#it goes up and down - left and right - past clouds and deep down into murky swamps

[mrs-han]

Something that I need to revisit — a pain I keep burying, and words I wish I could have said.

This is very out of character, especially for someone like Jumin. Feel free to skip this piece; I couldn’t come up with an ending.

“Do you… do you not want to be with me anymore?”

“I don’t.”

Your heart paused - then hammered with a vengeance in your chest.

Jumin’s words - so immediate, so decisive - were worse than any punch to your gut. You had done it. You pushed your… husband…? So far away that he couldn’t find his way back.

And he didn’t want to.

Realizing you weren’t breathing, you shakily turned to face your desk. What were you supposed to say? What were you going to do, now? The man you had been with for so much of your life didn’t want you anymore.

The man who had promised you forever decided forever was too long.

Jumin spoke your name - loud and firm - but all you could hear was a sharp ringing in your ear. Like a bomb had exploded near you. Or inside of you.

“You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll have the divorce papers filed and faxed to you.”

“Jumin —”

“Forgive me. But I don’t want to hear any more excuses from you.”

So cold — so unfeeling. You had done that to him.

“I… I’m sorry —”

“I know. You’ve said it many times before.”

“Jumin.” You stumbled towards him. You didn’t like begging anybody for anything. But there were always firsts for everything. Clasping your hands in front of you, you stared into his eyes, void of any sentiment. “I know I haven’t been easy to live with, but you can’t…”

Jumin crossed his arms definitively over his chest — blocking himself from you completely. “I can’t what. I can’t leave? Is that what you’d like to say?”

Power surged through your voice. “I promised you till death do us part, and you promised me the same!”

He didn’t say anything. His expression towards you didn’t change.

“You — you saw me at my worst, and decided that it was too much?”

“Every time I tried to help you, you shoved me away. You were always angry with me over something — something.” A trace of emotion escapes Jumin’s lips. “Each time, you’d apologize. But nothing came from it. You remained closed off, hostile, insufferable.”

You trembled harder now. “Have you stopped to think that I’ve put up with your imperfections without complaint? I’ve always had an open ear for you. My arms were always open for you. And — when things were too hard for you to talk about, I’d show you more compassion than you had ever shown yourself.”

Jumin’s eyes stayed trained on yours. “You didn’t sit in front of our bedroom door, stressed beyond belief because I wouldn’t open the door for you. You didn’t have to chase after me —”

“I didn’t?!”

Jumin closed his mouth and clenched his jaw. The vein on the side of his neck started to swell.

You swiped hastily at the tears in your eyes. “I know I can be difficult. I know that I still have a lot to heal from, but I am not the only one.”

Jumin’s brows lowered.

“When you proposed to me, did you stop to consider that I am my own person suffering from my own demons? Or were you too absorbed in what you wanted in the moment?”

Jumin didn’t say anything. His body language didn’t reveal anything to you. His silence was deafening.

Frustrated beyond comprehension, you broke the skin on your palms, nails digging too far in. “When you saw me… all of me… you decided it was too much. But the surface level of my soul would have sufficed, right? The honeymoon phase of us was enough, right?”

Jumin finally broke eye contact with you… and checked his watch. “Can we wrap this up? I have a meeting in ten minutes.”

Your fingertips tingled. Your head pounded. Finally, your knees buckled — and you retched into the trash bin beside your desk.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 90

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 90: The Mother's Prayer

AO3 - Masterlist

Dark clouds gathered overhead, heavy with the promise of an impending deluge. The scent of rain permeated the air, carried on a chilled with that made Daenera shiver. The light fabric of her gown offered little resistance to the growing chill–summer was truly over, and winter was coming. She gripped her skirts, rising a few steps towards the doors of the Royal Sept before stopping. Turning, she glanced down at Mertha, who trailed behind her with the usual frown on her face. Mertha halted when she noticed Daenera had stopped, lifting her murky gray eyes to meet the princess’s gaze.

“Would you be so kind as to fetch my shawl?” Daenera asked, her tone carefully threaded with a semblance of sincerity, masking the deliberateness of the act. 

Mertha’s expression settled into a scowl, her brows knitting into a tight frown, “You ought to have heeded my warning when I told you to bring it, Princess.”

“Yes, I realize now it was a mistake. I should have listened,” Daenera conceded, carefully smoothing any hint of condescension from her voice. “But could you please fetch it now?”

“I should let you feel the chill, perhaps then you’ll learn to listen to me,” Mertha grumbled under her breath, her steps deliberate as she headed past Daenera towards the doors of the sept. She seemed almost inclined to leave Daenera to endure the consequences of her supposed heedlessness. 

Daenera lifted the hem of her gown slightly to facilitate her movement and quickened her pace to match Mertha’s. With a calculated ease in her tone, she suggested, “It would be rather unfortunate to fall ill now, wouldn’t it?”

Mertha stopped abruptly and turned to confront Daenera, her height accentuated as she stood two steps above on the staircase, a deep scowl etching her features. Her left hand clutched the skirts of her dress, while her right firmly clasped her well-worn, leather-bound copy of The Seven-Pointed Star–a tome from which she often instructed Daenera to read. 

With a stern expression, Mertha asserted, “I mustn’t leave you unattended, Princess. I will not allow you to make a mockery of me again or cause another spectacle.”

“The princess isn’t unattended,” Finan interjected, stepping up to join Daenera on the same stone step, his posture relaxed yet alert, thumbs hooked casually on his belt. “It wouldn’t bode well for the princess to take ill, especially not with the wedding so close. I doubt the Prince would appreciate his betrothed being sick to say her vows, nor would the Hand find it acceptable.”

“Then you should fetch the shawl,” Mertha retorted sharply, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at Finan, who met her gaze with an amused calm, unconcerned by her scorn. 

Daenera stepped closer to Mertha, her expression one of slight dismay. “I’d rather not have a man searching through my belongings. You know which one I mean–the thick, green shawl with the small blue flowers on it.”

Mertha’s lips pursed as she seemed to consider the situation, her eyes flicking between Finan and Daenera. She seemed to realize the implications of allowing Finan into Daenera’s private chambers–a space where the guards, typically stationed outside the door, seldom entered. 

With a reluctant huff, Mertha finally acquiesced. “Very well. Ensure that she remains within your view and that no one approaches her while she’s in prayer.” Stepping down another step, she handed Daenera her book of prayers with firm instruction. “You may start with the Mother’s prayer.”

Daenera nodded in agreement, her gaze lingering on Mertha as she made her way down the steps, her figure gradually diminishing as she crossed the vast expanse of the courtyard outside of the Sept, moving down the path leading to Maegor’s Holdfast. The Keep buzzed with activity as though the world hadn’t turned upside down. Servants scurried across the cobblestones and dirt paths, their movements swift and determined, some clutching linens, others hastily covering baskets and removing them from the impending rain. 

As her eyes roved over the scene, she noted the guards patrolling the high walls, their presence a reminder of the new regime–their uniforms had been changed to a striking green, each emblazoned with a golden, three-headed dragon that seemed to gleam even under the overcast sky. Even the servants' uniform had become a subtle forest green. It struck Daenera how quickly the fabric of the Keep had been altered; the seamstresses and tailors must have worked through the nights to provide the Keep with their new uniformity–or it suggested premeditation, one she wouldn’t put past the Hightowers. 

Daenera’s voice was a low murmur, her eyes remaining cast out over the courtyard as she spoke, “I’ve secured Fenrick’s release. He will be freed the morning after the wedding.”

The weight of the concession she had made hung palpably in the air between them. There was no need for words to convey what was understood in their shared silence: she had bartered her obedience and compliance for his freedom–a substantial sacrifice on her behalf. 

She could have resisted, could have continued to balance precariously on the edge, with Fenrick’s and Patrick’s lives dangling like a sword over her head, vulnerable to any misstep she might make. The wedding was unavoidable–a fact set in stone–and she had chosen to leverage what little power she had for Fenrick’s freedom. It was a calculated trade, a deliberate sacrifice made within the harsh confines of her circumstances–and it would not be the only sacrifice made that day. 

“Otto Hightowers is unlikely to let him simply leave the city,” Finan remarked, echoing Daenera’s own concerns. His brows furrowed deeply, his face etched with the stern solemnity characteristic of a Northerner. “Neither will the Lord Confessor.”

Daenera nodded, her expression equally grave. She understood all too well the reality that either figure might send men to prevent Fenrick’s departure, ensuring that he never left the city alive. It was impractical for them to allow a known adversary to reinforce the ranks of their opposition–and to bring them any information they might suspect he carried. 

“I have contacts here in the city,” Finan continued, his tone somber yet resolute. “I’ll arrange for them to aid his escape, to ensure he vanishes without a trace.”

The chill wind wrapped around Daenera, penetrating the fabric of her dress and settling into her bones. She instinctively hugged the book closer to her chest, seeking its meager warmth. “Fenrick knows how to fend for himself.”

Finan’s eyes met hers, brows inching downward. “Are you asking me not to get involved?”

“I advise caution,” Daenera replied, her voice steady but somber. “If the Hightowers suspect outside help, they’ll scour the Keep for anyone who might be involved. If your ‘friends are caught, they’ll trace it back to you, and then to me. I cannot afford to lose you in this.”

The loss of Finan would strip her of her eyes and ears beyond the confines of the Red Keep, severing her last tether to any semblance of influence and knowledge of the war efforts. She needed him; without his aid, she would be completely isolated, reduced to a mere pawn on the board for the Hightowers to move about as they willed. The thought of such isolation, of being utterly alone, was a chilling prospect that made the wind seem even colder. 

Daenera relied too heavily on Finan to allow him to needlessly risk himself. She trusted Fenrick’s ability to ensure his own safety. He would undoubtedly have reached the same conclusion about the Hightower’s unwillingness to let him leave the city alive. He had friends within King’s Landing and the City Watch. He would find a way out, of that she was sure. He had to. 

Finan’s jaw ticked as he clenched his teeth. “I’ll make certain no trails lead back to me. I’ll have him seen out of the city, alive, and with enough coin to pay his way to Duskendale where a ship can take him to Dragonstone. Don’t ask me to abandon him… Please.”

Daenera’s expression hardened as she turned to face Finan, her eyes narrowing as she regarded him for a long, measuring moment. “I once told you I had little use for someone whose loyalties lie elsewhere. You assured me that your loyalties would lie with me. You gave me your word–you swore to me.”

“My loyalties lie with you, Princess,” Finan assured her, his eyes earnest and sincere. “But my concern is also for Fenrick and the state he’s in after days in the dungeons. He’ll need help if he is to survive the journey.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Daenera cast her gaze out over the gloomy sky again. “Do what you must, but do not get caught.”

She locked eyes with him again, her gaze intense and commanding–be cautious, she warned him. Finan acknowledged her with a firm nod, understanding the gravity of the silent command. He then gestured towards the sept, the wind picking up and sending a shiver down her spine. “We better get you inside before you truly catch your death in this weather.”

They turned away from the courtyard and ascended the final steps to the Royal Sept. Finan courteously held the door open for Daenera, allowing her to step into the sanctified space. Immediately, the sweet yet cloying scent of incense mixed with the warm aroma of burning candles enveloped them, the fragrance almost tangible as it clawed at the back of their throats. 

Inside, the sept was hushed, the silence punctuated only by the soft whisper of flames dancing in the draft. A few septas stood in the corners, methodically sweeping the floors and tending to the candles, their movements quiet and reverent. 

Soft light seeped through the grand, stained glass windows of the sept, casting a tapestry of muted colors upon the floor, their vibrancy subdued by the overcast sky. Candles lined the walls and clustered solemnly on the altars dedicated to the gods, were the only source of true light, their flames flickering gently in the air. 

Although the thick walls of the sept offered refuge from the biting wind outside, they did little to ward off the pervasive chill that lingered within. Daenera felt the cold slither across the stone floor, sneaking beneath her dress and creeping up her legs. 

As she walked deeper into the sacred space, her footsteps echoed softly against the ancient stone, harmonizing with Finan as he felt into step at her side. 

“The Hightowers haven’t been idle,” Finan said, his voice a hushed murmur meant only for her ears. “There have been significant changes made within the City Watch.  Ser Gregor Selter has been removed from his position as Lord Commander for his refusal to bend the knee, and they’ve  installed Luthor Largent in his stead.” 

Daenera’s lips pursed as she took in the information. “Ser Luthor Largent served under Daemon during his time as Commander of the City Watch. They were friends, I believe.”

“Many Gold Cloaks have served under the prince, Princess,” Finan replied, his eyes scanning the room cautiously. “But with the threat of dismissal or worse, a great number have sworn obeisance to Aegon. These are treacherous times, and with the Hand of the King positioning his own son, Gwayne, as the second-in-command of the City Watch, self-preservation dictates much of their allegiance.”

Daenera’s thoughts lingered on the loyalty of Ser Luthor Largent. While he was Lord Commander of the City Watch, he was still kept under the watchful eye of his second-in-command, Gwayne Hightower. It seemed unlikely that he could offer her any immediate aid; his circumstances were similar to her own–both were shackled by their roles, both adrift in a menacing sea of constrained choices. 

As they made their way towards the main altar, Daenera’s voice was thoughtful, “What are the sentiments among the smallfolk with this shift in power?”

Finan’s reply was a subdued murmur, matching the solemn pace of their walk. “They grow… uneasy. With the first blood of war being drawn, and the king’s brother having made himself a kinslayer, they fear retaliation.” He glanced towards her. “They pray for you, Princess, and curse Aemond’s name in turn…”

Daenera paused before the altar, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames. The warmth radiated from the flickering wicks, distorting the air above them, yet it barely penetrated the chill that clung to her skin. As she watched, a notion began to take shape in her mind. She had always been adored by the smallfolk for her charity and love for the arts. It seemed these efforts were now poised to yield dividends, a factor that undoubtedly fueled House Hightower's determination to wed her to Aemond.

If she could publicly forgive Aemond for his act of kinslaying, perhaps the common people might follow her lead. 

There was strength in the goodwill of the common folk. While power was limited, leveraging this favor could prove advantageous. And though Otto Hightower would recognize the intent behind her actions, he was a man of pragmatism. If she gained the favor of the smallfolk, that favor would extend to them.  

Daenera circled the rounded altar, her steps slow and measured. Finan trailed behind her, his voice a soft undertone as he added, "The blockade your mother has enforced on the Gullet is tightening. It's becoming nearly impossible to bring in imports. The wealthy are already hoarding provisions, and as a result, those less fortunate are left scrambling for the leftovers. Such scarcity is soon to bring unrest among the people."

Good, Daenera mused, opportunity often lay hidden within unrest. She drew in a slow, deliberate breath, shifting the conversation, turning slightly towards Finan as she inquired, “How is Cerys?”

Their eyes locked, and a small smile touched Finan’s lips. His voice warmed with a touch of admiration as he answered, “She’s showing remarkable strength, all things considered.”

Daenera’s gaze shifted to the nearest altar, where The Smith was eternally frozen in stone, his figure commanding within the semicircle. He was sculpted with a hammer clasped in his hand, his strong form standing tall, his head bowed reverently toward his own altar, and a gentle beard framing his solemn face.

With a contemplative sigh, she turned back to Finan, her expression troubled. “I fear my advice to Cerys was misguided. I urged her to nurture her anger towards Aegon, to never forget his offenses. It was harsh, perhaps too much so. Now, I worry she might act rashly, endangering herself.”

Now fully aware of Joyce's concerns, Daenera felt a pang of apprehension. She realized that inciting Cerys to seek vengeance against Aegon might have dangerous repercussions. Such encouragement could not only place Cerys in grave danger but potentially threaten Daenera’s own safety as well.

“When I last spoke with her, she seemed well aware of the risks,” Finan answered, his tone steady. “She promised not to take matters into her own hands and to serve you loyally, as she has done ever since you took her in.”

“And you trust her word?” Daenera pressed, searching for any hint of doubt in his eyes. 

“I do.”

Daenera responded with a slow, contemplative nod, her gaze drifting towards the next statue. The Warrior stood tall, helmented, both hands gripping the hilt of his downward-pointing sword, his head bowed in a  posture similar to The Smith’s. The details of his armor were meticulously cared into the stone, every line a testament to the sculptor’s skill. She knew she would have to rely on Cerys’s promise of restraint and patience. 

“Has there been any news from Dragonstone?” Daenera asked quietly, her eyes shifting to the Statue of The Father, as they continued to follow the semi-circle, finally reaching its peak. His long beard was carved into the stone, resting against his chest, and in his hand, he held out a scale for judgment. Unlike the other statues, The Father’s gaze was not directed downward but stood tall and judging. 

“No,” Finan replied, his voice carrying a note of empathy. “Your mother hasn’t returned yet from Storm’s End, it seems.”

Daenera’s gaze lingered on The Father’s stern visage, the weight of his judgment seeming to bear down on her. She clutched the book of prayers a little tighter, her heart heavy with the thought of her mother still scouring Shipbreaker Bay for her lost son. The relentless waves seemed to refuse her any remnants they might have swallowed. It was cruel, Daenera thought, and foolish for her mother to linger. As Queen, she was needed at Dragonstone, especially during a time of war. Each day she remained away from her seat of power, her influence waned, and perhaps even her spirit. Daenera wondered if her mother was taking care of herself or if she had become consumed by grief. Her mother also had to think of her own well-being and that of the child she carried–a child Daenera would never be able to see into this world. 

Daenera couldn’t blame her for searching, though. She, too, would have done the same, seeking any sign that her brother was truly gone–that he had been alive at all. 

Finan’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Your brother remains in Winterfell.”

“Winterfell?” Daenera echoed, her eyes drawing to the statue of The Mother as they stopped in front of it. The stone figure wore a gentle smile, her head bowed towards her altar. A veil cascaded down her back, hiding her tied hair, and her hands were neatly folded in front of her, poised as if ready to tenderly caress the heads of her kneeling children. 

Daenera took a deep breath, steadying herself with the thought of her brother–alive and safe in Winterfell. He would have gone there to forge an alliance with House Stark and bring the North to their mother’s side. “If anyone can sway the Starks to my mother’s cause, it is Jace. He will manage well.”

Finan nodded. “Cregan Stark will welcome him warmly and treat him with the honor and respect due to a prince… But his main concern will remain with the safety and welfare of his people. He will be reluctant to get involved in Southern conflicts.”

“This war will affect the whole realm, not just the south,” Daenera said tersely, her frown deeping as she shook her head in exasperation. The North might be isolated and governed on their own, but they must understand that this conflict would inevitably reach them. “The Stark swore their loyalty and to defend her claim when she was named heir.”

Finan responded with a cautious hum. “Aye, they swore to your mother and they will keep their oaths. But wolves protect their own, and Cregan must consider his people now that the winter is steadily approaching. He will be reluctant to lead them into war.”

Daenera seated herself at the altar, her gaze rising to meet Finan’s. He remained standing, his expression solemn yet kind–an embodiment of the Northern demeanor, she supposed, where even friendliness was tinged with solemnity.  

“Will my brother be able to win him over?”

Finan’s lips curved into a slight smile, a gleam of reassurance in his eyes. “I’m confident he will. We Northerners may be a stern folk, but our hearts are not made of stone. Cregan understands the pain of seeing one’s rightful claim challenged. He will sympathize with your mother’s cause. And your brother, being a good and honorable man, will earn Cregan’s respect.”

The flickering candles cast a warm glow on Daenera’s face as she absorbed Finan’s words. The room seemed to hum with a quiet intensity, the presence of the statues–the gods–adding the feel of judgment upon her shoulders. 

A small smile appeared on her lips as she turned her gaze to the flames. Jace could be stubborn at times, yet undeniably charming. He would understand that they needed the alliance with the North, and he wouldn’t return to Dragonstone empty handed. The thought of her brother made her heart twist painfully within her chest. She missed him dearly. The smile faded as she stared into the flames for a long moment, letting the silence settle between them, broken only by the soft snapping of orange tongues lapping at the air. 

“Could you procure something for me?” Daenera asked quietly, lifting a finger to dart through the flames just fast enough for their scorching touch not to linger and burn. “From the gardens, I mean.”

Finan shifted beside her, the sound of leather rustling as he moved. “What do you need?”

“In the herbal garden, near the southern hedges, there’s a particular plant,” Daenera began, her voice measured and careful as she played with the flames. “It’s distinguishable by its long, slender stem that branches out near the top. The stem is strikingly red, and each branch culminates in a white berry, marked by a single black dot.” Her voice strangely soft as she mused, “like the eye of a doll.” The flames were warm against her skin as she played with them, fingers flickering through their tongues as though teasing them for a taste. “But you must be careful–the stem and the berries shouldn’t be touched with bare hands.”

“White baneberry,” Finan drawled, his voice low and serious. “I know of it.”

Daenera abandoned the flames and turned towards Finan. Her eyes met his, reading the seriousness beneath the furrow of his brow. “If you could, I need only a handful of those berries.”

Finan's expression darkened, his brows knitting into a deep furrow. His gray eyes, mirroring the somber sky outside, were filled with a concerned question. The word ‘poison’ fell from his lips, spoken with such caution it seemed as though he feared it might disrupt the fragile silence that enveloped them.

“Yes,” Daenera replied quietly, continuing, “Once you’ve acquired them, leave them in the small lavender sachet beneath my pillow.”

She was sure that Mertha, or indeed anyone else, would overlook such a sachet. Why would they? They were common among the nobility, used to suffuse fabric with the scent of whatever dried flower or herbs contained within. They were often nested in the pockets of dresses or among linens, tugged behind pillows and hidden in small chests around the room. 

“I must have them before the wedding,” she added with a sense of urgency, facing Finan directly. 

“I feel I must ask–”

“You really don’t have to.”

“Even so, I will,” Finan insisted, his tone firm despite the clear reluctance. “Why do you need these berries?”

Daenera’s gaze drifted back to the altar, her eyes fixed on the candle flames that flickered and danced, consuming the wicks with a sputtering hunger. “I am left with nothing.” Her hand fell from the flames, resting against the cold stone of the altar. “They’ve sought to remove my herbs, my teas, oils, even my soaps. My jewelry has been taken, fearing I might use them for bribes. I am defenseless.”

“You still have the dagger I gave you,” Finan reminded her, hoping to offer a sliver of solace. The dagger remained unsettled in its hiding place beneath the table beside the settee. The knowledge that it was there did offer some semblance of comfort, but it did not extend beyond her chambers. 

“But how long will it remain hidden there?” She murmured aloud, casting her eyes back at Finan. “It’s not easily concealed in a spot that’s both discreet and accessible. I need something I can carry with me, if necessary.” 

Finan hesitated before cautiously offering his thoughts. “Considering your upcoming marriage–”

Daenera couldn’t suppress the small, wry smile that tugged at her lips, a soft chuckle escaping her. “Are you concerned I might use it against my future husband? Or perhaps you fear I might poison the King?”

With a wary frown on his brow, Finan cast a glance around the shadows of the sept, ensuring no one lurked close enough to overhear their conversation. The only ones present were the septas’ sweeping the floors at the opposite end of the sept. 

“Or,” Finan ventured cautiously, “perhaps you intend to use them on yourself…”

His concern was evident, reflecting the multitude of perilous possibilities that lay in the simple act of acquiring those berries. Daenera understood the gravity of his apprehension, aware of the delicate thread upon which their plans–and her life– balanced. 

The fleeting sense of amusement vanished from Daenera as abruptly as the light from a blown-out candle, replaced by a profound sadness that lingered like wisps of smoke dissipating into the air. She understood Finan's apprehension; their plans balanced on a delicate thread, and she knew his concerns ran even deeper, rooted in the hopelessness and helplessness she had felt the previous night, consumed by grief.

Daenera averted her gaze, feeling her throat tighten. "It would be a swift end once the symptoms take hold. The heart slows and eventually stops. You’d simply fall asleep..." She looked back at Finan, her eyes reflecting the gravity of her words. "But I have not yet reached the point where I consider using it on myself, nor would I target my husband-to-be or the usurper king."

The room seemed to hold its breath, the flickering candlelight casting long, wavering shadows on the stone walls. The statues around them stood silent and watchful, their carved expressions frozen in time. 

Daenera understood the implications all too well. Poisoning the wedding party would require far more than just a handful of berries though, and becoming a kinslayer or kingslayer was not part of her plan. Despite her deep-seated desire for retribution, she was wise enough to recognize the folly in such actions. Any attempt would inevitably cast suspicion upon her, implicating her mother as well.

Moreover, the thought of her own death carried consequences far beyond herself. It would lead to the execution of her loyal men and plunge her mother into an even deeper abyss of grief, intensifying the already profound sense of loss Daenera knew she was enduring.

"And Lady Mertha?" Finan probed, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Daenera matched his smile with a faint one of her own. "If I were to poison Lady Mertha, however much she might deserve it, I would only see more of my freedom taken away, and she would simply be replaced." She shook her head slightly, thinking that if she were to poison Mertha, it would be with something far more painful than the berries. "The berries are merely a safeguard, nothing more."

Finan responded with a nod, yet his expression still held traces of unease, indicating his lingering worries despite Daenera’s reassurance. 

The resounding creak of the heavy sept doors opening reverberated through the sacred space, immediately followed by the distinct sound of Mertha’s footsteps hastening towards Daenera and Finan. A moment before she arrived, the gust of wind she had let in whirled around them, the candles flickering wildly. Daenera, sensing her approach, turned her attention to the book, deftly flipping to the page where their previous reading had concluded. 

“What were you two discussing?” Mertha demanded, her tone sharp and laced with suspicion as she arrived beside them. Her cheeks bore a rosy tint from exertion, and a few stray strands of hair framed her face, too short to be caught up in the tight bun at the nape of her neck. 

“I was going over the Mother’s prayer,” Daenera responded evenly, her voice carefully neutral, betraying neither falsehood nor sincerity. 

Mertha’s lips tightened into a thin line. She unfolded the shawl and draped it around Daenera’s shoulders before taking her place on the cushioned bench below the altar, adjacent to Daenera. Finan, sensing his cue, quietly withdrew to the periphery, blending into the shadows. He stood watchful and alert, his hands clasped behind him. 

“Begin again, from the start,” Mertha commanded, settling herself for the reading. 

Oh, gentle Mother, god of mercy, Bestow your grace upon our souls. In your embrace, we find sanctuary, In your wisdom, our hearts console.

Mother, guide us in our journey, Through trials, through pain, unseen. With your light, the path illuminates, In shadows deep, where hope has been.

Bless the children, your tender flock, In your compassion, let them grow. Shield the weary, under your cloak, Grant them solace from their woe.

In times of strife, be our haven, In moments of doubt, be our guide. With your love, our hearts unladen, In your strength, we shall abide. 

Mother, hear our humble pleading, To your kindness, we entrust our plea. In your care, our souls are leading, To a future where we are free. 

The prayer was one mothers uttered to their children at night as they tucked them in, brushing strands of hair away from their foreheads before placing a loving his there. It was not a prayer her own mother had ever whispered. Instead, Rhaenyra had often hummed an ancient Valyrian song to her before bed–a song of fire and blood, of dragons and magic. The notes of the song would linger in the air, blending with the crackling of the fire and whirling of the wind as it swept past the stone outside. 

While the Faith was something every prince and princess was subjected to learning, it had never been strongly enforced within the walls of Dragonstone. The Maesters' lessons of the Seven often felt distant and formal, lacking the warmth and intimacy distinct to Valyrian traditions. Daenera had always felt a deeper connection to the Valyrian customs, those of fire and blood, and the more ancient faiths such as the Old Gods. 

As Mertha continued the lessons in the Faith, Daenera listened dutifully, nodding at the appropriate moments, humming agreements, and posing questions when necessary. Her face was a mask of solemn study–an act created with the sole intent of showing her compliance. 

While she harbored no animosity towards the Faith of the Seven or the gods themselves, she found little interest in them–especially when the teachings were forced upon her. She did not discount the existence of the gods; she might even pray to them at times, but she found little comfort in them now. 

Still, she prayed, lighting candles in their name to carry off her plea: protect her family, keep them safe and well, and see the Hightowers pay for their treachery and the blood they had shed. Make them suffer. 

