#if she’d even said ‘there was a sink in the shed’ i probably would’ve believed all of this lol. we were 14!

[fingertipsmp3]

I think the weirdest lie I’ve been told by a pathological liar was when this friend I had in secondary school told us all she got kicked out of her house and was living in like a random shed and didn’t have access to a bathroom or electricity, and everyone was somehow believing her, and I was just looking at her like.. your hair is straightened, teeth brushed, you washed your face and you smell of soap

[heartsofbeskar]

from the ashes

chapter 7 | read on AO3

din djarin x oc

WARNINGS: violence, blood, mild torture, swearing, mentions of gambling

WORDS: 5.2K

EXCERPT: Knives had always been his last choice, a last resort when his firearms failed him or were no longer an option. They were inefficient in his brutish hands, often requiring close contact and were never a guarantee to kill. But in hers … they were more than just knives, they were instruments, that she played effortlessly to sing a serenade of violence.

He wondered if the Force had anything to do with it, or if she just had that many years of practice.

“You and that casino operator seemed close,” he continued musing into the silent space between them. There were no indications she had heard him, but he knew she had. Maker knew why, Din decided to push his luck. “Did you fuck her?”

MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST

PREV | NEXT

Din’s mind whirled faster than light speed as they ran back to her ship.

I am not a Jedi.

The words echoed over and over again. But she had to be … right? Or at least some kind of trainee, like Grogu was. He let his mind dwell on the small foundling. How he’d been able to lift impossible weights for his tiny body, how he’d healed terminal injuries— how he’d choked Cara just as Ten had choked the security officer who’d held a blaster to her head.

But there was no pretending Ten was some helpless creature that just happened to be overloaded with this weird power. She was a grown woman, a trained fighter. She wielded it with precision. She had to have learned how to do that somewhere, somehow.

I am not a Jedi.

The Empire … they chased me too.

If she wasn’t a Jedi, why would the Empire pursue her?

I never knew why—I still don’t.

Had she just lied to him? His skin felt like it was on fire. He didn’t know why the prospect of that bothered him so much. Many people had lied to him before, and he in turn had told many lies. His whole identity was built around an air of secrecy, but … it had felt like an intimate capsule of time, back on that asteroid. Where a barrier had slipped, for the both of them. Din didn’t want to consider it had all been false.

I am not a Jedi.

The ship entered his view, the distance closing much faster than before. Ten didn’t look back at him as she opened the hold and headed directly into the cockpit. He didn’t follow her in.

He sat on the nearest crate, shedding his gloves. He pressed the palms of his hands into his helmet, as if it were skin. A part of him … hoped she was Jedi. That she could get in contact with the ones who had taken Grogu. That he could see him again. Maybe even…

Din shook his head forcefully as he felt the ship jump to hyperspace. It was stupid and wishful for him to dwell on those things.

Ten emerged from the cockpit, avoiding his eyes. She was still wearing her cloak as she hurried into the refresher, and then towards where he sat, holding a small metal box now. He straightened.

“You’re bleeding,” she pointed out. She sat down next to him and rifled through the box. Her thigh pressed against his, and Din had the inexplicable urge to jerk away, which he ignored. He furrowed his brow beneath his helmet, turning to examine himself and — ah. A blaster graze was indeed on his arm, the fabric torn away just below the pauldron. Blood slowly dripped down onto the sleeve.

Setting the box on the ground, she slowly brought her hands up to grip the edges of his pauldron. They stilled there, her eyes lifting to his. Asking for permission. He nodded.

She pried the metal off his arm, and he groaned. He could feel the sting now, the frayed nerves hit by blaster fire. She ripped the fabric further up his arm, exposing the burn and his tanned skin.

“It’s not too bad, just partially got past the beskar,” she muttered, running her fingers over the surrounding area. They were cold, Din noticed. She touched him with a gentleness that didn’t suit her face.

As she began to wipe grime off the area, she said quietly, “Aren’t you going to ask?”

Din turned his face to look in hers, but her eyes were down, staying focused on the burn. Her brows were furrowed. He didn’t even know what the question would be. He settled for silence as she finished cleaning his arm, then reached for a small can of bacta spray.

“This’ll sting.” She began to spray the area. It did sting, but Din registered it only in some far away portion of his mind. He wanted to take the opportunity she’d opened, but his mind was still grasping at the formulation of a thought that didn’t sound … well, stupid.

As she placed a patch on the now scarring burn, he gave up.

“How can you do that if you’re not a Jedi?”

Her eyes finally flickered back up to meet his. “The Jedi do not have nor have they ever had exclusive control over the Force.”

“The Force … that’s where those … powers come from, right?”

She straightened from where she’d been rearranging the first aid box and gave a small laugh. Din … wasn’t sure he’d heard that sound from her before. Not like this.

“Powers, that’s…” she shook her head. “That’s cute, Mandalorian. Yes, the Force is what enables me to do the things most can’t. But it’s all a matter of someone’s connection.”

Ten stood, heading back to the refresher. Din couldn’t help but follow. The questions seemed to be falling out of his mouth now. Grogu had never been able to tell him anything about his powers. It felt as if by learning more he could be closer to him, somehow. Understand his son and the extraordinary life he had lived.

“Connection? What does that mean?”

She half turned towards him, shrugging off her cloak and then her jacket. Wraps encased her forearms, as Din had always seen. She raised an eyebrow at him.

“You’re more curious about this than I thought you would be,” she remarked. Facing the mirror, she turned on the tap.

“You just incapacitated someone without even touching them.”

“A blaster can do that as well,” she said, leaning down and splashing water onto her face. The edges of her hair brushed the sink ledge, the dark strands wetting slightly. Din scoffed.

“A blaster doesn’t—” he stopped. He rubbed a hand along the edge of his helmet, realizing his gloves were still off. “Why did you lie to me before? About the Empire?”

Ten spun quickly to face him, water droplets still dripping down the planes of her face. She narrowed her eyes. “I never lied to you. That armour, your helmet, that’s your Creed. This is mine. Hiding my connection from the Force is the only way I’ve lived all these years. If you were anyone else … I would’ve killed you already.”

Her eyes stayed locked on his helmet, not even blinking. He believed her. And he knew, he could tell, it was something she’d done before. He understood, so he nodded, slowly.

As she passed, he placed a hand on her arm. “I wouldn’t betray you to the Empire.”

She placed a hand on top of his. Din was acutely aware of their bare skin touching. He could feel the texture of her skin. It was softer than he had expected. Was everything about her softer than it appeared?

“People I’ve known for years have sold me out to the Empire. I’ve only known you for less than a month.”

—

Her vision was muddied with the blood that had erupted from her face. It clung to her lashes, falling into her eye, and she tried to rapidly blink it away. Ten spit it out when it accumulated into her mouth. She was afraid to touch her face, afraid of what she would find there.

Good morning, beautiful. Antilles had greeted her that way nearly every morning for as long as she’d known him. Beautiful. She supposed she probably wasn’t, not anymore. Quell had seen to that.

The troopers took turns shoving her with their rifles to move her along. Her ankle screamed its objections, and Ten couldn’t even tell through the blood and sweat if there were tears.

She cried out as she tripped over something hard, falling forward and landing on her forearms. A metal surface. This must be their ship, she realized. A shudder went through her. She tried desperately to reach out to the Force, to feel its steady rhythm beneath her own breathing, but it felt too far away. Pushed down by her own panic.

Someone grabbed her by the collar of her shirt now, pulling her along beside them. She felt them ascending a ramp and then she was unceremoniously thrown towards the floor. Panting, she rested the uncut half of her face on the cool surface under her. Voices filtered through the ship to her ears.

“The asset is secure. We should prepare to leave immediately. You—” A snapping noise. Quell’s voice. “Clean this up, dispose of this waste.”

A different voice responded. “Sir, if I may, it was specified that the asset be delivered unharmed.”

Quell barked a laugh. “The bitch is fine. Surface level, nothing more. It’ll heal and she’ll be just as useful to the Empire as before.”

Ten felt her eyes burning, and she knew now there were undoubtedly tears. She couldn’t muster the effort to be ashamed. Some of the blood cleared from her eye. She focused on the crate that sat directly in front of her, counting the letters of the logo stamped to the side. Footsteps echoed off the metal, louder as they drew closer to her.

“We’re about to have some fun.”

With a small gasp, Ten’s eyes flew open. The hammock she lay in was gently swaying with the movements of the ship. She slowly ran a hand over her cheek. Dry.

She was alone in the ship’s hold. The engines were humming softly. She flexed her hand in front of her; it was still a little sore. One of the wraps on her arm had slipped down as she’d slept. Ten absentmindedly rubbed the tattooed “10” on her forearm. Years ago, she used to rub the skin until it was raw, sometimes on the verge of bleeding. But the ink always remained buried beneath.

Swinging her legs over the side of the hammock, she signed, rubbing the back of her neck. She hadn’t had an outburst like that with the Force in … well, she didn’t like to dwell on the last time it had happened. At least this time hadn’t been disastrous. Maybe she really was in more control, had somehow mastered the connections with no guidance. Or she was just simply fooling herself. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Mando’s footsteps filtered to her as they came down the short hallway. Ten hurriedly rewrapped her arm as he came into view. He’d put his pauldron back on, but not bothered yet to change his shirt — she could still see some of the bare skin around where he’d been burned. The feeling of it under her fingers echoed in her mind.

As he walked towards her, she was hit with the sudden realization of him knowing … and being a Mandalorian, at that. She remembered laying under the stars, Silya’s warm arm wrapped around her. Telling her tales of the ancient days of Mandalore, of their clashes with the Jedi. The enemies of all Mandalorians. Is that how he would view her now? Did she care? She was annoyed that the first response in her mind wasn’t no, of course not.

It felt like she was being laid bare in front of him.

“I went over the communication logs we downloaded.” His helmet was downturned, looking at the holopad in front of him. “The Empire usually slingshots its transmissions around Corellia, Issiluu, and Shih, in specific patterns. I don’t see any of that in here.”

Ten rubbed a hand over her face. “That would make sense, given the levels of security. The Empire would never leave their conspirator without at least a few troopers on the property.”

“We should choose who to check out next so we can get going,” he said, fingers moving quickly over the holopad screen. She rose from the hammock, muscles protesting. He’d put his gloves back on, she noticed. She followed him into the cockpit.

Settling into the co-pilot seat, he pulled up the holographic display which began listing Karga’s associates. He tapped his finger in the corner and it began scrolling through their details.

“I still think we should focus on those who were known to deal in weapons or adjacent industries during the height of the Empire,” Mando’s voice hummed in the background as Ten watched the names go by, along with the imagery of their various business pursuits. They were beginning to blur together and Ten sighed when— she saw it.

“Stop,” she demanded harshly. The screen had already moved forward. Mando’s helmet jerked in her direction. “Go back one. Another one. There— stop it here.”

Ten leaned forward, examining the information. It was the profile of Doman Tosche. He looked mild mannered enough, round face slightly reddened in the display picture. He owned a myriad of businesses in the Core, primarily food and household goods, which he’d recently been exporting further out. The only known connection to the Empire, based on their combined records and knowledge, was a second cousin who’d enlisted decades prior.

None of that was what had grabbed her attention.

There, next to one of his agricultural businesses, Mal’s Production Incorporated. A logo. One she’d seen before.

Blood was dripping down her brow. Her body was wracked with shivers against the cold metal floor. Quell’s voice was in the background, arrogant and spiteful. The crate. The crate sat right in front of her. A logo painted onto the side. She counted the letters. Mal’s Production Incorporated.

She’d seen it before. On Quell’s ship. Years ago.

“He’s working with the Empire,” she said. She didn’t look at Mando. “He always has been.”

“You’re sure?” Ten looked at him now. He had leaned in, just slightly, and his fingers twitched like they wanted to reach. They didn’t. She nodded. “Okay.”

Taking a deep breath, she motioned to the display. “Looks like he has no centralized office, but he was in Canto Bight … two days ago, according to the shipyard logs. We should head there.”

Mando nodded, settling back in his seat, flexing his fingers. He seemed uneasy as she set in their new course. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Is this … is this a Force thing?”

“No,” she said. Her fingers tightened around the handle of the controls. “It’s a memory thing.”

—

“We should try to be back before the sun rises, in case there’s any New Republic officers patrolling.” Ten had her back turned to him, adjusting her weapons. The muscles in her shoulders flexed, and a strangely linear burn scar covered her left shoulder blade. Din’s eyes followed the line of her arm down to where her wrappings covered her skin. He felt a pang of guilt thinking about the glimpse he’d accidentally stolen of the skin underneath earlier. Of the tattoo he guessed she was hiding, though he couldn’t even begin to understand why. But he knew what it was to feel safe in cover, to need to block off physical parts of one’s self. He wouldn’t tell her he’d seen. She continued speaking as she turned around to face him, fastening her cloak at her neck. “I can blend in a crowd, but the beskar’s not exactly … inconspicuous.”

“You’d be surprised,” he muttered. “But I agree, we should be careful. How much do you trust this contact you have here?”

She laughed at that. “Not at all, Mando.”

As they made their way past the bright casino lights, Din could tell the reflections off his armour made her uncomfortable as they moved amongst the city’s tourists. In his experience, the reflections often had the opposite effect she feared — he was like a mirror, where the surroundings drew all the attention, and he became nothing but a neutral piece of the structure.

Ten led him down a narrower side alley, offset from the main casino attractions, which seemed to help her relax a touch, despite its much seedier nature. A few shadowy figures lingered in doorways and Din’s hand came up to rest on his blaster, even though the woman in front of him seemed unbothered by their presence.

A dirty hand lunged out from an alcove as they passed by, grabbing tightly onto Ten’s arm and yanking. With the surprise leverage, the hand — attached to a man with a face equally dirty — pushed her down into the gravel. Din pulled his blaster from his belt but as he pointed it at the man, he had already his own blaster pressed into her temple.

“Go ahead Tin Can, shoot me,” he snarled. “By the time it reaches me I’ll have pulled the trigger on your friend here.”

As if to illustrate his point, he pushed the blaster harder into her temple. His other hand rested on the back of her head, and he pressed her face into the ground. Her hands were pinned beneath his knees. Din felt the blood rushing in his ears, his adrenaline spiking.

“You fucking idiot,” he heard Ten swear at him, her voice muffled.

“Oh, I’m the fucking idiot, eh?” he responded, turning his eyes down to her. Din dropped his free arm beneath his cloak. “You cost us a right lot of credits last time you were here, bitch. Fucked over our whole operation, ya did.”

“Your operation had the constitution of a burlap sack, you absolute—” The rest of her sentence was cut off as Din launched forward, propelled by the phoenix. He slammed his body into the other man, sending them into the opposite wall, and his body protested. The small space filled with smoke and Din pulled the vibroblade from his arm as it cleared. Bringing it down in a swift stroke, he plunged it into the direction of the man’s neck. As it sunk in and blood sprayed onto his chest plate he knew he’d hit the mark.

As the man slumped to the ground, he turned to where Ten had been. She was coughing lightly through the smoke, lifting herself on her elbows. He stepped towards her.

