#my desire for him is the same of a man stuck in the desert searching for water

[cirilla-fiona-riannon]

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Please support Cybird by buying their stories. Expect grammatical errors.

Kate: "Wait!"

Elbert: "Kate, step back..."

Man: "Don't come any closer!"

The man ran across a bridge over a river in the pouring rain.

The wooden bridge, shaken by the muddy current of the river, couldn't support the man's weight.

Man: "What the!? A-Aaahh!!"

With a loud crash, the bridge snapped, and the man disappeared into the swirling waters.

Kate: "No way..."

Elbert: "It's okay."

Elbert held me close to his chest, comforting me as I was left speechless.

Elbert: "It's alright. You've done nothing wrong."

Elbert: "Forget everything you just saw."

We had come to investigate the Baron's mansion deep in the forest.

Usually, I would accompany William, but this time I joined Elbert to investigate the Baron's mansion, the suspect in a series of kidnappings happening in the area.

------------Flashback------------

Victor: "The culprit seems to target only those with lovers or spouses, kidnapping them."

Victor: "The Baron, our suspect, has a separate mansion deep in the forest, where even the servants are not allowed to approach."

Victor: "I want you to barge into that place."

Victor: "We know he's secretly acquiring sleeping pills, aphrodisiacs, restraints, and other things, so I'm counting on both of you to prevent any more victims."

---------Flashback Ends---------

(However, the mansion was empty, so we followed the footprints from the back door.)

I looked back at the muddy current through the gap between his arms protecting me.

Kate: “Why do you think he ran away like that when he didn’t even talk to us?”

Elbert: “Maybe he got suspicious because we were asking around about this mansion in town.”

Kate: “We came here by crossing that bridge, right? At this rate...”

(If we don’t do something, we won’t be able to return to the Castle.)

Elbert: “Anyway, it’s dangerous near the river. Let’s wait for the rain to stop in his mansion, then find another way.”

And so we ended up spending time in the deserted mansion deep in the forest until the rain stopped.

Just me and Elbert alone.

Kate: “We’re completely soaked. We need to dry off quickly.”

After we returned to the mansion, we searched for firewood, but there were only a few dry ones.

(If we use it in multiple rooms, it might run out before we can leave.)

Elbert: “Shall we spend time together in this room during our stay?”

I nodded in agreement, apparently thinking the same thing.

Struggling together, we lit a fire in the fireplace, and Elbert stared at my body and his own.

Elbert: “It might be better to remove our clothes and let them dry.”

Kate: “That’s a good idea. It’ll dry faster, and we won’t get cold.”

Elbert: “Shall we take them off then?”

Kate: “........”

He immediately started taking off his heavy, wet clothes.

I couldn’t help but turn away after seeing him looking so vulnerable, wearing only his shirt.

Elbert: “I’ll face the other way, so you can do the same.”

Kate: “Okay. Thanks.”

Elbert: “Once you take them off, you can wrap yourself in that blanket over there, so you can stay warm without feeling embarrassed.”

Kate: “Okay.”

I couldn't leave the cold, damp clothes stuck to my skin, so I turned my back to Elbert, removed my clothes, and wrapped myself in a blanket while recalling what had happened.

It was William's proposal that led to me and Elbert going on this mission.

(He seemed to have seen through my desire to know more about him.)

Cursed ones were destined to commit sins and face tragic ends.

I was on guard when I heard this, but I realized they were also human beings with their own thoughts and feelings.

(I want to know what he's thinking and feeling during this mission.)

(I want to understand what's going on in the mind of this person who doesn't fit in with the Crown.)

(As William said, this trip was the result of me giving in to my desires.)

(Though I never thought it would come to this.)

Elbert: "Kate, is something wrong?"

Kate: "N-Nothing."

Elbert: "Come here by the fireplace when you're done."

(It's still nerve-wracking to be in my underwear, even though he can't see me under the blanket.)

I gently sat down next to him.

(Looking at the flickering fire calms me down.)

In silence, the scene from earlier came back to me.

Kate: "Was he really a kidnapper?"

Elbert: "We don't know yet."

(Whether he was a kidnapper or not, the fact that someone died in front of us because we were chasing him remains unchanged.)

My heart ached at the thought of it.

Elbert: "You're not responsible for this, Kate."

Elbert: "This is a Crown's mission. You're not to blame."

Elbert: "So, please don't look so sad."

He stroked my cheek as if trying to wipe away my sadness.

His expression looked as if he was being crushed by guilt.

(He's very kind and sensitive to people's pain.)

(He even protected me from being shocked earlier.)

The warmth inside my chest gradually spread.

His kindness made me happy, so as my response to it, I smiled and endured the pain in my chest.

Kate: "Thank you."

Elbert: "........"

Kate: "Let's search the mansion tomorrow to confirm if he was the kidnapper."

Elbert remained silent and stared at me.

Kate: "Elbert?"

Elbert: "You..."

Suddenly, my stomach growled loudly.

Kate: "Oh..."

Elbert: "........."

Kate: "A-Are you hungry?"

Elbert: "Sorry, but I don't feel hungry that often."

(Right, Elbert doesn't have much of an appetite.)

(I look like a glutton. This is embarrassing.)

Elbert: "Fufu."

Kate: "----!"

(Did he just laugh?)

Elbert: "I'll look for something to eat, so wait here."

Kate: "I'll come with you."

(I don't know why, but for some reason, when he smiles, I feel so happy.)

Though my hunger was satisfied, my hair, underwear, and clothes were still not dry.

Kate: "I'd like to get some rest soon, but what should we do?"

(Wearing clothes from this mansion without permission would be rude and somewhat unhygienic, but if I sleep in my underwear, I might catch a cold.)

Besides, if I were to sleep, I would have to use a bed.

Elbert: "Shall we sleep together?"

Kate: "Huh!?"

Elbert: "I think it's better if we stick together so we don't catch a cold."

Kate: "Um, but..."

(Sleeping with him like this, in just my underwear...)

Just imagining it made my face flushed.