Rain began to pelt against the windows of the sept, the sky outside finally breaking open to unleash a rough downpour. The rhythmic drumming of the rain against the glass filled the air, a low rushing sound that seemed to fill the quiet of the sept. As the downpour intensified, the light filtering through the stained glass windows dimmed, the colors on the floor fading into shadows. Now, only the candlelight illuminated the sacred space, casting a delicate glow on the stone walls and the statues that stood vigil.

Daenera glanced towards the windows, tugging the thick shawl tighter around her body, feeling the chill creep in. 

The quiet of the room was suddenly broken by hurried footsteps echoing down the aisle, crossing the vast expanse of the chamber. The sound grew louder, finally coming to a stop just before Daenera and Mertha, who remained seated under the watchful gaze of the Mother at her altar. 

Mertha glanced up at the servant, a boy with dirty blond hair cropped unevenly and an unfortunately narrow nose that hooked at the top. Her eyes narrowed at the interruption of their lesson, and she barked out, “What is it? We are in the middle of our lessons.”

Daenera felt a flicker of half-hearted hope that this intrusion might bring an end to the lesson. She would much rather endure Otto Hightower's discerning company than continue with this dreary affair. In fact, she’d even prefer Alicent’s presence, perhaps to discuss wedding preparations, over Mertha's monotonous instruction. Any company would be better than this, she thought, as boredom gnawed at her mind.

The servant shifted nervously under Mertha’s scrutinizing gaze, his feet shuffling slightly as he stood at the edge of the candlelit altar, his hair plastered to his pale face. His green tunic was darkened by the rain, the droplets having seeped into the fabric making it fall heavily upon his quivering shoulders. “The Prince, Aemond, wishes to see the Princess.”

“Can’t it wait?” Mertha questioned, her tone sharp with irritation. 

“I–I…” The boy stammered, then forced out, “The Prince wishes her brought to him immediately…”

“Tell the Prince that I am busy with my lessons,” Daenera said dismissively, her voice cold and firm. She managed to avoid him ever since the council meeting and had no desire to face him now. She was not some dog he could summon at will. “If he wishes to see me, he should arrange it through Lady Mertha to find an appropriate time. He should know that I am busy with my lessons and still recovering. I have little time to spare.”

The rain continued to batter the windows, the downpour’s intensity matching the tension in the room. Daenera detested her lessons with Mertha. Yet, as much as she loathed the dry, endless monologues about the gods, she preferred them over the thought of seeing Aemond. She had no desire to see him or speak with him. They would be married soon enough; there was no reason she should grant him more of her time now. 

Spite coiled within Daenera like a vengeful serpent, nesting amid the searing flames of her anger. She knew that he wanted to see her–she had felt it in the scorching intensity of this touch when he had gripped her with a fierce, almost desperate force, his eye burning with incredulous fury, demanding acknowledgement. He wanted her, and that precisely why she would deny him. Although she had traded her compliance for Fenrick’s freedom, she had no intention of offering him anything beyond what was agreed. 

Mertha’s lips tightened into a grimace, pursuing in displeasure as she drew in a resigned breath. With deliberate slowness, she closed her book of prayers and gently gripped it with both hands. “If the Prince wishes to see you, we shouldn’t deny him.”

Daenera’s eyes narrowed as she stared at Mertha. There was a prick of betrayal nibbling at her at the crones decision–as though for once they had been allies in something. But she supposed that she could never depend on Mertha. 

With a resigned sigh, Daenera rose from the altar, wrapping the shawl tighter around her body. The fabric, though warm, did little to shield her from the chill that had settled in her bones. Mertha followed closely, clutching her book of prayers tightly as they made their way towards the doors. Their footsteps echoed in the silence, the low hum of rain lashing against the windows reverberated through the air. 

The world beyond the oaken doors had become one of mud and water. As they stepped out of the sept and stood poised on its upper steps, still shielded by the roof’s overhang, their gazes turned skyward. The sky had plunged into a deep, oppressive gray, and the rain poured down with such ferocity that it felt as if the gods themselves were trying to wash away their existence. 

The once familiar courtyard was now a mire of puddles and rivulets, the ground churned into a slippery mess. The rain fell in relentless sheets, each drop striking the earth with a force that seemed to fracture into a fine mist upon impact. The distant outlines of the Keep’s towers were blurred and softened by the downpour, giving the scene an almost dreamlike quality–if dreams would have you drowning that is. 

Daenera pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, feeling the cold, damp air seep through the fabric. Her breath fogged in front of her as she exchanged a glance with Mertha, who now clutched her book of prayers tightly against her chest. The old hag’s expression was one of grim determination, her mouth set in a thin line as she surveyed the sodden landscape. 

“Go! Fetch something to cover us with!” Mertha barked, her voice barely audible over the roar of the rain. At the command, the boy darted out into the rain, each footstep stirring the mud and as he rounded a corner, he slipped and fell into the mud, landing with a wet twrp before quickly scrambling to his feet and continuing on his path.

The sight might have been amusing were she not to venture out into the downpour too. Gazing up at the sky, Daenera mused aloud, “Do you think this is a sign from the gods?”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Mertha chided sharply. “If it is a sign from the gods, it is a warning of their displeasure.” Her eyes found Daenera and narrowed with condemnation. “The gods are not so forgiving towards heaten girls and their wickedness.”

“Should the gods not be more offended by the act of kinslaying than by a girl uttering curses in the night?” Daenera retorted, her voice even as she met Mertha’s gaze. “Perhaps it is their displeasure for the blood that has been shed.”

“Bastard blood,” Mertha sneered, clutching her book of prayers so tightly the leather might rip, holding it against her heart as though it could shield her from the judgment of the gods. “The gods may yet forgive the sin of kinslaying–indeed it is a heavy one. But the gods have always despised bastards. They are an insult to all that is virtuous and honorable. The gods may forgive the prince for his sin, I’m sure. They will forgive the action taken in battle. You, however–”

“Lady Mertha,” Finan interjected, his voice cutting through the rain-soaked air. Mertha almost seemed to startle at his presence, as though she’d forgotten it. “Don’t confuse your view of bastards with those of the gods. Bastards are judged more harshly by man than by the gods themselves. Why should a babe be condemned by the actions of their parents, whether born of love or violence? Why must they then suffer the judgment of the rest of the world? Is the rape of a peasantgirl by a highborn man less sinful than the babe she births?” 

Mertha let out a derisive scoff, head shaking in exasperation, wordlessly voicing her opinion on the matter.

Finan continued undeterred, “Should shared love between two people and the product of that be punished?” He shifted to face Mertha more directly, thumbs hooked in his belt. “I’ve met bastards far more compassionate than many devout followers of the gods are, who would share their last bit of food with a stranger in need. Bastards are no different than you or I; they are no more sinful.” 

Finan head tilted slightly. “And a kinslayer offends every god, new or old. They care little for the circumstances; the gods condemn it all. And there’s none so accursed as the kinslayer…”

“How can the gods not judge those born of sin? It is in their very nature to be sinful,” Mertha replied tersely. 

“Does the birth of bastards offend you more than the acts of kinslayers?"

“Mind your tone,” Mertha warned, a note of condescension in her voice. “I will not take lessons in faith from a northern dog whose god is no more than a tree. You are not here to offer your opinions; you’re here to ensure that the princess does not run off. Do so in silence.” 

Finan’s lips remained curved, unbothered by the hostility. “Mmh, yes, we mustn’t forget ourselves in the presence of the princess.”

“Well,” Daenera hummed, her tone one of exasperation, “I suppose we’ll see who the gods favor and who they condemn to drown should the rain persist like this.”

The boy reappeared, his clothing muddied and clinging to him, thoroughly drenched. He was followed by a group of guards, who grappled with a large canvas cover, each man holding the wooden posts and attempting to stretch the canvas at the top to provide cover. The men strained against the wind that whipped and pulled at the canvas. 

Pulling the shawl tighter around her, Daenera released a resigned breath before stepping into the relentless downpour. The rain immediately lathered her, even as she stepped into position under the canvas cover, finding it as insufficient as expected. Mertha was quick to follow, almost stepping on Daenera’s heels, and together they drudged across the soaked terrain. As they walked over the muddy ground, water seeped into their shoes and saturated the hems of their skirts.

Halfway to Maegor’s Holdfast, a shrill yelp sounded behind Daenera, followed by a tug on her skirts and a swooping twrp. When she glanced back, she saw Mertha on her hands and knees, mud blotting her face and soaking through her dress. Half-amused, Daenera chided, “Come along now, Lady Mertha, this isn’t the time for play.”

Mertha glowered up at her with angry eyes, sneering as Finan graciously helped her to her feet. The moment she was steady, she yanked her arm away, flicking mud off her hands. “You did this on purpose…” The unspoken words hung heavy in the rain-soaked air between them: wretched girl, cursed girl.

“Do not blame me for your own misfortune, Lady Mertha,” Daenera replied, gripping her skirts more tightly as she began trudging through the slippery mud again, fully prepared to leave Mertha behind if she didn't hurry after her.

The storm continued to pour, the relentless rain turning the path into a treacherous mire. The sky above was a roiling mass of dark clouds, and the air was thick with the scent of wet earth and the distant rumble of thunder. Daenera's steps were careful but determined, her eyes focused on the looming silhouette of Maegor’s Holdfast ahead.

And by the time they reach the safety of the Holdfast, each of Daenera’s steps squelched with the weight of water. Her gown, now heavy and sodden, trailed mud and puddles across the stone floor. Although her hair remained largely dry, the tips clung damply to her neck and her dress adhered uncomfortably to her body as she ascended the steps, with Mertha and Finan closely behind. 

“It would be wise, I reckon, to make for your chambers and have you changed out of your sodden clothes–”

“No, if the prince summoned me with such insistence, then I must go as I am,” Daenera interjected sharply, her voice echoing slightly in the damp corridor, the sound of the rain hitting the room creating a low, consistent hum. She clutched her soaked skirts, lifting them as she ascended the steps, the sodden fabric trailing heavily behind her and leaving a wet streak on the stone.

If the chill from her drenched attire led her to catch the death, then so be it. Falling ill might even serve her a purpose–if she needed a swift exit, her drenched condition would provide the perfect excuse to retreat from his company. 

They boy led them up the steps and into the corridors that followed along the inner courtyard of Maegor’s Holdfast. Below, the relentless rain battered against the wet stones, shimmering in the low light. The other side of the courtyard was a blur through the sheets of rain, obscuring the opposing corridor. The platter of droplets echoed through the hallway, growing louder as it fell through the semi-open architecture, causing droplets to splatter against the polished stone floor and bead off the ornate banisters that protected them from the plunge to the stone below. 

The columns along the corridor were unevenly wet, showcasing the odd way the rain infiltrated this part of the holdfast–dry on one side where the shadows lingered longer, and slick and glistening on the other, exposed to the weather’s fury. The very air was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked stone, a cool dampness that wrapped around Daenera as she followed closely behind the boy.

As they walked past the Queen’s chambers and the adjacent nursery where Jaehaerys and Jaehaera played on the carpet, their gentle musings reaching into the hall as their caretakers played with them, Daenera half-expected to be brought towards Aemond’s chambers, however, the boy stopped before they ever reached his doors.

The boy gestured towards the open doors of one of the unused apartments–one of many others, kept ready for royal visits or the royal offspring to grow into. 

Daenera’s brow furrowed as she took a few steps into the chambers. There, she found Aemond casually leaning against a round table, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on its edge. As she approached, his gaze lifted to meet hers, brow rising slightly as his eye took her in.

“You look–”

Daenera swiftly interjected before Aemond could fully articulate his thought, her eyes briefly shifting back to Lady Mertha, who lingered at the entrance of the chamber. Mud coated Mertha's hands and climbed nearly to her elbows, with splatters marring her face and her hair in disarray, strands escaping the confines of her usually meticulous bun. Her dress, soaked at the knees and hem, clung to her form in a sorry state.

"Yes, I agree," Daenera acknowledged, locking eyes with Mertha, whose scowl deepened at the observation. "Lady Mertha does indeed appear rather unfortunate, but we must overlook it," she continued with a sly tone. "Unfortunately, the gods were not generous, and today's rain has done her no favors."

Turning back to Aemond with a more formal demeanor, Daenera added, "You must excuse our appearance. The weather outside is truly dreadful."

The thunder growled ominously above, punctuating her words, while a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room through the windows. Aemond paused, his eyes tracing Daenera's sodden figure. His head tilted contemplatively as he ventured, “Perhaps you wish to change—”

“Thank you for your concern, but you made it clear that you wished to speak with me, urgently,” Daenera replied, her voice steady despite the chill that clung to her wet clothes. She brushed a hand along the heavy fabric of her skirt, fighting the urge to shiver as the cold began to bite deeper. Her gaze remained fixed on his.

Aemond watched her intently for a moment, then his voice softened, "I thought you might wish to lend your voice on the matter of preparing our marital chambers.”

A frown creased her brow, his words slowly sinking in, as she repeated softly, almost to herself, “Marital chambers…”

Her gaze finally moved from Aemond to the activity within the room. Servants were busy at work, one teetering on a ladder as he carefully removed the heavy curtains from the windows, likely preparing them for washing. Others swept the floors briskly and striked the fire in the large hearth, bringing a flicker of life and warmth into the space. There were servants coming and going with buckets of water and fresh linens, some dusting the shelves and carefully placing the decorations back in their place. 

A heavy thud echoed in her chest, her heart pounding as a wave of understanding washed over her. She swallowed hard, her stomach twisting at the thought that they would share these chambers, that she would have to relinquish her own personal chambers–however violated that sanctuary was, it had still been hers. It had somehow never truly crossed her mind.  

A sense of dread settled in her stomach as she took in the room–the large hearth at the end of it, with two chairs set up in front of it and the two settees framing a small table between them at the center of the common room, then drew to the long table behind Aemond and casting a glance toward what would be their bedchamber, hidden behind ornately carved screens that gave the hints of what was within. 

“It's considerate of you to ask for her input, my prince, but I'm certain the Queen Mother will arrange the chambers to your satisfaction–”

“These will be our chambers, Lady Mertha, not my mother’s,” Aemond interjected, his voice gentle yet firm, a tone he often adopted. His gaze shifted dismissively from Mertha back to Daenera, observing her with careful attention.

Daenera inhaled deeply, masking her discomfort with a practiced smile. “Thank you, my prince. I will give it some thought, but if there's nothing more, I would like to retire to my chambers now.”

As she turned to leave, her movement was halted by his voice calling out her name, “Ābrazȳrys.”

Daenera closed her eyes for a moment, letting the word sink into her heart with a volatile gentleness, like the caress of claws tearing it apart and feeding it to the flames of her anger. Her voice was hard and forcibly even as she bit out, “Do not call me that. I am Princess Daenera, if you must call me anything.”

“Daenera,” he answered, so softly that she wished he had not spoken at all.

A shudder coursed through her, her heart skipping a beat at the softness of her name on his lips, wrapping around her like a silken thread. She stood still, the storm outside a mere whisper compared to the tempest within her. The room felt suddenly smaller, the walls closing in as the intensity of the moment pressed down on her.

With a wary expression, she turned to face him. Aemond straightened, leaning more purposefully against the table. His gaze was sharp, slicing through the air like a blade, grazing against her carefully maintained composure. He seemed eager to cut through the layers of formality she wore like armor, aiming to uncover the raw wounds of her thoughts beneath. Daenera stared back at him coldly, her eyes expectant and unyielding.

Aemond’s gaze remained on her as he commanded, “Leave us.” 

The servants hastily abandoned their tasks and scurried out the room, their gazes lowered as they passed by Aemond, and then Daenera–she held his gaze, eyes burning with defiance. 

“Mertha, would you be so kind as to arrange for a warm bath? It won’t be long,” Daenera dismissed the vulture hovering over her shoulder. 

When Mertha hesitated, Aemond finally shifted his sharp gaze from Daenera to her. His decisive glare was enough to send Mertha scurrying away–the sounds of her hurried, wet footsteps and the heavy, sodden fabric of her garments dragging across the floor echoed through the room as she departed. Daenera felt the change as his eye left her, like a shadow lifting, and she breathed a bit more easily. She turned her attention to the room, noting the sudden quiet as Aemond moved past her to close the doors behind the departing servants. The silence settled heavily in the room, accentuating the tension that lingered in the air.

Her dress dragged heavily over the stone as she descended the two steps into the common room, the weight of the damp fabric creating a soft, sloshing sound with each movement. The only other sound there was was the rain outside and Aemond’s steps as he lingered behind her. Her eyes swept across the space, taking in the unfamiliar layout–the crackling fire in the hearth, the rich tapestries adorning a few of the walls or being prepared to be mounted, and the plush cushions arranged neatly in the chairs arranged before the fire. 

She paused, her gaze lifting to the inner corner of the room, where a stately chest of drawers lined the walls, reaching all the way to the ceiling. The chest, made of dark polished wood, seemed to almost gleam in the dim light, small nooks set into each drawer for easy pull-out. As she approached, her fingers brushed over the smooth surface of the round table propped up between the drawers, the wood cool and solid beneath her touch, yet unblemished by cuts and spills as her own had been. 

A small frown creased her brow as her fingers curled into one of the nooks of a drawer. She pulled it open, the wood sliding with a soft creak, and the sweet, earthy scent of comfrey wafted up from the dried leaves hidden within. The aroma was soothing, a familiar comfort would have eased her nerves did she not feel his gaze on her. 

Daenera sensed his presence behind her, the weight of his gaze tracing her every movement. It prickled against the nape of her neck, like the soft caress of a shadow, sending an involuntary shiver through her body–she felt a chill run down her spine, as if a cold claw had trailed along the curve of her spine, and the dampness of her soaked clothes only deepened the sensation. 

“Your herbs,” Aemond hummed quietly, his voice a low murmur that broke the heavy silence. “I had the Maesters procure what you might need so you can prepare your teas and draughts.”

Daenera’s fingers paused over the open drawer, the earthy scent mingling with the cold air. She took a moment to absorb his words–felt them settle heavily within her as her eyes roamed over the chest of drawers, each promising to be full. It was a small comfort, a touch of familiarity in an otherwise unsettling environment. 

Slowly, she turned to face him, her expression carefully neutral as she clung to her formalities, and she nodded slightly, “Thank you, my prince. It is… considerate of you.”

She could see her formality needle at him, a subtle tightening of his jaw betraying his annoyance. Daenera averted her gaze, biting the inside of her cheek as she pushed the drawer closed. The words ‘how gracious of you’ died on her tongue, swallowed to fester in the pit of her stomach. 

Daenera moved past the fire, feeling its warmth briefly seep into her damp skirts before the chill reclaimed them as she continued. The contrast made the cold feel even sharper, the damp fabric of her skirts clung uncomfortably to her legs, and with each step, water and mud squelched between her toes–a sensation she detested. She trailed mud and water across the newly swept floors, leaving a messy path behind her as she came to stand before the windows. The gardens and Blackwater Bay lay hidden beneath a curtain of rain and clouds, the usual splendor of the landscape reduced to shadowy outlines and indistinct shapes. Raindrops streaked down the glass, blurring the outside world even further. 

The view, she supposed, would be quite beautiful on a clearer day, with the gardens in full bloom and the bay glittering under the sun. But today, the relentless downpour and gray skies mirrored the dismal tension within the room, adding to her sense of unease and confinement. 

Daenera traced the path along the outer wall, where windows, now bare from the removal of drapes, allowed the muted light from the overcast sky to filter through. She ascended the steps again to the long table, noticing a bowl of fruits at its center, awaiting the evening meal. Along the wall leading to the archway of the bedchamber, shelves brimming with books had been mounted. 

Her fingers glided over the leather spines, recognizing some as her own and others belonging to Aemond–books that had once cluttered his tables, towering as he diligently studied each one. She let her gaze wander through the room once more before settling back on the shelves, pulling out one of his books–a volume of ‘Watchers on the Wall’ by Archmaester Harmune. 

“Your books and mine,” Aemond remarked, his voice drawing her attention. He had taken up a position against the round table opposite where he had initially greeted her. His eye were fixed on her, observing her movements with the same intensity one might reserve for a pet exploring its new surroundings. 

“These are the only things of yours here,” Daenera noted coolly, glancing up from the book’s cover, where a crown of ice was embossed in silver on the leather. She watched Aemond through her eyelashes, feeling the chill seep further into her skin. Then, it scarcely qualifies as a marital chambers, does it?"

The room’s flickering firelight cast long shadows, the sound of rain pelting the window adding to the oppressive atmosphere–thick and damp and suffocating. Her eyes remained fixed on Aemond, who returned it with his own intensity. 

Aemond tilted his head slightly, his eye appraising. “I cannot have my blades here,” he answered, voice steady and measured. “They would not be appropriate in a shared space meant for us.”

A derisive scoff escaped Daenera's lips. “Why not?”

She abandoned the book on the table, stepping towards Aemond with deliberate slowness, her fingernail trailing over the polished wood surface until it reached the edge. Now that they were alone, she felt her formal composure unraveling under his persistent gaze, each thread slowly cutting away and reopening the wounds he had left her with.

“Are you afraid I might use them on you?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Her head tilted slightly as she scrutinized his reaction. “Wait until you fall asleep and take your other eye?”

Aemond’s gaze hardened. The tension between them crackled like thunder in the air, the distance closing as Daenera stood her ground, defiance etched in every line of her posture.

"Or do you fear that the very thought of marrying you is so intolerable to me that I might use them to slit my wrists?" Daenera pressed on, her voice cutting through the thick tension between them. She noted a subtle shift in his demeanor, a flicker of unease shadowing his features–a thread of something she couldn’t quite decipher. "Or perhaps after you've finished off my family? Believe me, if I intended to end my life, being deprived of your blades would hardly stop me–an open window would suffice."

Aemond's reaction was immediate; his gaze shifted away, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he gritted his teeth, lips thin and sharp. 

“You are the kinslayer, not I. I will not curse myself by becoming one,” Daenera spat at him, her voice filled with venom. “However much you and your treacherous family deserve to die…” 

Aemond’s expression hardened, but he maintained his composure. “I cannot have all of my things here–the maps and plans I have, and my swords,” he said, his voice measured. “I cannot trust you with them, as you well know.”

The room seemed to grow colder, the heat from the hearth battling bravely against the chill that crept along the floors. Daenera’s eyes burned with defiance as she faced Aemond, the tension between them as palpable and dense as the sheets of rain battering against the windows. 

“Not much of a marriage then, is it?” Daenera needled, her words seeming to burrow beneath his skin as he glowered at her, gripping the edge of the table tightly.

Their gazes remained locked, the tension between them crackling like distant thunder. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room through the windows, casting stark shadows across his face, followed closely by a resounding crack of thunder that seemed to shake the very air around them.

Finally, Daenera broke the intense stare, her gaze drifting through the archway into the adjoining bedchamber–their bedchambers. She moved into the room, feeling the warmth from the hearth contrast sharply with the chill that swept in from the windows, creeping along the stone floor. By the hearth stood a bathing tub, its copper surface gleaming, flanked by a stool and a small table holding a neatly folded piece of cloth and an array of familiar oils. A comfortable chair had been set up by the fire as well, turned slightly towards the tub, with a little table at its side. 

In one corner, a desk stood with a chair neatly tucked underneath it. The desk was well-organized, with quills and parchments ready for use, and a small, ornate inkpot gleaming in the firelight. Shelves above the desk held an array of books–most of these Aemonds. 

The bed itself was constructed from sturdy dark wood, with two tall spires at the corners of the headboard, spiraling upwards. It was larger than her own, adorned with a spread of silk and cotton blankets neatly arranged across the mattress, and atop the blankets lay several of her dresses, yet to be put away–her own dresses, their familiar fabrics and colors a strange reminder of her displacement. Her fingers brushed over the fabric of her dark blue dress, adorned with vines of silver embroidery. 

Her eyes lifted to the painting framed by the spires of the bed, noting how the bed had been pulled away from the wall to give the artist space to complete the new mural. The mural depicted a castle rising from the ground, its walls darkened and molten by fire as a dragon unleashed a torrent of dragonfire upon it. Harrenhal. 

“You’re having Harrenhal painted above our bed?” Daenera questioned, glancing over her shoulder to see Aemond leaning casually against the stone pillar of the archway, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“I thought it suitable,” Aemond answered, his voice smooth, a twist to his lips. “It is part of your heritage after all…” He pushed off the pillar and strode towards her. As soon as he reached the end of the bed, Daenera moved away, out of his reach. His expression darkened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “And I shall soon claim it.”

Daenera exhaled, shaking her head, her eyes returning to the half-finished mural. “If Daemon does not take it first.”

“If he does, he won’t hold it for long,” Aemond drawled, his hands folding behind his back, holding himself with an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance. “I will take it from him.”

Harrenhal seemed not a place to be easily claimed and much less easy to hold, Daenera thought. There was something twisted about the castle—haunted, as it was said to be. And cursed. It seemed almost like an entity unto itself.

"Then you will die there," Daenera mused, her voice light yet laden with dark foreboding as she drifted closer to the dressing table. "Daemon is likely to take your head."

"He may try," Aemond retorted, a thread of confidence woven into his soft drawl, unperturbed by the grim possibility of Daemon Targaryen severing his head from his body. "But he grows old and slow."

"Your arrogance will be the death of you," she replied, turning sharply towards him. Her gaze was icy, piercing through the air between them like a cold blade. "He merely needs to approach you from the right angle—then you won't even see him coming."

Daenera’s fingers brushed over the items on the dressing table, her touch light yet purposeful, while Aemond remained rooted behind her, his posture unwavering. “If you so desire to gaze upon Harrenhal before bed, then mayhaps you should sleep in your own chambers, as it seems you are to keep them.”

Her frown deepened as she reached for one of the many familiar bottles lined up on the dressing table. She picked up a pink one, pulling out the cork. The scent of rosemary oil and lavender wafted up, filling her nostrils as she inhaled deeply. Tears stung her eyes–he had returned her perfumes and oils, those familiar bottles whose contents she had made herself. 

The scent seemed to claw at the back of her throat as she placed the bottle back down, her gaze shifting to the nearby chest. Opening it, she discovered her own jewelry. Her fingers traced over the pearls that had adorned her hair during her first wedding, brushing over the small shell hidden in the corner. Baela had brought the shell on one of her visits from Driftmark, having found it on the beach. Its interior shimmered with a deep, iridescent purple. She’d hidden it in her jewelry chest to keep Joffrey from getting his hands on it, the boy having once snatched it from her table and run away with it. 

Daenera's fingers brushed against the cold steel of a necklace—a piece her mother had once lent her. The dark steel was intricately wrought into three interconnected circles with a ruby set at its center. She withdrew it from the box, her thumb tracing the smooth gem, feeling the metal warm beneath her touch. As a child, she had been captivated by it, frequently sneaking it out of her mother's collection until she was finally allowed to keep it in her own jewelry box.

She was jolted from her reverie by the sound of his approaching footsteps. His voice was soft, almost tender, "Let me help you put it on."

With a sudden motion, Daenera tossed the necklace back into the jewelry chest and slammed the lid shut. The sound echoed sharply in the room, and she heard him release a breath, a subtle sigh that spoke of his resignation. 

“You may decorate our chambers as you see fit,” Aemond asserted, his voice as smooth and soft as silk, and had she been able to fully appreciate it, she might have noticed a thread of plea weaving through his words. 

Daenera drew in a tight breath, feeling as though her lungs couldn't fully expand, her ribs tightening painfully around them as her heart twisted within her chest. She understood that his actions were meant as a kindness, a gesture to ease the pain he had caused her—but she couldn't so easily forget.

“Do you believe that returning my possessions will earn you my forgiveness for forcing me into this position?” Daenera asked incredulously, her voice edged with bitterness. “Do you think changing the drapes or adding a new rug will make this any less of a prison?”

She abandoned the dressing table, her wet skirts dragging heavily across the floor, leaving a damp trail in their wake. “No matter how many comforts you allow me, this remains a cage.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as Daenera met his eye. His gaze was sharp and piercing, the color of it a steely gray, colder and more intimidating than the shade of blue it usually held. The chill in his look seemed to seep into the air around them, adding a tangible tension that hung heavily between them.He stared at her, offering no glimpse of what, if anything, lay beneath–a gaping void or a soul festering with cruelty. 