“Are you alright?” He extended a gloved hand down towards her. She ignored it.

“Shit,” she cursed again. Din watched as she slowly rose to her feet, brushing gravel off the front of her body. There was a red mark at her temple where the blaster had been, but he let out a breath when she seemed otherwise fine. Her eyes locked onto his. “I didn’t need your help.”

“Yeah, seemed like you had it all under control,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

Some gravel still clung to the smooth skin of her face. Before he could stop himself, his hand reached up and began to gingerly wipe it away.

Her hand darted up to grab him by the wrist. It gripped him like a vice, and neither of them moved. It felt like there was some inflexible string tying them together in that moment, constricting each of them separately. The expression in her eyes was unreadable. It was as if she had her own beskar helmet to cover her outward expression. Din wasn’t even sure they were breathing.

He had no idea how long it had been — seconds? minutes? hours? — when the grip on his wrist finally released. His hand lowered.

“I didn’t need your help,” she said, tone softer than before. Ripping her eyes from him, she resumed their previous path down the alley.

—

Ten clenched her fists, tight enough to hurt, beneath her cloak. If she didn’t, she knew she would shake.

Not from the attempt on her life. No, that was a pretty standard day. And she’d met that man before, when he’d helped run a ring of backdoor casinos, scalping off the legitimate casino profits. The legitimate casinos had, unsurprisingly, hired her to flush out all the information on their counterparts.

No, Ten was shaking because … well, she couldn’t really say why. Was she humiliated? Maybe. Was she annoyed? Most definitely. She wanted to turn on her Mandalorian counterpart and give him the brunt of it, about how she was no damsel in distress for him to save and protect.

It wasn’t completely logical, she knew. They were partners, and someone had her on the ground with a blaster to her head. The second time in so many days. But she bristled all the same.

And the way his hand had brushed off the dirt from her face … what the fuck? Her nerves felt frayed, as if her very skin had been peeled open and set alight.

She didn’t look back at him again as they made their way to the end of the alley. A large metal door was inset in the wall that marked the end. There was no handle of any kind, but a small window at eye level which was shut.

Approaching, she motioned to Mando to stand back behind her. She banged one, two, three times exactly on the door. With a squeak, the metal cover on the small window slid open. It was just large enough to view the eyes of the person on the other side. Their brow was furrowed.

“You have a fathier for today’s race?” a gruff voice asked.

“Yes, he’s being tended to in the thirteenth stable.”

The metal window covering snapped shut abruptly. A moment later the entire door gave a low moan, opening just wide enough for a person to fit through. Ten entered, gesturing for the Mandalorian to follow.

The small room reeked of smoke, more sour and concentrated than the smoke in the alley had been. A large green Trandoshan sat on a stool and leaned against the dirty wall, picking at their teeth. The Devaronian who let them in gave them a short grunt, which she knew to interpret as wait here. He disappeared down another short hallway, which quickly faded to blackness.

Rather than make eye contact with the Trandoshan, Ten turned herself back towards Mando. The single bulb that lit the room reflected off the top corner of his breastplate. His helmet tilted down to look at her.

“A waiting room?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. Experimentally, she clenched and unclenched her fist beside her. The shaking had subsided.

“They don’t allow weapons inside their main casino.” She nodded down the hallway. “And I don’t allow myself anywhere without weapons.”

“I take it this isn’t the operation you fucked over, then,” he said, helmet turning to look back at the entrance. Ten swore she could hear a smirk in his voice.

“I was paid by the big boys to profile everything I could find on illegitimate operations in the city,” she shrugged. “Kirana paid me even more to remain … discrete.”

Before he could say anything in response, a human woman emerged from the hallway with the Devaronian hovering just over her shoulder. She was conspicuously dressed, a bright red gown draped over her body, with a significant dip into her cleavage, opening the expanse of skin. Her red lips turned up into a smile when she entered the room with them.

“My dear nameless friend,” she cooed, embracing Ten’s upper arms. She placed a kiss on each of her cheeks. “How lovely of you to grace us with your presence in Canto Bight!”

“Kirana, you’re looking lovely as ever,” Ten gestured beside her. “This is the Mandalorian, he’s helping me with a job.”

“A nameless associate, how very on brand,” Kirana flashed them a dazzling smile. “Tell me, what can I do for my favourite devious double agent, hmm?”

“Doman Tosche,” she spat the name out at no one in particular. “We tapped shipyard logs and apparently he was here just a few days ago. He runs some businesses from the Core, but we— I— think he’s been dealing with Imps since the Empire days.”

Kirana raised a delicate eyebrow. Ten struggled to read the expression in her eyes.

“Not many reputable Core businessmen visit my establishments, I’m afraid.”

“There’s also not many people at all who enter and leave this city that you don’t know about.” With this, the well dressed woman broke into a lilting laugh that echoed off the metal walls. She ran her hands higher up Tens arms, grasping her near her shoulders, and smiled at her.

“Now that you’re right about,” she sighed. “I do know a certain Mr. Tosche was here, he likes to frequent certain girls who work by the betting tracks. However, he left after one night on a passenger caravan. Obviously under a false name if it’s not in the logs.”

Ten gritted her teeth hearing that he was already gone. She turned her head ever so slightly, looking at the Mandalorian from the corner of her eye, before focusing back on Kirana.

“I don’t suppose there’s a chance you know where that ship was headed?”

Kirana shook her head, looking rueful. “Even if I did, they usually make a number of unlogged stops, especially if they’re well paid,” she muttered. Gently, she lifted a hand to cup Ten’s cheek— the same one the Mandalorian had touched, Ten registered, somewhere in a corner of her mind. She pushed it even further back. “But, I do know that he didn’t arrive here alone. A business associate, some sort of manager, perhaps. He stayed on world and has spent the last many hours inside my humble establishment.”

“He’s in there now?” Ten asked, eyes darting to the dark hallway. “Kirana, you have to let me in to get him.”

The Trandoshan stirred now, leaning in her direction, a low growl in its throat. Ten saw the glint of beskar moving beside her.

“Now, now, there’s no reason for any sort of violence here,” Kirana turned her eyes onto Mando, narrowing them. “But you know my rules, dear. No weapons inside my premises. That includes these lovely hands of yours. However, once someone leaves…”

Mando spoke up for the first time since Kirana had appeared. “We’ll be waiting then.”

—

For once, their timing seemed to work out favourably. The man Kirana said worked for Tosche — Hamal Hearns — took less than an hour to stumble out of the back alley casino, yawning and scratching at the stubble that had grown out on his face.

Subduing him was too easy to even be fun, Din lamented. He spent a large portion of the walk back to the Ursa, through the still dark streets of Canto Bight then the deserts of the surrounding area, grovelling and talking about ransoms, about the powerful men he worked for, how they would pay for him, however much they needed. Ten rewarded him with a sharp punch to the nose, after which he fell silent.

She threw him unceremoniously into the storage room Din had adopted as his sleeping quarters. Din could hear him softly crying through the door.

“He shouldn’t need much pushing,” he commented, leaning against the corner of the wall. Ten was in her weapons compartment, seemingly picking out her favourite. He once again found himself marvelling at the sheer number of blades. And the single blaster he knew she carried at her left hip.

Knives had always been his last choice, a last resort when his firearms failed him or were no longer an option. They were inefficient in his brutish hands, often requiring close contact and were never a guarantee to kill. But in hers … they were more than just knives, they were instruments, that she played effortlessly to sing a serenade of violence.

He wondered if the Force had anything to do with it, or if she just had that many years of practice.

“You and that casino operator seemed close,” he continued musing into the silent space between them. There were no indications she had heard him, but he knew she had. Maker knew why, Din decided to push his luck. “Did you fuck her?”

That got her attention. Her hand snapped to his direction. She picked out a large knife, its blade slightly curved, and began walking slowly towards him. He wondered if she finally was going to stab him.

“Not that it’s any of your business, Mandalorian,” she came to a stop beside him, her shoulder brushing his. “But yes … I did.”

For another moment, neither of them moved, staring at the other. It seemed to stretch from that second into infinity, and then it ended as quickly as it began. Ten continued down the small hallway to the room where their guest was. Taking a deep breath, Din followed.

Hamal Hearns was on his knees, hands still cuffed behind his back. His face was covered in snot and sweat and tears and a small trickle of blood out of his nose from when Ten had hit him. His eyes brimmed with more tears as she held his chin in one of her hands.

“I have a very simple question for you, Mr. Hearns,” she murmured, her tone much gentler than Din expected. He crossed his arms over his chest, not missing the way the man’s eyes flitted back and forth between them. Ten’s hand on his face tightened.

“Is your boss working for the Empire?”

His eyes widened, tears spilling over, lips trembling.

“Please, please, miss, we wouldn’t do anything like that I promise—”

“Shhh,” Ten cooed. “I’m afraid you misunderstood. You see, I know the answer already, I was just hoping … you could be honest with me.”

She was kneeling in front of him now, and brought her other hand up to the cheek she hadn’t already been holding. He widened his eyes as they stayed locked on her face.

Din had expected some violence, perhaps Ten’s favourite flavour of physical torture, to get the skittish man to tell them what he knew.

But the silence only deepened, and as Ten and Hearns maintained eye contact, he watched the latter’s body begin to shake. He tried to shake his head back and forth, but she held it steady. Blood began to seep from his eyes, falling like tears, then out of his ears, and mouth.

“Please,” he whimpered. He coughed and gasped around the blood in his mouth. “I’ll—” Another cough. “I’ll tell you everything I know! He’s been selling to the Empire for years! P-please just stop!”

Ten leaned back, stretching her hands out. “Good. I knew you’d do the right thing. You’re going to tell my Mandalorian friend everything useful you know. Or I’ll be back.”

He nodded vigorously, not even attempting to cover the sobs that racked his body. Blood still covered his face, but no longer seemed to be freshly flowing.

What had she done to him?

She stood, and Din didn’t miss the shaking in her legs. As she turned, he saw the bags under her eyes that he swore weren’t there when they had entered the room. She laid a hand on his breastplate.

“Take it from here, please, Mando.”

[whatthehelltimespell]

Only Time Will Tell Chapter Twelve

Title: Only Time Will Tell Chapter 12/? Chapter Summary: Langdon appears again Rating: Teen

Over the next few days, Elizabeth went about demon-proofing her house, which mostly meant that she took more precautions than she normally did. The day after the thing had ransacked her kitchen, she'd gone to the store to buy more plates and bowls. She went specifically for the ones made from paper. If they were thrown at her head, they wouldn't hurt if she didn't have time to duck.

She even went so far as to buy plastic knives, forks, and spoons. She was not going to take the chance of letting that thing – whatever it was – get hold of a sharp object just so it could throw it at her.

While at the store, she also bought a Bible. She almost bypassed it, but then she thought about it. Everything that was happening had a demonic taint to it; the Bible might be useful even if she hadn't been brought up to believe in it. The problem was that Michael was with her when she stopped to look at the Bible and he didn't seem to like that she was considering buying one.

"What do you need that for?" His tone was almost suspicious, and he was almost glaring at the book. "I don't like it."

"Well, it's not for you," she said. "It's for me and that . . . thing."

"You're not going to read it to me?"

"Not if you don't want me to."

"Okay. Because you know what happened the last time someone read that thing to me. It burned my ears."

She wasn't sure it had actually burned his ears or if he'd just thought it had because he'd grown to believe he was a bad person, but she did understand his fear and hesitancy about the book she was considering buying. He thought it would do him harm, so naturally he feared it.

"Michael, have I ever done anything to hurt you?"

"No," he answered quickly.

"So, would I read this to you? Since you think it hurts you?"

He looked down, appearing almost ashamed that he'd been suspicious of her in the first place, and then again said no.

"Good answer," she said.

The truth was that if she hadn't seen the shadow figure – the one with horns and wings – she never would've thought twice about the Bible or anything to do with it, but she had seen it. She'd woken up thinking about God and the Devil . . . and the anti-Christ. What if she was the only thing standing between Michael and him becoming the anti-Christ? She already knew she was the only thing standing between Michael and whatever that thing was.

She couldn't actually believe that she was thinking that what Mallory had told her was true about Michael being the anti-Christ, but she was starting to think it could be true. Most of that had to do with meeting Langdon; she could believe he'd done what Mallory had said he had done. He'd killed Mallory and had indirectly been responsible for Constance's death as well, and he hadn't seemed remorseful at all. He'd had his reasons, Elizabeth knew, but still . . . to hurt someone and be so unapologetic about it . . . She didn't understand.

Back at the house, once everything was put away, Elizabeth put on her jogging clothes so she could go for her routine jog – or so Michael would think she was going for a routine jog anyway. She hated lying to him – or letting him assume something that was wrong – but she needed to go back to the Murder House and she didn't want him going with her. She didn't think being in a place like that was good for either of them, but she had to talk to Langdon.

He'd been willing to help last time, even if it had been just to get her to leave him alone. Maybe she could get him to help this time too. And that was how she found herself sneaking through the back door of the Murder House in broad daylight. She was careful about it, but still . . . she'd never done anything like that before, not when she could easily have been caught.

Once inside, she realized that the feeling the house gave off wasn't so bad during the day. It was like even though she knew the spirits weren't at rest even in the day time, she thought they wouldn't be as active. That was probably a false sense of security, but she'd take what she could get.

She vaguely wondered what had happened to the two women from the day before, but that wasn't her main concern at the moment, so she let those thoughts go and made her way to the basement stairs.

"Langdon? Are you down there?" Then as an afterthought, "And fully clothed this time?"

She didn't get a response, and there wasn't any creepy chanting type of noise coming from the basement. Maybe he wasn't down there. Maybe he wasn't there at all. He could've changed his mind about staying. She hoped that wasn't true, if only for the fact that he could be a big help, if he so chose to help.

She slowly made her way down into the main part of the basement, a rotten type of smell hitting her nose the further she went. What was that? It smelled like something had died.

"Langdon?"

What if it had been him? What if he'd done one of those insane rituals and bled himself the wrong way and had slowly died from it? There was no longer a symbol on the floor of the basement, so if he had shed blood . . . it hadn't been in the basement, so what was that smell?

She didn't have to worry for long. The smell wasn't coming from a human body. It was coming from a pile of dead animals stacked up in the corner of the room. She covered her mouth as she took it in. It was mostly rats, but there were a few squirrels and at least one cat in there. The cat appeared to have been gutted and she could tell it had been hollowed out.

Something – or someone – had been harvesting these things for food and she had a sinking suspicion that it was Langdon. It was disgusting and horrifying, and where was he?

Not in the basement, that was for sure, so she went back upstairs – ran back up, more like – and back into the kitchen. She stopped short because there he was. She almost fell over her own two feet because she hadn't expected him to be there, leaning against the counter like that, arms crossed over his chest, patiently awaiting her arrival.

She noticed he was still dressed all in black, only now the clothes didn't look as expensive or as nice. They seemed older and a little baggy on him. There was also a hollowness to him that hadn't been there before – and she didn't mean the coldness he gave off; she meant that he appeared gaunt, as if he'd lost a little bit of weight since the last time she'd seen him and it hadn't been that long ago.