Elbert: "It's okay. I won't do anything that would make you uncomfortable."

His words were filled with consideration. Suddenly, a memory from a past party surfaced in my mind, where he looked pale and uncomfortable as many people touched him.

He probably doesn't like being touched by others.

(But he's still making this suggestion for me.)

Elbert: "Kate?"

Kate: "I don't want to do anything that would make you uncomfortable, either."

Kate: "Are you sure about this?"

Elbert: "Yeah."

Elbert: "I feel like I'll be okay if it's with you."

My heart skipped a beat. I felt like he was putting his trust in me, and it made me want to respond to it.

(Be true to your own feelings.)

William's whispered words echoed in my head.

Kate: "Should we sleep together then?"

Elbert: "Mhm."

We slipped into the same bed, and his face, which looked like a work of art, was now just a breath away.

Elbert: "Isn't this a bit cramped?"

Kate: "It's fine."

(Did I really make the right choice by agreeing to this?)

My heart was pounding nervously the whole time.

Kate: "Um, is it okay to be this close?"

Elbert: "It's okay if we get even closer."

He embraced me, and our bodies pressed against each other.

Warmth spread from where we touched and my heart beat even faster.

(We're not doing anything wrong.)

(This is just to share body heat.)

I reassured myself, trying to calm the strange feelings raging inside me.

Elbert: "Are you warm?"

Kate: "Yes. Are you?"

Elbert: "I'm warm too."

(I'm glad.)

Kate: "Goodnight, Elbert."

Elbert: "Goodnight, Kate."

Even though I didn't feel like I could sleep, I eventually succumbed to drowsiness, wrapped in his warm arms.

Kate's sleeping hand rested on Elbert's chest.

Elbert: "Even when we touch like this, I don't feel uncomfortable with you."

Elbert: "But being touched like this in that mansion was so unbearable it made me nauseous."

Elbert: "I wonder why."

Masterlist╎Part 2╎Premium╎Epilogue

[thatsohkai]

VIEW FULL PLAYLIST  - 976 E. 132nd Pl. Chicago, IL

what’s a song you can put on repeat & never get tired of ?

   no role modelz j. cole - “no role models and i’m here right now, no role models to speak of. searching through my memory, my memory, i couldn’t find one, last night i was getting my feet rubbed.”

a song that instantly lifts your mood when you’re sad

   reel it in amine - “and i’m tired of being humble, b*tch i feel no way. this that young, young sh*t i may pull up to your bitch like, reel it in. i got the bag tell a friend.”

your favorite song from your all-time favorite artist 

   villuminati j. cole - “please forgive, according the preacher man, he need jesus in him. but the devil run the tv, so the demons in him. im in trouble, did a deal with the devil, now i’m pleading with him… like ‘give my soul…i ain’t letting you go again.”

a song that inspires or motivates you

   finish line chance the rapper - “ but who would think the raps would turn into racks? don’t matter, matter fact, it could happen to you. scars on my head i’m the boy who lived. the boy love playing when the boy too sick, reclining on a prayer, i’m declining the help. i’ve been lying to my body, can’t rely on myself.”

what’s a song that reminds you of someone ?

   so high doja cat - “blow, weed, pop x, speedin’ up the heartbeat bangin’ in the chest. when you put it on me, you relieve my stress.  you got me so high, takin’ deep, deep breaths. you get me so high, you get me so high. i know you ain’t a drug but you get me so high.”

the song that gets you in the mood to party

   paramedic! sob x rbe - “california, california, and i’m heavy in these streets. if you don’t keep a pole, how you ready when it’s beef? .22. or .23, i’m heavy with the heat. hit you with this chop, paramedics can’t save you. really in field? come on bro, i know that ain’t you. 2018, hell nah, i ain’t gon’ fade you. gon’ paint you, tde and sob we can’t lose.”

your guilty pleasure

   typa girl braveheart - “typa girl that you wish for when you blow the candles out. typa girl that you wanna bring back to ya mama house. typa girl who don’t ask for what she want she takin’ out. typa girl who got bags in same quality as chanel.”

a song that’s out of your typical music preference

   backyard boy claire rosinkranz - “and we’ll turn the volume up to some good boy band tunes. love to feel the fresh air, i can feel your eyes stare. and i’m not gonna lie, i get a little bit scared. and my heart is on wings, i’m living in dreams and at the top of our lungs, we sing.”

what do you listen to when you’re in love ?

   #1 heebiejeebies amine x kehlani - “just for you i might jeoprodize. my whole life i might sacrifice. the way you look is like ‘woah.’ got me locked in i’m hypnotized. shakira-like and these hips don’t lie. say i don’t, but i always try.”

   #2 best part h.e.r. x daniel caesar - “it’s the sunrise, and those brown eyes, yes. you’re the one that i desire. when we wake up, and we make love, it makes me feel so nice. you’re my water when i’m stuck in the desert. you’re my tylenol i take when my head hurts. you’re the sunshine of my life. i just want to see how, beautiful you are. you know that i see it, i know you’re a star. where you go i follow, no matter how far. if life is a movie, then you’re the best part.”

 do you have song you’ve listened to all your childhood ?

   a long walk jill scott - “your background, it ain’t squeaky clean, but sometime we all gotta swim upstream. you ain’t no saint, we all are sinner. but you put your good foot down and made your soul a winner. i respect that, man you’re so phat, and you’re all that, plus supreme. then you’re humble? man i’m numb yo, with feeling, i can feel everything that you bring.”

is there a song your parent/sibling/friend/etc. introduced you to that you love ?

   streets doja cat - “we play our fantasies out in real life ways. no final fantasy, can we end these games though? you give me energy, make me feel light weight, like birds of a feather, baby, we were made for each other. and it’s hard to keep my cool, when other b*tches try to get with my dude, and when other chickens try to get in my coop. cause you’re a one in a million there ain’t a man like you.”

a song you didn’t expect to like

   rules doja cat - “break some bread up, you know that butter my biscuit. you ain’t talk money, then really that’s none of my business. i don’t even need these lenses, 20 on 20 my vision. bad yellow b*tch with her on on they prize, but, but, you know i ain’t no minion.”

what song would be your ‘intro’ music ?