Daenera took a moment to gather herself, retreating into the familiar coldness of formality. She straightened her posture, standing tall and regal, embodying the highborn lady and princess she was. Her head was held high, her neck stretched gracefully, and her shoulders pushed back. The chill of her wet dress had seeped so deeply into her skin that she felt ice, but she used that coldness to bolster her resolve.

“I thank you for your consideration,” she said, her voice steady and composed. “My only request for our marital chambers is that there should be no seven-pointed star emblems.” She couldn’t stand to look at one more seven-pointed fucking star. “Should any more be added to the Red Keep, it will soon resemble a sept.”

With that she walked past him, her heart feeling hollow and her chest aching.

[sakiychu]

You know? When I think about it, the song Rolling Girl, I think it could fit Yachiyo. And now, I know what you’re thinking: Wouldn’t this song work for Homura? And I’m here to tell you, yes! It also would! But I want to focus on a different perspective with the song than normal, and how I’ll explain it, hopefully you’ll understand what I mean by how it could fit Yachiyo too.

I mean, constantly rolling and people telling her to well, roll. Okay, here’s what I mean. Get ready everyone, it’s Character Analysis-ish Time.

Yachiyo Nanami- Survivor’s Guilt

(Please don’t ask why I gave this a title and I’ll post more of the images later if I have an image limit)

Before Yachiyo became a Magical Girl, people would treat her as a child. Which is normal, because she’s 12. But she would say she hated being treated like one because she wanted to show she could do things the adults could also. I think this would cause her to be bitter and usually stuck in her daydreams of being mature and people respecting her.

So, wanting to show she was an adult, Yachiyo became a model and made her wish when she was 12. She wanted to survive, and how she explained it in the anime was that she wanted to survive as the leader in her modeling group. Not by taking the girls’ potential from them. A flash back occurs and the girls begin to talk bad about her from how she’s posing to her hair, and then they say:

“She’ll never survive.”

She then says she became the leader, but the other members couldn’t catch up with her, causing them to leave and Yachiyo become a solo model. As she has been modeling for a few years, she probably had people in her previous teams leave her due to her wish of wanting to survive, and after a fight in the game is completed, she’ll say:

“Looks like I’ve survived again.”

So, technically, she “rolled” again. I want to think that she tried being in model groups for a little while longer saying, “Just once more” before she gave up completely and went as a solo model.

Fast forward a bit to when she is in high school, she forms a team with herself, Mifuyu, and Kanae. The team goes out on a witch hunt, but the witch was too strong causing Kanae’s soul gem to break apart from using too much of her magic. Kanae passed away from this and both Yachiyo and Mifuyu figure out the first truth about Magical Girls. And because she made the wish to survive, Yachiyo began thinking she survived so someone will die. Those dark thoughts must have begun to cause a spiral, and soon enough she realized she failed to keep Kanae alive. Because she survived for Kanae to die.

A little bit later, her grandmother became ill and she died also, and with no one to really talk to when Mifuyu wasn’t at the Villa, Yachiyo didn’t have a real way to grieve properly. I would think that Yachiyo would be in a complete low state, mentally from finding out the first truth about Magical Girls, physically from her job as a model. She would probably be exhausted, and with school maybe she’s behind. Due to all the stress, Yachiyo would probably want to stop surviving. Saying the line:

“Please just let me stop my breath”

Another year later, Yachiyo makes a new team including herself, Mifuyu, Tsuruno, Momoko and Mel. One day Tsuruno says that she can’t go out witch hunting which left the team one member short, Yachiyo tells her it’s fine, she should go focus on the restaurant and that they can go fight the witch.

“No problem”

She tells herself today.

But Yachiyo would say that a lot, so it would repeat. So, the team minus Tsuruno, goes out to fight the witch. However the witch was much stronger than they thought, but Mel lands a final attack which makes her soul gem cloud up completely turning dark and murky. A soul gem is a source of a Magical Girl’s power and if it’s too dark, they die. And that is what happened to Mel, she tells Yachiyo that today was lucky because she got to save her, but Yachiyo tells her not to talk like that because they could find the grief seed. However, they were too late. Mel began to shudder and writhe in pain, she then ran silent before she let out a blood curdling scream. Mel was officially dead, and became a witch.

She would constantly say she’s fine, but deep down Yachiyo knew, she isn’t.

She breathes another lie, the pain and guilt she feels amplifies.

Those voices would constantly blend around her mind, causing layers of broken noise she couldn’t break. And Yachiyo knew it well.

With that information stuck in her mind, Yachiyo truly didn’t have anyone left. And not wanting to make the situation worse, she cut ties with Momoko and Tsuruno. Mifuyu then left the Villa, joining Magius and Yachiyo was officially alone. I want to say their final words would always be in the back of Yachiyo’s minds, constantly replaying in her memories. Those events played a huge part in Yachiyo’s life, so it makes sense that she would want to stop her breath, but she can’t. Because if she died, the impact after would hurt the hearts of many even if she didn’t want to admit it herself. So, at the age of 19, Yachiyo was officially done making friends, having teammates, she told herself she would fight alone. Until it was her turn to join Kanae and Mel.

So for 7 years straight, Yachiyo has been rolling nonstop. She doesn’t necessarily know how to stop since she’s been doing it for so long, to hold her breath would to die, but she can’t do that. So all she’ll do is continue to roll, right? Well, sort of.

At the age of 19, Yachiyo gave up. She told herself she was a prisoner of the past, and she wouldn’t do any of the things she did back then. Yachiyo continued to roll, unable to stop, but then Iroha came along. The memory museum played as an emotional barrier for Yachiyo, causing those memories from the past to play again. She told Iroha that she disbanded the team and they aren’t having any mutual feelings nor contact about it. Iroha however, wasn’t accepting it, wanting a reason. But Yachiyo couldn’t take it anymore, only saying:

“If you’re with me, you’re going to die!”

Iroha rebutted this as she looked at Yachiyo, saying that this whole incident was the first time she was mad at Yachiyo. She told Yachiyo that she would defeat the rumor and show Yachiyo that until she’s actually dead, Yachiyo shouldn’t believe what she thinks.

And that’s exactly what Iroha does. She destroys the rumor and tells Yachiyo that she’s alive. The new promise she made was rebounding in Yachiyo’s mind.

“Just once more?”

The feeling to roll again from surviving now with everyone gone came back again, but Iroha told Yachiyo that Yachiyo also needed to believe in her and herself. Otherwise the promise wouldn’t be true.

“No! No more! Take my hand and come with me, tell me your story. Let me hold your breath for now.”

So, Iroha told Yachiyo that she’ll be the precedent to tell Yachiyo that the wish to take another’s life isn’t true.

[whump-cravings]

Bird in the Bathroom Pt 1

previous

1,452 words | Original Work: Bird in a Box

Content | BBU (adjacent), recovery whump, winged whump, nonhuman whumpee, past abuse/torture implied, bruises & other markings, disassociation, profanity

Xe picked up the glass of water—then, thinking of the mess shattered glass might make, xe switched it for a bit of pepperoni. Xe placed it in the Pet's hand.

"You have permission to eat," Lemon said softly, looking hopefully at the bird person's face, cradling their hand. Please, isn't there any life in you? Somewhere beneath it all?

Their fingers twitched. Lemon started, looking down. Their fingers slowly curled around the pepperoni. Lemon breathed out, not daring to speak. The hand closed all the way, and then they stopped.

"Okay," xe said softly, setting the hand back down, hoping xe could take that as a sign that they had some will to live. "I don't think I have any straws, so..." Xe picked up the glass, bringing a hand under their chin as xe lightly pressed it to their lips. "I'm going to tilt your head back so the water goes down alright." Here's to hoping I don't drown them.

Lemon lifted the person's chin. Their mouth parted slightly—whether involuntarily or not, xe weren't sure, but xe let a slow trickle of water out of the cup. When water escaped and slid down their chin, xe murmured, "Sorry, sorry."

But they drank, eyes lidding halfway. It was a huge weight off Lemon's chest. If they were trying to die, they wouldn't have drank, right?

Lemon eased the cup away, not wanting to overwhelm them and unsure whether they wanted more. "Good job," xe said with a smile.

The effect of the words was slight but immediate. Their eyes dropped close and their fingers went limp.

Lemon winced, a ball of guilt in xir chest. Shit. The Box Boy industry was big on punishment and praise for 'training,' wasn't it? The person probably had a litany of triggers from words and phrases alone. Xe set the cup down and sat down all the way, considering the Pet in xir bathroom.

"I understand if you're afraid of me," Lemon said softly. "I'm big and kind of scary, and of course you can't trust a stranger. Though, I actually thought you were some kind of bird of prey when I first saw these—" Xe found xemself reaching to touch their feathers and stopped short, letting xir hand fall. A bit like touching somebody's hair, isn't it, xe scolded xemself. "Your feathers. I know a wildlife rehabilitation center in the area, though both the owls I've brought in have..." Lemon paused awkwardly. Where had xe even been going with this? "Sorry, it's not a very happy ending."

But when xe looked up at the bird person's face again, their eyes were open. Still not focused on anything, but open. Lemon's heart stuttered and xe stumbled over xemself to continue.

"I-I guess I'm trying to say I'm a bit of a bleeding heart. And I don't know how much you understand of everything happening right now, but I'm very—" Upset, xe wanted to say, but caught xemself. "I want to help."

The person's eyes remained open. Lemon breathed out slowly. It wasn't a perfect or even great form of communication, but it seemed that they were... somewhat present when they were calm. If they closed their eyes all the way, they were retreating. Some kind of severe disassociation, maybe?

"If that's alright," Lemon said gently, watching them closely for any reaction, "I'll help get you cleaned up and then get you settled to sleep. I promise I have nicer places to sleep on than the bathroom floor."

Their eyes were still open. Containing a thrill of relief, Lemon nodded and then got up. "I'm going to fill the tub with some warm water," xe said. "It's going to be a little loud."

Xe carefully took a step over the person's body, and tried avoiding their left wing while bending down to plug the tub, then get the water running.

"Had to look pretty hard for an affordable apartment that also had a bathtub," Lemon said, hoping the sound of xir voice would bring some comfort. "Showers are nice but every once in a while you need a good warm soak. Though, uh, I don't really fit in the tub all the way. Too tall." Xe glanced back at them. Their wings definitely would not fit in the tub, and probably would barely be contained while showering. A pool would probably be the most efficient way for them to bathe.

For now, Lemon stuck to wetting a towel and squeezing a bit of body wash on it. Xe turned around in the narrow space, sitting against the tub with the toilet to xir left and the bird person to the right.

"I'm going to start with your arm. Wet but nice and warm," xe told them before setting the rag against their arm. Hopefully xe were gentle enough as xe moved from the shoulder to the elbow, removing dirt and grime and—

Water squeezed out from the rag as Lemon's fist clenched around it. Pitted circular scars littered their neck and shoulders. Xe had never seen this kind of damage on a person but xe was willing to bet these were cigarette burns.

As if sensing anger, the person's eyes had gone shut. Lemon sat back and took deep breaths, hanging the dripping rag over the tub.

"I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry," xe said quietly. Two seconds in and xe'd already messed up, but fuck. Treating somebody like an ashtray—Xe felt xir rage building up again and closed xir eyes to let it go with practiced breaths. This wasn't the time and place, righteous as xir anger might be.

When xe spoke again, xir voice was level and evenly paced. Hopefully soothing. "I'm angry at whoever hurt you like this, not at you. I'm going to keep washing." Xe twisted to clean out the rag, a cloud of dirt and soap puffing up from it. When xe had wrung it out and turned back, the person's eyes were halfway open again.

Xe picked up their limp arm, cleaning. The landscape of their skin was riddled with different scars of varying age, many Lemon hadn't noticed from further away. The oldest ones were a shade or two darker than their skin. Lemon's jaw twitched as xe daubed dirt away, but xe managed to keep xir breathing steady with each new uncovered abuse. There were no open wounds on this arm, but their bicep had fading bruises.

Their palm had been cut open recently. Lemon stared down at three scabbed-over lines, sucking in a shuttering breath, keeping xir rage tightly clamped down. Though it was impossible, xe tried not to think about how they had gotten these.

"These must hurt, huh," was all xe said softly before getting the first aid kit out from beneath the sink and wrapping some white gauze around their hand before continuing. Xe tried to keep up a narration of what xe were doing and where xe were touching, but it was getting pretty late and xe wasn't sure they were doing a great job.

Their feet were badly bruised with lacerations in the worst of them. Lemon was hesitant to even touch xem for fear of the pain it would cause, even though the person had no discernible reaction when xe touched their bruises. Xe swabbed their feet clean as gently as possible before wrapping them too.

When the pressure cooker beeped from the kitchen, xe used it as an opportunity to go get some painkillers. Xe weren't sure about the person's swallowing capabilities, so xe crushed the pills up with the handle of a butter knife and mixed the powder in with a bit of juice. Xe coaxed it into the birdman patiently, then resumed cleaning.

When their front was as clean as xe could manage, Lemon changed out the murky water.

"Alright, um... gotta flip you over," xe said, looking at the wings. Maybe if xe pushed the couch into the kitchen there was would be enough space in the living room to lie their wings out.

Their head tilted slightly, and Lemon turned xir attention to their face, making eye contact. Xe felt a thrill of victory, then started as the person's wings began moving. They took a noticeably deeper breath, maybe collecting strength before slowly sitting forward and folding their wings in, looking like they were trying to get onto their knees.

Relief and pride burst in Lemon's chest at the show of trust. Xe wanted to shout with excitement over the development, praise them for it, but any wrong movement or word could send them back to their near-vegetable state. So xe nodded in acknowledgment and moved forward to help.

next

[outroshooky]

whatever in heaven | knj

⇢ genre: series; part three (mafia!au) (angst, fluff, smut)

⇢ pairing: kim namjoon x reader

⇢ word count: 5.8k

⇢ warnings: smut (soft d/s dynamics. grinding, oral [m receiving], brief use of the word daddy, marking, gentler dirty talk [praise]) angst (implied usage and mention of knives, nightmare), some fluff. this fic is a bit of a mind-fuck; there are darker themes here, so please read with caution.

⇢ a/n: i’m so excited for you guys to read the next installment of verses & vibes! a huge, huge thank you to my beta readers @sunkoos​ (go check out nas’s work!) and @hobiswitch​; an even bigger thank you to @guksheart​ for not only beta reading this fic but posting this for me because of laptop difficulties!

...which leads me into, unfortunately, some bad news. my laptop crashed permanently over the weekend and i may have lost all of my files. i’m working to get them back, but this also means i have to buy a new laptop. thus, verses and vibes (and my writing in general) may go on hiatus until i can figure out a way to keep writing and posting new content. more updates forthcoming— for now, enjoy whatever in heaven!

“i know not if i could have borne

 to see thy beauties fade;

 the night that follow’d such a morn

 had worn a deeper shade:

 thy day without a cloud hath pass’d,

 and thou wert lovely to the last,

 extinguish’d, not decay’d;

 as stars that shoot along the sky

 shine brightest as they fall from high.”

⤷ and thou art dead, as young and fair; lord byron (george gordon)

It is always the same in the beginning.

He is kneeling on a concrete floor that goes on as far as he can see, cold and callous against the skin that peeks from the stringy rips in his pajama pants. A single light flickers above his head, murky cream, faded with age. His arms are bound behind his back with braided rope, biting vengeance into his tender wrists. His exhalations wisp pale smoke, rushing from his lips to touch the folded legs of a woman sitting just out of the ring of wired lamplight.

The supports of the chair are metal; he momentarily ponders how her skin isn’t dotted with gooseflesh through the thin fabric of her dress, but her cherry-red heels catch the light in a way that has his breath hitching. Something in him presses to reach out to her but he can’t, straining against his bonds like a feral cat caged. He snarls, a gritting sound in the silence of the warehouse, and she hums something seductive in return.

It is a dark heat that kindles in the pit of Namjoon’s stomach when he realizes he is staring at temptation herself, clothed in cherry pumps and scarlet lipstick. She is the antithesis of everything he should have and yet, yet—

He craves her more and more with every second that goes past. He doesn’t need to see her face to know that she is hauntingly beautiful, a devil crafted from memory, sent from hell to tempt him in all the ways she knew how. The blooming lust in his veins climbs with viney fingers straight to his brain, his head spinning, flying high; he barely knows what to believe. Somehow, she’s pulling on the strings of his thoughts, a marionette and his master dancing on the brink. One wrong string and the puppet collapses in a heap of cloth and kindling.

He groans, the sound of frustration and need echoing on and on in the dim room. She laughs velvet rich, sickeningly sweet. He wishes he could rend the binds from his arms, crawl to her, worship her the way she deserves; he shuffles forward an inch, two—

A plain black combat knife skitters to a stop in front of him, twirling once before coming to rest, just grazing his left kneecap. Resting potential against the crook of his leg, and he sucks in a breath when he feels the chilled edge level against the puckered scar on his knee.

She doesn’t speak, but Namjoon knows exactly what she means to say.

Thoughts clamor at the base of his skull, hissing seduction like a writhing mass of coiled snakes snapping for attention. They strike at one another, seeking dominion, and he’s nearly consumed by the din. A choice, cut out for him by the hands of fate, burned in the ashes of every decision he’s ever made. It boils down to this, to him and her and everything in between.

At one pellucid flicker of insanity, his hands are freed.

The ropes fall frayed to the floor and he straightens, rubbing at the burn in his forearms, rolling his neck to loosen the strain. His eyes flicker to her mass in the darkness, the shape of her just touched by the faintest tendrils of light. She is just out of reach, but so close, so far when her head tilts, a hint of fascination. He is mortal, she is eternal— a man reduced at the end of the day, stripped of money and power and the demons that lick at his heels. Greed is his master, but she is his, coveted in the secrecy of this cushioned nightmare.

He knows though, in the deepest reaches of his twisted soul, that only one of them will leave the warehouse alive.

In this horrible, shattered husk of reality, only one of them is destined to live.

And somehow, the choice has fallen to him.

Pick up the knife. Pick it up, feel it in your hands, smooth and weighted, perfectly balanced. Everything you’ve ever wanted is in the palm of your hands. Make the right choice. Do it for me, baby. For me.

Namjoon is pitted against his own self-preservation, warped desires clamoring for attention, needy yet sick. Needy, he is so fucking needy, but for what? Anticipation itches the back of his neck; he can barely think when the handle melds into the curve of his palm with such a sinful fit. The metal glints promise of things yet to come, but when he tilts the blade towards himself, he sees only the industrial struts that crosshatch the ceiling, the dust that hovers thick in the clogged, choking air. Emptiness and fulfillment, hand in hand, only a breath away.

You know what the answer is, Kim Namjoon. Do it. Do it for me.

Does he know? He must know, deep in the recesses of his bones. Deep inside the fucked-up mind of his, playing tricks on him; a trickster, what trickster? The last of his sanity is threatening to drip, melting like liquid wax onto the cool, callous cement. It’s bubbling in his hands, pouring through the gaps between his fingers, but when he shakes his head, a mad dog, it solidifies molten silver, black titanium.

Do it for me.

Do it for her.

He must.

Namjoon’s eyes flicker to her calf, following the silk of her skin to the hem of her saccharine dress; it flutters scarlet just out of reach. He’s on his knees now; there’s something pulling at him, some indeterminable force dragging him through the floor. The blade slips; the knife twists in his hands as he falls forward, and—

The air rushes out of Namjoon’s lungs as he writhes himself awake, mouth agape in an silent scream. He’s wheezing with the first rush of oxygen into his lungs, his lips swollen with gnashing of teeth as he twists away from the warmth settled next to him in the sea of rippling sheets, curling in on himself.

“Namjoon, are you alright?”

The broken man lifts his head, taking in the naked form upright in bed beside him, hair awry, concern bleeding every word.

It’s you.

He’s safe.

Indeed, Namjoon has had many dreams, but none quite like this one.

It is as if the very breath was sucked from Namjoon’s lungs when he first wrested himself awake in a cold sweat. Control is something he craves, something he owns save the late night hours when it is ripped from his hands by the sick desires of his own brain, playing tricks on him. He exercises his grip on every minutiae of his life, but when his eyes flutter shut and his conscience takes hold, it wraps a silken tie around his thoughts and begs him to pay attention.

You’re calling his name in a voice burdened by drowsiness. He knows you were awoken because of him but he can’t seem to think, to do anything else but sit here in this bed, in these rippling creamy sheets, and feel his lungs fill, empty. Fill, empty.

“Namjoon, love, breathe with me, okay?”

Breathing. Breathing is all he has been reduced to, a creature of the night with oxygen in his lungs and demons in his head.

You take his hand in your own, feels the slim digits trembling against your skin. You rub gentle circles into his knuckles and it somehow grounds him in the midst of the chaos, the overwhelming flood conjured from his worst nightmares. He watches as you carefully trace every crooked angle of his fingers with your own.

It is this simple motion that produces new thoughts, a mental clamor not of his own demise but for his own safety, the protection that he seeks. You are so much more than the sum of your parts: you are safety in the midst of a den of ruby-eyed cobras simply begging for a chance to strike. He’s never thought of anybody the way he thinks of you; there is no one else who comes close to you, and that’s saying a lot when it comes to his line of work.

“Namjoon, you’re safe, okay? You’re safe with me. We’re in our bedroom. You’re still the head of the most feared crime ring in the country. Nothing has changed. Yoongi is just outside the door; I’m right here. Nothing has changed, baby. You’re safe.”

Your words are warm against his skin, dotted with the press of lips to his temple, his cheek. You’re burning up against him, sweat beading at the roots of his hair, the silver strands falling low into his eyes. Somehow, the heat only serves to make him cooler, and he’s nestling into your arms before his mind catches up to his body. He’s safe. Somehow, in the roaring din of his mind, he is safe. His demons won’t follow him here, locked outside the door, palms scrabbling at the windows. The windows. Namjoon’s eyes flick to the glass and find the shades drawn, blocking out the ambient light that hovers thick on the other side. Bulletproof, he insisted, and for good reason. But Yoongi would have called if there was a problem, and he’s got Seokjin at the front gate, and it begins to seep in, sweet relief, that he truly is safe.

He is cradled to you like a child, a position compromising for a man of his stature, but he knows you won’t judge. Your hand trails from his thigh to his hip, his ribs to his shoulders, and your fingers nest in his hair, gently scratching his scalp. Lord knows he won’t be able to close his eyes until daylight breaks over the dark oak floor of your shared bedroom, but he hums and noses at your neck. You smell like sage and lavender with a touch of his own cologne, a memory of last night, and he inhales deeply, tries to savor the muskiness.

“You’re okay baby, I promise.” A kiss to his temple, another grounding touch. “I’m not going anywhere. I love you; you’re safe right here with me. Just let me love you, okay baby?”

Love. Love, a concept Namjoon knew better by verbal parry than by any real, tangible memory. It was wielded by a father he barely knew, an absent mother who preferred the company of socialites to the company of her own son. It was really a wonder he found it in him to love at all, really; he’d assumed he’d leave such an emotion to those who built a life out of a 9-5 day and mediocre sex. He’d been proven wrong, however, when you came along— you, once a high-profile escort in the dirty underworld he’d built for himself, proved yourself a worthy companion when you stayed beyond his guttural moans and dirty secrets. It was in fact, a moment like this when he realized he quite enjoyed your company, and there was something more to it than just a good fuck, an easy pussy.

You were the closest thing to real love he’d ever experienced, a home to come back to that wasn’t a prowling security team and a clean gun barrel. He’d exposed the grittiest parts of himself to you, the most private secrets and still you came back for more. You were just as fucked up as he was, really, and that was his favorite thing about you. You’d killed for him and he knew you’d kill again, and that was, very plainly, the matter of things.

Plus, that mouth made him see the stars more times than he’d willingly brag about at the poker table.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, exposed through the lip of your shirt (his shirt, actually). It’s a careful kiss, chaste for him. Your fingers rub comfort into the base of his skull and he swears he could purr, an alley cat sleek and pleasured.

“You doing okay, Joonie?” Your eyes tell him everything he needs to know and he nods, unsure if he trusts himself to speak. Fear still gnaws at his bones, muted terror of a red-heeled succubus and a silver blade that gleams in the lamplight. Somehow though, you know, scraping the blunt of your fingernails against his roots. “You don’t have to talk to me about it if you don’t want to. I’m here regardless of that, you know me.”

Namjoon noses the column of your neck in reply, folding his sizeable frame until it molds against yours. Some things he’d never let the boys know about, but some things, he thinks, they knew about already. He is hard and cold and calculated yet soft and warm and comforting, a living contradiction unto himself; you’d never believe it if you hadn’t seen it yourself. A complexity of men who prefers to live by the simplest of rules, but you’d learned long ago not to try to understand something that was fucked-up from the start. Some things in this world were just fucked up, and that was the way they were meant to be.

Neither of you know how long you sit there, adrift in messy sheets, dry eyes gritty with the lateness of the hour. Your hand weaves through Namjoon’s hair as the vines around his heart flex, their thorny stems unraveling. He stopped shaking minutes before, but if you know anything about him, the internal tremors never cease, not outside of the safety of this bedroom, impossible with the life he lives.

He stirs a little, murmurs your name against your neck, his lips brushing bare skin and the small freckle that dots just above your collarbone. There’s something so intimate, so human about it, screaming vulnerability that hangs open and aching in the silence. His hands slide smooth across the breadth of your back, your waist, palms settling atop your thighs as he draws back slowly, slowly.

There’s a question in his eyes, one you meet with your own.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He hesitates.

“Namjoon…”

He swallows, tilts his head, steals a kiss. “I’m sorry.” Then another.

With the third you’re pulling away, chest steady, finger to his lips. “Namjoon, you’re not thinking clearly. We can’t do this right now—”

“Says who?” He is breathless with the thought. “I wanna make you feel good, baby. You deserve that.”

The sweetest words wrap themselves around the breadth of your bones, melting between the gaps. He’s always been so good with his tongue.

“Namjoon, I wanna make you feel good too, but not when you’re like this.” You shake your head. “Not when you’re waking up screaming about death and knives and all sorts of horrible things.”

His hands brush your curves. “If this bed is an ocean, I wanna drown in you.”

“Joonie…”

It’s so easy to work at you, the sharper edges that he can dissect piece by piece. He knows exactly how far to push, what little to say to reel you in hook, line, and sinker. “Just go with it baby, alright? Just trust me.”

It’s easy to fall into Namjoon, collapsing every time as he folds around you. His head tilts to the side as he leans in, his nose brushing your own. He tastes like mint toothpaste and something uniquely him, an element you can never place but when he’s exposing the most vulnerable parts of himself to you like this. His mouth moves easy against yours, just tender lips, warm kisses. His hand smoothes up your spine to cradle your neck, thumb brushing at the nape, the soft hairs that tickle the back of his hand. “Just relax baby, relax.”

Once more. “Joonie, are you sure you’re okay with this?”

He nods. “I want this.”

He’s never been one for kissing but tonight he craves it, the simplicity of two mouths and hands that fit themselves perfectly against the curves and the edges. Musk curls under your nose as your eyelids flutter shut, dusting the apples of your cheeks a pinkish hue. Your hands meet his chest, burning with heat through the oversized Grateful Dead shirt he wears to bed with you, and they slide to his shoulders when he slips an arm underneath you to tug you closer.

You settle atop the apexes of his thighs, legs folding around him as he gazes up at you. The utmost adoration he has for you, written in the stars and in two hearts that beat as one, rattling against their cages with a need for closer, closer, closer. Fear melts underneath practiced fingertips and patience; he’ll be damned if he doesn’t return the favor. His eyes, usually tawny and mellow, burn blacker than charcoal but sweeter than syrup, running with emotion. It’s evident in every brush of his hands against your bare skin when his fingertips edge under the hem of your shorts, the gleam in his eye that warns of everything that is about to come. One hand supports your back as the other squeezes your thigh, and you can’t help but smirk down at him with the easy smile that tugs at his own kiss-bitten lips.