Though if what she'd seen down in the basement was anything to go by, she could understand his appearance.

"Oh look, it's Ms. Busy Brain again," he said, continuing to lean against the counter. "You didn't think I spent all my time down there, did you?"

She shrugged. "Figured you wouldn't want to be seen walking around during the day, considering no one is supposed to be living here."

"I know how to keep people away."

"I'm sure. Those women yesterday . . . how did you keep them away?"

"They bought this house originally," he said. "I killed them in that timeline. In this one there was no need. I sent them away. They'll never come back."

"So they're still alive?"

"Yes. Despite what Mallory may have told you . . . I don't kill without a reason to."

She scoffed. "Um . . . you destroyed the world. What was the reason for that?"

"To make a better one," he said simply. "One without all the rules, one where people can live the way they want to without fear of consequence or judgment."

She shook her head as that settled. "That sounds nice on the surface, but there's so much wrong with it. Rules are set in place for a reason."

"Hm. Your eyes are closed to the possibility, but wouldn't you love a place where you could just tell your parents how you really feel about them?"

"What?" Where had that come from? They hadn't even been talking about her parents, and this wasn't why she'd come here anyway.

"Your parents. That you hate them for using you as a glorified babysitter, even if you do care about your sister. That you never want to be like them – cold and hard – so you try your best to be soft and warm. A soft and warm person would never have made the decision to let the house burn. That was a cold thing to do."

"It was a practical thing to do," she countered. "Practical and cold are often confused with the other, but they are two different things."

She didn't correct him about her parents even though it was wrong. She didn't hate them at all; there was resentment there, but most people resented something about their parents. She wasn't alone in that.

"Anyway, I didn't come here to talk about my parents."

Langdon waited for her to continue, still seeming patient and immovable.

"There's something in my house."

"You mean other than the other me?" There was a faint hint of amusement in his voice now.

"Obviously."

Knowing he would be able to see it or sense it, or however it worked, she focused on what she'd seen the night before. The shadow creature, the wings, the horns. It definitely got a reaction out of Langdon.

He moved away from the counter and into her personal space.

"Is this the first time you've seen him?"

"Yes," she said, fighting the urge to take a step back from his sudden presence. "It's manifested itself before in other ways, but I first saw its shadow last night. What is it?"

"Why do you think I know?"

"Well, you called it a him and not an it. And you wouldn't have reacted the way you did if you didn't recognize . . . him."

"Would you believe me if I told you that you have Satan living in your house?"

"Are you talking about that thing . . . or are you talking about Michael?"

"If Satan gets a hold of him then they will be one and the same. Satan's words will be Michael's words."

Elizabeth tensed up. Somehow, she'd known that, but she'd never had it vocalized and she wished it hadn't been. It made it more real.

"I don't know if it will happen," Langdon admitted, his voice low and smooth. "I . . . you weren't around while this was happening to me."

She noticed that he'd faltered just a little bit while speaking, almost like the last time when she'd apologized to him. He'd shown a little bit of humanity just by listening to her words and letting them sink in.

"What . . . what happened to you?" she asked softly. "If you don't mind me asking."

"I told you my grandmother killed herself in the original timeline. She did so in this house, so her spirit could be with her children forever. I started living here, so I could be with them. No one wanted to see me. Ben was the only one who would talk to me. He tried to help me, but I was just too much. The two women that showed up yesterday, I originally killed them because they weren't supposed to be here. I wouldn't have been able to stay with any of them if they'd been kept alive."

Elizabeth tried taking everything in. Constance had killed herself to get away from Langdon, and hadn't wanted to see him after her death. He still would've been her Michael's age at that time; he probably would've still had her Michael's control issues, and would've only been thinking about not wanting to have to leave everything he knew behind, even if they hadn't wanted to see him – they were what had been familiar to him.

She could see exactly where the timeline had altered. It was the moment Constance had decided to throw Michael out of the house. Originally, she'd killed herself and Michael had stuck around, but now in this new timeline, Michael had been kicked out and had met her. He wasn't going to be living in a house where he wasn't wanted. He wasn't going to be around people who just kept giving up on him or wouldn't give him a chance at all.

"When did you find out you were . . . what you are?" She couldn't even say it, it was so crazy.

"The anti-Christ?" He went back to his place at the counter. "Not too much longer, if it goes the same way. As long as he and the devil don't . . . connect . . ."

Langdon stopped and shook his head. "Everything is different, as I said."

Elizabeth took a deep breath. "Is there a way you can, ya know, call him off? I mean . . . get him out of my house."

"I can't. It's not my place. Where I come from, I can communicate with him. Since I've come here, it's like I've lost that connection. I believe it's due to there being two different timelines. My father is not here."

"That thing is Michael's dad? Like for real? That's what was possessing Tate when . . ."

"Correct."

She'd thought Constance had been crazy when she'd told her that story, but apparently she'd been wrong. And what was she supposed to do now? Now that she knew Michael actually could become the anti-Christ?

It didn't change how she felt about him. It didn't change the fact that he still needed guidance and that she liked having him around. It didn't change anything at all, because he was still Michael no matter what he was supposed to become, even if that was the man standing across from her. Maybe she could keep him from sinking into darkness because, as Langdon had said . . . everything was different.

"You know, you really shouldn't be here all alone. It's not healthy." Then, "And I live right down the street. You didn't have to resort to eating rats. I would've given you some food."

Langdon surprised her then by letting out a few breaths of laughter – they literally sounded like a few huffs of air coming from his mouth – and letting some of the tension fall from his shoulders.

"I suppose I'm just supposed to come knock on your door and let your Michael see what he may become?

"Absolutely not. But we could've found a way. You could've sent me a telepathic message or something. Left a note in the mailbox."

"And you would've just . . . given me food?"

"I would've figured something out. You shouldn't have to starve. Besides, you're not the anti-Christ of this world. In case you haven't noticed, it's still standing.

After about a minute of silence, Langdon said, "Before I . . . ascended, the skies turned red and a murder of crows circled this house. That will probably happen at your house now, if it happens at all. People will consider that an omen. If it happens, we can talk again. You'll have time before they come."

"They?"

"The people who want Michael to end the world. The people who follow my father – or his father, I suppose." ---------- After a few more minutes of talking, Elizabeth thanked Langdon for the information and went on her way. She'd been gone long enough and she knew Michael got antsy if she was gone for longer than she normally was. He was antsy in a different way that he used to be – he no longer thought she would start running and never stop because she wanted to get away from him, but he did worry about her. She supposed that was normal, considering what they'd been through.

That day, however, Michael only seemed confused when she returned a little later than she normally would have. And it was all because she wasn't sweating. He noticed it and mentioned it to her, especially when she didn't head straight to the bathroom for a shower.

"I just didn't go as hard today," she said, which was technically true, since she hadn't really jogged at all. "What'd you do while I was gone?"

"Watched TV."

The TV was still on – some cartoon that Elizabeth had never seen before – and Michael seemed as if he wasn't really paying attention to it anyway. It was just background noise.

"Michael, I was thinking the other day and it just slipped my mind, but how much did Constance teach you? I know she taught you at least a little bit of grammar, but were there other things? Math, science, history?"

"I know a little bit of math – the basics. Addition, subtraction, multiplication, division. I like math. I don't like history, but she also taught me the basics. Pilgrims, Indians, the different wars, the presidents. She didn't try to teach me science."

There was a pause and then a very defiant but adorable Michael turned to her and said, "I'm not going to school."

"No. I was more thinking I would help teach you."

"Oh." He was instantly placated. "Well, that's okay then."

I love the end scene about Michael just absolutely being like "I'm not going to school." That's a mood. I hated school when I was a kid. I thought it was so boring, like, they don't teach you anything worth knowing really.

So, about Langdon. I still feel he's a tricky character to write for, so let me know how I did. I feel I did him justice, but I’m biased because I wrote it. @alexcornerblog

[master-sass-blast]

Strong as Stone --Part Forty-Five

Sorry for not updating this for so long! Life got crazy, but now I’m back and better than ever!

Last time, we saw the end of Dewani’s trial and finally said good-bye to F’Tendi! Good riddance! Plus, Dewani and Shuri finally got engaged! Fuck yeah!

This time, we get to watch Okoye take the first step in reuniting with her biological family.

Rating: T for mildly angsty feels (this chapter is hella tame; it’s probably a G, but it mentions death so I’m bumping it up to be safe).

Pairings: Okoye x M’Baku.

@the-last-hair-bender​, @skysynclair19​

Try to approach things with an open mind. Fear, judgement, assumption –all of these are only weights that will make you sink in the river’s currents.

The envelope was smooth in her hands. Surprisingly heavy –though that could’ve been her mind attributing the emotional weight of the situation to the object.

Her aunt had sent her another letter during Dewani’s trial. Okoye had found it in her apartment’s mailbox when she’d traveled back from the Jabari lands.

“Are you going to open it?” M’Baku asked from where he sat on her couch.

“No, I want to stare at it some more.” She smirked when he chuckled, then crossed the room and sat down next to him on the couch. She studied the impeccably white envelope for a moment longer, then turned it over and opened it.

The letter was mercifully short. After the ups and downs of Dewani’s trial, Okoye wasn’t sure she could’ve handled an essay.

Okoye,

Please send our best wishes and prayers to your friends. We all hope that the trial ends in your friend’s favor, and that it isn’t too taxing on you or yours.

I suspect that you might wary of reconnecting to all of us, given how much time has passed since the death of your parents and now. I can’t imagine what all of this means –or doesn’t mean—to you, but I hope you know that we all sincerely want to meet you, to make up for lost time.

There’s more that needs to be said, but I feel it ought to be said in person, rather than through various letters and electronic communications. If you find that you have time that you want to spare, let me know. My work is flexible.

Hoping that you and yours are well,

Nyarai.

“She doesn’t mince her words,” M’Baku commented as he read over her shoulder.

She really doesn’t. It was one of the main factors behind why Okoye had even given the first letter a second look-over. She appreciated that Nyarai wasn’t trying to hide behind pleasantries or downplay what had gone into creating the situation they were now faced with.

“Are you going to meet with her?”

Okoye let out a huff. “When? When am I going to have time? I have work, and I’m going to have a baby in eight months. My entire life is going to flip on its head.”

M’Baku was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. “You have time now.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Right now? Right this very second? Yes, but I doubt her work is that flexible.”

“Only one way to find out.”

“And what if she can’t meet now?”

“Then you’ll have to schedule something later.”

He’s right, she told herself. No sense in overcomplicating it. She sighed, then pulled up her communications app on her kimoyo beads and started typing out an email.

Nyarai,

Thank you for your wishes and prayers. I am happy to report that the trial did result in my friend’s favor, and that she’s already been able to start moving on and living her life once more.

Unfortunately, my work life is still full, and will likely be so for the foreseeable future. I may not have much free time in the coming months –but I do have some today, if you’re available for coffee. If not, I’ll look at my work calendar and let you know when my next allotment of time off lands.

Wishing you and yours well,

Okoye.

The reply came back startlingly fast, within a matter of minutes.

I’m free all day today. I can meet up whenever you want.

She looked over at M’Baku. “Will you come with?”

He picked up her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Of course.”

She’d picked one of her favorite coffee shops in downtown Birnin Zana as the meeting spot –not that she could have coffee anymore, now that she was pregnant. She and M’Baku arrived early and picked a table towards the back corner of the garden; with any luck, the spot would be far enough out of the afternoon crowd that they’d be able to talk without too much noise –or too many eavesdroppers—nearby.

M’Baku put his hand on her knee when it wouldn’t stop bouncing up and down. “Relax. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“I barely remember this woman. I haven’t seen anyone from my family since I was an actual child,” Okoye said, somewhat terse. “I think I have good reason to be stres—”

“Okoye?” A tall, athletic looking woman with dreads that looked to be about fifty, maybe sixty, stood a few feet away from her table.

Okoye blinked, then kicked her brain back into gear. “You must be Nyarai.” She stood and extended her hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Nyarai smiled politely. “And it’s nice to meet you –or, for me, to see you again. I suppose you really don’t remember me. You were young when we lost your parents.”

Okoye’s mouth twitched briefly, and she schooled her face into a neutral expression out of habit. “This is my partner, M’Baku.”

Nyarai and M’Baku exchanged pleasantries, and then they all sat at the table.

“I’m sure you have several questions,” Nyarai said with a rueful smile.

Just one, actually. “Why did it take you so long to find me?”

The older woman sighed heavily, smile slipping from her face. “In the wake of the explosion, we thought you were dead with your parents. We didn’t even realize that you’d made it out; actually, none of us knew for certain that you were alive until after Thanos’s purge, when the census sent out full lists of survivors and those restored so that there was an official ‘check’ on whether everyone had made it back or not.”

Okoye barely kept herself from frowning sourly. “You never heard anything about me from when I was seeing W’Kabi? He’s the tribal head’s son.”

Nyarai shook her head. “Nothing. We only heard that you were the Dora General, but nothing about your name was mentioned. Believe me, if we’d known back then, we would’ve reached out sooner.”

Okoye wasn’t quite sure how to take all of that, so she said nothing and opted to grab on to M’Baku’s hand instead.

He squeezed her hand gently, reassuringly, before rubbing the pad of his thumb over the back of her hand in small, soothing circles.

“We were all overjoyed when we realized you were still alive,” Nyarai continued. “Everyone wants to see you again –and some of your new nieces and nephews want to meet you, too. We’ve all missed you.”

It was almost too much to process –nieces, nephews, a whole family.

They’ve… missed me.

“Look, I won’t pretend that I can fathom what you’re going through right now,” Nyarai said gently. “For all intents and purposes, we abandoned you when you needed us most. It’s not what any of us wanted or were trying to do, but it happened. I know that time’s done a lot of damage and distancing; I’m not going to pretend that you don’t have your own fears or reservations over all of this. But… if you’re willing to give us a chance, we’d love to get to know you. As much as you want us to.”

Her eyes stung with tears she wasn’t sure she wanted to shed. Okoye swallowed hard and cleared her throat. “My life isn’t exactly… smoothing out anytime soon. My work is still highly demanding, and I’m expecting a baby in eight months on top of it all. There’s just… there’s a lot going on.”

“This can all happen on your timetable,” Nyarai said reassuringly. “We don’t have any expectations or demands for how this is going to go. All we want you to know is that, if or when you choose to come visit, our doors will always be open for you. You and the family you’ve built.”

Okoye nodded as the tears she’d been trying to hold back finally started to fall. “Thank you.”

Nyarai smiled and nodded. “I was hoping that, if you had time, we could talk about more than just family stuff. I’d love to get to know you a little bit.”

Okoye smiled back. “That sounds great.”

Nyarai, as it turned out, was truly gifted with humor. She had no end of jokes or amusing anecdotes about her own work –as a counselor, unsurprisingly—when Okoye asked about her life, and she always seemed to have a witty one-liner tucked away for anything Okoye said.

“I like her,” M’Baku said as they stepped back into Okoye’s apartment.