   #1 emperor’s new clothes panic! at the disco - “welcome to the end of eras, ice has melted back to life. done my time and served my sentence, dress me up and watch me die. if it feels good, tastes good, it must be mine. dynasty decapitated, you just my see a ghost tonight. and if you don’t know, now you know.”

   #2 i might need security chance, the rapper - “i bought the chicagoist just to run you racists b*tches out of business. speakin’ of racists, f*ck your microaggressions. i’ll make you fix your words like a typo suggestion. pat me on the back too hard and pat’ll ask for your job, and in unrelated news, someone’ll beat your ass at your job.”

   #3 amari j. cole -  “out of the concrete was a rose, and windows was cold. had to go over and stand by the stove. we from the southeast, know know. this where the cops creep real slow. won’t vote, but mob deep with the poles. i punch the time sheet, not no more. now my assigned seat is throne.”

what song best represents your outward look —  or your attitude towards life ?

   king of the clouds panic! at the disco - “when i fall to rise, with stardust in my eyes, in the backbone of matter, i’m combustible dust. in the fire when i can’t sleep, awake, i’m too tired,. this old world, this old world.”

the song with your favorite lyrics

    the climb back j. cole - “every body mentions, suicide prevention, man, they even got a hotline. to call up when there’s tension, but i got a question, what about a f*cking homicide? need a number to call for my, for my to call whenever there’s a urge to get the triggers involved. need an number for my, for my to call, whenever there’s a urge to get the triggers involved.”

[bakatenshii]

Flushed

Dabi x Reader (BNHA)

word count: 5.1k

TW: 18+, smut, dub/noncon, drug use/abuse, corruption, virginity, (mild) blood

A/N: I am 12 days late for Sunny’s birthday, but my heart beats for one person and one person only— the light of my life, my wife @blahkugo​, who wrote me two (2!!) Shig fics for my bday Charity & Sludge, that I reread on the daily like the morning news. Cheeky shoutout to @thisisthehardestthing​ for writing one iconic sentence in here that I would have framed if I could. 

flushed

/fləSHt/

(of a person's skin) red and hot, typically as the result of illness or strong emotion.

cleanse (something) by causing large quantities of water to pass through it. 

Dabi doesn’t prowl for prey, he’s not on the lookout for fowl to take home for dinner. No, they come to him. It’s easy, always so obvious, he plucks them out like chicken in a hen house, ripe for breeding. 

It wasn’t hard to spot a desperate girl burning out, Hell, the campus’ full of them. But you had something more, something fun, something that made his lips quirk up and his dick twitch— you were uncorrupted. 

He can just tell, despite the airs you try to give, the aura of a virgin’s akin to an omega in heat to a starving alpha. Sweet, honeysuckle, the tiny flinches when a man gets too close, the breathy lilt in your voice when they propose something too risque; he inhales it all, commits it all to memory like you were desperately trying to do as you chewed on the tip of your pen and scratched out lines on the book in front of you. 

He didn’t need to push, you were already teetering the line, but he did it anyways— because it was fun. 

It was elating to watch you stumble into class the next day, eyes dark with sleepless anxiety, misery painted into every crevice of your features while your notes were tucked neatly into the drawer in his room. Really, you shouldn’t have left them so open on the lecture hall table, it’s like inviting a robber home and cooking him a three course meal. 

Finals season marked the end of your social life, and the beginning of Dabi’s career. It was almost boring, the repetitive nature of his job; too easy, too simple, a mockery of the entitled bookworms who look down on scummy repeaters like him. But the entitlement is what fuels him, over-achievers fearing for two simple digits on a crumpled sheet of paper as if it’s worse than death itself.

He thrives off of their stubbornness to accept anything below perfect; the hilarity of it all, the irony that their insurance to achieve higher standards than that of a scum like him only fuels his lifestyle, bringing him deeper down the depths of degeneracy. 

He sat behind you closer than usual, spoke a lil louder than usual, dropped in the most nonchalant comment about a study drug kids are crazing over these days. He watched as you flinched, hands stopped moving to listen in to the spiel he was spewing, the fishing hook he was dangling in front of you. 

A magic pill, one that’ll help you concentrate, kill any sleepiness, get you buzzed for hours on end— best of all, it’s totally legal, he gets it from a pharmacist, scout’s honour. 

That’s what he told you when you turned around to him at the end of class, whispering in hushed fear, nerves bouncing off your skin in goosebumps on your exposed arms.

Why he’s selling it? Because he needs some extra cash, he said. He knew you didn’t believe him, but he knew you were desperate enough not to care. 

When you met him in the dead of night at the empty carpark of his building, he knew he’s got you; hook, line, and sinker. No self-respecting girl would meet bottom-barrel trash like him in a deserted location at half three in the morning, no, you were untainted, but you weren’t pure.

He didn’t need to know it worked, doesn’t matter what your test results reflected, all that mattered was that you came back to him a few weeks later, met him at the same dingy carpark, hands trembling slightly less this time. 

He pretended to scold you, reveled in the way your lips curled into a soft pout, and warned you that tolerance builds fast. Do it in moderation, he had said— he’s the world’s biggest hypocrite. 

You came to him only a week later this time, and Dabi had pretended to be shocked. He wasn’t, he gave you a lower dosage the last time, there was no way you’d have been satisfied. Microdosing leads the unsuspecting to addiction, the one fact he learned from school. He lectured you, asked you if you’d built up tolerance too fast, if you wanted to try something different?

He watched as your eyes lit up, pupils dilating in excitement at the promise of something different, something better. It really was too easy. You were too easy. 

That night he invited himself over to yours, said he’d wanted to make sure you didn’t have any side effects. It was new, after all, and it was stronger. He’d sit there and be quiet, he promised; it was all out of the kindness of his own heart. 