You aren’t smirking, however, when he leans in and nips a bite at your neck, teasing with his teeth, making you whimper and whine atop him. His tongue pokes between his lips, assuaging the pain, and your own mouth falls open as your fingers clench at his shoulders, nails sliding a lazy path along his spine. He licks once at the bite, then once more until he’s satisfied with the petaled violet that blossoms across the breadth of your throat. He nibbles a matching purple rose on the other side; you can feel the smile on his lips when your mouth shamelessly tips open and you stutter out his name.

“Hm, what is it?” When he draws back, you moan a singular complaint. “What do you want, love? I’ll give you anything you want.”

“W-Wanna make you feel good,” you pant, eyes fluttering. “Wanna make you feel so good.”

“I wanna make you feel good too, baby. Let’s just focus on the now, yeah?” Namjoon’s hand squeezes your thigh but you’re already pressing your body flush to his, kneeling over him. You cup his face and he strokes your wrist lightly, the most tentative of touches, thanking god that somehow, in the midst of the lion’s den, you’d found him. He had you and he knew he could trust you, trust the smell of your shampoo and the heat of your skin. “Focus on me.”

You lean down to kiss him, brushing his cheekbones, tangling your hands in his hair, but apparently, Namjoon had other plans. His lips graze your own, trailing the edge of your jaw to pepper the lightest kisses at your ear and move lower, lower. When his mouth lavishes the column of your neck with the utmost pleasure, you can’t help but feel your core ache, the purest whines permeating the thick air as you beg. He’s definitely hard now, weight against the inside of your thigh, and the temptation— no, the need to grind down on him sparked the fuzziest pleasures in your mind, the most sinful ideas.

“Please Joonie, please feels so good, please, w-wanna—”

When Namjoon mouths wet at the shell of your ear you writhe, losing control with each second that slips between your fingers like sand. His lips burn fire against your already heated skin, sizzling and crackling like a live wire under his touch. You hiss and he growls deep in the back of his throat, continues his ministrations.

“I forgot how much you liked that,” he breathes shakily.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you gasp, releasing your iron grasp on his roots. Luckily he’s unfazed; damn lucky you to be with someone who actually enjoyed their fair share of kinkiness. “So fucking hot and you’re so thick, I can feel it—”

When you grind down on him, pressing yourself onto the growing bulge in his slacks and swiveling your hips with practiced ease, he groans feverishly. With every brush of the head of his cock, he’s harder than before, memory weighty in the palm of his hand. He chokes on the breath in his lungs, his nails blunt on your back, and he moans once in content. Feels so fucking good.

“God, baby, you’re gonna ruin me like this,” Namjoon chuckles.

“Maybe that’s the intention,” you trill.

“Fuck.” The word lies heavy in the air, heavy on his bated breath.

You smirk, sinful seduction in his ear. “And what if I did this?”

As his eyebrows furrow, you ease yourself onto his thighs, so strong and sinewy. Your fingertips slip down his shoulders, trace every muscle that strains under his loose sleep shirt. Beneath the fabric is the coiled power of a lethal creature, a tiger poised to devour his prey. And he is utterly wrapped around your finger, letting his head tip back against the headboard with a  sigh. He’s lost in your touches, an angel fallen from heaven, no idea which way is up or down.

You rub circles into his hip bones; he twists under you. Practically begging with his gasps, knowing what awaits him. Your fingers toy with the hem of his boxers and he’s hissing between his teeth. “Baby…”

You hum a response, press a kiss to the shell of his ear.

“Please…”

“Oh Namjoon,” you coo. “You’re a mess, baby.”

He is. Hair sticking to his forehead, sweat gleaming at his temple; he’s a model for destruction, the dirtiest of kinds. Hips arching underneath you, and there’s a wet spot that stains the fabric. He smiles somehow, teeth flashing in the low light. “All for you.”

You withdraw, spit into your palm. “Then you get all of me.”

Your hand slips beneath the waistband of his boxers, finds his cock, thick and hard. At the first stroke, lazy and full, he can’t stop the raspy grunt that leaves his throat. “Shit, baby. Feels so good.” When you lower your head to mouth at him over his sweats he practically writhes, begging, needy. So unlike him, but a welcome change to see him falling apart, falling apart over you. The fabric is soaked with saliva and dotted with a pearl of cum, a carnal work of art.

You rub slowly down his length, thumbing the swollen head leaking his seed. It’s messy and wet and he’s moaning and it’s all worth it, worth it to see him wrecked like this. His balls are heavy in your palm; when your eyes flutter up to meet his, wide and expectant, Namjoon hisses. That sound enough jolts burning heat between your thighs, twisting devilishly in your stomach. “B-Babygirl?”

There’s question in the word, question that makes you pause. You moan against his clothed cock; he chokes on his words.

“Can I make you feel good too?”

A sloppy kiss pressed to his member. “Later, okay? I wanna focus on you right now, Joonie.”

His hand strokes through your hair, flyaway, disheveled. “You’re so good to me. So fucking good—” He chokes on the downstroke, fingers tightening out of reflex. “Want you so bad.”

You press. “How bad? Bad enough to want my mouth?”

“Shit, your mouth,” he whines. “Want your mouth, want you—”

“Joonie,” you murmur.

His heartbeat resounds like gunfire in the ringing silence.

“Lift.”

He lifts his hips as you tug, pulling his sweats down to his thighs, the fabric ridged underneath your perch. His cock falls free, standing slightly crooked against his still-clothed abdomen, rippling with tension. It twitches under the heat of your gaze, steadily seeping liquid bliss, and your mouth waters at the thought. It’s been so long since you took him like this; when it’ll happen again, who’s to say.

You pepper kisses along his thighs just to hear him whimper, feel the predator writhe in his own constraints. His hands burn their own trails along the curves of your body, spreading heat in their wake as you cave to your own desire, slipping a hand between your thighs when you take him in your mouth with practiced ease. He’s firm under your fingertips, lithe and sleek and powerful in all the right ways, but he falls apart when it comes to you, crumbles like rock under the breath of the tidal wave. He grunts sin from between gritted teeth but whines complaint when you pull back to tease, to draw things out. He’s gentle in his touches but firm in his demands, even through the cottony billows of his neediness.

“I-I’m close,” Namjoon stutters, skin crimson from lavished attention. There’s saliva smeared down your chin and tears twinkle liquid starlight on your lashes, but you’ve never felt more electrified, burning up at the seams for him. From the heated confines of your throat you withdraw his cock with a firm touch at the base, his fingers running through your mussed locks.

“Where do you want to cum, baby?”

He squirms. “Fuck. Wherever you’ll take m-me—” He shudders, ribs heaving. Your fallen angel, shattering under your touch. “Oh shit, I’m gonna cum for you, babygirl.”

“Cum for me, angel. Cum for me...” you murmur, gaze level with his own as you wrap your lips around his member.

“Gonna cum for you, fuck—”

“Daddy.”

The cavernous heat of your mouth is a slick warmth, so wet and warm and utterly divine. He loses himself in it, lets himself go, pushing towards that edge of no return, riding the crest of the wave as it rolls faster, harder, heavier. “‘M gonna fucking cum. Oh god, fuck, shit, babygirl, I’m cumming, I’m—”

A drawn out groan fills the air, raspy and thick and throaty as he thrusts into your mouth once, twice, spills over. He’s bitter on your tongue, acrid but you take it, swallow it all. It’s worth it to see the pleasure overtake him, to see him let go of every capacity and capability to fall drowning, dizzy. Whatever in heaven, above or below, he’s tumbling headlong into it, collapsing into himself like a burning star falling from the cosmos.

He’s the first to break the silence that falls, withdrawing himself and tucking his softening cock back in his sweats with a remarkable amount of composition for a man who’d just seen the very sparks of the universe behind closed eyelids. He chuckles breathless, bated. “Fucking hell, angel.”

You try to speak but merely croak at first, throat grating dry. He hushes you soothingly, easing you back on the pillows now soaked with sweat. “Let me get you some water, yeah? Just stay here for now.”

You whine a complaint— shouldn’t you be taking care of him?— but he’s insistent and already on his feet, legs shaky as he heads towards the bathroom. There’s a pang in your chest watching him go, the reality of the situation settling in, and vulnerability flowers in your heart.

The tap squeaks; the faucet runs. Room temperature water, not too hot but not too cold to soothe the burn in your esophagus. He knows you better than anyone, knows how to take care of you when you fail to take care of yourself, life spent always on the run. You’re the one holding him when his nightmares consume him, the steel that he draws from his belt to wield before him, the ultimate weapon. Yin and yang, black and white, blooming nebula and neutron star. The water turns off, a grating complaint.

It’s been too long; you’ve delayed too much. Play to his fantasy; he has no idea what’s coming.

“If the water’s not enough, I can send Yoongi for some tea— oh.”

Oh.

You are no longer prostrate, the limp rag doll exhausted from her play. No, you are stretched out on the bed, ass up on your hands and knees, silver glinting between your teeth as a pair of handcuffs dangles in the air. You are looking at him with fire smouldering deep in your eyes, blazing a burning glare straight through him.

The predator has become the prey.

“Daddy,” you purr, right on cue. “Come here.”

It’s automatic, the way Namjoon moves towards you, glass forgotten on the nearby dresser. He’s completely transfixed, fascinated by the possibilities, and when he reaches the end of the bed, you stop him with one outstretched foot, bare with the lateness of the hour. “Turn around.”

He’s so submissive, so compliant simply by the force of his own surprise. It’s hard to keep going, hard to push through the adrenaline thrumming through your blood, the underlying current that threatens to sweep you away, too. But you mustn’t listen, mustn’t feel.

“Hands behind your back, Joonie, baby.”

He’s perfect, perfectly whole in the way he follows each command that falls from your lips like silk spun thread. He surrenders himself so willingly to you, it stings raw.

You rise to your feet, level with the back of him. Your fingers make quick work of the cuffs and with a firm click, the deed is done.

With a tender motion that surprises even you considering the brevity of the situation, you wrap your arms around your torso, bury your face in his skin, inhale his scent. Amber and citrus. Musk and spice. Whole contradictions that somehow manage to summarize him perfectly. You whisper against his spine like it’s a secret. “I’m so sorry.”

“What, baby?”

You can feel his heartbeat against your cheek, thudding rapid with excitement, wonder at what lies ahead of him. Guilt roars its ugly head and you beat it back with double the force.

You stiffen, step away from him. Four years you’d waited to formulate these words, to hear them drop from your lips, plummeting on high. Four years and now the moment is here, and you swallow past the lump in your sore throat.

“Kim Namjoon, you are under arrest for charges of extortion, murder, murder-for-hire, drug possession, and arms trafficking. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you…”

“...Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

You’re sitting in the open door of a police cruiser, more specifically a SWAT cruiser, an aluminum blanket wrapped around your bare shoulders. The air is warm, but you can’t stop shivering.

Seokjin paces fifteen feet away from you, ever more handsome in his suit and tie. Hoseok is finishing his interview of the conclusion, anticlimactic for the better. Yoongi’s legs dangle from the open doors of one of the ambulances called when your colleagues expected the worst. Thankfully, no casualties had occurred but a sprained ankle, a fight between one of your fellow law enforcement officers and that guy that manned the back gate. Everyone can go home, rest easy.

After Seokjin’s interview is yours, and you realize by the time Hoseok is asking the last question that you don’t remember a single word of what you’ve said. Elite agents taking down the biggest crime boss in the country are not supposed to feel so empathetic, so broken. Guilty. Regretful.

Four years, the longest and most dramatic chase of your career. Justice fell, a swift hammer; you’d saved the day once again, added another face to the chalkboard in your sterile office a thousand miles away. You’d won. Hadn’t you?

There’s a faraway look in your eyes that Hoseok somehow understands, a glimmer of something more than success. He straddles the age gap between the members of the team, incorporating Jeongguk’s youthfulness with his elders’ experience, the glue of it all handed the most important task. He calls your name. “You’ve been out of it the entire time I’ve been interviewing you. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.”

But there’s no bite to the words, no whet of passion. They fall flat below the crackle of radios, the mist that reflects red and blue through the evergreen trees scraping the stars winking high above.

Hoseok puts his pen and clipboard aside. “Hey,” he says. The kindness in his tone pierces daggers through your heart. You somehow would’ve been more comfortable if he had yelled at you. “You did the right thing. He hurt a lot of people. Killed many more, and did so without remorse.”

That’s what you think, you want to scream. Because to you, he is some foreign criminal, far removed from any last dregs of humanity. He is a monster and a crook and a fiend, twisted into something unrecognizable, but you didn’t see what I saw. Did you see the warmth in his eyes when he rolled over and buried himself in my arms all those mornings in bed? Did you see the way he saved those dogs about to be euthanized in a shelter, because those pups reminded him of how he used to feel, staring death in the eyes every day? Did you see the way he loved me?

Hoseok pats your shoulder. “I’ll put in a month and a half of vacation time for you when we get home. Lord knows you’ve earned it. And we can rest tonight, rest for the first time in a while. We’ve got a nice hotel an hour away from here, top floor. We’re not done flushing out the rest of his boys, but that can wait for now. We can handle that on our own; they’re scattered all over the continent anyways. It’ll take time.” He picks up his supplies, turns to move on to Yoongi. The look in the elder man’s eyes, the special ops agent thinks, is exactly the same as your own. What had you two seen in that hellhole?

You tuck the blanket tighter around yourself and nod once. It’s the most you can do.

Hoseok smiles, but it’s not quite the beaming, sunshine-filled glow he usually carries about himself. “You did good work and I’m proud of you. Get some sleep, agent.”

Sleep does not come for a long, long time.

When it does, it eats away behind your eyelids, filling your mind with visions of a man adrift in an ocean of bedsheets, rocking on the waves of an endless concrete floor that goes for miles and miles, whispering promises of things to come that never would be.

Kim Namjoon is sentenced to life in prison for six counts of murder, fifteen counts of extortion, three counts of murder-for-hire, six counts of drug trafficking, three counts of arms trafficking, and two counts of drug possession.

He never makes it to see his twenty-sixth birthday.

[spoon-writes]

Ends of the Earth | Chapter 9

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: Mando x OC

Read on FFN or AO3

Summary: When Sinead's husband is ripped from her, she escapes the Hutt Empire and goes on a quest to find him. Since being a runaway slave in the Outer Rim isn't exactly easy, she makes the Mandalorian an offer he can't refuse and soon they travel across the galaxy, looking for her missing husband.

Chapter index

Chapter 9 - In

Sinead sat on a broken down astromech at the edge of the base, watching rebels scurry around in the dim light. Mando had gone to retrieve the ship, and Gatt had left Sinead with two guards, ostensibly there to protect her, but more likely there to keep her from poking her nose into things that didn’t concern her. The guards stood back, close enough to keep an eye on her but far enough away that she had the illusion of privacy.

A dug knuckled past her, giving her a distrustful look. He carried a cracked datapad in one of his feet.

She was watching a mouse droid scurry between the ships when a voice made her sit up. It stood out of the general din of the base, sounding too high and youthful to belong to any of the rebels.

"You never let me do anything!"

Sinead looked around as casually as she could. Half hidden behind a starfighter, Gatt and a human girl who couldn't be more than 14 faced each other.

"Mir ..." Gatt said.

"I could help, you know, if you didn't keep me locked up here."

Gatt pinched the bridge of her nose. "Damn right I keep you locked up. If I didn’t, you'd be dead five times over."

"You don't know that." Mir tossed her head.

"I do know that, Mir, I've been fighting since before you were a glint in your mother's eyes."

"I can-"

Gatt jabbed a finger at her. "You can do nothing, except compromising everything we've worked on. I don't expect you to understand, but as long as you're in my care, you're to sit your ass down and stay out of trouble."

Mir balled her hands and stomped on the ground. "This isn't fair."

Gatt drew herself into her full height, the fire in her eyes a mirror of the girl's. "Life isn't fair. Go help Bast if you’re so desperate to help." She pushed Mir to the side and stomped away, leaving the girl to watch after her, her small body shaking with anger.

Mir turned her head and locked eyes with Sinead. Her face contorted and she skulked off, disappearing into the mine. The guards let her pass without a word.

That was odd. A rebel base wasn’t usually the best place for a young girl, even one who seemed as keen as Mir to join the fight. Sinead considered following her, when a small dot on the horizon appeared, growing larger and larger until she saw it was the Razor Crest making for the landing platform.

Wind whipped her hair around as the ship touched down, the old landing gear creaking from the weight. The Crest looked right at home between the old freighters and starfighters that looked like they had been in one dogfight too many.

The Mandalorian appeared as the ramp came down, looking cautiously at the rebels milling about.

Sinead got up from her seat and approached him, her minders trailing after. "How was everything back there?"

"Fine," he said in his usual brusque fashion. "You sure about this?" He eyed her guardians.

"We have another choice?"

Mando sighed, which had to be answer enough, as Gatt approached them with a small band of rebels trailing behind. She lifted an eyebrow as she gave the ship a quick onceover. “You’re all set?” She didn’t wait for an answer, instead thrusting a datacard at Sinead, who caught it just before it fell to the ground. "Coordinates are on there. You only have so long to get through the blockade and back out before you miss your window, and then you're stuck, you got that?" She looked impatiently from Sinead to Mando.

"Got it."

"We don't know the situation on Luria, except that it's bad. Hopefully a ground-team'll meet you at the rendezvous."

"I usually like a little more certainty when risking my life," Sinead said.

"And I like not having to sneak onto my own damn planet, but it turns out that life isn’t fair.”

"You're asking us to risk our lives for a hope."

"Only thing we have in abundance. If you don't like it, you can get the hell off my moon." Gatt clearly hadn’t shaken off the effects of the argument.

Sinead bared her teeth in a smile. "If only wars could be won on hope."

"No, we need soldiers for that, ones who follows orders."

"Yes, sir."

Gatt didn't seem to appreciate Sinead's try at deference. "Right. This isn’t so complicated I need to go over it again, do I? Once you get back, I'm sure Sul-Bal will show you whatever it is you came here to find.”

Five rebels piled into the Crest, a quiet lot all dressed in dark, inconspicuous clothes and with the same sort of grim determination in their eyes. A short, stout human called Tanram was the only one who introduced himself.

Sinead left the rebels in the main room huddled together in a tight group, muttering amongst themselves and shooting furtive glances at Sinead like she was about to pounce.

She stood behind Mando as the ship left Celvalara’s atmosphere.

“He’s still sleeping,” Sinead said, looking at the child still swaddled in a blanket. Looking closely, she could see his small chest rise and fall.

“This has happened before I … I think.”

“Him sleeping for more than a day?”

“It was after … it doesn’t matter. He’ll wake up eventually.”

“If you say so.”

The ship shook as they left Celvalara's atmosphere.

Sinead sat down in the only unoccupied chair. “You don’t think we should’ve left him back at the base?”

“Hm. I don’t trust them.”

“Neither do I, but I’m sure it’s safer than an occupied planet. Gatt seems like someone who’s great with kids.”

"I thought he'd be safe on Tatooine and look what happened.” He glanced at her. "How's your head?"

Her head? Oh, right.

"It’s fine." She touched the spot where just ten hours prior she'd had a bump the size of a kaadu egg, which had vanished completely. "That stuff Peli gave me must've been stronger than I thought."

The Mandalorian hummed in response and fell quiet.

The navicomputer beeped once to let them know it had finished plotting in the route, and the ship hummed as it turned due north- insofar that there was such a thing as due north in outer space.

The blockade stretched planet wide, blinking in the murky darkness like dying stars. Many of the ships making up the blockade hadn’t been made for that purpose, most of them looked like old freighters and rusty spaceliners. Underneath, Luria’s surface swirled and twisted like a sea in stormy weather.

As they neared the spot, Mando slowed the ship to a crawl.

There was a clanging as Tanram up the ladder. “How’s everything up here?” His voice was scratchy, like he’d spent all day shouting. He stood behind Mando, watching the slowly rotating planet beneath. The glow from Luria bathed the cockpit in a soft, pink light.

"We're waiting for the signal,” Mando said.

Tanram sneered. "Fucking travesty we have to sneak into our own home like thieves."

Sinead shrugged. "Here’s to hoping you won’t have to do that for long.”

Tanram harrumphed as a way of answer. He scratched his cheek, looking around the cockpit, eyes falling on the sleeping kid. "You have a child with you?”

"He came with the ship," Sinead said, fighting the urge to pull the child into her lap.

"Right ..." he turned back to look at Luria. "Better hope it doesn't get us killed."

"Don't worry, I won't let him hurt you."

Tanram gave her a sour look.

“What’s the plan once we land?” Mando said, stopping the argument before it had time to start.

“We get down, there should be a ground team waiting for us.”

“Again, with the qualifiers,” Sinead said.

“Should is a helluva lot better than ‘no chance in hell’.” Tanram crossed his arms across his chest.

“Barely. ‘No chance in hell’ also means don’t get your hope up.”

Mando shushed them, gesturing to the blockade below them. “Look.”

Beneath them, a large freighter ship blinked three time before going completely dark. Nobody moved.

"That's it?" Sinead asked, leaning forward to get a better look. "And we're sure it won't suddenly come on-line and blast us to stardust, right?"

"Only one way to find out."

The Razor Crest came to life with a now pleasantly familiar roar and glided slowly towards Luria.

"Don't get too close to the ship," Tanram whispered. "This boat ain't invisible."

The Mandalorian's shoulders tense in irritation, but he remained silent.

The planet swelled beneath them, pink and green-hued lights dancing in the cockpit, seeming impossibly large as it filled the windscreen.

"Ten seconds 'till we reach," Mando said.

In the distance the dark ship hung lifeless in the air, and Sinead caught herself holding in her breath as they breached the barricade, her ears prickling for any sound of their detection.

They passed the darkened ship in tense silence.

"Go tell the others to get ready," Mando said, his voice terse. “Don’t wanna be there longer than necessary.

Tanram drew in a sharp breath, clearly not happy about taking orders from someone else, even if that someone was the owner of the ship, but after a second, he deflated and disappeared down the ladder.

"I wish they could all be this easy," Sinead said, sitting down at last.

“You think this was easy?”

“Relatively easy.” Sinead looked at the still sleeping kid. “Nobody has shot at us. Yet.”

"Give it time.”

Sinead huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, you're right. Can't wait to see in what new and inventive way this one explodes in our faces."

When the Razor Crest broke through the clouds, Sinead couldn’t help but gasp at the sight that unfolded underneath them; rolling grasslands broken up by dense forests stretched as far as the eye could see, deep purple and emerald green seemed to glow in the darkness. A solitary mountain broke through the earth, shining white in the starlight.

"You've ever done something like this before?"

Sinead tore her gaze away from the wonder outside. "Smuggled a band of rebels through a blockade to a planet in full lockdown? Can't say that I have."

"I mean this. The civil war."

"I'd say we're more civil war adjacent." She could feel Mando roll his eyes under his helmet. "No, I haven't. I've always done my best to stay out of … circumstances like these.” Normally, she would ask him what he did before he was a bounty hunter, but she had a feeling he wouldn't answer.

After skirting around a small settlement barely big enough to notice, they found the rendezvous, a small spot at the base of the mountain. Big boulders had been rolled away, making a small level spot in a sea of rocks.

The Crest touched down, narrowly missing being smashed to bits against the sheer rock walls.

As she got up to leave, Sinead looked down at the still sleeping kid, worry gnawing at her stomach. She touched the edge of the blanket wrapped around him and then left to join the rebels.

The ramp was down when she got off the ladder, soft starlight spilling from the opening. Outside, a rebel had fallen to her knees in the grass, whispering something in twi'leki that Sinead didn't understand, and it dawned on her that this was the first time they'd seen their home in a long time.

The four remaining rebels stood in a tight knot, their conversation dying out when Sinead and Mando descended on the ramp.

“You said someone’d be here,” Mando said, looking directly at Tanram.

“Clearly there isn’t,” the rebel said between clenched teeth, his dark eyes scanning the shadows between the boulders.

The twi'lek got up from the ground and brushed off her knees. “Erno, you told me about an old cache at the foot of the Barrow-“ she nodded towards the mountain- “Maybe they’ve left the package there.”

A human rebel, this one with grey wiry hair spilling from under his cap, rubbed his lower lip. “Hasn’t been used since I was a lad.”

“C’mon, Tan,” another rebel grabbed Tanram’s shoulder, “they’ve been compromised. We gotta get out of here before the blockade closes.”

“We don’t know that!” Said the Twi’lek.

“Really, Suri, you really wanna bet your life on that? Our lives?” The rebel turned to the twi’lek, his posture rigid.

Tanram’s lips moved silently, his unfocused eyes staring at the mountain. “We’ve come to far to turn back now. We’ll find the cache and if it’s empty then we’ll take it from there.” He turned to Sinead and Mando. “Stay here until we come back.”

"That wasn't part of the plan," Mando said.

"Plan's changed. If you leave now, without what we came here to get, you won't get within orbit of Celvalara. Got it?”

“We won’t be stuck here.”

Tanram sighed and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “We’ll be back before that happens.”

“You better make sure of that.”

Once the last rebel disappeared between the trees, Sinead let out a deep sigh. “Maybe this really was a bad idea.”

"A little late for that don't you think?" Mando said, his shoulders tensing in irritation.

"Yeah," Sinead stretched and looked around the clearing. The white rocks reflected the starlight strangely, making it look like they were glowing from within. Scree shifted under her feet as she walked to the nearest boulder and sat down, closing her eyes. The rock felt strangely warm against her back.

Wind whistled between the cliffs, carrying with it the smell of clean and cold air.

The Mandalorian cleared his throat. Sinead waited for him to speak but when he didn’t, she snuck a glance at him through her lashes? He was looking at her, or at least in her direction.

"I already told you I'm fine."

He looked away sharply, shifting his weight from side to side. "I didn't ...” he looked at Celvalara in the distance. “I haven't thanked you for what you did. Back there. You- uh, you didn't have to risk your life like that."

"I'm sure everyone would've done the same." Images of people she'd met that most definitely wouldn't, flashed through her mind. "At least almost everyone."

"Still ... thank you."

Somewhere amidst the cliffs, there was a sharp cry from a bird.

Sinead tugged her legs to her chest.  "It's not the first time I've been held at blasterpoint and it probably won't be the last. Although I usually know what it's about." She let the words hang in the air.

"It's not that simple."

“I think it is. The Guild and I aren’t exactly on the best of terms. You don’t have to worry I’ll run off when your back is turned.”

“How’d you manage to piss off the Guild?”

Sinead opened her eyes fully and gave him a sardonic grin. “Let’s make a deal; you tell me how you found the child, and I’ll tell you why I’m not rotting in some palace on Sriluur.”

Mando fiddled with his gauntlet while Sinead watched him patiently. He cleared his throat and started: “An Imperial holdout based out of Navarro hired me to find and retrieve an asset.” He looked up at the cockpit where the child slept. “They wanted him dead or alive, would pay a lot to make sure that happened.”

A cold hard knot of worry formed in the pit of her stomach at the thought of the kid in the hands of people like that. Leave it to the Empire to destroy someone so innocent and defenseless.

“You didn’t leave him,” she said softly.

“No.”

“So that’s why you don’t know his name. Why didn't you tell me this before? I hate the Empire even more than I hate the Guild, and it would've been nice to know you have a bullseye on your back.”

He looked at her sharply. "You’re right, Chela.”

She rolled her eyes, trying to rid herself of the anxious feeling. "I never lied to you and I've trusted you to find my husband. That's gotta count for something."

He leaned against the ship, not looking at her. “Yeah.”

The conversation tapered off, and Sinead closer her eyes again. She didn’t like waiting around on the best of days, and here it felt like they'd ended up in a strange pocket of space where every minute felt like an hour.

“You never answered my question.”

“Question?”

“When you dealt with the Guild.”

“Oh.” Sinead grabbed a handful og pebbles and watched them fall from her palm. “I was … found out, let’s say, after I first escaped. A Trandoshan hunted me down on Toola, dragged me back to Sriluur.”

“You remember his name?”

Sinead snorted. “I didn’t really think to ask. Anyway, both the Hutts and the Empire were chomping at the bit to get a hold of me, so I guess I never stood a chance.”

Mando was quiet for a bit. “You managed to get away again.”

“Rebels attacked the Hutts right after the Trandoshan handed me over. Stroke of luck, really, otherwise I would be rotting in a shallow grave somewhere on Sriluur. I’m pretty sure they think I died in the attack, since I haven’t seen any bounty hunters for a while- except for you.”