“I do too,” Okoye admitted. “I think that went better than I ever could’ve imagined.”

M’Baku wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “How are you feeling about reconnecting with your family now?”

Okoye let her forehead rest against his chest. “Less reluctant. I still need some time to think, but… a lot of things are going to be changing in my life soon. Maybe it’s time that things change with my biological family, too.”

[lolalexturnerlol]

Age of Consent (Negan x reader a/b/o) Part 3

summary: you’re moving on, slowly but surely. at least you think you are

warnings: lil bit of angst, mild smut, fluff, swearing, drinking, feelings

so yeah, this is late as hell. but it’s still here. thanks to everyone who came out, seriously i can’t tell you how happy I am that this was so well received. here’s the third and final part!

part one  part two

masterlist 

Two months later

"Oh my god. There is literally no way I'm putting that on my body Sarah."

She rolls her eyes at you, tossing the thin dress at your head. "Stop being such a baby, Y/n. Just put the fucking dress on. It's cute, it'll look good on you."

With a sigh, you look down at the yellow fabric in your hands. You don't want to do this - get all dolled up and interact with people and pretend your happy to be there. But Sarah wouldn't let you ignore your birthday, yelling something about "don't you dare fucking think we're not celebrating god dammit" when you'd told her you didn't want to do anything.

You'd managed to dissuade her from the big, extravagant night-out-drinking plans she'd had. Your dad had suggested something quiet at home - friends and family type of thing. She hadn't been happy, but she'd settled for it. Besides, twenty four isn't a big birthday. You'd told her it was nothing special, nothing to go crazy about. 

You slip the dress on, not really wanting to wear something so happy, but knowing your best friend won't give you a choice either way. Turning to your full length mirror, you give yourself a once over.

It's obviously made for someone skinnier than you, the fabric clinging to your hips and stomach. It's not the most modest thing ever either, dipping to show a sliver of your breasts. It stops at mid thigh, and you thank god above that you decided to shave your legs for the first time in a long while. It's not really you, but despite that, you still feel pretty.

And that's something you haven't felt in months.

Sarah squeals, clapping her hands behind you. "See, I knew it would look good. You're so pretty!"

Your friends gushing makes you smile. Maybe this won't be so terrible.

You let Sarah put makeup on you, reigning her in when she gets too wild talking about glitter and lip liner. You also refuse to wear the heels she bought, forgoing them in favour of a pair of worn-in sandals. Sarah gives the shoes a dirty look.

There's a knock on your open door, and you turn around to see your dad there. He's in what he likes to call 'his best shirt,' a hideous pale blue thing with a banana print all over it.

"There's people downstairs waiting to see you." He says. You hadn't even heard anyone arrive.

"You look beautiful." He tells you, pulling you into a hug at the top of the staircase. You hear a squeal, and a camera flashes. Turning, you see Sarah clutching at your camera.

"Oh yeah, Sarah's chief photographer tonight. Forgot to tell you." You roll your eyes at your father.

Downstairs in the kitchen are a few people, aunts, cousins, uncles. And a rather unexpected edition; your uncle Daryl, who has been away for months doing who knows what.

"Thought you were off adventuring." You say as he hands you a beer from the fridge.

"Well, I was. But I figured I could give it a rest to come see my favourite niece."

You roll your eyes, popping the cap of your beer off on the kitchen bench. "I'm your only niece."

"Unimportant." He slings his arm over your shoulders, leader you out into the backyard. "I still couldn't miss your birthday."

The words from your uncle make you feel more at ease about the whole night. A little, at least.

You'd thought this birthday would feel different, with Negan absent. He'd been there for every birthday since you were eighteen. Back then you were too young to know what your attraction to him meant. There are parts of you that wish you still possessed that young naivety. That wish you could still look at him with those googly eyes and rose coloured glasses and think he's the perfect alpha.

But a larger part of you knows how silly and damaging that train of thought can be. Besides, they say you regret what you don't do. You can't bring yourself to regret what happened with him. At least you know. At least you don't have to pine over him anymore. Granted, that doesn't mean you haven't spent time on it. The last two months have been... hard, to say the least. And absolutely plagued with thoughts of the alpha.

So yes, this birthday does feel different. Not in a big way, but in a small, subtle way that nobody else but you notices. Even with your family and friends gathering in your backyard, it feels a little empty.

You spend hours catching up with people, being asked the same questions, congratulated on your new job curating a gallery down  in the north part of town. You'd finally even bought your own car. Things are looking up, there's no denying that.

You still miss Negan, though.

It's a while before you get to sit down. You squish next to Sarah on one of the wicker love seats your father dragged out of the shed earlier today. Sh wraps her arm around you, and you clink your drinks together.

"Cheers to you, baby." She grins.

"Cheers to me." You agree.

Her phone trills from her pocket and she pulls it out with a long sigh. When you give her a questioning look, all she says is "Max."

You roll your eyes so hard they probably come close to falling out of your skull.

You had gone on the date with the boy. And felt like a shitty human being throughout the whole thing. You couldn't even attempt to be into him. I t just wasn't going to happen.No one could match up to Negan, not yet anyway. Unfortunately, when you'd explained that you weren't really interested he'd made it his personal mission to change your mind. It hadn't been cute. When you told him you weren't interested, it wasn't an invitation to negotiate on the matter. You eventually blocked him, but he's still pestering Sarah.

"Tell him where he can shove it." You smile at her.

You laugh together, but it doesn't last long for you.

Fate must be laughing at you. God, having a good old chuckle at your expense. You've never been a believer of any fate, but it's hard to believe that there's not some higher being that's got it out for you.

Because before you even see him, his smell drifts out the back door, caressing your senses in the most bittersweet way. Cigarette smoke, fresh rain on grass, worn leather. For a second, you forget where you are.

But only for a second. Because then, he's coming through the door, laughing at something your dad has said. And fuck, he's so beautiful, of course he wouldn't want to be your alpha. How could someone who looks like that possibly want to tie themselves to someone like you.

He turns as he comes down the porch steps, looking straight at you. Your breath is stuck in your throat. There's no way you'd expected him to come tonight. Why would he? He'd been nothing but cold to you for months. What kind of power play is he trying to pull, showing up here and now?

"What's he doing here?" Sarah asks, eyes narrowed on him across the yard.

Her words make your gaze snap away from him. "I've got no clue. Dad probably invited him." You mumble, tipping your bottle back and swallowing the last mouthful. "I'm getting another drink."

"Mm. Get me one?"

"Ok."

You shuffle into the kitchen, having skirted most of the backyard to avoid going near Negan. You're digging in the bottom of the fridge, looking for the drinks Sarah bought, when you feel a presence with you.

You don't even have to turn around to know it's him. Despite everything that's happened, every fibre in your being just knows when he's around. All your muscles tense, and it takes you a second to stop locking up and face him. Being this close to him after so long could so easily make you faint right there. But you won't give him the satisfaction of knowing that he still affects you. You're stronger than what your body wants you to do, anyway.

He's leaning against the sink, hands buried in his pockets. Despite what seems to be a - dare you say it - nervous body language, he gazes at you steadily, unwavering. He looks tired, somehow older than you've ever seen him look. Good. Hopefully he knows how you've been feeling then.

"Beers in the fridge." You mutter, making your way to walk past him.

"I was hoping we could talk."

Your head whips towards him, eyes narrowed, tone hard when you say "about what?"

He sighs, rubbing a hand along his beard. You very nearly let yourself feel guilty for snapping at him. Nearly. "You know what about."

There's silence as you mull over your options. You could certainly tell him to fuck off - it's no less than he deserves. But the masochistic side of you want to stay, to hear what it is that he wants to say to you. "I'm not sure we have anything to talk about, Negan. I'm pretty sure you already said everything you wanted to." You tell him, begging your voice to stay steady.

For the first time in your years of knowing him, he looks guilty.

"I said some shit I shouldn't have, baby." There it is. That word is enough to make your heart melt. "When your party's over come home with me. Please. I just - we need to talk, y/n."

You have to wonder if this is some sort of game. It's not in Negans nature to be that cruel - at least you don't think it is. A few months ago you would've been sure of it. But you can't help but want to know what his angle is. Maybe he wants to apologise. Ok. Then what? It's not like things will ever go back to how they used to be. You don't want to question his motives, but this person that you've spent years of your life around you now feel like you hardly know.

"Why can't we talk here?" You ask.

He sighs again. "It's not really a conversation to be had when your whole family is around."

Don't do it y/n, don't give in, don't say yes - "ok." his face lights up, but you hold up your hand and continue. "But if I've had enough, if I don't want to 'talk' anymore, you take me back here straight away. No questions, no negotiations."

"I promise. Now, got one of those beers for me?"

You roll your eyes, but this time it's almost playful. God, you really can't help yourself can you? "Get it yourself."

Of course though, as you leave the kitchen and rejoin the party, the anxiety kicks in. You question everything you've just said, everything he said, everything you may have just agreed to. The fear of uncertainty is something that you hate, of not knowing what's going to happen and how you're going to end up feeling.

But you tell yourself through the night that you can't doubt your decision. You know better than anyone you would have regretted refusing him. You'll spend months  dwelling on it if you don't follow through.

So you try to quell your anxiety. It doesn't help that all night you can feel Negan's eyes on you though. The few times you catch his eye, he sends you a little lopsided smile that makes your heart flutter.

Maybe your being crazy. Maybe it's just a depressing case of wishful thinking. But you can't help but get the feeling that he wants to apologise, and the thought of that alone and the possibilities it holds scares you.

When the night is drawing to an end, you help your drunk father into bed, making sure he doesn't stumble down the stairs. He's blabbering, telling you how proud he is while he stumble around the hallway. When he's put into bed and the last person has left, you're left alone with Negan.

"Are you ready to go?" He says it quietly, but his words reverberate through you. His car keys are already in his hands.

"Yes."

You remember the first time you went to Negan's house, expecting it to be messy and disorganised, only to be surprised that it was the complete opposite. The whole place is a bachelor pad, definitely. But it feels cosy, it always has. That may have something to do with the fact that the whole place just screams Negan, his scent covering every inch of the place. But you'll keep that to yourself.

"Um, want some coffee? Tea?" He asks you, unlocking the door and ushering you in. You've seen him in a lot of different emotional states over the years, but you've never seen him nervous like this.

"I didn't come here for coffee or tea, Negan."

He nods, still staring. "No, no you didn't." Without waiting for you, he wanders into the lounge room, shucking off his jacket along the way.

You follow.

He's sitting on the couch already, hands clasped between his open knees. He pats the couch next to him, signalling for you to sit. You hesitate in the doorway, your breathe caught in your throat.

Breathe, y/n. He's human, just like you. You can handle this.

So you sit, far enough away that your not touching but close enough that his breathe still brushes your skin. At first, he doesn't say anything, and neither do you. You feel far to anxious to even attempt to form a coherent sentence. At first then turns to a solid couple of minutes, and the silence starts to drive you crazy.

It's all getting to be a bit too much.

"Negan, you better start speaking your piece. Believe it or not I have better things I could be doing."

Suddenly, he takes his hands in yours, linking your fingers together gently. A warmth stems from his touch, a sensation that makes your whole body thrum. For what feels like forever, he stares at you, his eyes darting to your cheeks, your lips, your foreheads and back. Like he'll forget your face if he doesn't keep reminding himself of what it looks like.

There's a thick tension in the air around you. You almost think he's going to kiss you and you're not sure if that's a good or bad thing.

Finally, after what feels like years (but what is probably only a few minutes) he speaks.

"I'm so, so fucking sorry baby. I've been tryin' to fight this for too long, and somehow I convinced myself I could stop this, whatever it is, before it got any further. You've got your whole life ahead of you and I - fuck, I shouldn't take that away from you. But I can't stay away, not for one more fucking second. I'll spend the rest of my life making this up to you if I have to. If you'll let me. You're my omega, y/n, and neither of us can change that. I was a fucking idiot to try to."  

You're speechless.

You attempt to say something but your mouth just hangs open, not even a sound escaping. Maybe this is fake, you think. Maybe you just had too much to drink tonight, and you've finally gone round the bend fully. It takes a full moment for you to snap out of it.

"Negan." You breathe out, eyes searching his, finding nothing but sincerity. It scares you a little, to be quite frank. No one has ever looked at you quite like that. "That - that wasn't your choice to make. You didn't even speak to me, and now you want to tell me that -"

"I know, y/n." He interrupts, gripping your hands tighter. "Shit, baby. I know I don't really have any right to be trying to drag you back. But fuck, please, you've got to belie-"

You've heard all you need to, plus it's getting damn near unbearable being this close to him but having such limited contact. An so you can't help yourself when you lean forward, cupping his jaw in your hands and placing your lips on his.

He's frozen for a second before you're melting against each other, lips moving in sync, his hands snaking around to your hips and your back. You can taste something salty, and realise that you'd started to cry.

"If you ever do shit like that again I'll kick your ass." You tell him, lips brushing, eyes still closed.

"I'll let you kick my old ass around every day for the rest of my life, sweetheart."

This is so different from the first time you kissed. He's so gentle with you, cradling your body to his like you'll break if you're mishandled. You doubt you'll ever feel any sensation better than his lips on yours in your life. And you're perfectly content with that, because the way he cradles you, laying you down beneath him with such carefulness, makes you feel like you could fly.

His hands are all over you, caressing your hips, your face, your stomach. You grip at his hair, gasping for breath when you can but otherwise uncaring, as long as he keeps kissing you the way he is.

His hand creeps up your dress, grasping at your thigh and hiking it up over his own. You let out a moan, the feeling of having him so close and pressed against you in the most intimate of ways making you gush.

"Fuck, missed the way you smell baby." He growls, pulling away only to nip slightly at the skin of your neck, right where his mark would go.

"Negan." You gasp, tilting your head back for him.

"Your skin is so fucking soft."

You lean down, tugging the hem of your dress up. He gets the idea, and sits back, letting you pull your dress up and over your head. To be honest, you've never been the most confident about your body. And laying in front of Negan in your old pink cotton bra and wonder woman panties, waiting for him to say something is nerve racking.

"You are so beautiful, baby." He breathes, leaning forward again.

"Wait." You put your hand on his chest, curling your fingers slightly. Your nails dig into your skin a little. He grasps your wrist, hand sliding up to intertwine your fingers.

"What's wrong?" He breathes, voice husky.

You feel like this could be going to fast. Then again, you almost feel like it's not going fast enough. Your head is muddled in the most delicious way, but that doesn't stop your fears from breaking to the surface. "I don't want to be just a convenient knot, Negan."

He pulls back to stare you dead in the eyes. His expression, his stare holds an amount of honesty and earnest that you didn't even know one human could show. "Baby, that's not what this is. That's not what this will ever be. We don't have to do this tonight. Shit sweetheart, we don't have to do this ever if that's what you want."

"No, I mean, I want to. It's just..." you gulp, your train of thought slipping further away from you with every passing second. "It's been a while for me and uh, I don't - I don't want us to fuck this up."