It was almost embarrassing how eagerly you’d lie to yourself in hopes of a better grade.

Dabi wasn’t gonna do anything to you that night, trust takes time to build up after all. Besides, it’s no fun to pounce on the prey before they started running. You studied the nonsensical scribbling on annotated novels, he studied your tiny movements, twitches, nervous habits; etched them into his brain for future use. 

A too-long breath, a gasp, a clench of the fist signaled your come-up. He timed it, approximately thirty-five minutes for the initial peak, then smaller spikes at half hour intervals, totaling in four hours before you came down. Impressive, still, considering he’d given you the same dosage as the first time. 

He stuck to his words, staying quiet only until prompted, offered you water every once in a while, really, he deserved an Oscar for playing the best supporting dealer. It only took two more sessions before your tolerance peaked again, calculated and timed to perfection right before the next assignment.

The beauty of seeking out an English major was that they’re always searching, reaching into the void for any type of inspiration to translate into eloquently formed words. The beauty of seeking out you, was that you were already in too deep, hooked by the lil pills and plunged into the bottom of the ocean. 

Your grades rose while your inhibitions sank, a dramatic irony, isn’t that what they called it?

It’s cute, really, he only had to give you a nudge this time. Asked you how your assignment was going, played the sympathetic friend, and offered you something completely new, completely different. ‘Have you ever tried 2CB?’

Silly question, rhetorical, almost; of course you hadn’t. Innocent sweet girl like you never would’ve even touched weed, much less a hallucinogen. But he poses it to you in an eager tone like he’s genuinely waiting on an answer, like this isn’t just one big game to him. He laughed when you said no, asked him what it was— do you want him to show you?

You trust him, don’t you? He’s helped you through your exams, supported you through your assignments, honestly, he deserved a pat on the back. Don’t tell him you didn’t trust him, come on now, that’d break his heart. 

He didn’t expect you to put up a fight, but you gave in almost too easily, guess those lil pills really did migrate and nest in your bloodstream. 

The safety of your own dorm room was always granted to you, a faux-sense of security to veil you in, shield you from the true depth of depravity you’ve sunken to. He held you underwater in a net, ensuring you that he’d pull you up whenever— ‘just say the word.’

The net had long been cut, he’d admired the way you’d comforted down there, paddling aimlessly in hopeful conviction. 

It’s become routine, almost. Dabi lets himself in easily, settles into the couch across your desk, pulls out a baggy and passes it to you. “A psychedelic,” he explains, “you’ll see colours you’d never seen, find beauty in everything, an artist’s best friend,” if he does say so himself. 

He watches you pop the lil pill in your mouth, follow the stream of water pour down your throat, traveling the rips and divots of your tongue, before it drops down your throat into your bloodstream with a bob of your larynx. You’re so pliant, so obedient, he reminds himself to thank your parents for grooming such a cute lil doll.

You let out a loud gasp an hour and a half later, and he watches your fingers curl into themselves; and for the first time he speaks unprompted. 

“You good?” It’s almost genuine; the curiosity, at least. He wants to know how articulate you are, needs to know how deeply submerged your consciousness has become. 

He watches as you meet his gaze, little tongue dashing out to wet your lips, and nods once, twice, slowly. You shake your head almost immediately after, croaking out an, “I feel ill,” before pushing meekly at your desk to stand your body up. Cute, weak.

Just how he likes them.

He reaches an arm out to you, pulling you into his chest easily and nests your head into the crook of his neck. “Nauseous, aren’t you?” You nod, and he smirks. “Don’t worry princess, it’s just a rough come-up. I’ll make you feel better, I promise.” 

It’s almost believable, how sickly sweet he sounds. Too many sitcoms accumulated in recycled dialogues to woo girls in any situation; mix and match, simple yet effective. 

He can feel the restless rise and fall of your chest pressing against his, short quick pants as if gasping for air, a small hand scraping at his arm; yeah, you’re definitely coming up. 

He picks you up and nestles you into your own couch, so easily as if handling a ragdoll, then walks to the kitchen and pours you some water. The perfect friend, the perfect support, the perfect dealer. You’re so vulnerable, so exposed, you don’t even know it; it makes his brain fog over with carnal desire to pounce— but he doesn’t. Not yet.  

He lays back on the couch with you, arm snaking around your shoulder to coax you into a subdued euphoria. All the words he’s garnered throughout the years of fishing for his next meal come bubbling out so naturally in practiced scripts, “It’s okay princess, it’s a stronger pill. It’ll make you feel better, I promise.” He’s promising a whole lot, tonight. 

“Hey,” he tips your face to meet his with all the tenderness of a lion stalking its prey, “I’m here, right? You trust me, don’t you? I’ve never let you down. I’ll never let anything happen to you.” 

It’s hard to force down the gagging noise on cue with his disgustingly fake, rom-com lines, but the way he can feel your body loosen, relax, and mold into his tells him he’s close. So close. 

This is the best part, this is what he’s good at; the last stretch of patience while stalking his prey, with footsteps so light, treading so carefully, until the air slows down around him and he can taste your scent wafting through the air.

It happens in an instant, a whole-body jolt as you tense up, euphoria announced with a sharp gasp. The smile that crawls up his face is nothing short of sinister, predatory, but he knows you don’t notice. You can’t. Your eyes are strewn shut, basking in the high, and he takes the moment to swallow the pill he’s held under his tongue. 

It’s no fun to tripsit, he doesn’t get anything out of that, and Dabi doesn’t do things for free. He feels your head fall back onto his shoulder, short breaths warming a ripple of goosebumps up his neck, and watches as you push your heavy lids open to gaze at the ceiling.  

He can feel your giggles reverberating through his chest before he hears them, innocent, pure, unsuspecting. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, because virtuous girls like you like to be treasured, made to feel special, safe— he can make you feel safe; no one’s told him not to play with his food before he eats it. 

He watches as you flutter your eyelids at him, sigh into his touch, really, you’re the textbook prototype, he doesn’t even need to adjust his tactics. “You feelin’ good?” A hot breath into your ear, and he revels in the way your lips pout to let out a soft sigh. 

