months grows cold and darker somehow—and you feel it, you feel the bristling touch of that otherness inside that links you to something otherworldly.

Your wings snap open, swallowing the light and Obann’s eyes shrink, pupils going to pinpricks, his hand halting.

“You’re mine, Orphanmaker,” you want to scream that you’re not that person anymore, whoever they were, whoever you are right now. You’re Yasha. You’re a member of the Mighty Nein, you’re good.

But your wings are black and broken things, skeletal and cold.

His fingers shiver, and his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t come any closer, and your body might not see him as an enemy, but your soul does. You do.

He’s backing away, glaring, “soon.”

.

“Heeey Yasha, it’s me—Jester. Sorry it’s been a while, we were inside the Happy Fun Ball, and you wouldn’t believe what we found in—…”

.

Sometimes you don’t even notice the days without messages, without blood.

The only two things that catch your attention anymore.

“We’re coming, Yasha. I promise. There’s so much super important stuff I want to tell you. Soon.”

You can only smile, and it feels so odd when you can tell that your numb cheeks pull upward into one as well. You and your body, smiling, together.

She didn’t use all the words.

.

Soon turns out to be a chantry in Rexxentrum.

You scream at every step your body takes, you howl as your hands—still flaking rust colored blood—pulls Skingorger free from your back sheath. You’re chanting no, no, no, no but your lips won’t move. Your knuckles go white under the rust and there’s a burning anger welling up beneath your skin—you burn with it, you expel harrowing growls as your carve through the air, hacking and swiping, and intent on ruining these people you call family.

It gets worse, though, so much worse.

Nott’s face goes blank, and those bright eyes grow far away and you’re horrified for her—you’re worried, no, you’re terrified. You don’t want this for Nott, you don’t want her to ruin anything she might regret, and you don’t want her beautifully green hands to grow dark with blood.

Some part of you that’s still broken—and always will be—want to knock her unconscious before she can hurt herself in ways that have nothing to do with open wounds and spilled blood.

But your body turns, and the Skin-Gorger drags a sinister scratch across the floor, sparks dancing and trilling in the cacophony of chaos around you. Everything blurs and you wish that you could close your eyes and pretend that you aren’t going to carve your way through your friends.

Beauregard is beautiful in her movements, brilliant as she pushes Obann out of her mind, wonderful as she puts herself in front of her friends—her family—and the enemy. You. There’s blood on her tan skin, and bruises around her eyes, and you wish you could simply fall on your blade. Tumble forward and just end this.

But you’re not in control, and you do so much worse.

There’s a part of you that doesn’t wonder at how easily you slice through her, at how her body arches and spins and falls to the ground. How her blood isn’t even remarkable against all the rust still staining you—it with grow brown and turn to dust with age like every other ounce of life-force spilled on you.

Her blistering blue eyes close and her body goes slack and you scream—move, move, go—but your body rights itself and rotates the edge of the glaive so that you might be able to drive it down and into the center of her chest and ruin.

Red spurts and spills, and you can’t stop the shudder of your frame under the control.

You’re shaking as you turn, ripping the tip free, tears sliding through the rust staining your cheeks—a plea in your graveyard eyes. Asking, pleading, for someone to put you down.

You need to die before you kill anyone else.

.

After the doors close, and after the Nein gasps for what little breath they can be afforded, you lean against the wall. Skingorger in hand, but you wished you could still feel Magician’s Judge—you haven’t felt it in ages, the subtle touch of magic thrumming against your palms. The promise of a better tomorrow, of the truth being unveiled.

You watch them, each and every one of them—except Nott, who you will move heaven and earth to retrieve—and you sink down to your knees. You bow into yourself physically because you cannot do it mentally alone anymore—you are Yasha, body and soul, and you’ve missed being you.

.

“Jester,” you say, softer than soft, because you can’t help the flinch at the guarded look Fjord gives you, his fingers curling like he might wish to pull his new blade from the ether. But Jester—

—sweet, stronger than them all Jester—who could still smile after everything. Who still looks at you like someone she loves, despite every reason you’ve given her to the contrary. She hops up and over to you, clasping your hands in hers and pressing her horns against your collarbones like Mollymauk used to. The blunt scrape is comforting, the weight of her more-so.

“I missed you,” she says into your chest, and you can feel the wet drip of her tears soaking into your rust flaking clothing. “I missed you so much.”

You don’t move at first, don’t dare move, but her relief in infectious—like her laughter, and her smile—and you can only last so long before you’re clutching her to you. She’s talking, but you can’t hear her, and you don’t think the actual words really matter. No, they’re pretty unimportant—it’s the scratch of her nails into the fabric of your cloak, and the shake of her shoulders as she cries.

“Thank you,” you say, squeezing your graveyard eyes closed for a moment, trying ot push away all the bad so that you can focus on Jester’s good.

“I didn’t do anything, it was Caduceus.” Extending her to arm’s length, you smile—an awkwardly unsure expression, you know—and shake your head, because she doesn’t know.

“Not for,” she stumble, grimacing. “Not for—for that. For—for thinking of me. For sending all those messages. I—…” You want to be elegant and charming, you want to say exactly what you feel, and want her to understand that she’s most of the reason there was still someone for Caduceus to save. That she reached you when the Stormlord couldn’t—that for a few months she was stronger than any deity.

You reach into the hard edge of your breastplate, pulling free the flattened flower that had reminded you so much of Mollymauk. It’s discolored after so many days hidden away, but it’s still beautiful. Reaching out you tuck it behind her ear, and smile.

“—…I heard you.”