"Baby, I already told you; I'll wait f that's what you want. Hell, I'd go the rest of my life without sex if it meant I could get one last taste of those lips of yours. You taste like strawberries and fucking mint sweetheart."

And if you weren't soaringly happy before, you most certainly are now. And that's when you know that this is what you want. You want him. This man, who's willing to wait for you, and only you. Why should you deny yourself? Either of you. You both want this, and you for one don't want to wait.

"Fuck it." You growl, pulling him down. "Make love to me, you asshole."

He laughs, tugging off his shirt in one swift movement. "As you wish, ma'am."

And before you know it, you're naked. And even when he's fingers deep inside you, he's still gentle. An even when he's biting you it's still loving. And just before he enters you, he looks into your eyes and says "are you sure about this sweetheart? Not too late to turn back."

"I'm sure." You tell him. "Just - just go slow. Please." It's been a long time for you, and Negan is hardly small.

He nods, sheathing himself inside of you in one slow thrust. "Of course. We've got all the time in the world."

You lay tangled in the sheets, hair an absolute mess, breathing still erratic. You're absolutely ruined, but a smile is painted on your face.  

Negan huffs out a laugh next to you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close to him. "Why are you so smiley?"

You nestle into him, not minding in the slightest that you're both grossly sweaty.  "You know what's got me all smiley."

"Hmm, I suppose I do." His hand comes up to your head, tangling in your hair as is fingers rub at your scalp. It makes noises that come close to purrs escape you.

"You realise we have to tell my dad about us, right?"

He chuckles. "Already done it, baby. I wasn't going near you without telling him first. He'd have my head."

Your heart swells, and for a second you think you could float up to the ceiling, you're that happy.

"Well then," you raise your head to look up at him, a fond smile on your lips, "looks like you're really not getting rid of me now."

He laughs, tugging you down for a long, languid kiss. "I'm not going anywhere baby."

"Just - just go slow. Please." It's been a long time for you, and Negan is hardly small.

He nods, sheathing himself inside of you in one slow thrust. "Of course. We've got all the time in the world."

You lay tangled in the sheets, hair an absolute mess, breathing still erratic. You're absolutely ruined, but a smile is painted on your face.  

Negan huffs out a laugh next to you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close to him. "Why are you so smiley?"

You nestle into him, not minding in the slightest that you're both grossly sweaty.  "You know what's got me all smiley."

"Hmm, I suppose I do." His hand comes up to your head, tangling in your hair as is fingers rub at your scalp. It makes noises that come close to purrs escape you.

"You realise we have to tell my dad about us, right?"

He chuckles. "Already done it, baby. I wasn't going near you without telling him first. He'd have my head."

Your heart swells, and for a second you think you could float up to the ceiling, you're that happy.

"Well then," you raise your head to look up at him, a fond smile on your lips, "looks like you're really not getting rid of me now."

He laughs, tugging you down for a long, languid kiss. "I'm not going anywhere baby."

taglist:

@superwholock36

@negansbean

@sprinklesandsugarcubes 

@daddys-girl5683 

@naughtynegan 

@fariesandwanderlust  

@ej-winchester

@nerdygirlwithacrush

@haleyea

@imjustmakingstuffupagain

@negan-is-daddy

@alanlizzingtonshore

@lunar-r-bryce

@rabbitinmytea

@princessjae92

@ask-kakashihatake

[takemyhart]

If it's not too much to ask, can I get some mccree fluff. Him meeting his newborn baby for the first time? Can be a boy or a girl, you decide. And later him and his s/o just have a cute moment with their new baby. Mccree deserves to be happy 2k18.💕

It’s not too much, ty, angel-cloud. Yes!!!!!! McCree deserves to be happy!!!!!!! So, I haven’t written much fluff before so here’s an attempt

It’s probably super cheesy but my hormones are haywire atm so here you go!!! Proper candy-floss fluff. Hopefully not cringey. 

Warnings: pregnancy and labour (mentioned); hospitals

Jesse sat hulking in the frame of the plastic hospital-issue chair.  Sunbeams flitted through the slatted blinds, but he didn’t dare to lift his eyes to greet them. There were firmly fixed on the treasure in his arms. Weariness ached in his bones like corn syrup sinking through water. He had to fight sleep with every blink, but he didn’t succumb. How could he close his eyes when they were blessed with such a sight? Besides, he knew that whilst he had been up all night, he hadn’t been doing the hard work. He was damn near out of his mind the whole time, though. He couldn’t stand seeing his pumpkin in pain, especially not pain that he had caused. But oh, was it worth every second of agony. He knew you’d agree.

Despite the urge to close his eyes and rest, he kept them open. He promised you he’d look after your baby while you slept, so look after he would. The rest of the hospital could be crumbling down around him right now, but so long as you and his baby were safe, he wouldn’t care one damn iota. Nothing would move him, nothing could move him, from the sight of the angel nestled in his arms and the one sleeping on the bed next to him.

Jesse wasn’t embarrassed to say he was shaking. He’d been shaking from the very moment you passed her over and into his arms. There was no way to express how he was feeling. His heart was damn near filled to burstin’. His eyes were tingling as they worked to form happy tears that hadn’t yet shed. His little baby didn’t care, though. She hadn’t stirred in her daddy’s trembling arms, too tired out from the disturbance of being brought, hollering and yelling, into this strange new world.

He lifted one calloused finger and traced it over her tiny silken cheek, marvelling at the texture. He couldn’t believe how soft and sweet and tiny she was next to his rough, rude frame. How did he manage to make something so small and so beautiful? He was just a scrawny little beanpole from the Deadlock gang in New Mexico. A boisterous quick-draw cowboy taking his second chance in Blackwatch. A rugged, heartbroken man on the run, tryin’ his best to make things right in the world. You saw him as more than that, though. Not only did you give him your love, but you gave him the family he’s spent his whole life searching for.

He kept stroking her face, soothing her as she snuffled in her sleep. The pad of his fingertip was bigger than her button of a nose. Hell, his hand was bigger than her whole head! His eyes, soft in a way few saw, languidly gazed at her every feature, admiring how perfectly she was formed. He just knew that, as pretty as she was now, she’d just keep on getting prettier and more perfect. He couldn’t wait to see her lift her head for the first time. To see her take her first toddling steps and say her first words. To have her fling her arms around her daddy and return every hug and kiss he was going to give her. There he was – a big man brought to his knees by a being so small and vulnerable it couldn’t even hold its own head up.

Who would she look like? Who would she sound like? He laughed lightly considering the look on your face if she ever came off with some of his cruder cowboy phrases. His laughing must’ve jostled her too much for her liking because those little sleepy eyes he was just marvelling at scrunched up as she let out a tiny wail.

“Shh, sshh. Take it easy, sugar. Just your daddy bein’ silly,” he murmured as he rocked his arms.  

Those eyes stayed scrunched though, before she let out a sneeze that jolted her slightly. It must’ve been mighty startling because her tiny wail turned into a sharper cry as she blinked up at her daddy in confused fear.

“Whoa there, lil darlin’. Ain’t nothing to be scared of,” he cooed, pulling her closer so that her head was resting just above his heart. She fussed a little longer before settling and gazing up at Jesse’s face with her big doll-eyes. He couldn’t help but beam, in awe and in pride.

“What did you do this time?” You queried in a hoarse voice.

Jesse, for the first time in hours, averted his gaze from his newborn daughter. There you were, leaning up slightly in bed and looking at him with the softest, sweetest expression he’d ever seen. Your sweat had cooled on your body, sticking your hair to your forehead in a way that, in any other scenario, he would’ve laughed. He could see the bags under your eyes and the paler pallor to your skin. Yet, you had never looked more beautiful.  

Jesse shook his head, chuckling. “Nothing yet, pumpkin. How are you holdin’ up?”

“Better than when I was last talking to you,” you laughed, remembering your yells and curses that swelled with every labour pang.

“Hmmm, guessin’ I deserved it,” he indulged, still caressing the baby cuddled into his broad chest.

“Come over here, please?” You asked, already shifting to make room for his larger form.

Jesse stood, taking the few short steps over to your bed. He hovered for a minute, unsure, before settling on the sheets that were still warm from your body heat.

“Come on, get on over here,” you said, tugging at his free arm.

“You sure, pumpkin? You ain’t still sore?”

“I don’t care. I just want to lie down with you both. Please?”

How could he resist a request like that? Careful of the fussing angel in his mechanical arm, and his sore better half on his right, he shuffled down into the bed and turned to look at you.

“I got leave for the next two months and a half, exceptin’ any real emergencies, so prepare to be spoilt rotten.”

He pulled you into his other arm. There he was in heaven; his two girls in his arms. You nestled in closer, running your fingertips over his hand and over the baby you’d made together.

“You spoil me already.”

“Pumpkin, you ain’t seen spoilt yet. You’ve given me everything, everything. You better get used to a whole lot more lovin’.”

He knew he was falling asleep with the stupidest grin on his face. As he drifted he noticed a warmth on his chest that wasn’t caused by body heart. No, it was in his heart. It wasn’t split between his two lil ladies; it had doubled, expanded in size as you and your baby filled up all the space in there that he had.

[ketteriings]

Domnhall; Change

“No mum-- but I --”

“I don’t want’a hear it, Domnhall.”

The line cut dead with a deafening finality, the way she’d said his name a hollow echo brushing past his ear. With the words he’d meant to say turning to ash on his tongue, he let the phone fall from limp fingers, a dull crash of plastic and porcelain as it fell into the iron stained sink. Those same fingers rose to gaunt features, puckered scarring and paper thin skin no match for the way they scrubbed at the tension caused by good intentions. He shouldn’t have tried, that much was clear. Information was never as important as pride.

Picking up and pocketing the burner quickly, he went to make his way out of the dingy, dilapidated warehouse bathroom but caught sight of his reflection. The man staring back at him was a warped memory, something you were meant to remember but could never quite get the details of just right, every feature skewed the slightest bit. He couldn’t meet his own eyes in the mirror, instead they fell to too thin pale lips and the serrated skin that flowed like broken rivers from their valleys. It was impossible to forget the scarring, and he didn’t need a mirror to remember them. They were reflected in every pair of eyes that landed on his once handsome face, be it the first or the hundredth time.

He didn’t blame them. They were the only thing he ever saw too.

With a hard blink he slammed a rough hand onto the light switch, a disappearing act in vain, as he used the weight of his shoulder to push open on the door. Inhaling a breath smothered in the stench of burnt flesh and gasoline, his bones ached for a moment without tension, only to be met with uninvited attempted hilarity.

“The fuck you was doin’ in there, Dom? Beatin’ one off? I knew you was fucked but damn!”

Fireworks shot down his spine, culminating their explosions in the palms of his hand, itching to burn his fist through the mans head. With a low growl he moved past the grunt, barely three months initiated and already too big for his fucking britches. White knuckles bore dents into the phone in his pocket, while hard and heavy boots squelched over slowly drying blood, tacky and disgusting as it seeped into the concrete. “Clean this shit up before you’re the thing I’m fuckin’ beating.” He didn’t look back as he walked, didn’t need to; he could feel the hate boring into the back of his skull the whole way out.

His lips twitched upwards, blink and you’d miss it.

It was easier to be hated. Hate meant nothing. His mother however -- the opposite of love is indifference, not hate, yeah? He fell back into the memory of her words, the clipped tone, and it unnerved him how unbalanced the exchange had left him. What exchange? He almost sneered at the thought, something akin to a sardonic grin ghosting about his scars. He’d said -- nothing. He’d said nothing to her, she wouldn’t let him get the words out. Though one would argue she’d answered the phone at all, contacts are inexistent in their line of work.

An american number could’ve been anyone.

It meant nothing -- he meant nothing.

He was still tangled in the complicated emotions concerning his mother when he made it to the front of the warehouse. Empty except for two admittedly sweet souls-- probably the only pair he held a soft, hidden affection for, the tension in his shoulders eased slightly, the muscles a rubber band not quite worn yet and ready to seize back up in an instant. Nestled in closely on the worn floral couch that once probably belonged to the Whelan matriarch, Rory was absently watching the television, one of Carels feet in his lap, while the other lazily crossed at the knee, and he looked to be drafting something in a new notebook.

They hadn’t noticed him and he took the chance to watch them for a moment; It was gently intimate, the way they existed comfortably together, and he suddenly felt like an intruder, a jealous voyeur in the simplicity of their affection. The cobwebs of his heart pulled harshly as he turned away, the steel toe of his boots hissing across the linelium, a soft alarm letting them know of his presence.

“Leaving?” Cae’s soft lilt for once did little to soothe, and he could only nod, words trapped beneath the searing fire poker of shame in his throat. Rory motioned to the box on the coffee table with his chin, and wordlessly he began fishing in suddenly neverending pockets for the blasted burner. “Are you coming to dinner?”

The poker had become a bag of sand and no matter how many times he choked on his swollen tongue nothing but dry air pushed past his teeth. Nearly throwing the goddamn burner into the pile with the others, he exhaled the last twenty two hours from his lungs, suddenly a thousand years older in a single breath. “I’ll call.” He croaked finally. The three of them knew full well he wouldn’t and they had the divine grace to let their newest stray slip out a broken coward.

He didn’t always say no, his angel of aunt might’ve hunted her charge down if he had but, it never got any easier. The ancillary feeling, the demonizing whispers that festered like burrowing worms in the rot of his brain.

He didn’t belong there.

The lake wind was a shock charge to the system, nearly blowing through the thin jacket about his thin shoulders. It was disorienting, the sunlight, still burning bright as it had been that morning, though yesterday was still today to him. Or was today yesterday? He didn’t know and frankly, he didn’t care. Each lead heavy footstep away from the warehouse was a one closer to his mattress, the thin piece of foam and fabric the only plane of existence he wished to know until he was called for again.

He hoped to God it wouldn’t be for days.

Where once the idea of slicing skin and sinew would bring cotton candy joy to his haunted features, the lingering scent and stain of blood on his hands had already caused him to itch the skin raw in anxious attempts to be clean. Why that was became a rabbits hole train of thought, one he didn’t dare follow, instead repeating his full name to himself in his mind. It was a trick his father used to offer in case he was ever tortured for information.

They can never take your name, son.

Ironic, since it was exactly what he’d done.

By the time the time blood stained fingers wrapped around heavy keys, he would’ve given anything for a bullet to the temple. The small apartment mocked him with her meager furniture and bare walls. It was the apartment of a man who held nothing, had nothing. The days earlier thoughts began to slither back through his ribs, an embroidery of self loathing he couldn’t ever hope to pull apart. He was a junkyard dog, who had found shelter but no home. Used for his bark and his bite and left chained when the work was through.

“You’re fucking pathetic.” the apartment whispered it back to him in soft malicious echoes. He’d resigned himself to do nothing but listen to it until a sharp buzz in the nightstand caused him to flinch harshly. He had too many fucking phones. They were a bunch of thugs not a goddamn fortune 500 for christ sakes.

G: Hungry?