Funny how differently you react when you’re high out of your mind, maybe it’s the drug, or maybe it’s just Dabi? You’ve always wanted a bad boy like him, didn’t you? Good girls like bad guys; it’s textbook cliché, and you’re the blueprint. 

He doesn’t wait on an answer, he knows it: you’re feeling good, great— divine. He’ll be right there with you soon, he promises.

“Tell me what you see, princess,” Dabi’s not listening when a cascade of nonsensical descriptions come bubbling out, he doesn’t care. It’s all to get you to keep talking, shift your attention elsewhere while his hand slithers down your arm to play with the hem of your shirt.

At the first brush of his finger on the bare skin of your waist, he feels you purr into him, eyes rolling back in bliss. It’s his cue to give you more, invitation for him to snake his other hand up your naked thigh and knead the flesh gently. 

Gentle does it, he’ll bring you higher as you go. 

He ghosts a breath just under your ear, nipping at your lobe, and admires the full body shiver tumbling through. Moans, loud and needy, come panting out past your lips and echoes off the walls before bouncing back to him. He lets you symphonize short breaths and whiney pleas with each lick and suck traveling down your neck, painting blooms of purple and red as his hand travels dangerously high. 

A firm grip is all the warning he gives you before he tucks his fingers into the crease of your thigh, laughing almost at how obediently you spread your legs. What happened to that pure, innocent girl? Guess under all that laid a dirty whore, just like the rest of ‘em. 

It was slick, so wet, pussy dripping past the delicate lace and drooling over his fingers. Lace, befitting of a slut who lured him in with the fake charms of a virgin. He slides a finger down your slit, gathering up all the juices before presenting it to you. 

“What do you see?” He holds up his finger, slick dripping down like syrup, and watches your pupils dilate in effort to focus. He can see the way your lips part, string of saliva connecting the two soft molds, before gasping out, “melting ice cream.” 

“Want a taste?” 

You clamp over his finger before he even asks you to, sucks on the digit like it’s a melting ice lolly, before your eyes shoot open and mouth twists in disgust. Of course it doesn’t taste nice, normal food isn’t even edible when you’re rolling like this. You’re sticking your tongue out, in an attempt to air out the taste, or maybe you’re just a dumb dog, a dumb bitch, he’s not sure. He doesn’t really care. 

The same hand, now slick with saliva, grips your chin and crashes your lips into his. His tongue finds yours first, tip licking up the crevice of yours lolling out, and he sucks it into his mouth like it’s a crime for it to be kissing the air. 

There’s no modesty, no gentleness, his tongue pries your lips open, and he feels the weakest form of resistance before he’s thrusting the muscle down your throat. He lapping over the back of your teeth, traces over each bump and rugae on the gummy sides, and snickers at your shit attempt to kiss him back with your slack mouth drooling out the corners. 

He feels a pawing at his arm— your hand meekly grabbing at the sleeve of his shirt to bring him in closer, press his chest into your soft tits, crowd him into you more, more, more. 

It’s cute; it’s stupidly desperate. 

He gets it though, it’s no worries. Human nature is all it is; the desire to climb higher and higher— he wonders if he can get one out of you before the pill hits him. 

There’s no gentleness in the way his hand slots between your legs and cups your dripping cunt this time. He wishes he has more time to admire the way your legs quiver and twitch with every firm pat against your clit, but he’s on a time crunch. There’s so much time to spare, he can play with it all he wants later.

He can feel your needy moan vibrate through his lips and reverberate straight into his brain, sloppy mouths working simultaneously together and against each other as he rips your panties and shorts off in one go. Any self respecting girl would shut their legs in shame, in embarrassment, any attempt to protect their dignity, but you don’t. He doesn’t let you, anyways. 

A hand moves under your shirt to roughly grip at your tits in the same breath he sinks a finger into your sopping hole. Inhale; squeeze, thrust, exhale— you moan. It’s tight, as tight as a virgin pussy should be, but not too tight that it fights against the foreign digit ramming into it at a relentless pace too rough and quick to befit an unexplored hole. 

He can feel the pulsing around him, gummy walls milking his finger for all its worth, and he digs his palm into your swollen bud; it’s all he needed for you to come undone. You don’t squeal, you don’t scream, the 2CB in your system rendering you incapable of anything except long breathy sobs of his name. 

His finger pops out with a wet squelch, and he brings it to his mouth to taste it; tarty, thick— he’s still sober. You’re blubbering out drivel about the stars you saw, the colours swirling around at the peak of your euphoria, you think you saw God— is Dabi God? 

Dabi had to laugh, pat you on the head with his hand covered in syrupy slick, watch it leak and clump your strands of hair. He picks you up with your shorts and panties drenched through dangling at your ankles, and walks you to your bed.

You don’t notice, still basking in the afterglow; he knows this. Not that you’d push him off, tell him to stop. Not in your state anyways. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. 

He drops you once the bed’s in frame at the same time he feels his pulse rise, heart palpitate, and a wave of nausea threatens to bubble over. It doesn’t; he doesn’t let it. An experienced veteran would never. It’s a welcomed sensation, one he’s all too familiar with, and he gives himself a brief minute to breathe it in, savour it, before glancing back down at your limp body on the bed. 

Is it your body? He can trace your silhouette from the dip of your waist, the full of your hips, something glistening, gleaming in the light— your pretty little virgin cunt. His eyes roll back at the next inhale before he finds himself landing on the bed on top of you, forearms digging into the soft mattress of your bed. 

He hears your voice singing into his brain, soft lulls of his name stringing out in DabiDabiDabi— the desperation and need shooting straight to his cock, he doesn’t even need to look down at your soft pliant body, welcoming him, inviting him in. 

“Feels good, yeah?” His voice comes out rougher than usual, low and strained, and laughs at how eagerly you nod, watches your chin catch the air and paint strokes of colour following the route it takes, “Who makes you feel this good?” 