“Whatever’s left of the Empire has other things to think about.”

“Like someone absconding with their bounty.” Sinead grinned at him.

“Hm.”

She didn’t know how long they sat in silence. A small bird landed on a boulder nearby, trilling a complicated song. Maybe the sun was about to rise.

There was a bang from behind the ship. Sinead got to her feet and grabbed her blaster in one fluid motion. “What-“

Mando held out a hand, stopping her in her tracks. He drew his own blaster and crept around the ship surprisingly silent for someone clad head to toe in metal armor.

A panel from the ship lay in the pebbles and someone was crawling out of the opening it left, wiggling through the wires like a worm. They stared as she made it out, landing on the ground with a loud thud.

Mir straightened up, pulling off an old breath mask and letting it thump to the ground. Her eyes widened when she saw Sinead and Mando stare at her.

Mando was the first to get his bearings. “Who are you?”

Mir reached behind and pulled a blaster. In a split second, Mando snatched it out of her hands.

“Hey!”

It seemed like everything suddenly went into double speed. Sinead stepped forwards. “What are you doing here?” She fought to keep her voice under control.

“None of your business,” Mir snapped, staring balefully at the Mandalorian.

“You-“ Mando stopped, breathing hard through his nose. “You’ve made it our business. Who. Are you?”

Sinead glanced at Mando while Mir flinched. “Her name is Mir, she-“

“Mirian,” she interrupted. “My name is Mirian.”

It took all Sinead’s willpower not to roll her eyes at the girl. “I saw Mirian back at the base, right after Gatt told her to stay put.”

Mirian’s eyes widened for a moment. “She can’t tell me what to do.”

“She’s the commander, telling people what to do is her job.”

The girl bit her lower lip, eyes straying to the nearest path away from the clearing.

“Don’t even think about it,” Mando growled, making her eyes swivel back to him.

“Did you really hide away in the ship? You could’ve suffocated!” The mask looked old enough to be from the Old Republic, cracked and leaking.

“So what if I did? I can take care of myself.”

Sinead ground her teeth hard enough to hear them creak, angry heat making her cheeks flush.

Mando spoke through clenched teeth. “Get in the ship.”

“No.”

He took a short step forward. “Get. In. The. Ship. And stay there.”

For one moment it looked like she was about to run, eyes flittering around for a way out, her small mouth a thin white line.

Mando took a step forward and Mirian stumbled back, her eyes flickering to the blaster still in Mando’s hand.

Sinead stepped forward, waving at Mando to stay back. “You want to be a part of this, right? All this proves is that you can’t be trusted following simple orders-“

“Jacin won’t let me do anything,” Mirian’s voice was a loud whine.

“And you’ve made sure she probably never will,” Sinead snapped.

“That’s not fair!”

“Fair’s a weather condition. Get used to it.”

Sinead paused, surprised at what came out of her mouth; it was an old Corellian saying her mother had been particularly fond of spouting whenever Sinead was being too dramatic. She’d always hated it and it didn’t look like Mirian found any value in it either.

“You can’t make me go back.”

"Don't be so sure about that," Mando growled.

"Ship,” Sinead said, hearing her mother’s voice echo back. "Now."

Mirian bared her teeth, her eyes filled with pure and unadulterated fury, but she made the smart choice and stomped toward the ship, her heavy boots echoing on the metal ramp.

“What a brat,” Sinead mumbled as she disappeared inside. “I’ll go with her, make sure she doesn’t steal the ship,” Sinead said.

Mando made a sound at the back of his throat, cocking his head at the panel lying on the ground. “I’ll … try to fix this. There are some bindings in the weapons locker.”

“I’m not going to tie her up, Mando. I got this.”

“If the other’s aren’t back soon-“

“We leave, yeah.” Sinead wasn't keen on being stuck on Luria in general but with the addition of the combative young girl, she’d rather risk getting blown to pieces by the blockade.

Mirian was nosing around the makeshift galley that Mando had somehow jury-rigged into the side of the ship. Sinead stood in the opening and cleared her throat, making Mirian whirl around. "This place is a dump."

Sinead took a deep breath, stamping down on the anger that threatened to bubble over again. "Believe it or not, you're not the first one to say that. Lucky for you, you're not gonna be here very long."

"Why do you even care about holding me here? Nobody saw me hide away, if you just-“

"I'm sure once they find out you're gone, they’re gonna put two and two together and Gatt would kill me as soon as she laid eyes on me." At the sound of the Commander’s name, Mirian looked away sharply. "I assume she’s your …?”

“Aunt.”

"Ah.”

"Just because we're family-" she spat the word like it tasted foul- "she thinks she can tell me what to do."

"That’s generally what family do.” Sinead sat on an overturned ammo crate, twisting a string between her fingers. “Where are your parents?”

Mirian's face froze and she got a blank look in her eyes. "Dead."

“Sorry."

"They died as heroes-" Mirian stalked down the length of the ship- "protecting this planet, and Jacin wants to hide me away underground."

"Sounds reasonable."

Mirian whirled around. "Shows what you know."

Shrugging, Sinead continued playing with the string. "I know that you stowed away on a dangerous mission, risking suffocating in space."  She sent Mirian a look. "What were your plan once you got down here? Join up with the others and hope they wouldn't do a headcount?"

Mirian's silence was answer enough.

A tense silence fell, only broken by Mirian’s heavy footsteps whenever she got too bored of standing in one place.

From above, there came a sound of something hitting the floor, and Sinead was at the ladder before Mirian had time to react. “Don’t move,” she told the girl.

The child stood in the middle of the cockpit, looking around with sleep heavy eyes and a lost expression. His left ear was bent like he’d slept on it.

“Hey, you,” Sinead said as she scooped him up in her arms. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

The kid made a warbling sound, pressing his head to her shoulder.

Down in the main room Mirian had of course moved to the opposite side of the ship, rooting through a compartment that had been left ajar. She’d found a hydro-spanner, which she dropped as soon as Sinead’s feet hit the floor.

“You took a child with you?” She took a step closer to get a proper look at the child. “What is that?”

Sinead suffocated a deep sigh. Now she knew how Mando felt. “A baby Lannik.”

“Lannik’s aren’t green, even the kids.”

“His mother is a Twi’lek.” Sinead found some jerky in a cupboard and gave the kid a bit, who wolfed it down.

“That doesn’t make-“

Mando appeared in the opening, clear starlight behind him making him look like a silhouette. "Someone's coming."

“Shit.” Sinead left the kid on her bed. “Stay there.” She looked at Mirian. “Both of you.”

Outside, the sky was starting to lighten to the east, a merest hint of sunlight at the horizon and animals had started to wake up between the rocks. A group of birds crossed the sky in a tight formation.

Someone was moving towards them, fast, sliding on the scree covered ground.

Sinead drew her blaster and moved into the shadow of a boulder, her breath coming out in controlled bursts. She watched the Mandalorian crouch behind another boulder, his head turned towards the sound.

The Twi’lek, Suri, stumbled into the clearing, her blue skin covered in a fine layer of white dust, half carrying half dragging a rebel, a trail of blood behind them.

Sinead hurried out from behind the boulder. “What happened?”

“They found us-“ Suri gasped, clutching the wounded rebel for dear life.

“It was an ambush,” the rebel said between clenched teeth. “Tanram told us to run. Get out of here.”

“They followed you?” Mando scanned the way they’d come.

“We lost them, but-” Suri took a deep breath- “if they find the blood, it’ll lead them right to us.”

The wounded rebel pulled himself out of Suri’s grip and leaned against a boulder, grimacing as his leg was jostled. “Their comm’s don’t work here. The rocks-“ he tried to put weight on his leg and nearly crumbled to the ground- “makes too much interference.”

Mando growled, a deep rumbling sound from his chest. “I’ll deal with this. Get ready to leave when I get back.”

“Take ‘em out quietly, if you can.” The wounded rebel waved Suri away as she tried to help him up. “Noise attracts too much attention.”

“I’ll go with you,” Sinead said as the rebels helped each other back to the ship.

“You need to go back and protect the kid.”

“It’ll be faster if we’re two, and we can’t risk any of them getting away, sounding the alarm.” Sinead drew her blaster again, checking it was ready. “C’mon.”

They moved silently through the rocky landscape, keeping to the shadows and trying to avoid the piles of scree covering the ground. The white rocks made it look like everything was covered in a fine layer of snow, making Sinead feel like she was back on Toola and she repressed a shiver as the old blaster-wound twinged. She pressed a hand to the nearest rock, feeling the gentle warmth it emitted.

Mando held up a closed fist, and Sinead stopped in her tracks. Voices moved between the rocks like a ghostly echo.

Three men moved between the boulders, not taking particular care in being quiet, their feet slipping on the ground. The man in the front, a big Twi’lek with teeth filed to such a point that it was a wonder he hadn’t punctured his lips, yelled to the others to keep up. They walked in a loose formation, covering as much ground as possible.

Sinead and Mando watched them from higher up, hidden in a shadow. He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her close. “I’ll circle around, take out the guy furthest down. Wait for my signal, then take out the human.”

“What about the big guy?”

“I’ll deal with him. Just do it quietly.”

Sinead swore as Mando slipped away, seemingly fading into the shadows before her eyes. She didn’t like hand-to-hand combat, preferring to keep within blaster range of whoever needed killing.

Her target was coming closer. He held a rifle to his chest, his dark eyes glinting in the moonlight, and Sinead watched as he took one, two, three steps and stopped to look around. One, two, three, stop, look around.

Down the incline, the man furthest down had stopped to check his rifle. As he stood there looking down, Mando materialized out of the shadow like a specter, moving close to the ground, ready to strike. He grabbed the man by the throat, pulling him backwards until it looked like his back was about to break before twisting his head and finally pulling him out of sight.

A small avalanche of pebbles slid from where the man used to be.

The two remaining men turned around.

“Yekk!” The Twi’lek shouted, echo throwing the word back and forth. “Where are you?” He started towards the place, lifting his rifle. “Quit fucking around.”

Mando appeared beside him, slamming a heavily armored hand down on the Twi’lek’s arm, making the rifle fly through the air. Mando ducked under a fist the size of a grav-ball, stepping around the Twi’lek now slipping on the scree, bringing down a foot on the back of his knee, sending him to the ground.

The human fumbled with his rifle, trying to raise it, when Sinead slammed into his back, bearing down on him with all her weight. She pulled pack his hair and drew her blade across his throat, feeling hot blood cover her hand.

He sputtered once, grabbing at his throat before finally going limp.

Mando let go of the Twi’lek, who fell lifeless to the ground, large dark eyes staring unseeing into the sky.

“Not bad,” Sinead said, wiping her hand on the fallen man’s jacket.

“Let’s get out of here,” Mando said, not sparing a glance at the dead men.

 They hurried back to the ship. While they walked, Sinead couldn’t help but watch Mando move through the uneven terrain. While he wasn’t uncoordinated in any sense of the word, back there he’d moved like a snake in the grass, striking quickly and brutally, not giving them a chance to react before it was too late.

Suri was cleaning the other rebel’s wounds when Mando and Sinead came up the ramp.

“You handled it?” The rebel asked between clenched teeth.

“Yeah,” Sinead said, while Mando went to the bunk to the child who watched everything unfold in solemn silence. “What about the others?”

“Tanram said to take off without them.”

“How’ll they get off planet?”

“I’m more concerned about us getting off planet,” said Suri, winching as she stretched her right arm. “If we’re still here when the blockade ship regains power …”

"Yeah, we know," Mando said.

Sinead had just pressed the button to close the ramp when she faltered and turned around. "Where's Mirian?"

The rebels froze. "What? Mirian is here?"

"She stowed away on the ship,” Sinead said, her voice sounding like it came from far off. She stumbled to the ladder and poked her head into the empty cockpit. "She's not here."

"Me-nesh," Suri swore and slammed her fist down on the floor. The wounded rebel hid his face in his hands. "We have to find her."

The Mandalorian sat the child back down on the bunk, his movements carefully restrained. “She knows this place?” His voice shook with barely concealed anger.

"I-I don't know."

"You know where she would go?"

Suri shrugged hopelessly. "I’ve no idea. I’ve only seen her on the base.”

Mando rounded on the wounded rebel. "Can you still fight?"

The rebel fought up into standing position, waving Suri away when she tried helping. “Give me a blaster and I’ll give ‘em hell.”

"Watch the kid," Mando said. "We'll go look for her."

Outside, the dawn was still only a hint of color in the east. Sinead turned around on her heels, trying to spot a clue to where Mirian might have run off to.

“I’ll head up the mountain,” Suri said. “See if I can spot her. Down east is the settlement we passed; she might have gone that way.” She pulled her lekku, looking worried at the sky. “Don’t get caught.”

“Likewise, right? Be careful.”

“Don’t call her name, the Collective might still be around.”

Sinead checked that her blaster was still safely holstered, and she and Mando set out on the narrow path that led south, towards the slowly rising sun.

<- Previous chapter - Next chapter ->

[ladyfl4me]

Before the Beginning

[ID: an anon ask that says “povvvvv :000.” end ID]

I realized I had a scene on the back burner that happened a) before TCOS actually started and b) can be told from another character’s POV. So I’ll lump them together! Here’s what happened right before the events of TCOS kicked off, told during the conversation that Boyd Mosche had with Mama towards the end of chapter 5. Literally, she goes in, the door closes, then the camera pans to Duck and Indrid having a moment, and that’s it. I was actually going to start TCOS with this scene, but I shifted it around and ultimately edited it out, once I rewrote some late-game plot points. Hope you enjoy!

send me something from this list! i will be doing repeats as this chapter gets longer!

There is almost no moon tonight. It is a thin sickle-sliver against the stars, nothing more - and even then its light is nearly hidden by a wall of thick clouds. What little light makes it through is murky and faint, casting deep shadows over the grounds surrounding the West Virginia Regional Jail, just south of the town of Flatwoods.

The jail itself sits on an oblong compound, bracketed on the east and west by thin strips of scraggly trees. It is a simple T-shaped building with three sections, one pointing southeast like the cruel hooked head of a hunting bird of prey. Shadows lie thick in the hay bales peppering the southeast fields; the prison’s exterior lights blast away the dark.

Clouds pass over the moon. There is a faint rumble of thunder, somewhere far away - a promise of rain. The air is heavy with it. Inside the jail, prisoners sleep fitfully, the humid air suffocating. There is tossing, turning - bed springs creaking, faint coughs and restless muttering.

In the shadows of one medium-security cell, a faint orange light starts to glow.

The light is barely there, but it still attracts the attention of a passing guard. It’s past midnight; nobody is supposed to be awake at this hour. Cautiously, he approaches the door and peers through the bars, staring into the shadows. The faint orange light immediately vanishes, as if someone has quickly cupped a hand over the end of a cigarette. 

Silence. The prisoner within seems to be sleeping. Perhaps he’d just imagined it. This late at night, with the air so hot and humid it sits in the lungs like water, it’s easy for someone’s mind to play tricks on them. The guard backs away from the bars, still eyeing the cell suspiciously.

What happens next is a blur, so softened by night and heat and humidity and panic that nobody quite knows what happened. Even the security cameras seem to tell different stories - or just a story so nonsensical that it is chalked up to mechanical malfunctions, illusions, hell, even a prank.

The cell door blasts off its hinges and slams into the guard, smacking him so hard against the opposite bank of cells that the metal crashes like a cymbal. The flashlight flickers and dies. In the remaining darkness, a hulking shadow steps out of the ruined door: a monstrous hairy mass, its long equine head crowned with cruel antlers and its mouth bristling with teeth. Its jaw hangs slightly open; another row of teeth nest behind the first, like a shark’s. Two enormous wings, weak and twitching from disuse, drape around its body like a curtain. It clutches a small leather bracelet with two things hanging from it: a jagged orange crystal, gleaming bright in the shadow, and a small metal charm in the shape of the logo for the New Jersey Devils’ hockey team.

The inmate across the hall presses themselves against the far wall, trying to get as far as possible from the creature in the hall. It snarls and snaps its teeth, and the man flinches so hard that the bedframe squeals. The creature makes a noise almost like a scoff and steps over the unconscious guard, striding down the hall.

Nobody stops it. Nobody can.

There is screaming, gunfire. Floodlights outside the prison snap on, throwing the grounds into crisp light and shadow. Guards at the edge of the grounds snap awake as their radios squeal, alerting them to an escape. Then there are just sounds over the radio. Distant screams. Things breaking. The crackle of a taser, and after a long panicked silence, gunfire. A creature’s roars.

Then nothing. No sounds, no signs that anything’s gone right or wrong or anywhere at all. One of the guards at the edge of the compound slowly lowers their gun. The alarms keep blaring.

The upper level of the southeast wall of the prison suddenly cracks, shatters, and collapses. A massive shadow tumbles out of the gap, his wings flapping wildly, limbs flailing, until he gathers enough momentum to soar up into the sky. Bullets chase him; one clips his wing, another grazes his leg - but by then he is gone, high in the sky, too far for even the floodlights to reach him.

-

“Flew straight here, I did. Made a bit of a detour to Sutton Lake, caused a bit of a ruckus, left some effects and footprints and such to throw ‘em off. But then it was a straight shot to Kepler. And now… now I’m here.”

Silence. The lamp flickered. Boyd’s eyes flickered to the bedside table. When it started shining again, he glanced away from the light and gave Mama a roguish grin, spreading his hands expectantly. His leather anklet was now bound haphazardly around his wrist; it jangled. “Did you miss me?”

Mama took a deep, deep breath and slowly let it out. Her hands were steepled in front of her face, fingertips pressing into her eyebrows as if warding off a headache. That may not have been far from the truth. “You have got to be fuckin’ kidding me,” she said flatly. 

“Well, you know Boyd.”

Vanessa’s sudden voice was a surprise. Boyd looked up; Mama glanced over her shoulder at her. Vanessa must have let herself in, while Boyd was talking. There was an odd expression on her face - not quite open, not quite closed. Calculating. “Always has to make a big entrance, doesn’t he?”

Boyd grinned at her, a sharp smile with too many teeth. And to his surprise, Vanessa actually smiled back.

[fabricatedsoldier]

MATERIA MEMORIES | Part 4 ( Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 )

♫: If You Want Love by NF

☆ ━━━ When Cloud was a boy, he used to get into fights. The sort that left him scratched up and bruised, his mother dabbing cotton at a bleeding, puffy lip. He used to blame the other children, defiant that he had anything to do with the scratches. He’d insist they picked on him, and maybe they did at times, but that’s only because...

He provoked them nearly all the time.

He’d saunter around the village and he’d push down the bigger boys, spit at them and blame them for his hurt, for his loneliness he didn’t know what to do with. There was always that flicker of confusion in their eyes--who was this kid practically bleeding open for everyone to see?--and then the anger, bursting and quick to match Cloud’s rage. And then they’d roil over the ground until Cloud limped home in dejected defeat.

It was their fault, Cloud remembered insisting, on and on.

I’m innocent.

Cloud thinks this even now as he stands before the North Crater, right on the craggy lip where it feels engulfing, where if the wind blew a little harder he could topple in that hole forever, endlessly.

The cold is so deep that it slices into his bones, makes his joints ache in a profound way that is impossible to ignore. He feels tired and he knows he should have rested ages ago... but he can’t stop, his feet are walking on coals and he’s trying to outrun ghosts. He’s flickering, his soul caught on fire. How can anyone expect him to stop now?

He almost doesn’t feel the cold, not the biting wind, he just feels... numb.

He’s a man obsessed. Chasing down the past with a passion that is unsettling, he’s shaking open graves--

He can’t stop. 

Cloud begins to descend into the darkness.

Its been years since he was last here--when he was a silly toy soldier on his quest to save the world. It sounded like a demented fairytale that went all wrong. 

Even so he remembers every rocky path, every jut in the rock that allows him to drop deeper into the shadows. He navigates the maze so easily it’s laughable--he knows the path so well because he sees it often in his nightmares, threading and weaving him to his destiny to die before Sephiroth...

The place is desolate of fiends, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by Cloud. There’s only gray rock walls slick with snow or water, dripsdrips echoing beyond, a hush whispering through the cave system as he splashes through stray puddles on his way.

The White Materia is heavy in his pocket. His hand strays to it after any stretched hop or bounce along the rocks, checking that the lump of his sins is still there, still glowing and pulsing close. 

This feels like the end, just like last time...

The tension is heavy on the Mako dense air that has the same rusty tang as metal or blood. 

And he weaves and goes on, alone, the darkness seeping and deeper with every step...

He enters the Northern Cave.

His heart begins to hammer, his Mako bright eyes discerning the red rocks of the impossibly high ceiling that is lost to shadows, his gaze straying to the pulsing center, throbbing like a broken heart with a teal glow.

He thought there would be some scar here from that last, fateful battle. That there would be a marker for his pain, for all he lost then. But here it remains untouched, just as it was years ago, a mocking reminder that this world doesn’t always revolve around him.

Cloud takes the White Materia from his pocket and holds it in his hand. If he gives this offering to the heart of the Planet, surely then it has all the power to cleanse itself--

He takes three clomping steps toward the center...

Clump... clump... clump...

And Sephiroth appears before it--Cloud stumbles back, a hand immediately reaching for the hilt of his sword--

Then he realizes in a beat... this isn’t the Sephiroth he knows with pale, ghostly skin and gleaming teal eyes all but drenched in Mako...

This is a monster.

It has the shape of the general and the silvery hair, though it has a faint purple tinge. The face shape is right and the armor is familiar, though a creeping darkness like vines cling to Sephiroth’s crevices, stretching sickeningly whenever he moves. 

But the features are wrong--the skin is silvery, the eyes empty, wide sockets full of shadowy tendrils that ooze from the hollow depths. The face is cracked like porcelain, the lips torn and bits missing, and Cloud wants to retch at this creature--he wants to run--

“The Reunion is not over,” the monster says with a gurgling, rusty voice.

And for the first time since he began this senseless journey, he wonders if he’s gone too far. The consequences flinch and shiver before him, this mangled corpse shuffles closer on legs that seem new to the creature...

Something here is unraveling and Cloud is pulling the string.

What have I done...?

His sword slides with a hiss from its sheath and he holds it in shaky hands.

And he clicks Aerith’s White Materia in an empty slot close to the hilt. It glows brightly within the gloom, piercing with green and syrupy opal. 

“Maybe you just don’t know how to use it,” he remembers telling her once in the church.

She grinned at him then, laughed it off.

But he feels the power of this Materia--feels it sizzling in his bones.

“I have unfinished business, but it has nothing to do with a reunion,” Cloud spits out, trying to focus on the beast shambling around like a zombie, lurching and slobbering darkness out of its broken throat and ribs.

“You cannot change Fate--it’s too late,” the broken doll burbles at him, choking over the clumps of darkness fighting from its fractured teeth.

With shaking fingers the creature raises a leather-adorned hand and the Masamune appears with its incredible thin length, nearly gleaming teal from the Mako all around.

At the sight of that sword, Cloud’s heart hammers on, thudding so loudly that his rushing blood and the shivering of his bones is all he can hear--and the slow lurch of the fallen soldier before him dragging its boots through the rocks...

Cloud takes one breath and raises his sword, rushing across the tumultuous battleground and leaping through the air, sword held above him to come crashing down--

He sees the doll give a speculative, sad glance and then--

There in midair, something pierces Cloud right through his stomach, and he looks down--

All he can see at first is the crimson spatter of blood bubbling from his middle and dripping loudly onto the cave floor. Then he notices the tentacle of darkness implanted through his skin, sticking right through his back--

Cloud’s vision quickly goes murky--and he wonders how this happened, how it came to this terrifying moment where reality begins melting, blending in with the horrors of his mind...

I’ve been so... stupid...

He chuckles then, shock clinging to him abruptly, rattling the cobwebs in his brain--

He manages, blindly, to cling to his sword. It still remains in his sweaty, clammy grasp. Of course he would hold it even now, even when the end swims around his sight, swarms it with darkness and murk...

“This is the end,” the fragmented Sephiroth says lowly, a little mournfully. 

Cloud stretches out a hand, gasping and feeling that terrible darkness swarming inside him, and he sees his own blood spattered on his pale skin...

And he takes shaking fingers and touches the White Materia before he passes out.

He feels his body plummet from the air and crash onto the rocks, a few snaps at the sudden collision, a blonde rag-doll left abandoned, right on the edge of the world, alone... 

His sword clatters out of his reach beside him, the metal pinging at it skirts away. And the sockets, three in all, are suddenly empty...

[pajama-girl]

Capsize 1 (mermaid AU)

Pairing: Jimin x Reader 

Mermaid AU

Summary: Confidence will get you most places in life. Too much and you can end up in drowning in the ocean. After a sailing race goes wrong, you’re stuck in the frigid water with no rescue in sight. As you lose consciousness, your savior comes, adorned in golden scales that glimmer in the nebulous water. 

1.7k words ( it’s not a lot but I’m getting there lol)

Check out the Capsize moodboard!

Part 2

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Peeking out of the silver clouds, the summer sun kisses its greeting onto your cheeks. You glance at your waterproof watch, an early birthday present from your parents, and realize there’s only fifteen minutes until the race begins. Unintentionally, your palms begin to feel familiarly damp and clammy, sticking to your clothes as you try to wipe away the tell-tale sign of nervousness.

Pushing your jitters aside, you search for your parents among the swarm of families gathered on the dock. Many parents have come out to show their support despite the fact that the race is starting at the crack of dawn. Noticing a splotch of yellow to your right, you glance at it and recognize it to be your mother’s old, worn out raincoat. The skies were clear, no blemish marring the azure expanse, yet she insisted on wearing it.

Besides your mother, you father flashes you a thumbs up and shouts, “You’re gonna kill it out there!” You blush furiously, crimson smoldering its way across your cheeks at the sudden exclamation. Several heads turn to look at you, wondering who the shout could have been for. Oh how you desperately wish you could jump into the frigid water if only to calm the fire in your cheeks.

This is your first professional race. After being forced to attend a sailing camp when your mother deemed your constant moping around the house “too depressing,” you discovered an honest passion in the sport. The sun and salt intrigued you, but what really captivated you was the weight of the sheets in your hands, the creaking of the rudder and the spray of the water as you alone decided your path.

The first few weeks of sailing were tough. You were hit in the head more times than you could count by the boom, and everytime you tried to rig the sailboat without instruction, knots and tangles formed where they shouldn’t have. You didn’t let this discourage you. In fact, if anything, your constant failures spurred you to try harder. Now, you had amassed an array of sailing techniques and while you may not have had natural born talent, you had hard earned experience and skill.

So now you were here, under the August sun, participating in the Incheon Regatta. You had sailed many times alone around the bay, but you had never gone as far as you would today. The trip to Busan from Incheon would take a full eight hours, and while you were the best of your program, you couldn’t help the seedling of doubt that planted itself in your heart. What if this was too much? Could you manage eight hours by yourself on the vast ocean, with no one to rely on? Before the seedling can sprout, you squash it. At this point, you can’t afford to let your emotions get the best of you.  

You say this, but your eyes can’t help but wander to the other participants. They look confident as they hold their sailing sheets, their boats sleek and expensive. You feel inferior, even though you know you shouldn’t. You had worked nonstop and diligently for the past few months in order to hone your skills, and your boat wasn’t too shabby either. Shining in the bright morning sun, your RS Aero fit in with the other racing boats with its lightweight but sturdy frame and racing equipment.

A voice breaks the restless silence of the dock. A burly man appears in front of you, bald head gleaming in the light. He explains the route and the rules of the race. You tune out.  This was all information you had briefed a hundred times over. You are well prepared because you desperately want to win. Although not a high ranking race, if you win this, your name will spread in the sailing world.

A whistle blows and all the racers depart the port. The numerous white sails that litter the water look like wings, and may as well be with the speed and agility they possess as they glide over the sea.

Hands slippery on the sheets, either from the salt water or sweat, you guide the Aero effortlessly to the front of the mass of boats. Glancing back one more time at the shrinking figures of your parents, you take a deep breath and prepare yourself for the journey to come.