It was the only contact he’d ever saved, and even then only a letter from an ancient name. Dangerous maybe, but necessary, and quietly to himself he could admit, comforting. Deft fingers worked quickly, claiming starvation faster than he could convince himself to decline, and he stared at the ceiling, breath held for the buzz of reply.

G: be home in 20

Home. Such a silly. Fucking. Little. Word. Yet one when read from the voice of another, held the possibility of things he believed he couldn’t dare dream of yet. With a soft grunt of tired bones, he rolled a bit clumsily off the bed, heading straight for the bathroom, a trail of discarded stained stiff clothes in his wake, the shedding of a sinners skin. With shower turned to scalding, he caught sight of his reflection for the second time that day. The mirror was small and needed a good cleaning, much like he did, like most the rest of his life did. But he stared, eyes as always on his greatest shame, traveling to their center at the peak of too thin pale lips.

Lips that had once pressed themselves to the world greatest creation, he reminded himself gently. The memory plush and soft, treasured in the parts of him he tried to hide.

His lips twitched upwards, blink and you’d miss it. Raul would be there soon.

[katsukiboom]

hello! i'm not sure if your requests are open, but if they are, would it be okay to ask you for a scenario with izuku? i know he's a sweetie pie and all, but i would love to see him and his fem s/o having an argument and him saying something completely uncalled for and mean and she stops talking to him for weeks. just too hurt to even look at him? can it plspls have a happy ending!? thank you!!!

Hello love, requests are always open! I loved writing about this even if it took me a long while, this is now the longest oneshot I’ve written in this fandom! I hope you like it ♥

She didn’t even know what had started thefight that night. She wasn’t even aware of the fact that she had done somethingwrong, but there she was, driving away from her apartment through the city andhoping she’d find an open door on the other side once she arrived at her bestfriend’s house.

The fact that her boyfriend had found a newagency while he gathered the money to open his own had filled her with glee,but remembering the scenarios from earlier made her tear up again as she heldon to the steering wheel a little bit tighter, her knuckles already turning afaint white. That’s what you get, shetold herself, that’s what you get fortrying.

-

“Whatdo you mean they want you to go to the other side of the country?” ______ askedwith eyes wide open. “What did you tell them?”

Izukulooked at her, a smile plastered on his lips, but she could tell he feltconfused by the look on his eyes. He ate the last bit of food left on his plateand said, “Yes, I told them I would think about it – you’d come with me, ofcourse! It’s one of Gran Torino’s old student’s agency, and they think I’d beperfect there. They can even offer you a place there too if we both agree togo! It’s a great opportunity and… is everything okay?”

Withher hands on both sides of her head and her elbows resting on the table, shelooked at her already cold food while thinking about the whole thing, feelingas if her life there, her work, her friends, everything wasn’t being taken intoconsideration by him. She waited a few more seconds before a few words escapedher lips, her tone calm yet filled with all of her emotions. “I won’t go.”

Thesmall smile on his face vanished little by little, being replaced by a neutralexpression. “I-I mean,” he started, seemingly trying to find the right words tospeak, “it’s maybe a once-in-a-lifetime chance, babe, I want you to think aboutit carefully b-”

“Iwon’t go.”

Hesighed, closing his eyes and getting up to lean against the wall behind him,much to ______’s surprise. “It’s your final answer? You’re not even going tothink about it?” She shook her head – it was weird to see Izuku get mad. Shehad only seen that side of him about four times before, and it had all beenabout the villains, not about her.“I’m telling you it’s something unique, something that could benefit us both,and you don’t even give me a chance; can’t you just be happy for me?”

Thatwas a low blow, especially for Midoriya. He had always been so kind to her,acting like he was the perfect boyfriend, but maybe there was more to the storythan what she could see. She got up as well, but she stood in place, her fistsclenched tightly on each side of her body and her cheeks red. “I’m happy foryou, love,” she said, the words coming out a little bit more strained that shewould’ve liked. “but you need to understand that I’ve built my entire lifearound this place – leaving wouldn’t be easy for me, and I have my own agencyto take care of too, it’s not the best thing right now, I just-”

“Stop.You know what?” he said, his brow furred and a hand motioning her to stoptalking. “I’m going to go whether you come with me or not. I’m not letting thisslip from my reach; I’ve waited long enough to do this.” That was the singlestatement that finally broke her heart, and ______ felt as if her stomach hadreached the ground. Her mouth slightly open, she breathed in, fighting back thetears that now threatened to fall, but when she tried to say something else, hepunched the wall, leaving a small mark on the paint. “Quiet. I’m getting sickof hearing your voice tonight.”

Heturned around and started making his way towards their bedroom without evenmuttering another word, leaving his girlfriend alone to cry, with her thoughtsto keep her company. His voice still resonated inside her mind when, hourslater, she grabbed a suitcase, filling it with all of her stuff she could putinside before making her way to the front door, opening but leaving her keysbehind. She only left a note for him on his nightstand, surely to be read assoon as he woke up and looked for his phone.

I understand the burden you carry, and I don’t want tomake it heavier. If you must, go and follow your dreams, I’ll cheer you on andbe proud that you can be who you want to be. I’ll still love you just the same.

-

It had been a week and a half of a hell______ never thought she’d reach. The first night had been the worse, butthankfully her best friend, Momo was there to help her get through the sadnessand the anger that followed that night, and knowing she wouldn’t want to comeback for a while she offered her friend a room, which she gladly took. She feltstupid for running away like that instead of facing the problem, but hearingIzuku say what he said brought a whole new realization to her – maybe, justmaybe, he still put their relationship low on his list, and she started tobelieve that, maybe, she didn’treally know him, even after all those years.

He had tried to contact her though; phonecalls, text messages, everything he could. He even told her he would come byher agency to talk, but fearing he’d want to tell her that he was still leavinghe asked everyone there to act as if she hadn’t gone to work that day. The painwas still present in her heart but she needed to go on with her daily lifewhile she thought of a good way to handle things.

Maybe she was still doing the right thing.

But that Wednesday, exactly ten days aftershe had left their apartment, she came back to Momo’s only to find her havingsome tea on the kitchen… with him.

The words got stuck in her throat as shefelt her face burning when their gazes met. His green eyes seemed filled withsomething similar to regret, but she had learnt better than to trust that. “______...”he started, getting up and taking a step forward, but when she stepped back hestopped again. “Yaoyorozu,” he muttered while turning around for a second,puzzling her, “do you mind if we have some time alone?” Their friend looked ather with a worried expression yet nodded and quickly exited the room, thetension and silence now looming over them. She looked down, ashamed to evenlook at him but still feeling his stare on her, the sinking sensation insidestepping in once more to make her feel broken. “H-how have you been?”

His question resonated through the spaciousroom, his voice shaking as well as her heart. “Fine.” Her own voice was justbarely audible, afraid he’d snap like before, and for a moment it was as if herbody was stiff like wood. She breathed silently with butterflies in herstomach, and waited for him to speak up again, but when it became apparent hewouldn’t she managed to gather up all of her courage to look at him. It surprisedher to see his eyes puffy and the bags under them darker; she wondered if hehad had any sleep since that night, but that was a question for another day. “Whatare you doing here, Izuku?”

“I know you probably don’t want to see me,”he started immediately, “but I needed to see you again. You know I’ve beentrying, you have no idea how much I looked for you all around – even Yaoyorozudenied you were here until I showed up at the door. She gave me one of thenastiest looks I’ve ever seen her give, and that was scary.” He chuckled, butwhen he saw she didn’t follow he ran a hand through his already messy hair andcoughed. “I need to talk to you; I have a million things running through mymind.”

“About what?” she snapped, tears runningdown her cheeks. “About how you broke my heart? Or about how you were tired oflistening to me?”

“Both,” he stated simply. “”Look, I know I messedup – I know I fucked up.” Hearing himswear was a weird thing that only happened every once in a while, when he felttruly sorry about something. ______ only gasped as he continued, “I saidhorrible things that will continue to make me feel like shit every day and thatI’m sure will still hurt you when you remember them. I know I’m not thegreatest boyfriend on Earth and that probably you don’t want to see me rightnow, but I need to tell you that I love you, I need to tell you that I need you by my side, but I understandif you don’t want to talk at all. I have no rights to ask anything from you.”

Warily, she wiped away the tears, notbreaking eye contact even for a second; watching as he shed a few tearshimself, she started walking towards him, little hiccups making their waythrough their lips as she reached his side. “I’m sorry Izuku,” she said whileputting a hand on his cheek, his head instantly leaning onto it and making herfeel warm inside, despite the current situation she found herself in. “I’m notsure if I want to go back yet. I still need to… sort out my thoughts, I guess.”

“Will you give me a shot at getting youback at least?”

His hopeful eyes glued on her made her wantto throw all of her pride away just for the sake of feeling him close again,but she knew better than to do that. Smiling, she caressed his cheek, the skindry yet smooth under her touch, and as she saw the one who still held her hearttightly she said, “Yes, that I can do.”

[theonceoverthinker]

One Call Away, But Realms Apart (Regal Believer)

Summary: Regina’s been none too happy ever since she was awoken from her personal curse, but as she hears her cursed son talk about his dying daughter, it’s enough to nearly tip Regina over the edge of despair. Deleted scene from 7X10 when Regina calls Henry to check in on him just before she and Zelena go back to HH. Not really angsty per se, but hopefully pretty feelsy.

A/N: This was really freakin’ fun to work on, and got me out of my writer’s rut! Hope you all enjoy it too!

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Zelena had told Regina to wait until after dinner to call Henry. She argued, quite validly, that Henry’s flight would take a few hours and he’d need time with Jacinda and Lucy.

Because of that, Regina waited, and the two of them had dinner together in Zelena’s apartment. Their meal, had it not been overshadowed by the weight of their situation, might have been much sweeter than it had been allowed to be. Zelena had insisted on eating pizza, moaning about her desire for a reunion with carbs and grease, and that couple with further details about her sister’s cursed lifestyle were enough to make Regina produce at least a couple of genuine smiles. They spent the time while finishing off the pie talking about their time under the curse. Regina almost got covered in tomato sauce when she told her sister that Hook had become an Eagle Scout of a detective who was now gallivanting around town with Rumpelstiltskin.

However, as nice as it was to reconnect with Zelena after all this time, the hours passed as slowly as a snail’s trip up a windy hill. Regina had made a habit of looking at her watch whenever there was any kind of silence between them, and sometimes, even if there wasn’t one. She was sure that Zelena had picked up on what she was doing, but she didn’t say anything. If Regina had the heart for it, she would’ve laughed. Time had ingrained her sister with sentiment and empathy the likes of which she would have scoffed at when they first met.

Following dinner, Zelena asked to take a look at Regina’s car, wanting to know how much space she’d have for her things before she started packing. Regina obliged, and a few minutes later, they were outside her building. Zelena had a quick look around the car, nodded, and then turned to Regina.

“I’m going to go ready my stuff,” she said. “Have a feeling I’m going to be gone for quite a while.” Zelena then pat Regina on her shoulder and gave her a sad smile. “Go talk to Henry.”

Regina, despite her longing to do just that, stayed put and bit her lip in hesitation.

“Do you think enough time has passed?” She asked.

Zelena nodded. “I do. And in the highly unlikely chance I’m wrong,” she added, grinning, “he’ll let you know. Now go and call him. I’ve a lot to pack.” With that, Zelena headed back into her apartment. Regina, deciding not to wait another moment longer, plugged in Henry’s name into her smartphone and clicked the call button.

One ring passed, then two, then three. Regina’s heart started to sink, dreading the familiar sound of her son’s voicemail, when suddenly, he picked up.

“Henry?” Regina said, her voice a touch hitched despite her best efforts.

“Hey, Roni.” It was odd to Regina just how odd her cursed name had sounded to her ears after a only a few hours of answering to her real name. She made a mental note to have Zelena practice saying her cursed name in the car until it was natural. For now though, Regina brushed aside her awkwardness and went straight to the point.

“How’s Lucy?”

“She the same,” Henry answered, so quietly that Regina almost didn’t hear him. Regina had asked that question knowing how Henry would likely respond, but nothing could prepare her for how miserable the words sounded as they came out his mouth. Regina felt her heart plumett down her chest in a way it hadn’t in so long.

“Henry, I,” Regina started, but stopped just as quickly. She chided herself for nearly telling him that she understood what he was going through. She knew that that choice of words would at best come off as an empty platitude and at worst result in icy words getting thrown back in her direction, for how could she explain that less than twenty years ago, she was in a similar situation?

Regina sighed, and worked out another phrasing of her sentiments.

“Henry, I’m so sorry,” she rectified, her voice low.

“Jacinda and I haven’t left the room in hours. Right now, she’s passed out on a chair by Lucy’s bed. She’s exhausted. Probably has been up for a whole day by now.”

There was a pause, as if both of them were trying to figure out what next to say.

“I read to her,” Henry eventually continued. “Jacinda thought it would be a good idea.” Regina smiled. It was such a Henry thing to do to read to someone in distress, even if Jacinda had ultimately motivated him to do it. She could even picture it. Henry always had the perfect reading voice.

“That-that’s good. Did she respond to it at all?” For a moment, Regina had something that she had sorely lacked from the moment she had awoken from this most recent curse: hope.

“No,” Henry sighed. Over the line, Regina could hear Henry’s breath quicken up. Every inhale and exhale was audible and rapid, only grower moreso as the seconds passed. Regina leaned against the outer wall of her sister’s apartment building. She once again knew that the answer to the question she was about to ask would only lead to pain, and right now, with Henry’s knowledge of their true relationship gone and without any way of giving him the comfort she knew he desperately needed, Regina felt herself needing some semblance of support.

“Henry, are you okay?”

“Roni, I tried bringing her back, just like in my book.” Regina stifled a sob as she heard a crack in his voice, one that only grew as he spoke. “You remember the part where Emma broke the curse, right? I kissed her on the forehead, just like in that scene. But it didn’t work. I-I don’t know why I tried it, but as I leaned in - I don’t know - I just thought it would wake her up! I actually believed that I was her father, and I could stop all of this. I don’t even know what to think! Am I going insane?” At this point, Regina was biting her tongue, a last resort to stay the tears that were pouring down her face like a ruptured pipe so that they wouldn’t become outright sobs. On the other end of the line, while she couldn’t see them, she swore Henry was shedding tears of his own.

Regina took a deep and shaky breath, knowing she’d need to speak.

“Henry,” she said, as soberly as she could. “You’re not crazy, do you hear me?” She could hear Henry chuckle, not bitterly, but sadly.

“I’m starting to think I just might be,” Henry countered.

“Well, I’m here to tell you that you’re not.” Regina attributed her emphasis on that point to come down to a few things, not the least of which being guilt for cardinal sin of claiming the opposite all those years ago. “You care about this girl and you had hope, and there is nothing wrong with that.” Her voice was loud and firm now, far more than Regina probably should have allowed it to be. “So you took a chance.”

“And a fat lotta good it did,” Henry commented.

“It’s a start,” Regina encouraged, her voice now firm and unshaken. “Henry, I promise you: Lucy’s going to be okay, and the two of you are going to be happy. Now, Kelly and I are heading back to the city tonight, and we’ll be at the hospital the first thing tomorrow, but until that happens, I’m going to need you to promise me two things.”