He knows, he knows because it’s all you’ve been able to say the past while, the only word on your mind that you can even blubber out— 

“You, Dabi,” your pants grow heavier; his pants grow tighter, “it’s you Dabi, please—“

A hand reaches up to cradle his cheek, your soft, uncalloused, hand, and he grips it by the wrist before bringing it up to his face. He traces every line that curves and meets on your palm with his tongue, letting it be covered entirely with drool before wrenching it down under his joggers and into his boxers to cup his aching erection. 

His hips rut into your palm almost immediately as a knee-jerk reaction, every hump into your tiny hand has him panting into your face, sweat beading at his temples. His tongue drops down to lick at your lips, asking for entrance, begging for access. Your lips might’ve parted just a fraction, maybe just to let out a breathe, but Dabi takes it as permission to thrust his tongue in and prod at your dormant one.

He can feel you gag at the sudden intrusion, throat convulsing to push back the unfamiliar slimy muscle, and he briefly considers yanking your hand out and shoving his cock down that pretty little mouth of yours. 

But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t have the patience. He needs it urgently, needs your tight virgin cunny stretching and agonizing over his overbearing size, needs to feel the flutter of the gummy walls with each thrust; he needs it bad, he needs it now—

Your hand is wrenched away as he yanks both waistbands down to his thighs. He looks at you, eyes blurring through kaleidoscopic vision, and makes out your disoriented gaze staring back at him. Disoriented with toxins, disoriented with need, lust, desperation— a hand reaches behind Dabi’s neck and pulls him back down to crash bruised lips together. 

It’s all the invitation he needs, not that he needs it, no, what he needs is to sink his painfully hard cock into that sweet, sweet cunt of yours. There’s a faint squealing coming from underneath him, and he thinks he can feel nails digging crescents into his nape, but all he can feel is your warm, wet walls clenching around him. 

There was no need to prepare you for any longer, there’s no point if he doesn’t stretch your virgin pussy out with his own cock; it’s wasted on fingers, his fingers don’t deserve to feel the way you walls quiver and contract around it. The pitched cries stop eventually as he feels your body go pliant and soft, and he has half a mind to realize you’re probably starting to come down soon.

He doesn’t wanna deal with that, you won’t be sober for another few hours, but you’ve peaked already, and not with him; that’s not fair, that’s no fun. His cock stills inside you with half still unsheathed and he reaches down into his pocket to take out a baggy of powder. There’s a spoon in, thank fuck, and he feeds a small bump right up to your nose. 

“Inhale,” he slots it right up your nostril, “it’ll make you feel good, didn’t you feel good?” Your head lowers to nod, bumps the edge of the spoon right into the cartilage of your nose, and inhale. Good girl. 

The baggy is tossed haphazardly before he’s working his dick into you again, cockhead pushing through the doughy walls in search of that pocket at the end of your pussy.

You don’t struggle anymore, instead clinging onto his shoulders and carving half-moons into the flesh. It hurts a lil, and Dabi doesn’t like it when it hurts, not when he’s the one hurting.

He snatches your hands off him and pushes them above your head, into the plush forgiving mattress. His teeth are back on your neck, biting over the ripples of purple and green and red and blue, reveling in your cries and moans that come out in symphonies. 

It feels good, great— divine, it’s what he deserves for bringing you to Nirvana. He’s basically your muse, after all, how can you truly describe rapture without experiencing it first? 

He can hear your moans ringing out from underneath, can see them traveling in the air in hues of reds and pinks and reds and reds— there’s red on your bedsheets, of course there is. He forgot that’s what comes with a virgin cunt; blood, mixing with the translucent coating his cock, dripping down and painting the crisp white sheet red, drifting into the air and congesting the whole room with red. 

He inhales the colour, sucks it into his lungs, and uses it to fuel the pistoning of his hips. Your breaths turn to pants, turns to sobs of his name leaving your lips again, and he thinks you look good, so good, taking his cock like this. You should thank him for bringing you to your second orgasm. 

Just look at you, crazy isn’t it? Crazy what a lil pill can do. But he’s got something better, something so much better, something that’ll bring you to a new dimension. You want that, don’t you? C’mon don’t be shy, Dabi will bring you right there, don’t you worry.

There’s still the faint cries from your orgasm when he flips you over and pushes your face into the untainted sheets. He watches as your hands sprawl up to grip and grasp at something, anything, and his hands ease up on the hold on your skull for a second to let you wheeze and greedily gasp for air.

He flickers a trail of blue down your back, watches the flames dance and rage in a mirage, every bouquet indented by the ligament of each tender rib, and there’s a faint scream. The pitch rises with the flames, taunting it to go higher, faster, paint murals in every swell of your back until he can’t see anything except ash coal char. 

Dabi blinks, squints his eyes as he throws his head back to focus on the paint chipping on the ceiling. It cracks and crinkles, shying away from his pointed glare, before he sucks in a deep breath and looks back down at you. 

There’s no ash, no char, only warm tanned flesh, pressed flush against the pristine white sheets underneath. It burns against the pads of his long fingers splayed out across your back, and he winces in annoyance at the irony.

You don’t seem to notice his pause, too fucked out or fucked up to register what’s going around you probably. A mixture of both; Dabi can’t really remember what he’s given you or how long he’s been there. 

He can’t decide if he wants to stay there anymore,  can’t make out the pros and cons of either. He counts them off with each painful yank of your hair, each harsh thrust into your abused virgin cunt— it was that, wasn’t it? 

He was there because he sniffed out a cute lil virgin, one so untainted and untouched, one begging for him to corrupt. He’s not known to be very generous, but sometimes he gets into one of those moods; it can’t be helped when there’s a desperate doll waiting to be torn apart. 

He knows what you want, can read you with his eyes closed— you don’t need eyes to feel the pulse of a greedy cunny; it clenches with every slap of the face, damn near clamps down entirely as his slender fingers slither around to the front of your throat.

Two fingers shove past your lolling tongue and yanks your head back by the digits hooked on the corner of your mouth. There’s drool, and spit, and so many fluids coming and entering all at once— and then you’re coming, again, probably, for the third time that night. Fourth? 