You look at your watch– it’s 8:30. The race started at 6:30 and now two hours later, you had secured a considerable lead. You take this time to breath. Although it isn’t wise to slack just because you’re temporarily first, you decide just a few minutes won’t hurt. It is when you set down the sheets that you notice the gathering of clouds in the sky. You feel a slight trickle of dread in your stomach, and your mother, donning her raincoat flashes in your mind. Maybe you should have listened to her. A storm when you’re this far out at sea would not be good at all. You’re trained in how to handle situations like this, but you’d like to avoid it if you can.

The water is relatively calm, so you let the paranoia go, hoping whatever clouds that are gathered now will dissipate in time. You collect the sheets and prepare to start sailing again. You’re a quarter in to this race; if you keep up the pace, you’ll reach Busan in no time.

The next time you look at your watch, it reads 9:15 and unlike you had hoped, the clouds don’t dissipate. They continue to gather and gather until they form an ugly, threatening mass that looms over your head. In a mere forty-five minutes, the sea had transformed from tranquil to a series of angry, thrashing waves that slap and jostle you. You can’t do anything but clutch at your boat.

Usually, you loved the lightness of your boat. When speed and agility is the most important thing, your RS Aero is the perfect boat to use, but now, as the sea violently rocks you from side to side, you wish your boat had a little more substance to it.

You make a grab at the wildly swinging rudder and attempt to ride out the storm. Just as you think you can survive the wrath of the sea, a massive wave rises in front of your eyes. You watch, frozen in fear, as the water rises higher and higher until you have to crane your neck to even see the crest of it. Time seems to still as the wave hangs over you, and all at once it begins again, and the wave rushes towards you. It slams into you with a vengeance, angry that you’ve intruded onto its territory. You hurriedly close your eyes and brace for impact. All the training and experience you have accumulated in your short sailing career couldn’t have prepared you for the ruthlessness of the ocean.

The wave collides into your small frame, your neck snapping back at the force of it. With your eyes closed, you don’t see the boom hurtling towards you and it crashes into your unsuspecting head. You cry out in pain only for salt water to gush into your mouth. You choke on it as it burns its way into your lungs. Unable to see or breathe, you’re seized by an intense panic, fear coursing through your veins almost as fiercely as the wave is thrashing you around.

An eternity seems to pass until the wave ceases, and even then you’re left with a throbbing headache and burning lungs. You cough and hack as the water inhibits your ability to breathe. After coughing so hard your throat hurts, you can finally gasp for air and you almost cry tears of relief. Peeling your eyes open, the storm hasn’t let up. Too distracted by surviving the waves, you hadn’t noticed it was raining until it started pelting you in the face.

“Just great,” you mutter to yourself, voice hoarse from the coughing. “I can’t stop now, not when I’m so close to Busan.” At least you think you are. You really hope so.

Mustering up what little strength you have left, you wrap the sheets twice around your hands to prevent them from slipping out of your grip. You clutch onto the rudder for dear life, praying to whatever gods were out there you could survive this storm.

You manage to get past a few waves, so you almost let yourself smile. Almost. That is until you see a monster of a wave building up in front of your boat, and after suffering the last collision, you can’t find it in you to defend yourself. You close your eyes once more, but this time, instead of just roughly jostling you around, the wave turtles your boat. You don’t realise this until you’re submerged in the water, its icy touch invading your senses, the boat on top of you. More waves continue to crash into you, their intensity not decreasing at all even though you’re underwater. Shooting open, your eyes struggle to see, but it’s no use. Vision is futile in these murky depths, the world a spinning blur of darkness.

You’re running out of air rapidly. You kick haphazardly to get to the surface, but your foot is caught on something. Grabbing wildly at it, you realize your foot is caught in the sail sheets. Sheer panic invades your senses and seizes your heart. It takes control of your muscles, causing your limbs to kick out in a frenzy to escape.

You scream at the unfairness of it all. You were first for so long and now you’re going to die at sea, with a burning throat and drowning lungs. Enraged, you continue to scream even as your vision starts to go fuzzy–despairingly, you realize too late that no one will hear you.

With one last gurgle, your consciousness starts to fade, but before you are completely gone, you see a glimmer in the murky depths. I’m going crazy, you think, this is a pre-death hallucination. Even as you think that, the glimmer gets nearer and soon, warm arms envelop you. The sturdy muscles holding you close feel so real, but you don’t have time to dwell on what is reality because eventually your eyes close and true darkness closes in.

[baldtaelovemaze]

Love me for me (1)

What kind of love story starts with two people locked in a classroom and ends with the two same people in a courtroom? This one. After unfortunate circumstances, Venice is forced to illegally change her identity and live as a boy in a all boys school.

She planned everything out. Every. Single.detail. but no matter how much she tries, she can’t stop herself from falling for the son of one of the biggest lawyers.

Is loving the man of her dreams worth  years in jail?

Reader (OC) X jungkook ft.Taehyung

Warnings: mature language

Words: 3k

"Dear Miss. Abass, unfortunately, your demand at Yale University has been Rejected-"

“fuck” 

Orbs clouded, I rip apart the letter. The torn cream pieces dance with the wind my fan generates and I watch them gracefully fall to the floor, blending perfectly with the wood. 

Years of studying, isolation, practically not having a social life I forced upon myself to proudly become a valedictorian graduate but everything i did was in vain.

On the floor lays the last piece of hope I once clung on to. Now crushed under the weight of disappointment and failure, my chest hitches as I desperately try to hold back a sob. Water gathers at the rims of my heterochromia eyes. Left one a muddy green and the other a murky blue with a tinge of that same muddy green who manages to stick out no matter what like I do so very well. Intentionally or not.

I don’t cry, instead, I sniff away all the mucus who threatens to slide down my nasal passages and roll myself into bed.

For a moment, the smell of the freshly cleaned sheets and my dearest pillow make me forget of the hell hole I am in, of the chains that confine me.

That moment is short-lived when it all comes back rushing down on me like a wave. These chains that I have, invisible to the human or anything supernatural expect me. This rope around my neck who never ceases to tighten as time goes by.

I ponder on this fact. Or is it a question? It’s something I definitely know the answer to. So a fact it is.

The chains that hold me aren’t emotional or even close to physical. Nor did I ever do anything to earn them but that’s how the system works.

The system refused every single application I sent to prestigious universities. Not one of them accepted me even after they had contacted me for scholarships offers. Claiming that “my chosen classes were already full and to try elsewhere.’

It wasn’t a coincidence. Out of everyone, I should know that. Because I knew the system far too well.

That system chained me without even binding my wrist to chains, that system took my freedom away without truly stripping me of my rights, that system tied a noose around my neck and is waiting for any given occasion to rip away the chair from under my feet.

The system doesn't want my education to blossom. the system wants me to settle for less every time then die. That’s our government. the system is our government and it’s trying to kill me off. 

I could apply at a community college and get accepted in mere seconds but that's what they want. That is their plan and no matter what, I will not succumb to it, not after seeing how it ended for father. Not after seeing that.

I gulp at the thought of him. My body and mind react instantly at the mere idea of my father. My breathing becomes ragged and I sense my palms get clammy and sweaty. The noose around my neck feels like it got ten times tighter. Even though nothing is truly there, my brain acknowledges the hard rope covered in sharp split ends digging at the skin of my neck. My hands who once were tucked underneath the pillow flock to my neck, grasping around nothing but my own skin.

I seal my eyes shut and begin chanting the only thing that calms me down during my breakdowns.

“A,B,C,D,E,F,G,H,I....” 

the alphabet, something you often associate with learning toddlers full of life and not a 19-year-old having a nervous breakdown.

“J, K, L, M, O, P, Q, R, S!!” I scream loud, frail body shaking like a leaf as I try my best to block out the nose, block out the shots and the footsteps who are threateningly close. I hiccup between a sob when I feel his big greasy hands grip my long ebony hair, yanking me back painfully, he throws my whole body across the room.

what letter was I at? I forgot. Now I can barely breathe. I frustrate the man furthermore. I know this when he yells  “shut the fuck up. Make another sound and your lovely mother gets it.” I open my eyes and stop breathing altogether. She lays on the floor.

I shake my head, clearing my mind of theses awful flashbacks as I shoot up from bed to reach for the pieces of paper, crumble them into a tiny ball and neatly shoot them in my plastic dollar-store basketball net who hangs just above the door. It hits the rim before falling on the floor with a plop. 

“damn, where did my basketballs skill go?” I ask my self, feeling slightly better due to the self-pity that seems to have eaten me whole.

 The alphabet always calms me down, it brings me back to earth when I need it the most -when my anxiety decides to lock me in my painful past.

My back now on the bed, I look at my white ceiling, its time to think rationally, like an adult - I smile to myself. Like an adult, huh? I quickly recognize the fact that most adults don’t actually know what they are doing. Most of the time they let themselves get dragged with the wave. Some try to overpower the water while others succumb to it and others find a way to float, to stay on the surface no matter how strong the storm gets.

I huff a breath of defeat "what am I going to do? It was the last one on the list.” I toy with my phone. I run my fingers against its smooth metal surface all while making sure to not unlock it by accident with the touch ID.

I've been ignoring Haerin’s messages for a while now. 

I frown, hoping that she won’t misunderstand and think that I a mad at her.

the screen lights up.

Haerin: Don’t worry I know that you’re not mad at me or anything but I'm just worried.. plus I kinda miss your ugly ass so text back soon. I can’t believe you’re making me seem like a desperate hoe by ignoring all my text. Your fuckgirl mode has, unfortunately, been activated :/ [2:45]

I snort. Not being able to ignore her for any longer, I text back. 

Me: I usually don’t text girls back after we fuck... but ur kinda special so come over or whatever... [2:46 pm]

Haerin: omg okay daddy! I’ll bring take out that way my ass won’t be the only thing you’ll eat today! I'm omw bitch you have some explaining to do. [2:46]

I chuckle and lock my phone.

 With the stretch of my limbs, I'm out of bed and I beeline straight to the bathroom.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. “fucking hell, I barely look alive.”

after peeing and a quick face wash, I stand in front of the mirror and notice that my pixie cut may need a trim soon. I can’t ever let my hair grow past my ears and I rather not think about the reason behind this -not yet at least, not yet.

I watch the clear droplet of water cling on to the curl near my forehead before dropping and rolling down my tawny skin. I can’t help but to glance down at my neck, it’s red. I pray that I won’t bruise. I take in the fact that my new skin care routine has been working marvelously. From my high cheekbones, my narrow chin and slightly protruding forehead my skin is spotless.

"Venice, you little thot, I have arrived in your domicile"

I jump in surprise at first. After a smile covers my plump lips when I realize who that voice belongs to. I step out of the bathroom which is linked to my room and meet the fake redhead. 

In a matter of seconds, I am engulfed in her tight embrace. Face hidden in the crook of her armpit I notice that the tall girl is wearing her favorite mustard hoodie.

I break the hug. “ I missed you too,” I say, gazing up at her through my short lashes. I see the worry in her slanted eyes but I know she isn’t judging, she never does.

“let’s talk, okay?” her voice is soft when she speaks. I nod and lead her to my bed.

A couple tears, three hugs, and many heartfelt words later, we lay diagonally on my bed. Looking up at the ceiling. With a shift in position, I look over at Haerin’s toes who never fail to not be ugly and stinky but who can blame her? She's an aspiring basketball player. Now I look up to her profile. It seems like the ceiling is long forgotten and that she is currently deep in thought, I can tell by the way her straight thick brows furrow and how she chews almost aggressively her full bottom lip. I Am caught red-handed when she suddenly turns at catches me staring.

“I've got an idea.” her lips part as she smiles, revealing the gap in the middle of her two front teeth that fits her so well.

“Shoot”

“How about we watch old Disney movies to take off some of your stress for today? let's deal this fucktard of a situation tomorrow. '' She pushes her elbow underneath her to lift herself. Her round glasses droop down the bridge of her nose but she's quick to push them back with the help of her lanky fingers.

I smiled at the idea. I ask myself how can someone be so pure and genuine sometimes.

''Okay, but just don't put anything with romance in it. I don't want to be reminded of the fact that the only thing I wake up next to in bed is my life-sized Makoto Tachibana pillow.'' My feet drag on the warm floor as Haerin intertwines her arm with mine. '' That's extremely sad and I hope that you'll throw it out once you get a boyfriend-'' she stops in her tracks and looks at me.

we both stare at each other only to explode with laughter.

 ''BAHAHA! I can't believe I just said that! You? a boyfriend? I think WinWin would finally be getting lines in songs before that happens.'' wiping away the tear that escaped, we go down the stairs and she grabs the laptop on the kitchen counter before plopping herself beside me on the sofa.

''Shut up you shouldn't be the one to speak here.'' I laugh back with her.

''Whatever ugly loser, go grabs snacks that way we can stuff our faces and I'll pick a movie'' She orders and am up in seconds.

''I know you said no romance but I still picked the Amanda Bynes movie She's the man '' Haerin informs me as I come back into the living room

I shrug my shoulders, indifferent.

''I don't care what we watch at this point, anything to get my stress down.'' I slur on my words near the end, taking a big fat handful of popcorn and shoving it down my throat.

'We could watch porn then'' she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively and I pinch her left nipple.

''shut up and play the god damn movie.''

And with a click, the movie is playing and I am finally relaxing.

About an hour and forty-five minutes later the movie is done and you're left with a strange idea in mind.

''hey Haerin..'' you start off

her eyes squint, which suggests that she's thinking . ''hm?''

''Are you possibly thinking the same thing as me ?'' now my eyes squint, trying my best to read her expression.

 '' If you are thinking about dressing yourself up as a male and infiltrating the all-boys prestigious Uni then yes, we are thinking the same thing!'' her grip on my wrists is tight and I feel light headed when she shakes me like a polaroid as soon as I nod.

''CALL CHRISTIAN RIGHT NOW! SOME MADAME DOUBTFIRE MAKEOVER SHIT IS ABOUT TO HAPPEN IN THIS BITCH!'' She screams at the top of her lungs.

"You called me here because am what?" Christian took place on the sofa beside me. Brows creased together, he leaned forward, as if he hadn't heard me the first time. He heard me perfectly fine. "Because you're the dude-dest dude I know and I need to learn how to become a dude."

He drowns himself deeper in the couch, taking a chunk of his locks between his fingers, he let out an exasperated "what kind of fucking drugs do you guys take to come up with this shit?" And shortly after "Okay, I'll help."

This was our relationship. Christian Yu a very stable young adult that happened to be my childhood neighbor. Even when I moved out of my mother's home, he never left me behind. Kind of like a big brother that allows me to do dumb shit only with his supervision.

"This might seem crazy but just trust me on this. It might work,"I reassure.

His eyes bulge “What exactly might work Venice please don’t tell-”

“I can’t keep living on like this. I don’t want to live a meaningless life all while knowing that I can achieve so much more. Just entering that school and studying to become a lawyer would be a huge step for me” my jaw clenches “Its a step towards my goal and..” nostrils flared, I watch Christian tense, the weight of my words slowly seep into his pores, completely changing his first resolve. “ I will fulfill it no matter what”.

“I understand what you want to do but wouldn't that be proving what the government is doing to people like you -no offense, right? You're just doing what they expect of the children of criminals, you're becoming one too” He remains tense. Lower lip stuck between his pearly teeth, Christian avoids eye contact. 

“Reflect on this: What do criminals have in common?” I get up from the couch under the perplexed gaze of my friend.

Lips puckered, brows screwed together, he comes up with an answer quickly “Its simple, they do illegal things!”

“That's partially true but I want you do think of the biggest names in the dark world, the infamous one. What brought them together besides the fact that what they did was prohibited?” I am patient, smiling down at my friend who racks his brain fora retort. His wide shoulder slump, not knowing where exactly am I go going with this. I give in, choosing to spare him a brain burn out “they were all selfish.”

“W-What?”

“yes, it really is that simple.” I smirk “ Just think about it, All their lives, their goal was to enrich themselves, gain profit or some form of power. They were ready to do whatever it took to gain these things. Kill, steal ect. What separates me from them is that I am not only doing this for me but the others who suffer alongside me in silence. We both know that the system is wrong and should be taken down even if that means sacrificing the little freedom I have.” I exhale, coming back to sit near Christian on the couch.

He sighs, elbows now up on his tighs, he rubs his eyes. “Fine, I support you in this but please don't you dare end up in jail or else-”

“You’ll lose your mind since you can't live without her.” Haerin finally speaks. She had remained so silent I forgot that she was even there.

“Y-yeah, you're probably right actually, I don't think I can't live without either of my girls” he pipes, scooping both of us in his toned arms and engulfing us in a tight hug.

“Let me go, Chris, my face is literally buried in your armpits”  Haerin whines.

“Then smell them!”

“Oh no, you don”t-”I send my knee in his crotch in a matter of seconds, making him groan in agony all while curling into a ball on the floor. Haerin stares unbothered, pulling out her phone and calling someone. The conversation is short but it leaves a smile on her lips when she hangs up.

"Okay whores, I just called the best makeup artist in town. After you get your lesson on how to become an owner of a dick and get a makeup lesson cuz god knows you struggling in that.." Haerin shakes her head and muffles a laugh with her hand when I pipe out “bitch.”

 "You will go in the room and do what you have to do to make the world believe you are a man."

"Okay, let's start then!" the serious and somber mood is gone, excitement is now what is left behind. Am thrilled, justice pumps through my veins and it's only fueled more by the support of my friends. I can do this

"Okay let's start then...but no homo"

"I know I taught you to use 'no homo' but it doesn't mean you need to say it in every  sentence, Venice," Christian shouts from the kitchen, watching the makeup artist teach me the basics on how to make my face look more masculine and the brands that stay on the longest.

Haerin had told her that we were just filming a really weird porno and the women weirdly enough, nodded as if what Haerin said was something that she had seen often.

A couple more minutes spent by my side and she was out of the house, I shooed Christian and Haerin out as well.

With years of fraudulent knowledge in my hands, creating a new identity would be a breeze. 

What should my new name be?

I grab my phone and open the group chat

Me: I need Name ideas, got anything? [5:15]

Chris: keep it simple... something like Steve Duncan or whatever [5:17]

Haerin: Don't listen to this loser, Bob Mcniplecoker shall be your new name, beloved  ;)  [5:17]

Chris: i-  [5:18]

Me: 00Ooo thank you Haerin! very cool! [5:18]

Chris: please don't tell me you're actually using that- why am I the only sane person in this group? [5:19]

I shut off my phone, content with the name and ready to get down to serious business. Hours and hours of serious business.

Creating a whole new identity sure was time-consuming.

The wait was over.

The letter who held my fate had arrived to my surprising displeasure. I huffed a breath of frustration. Why am I so nervous? With the grades I have, it is certain I’ll be getting in but why can't I open it?

The pretty creme letter waited for no one other than me to open it. I was first made known of its presence when I was taking a shit and my uncle so kindly slid it under the door when he was staying over for a couple days.

All Boys: Great Jeon University

I had just finished taking a shit but after re-reading the letter I felt like taking a second shit.  Curling on the floor, my nose rose up in defiance as I glanced at the paper, still centimeters away from under the door.

Let's just open the letter and get this over with.

With trembling hands, I reached over to the letter but I at last second I let my hand fell back to my side.

This Is so stressful! Is it possible to vomit and shit your pants all at the same time? I shot up, heading to the sink determined, with a couple splashes of cold water on my face I stared at myself in the mirror, determined.

I pursued my full lips, taking in a pimple that formed right next to my thick brows. This stress is really getting to me. I know damn well that a pimple wouldn't have been there otherwise.

"Okay you big wuss, tear that shit open !" I gas myself up, finally picking up the letter, I rip the envelope, already expecting the worst.

"Dear Mister. Mcniplecocker, we are glad to inform you that you have been accepted-"

“Oh thank God...” relief washes down on me like a ton of bricks. ”Thank 

god..”I exhale, I can't contain the small smile that forms on my lips.

"THIS CALL FOR DANGEROUSLY HIGH AMOUNTS OF CALORIES !" Haerin shouts, grabbing the takeout menu to order too much food and possibly max out her credit card. She is reckless and often thinks of the consequences after she does something but if she ever got in trouble with the law due to her shenanigans, me, a soon to be law student would help her.

Christian took his usual seat at my right and Haerin at my left on our favorite brown couch. They were here so often on this couch that their butts were permanently imprinted.

"I need to tell you guys about this girl I've met. She's older but I swear I've never seen a woman more beautiful" Christian gushed, tugging on my shirt. "Oh, my man is finally getting some action! I started getting worried for you I was almost going to ship you with Haerin."

The girl snapped her head to look at me at the mention of her name. "Excuse me? Me and Christian? I'd rather let your creepy pillow anime guy date me." She snickered and I scoffed "Bitch, you wish Makoto Tachibana would be with your dusty crusty ass plus you're acting like Christian is ugly! I mean he might be a lil on the grandpa side since he's so old but-"

He deadpanned. "I'm literally 25 ???"

"Anyways, in two months I'll be going to one of the most prestigious schools and I'll be a lawyer. If one of you ever gets in trouble with the law don't call me because I'll be the one making sure you go to jail." I joke, picking a movie on the laptop.

I was over the moon. Things were going my way and it felt good, so good.

"If you ever do get caught, who will defend you ?" Christian hesitated when he asked, not wanting to stress me.

"Don't jinx it, idiot. I won't happen, don't worry." Haerin leaned forward, taking my hand in hers and gave me a small smile not knowing that the damage was already done.

 It was something that I ridiculously tried shoving at the back of my brain. It was something I needed to face. I was going to be a lawyer for crying out loud, I knew that I could face time in jail and fines I wouldn't be able to afford to pay.

It was something I was ready to risk. For my education. I was breaking the law in order to work as a person who enforced the law. How ironic.

"Yeah, don't jinx it, Chris." 

[frogfacefinn]

Rider Challenge 3, 7, 9, 11 and 12 Because I’m a Slacker

@thescorpioracesfestival

Today is the day of the Races. The beach is alive with vendors and racers and gamblers alike. The morning has been filled with the lesser races but now a man with a megaphone is telling the riders to get their colours. It is almost time.

Adelaide and I stand together to the side of the excitement. Two weeks of training with each other on the beach and on the bluffs have fine-tuned us to each other. If it weren't for the hours that we've spent together training on the beach, I wouldn't be able to see how tense she is behind a carefully neutral mask. She has much more depending on this race than I do. If she wins, she can finally buy Nex, her charcoal coloured stallion, from her stepfather.

Her stepfather, Daniel Harcourt is a thick, brutish man with the face of a mule and the personality of an ass. From what Adelaide has told me of him, he's never raced, he's always hired her as a fifth and taken most her winnings. She’s been waiting for three years, watching her savings account slowly inflate. Today will be the day that decides if her horse will have her name on the bill of sale.

All I need to do today is get myself and Russa past the finish line unmarred. Those were the conditions Holly placed on me when I returned to the stables after the festival. Russa is a liability, an expensive liability and unless she finally proves to be a decent contender, she will be thrown back to the ocean.

Despite only knowing them for a handful of weeks, Adelaide and Russa have become an integral, important part of my life and I can't see how I could do anything without them by my side.

On the first day of training, Adelaide and I had made our way to a secluded cove on the far side of the island. The official rules say that riders have to train 150 feet from the beach, but they never specify which beach. She tied her stallion to an outcropping and gave me a leg up onto Russas back. My racing saddle was well worn and familiar and it sat like a band-aid on Russas back. I climbed on and sat for a moment while Adelaide held the lead. I adjusted the stirrups and mustered my courage, then I nodded to her and she unclasped the line. I turned Russa towards the open beach and her ears pricked forwards. She pawed the ground eagerly, ready to run. I held her back for a moment and took a deep breath, before releasing the reins and squeezing my legs around her barrel.

When I was a little kid, before my parents split up, we lived on an acreage outside the city. We had a herd of three tall mares. They were all off the track thoroughbreds that my mom had brought home from the feedlot. She would work with them at liberty for hours and I would sit on the top rail of the fence and watch her until my feet froze to my boots. Sometimes, when left to my own devices, I would call them to the fence and scramble onto one of their backs. All I had to say was squeeze my legs and they would take off running. I was small and insignificant on their backs, but I felt like I ruled the world. We didn't have much land, but it was enough that they could run full out and weave through the field. I would clutch their manes and let them carry me wherever they saw fit. I have no idea what happened to the horses when we left, but I have never forgotten what it felt like to be flying across the pasture on their backs.

When Russa began to run, I felt the same way as I did then. Strong and fierce and powerless all at once. Russa didn't care about the rising tide eating up the shore. I felt a presence at my side and  turned to see Adelaide, on Nex, matching us stride for stride. Russa wasn't even panting when I asked her for more. She burst ahead of Nex and down the shore, her hooves making hard slapping sounds against the wet, hard packed sand. We were flying, and we were free, and it was the most alive I've felt since mom died. Now we were here on the beach, waiting anxiously for the Races to start.

The sun tries feebly to tear through the fog above the restless beach. I hold Nex and Russa while Laidy goes to collect our colours. I see her cut fiercely through the crowds, like the sun through the clouds towards me, and I am struck all at once with how hard I’m falling for her. Her freckles contrast sharply against her wind bitten cheeks and her scowl is endearing. She tears up the side of the cliff towards me, scaring off reporters with a determined set to her brow. She passes me a murky, yellow, cloth with the number seven stitched into the side. We tack up in silence, only the shouts of the crowd on the beach disturbing the charged air.

We mount up and begin trotting in short circles, taking the edge off of the hot capaill. They look less like horses today. They look wild and reptilian, more sea than earth. We finally begin to make our way down to the starting line as a faceless voice cries over the seething mass of people that the race is about to start. “You remember the plan?” asks 'Laidy. I would be insulted that she thinks I've forgotten, but I know that it's her nerves speaking. Instead of answering I risk letting go of the reins and grab her hand. She looks over at me and I see the start of a smile break through her stoic facade. Our plan is simple. We've discovered that Russa doesn't give a single flying fuck about the raging sea, she just wants to run. Thankfully, all of her temperment issues were resolved as soon as she realized that I knew what I was doing and wouldn't weigh her down with charms and magic. The only phsical piece of good luck that I have, is a single red ribbon tied onto my wrist because Adelaide told me that it's a family tradition.

Russa likes the front and Nex likes Russa, so we've decided that they will both break out of the pack early on with Russa in front and Nex following close behind until the last minute when I pull Russa up to let Adelaide take the lead. We've practiced it in our private cove many times now, and a couple of times in mock races on the beach with other competitors. We're as ready as we'll ever be. When the race starts, I am blocked in a crush of heaving, sweating, bodies. I spend some of Russas boundless energy on breaking through the ranks, making sure that Nex stays on our heels. We spend most of the race ahead of everyone, gaining space every second. Until suddenly, Nex trips. In an instant, a massive bay stallion that had been holding on tight to third place is upon him, sensing Nex's moment of weakness. Adelaide screams as Nex goes down and is flung against the ground with a sickening thud. I pull Russa into a cavalry stop, barely keeping my place on her back as she spins in a tight circle and backtracks towards her fallen friend. Russa rears up and wrenches the reins from my hands. Her sharp teeth flash before digging into the poll of the bay stallion and pulling back. The rest of the racers thunder past us as the fight begins to sprawl into the ankle deep surf. Nex scrambles to his feet and plants a solid kick into the bays frothing chest. The bay lets out an ear-splitting scream before turning and running into the turbulent sea, more enticed by the call of the ocean than a petty fight. The rider groans and rolls over. It's the man from the butchers shop all those days ago, the one that I was jealous of. His name is Randy I think, but I'm not jealous of him anymore. By now we're at the back of the pack. The only people left behind us is a cluster of fighting horses and a smear of guts that used to be a body. There is still time before the end of the race. A fight has broken out among the front runners and it's clogging up the beach. I grab Nex's reins and holds him steady for Adelaide to remount. There is no way that I’m letting victory slio from our grasp. Russa has stopped panting and is prancing in place, frothing at the mouth and straining against her bit. She doesn't go forward though, because I've told her not to. But she was not made to prance. I let out the reins.