“Two?” Henry scoffed.

“Yes, two,” Regina insisted. “First, you’re to take care of yourself. Get some coffee and food in your system. You’ll be no good to anyone if you can barely fight off your stomach. Don’t forget: I know how you are with those donuts you bring in and the pretzels I leave out at the bar.”

“Okay,” Henry answered, clearly convinced. “What’s the second promise?”

Regina took another deep breath. This promise she confessed that she hadn’t thought out fully, but concluded that it was harmless enough. It was mostly for her peace of mind, because as it stood, her son’s state scared her just a bit.

“You’re to stay with Jacinda. Henry, she needs you now, and Lucy does too. So however sorry for yourself you’re feeling, you’re going to have to hold out just a little longer.”

Another chuckle could be heard through the speaker of Regina’s phone.

“You don’t even need to ask me to do that, Roni.”

Despite everything that would happen and everything that was sure to come, Regina smiled.

“You’re a good man, Henry Mills, and I’m so proud of you.” She knew what she had said may have come off a touch too motherly, and might even hold the risk of confusing Henry, but of all the things that she really wanted to say, this was the closest to the motivating words of a friend that she could come up with.

Thankfully, nothing that she said had seemed off putting in the slightest.

“Thanks, Roni. I’m glad I have you around. I’m pretty sure I’d actually go insane if I didn’t. Well, you and Kelly have a long drive, so I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Henry.” Honestly, had she not had the pressing need to drive through hours of traffic and darkness with her eccentric sister, she would have gladly stayed on with him all night if he wanted to. That said, she knew what they both needed to do, and an evening on the phone, no matter how comforting it would be to just talk to him and make him feel better as best as she cold, would do more harm than good for their purposes. So, with a heavy heart, Regina pressed the red button on her phone’s touch screen, and brought their phone call to an end.

Regina despite every bit of somberness she wanted to sulk in, refused to let herself succumb to the darkness. Just as she’d said to Henry, she’d find a way to for he and Lucy to get their happy ending, no matter the cost.

As Regina approached her sister, ready to talk once more of strategies and information, she gritted her teeth with determination.

It was show time.

[akawhiskeyy-blog]

The Pledge || Chatzy

Summary: Isabella visits Jessica’s hotel room, to gain more information about Kilgrave Trigger warnings: Deception, mentions of abuse, mentions of murder Written by: @akawhiskeyy, @kristencoded Affects: @riddlesreformed

Isabella: Though Isabella had every confidence in her acting abilities, she knew that this would be a challenge. She would have been arrogant if she thought this would be ​easy​. She had held Edward as tightly as she could, before leaving for Jessica's hotel room. She had to remind herself of why they were doing this. Jessica had wronged them. She had tried to worm her way into Isabella's mind, tried to ​play​ her, to make her think that Edward was evil.

Well, now she knew. She knew what Jessica had been through. It had been depressingly easy to access Jessica Jones’s interview regarding Kilgrave, through the S.C.P.D. database. She had simply created a dummy account for an officer, and given it the highest level of clearance, which had allowed her to access the pool of information, shared between police stations, on meta-humans.

Reading Jessica’s interview had only reaffirmed what she'd suspected. Kilgrave was nothing like Edward. And they would make Jessica pay for thinking that. Kilgrave had sounded horrific, but simply fascinating. As Isabella had read, in Jessica’s own words, what he had done to her, and the extent of his abilities, she couldn’t help but be disappointed that Jessica had killed him. Now, any study that could potentially done into his mind-controlling powers could now only be done posthumously, clandestinely.

Isabella had forced herself to cry on the way to the hotel, by keeping her eyes open until they filled with tears, and then blinking rapidly. Of course, any idiot should know that the tears one shed when they cried were different from the tears that protected one’s eyes from dust. But she didn't need to sob yet. That would be overkill. She had to just make it look like she had been crying.

When she reached the hotel – exactly the sort of seedy place that Jessica Jones would stay in – she stepped into her Kristen Kringle persona without even thinking about it. She lowered her shoulders, and hunched her back ever so slightly. Where she now carried herself with a regal grace and poise that the Court had endowed all clones with, she had to revert to walking as everyone else did.

She had asked the receptionist for Jessica Jones’ room number, in her soft, gentle, voice, and been given it with absolutely no fight. That just proved how appalling this establishment was, she supposed.

With her eyes slightly red, and watery, she stood outside Jessica Jones's hotel room, and took a deep breath. After a few moments of trying to mentally talk through what she would say, she knocked, and immediately withdrew her hand and twisted her fingers together, adopting a genuine nervous gesture of hers. The best lies, after all, were based in facts.

Jessica: Jessica was tired. She was always goddamn tired. But she'd spent the last week tailing what felt like every goddamn reporter at the goddamn Start City goddamn Gazette. She’d finally narrowed down her mark, and then it was just a matter of waiting until dark, breaking into the station, and slipping the files out of his desk. Which possibly would’ve been more difficult without the superstrength making locks obsolete. Maybe the reporter had read them, but he couldn’t go to print without his evidence.

She was burning it in the bathroom sink. Watching the ashes float down, mix with the running water for a moment, leaving nothing but a dark grey stain against the not-so-white porcelain. All that was left of the blackmailer’s ‘breadcrumbs,’ washed away so easily. If only memories were that easy to wash away.

“Main Street,” she muttered to herself, dropping the last bit of flaming scrap, into the sink. “Birch Street. Higgins –”

A knock at the door stopped her.

The sound made her immediately wary – Karen had gone home, to actually maybe hopefully sleep, and few others knew where to find her these days. Was the blackmailer pissed his little scheme had gone wrong? Here to leave another message? Jessica washed the last of the ash away, shut the taps off, and approached the door slowly. Barely making a sound as she crept towards it. She’d learned to be cautious. Vigilant.

Isabella was the ​last​ person she expected to see through the peep hole. Jessica narrowed her gaze, opened the door to get a better look. Isabella stared back at her with red, watery eyes, and twisting fingers – something was definitely up. For a moment, Jessica just stared at her. “The hell are you doing here?” she asked finally.

Isabella: Jessica Jones was very predictable, and Isabella had been expecting some sort of abrupt greeting like that. The woman seemed to be incapable of being pleasant or calm. Now that she knew about Kilgrave, Isabella had to consider the possibility that this was a psychological response to her trauma. Maybe she put her shields up to protect herself. Or maybe she was just always slightly drunk.

The question Jessica asked was a fair one, given how their text conversation had gone. Though she was physically loathed to admit it, Edward had been wrong to underestimate Jessica. She may have been a drunk murderer, but she wasn't as stupid as she appeared. And it was always better to overestimate your enemies, after all.

It took her a moment to formulate a reply, and she swallowed. She offered Jessica a weak smile. "I didn't know who else to go to," she said. "I'm sorry. I know you probably don't want to see me. But I need your advice. And I would have texted you, but he might have seen it." There was something unspoken, in that. ​He checks my phone​. She didn’t even need to say Edward’s name for Jessica to know who she was referring to. As a matter of fact, Edward did not check her texts, though he would have had every right to, if he wanted.

Jessica: “You don’t have to apologize,” Jessica muttered. Confusion clouded her face, and she stepped back slowly, opening the door further as Isabella ranted. What the hell was going on? The entire city had lost their goddamn mind, and now, apparently, Isabella was doing the same.

There was no love lost between them, they both knew that. But from their first meeting, Jessica had felt that familiar urge to ​do​ something about the mess Isabella had fallen into. She wasn’t a hero, it wasn’t her business, she knew that, but still… sometimes she couldn’t help herself.

She sighed deeply, jaw clenching when Isabella all but said ‘he reads my goddamn text messages like a goddamn asshole.’ “Come in,” she said flatly, stepping out of the way. “And start at the goddamn beginning.”

Isabella: Isabella wondered if Jessica knew how terribly expressive she was, or if it was a genuine accident. She was so obviously bewildered by this. It was to be expected, of course – her texts had been deliberately concerning, so that this wouldn’t come as a complete shock, but not so concerning that Jessica would be expecting Isabella to show up at her hotel room.

At the request, she nodded once, and walked in, deliberately narrowing her shoulders and keeping a distance between them, shying away from Jessica. Every move had to be calculated. Every action had to be thought out. But, now that she’d stepped into the role of a fearful woman, it was easy to wear.

She walked a little way into Jessica’s hotel room. Honestly, who lived in a hotel room? It was ridiculous. Still, it had been a shock to learn that Jessica wasn’t, in fact, living on the streets. In time, she wanted to glance around, to see what she could glean about Jessica from how she kept her ‘home’. But now wasn’t the time. Now, she had to lay the groundwork. So, she turned to the other woman, folding her arms across her stomach, clutching her abdomen.

She stared at the floor. She’d had some ideas about how she would begin, so she launched into it quickly, blurting out the words. “I moved in with Edward. A few days ago.” There was no need to glance at Jessica to know that she was looking disgusted. How dare she? “I was so excited. But –” She cut herself off, and took a slow breath out. “Things are different.”

Jessica: Jessica shut the door slowly, and walked over to her desk, closing her laptop over the letter from her blackmailer. The corner stuck out slightly, but Isabella was too goddamn distracted to ask about it, that much was clear. Jessica didn’t exactly know what to do, so she just watched the other woman, walking slowly into her hotel room, glancing around at the chaotic mess of bottles, glasses, clothes, and take-out containers. (She’d never worked well in a clean space.)

“You moved in with him,” she repeated flatly, unable to keep the trace of disdain out of her voice. A few days and already it was falling apart like this? Ed was sicker than she thought. It wasn’t exactly surprising, though. She couldn’t help but remember those days she’d spent living with Kilgrave in her old home, how quickly his illusion of ‘domestic bliss’ had crumbled.

“Different ​how​?” she asked, not in the mood to beat around the bush. She moved to the front of her desk, leaning on it, crossing her arms. “Did he hurt you? Say something? ​Do​ something?” Why else would Isabella be here, at ​her​ door of all places? Until now, Isabella had been hell-bent on defending him, oblivious to the alarm bells her every text, every word, every excuse, set off in Jessica’s head. “Isabella,” Jessica said, forcing herself to take a breath and trying to soften the edges of her words. “Tell me what happened.”

Isabella: As Jessica walked into the room, Isabella stayed where she was. Though Jessica seemed to believe this was genuine, she wasn’t going to let the other woman out of her sight. Just in case. It was better to be safe than sorry. After all, Jessica Jones had snapped her abuser’s neck with her bare hands.

That had come as a shock. Jessica was a meta-human, and their abilities were startlingly similar, according to the S.P.C.P.’s database on meta-humans. Isabella wondered, not for the first time since discovering that, if their strengths matched one another. Maybe, once all of this was over, she could find out. She rarely used her strength – it was such a brute thing, such an animalistic thing. It was useful in certain situations, of course, and it wasn’t as uncanny as her synthetic flesh. But she still rarely used it.

And now, it would have been impossible to guess that she had it all. She stood with her shoulders slightly hunched, hugging herself tightly, and blinked at the ground. Jessica had said that her greatest weakness had been that she cared. Isabella understood that. Her own greatest weakness was the overflowing empathy that the Court had programmed her with. But she had no empathy for the woman in front of her. The woman who had tried to take Edward away, the woman who had assaulted him.

The judgement in Jessica’s voice was infuriating, and it was a testament to Isabella’s deception that she didn’t visibly react. She just nodded once, silently. “Yes. I moved in with him.” How dare Jessica judge her? For goodness sake, this woman lived like an animal. She was just like Jubilee, Warren, Howard, and 5. Judging Isabella for something they didn’t understand

But, of course, this was a necessary evil. She had to act against Edward now, so that she could act with him later. She’d known this was going to happen. In fact, the worse Jessica implied about Edward, the more Isabella could react in a deliberately concerning way. It worked in her favour.

“Oh, no, no, no,” she said, hurriedly. She looked up at the other woman, surprised to see the genuine concern in her gaze. Was this going to be easy? It was hardly a challenge. What a shame. “Edward would never hurt me. Not on purpose. He can just be… controlling. Sometimes.” The word was deliberate, of course. Isabella knew all about what Kilgrave could do. It was fascinating. And the language of it would certainly be very useful now.

Jessica: Isabella looked small, standing there, folding into herself. Jessica recognized that look. She never did it in front of people (apart from Malcolm, but there had been a body in her bed that day.) Sometimes, when it felt like the entire world was crumbling around you, the only thing you could do was hold yourself tight and try to keep your insides from spilling onto the floor.

The word ‘​controlling​’ made her want to crumble right then and there. She couldn’t help but stiffen, cross her arms a little tighter over her chest, as if it would muffle the pounding of her heart. “Not on purpose,” she echoed, choosing to focus on that instead. “Which means either you’re still denying it, or you honestly think everything he does is a goddamn accident.” Her words weren’t spat, weren’t ​angry​, they were just heavy. Her tongue felt weary from repeating itself. It felt almost inevitable, Isabella winding up here, standing before her scared and shaken like a dog that had been abandoned beside the road.

Jessica sighed. Took a second to repeat street names in her head, then motioned to her bed. “Sit,” she said simply, pushing off the desk. She crossed to the minifridge, grabbed one of the bottles of water from inside. (They’d been going to waste, taking up space mostly, except for Karen’s visits.) She carried it with her, took a seat at the foot of the bed, and held it out for Isabella.

She gave the other woman a long, hard look. Searching her eyes for something – some spark that she was coming back to herself, that deep down, there was still a ​person​ there, someone independent of Ed and everything he’d done to her. Maybe she was being an idiot, maybe it was wishful thinking, but she thought she could see it, lurking just behind Isabella’s reddened eyes.

“You and I aren’t friends,” she said, not coldly, not unkindly, just as a fact. “But I know a thing or two about controlling assholes, and whatever issues you and I have, you don’t deserve that. Your life is yours,” she said fiercely. She felt that fire in her veins, that righteous anger, the kind that had been coursing through her when her fingers closed around ​his​ neck and twisted. “What happened?”

Isabella: The word had been chosen deliberately, and it seemed to have the desired effect. Jessica visibly stiffened, and Isabella felt a surge of triumph. This was easy, but she wasn’t going to get complacent. They had only just got started, after all, and it would be unforgivably stupid if she slipped up even a little. Jessica might notice something was odd. She remembered what she’d read in Jessica’s own words. Totally under his control. It was that easy.

She knew what that felt like. She remembered when she’d known no other will except the Court’s, when all she had wanted was what they’d told her to want. Edward, Edward, Edward. It was funny, how she wasn’t under their control anymore, but she had still chosen him. But this had been her choice. And Jessica had dared to suggest it wasn’t?

Of course she honestly believed it was an accident. She had phrased the statement in an intentionally worrying way, because she understood how that could be taken in wrong way. But it was different with Edward. He would never hurt her on purpose. He cared for her. “Not everything,” she replied, in a slightly defensive tone, laced with uncertainty. “Edward is far too clever to make mistakes. But just… sometimes.” She had to be very careful, here. If she defended him with too much zeal, Jessica would think something was odd. So she stopped talking, and followed Jessica’s demand without saying anything. She was demanding things of her? So bluntly? How ironic.