It’s methodical, straightforward, he reads the instruction manual once, maybe twice if the first one’s a bit faulty, and he’s got it down to muscle memory.

At the sound of heaving he looks back down again, admires the feel of two of his fingertips fucked straight into the back of your throat, and pushes down on the rugged gummy wall. You gag, and he laughs. It’s cute, so cute, you’re real cute, you know?

“Such a good lil whore aren’t you?” He digs his nails into the flesh of your hip and rams his cockhead until he can feel the kiss from your puckered cervix. “All fucked out of your mind, bet you can’t even hear me, can you?” 

He watches as you gurgle out words past his fingers wedged down your slack mouth, and choke on the pools of saliva drooling out. It’s the funniest sight, fascinates him to death, really. 

A slap to the face might bring you out of your daze, so he slips his hand back out of your sloppy mouth and revels at your body propelling forward straight into the headboard. He grasps at the tips of your hair and wrench your body back towards him before any satisfying impact could sound out. It’s a shame, but concussions are not in his agenda. 

“Been fucked so loose, filthy slut can’t even keep your body up,” he rolls your hair around his hands and yanks back until your skull meets his chin; it’s excruciatingly painful, probably, and that’s why it’s the best. 

It’s the perfect way for your mouth to fall open naturally, to scream, squeal, fluster around in attempt to be freed from the position— it creates the perfect hole for him to spit in. He watches as your face contorts in disgust, tongue pushed out to let his spit drool out the sides, but that’s no fun, not very nice of you, is it?

“Swallow,” he assists you with an extra hard thrust, and you choke on the moan coming out. His hand comes forward from your hip to rest under your chin before pushing it up so it clamps shut, “I said, swallow.”

Your eyes flood with tears that waterfall down your face, and God, he thinks you look the best like this— wrecked on his cock, body littered in purple and red, covered in sweat and blood and cum; his perfect lil cocksleeve, just for him. 

It’s emotional, almost— religious, even, he can feel the palpitations in his heart thumping against his chest echoing off the headboard banging against the wall, and lets the euphoria consume him, wash over him as he coats your walls with hot ropes of cream and white, hips stuttering with your greedy cunny fluttering and clenching around it, milking and sucking in his cock in deeper, deeper, more.

He thinks you might’ve cum, might still be cumming, but all he can hear is the Messiah calling for him, choir singing lulling him into an infinite jubilation; he closes his eyes to bathe in it, let himself be cleansed and washed over with ecstasy. 

When he pulls out, your body flops onto the mattress, and he watches as white dribbles out your quivering hole, mixing with the red on the sheets, creating a puddle of pink and magenta, before passing out in the fuschia.

[melancholia-cressa]

Unwanted

This is the sequel to Weakness, the first Dio oneshot I posted here. Lord knows how long I had this thing in my files. I think it was 9 or 10 days? I had writer’s block and college had me in a chokehold, so I lost track of time. I was actually thinking about how I should end this for days now, and here we are. I rushed the ending, to be honest, so I still hope you guys enjoy it somehow.

warning: mentions of blood, minor swearing, huge spoilers for Part 3, another very long oneshot, and a lot of references to the oneshot preceding this

Note: I deliberately used Dio as his human side and DIO as the current one with the insane god complex.

                                            ════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Dio Brando—no, DIO stood at the peak of humanity; transcending its mortal existence entirely. The moment he received his Stand from an old crone, the idea of anyone opposing the charismatic and powerful vampire was inconceivable. Foolish, even, in the eyes of his most loyal followers. The man couldn't care less for the corpses and blood that trailed after his every step nor for those who swore undying fealty with lips pressed to his shoes in a kiss of fear and reverence. Every word that rolled off his tongue is law and grace combined, akin to religious faith with its own avid believers and devotees. A mere touch is denied and unattainable, something that no one could even work hard for, unless it was to satiate his more carnal desires. If anything, men and women either feared or admired him. On more than one occasion, it was both. A god among men, they say.

So, why is one measly photograph enough to chill the blood in his veins and falter the confidence in his stride?

Enya watched her master with obvious curiosity. Her fingers gripped her cane tighter the longer DIO stared at the developed image. The old woman assumed that her lord, almighty and fearsome, stewed in cold rage. Never had she seen him cower from terror nor lose his composure. It was unimaginable. Enya discarded the notion and did not bother to ask questions. No one dares question him, after all.

His fingers curled, knuckles discreetly trembling from the force, and nearly crumpled the poor thing in his hand. To the untrained eye, his focus remained on the two prominent figures of Jotaro Kujo, a teenager donning a high school uniform with the addition of his unusual cap and a large chain hanging on the collar, and the latter's grandfather Joseph Joestar whose clothes resembled that of some human adventurer—Indiana Jones, was it? DIO didn't care to know and never will. He gave little thought to those men. Not even the two Stand users that left his ranks and became traitors once the Joestars took the implanted fleshbuds off their foreheads.

What caught his attention was the face of a woman who seemed to be in her early twenties. She stood next to Jotaro with her arms crossed and her gaze focused on the horizon. The grim smile and the hardened resolve in her eyes made her look more alive in the photo than what DIO wanted. The tension in her expression contradicted the ease in her posture, marked by her lax shoulders and dainty fingers paused midway from drumming against her arm. She brought unwanted memories of blood and weakness, ones he thought he buried long ago after a century of isolation.

It was you. The same eyes, nose, lips, skin, hair—even the damn way you held yourself. The glaring similarities between the woman in his memories and the woman engraved in the film rattled him to the core. DIO never believed in the supernatural before he became one himself. Although, he thought that reincarnation was an idiotic concept born from those who cannot accept that death and the afterlife were the end of all things. Yet, there you are; a painful reminder of his former humanity. The turmoil that wrapped itself around his mind added to the phantom throb of his heart from when he was still human.