I cannot hear her hoofbeats on the ground, I can only hear the wind rushing past my ears and tearing up my cheeks. I know that Nex is behind us because 'Laidy is laughing and whooping as we tear across the blood-smeared sand. We pass the stragglers. And then we pass the group of horses scrimmaging off to the side. Finally, we pass the front-runners because we are flying and unbeatable. We near the finish line and I lean back in the saddle. Russa has become so attuned to my cues that she knows automatically that she needs to slow down. Nex overtakes us and crosses the line one length ahead of us. And then it's over. After two weeks of preparing and training and planning and stressing, it's finally over. Nex has a bloody gash out of his shoulder and a slight limp on his front right and Adelaide has another bruise forming over her eye, but she's smiling and I'm smiling and Holly is waving at us from the cliffs. The crowd is screaming, but it all fades into white noise as Adelaide hooks her fingers into the ribbon on my wrist and kisses me long and hard. We break apart as a camera flashes and keep on smiling at each other. Beneath me, Russa snorts and tugs gently on the reins before rasising her head and screaming towards the sea. The ocean doesn't look as intimidating anymore, in fact, it's starting to look like home.

[deathandrenegades]

Operation Foxtrot (Bucky x Reader) - Part 2

Summary: New to the compound, it almost feels like you and Bucky have a connection you can’t quite put your finger on. With Hydra still a threat, how will that affect you?

Word Count: 1630

A/N: mostly just fluff for now, my inbox is open!

Part 1

He clambered into his bed, pulling the sheets around him. He refused to look at me, completely ashamed of himself. "James-" "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." His voice cracked, he shut his eyes. "It's okay. I understand." I reassured him. He still wouldn't look at me. I sighed and knelt down beside his bed, eye level with him. Finally his grey eyes met mine. "I'm not afraid of you." I whispered, reaching out and brushing his hair back. He clenched his jaw as his eyes drained of emotion, his mouth setting into a hard line. "You should be." He muttered harshly. I recoiled my hand from him.

 "James-"  "Get out." He broke his gaze from me, drawing the covers up to his chin.  "What?" I sucked in a breath. Why is he being like this? "Get. Out." He gritted his teeth. I clenched my jaw, storming out of his room and slamming his door. I didn't even bother going to my room, there was no way in hell I'd sleep now. 

I headed immediately to our training center, which was 3 times the size it probably needed to be. It had every workout machine, a track, pool and wrestling room. I made a B-line for the punching bag in the grappling room, not bothering to put on gloves. I wanted to get bloody, I wanted to hit something, but mostly- I wanted to feel. I hit the punching bag as hard as I could, throwing in several kicks. With every punch I replayed the entire night, his broken and defeated face replaying over and over in my mind. His grey eyes, the color of clouds on a murky, rainy day. I punched the bag again, I could feel my knuckles burning. My blood was stained onto the white bag. Who the fuck would get white? I thought, spitting onto the floor. I stepped back, taking a second to breathe before hitting again, several stomach and rib shots. Then I felt hands on my waist. I whirled around, knocking whoever it was straight in the nose. "Ow! What the f-" I kept punching, to the ribs mostly. Then my hands were binded. I almost started to kick before my name rattled through my ears. Finally my vision cleared. Steve stood in front of me, blood trickling from his nose. "I'm sorry." My breath was ragged. He relaxed, letting my arms go. "What the hell happened?" He asked, concerned laced all over his face. Steve was really the only one I had gotten close to since I moved here. He made it extremely hard not to be, considering he'd never leave me alone. Looking back on it, all the sleepless nights that I wore on my sleeve, I don't know if I ever would've gotten comfortable here without him. I exhaled, closing my eyes and forcing my heart rate down. I didn't want to tell him. I didn't want to talk about his best friend, and hear the same words I'd already heard. "That's just Bucky for ya, he takes awhile to get used to someone." Or, "he doesn't open up much, don't take it offensively." I spit on the floor again before heading out, leaving steve calling after me. I stayed in the shower for way too long, my whole body completely pruned by the time I got out. I stepped out into the hall in a towel, banking on the fact that no one would be up since it was almost 4:30 in the morning. I almost fainted when I turned the corner to where my bedroom is, seeing Bucky come up the steps to the hallway. We both froze. He was wearing nothing but his sweatpants, his full metal arm exposed. I had never seen it outside of a shirt, where the metal cut into jagged lines across his chest. My eyes trailing over the contours of his biceps, his chest. I forced myself to bring my attention to his eyes, only to find his murky grey eyes roaming over my body too, eyeing where my towel stopped higher than mid-thigh. I flushed, clearing my throat and stepping toward him. I made it a point to keep my head high, making eye contact the entire time I stalked down the hallway. He stood, still frozen and his eyes never leaving mine. I got to my door a few feet from him and turned on heel, breaking my gaze and stepping inside without a glance. I shut the door behind me, sucking in a breath not even realizing I had been holding my breath the entire time. I pressed my back against the door, closing my eyes. The image of him shirtless burned in my mind. I heard his feet drag forward, followed by a long sigh before his door clicked shut. I sank to the floor. 

I didn't bother to come down for breakfast. I didn't want to see Steve, or Bucky, Or anyone. My hands were bruised and cut up, they ached whenever I flexed. I almost kind of enjoyed it. I stepped out into the hallway, hearing all their voices just at the bottom of the stairs to my right. Instead I headed left, all the way to the sky tower. The sky tower was my favorite room. At night it was amazing, but I loved it during the day too. No one really goes here beside me, nothing but a hammock and two bean bag chairs in the bullet proof glass orb. The orb itself was a connection off of a room, similar to a window chair, only something you actually step in. I froze when I found a familiar pair of eyes having me beat to it. His eyes flicked to my obviously scraped up hands. We both stared at each other for what felt like days, before he finally stood. He started walking towards me, his eyes burning a hole directly through me. I opened my mouth to say something, whatever it was went out the window as he got closer, my mind scrambled as his eyes bore into me. And then he walked straight past me, out of the room. I bit my lip, fighting a smile. The fucker did what I did to him earlier. I huffed and sat on the hammock, staring up at the clouds. They were deep grey, looking as if they were ready to let the rain loose. I closed my eyes, swaying back and forth to eyes the color of clouds dancing in my head. I woke up a few hours later, finally heading to the kitchen. Luckily the only person I ran into for the rest of the day was Nat, who didn't ask about my hands or why I looked so tired. I appreciated her for that. Now it was nearly 3 am, and I couldn't sleep. I sighed, getting out of bed. I opened my door slowly, poking my head out to see if I could hear anything. Nothing. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe Bucky was sound asleep, no nightmares. I stepped down into the kitchen, still no Bucky. I smiled, though a very small part of me was disappointed. I shook that off. I sat at the counter with my tea, letting it cool. My mind traveled to this morning, running into Bucky while he was shirtless. My mind played out the scenario of me walking up to him, but instead of going to my room going straight up to him, grabbing him and kissing him, letting my towel fall to the floor as he pushed me against the wall. The sound of someone coming down the steps made me jump nearly off my stool. Bucky froze. I flushed, looking away and letting my hair fall in my face. "Sorry." I muttered. Why was I apologizing? Bucky cleared his throat and I looked over at him, his hair pulled into a bun, in his usual sweatpants and white tshirt. I could see the metal through the shirt, my eyes narrowed. "Didn't mean to startle you." He muttered, my eyes snapping up to him, his grey ones staring back at me. I head been staring at his arm for too long. I gave a quick nod and got up from the island, stepping into the living room and sitting on the couch. I flicked on the TV, not even paying attention or caring what was on. I just need something to muffle the palpable tension in the room. My body relaxed into the couch, legs spreading out, my eyes flicking to Bucky sitting at the island, his back to me. Suddenly he stood after a couple of minutes, squaring his shoulders as he came and sat at the other end of the couch. I moved my feet reflexively when he sat. "You don't have to do that." He said softly. I hesitantly put my feet back out, my toes nearly touching him. I tried to keep my heart rate even, I tried to keep the thoughts away about cuddling up to him, kissing him and trailing my lips down his neck. I failed miserably. I squeezed my thighs together instinctively and his eyes flicked over to me briefly. I flushed, moving my legs away from him. I couldn't handle being that close, having him within reach. My thoughts flicked back to last night, me wrapping my arms around him and how good he smelled, how good he felt. I sighed without thinking. "Everything okay?" He spoke barely above a whisper. I looked down. "Peachy." My voice was much more hoarse than I wanted it to be. He smirked. I flicked through the channels aimlessly, finally settling for Aladdin. I sighed and rested my head on the armchair, my lids growing heavy.

[jinkisbelly]

Queasy

Elllllo, here’s a modernish take on omegaverse, I wanted to explore the softer side, without the smut and stuff, uh It’s omegaverse so mm mpreg and other stuff that goes with it????? also mentions of puking? I don’t know if that’s a problem for some but u h

Rating: Pg, it’s fluff mostly. 

pairing: onkey 

w/c: about 2k

While they’re waiting for their flight to visit Kibum’s parents Jinki feels nauseous, and Kibum is prepared. 

The gate they were waiting at was packed. Jinki found the variety of people a little amusing. There were the people in pencil skirts and heels, and the ones in matching jumpsuits. Some looked like their blood was coffee, others were walking zombies, and the few others could be seen visibly waking up as they sipped on their crutch of choice. Jinki pouted a little. He missed coffee a lot more now that he couldn’t have it. Kibum had suggested an early morning flight to his parents so that they had time to relax before having to actually deal with being social. Kibum was quietly scrolling through his twitter feed, softly chuckling every now and again at something amusing, humming when he agreed with another. Jinki found that observing people was a little difficult with the bad taste in your mouth and nausea flooding his senses.

He laid back in his seat, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath to try and make the queasiness fade a little. All it did was cause him to catch the scent of the airport employee’s strong as hell perfume, and his nose scrunched unpleasantly. He turned to Kibum with a pout on his face, laying his chin on the man’s shoulder. “Bummie, I’m nauseous.”

Kibum reached over to grab the hand on his thigh, rubbing the back of Jinki’s hand with his thumb as he asked, “How bad is it?”

“On a scale of Lil to puke central, I’m at a strong gagging level.”

With a deep frown on his face, Kibum reached over into his carry on. He moved his hand around for a moment before he pulled out a pack of saltine crackers. He held them out to Jinki with a soft smile, “These should help a little.”

“Kibum~” He softened, his emotions getting the better of him slightly. Not only had he remembered to bring him saltines, they were the one brand that always seemed to work. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“That wasn’t my intention.” Kibum wrapped his arm around Jinki and kissed his hair. “We still have 30 minutes until we start boarding. Lay down Baby.”

After a little shifting Jinki was able to lay his head on Kibum’s thigh and bring his legs up onto the line of chairs. He gently nibbled on a cracker as Kibum moved his fingers through his hair. Jinki’s eyes fluttered a little at the soothing gesture. He just hoped that the smelly airport employee stayed as far away from him as possible until he boarded the plane.

------

Kibum let Jinki board the plane first, walking a step behind him as he found their seat numbers that were printed on the tickets held in his hand. Once they found them Jinki took the window seat as Kibum put their carry on’s up. Usually, they would take turns getting the window seat. One would get it the way there and the other on the way back, but with Jinki’s uncomfortableness by touching at all recently Kibum gave his turn up to make sure he didn’t get brushed by someone going up and down the aisle. Once finished he slipped into his seat and pressed a kiss to Jinki’s cheek. “Feel any better?”

“A little.” Jinki pushed his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, palm over his tummy. “Our lil nugget is being good.”  

Jinki looked out the window at the rain pelting the wing of the plane as Kibum observed the last few people moving through the aisle to their seats. When that got boring he leaned his head on Jinki’s shoulder and curled his arm around Jinki’s to tug it closer. “I’m sleepy.”

“We’ll get to nap when we land right?”

“As long as we keep our nugget a secret, we’ll be free until dinner.”

“I’m stuck between wanting everyone to know,” Jinki softly said as he leaned his head against Kibum’s gently. “And wanting to keep it to ourselves until we leave because I don’t wanna be squished.”

Kibum patted Jinki’s hands that were still in his hoodie pouch. “If they try they’ll have to go through me. I won’t let them make you uncomfy.”

Jinki hummed gratefully as his eyes fluttered close. “How do you feel about in air naps?”

“It’ll ruin the naps in the big water bed at my parents’.”

The other was silent for a moment before he hummed, “That’s true. Must stay awake.”

“Hopefully it doesn’t get you sick.”

Jinki pouted deeply with a quiet whine, “Why did you have to think of that?”

“Heh, my bad.” Jinki just grumbled until the flight attendants began their pre-flight protocols.

-----

Half way through their flight Kibum was reading the book he brought with him and Jinki was entertaining himself with finding shapes in the clouds just outside his window. He was debating if a particular cloud looked more like a flamingo or a banana when the gross smell hit his nose. He wiggled a little in his seat and brought the hoodie over his nose so that his eyes and hair were the only things seen from the mass of fabric. Kibum glanced over at the extra movement and a little laugh left his lips at the sight. Jinki turned toward him, “You okay there Love?”

“Smelly person,” Jinki said in the cutest little voice. “Me Queasy.”

“Oh Baby, C’mere.” The book was closed and slid into the small backpack at his feet as he wrapped the other arm around Jinki, kissing his hair.

“Bad smells,” Jinki made a disgusted noise and nuzzled into Kibum as much as he could with the armrest between them. “I wanna land.”

“Only two more hours.” An almost too quiet of a whine left Jinki’s lips and Kibum chuckled as he kissed his hair. “I know Baby, I know.”

-----

When they finally landed Kibum’s older brother was waiting for them. Jinki smiled fondly as his mate ran to his brother, both alphas colliding in a mess of limbs as rushed words of excitement. Jinki slowly pulled their carry on behind him as he made his way over. Kibum’s brother’s eyes landed on Jinki with a smile. “Hey Jinki.”

“It’s good to see you Kwangsu.” The smile on his face fell as the man hugged him. He looked at Kibum uncomfortably as he awkwardly put his arms around Kwangsu.

“Let’s get going,” Kibum said, causing his brother to remove himself from Jinki, “We’ve been looking forward to napping in the guest room all flight.”

“Ah, right, sorry. C’mon.” He flashed a smile as he took the luggage from Jinki. Kibum fell back to wrap an arm around Jinki’s shoulders.

Jinki was about to say he could pull his own damn luggage, but Kibum was squeezing his shoulder and quietly saying, “ It’s a pride thing.”

With a reluctant sigh, he settled for being snuggled. His mood changed the moment he was climbing into that water bed, arms open for Kibum who was locking the door and kicking off his pants.

-------

Kibum had been right when he said they would be free until dinner. They weren’t bothered at all until the food was about finished and someone was sent to knock on their door. If the smell of dumplings hadn’t reached his nose, Jinki would have been completely content staying in that room of silence wrapped up in Kibum’s entire being, but food and his grumbling stomach called. He carefully moved to the edge of the bed. Napping without feeling sick had been a success, but he didn’t want to push his luck by moving too much on the jiggly bed.  He was slipping on his pants when Kibum came around to kiss his cheek. “I’ll be helping my Mom with the last few things. Join us when you’re ready Baby.”

“I just have to find my sock.” Which was harder than he anticipated. He found it under the comforter than had fallen off the end of the bed about ten minutes later. Once it was secure on his foot he shuffled out. He found Kibum sitting on the other side of the table and quickly made his way over there.

His hand was gently squeezed after he had slid into his seat. “I was about to come look for you.”

“My sock wanted to play an unplanned game of hide-n-seek.” Jinki’s tummy grumbled when the rolls were brought into the room, causing Kibum and the other members of the family around the table to laugh. Jinki blushed, embarrassed. “Sorry. I haven’t eaten since the tiny pretzels on the plane.”

“It’s perfectly alright son,” Kibum’s father softly said with a laugh, “The hungrier the better I always say.”

“That’s a good motto for my cooking if I do say so myself,” Kibum’s mother smiles wide as she directed Kwangsu to set the bird on the table in the middle. “Dinner’s served!”

Kibum pulled off a leg of the turkey and softly laid it on Jinki’s plate as the man worked on getting a piece of that gorgeous bread into his mouth. Jinki lost track of the conversation as he focused on eating. He was moving to get more corn when the volume of the voices around him skyrocketed. He looked around bewildered, mid motion of bringing the corn over. It took him a moment to make everything not so murky sounding. “Congratulations! That’s amazing.” Kibum’s mother happily squealed.

Jinki looked over at Kibum, eyes wide and confused. The Alpha looked positively flustered and guilty. “It slipped, I’m sorry.”

“Wha-”

“I knew there was something different about you,” His mother continued, cutting Jinki off. “I wish you had told me sooner I would have gotten special tea for you.”

So many questions were thrown his way and it all got very muddy and overstimulating. Kibum’s father was touching his hand. The gesture was probably meant to be supportive and comforting, but all it did was make him want to curl into a ball. “Excuse me, I have to use the restroom.”

Kibum followed him with his gaze like a hawk on a mouse and was quick to grab his mother’s wrist when she moved to hug Jinki as he walked past her. She sat back down bewildered and aghast at his actions. “What was that for?”

“Jinki doesn’t feel comfortable with a lot of touching right now.” He answered after the bathroom door clicked close. “So if you wouldn’t mind holding off on the physical support it would mean a lot.”

“Understood.” Kibum relaxed against the back of his chair as his family resumed eating. He gazed around the corner for any sign of Jinki when his mother’s voice brought back his attention. “Oh Goodness! This means we can go shopping at the boutiques tomorrow. They have the cutest baby things.”

“We only found out a couple weeks ago,” Kibum stressed, “We really don’t need to look into buying anything extra right now.”

“Nonsense.” She shook her head with her words, “It’s never too early to buy things for the baby. I bought a lot of things each day I found out I was pregnant.”

Kibum groaned. “I get to come right?”

“Oh darling no!” She answered with a tone of concern. “Those boutiques are no place for an Alpha.”

He really missed the more open society of Jinki’s reservation, the place he now called home. Jinki finally returned just before he was about to go to see if anything was wrong. Still, Kibum leaned over to whisper in his ear, “Everything okay?”

Jinki smiled over at him, but Kibum could see how uncomfortable and taken off guard he was feeling. “Just felt a little sick is all.”

Kibum didn’t buy it one bit, but his family seemed to. “Oh, morning sickness is the worst. I had it so badly with my dear Kibummie.”

“Ma~” He whined. When Jinki softly laughed, it was genuine. He leaned over and pressed a long kiss to the man’s cheek, and whispered, “I love you.”

Jinki smiled softly at him and squeezed his knee under the table. “I love you too.”

-------

[downmoonwrites]

@gyjoweek day 2: rainy days | umbrellas | sick day word count: 2100 rated: T

read on ao3 (follow the link above) or here. or both!

The sun has been slowly sinking behind the clouds for the past hour, turning the washed-out gray of the day into darkness. It's too dim to see clearly now; Johnny's already called for them to stop several times, but Gyro keeps going, 'just a little further’, he keeps saying. Johnny's not stupid enough to stop where he is and try to make camp on his own- they hardly know each other, but already this race has proved dangerous to the both of them, and if they were to go their separate ways, Johnny has more than a feeling that it would end badly- so onward he rides.

The rain's been beating down since they woke up, a steady drizzle just insistent enough to be irritating. His hands are wet, his hair has curled with the humidity, and Slow Dancer's been aggressive and finicky. He himself is in a rapidly worsening mood. He's tired and sore and damp, and every time Gyro starts whistling a tune, or humming some stupid song to himself, Johnny gets a little more pissed off. He wants to set up camp before one of the horses takes the wrong step, and cuts their race to an abrupt end.

"Gyro," he calls again, not bothering to bite back the irritation in his voice, "it's almost dark. I can't see nothin', 'n the horses can't manage this terrain in the dark."

He peers ahead through the gloom, but Gyro doesn't so much as turn his head.

"Gyro!" he calls again, louder this time. "Chrissake, Gyro, stop, or I'm stoppin' myself!"

Valkyrie keeps up her steady pace, and Johnny settles back in the saddle with an irritated sigh, convinced he's wasted his breath yet again. But then, Gyro's finally, finally slowing to a stop, and dismounting from his horse.

"What's wrong with a little rain, Johnny?" he calls back, that singsong-y, amused lilt to his voice. Johnny bristles at the remark, the hint of condescension, like Gyro's addressing a whiny child, but remains silent. Gyro's not waiting for his answer anyway, because he saunters off into the dark, leaving Valkyrie behind.

"Watch my horse, Johnny," he calls back, "I'm going to find us a place to put up for the night."

Johnny raises his eyebrows in surprise; he wasn't actually expecting the ninth attempt at getting Gyro to pull off for the night to work. He urges Slow Dancer forward, until he can grasp Valkyrie's reins in his stiff hands, and tries to make out the blur of Gyro's figure as he disappears amongst the trees.

With Gyro gone, Johnny's left in eerie silence. The steady beat of the rain echoes numbly in his ears, as he strains to listen for any sounds of Gyro's return. He's not worried, no, but he's not about to let his guard down, not with the strange situations they keep finding themselves in, or the potential threats of a forest at night.

The sharp crack of a twig startles him, but it's soon followed by the murmur of a deep voice singing in a foreign language. Gyro stomps back into the little clearing Johnny and the horses are waiting in.

"You're too loud," Johnny declares, as soon as he can make out Gyro's murky figure.

"And here I am," Gyro replies, "returning with good news about our camp for the night."

"Who knows what's out here," Johnny continues on. Gyro steps close enough to take both sets of reins, and begins to lead the horses through the path he just took. "Or who."

"Johnny, there's no one out here. I'd be able to tell if there was someone following us. I have a very acute sense of hearing, you know."

"Ha! You say that like you haven't been singing or whistling or crashing through the brush all day. If anyone were following us, they'd just have to listen for you."

Gyro laughs his strange laugh, unbothered by Johnny's remarks. There's not much that seems to bother Gyro.

Still, when Gyro picks up his whistling again, Johnny finds himself relaxing the slightest bit. The irritation built up from the day crumbles with the sound of Gyro's nonsense tune, until he's left with exhaustion settling firmly into his bones.

They walk for a bit more, Johnny's thoughts wandering further as the steady rhythm of Slow Dancer beneath him brings him just that much closer to the edge of sleep, until Gyro stops, and announces his discovery.

"Ta-dah!" he says. Johnny can't quite make it out, but he can imagine Gyro's grand gesture towards the little alcove carved out of the cliff face in front of them.

"Wow, Gyro," he says, "you found a hole."

"I found a goddamn dry hole, Johnny."

Johnny snorts, but Gyro plows right on.

“You’ve got your dead leaves for bedding, a nice sandy patch near the entrance for a fire pit, and look-”

He points in another direction. Johnny squints towards the dark copse of trees.

“There’s even space to settle the horses for the night.”

“This hotel sucks. I demand my money back.”

Gyro hoots with laughter, and begins to dig around in his pack. He pulls out a canvas cloth, and traipses off towards the trees with the bundle in his arms. Johnny sighs again, and turns towards the cave entrance. It’s dark enough that he can’t see much, but it looks okay from what he can see. No weird sounds, no funny smells, no sense of danger. He begins to unfasten his pack from Slow Dancer’s saddle, and throws it down and into the cave as best he can. He unhooks one leg from her saddle, and eases himself so he’s more or less sitting side-saddle. He’s not really looking forward to dropping onto the wet earth and dragging himself into the cave, but he doesn’t have much of a choice.

The leaves are wet and slimy beneath his hands, but once he gets into the cave proper, they’re dry and crisp. He lights a match as soon as he’s able, and in the feeble light, examines the space. It goes back far enough that they should just be able to fit their bedrolls without getting wet, and, like Gyro had said, the mouth of the cave is sandy and dry, tucked underneath the lip of the cave. He should be able to get a tiny fire going.

Johnny works in the dark. Once his match goes out, he drags his pack forward, towards the back of the cave, and clears a space for a fire. The leaves light quickly, and he finds some brush and twigs to throw on the blaze.

He can hear Gyro crashing around out there, setting up the canvas for the horses, the sound of them snorting, a snatch of a song. He comes back once to collect Slow Dancer, leading her off towards the trees, then disappears into the darkness once again.

Johnny rolls out his bedroll the best he can, and shrugs off his wet cloak, laying it out by the fire. It'll be days before it really dries properly, but a damp cloak in the morning is better than a wet one. Then, he settles himself close to the fire, and waits.

Gyro comes stomping back after a while, shaking off his hat and his cloak and his wet hair at the mouth of the cave, before crouching down and squeezing in beside Johnny.

"You look like a wet cat," he says. Johnny scowls at him.

"Like you look any better."

" 'Least I'm not behaving like a wet cat."

Johnny's mouth snaps shut. He scowls deeper and throws another handful of twigs onto the fire. Gyro throws his pack back into the cave, humming to himself as he lays out his bedroll, and pulls jerky and dried fruit out for their dinner. Johnny accepts his portion, and drops a handful of nuts in the space between them. He'd found them a few days ago, just as they were entering the forest. It's the last of the store he'd picked, and he drops them as some sort of peace offering. Gyro forces him to depend on his own strength and determination, and as much of an ass as he is sometimes, Johnny’s not going to take his frustrations or his discomfort out on Gyro.

For a while, they say nothing. Gyro cracks nuts and throws the shells into the fire. Johnny chews on his food, and throws a handful of leaves or brush onto the fire whenever it starts to drop too low. The rain keeps up its steady beat in the darkness outside.

"Horses alright?" he asks eventually. It’s an awkward attempt at recovering from his bad mood, but Gyro accepts it instantly.

"Fine. I brushed them down and hung their rugs to dry out."

Johnny hums a noise of acknowledgement. He picks up a stone, a nice, smooth one, and holds it in the center of his palm. At the start of the race, he practised incessantly with whatever semi-spherical object he could find- stones, berries, nuts- but as his frustration grew, his desire to learn the Spin diminished. It's been a day, maybe two, since he last gave it a shot.

He raises his palm, and tries to clear his mind. Gyro's instructions on mastering the Spin are vague at best, but he reflects on them the best he can. He almost feels a little different this time, as he stares at the stone in his palm and takes a deep breath. Something about the rhythm of his lungs feels nearly comforting, giving him something to focus on. It’s almost as if energy is thrumming through his veins and beginning to swirl beneath the stone. If he concentrates hard enough, he can almost feel warmth in his hand, too.

Given the circumstances, he should be able to do something. He can feel the difference this time, but it's almost like there's a piece missing somewhere, some connection that keeps the stone from moving, and he can't figure out what it is.

He stares at the stone until he feels himself grow lightheaded, then drops his hand in a rush. His chest heaves with the breaths he's sucking in, and he drops himself backwards, lying on the end of his bedroll and staring up at the rocky ceiling.

It felt so different that time, so tantalizingly close, but the taste of failure weighs heavily upon him, the stone still clutched in his hand. He glances towards Gyro, only to find him staring. Johnny quickly wipes tears out of his eyes and sits up.

"I still don't get it," he says loudly, trying to force nonchalance into his voice. Instead, he just sounds miserable.

"Johnny," Gyro says, still staring intently at him, "what was that breathing?"

"What?"

"The breathing, you- I think you almost had it."

Johnny inhales a shaky breath and uncurls his palm. The stone rests there, unmoving, but warm.

"I don't know," he admits, suddenly self-conscious, "It just felt...kinda right, I guess."

Gyro shuffles beside him, catching Johnny's attention. He plucks the stone from Johnny's palm and drops the heavy weight of a steel ball into his hand instead. It's Johnny's turn to stare at him with wide eyes; Gyro won't so much as let him look at the steel balls, nevermind touch them, since that day back on the beach in San Francisco.

"Try it again," he says, "with the breathing."

Johnny frowns for an instant, but hesitantly focuses on the steel ball in his palm. He tries to settle himself back in that moment, to relive everything that just happened, the breathing, the flow of his blood. Warmth. Steel. Air.

He sighs, and in an instant, the steel ball spins wildly in his palm. On instinct, he claps his other hand over the top of the ball, to keep it from flying out of the cup of his palm, stopping the movement without realizing it until it’s too late.

It doesn't really matter though. Gyro looks at him for a second, his mouth hanging open, before he bellows with laughter and claps Johnny hard on the back.

"Look at you, Johnny! The breathing! I can't believe that actually worked!"