She took the water bottle when Jessica held it out to her, and unscrewed the cap. There was, of course, the possibility that it was poisoned or drugged, but that would require too much forethought on Jessica’s part. She wasn’t Oswald. She wasn’t the type to stock poisoned water. The chance that this was laced with something was slim.

To avoid the question, and Jessica’s penetrating gaze, she took a long drink. Here was where she would need to be very skilled, and it was in equal parts nerve-wracking and exciting. Jessica seemed completely reeled in, but this would be the nail in the coffin. This was what she’d been avoiding – she’d said just enough to cause worry, and implied, but now she had to come out and say it.

She lowered the bottle, and stared down at it. “He blames me for getting you involved in our lives. He said that, if I hadn’t suggested something was wrong, you wouldn’t hate him. Why couldn’t you leave us alone?” She closed her eyes, and the distress in her voice was partially true. Jessica had been a thorn in her and Edward’s sides ever since she’d come into their orbit. After a moment, she continued. “I said that you just wanted to help… You thought you were helping… He didn’t like that. He was holding his phone. I don’t think he meant for it to hit me, when he threw it. He just got angry.”

With the hand wasn’t holding the phone, she rubbed her left arm. Isabella always wore long sleeves, but she had ever so slightly bruised her skin on purpose before coming here, just in case Jessica needed physical proof. It was better to be safe than sorry, after all. She laughed a little, hollowly. “I know. It sounds silly. It was just a phone. But he’s been on edge ever since I moved in. I can’t do anything right. I’m too quiet, or I talk too much.” She sighed. “Oh, I’m sorry. It sounds so stupid, now I’m saying it.”

Jessica: Jessica didn’t want to know the meaning behind Isabella’s words. Didn’t want to hear the specifics. There was something sickeningly familiar about Isabella’s knee-jerk defense, something that reminded her of Trish, of Hope Shlottman, of the women who’d come into her office in Hell’s Kitchen hoping she could give them something the police couldn’t. But Jessica didn’t ​want​ this, she wasn’t cut out for this life. She could find the worst in people, she could muscle her way out of a problem. But she wasn’t a hero, she didn’t ​want​ to be.

But Isabella had come to her. Maybe that meant she had nowhere else to go. And there was something familiar about that, too. What was left of her heart lurched unpleasantly in her chest, sent electric sparks to every nerve. She couldn’t sit still, one knee bouncing, her fingers instinctively repeating that tapping pattern the shrink had taught her. “He’s not that goddamn clever,” she hissed, feeling every muscle growing tense. “Sometimes what, Isabella? Sometimes ​what​?” She didn’t want to know, but Trish’s voice was in the back of her mind. Pushing her forward, even now.

She couldn’t just stand by and let someone else’s life be destroyed. Not by some demented declaration of love, a perversion of it. She couldn’t let Isabella become like her, a husk, barely functioning, only able to face the day through an amber, liquid lens.

​Sometimes​ was a start. It almost made her hopeful.

When Isabella finally started to talk, Jessica nearly let out a sigh of relief. She didn’t want to spend the entire night pulling teeth, ripping details from the woman bit by bit, didn’t want to take anything more from her. But Isabella’s words made her throat close up, air choked off by ​guilt​ overwhelming and thick. It wasn’t all her fault, she knew that, she wasn’t that self-loathing. But there was a grain of truth there, a grain of sand that rubbed her skin raw. Every time she tried saving someone, she just made things worse. Malcolm. Hope. Luke. Hogarth. The list went on.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and she was right back in the police station. With him so close to her, all those people in jeopardy, the sound of his voice in her ears but not in her head. The smell of him, his skin inches from hers, his voice so soft and gentle as he tried ​convincing​ her. Then the ringing, Clemon’s phone, and that’s all it took. To set him off, like a bomb. She remembered flinching when he threw the phone, the way her gut twisted when he gave that command – ​Next person whose phone rings has to eat it!​

Jessica opened her eyes, glanced over to see Isabella rubbing her arm so softly. Her jaw clenched as she imagined the bruise underneath. “It doesn’t,” she said firmly, taking a breath to keep herself from spitting the words. She wasn’t angry with Isabella, she was angry with him, with Ed and Kilgrave who were slowly melding together in her mind. But she knew in this state, Isabella might not recognize that. Knew that when you lived in fear for long enough, any raised voice could make you bolt. And she didn’t want Isabella running off before they talked this through.

Not that she was any goddamn good at talking. But she’d goddamn try.

“It doesn’t sound silly or stupid or any other synonym that brain of yours can think up,” she said after a moment. She moved, just an inch or so closer, and slowly. Like she was moving towards a frightened animal. “He hurt you. He scared you. It doesn’t matter if he meant to or not, it doesn’t matter if he was angry for a good reason or a shitty one, doesn’t matter if it’s a big bruise or a small one. He hurt you. And that’s ​not​ okay. Ever,” she said. Determination. Rage. She let those feelings blot out the guilt, push it down to be drowned later. “And that’s why I can’t leave this alone. Because if he did it once, he’ll do it again. They all do,” she said, letting out a light sigh.

She paused for a moment, eyes falling to her own hands, still tapping in that rhythmic, cyclical pattern. ​Main Street. Birch Street. ​ “He was like that, too. Kil –” she bit her lip, didn’t want to say his name, not with the blackmailer’s letter two feet away and his declaration of love fresh in her memory.

“He would get… antsy. Agitated. For no reason, he would just wake up like that. We used to stay in hotels, nicer goddamn places than this. And he’d wake up angry and annoyed, and he’d take it out on everyone else.” Room service, other guests, girls he picked off the street. He would make them come inside and then he would toy with them, like they were ants and he was a boy with a magnifying glass. Make them hit themselves, each other, make the women beg for him while he spat in their faces and touched ​her​.

“And when there was no one else, he would take it out on me. He never hit me,” she said, still staring at her now-still fingertips. “But he would make me hurt myself. He’d tell me to do these – this impossible shit, and then he’d scream at me when I couldn’t do it. He’d say I never appreciated anything he did for me.”

Her fingers ghosted to the scar behind her ear, pushing her hair back so Isabella could see. “This was his fault,” she said, running her fingers along the line there. “And that bruise on your arm, that’s not because you were too loud or too quiet or too anything. It’s not your fault. It’s his, it’s Ed. He made a choice, and it hurt you. That’s on him.”

Isabella: Isabella stayed completely still, and kept Jessica in the periphery of her vision, watching her every move. She was fidgeting and bouncing her leg up and down, and tapping incessantly. She had so many physical nervous tics that it was a marvel she was sitting at all, and not pacing. Everything about her was energetic and nervous, and it was a wonderful energy to play off. Isabella kept herself moving a little, but in almost imperceptible ways. She could, of course, have sat as still as a statue, which would have sent a completely different message. But she was throwing out small signals, to keep Jessica on edge. Shivering slightly, blinking rapidly, and hunching her shoulders over.

Sometimes what? She rubbed her arm, and shook her head at the question, pressing her lips together tightly, as if she didn’t want to say. Because, of course, there was no sometimes. Edward made no mistakes, except one, and he had paid for that. He had paid for it. She didn’t want to think about it anymore. So, she focused on what Jessica was saying instead, and on Jessica’s tells. The other woman believed her wholeheartedly. Of course she did. Most people were prisoners to their assumptions of how far others would go to hurt them. The idea that Isabella would lie about something like this simply didn’t occur to Jessica.

When she had been dating Tom, Kristen had sat like this countless times, alone in her bedroom. She had drawn her knees up to her chest and closed her eyes and heard his words over and over again, in her head. I won’t do it again, babe. I promise. And again. And again. And he had bought her jewellery and taken her out for dinner, to make up for it.

It was odd, because she had been able to see what was happening. She wasn’t stupid. She’d known this was a cycle, an absolutely textbook example of abuse. He had hit her, or held her too tightly, or slapped her. Then he had apologised, and kissed her, and said he wouldn’t do it again. But she hadn’t left. She’d always given him one more chance. Until he had disappeared. Until Edward had saved her. Her white knight.

She closed her eyes, and felt something rise up inside her. Some wizened, twitching, shrunken, thing, which she managed to beat into submission in the days leading up to this inevitable conversation. Her empathy for Jessica Jones was a weak thing, and she desperately tried to ignore it, as the other woman spoke. Edward was not Tom. Edward had made a terrible mistake, once. But he had changed. He was better now. Jessica Jones was wrong. Because this was a lie. Edward hadn’t hurt her, and he wouldn’t dream of hurting her. She trusted him.

Because she had been programmed with too much empathy, Isabella had been afraid that this would happen. Jessica would worm her way under her skin, and the pitiful story would affect Isabella, and distract her from her mission. This was what she had counted on – Jessica opening up. This was necessary. So, she pushed down her empathy, and focused. Focused on what Jessica was giving her. The fact that she couldn’t even say his name was telling. Kilgrave. It was a ridiculous name. Isabella wondered if Jessica ever thought about how comically villainous it was.

She was giving her small pieces of information, more nuanced and particular than what she had written about him. Nothing wildly revealing, of course. But she could tell what sort of man he was. And he was nothing like Edward. Not that she had needed confirmation of that. She already knew that.

Jessica showed her the scar, and Isabella blinked at it. Oh my. It was white and thin, like a fault line in her skin. So, Kilgrave was petty, childish, and violent. That was useful to know. She mentally stored away those traits. She and Edward would need to glean as much as they could about him, so that they could convincingly mimic his actions later. Thinking about that calmed her. Remembering Edward’s deep voice, dripping with pride as their plan came together, calmed her. This was for him. It was all for him.

Jessica went quiet, and Isabella pressed her fingertips against her bruise, remembering to wince slightly, as if it hurt. But she didn’t feel pain anymore. She looked into Jessica’s gaze, and saw her pity, her disgusting pity. As if Isabella was still a pathetic, abused, broken, woman. As if Isabella was Kristen Kringle. But Kristen Kringle had died. Isabella was a different creature.

“I should have killed him,” she said, sharply. She had known she would say this, regardless of what Jessica told her. And Jessica had built up a perfectly fascinating image of Kilgrave, and her life with him, which she and Edward could dissect later, together. But, for now, she needed to slot the final piece of the puzzle into place, to find out how Jessica would react to this particular stimulus. “I should have shot him when I had the chance. So he couldn’t hurt me anymore. I gave him another chance. But he hasn’t changed. You were right. Everything you said… you were right.”

She closed her eyes again, and remembered the scent of Edward’s aftershave, the feeling of his arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly as she clung to his shirt. He would be so proud of her, for crushing her pathetic, Court-embossed empathy, for testing Jessica Jones all by herself. He had trusted her to do this alone. He was all she needed. He was everything. “I should have killed him, Jessica,” she said, coldly, as if she meant it.

Jessica: Jessica bit back a sigh when Isabella shook her head. She’d almost forgotten what this was like – pulling confessions from people who weren’t guilty. Who were the victims. It was easy, dragging answers out of bad people, people who lied and cheated and hurt other people. It was easy to make them face the truth. Because the truth was sharp and it was painful, and raking assholes over the coals of their own mistakes felt right. Like she was balancing the scales a little, like she was making a difference, like she was helping someone.

That was as much of a hero as she’d ever been. She could punish, she could destroy, she could tear a room to pieces and snap someone’s neck, but she couldn’t do this. Couldn’t force Isabella to face the reality of this. The truth was brutal, it didn’t care who it cut or how deep or how big a scar it would leave.

But she cared. Her greatest weakness.

Jessica leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, hands pressed together and her body tilted towards Isabella. For a moment, she almost felt like she was back in that jail, sitting across from Hope Shlottman, trying desperately to find the right thing to say, a way to promise that she would set things right. Isabella’s hair was lighter than Hope’s had been, still tied up in that ridiculously uptight bun. Not a single strand of hair out of place, even as pieces of her hard, perfect shell crumbled away.

“I don’t have a delicate touch,” she said simply, jaw aching from being clenched so tight. Her head was pounding, and it strained her eyes to look at Isabella from this angle, but she kept her gaze steady. “When I got away from him, the first time, I had someone who did. Someone who knew what to say, to make it feel like my life hadn’t fallen to shit. I was luckier than you. You’ve only got me,” she said, not unkindly but with a matter-of-fact tone. If Isabella had anyone else to turn to, she wouldn’t have tracked her down here. “And I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to make this easy for you. Nothing about this is easy,” she said, shaking her head. Not for Isabella, not for Hope Shlottman, not for herself. “But it’s real. And you can keep denying it, or you can do something about it. And if we’re going to do something, I need to know everything. Everything he said, everything he did, every little mood swing and temper tantrum.”

She wanted to move, wanted to get up and go to her desk, find the number for the Star City Police Department and get someone goddamn qualified in here ten minutes from now. Get a restraining order, police protection, goddamn anything. But something in Isabella’s soft, slow movements, something about watching the way she pressed at the bruise on her arm, the way she met Jessica’s gaze and let something like guilt flicker through her eyes, kept Jessica frozen in place. Waiting desperately for her to say something. Something real again. Something that proved there was a small part of her still fighting.

I should’ve killed him.

Jessica inhaled sharply, felt the breath catch in her throat. It didn’t reach her lungs, she felt lightheaded, and when she closed her eyes all she saw was the docks. The crowd of people staring, not at her, but at the body, his body, laying twisted and broken on the ground. She’d made him face the truth. Not the truth of what he’d done to her, he had died still never understanding that. But the truth of what he’d made her. A murderer.

It took a minute, for the world to feel real under her feet again. “I avoided killing him for so long,” she breathed finally. “And I told myself, it was for this other girl he had hurt. So I could bring him in, get her out of jail, and make him face what he’d done to her. I told myself it was about the case, that I needed him alive, for her. But I knew that wasn’t why.” Her eyes fell to the floor, Main Street, Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane, on a loop in her mind. “The problem with that line, the one I texted you about,” she said, louder than necessary, trying to drown out her own memories. “Is you don’t always know when you’ve crossed it. Sometimes, you don’t notice until it’s miles behind you, and there’s no turning back.”

Now, she forced herself to look up. To meet Isabella’s tearstained eyes once more. “You made a choice, not to shoot him. You chose that. I chose to say smile before I snapped his neck. I know,” she let out a small sigh. “I know I said I’d rather have my shit than yours. But that’s only because I know how hard it is once you’ve crossed that line. I know how hard it is to make that choice. I wouldn’t take it back for the goddamn world, but I wouldn’t wish it on anyone either.”

Jessica held Isabella’s gaze a moment longer, then stood up, took a seat behind her desk and pulled out a pad of paper. “Get comfortable,” she said simply. “It’s gonna take a few hours to figure this out. Restraining order. Police protection, that sort of shit,” she murmured.  Practical solutions. This much she could do.

Her eyes flicked to the window, where the streetlights were piercing through. She wondered what the morning would look like, and poured herself a drink.