Johnny catches himself grinning in response, an airy sort of laugh escaping his throat. It's the first time since the start of the race that he feels hopeful.

Gyro slaps him on the back again, his teeth glinting gold in the fire light. Johnny bites at the smile on his mouth, squeezing the steel ball in his hand. Outside, the rain continues to fall.

[waywardimpalawriter]

Mr. Fixit met his match Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Summary: Suave, charming the man every woman wants and every man wants to be like. That is till he meets his match.

Setting: AU Lawrence, Kansas                                          

Pairings:  Dean x Reader, Dean x Lisa, Sam x Jess, Mary x John

Characters: Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Mary Winchester, John Winchester, Castiel, Charlie Bradbury, Crowley, Benny Lafitte, Lisa Braden, Ben Braden (later) Bobby Singer, (possible Rowena, Jodi Mills, Donna Hanscum)

Warnings: Name calling, body issues, self-hatred, smut (later), unprotected sex, fighting, yelling, disappointment (father/son), past indiscretions, cursing

Setting: Lawrence, Kansas. First couple of chapters are set in between 2005 and 2008.  

Notes: Originally @smoothdogsgirl asked for a request using the song The Fix by Nelly, the idea kinda took off from the song and has grown into a monster which is all Dean’s fault I might add. So there will be more than one part to this little ditty.

Note on the story: for those who like Lisa Braden I’m sorry, I liked her as well in the show but she fit better for what I have in mind to come. Also while we know in the show John was the best father he could be with Mary gone, I’ve changed a few things up. He’s a better father with Mary but there were some rocky things that happened in the past when they were first married.

Tag List:

Forever:@winters-buck @angryschnauzer  @feelmyroarrrr @fandommaniacx @thetalesofmooseandsquirrel  @aquabrie @marvel-lucy @supernaturallymarvellous

Supernatural: @smoothdogsgirl @ruprecht0420 @policeofficerdean @vougebandit @hell-bound-angel @aprofoundbondwithdean

Mr. Fixit tag list: @kitchenwitchsuperwhovian

Mr. Fixit match his match Masterlist 

 Not believing your luck or lack thereof at being in the same town, no knowing his very family for the last five years and to think all those years ago your editor and boss demanded that you set out to destroy his life. You hadn’t thought twice about rejecting the assignment, hadn’t started your career to destroy someone else and you’d been damn sure not gonna start then. In the long run it’s what got you fired and reduced to this small town away from everyone in Topeka. No one but Castiel new of your past, not having the balls to tell anyone, not that it would or should make much of a difference. But you’d decided to keep certain things a secret. Cas knew because he’d managed to worm his way passed your defenses, trusting someone for the first time in a long time.  

Now however you wonder, while sitting in the Blue plate diner, breakfast menu and coffee hardly touched, eyes staring out into the murky morning. Storm clouds rolling in from the south promising rain and a dreary day, much like your thoughts. You had no reason to worry, it’s not like you wrote that article. No that’s been Lisa’s pleasure taking someone apart piece by piece; butchering their lives for profit and you’d always thought some sick amusement.

“Weather ain’t gonna change no matter how hard you stare at it babe,” slightly rough female voice sounded to your right.

Head snapping around to stare up at Jodi, who’s smiling down at you, “Willing it to turn with the power of my mind.”

“You’re a goof,” is her answering words while taking the booth opposite. “Gonna tell me what has you in such deep thoughts?”

“It’s nothing Jodi, just lost in my own mind for a moment to long is all,” smiling to dispel the thoughts you’d been having and to reassure Jodi, “What’s for breakfast?”

Sensing there’s more to the subject than you’re willing to admit to, Jodi files that little nugget away for later. “Usual, stack of pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, side of fruit and a biscuit?”

“You know me so well mama bear,” you cooed patting her hand affectionately.

Watching as she walked off, short brown hair tossed a bit by the door breeze signaling someone new has entered. Not bothering to look around at the newcomer instead focusing on the chipped baby blue Formica topped table and the laundry list of things you had to get done.

“Shame such a pretty girl to be eating alone,” whiskey roughened voice stated of the man sliding into the booth side Jodi just left.

Scowling, “What’d ya want Crowley I’m in no mood for your shit today.”

“How you wound me pet and here I thought we could be besties,” tipping his top lip up in a smug smirk, chocolate brown orbs watching your every move.

“Maybe when hell freezes over,” an unlady like snort issued from you while glaring daggers at the English man. “So I ask again what’d want?”

“Feisty, just how I like my women,” giving you a wink before glancing around. His eyes came back to settle on you making you wonder what’s going on in his twisted mind. “I have a proposition for you love one that could benefit us both.”

“I’ve had my quota of dating snakes thank you very much so the answers no,” arms crossed you send another glare his way that could peel paint off a wall.

Never one to judge people by how others speak of them, you’ve always waited and figured them out on your own. Having given Crowley the benefit of the doubt when first meeting, almost five years ago now, you knew better having had a few run ins with the Englishman. His dealings whether it be through his business as owner of one of the biggest garages, besides Winchester and son, in the area or personal favors and deals Crowley can't be trusted. You’d seen that with your own two eyes and wouldn’t be going down that pothole infested road ever.

“You may want to rethink your tone pet, one never knows when you might need a friend,” his oily smile giving you the need to go take a long hot shower, scrubbing with bleach to disinfect.

“What exactly are you talking about Crowley?”

Dark eyes flicking up towards the entryway, quickly filling with disgust then gone, replaced by a smug smile as he refocuses on you. “In due time, all will be revealed till then think about having a five figure bank account, job security and a better life.”

Soft growl leaves your lips. “If you think I’d come to work for you, your even crazier than I thought.”

Tsking, shaking his head, “You say that now love but give it time you might see things my way soon.”

“Your ways the highway Crowley now get to steppin’ before you ruin her appetite,” very seldom had you heard the harshness in Jodi’s voice till now, as she sets your breakfast down.

Slipping out of the booth he gives her the once over, “Don’t worry I was just leaving wouldn’t want to eat anything from this rat infested place anyway.” Turning his eyes back to you, “Think on what I said love it could be very beneficial for you.”

“Nothing good ever came from knowing you Crowley,” deep male voice stated from behind you, back going ramrod straight at the menacing tone.

“You would know right Winchester? Worked for then burned me by leaving, taking my costumers with you,” anger simmering in his tone while stepping up to Dean.

Smug smirk pulling at those full lips, “Can’t help they wanted perfection and not deception. Once you have a Winchester you never go back.”

Couldn’t help the eye roll you gave at Dean's words, this guy sure is full of himself, you think while sipping cold coffee.

“All right take your testosterone filled selves outside there’s no fighting on my diner,” Jodi yelled snapping her towel at both men, her own angry scowl gracing her features.

Sitting quietly during the whole exchange, wondering how much Dean, if any, had overheard. You couldn’t afford to lose your job it paid when your journalism career didn’t. Not to mention you loved working for Mary and John they’d become family when your own didn’t exist any longer.

“Slumming it are we?” Dean asked sliding into the booth, giving you a gimlet look while silently accepting the cup of black coffee Jodi sat before him.

Crossing your arms your own glare in place, “What’s it to you Winchester?” venom lacing your tone.

“You happen to be an employee sweetheart it doesn’t look good to be talking with the competition,” he returned features having settled into a neutral expression.

Snorting, turning your gaze to a breakfast that’s cooled by now, “Again none of your business.” Looking up to see him staring at you with an unreadable expression on his handsome face, you tip your head to the side, “Something crawl up your ass?”

Leaning forward, voice low and laced with contempt, “Listen here Benedict Arnold you work for me and faster than you can snap those little fingers of yours I can have you fired.”

“John Winchester hired me asshole not you,” you growl pushing your plate away, pulling your wallet out and landing a twenty down before sliding from the booth. Raking him with a sneer plastered on your lips, “Mind your own damn business and quit ear hustling.”

With that said, you storm out of the diner gaining a few stares on the way out. “What’d you say to her, Dean?” demanded Jodi, who walked over right as you left.

“Nothing,” he spat raising as well, mind turning over what just happened trying to cool his temper.

“Sure didn’t look like nothing to me,” shaking her head while tsking under her breath about how you didn’t eat. “Been back in town just a few days and already stirring up trouble.”

Raking a hand through his light brown hair, muttering to himself, “Would've been better to stay gone.”

“And how’s that working out for ya Dean?” having heard his muttering. Dean goes to answer but Jodi comes back at him with more, “Not too well huh? This town, it’s people have changed and forgotten what happened. Not like many truly cared beyond the gossip, only ones been hurtin’ is your family and you, Dean. Instead of lashing out at folks why not take a step back and try to mend some fences instead,” giving him a sympathetic smile before walking off.

Watching her go, Dean knows in the back of his mind Jodi’s right, lashing out like he had wasn’t the answer. However, coming into the diner and seeing you sitting with Crowley raised his hackles. Bringing back memories of a different time, different woman and a whole nother set of issues he didn’t want to examine in the light of day or at any time truly. But he couldn’t, shouldn’t compare you to her not when he doesn’t know you from Adam. Taking a breath, claiming his anger, Dean left the Blue plate heading for the garage to apologize for his attitude.

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

Trying to cool your own anger, having peeled out of the parking lot headed towards work, you have every intention of telling John what happened. Stupid’s never been your deal, crazy hell yes, but not stupid. Not when much more hung in the balance than just your job.

Pulling your car to a stop, taking a couple of deep breaths before getting out, purse slung over your shoulder, a purposeful stride to your step. Barely acknowledging Benny’s good morning, or the frown forming on Bobby’s lips, your focus solely on the big man himself, John Winchester.

Feet propped on the edge of his desk, cup of coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other, he doesn’t bat an eye when you walk in, door slamming shut behind you. “Mornin’ sweetheart, what’s crawled up your butt this early?”

Pacing, fingers picking at the small fuzz balls on your soft heather grey sweater, lip caught between your teeth wondering how exactly you should approach the subject. “You know I’d never leave you right?”

Brow lifts as the newspaper drops in half backwards to rich brown eyes staring straight into your soul. “Yeah, now what exactly is this about Y/N?” all playfulness gone from his demeanor as John put his coffee down.

“Your jackass of a son for one,” the words coming out in a huff as you pause and lock eyes with the eldest Winchester.

Puzzled, he sits forward in the high back leather computer chair, “I thought you and Sam…”

Waving him off, “Not Sam, who’s a sweetie FYI,” color flooding your cheeks as anger returns and you spit out, “Dean.”

Even more confused than before, John raises to come and stand before you, “What about Dean? You don’t even know him.”

“I know his kind,” you mutter low enough that John doesn’t catch your words. “He’s an ass, barges into other people’s business when it’s not asked of him. Thinking he has rights when he’s been absence for so long.” Starting to pace again, missing the frown marring his features as he watches your steps.

“Stop pacing before you wear a rut in my floor Y/N,” there’s a command to his tone that has you pausing and looking up at him. “Start from the beginning and explain.”

For the next ten minutes you break down everything that happened at the diner, leaving nothing out. Fingers tapping out a soft rhythm against your leg that your foot takes up, a nervous habit you’ve had all your life.

“So he wants to pouch one of my best employees now and not just the costumers he’s already taken,” shaking his head, he runs a callused hand through his hair letting it rest on the back of his neck. “You didn’t have to tell me this. But I’m guessing you’re afraid Dean would say something and you’d be tossed out on your ass.”

“Not exactly John,” starting to pace again. You seen the dark shadows under see his eyes, the rumpled black Carhartt over shirt, the weariness in his posture, so much is already riding on his shoulders you curse yourself for adding more. “I’m mean yeah that’s part of the reason, but the biggest fact is I didn’t want to keep that from you. Knowing Crowley’s out for the garage,” pausing you look back up at him. “You protect family no matter the cost; I mean I’m not implying we’re family, more friends but still…”

“Y/N,” voice stern to catch your attention, “you’re babbling.”

Giving him a sheepish grin, bringing your bottom lip in to chew at, “Sorry.”

Chuckling, “S’okay sweetheart,” sobering his stare piercing you, searching before speaking again. “You’re wrong.”

It’s your turn to be puzzled, “About?”

“You’re family kid just as much as Bobby or Benny. You’ve seen us through more shit than I’d care to discuss and yet stood by us,” unexpectedly he brings you in for a tight hug.

Which you return, resting your head on his chest, “Thank you John you don’t know how much that means to me,” emotions clog your voice making it quiver. Pulling back, after returning the embrace, “What about Crowley?”

He did have some idea, back ground check and all, but right now that’s not the pressing topic. “We’ll deal with him Y/N, for right now put him and his slimy offer out of your mind.”

“Will do boss man,” giving him a smile before turning to leave. “Best get to my post before the whole place falls apart,” you toss over your shoulder while walking out hearing the deep booming laughter of Johns.  Smile fading when you see who’s standing at the door, “Winchester,” comes out on a growl as you make to pass him.

“Have a minute?” Dean looks from you to his father and back again.

“For you,” raking him with a scathing look, “I don’t even have a second,” pushing passed the wall of muscle blocking your way out. It doesn’t budge even a fraction of an inch.  

“Listen cut the crap sweet cheeks I’m trying to apologize here,” arm coming out to impede your journey as you try to side step him.

Cutting your eyes at him, “You can take your apology and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine Winchester,” forcefully pushing his arm and body out of the way. “And stop calling me those ridiculous nicknames; I have a name use it. Better yet don’t speak to me at all, don’t look at me, nothing just pretend I’m not here and we’ll be good. Because that’s how I’m gonna treat you.” With that said you twirl around, your H/C tossed over your shoulder, booted feet making noise as you leave both men behind.

Both John and Dean are left standing there watching as you walk towards the receiving desk to get things set out for the morning rush, along with brewing two pots of coffee and tiding up the waiting area. Dean didn’t know if he should be elated, offered or turned on right then as very few women could withstand his charms.

Whistling low, “Someone sure put a bee in her bonnet this morning,” grimacing, Bobby came to stand before both men. “Would hate to be on the receiving end of her tongue lashing, but wait you already have Dean,” chuckling the older man patted him on the shoulder. “Give it time she might thaw towards ya boy.”  

Snorting John turned to go back into his office, “You know Y/N better than that Bobby, she still holds a grudge against Gab for that stupid trick he pulled on her a few years back.”

Dean’s always loved a challenge and you’ve just become his next one.

[eyez-ff-blog]

○○ eyez | forty-seven

“So—how are we doing this week, Beija?”

Dr. Masri’s office seemed to be almost identical to Dr. Hill’s—the soft and calming colors of the walls were something almost sedative to the senses, and considering the woman’s line of work, she probably did that on purpose. Photos of her past work around the world aligned the walls, from working with children and women traumatized by war in the middle east to working through philanthropic efforts in Eastern Asia and Africa. Her furniture, unlike the soft and creamy walls, were pops of bright oranges and teals. She seemed just as warm as her furniture—she was short and shapely, only being a couple inches taller than Beija. Her long hair was always braided down her back but today, it was piled on her head in a bun. Her rich brown skin and round cheeks gave her an almost youthful look, but judging by the numerous college degrees upon her walls, she was more than likely in her mid-50s at the least.

“We’re doing okay. Been doing he morning meditation as you asked me to. I still take my quiet times during Janiya’s naps. I stick to my medication and I pretty much write down everything I need to,” Beija held up her notebook that served as her journal. “I finally made my decision about having more children with Jermaine,” She added.

“Oh? And what did you tell him?” The woman asked.

“I decided that I was ready. It was never a question of whether or not I wanted more children...it was if I was mentally ready,” Beija sat her notebook in her lap, looking out the window at the flurry of buildings that cluttered the downtown area. The rain was trickling down, leaving a soft and rhythmic patter against the floor to ceiling window. The sky was a murky grey color, and the sun seemed to struggle to push through the swollen clouds. Even with such gloomy weather, Beija’s mood didn’t align with it. Her neutrality seemed to be pushing through for the moment.

“I remember we spoke of this last session. You had a complicated delivery with your daughter and you said that you feared going through that a second time,” Dr. Masri reminded.

“Yes. I also fear that something bad will happen even if they are born ‘correctly,’” Beija admitted.

“And this is caused by the loss of your brother, right?” Beija nodded at Masri’s assumption, and the woman wrote down some more notes. “We’ve already established that you have a fixation with control—how have you been able to deal with that?” She asked.

“I have been relying more upon my faith, mostly...” Beija began before she tucked some hair behind her ear. “I have been praying more. I talked to my mother and my friend about this; my mother told me something interesting. That some trials are for God to teach me something and no0t just to inconvenience me. That not everything is Satan trying to hurt me,” She responded.

“I find that to be an important piece of advice! Some people do believe that when bad things happen, an even force must be blamed for it. Sometimes it’s really just the universe trying to build you up for something better,” Masri explained, taping the end of her pen against her thigh quickly. “Also, it’s good to trust yourself in situations like this. We let the chatter of science and probability get in the way of the human body. We are intricate beings...we can do so much more than we could ever imagine,” She said.

“Hm...I’m sure that’s true. But even with that said, I still have to deal with my depression. Even if everything goes right, there’s a chance that I might slip into another episode. Even though I’m already going through motherhood, my mind can still mess with me,” Beija said softly. “I’m trying to lean more upon my husband because I know he will be there for me, but...”

“But?”

“I can’t help but to feel like I am putting too much on him,” Beija ran a hand over her hair before she huffed. “And I get it—we exchanged vows, so we made the promise to each other to carry each other’s burdens. But there’s so much that he may be feeling that he won’t tell me,” She said.

“He keeps secrets from you?” Masri asked, and Beija shook her head slowly.

“Well not...secrets,” She began. “He recently put out an album—it’s our story. It’s things he felt about me from when we met, to when I told him about Rashaad, my suicide attempt, our wedding, our daughter...everything we went through, good and bad,” Beija looked out the window again. “I am an advocate for honesty, so I’m not angry with him about that. But I felt like I was the ‘last’ to know. I experienced his emotions when everyone else did. I feel like I should be his diary—sure, his music is his own therapy...but I’m his wife, right? I should know,” She sighed.

“Maybe Jermaine doesn’t want to feel like he is placing too much upon you either,” Masri wrote down some more notes as she spoke. “From what you tell me and from the group sessions that we have had, you two are very alike. That can sometimes serve to you two clashing,” She said.

“Okay, I mean that’s fine but I’m almost 29 years old. He’s about to be 34. We’re not children—I’m not a child. I don’t need to be coddled. If he feels something, I want him to express it to me,” Beija sighed softly. “But that’s something I have to speak to him about. I can’t expect him to depend on me either if I won’t depend on him,” She said.

“I think that’s truly insightful—you can’t ask for anything you can’t give,” Masri said before she glanced down at her watch. “Well, that’s all we have for this session,” The two women stood up before shaking hands. “You’re doing a great job here, Beija. Same time next week?”

“Same time next week.”

Beija left the office before she approached the nurse’s desk, paying for the session and setting up the next appointment. She fixed her purse upon her shoulder before she took her umbrella from inside it. Once she walked outside she opened her umbrella, glancing around before she hurried to her car. She slipped inside before starting up the car and once she was secured, she headed through the slick streets before she made a stop at the hair salon that she usually went to. She had an appointment to get her hair done, so now it was time to fulfill that.

She stepped out of the car and headed inside before she took a look around, walking over to the receptionist. “Hey Leona,” Beija greeted the woman at the desk.

The head full of blue and black rope braids glanced up before giving Beija a bright smile. “Hey, girl! You here to see Mia?” She asked, and Beija nodded. “Her last client just left so go on in,” She said, and Beija gave a smile before she waked through towards the main salon area.

The salon wasn’t full of people as usual due to the weather, but it was just enough to seem like there was some life inside the place. Beija laid eyes on her usual beautician, and she smiled before the two shared a hug. “Hi there Mimi. How are you?” She asked.

“I’m great, despite this fucking weather,” Mia flipped her hair over her shoulder as Beija took a seat, sitting her purse in her lap. “So what are we doing today? Deep condition and a twist?” She asked.

“Uhm...” Beija bit her lip for a moment as Mia turned her chair so that she was facing the mirror. “I want you to cut it,” She said.

“Wait...what? Like, all of it?” Beija nodded, and Mia sucked her teeth. “Lady, are you out your mind? I haven’t seen anyone with hair as healthy as yours! You’ve been growing this for how long?” She asked.

“Nearly 29 years now,” Beija said, and she licked over her lips before she shook her head. “But maybe that’s the problem. I want something different. I can grow it back if I choose to, but I wanna cut it...” She nodded with finality. “Chop it off, Mia.”

“Well...you’re the customer,” Mia shrugged. “What style, boo?” She asked as she decided to grab the clippers first.

“I was thnking like Toni Braxton...maybe like her first album. Or...shit, maybe like Nia Long? I don’t know,” Beija laughed softly. “Wait...no. Do Toni, but when she got older. I need just enough that if I wanna slick it down, I can. Or if I want curls, I can have that,” She explained.

“Good choice. Let’s do this!” Mia exclaimed.

Once Mia cut Beija’s hair, she washed, conditioned, and curled it properly. Once Beija got to look at her hair, she was floored at how different she looked—she realized just how round her face was, but the cut seemed to compliment the shape of her face and head. She had spent so many years growing her hair, and it was a staple of her being. But maybe this was what she needed. She wanted to do something different and this was one way to do it. After paying for her haircut and style, she went by the local spa and got a facial, manicure and pedicure before returning home. She just felt like taking care of herself for the day.

Once she returned home, she walked through the garage door, hearing Janiya and Gina talking to one another. “Gina? I’m home,” She called out.

“Oh, hey! I just fed Janiya some lunch and...oh wow!” Gina squealed in excitement when she saw Beija’s hair. “You look gorgeous! I can’t believe you cut your hair,” She laughed.

“Yeah,” Beija ran a hand over the side of her head slowly, looking up in the mirror before smiling lightly. “I like it, though. It’s always good to change it up. What do you think, Niya?” She asked her dau0ghter, who was staring up at her.

“Wow,” Niya had learned a new word, and just like Jermaine, she stretched the word out dramatically. Beija laughed before she pecked the girl off of the couch to hold her. “Pretty,” She smiled.

“Thank you,” Beija laughed before kissing the tip of her nose.

Once Beija paid Gina for her time, she spent some time hanging out with Janiya before she laid the girl down for a nap. During that time, Beija got to work on the first event for the ‘Forever Boy Project.’ As she had told her mother, she wanted to make a charitable organization to bring relief to the families of victims of police brutality and violence. It was a bit easy to get it started due to it being a subordinate to the Dreamville Foundation, but the overall success would be up to Beija herself. She already had event planned—a masquerade event for Halloween, a Food Drive before Thanksgiving, and a Toy Drive before Christmas. But the two big events that Beija had to bring together for the new year was a weekend festival for the end of March, and the ‘Freedom Festival,’ the Fourth of July celebration that she had spoken to Alisha about. She wanted everything to go perfectly, and with the resources she had acquired, she was slowly getting everything together.

“Babe?” Her ears perked up when she heard the door open and the sound of Jermaine’s voice.

“Living room,” She said, and she stayed quiet as she continued to type away on her laptop.

“I wasn’t sure if you ate so I swung by the seafood spot and got you that alligator plate you liked...wow,” Beija looked back at Jermaine, who was staring at her as if he had just seen a ghostly figure. “I...wow. Your hair,” He walked over and sat next to her.

“What do you think? Not too bad, huh?” She said before she ran her hand over it briefly. “I wanted something new, and...I’ve been growing and caring for my hair literally all my life. It was time for something more...grown up,” She laughed.

“Shit...I do like it. It’s just a shock,” He chuckled a bit as he gently tugged at her ear. “You got round ears. And a round face. It’s cute,” He teased, laughing when she smacked his chest.

“Fuck off,” She laughed before she opened up the bag of food, and took a whiff of it before she grabbed a piece of fried alligator before popping it into her mouth, chewing quickly. “Okay so—here’s all the plans I drew up. We can have a charity masquerade ball on October 27th. Then the Food Drive the day before Thanksgiving, then the Toy Drive about two weeks before Christmas,” She explained.

“That sounds legit. This is for FBP, yeah?” He asked, and she nodded. “And what about for the 4th nest year? I need to know so I can take those days off the tour,” He explained.

“I got the groundwork done for the Freedom Festival. I was also thinking we could have another festival in March—Coachella is cute and all but fuck all that. I want to have something for us...something we can host, and it can be for charity. I already called up Shawn, Bey, and Robyn; they said once the plans are finalized they’d be on board. If I can get some more big names it’d definitely have a huge turnout,” She said.

“I fuck with it. I like all these ideas, baby. I’m proud of what you’re doing already,” She smiled as she felt J’s lips against her cheek. “How was your day, though? Did therapy go well?”

“Yeah, it went as good as it could go,” Beija sat back against the couch as she pulled her food carton into her lap, popping a French fry into her mouth before she glanced up at him. “I know I don’t usually talk about my sessions but...I wanna talk to you about something. It’s kind of been bothering me,” She said softly.

“What’s up?” He asked as he draped an arm around her shoulders.

“I feel like...why didn’t you tell me everything you were feeling? Like, from the album,” She began. “I know you said that you can’t always voice what you feel the way you want to but—I felt like I was blindsided a bit. I found out how you felt like the rest of the world. I felt like I was being treated like a fan and I kinda feel some type of way,” She explained.

“I didn’t know you would feel like that...” J trailed off before he sighed. “Look, I’m sorry for that. I didn’t know that would hurt your feeli0ngs. Sometimes I just don’t feel like bothering you with shit like that. You already go through enough, and—...”

“And that’s the problem right there,” Beija cut him off. “I know that I’ve been through a lot; I was there. I experienced it. I know you like to think that you can imagine what I feel or what I am really going through, but you can’t. Even if I told you everything I felt from top to bottom, I still can’t make you0 fully understand. Even with that said, Jermaine—I am your wife. Despite all that I endure, I exchanged vows with you...I deserve to be told what is wrong with my husband if he is bothered with something,” She frowned before shaking her head. “I’m not the same 24-year-old that you met...you’ve known me long enough to know that at this point in our relationship I feel entitled to your truth, no matter how ugly it is,” She explained.

“Okay, that’s fair. So I want to be granted the same courtesy, then. You don’t tell me everything either,” Jermaine argued.

“Okay but...what you deal with and what I deal with are two different things...I mean, I get what you’re saying completely, but you have a whole career to worry about,” She said.

“You’re basically upset with me for doing the same thing you are doing for the exact same reason though, Beija. That doesn’t make sense,” J tilted his head as he looked at her. “You have a career just like I do, baby. You work just like me. And to add to that, you have a mental issue—I take all of that into account when I decide what to tell you or what not to tell you. I know how you are and how you think, so I stay considering you. That’s the only reason why I look to the notebook to spill everything. The notebook can’t react,” He explained.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Jermaine? Like you’re almost making it seem like I can’t handle the truth,” Beija was becoming a bit offended. Even if everything Jermaine was saying was true, she still felt as if she was being fed a sugar-coated version of the truth and it didn’t sit well with her.

“I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth,” He countered. “You know exactly what I mean. If I tell you something, who’s to say you won’t spiral because you think it’s your fault? You blame yourself for things that aren’t your fault and you do it often, so sometimes it’s hard to determine what is safe to tell you. I do not want to be the reason your mood dips or you have an episode, so I try to keep that in mind, Beija. That’s really the beginning, middle, and end of all of it. It ain’t got shit to do with what I think you can and can’t handle,” He said.

“Are you absolutely sure?” Beija’s tone came off snarkier than she intended.

“If I wasn’t sure you could handle the truth, I wouldn’t have married you,” Jermaine returned the attitude before he stood up from the couch. “You’re in a shitty mood now, so I’mma give you your space for right now. I’m going to take a shower.”

Beija sighed softly before she silently ate her food, shaking her head before she sank into the couch. Even if Jermaine was right, she still felt like she deserved the truth about his feelings. What was she going to therapy and doing all this extra shit for if he couldn’t do the same? That’s all she could think about as she sat and ate her food. Maybe there could have been a different way to approach him about it, but at the moment her mood wouldn’t allow her to see it any way else. Lord knew that she loved that man, but he could be such a hardheaded mule at times.