His glare intensified, easing his grip on the spirit photograph. DIO doesn't want to alarm Enya nor any of his underlings. He loathed appearing weak and undignified; giving them an opportunity to ambush him should he let his guard down.

The photo fluttered next to a broken camera, smashed to pieces with a chop of his hand, on the table with a huff from the imposing man. Moonlight spilled through the windows and bathed him in its luminescence; his shadow swallowed by the darkened areas of the room where the light would never reach. The fury burned bright in his eyes, yet Enya noticed something else—an emotion indecipherable and foreign. She never had the chance to mull about it, because DIO turned on his heel and walked towards the stairs with an unnatural grace and elegance in his gait.

“It seems that fate is upon us,” he told no one in particular; his smooth, honeyed voice carried across the expanse of the lobby. "I shall retire to my room for the night. Do not disturb me."

DIO didn't need to say any more. The underlying threat in his words told Enya everything. If anything, this decision served to confuse the witch doctor more. Her master always ridiculed the Joestars, either with a scoff or a mocking laugh, in their quest every time he checked their progress to send in the next Stand user. Tonight, he barely uttered an insult nor a snide comment. She wordlessly watched him disappear around the bend, then sighed.

"Oh, Lord Dio… What troubles you so?"

The heavy thud of a closed door echoed in DIO's ears; magnified by the lifeless expanse of his room. His feet absent-mindedly led himself to sit on one of the armchairs across a small table where a golden goblet accompanied a bottle of wine. With a practiced motion, his fingers curled around the stem of the goblet as he poured himself a drink with his other hand. His vacant gaze remained on the red liquor flowing into his cup; lost in memories and possibilities that tortured him for a century.

DIO never did forgive himself for allowing you to die.

He had his chance. He could have turned you into a vampire like himself when he held you in that castle. He could have given you an opportunity to live life with him; his abiding presence a gift to compensate for the time he left you after he gained immortality. He could have given you unimaginable freedom—to see civilization evolve and change before your eyes, to live in a time where you two would be the only constants in the world. DIO could have taken you with him during that lonesome century to be beside him when the coffin was opened. He could see the silent admiration in your gaze if you were to travel the world with him as he searched for a way to attain Heaven. Knowing that you had never traveled outside of London, DIO would have gladly taken you to anywhere you wanted and wished. You could have been the one sitting across from him at this very moment. He could imagine a thick tome in your hands and the curious gleam in your eyes as you carefully flipped pages, as if they would break under the slightest pressure of your touch. You had never held a book before since girls were rarely educated then, and DIO was certain you would have loved to read.

If it wasn't for the fact that he respected your dying wish, DIO could have lived the rest of his life with you.

The bottom of the bottle harshly slammed against the wooden surface. Hairline cracks crept across the glass bottle due to his vice grip, knuckles turning pale from the force. His jaw clenched, teeth gnashed and bared, as he brought the rim of the goblet to his lips. Your disappointed frown flashed across his mind; the faint memory of your hands gently taking away the bottle from his grasp consumed his senses. DIO could feel your fingers brush against his wrist as you pulled him to the spare room in your house; the one which once belonged to your parents. The slur in his voice was painfully obvious, yet you never pried for the reasons that caused him to drink so much. That soft smile still graced your features, even when you faced his alcohol-induced outbursts of rage and annoyance. It burned itself into his mind even after all these years. DIO brought the untouched wine back to the table as fingers buried themselves in his hair.

He couldn't even bring himself to drink away his thoughts of you.

"Useless," he muttered, tipping his head back against the cushion. He closed his eyes with a grunt. A thunderous roar shook the floors of the castle as he slaughtered zombies who dared laid their greedy hands on your corpse. Blood—your blood—smeared his skin, stains that still haunted him for eternity, and it was everywhere. His hands desperately reached for you, your dead body clutched by that damnable blond who accompanied Jonathan, as he fell from the balcony—

"I, DIO, being pathetic and weak?" He spat, feeling pinpricks of pain blossoming in his clenched fists. "Forget your humanity. Forget Dio Brando. Forget her."

DIO found himself spending the remnants of the night wallowing in memories of you, until the light of dawn peeked through his curtains.

                                           ════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Your smile greeted him the following night.

In the solace of his room, DIO traced a sharp nail against the photo that held your beaming expression: eyes alight with laughter and lips pulled into that godforsaken smile. Your fingers brushed your mouth, paused in the middle of hiding the aforementioned smile behind your hand. You shared the same name as her. Two cameras lie broken on the table along with a photo—disregarded and forgotten—of the Joestar group riding camels through the Saudi Arabian desert. He didn’t care for the others laughing beside you.

What mattered was the bitter throb of his heart that shouldn’t even be possible for someone who claimed to have triumphed over his humanity.

"Dio!" He could hear your scandalized gasp ring clear in the country air. A hand covered the smile on your lips as you laughed out loud, brushing off the strands of hair that stuck to your face. Water soaked the cuffs of your sleeves and your collar, but you didn’t mind. “I can’t believe you did that!”

Neither did Dio, but there he was: water from the nearby stream trickling down his fingers and a smug smirk stretching from one ear to another. He huffed, shaking the water off his hands, “You forget that I’m not some stuck-up aristocrat who can’t have fun.”

“True,” you hummed, wiping your hands on your skirt. “Then again, it has been a while since we spent time together like this.”

You lifted your apron to wipe off the water on your face when a handkerchief softly rubbed against your cheek. Dio, who was surprised at his own gentle ministrations, continued to dab the water off as if it was routine; his thumb ghosting your heated skin through the thin cloth. The scarlet flush blooming across your cheeks and tinting your ears made his smirk widen, if that was possible. You sputtered your gratitude, yet adamantly tried to evade the touch of his handkerchief as you held your apron in an iron grip. Dio could only laugh at your expense, his heart thundering and his own cheeks the slightest bit warm.

A resounding crash stole him away from the memory. The bright, blue sky and its cotton-wisp clouds faded from view; the bleak, ornate walls of his room in their place. The light of the sun was replaced with streaks of moonlight slipping through the cracks of his curtains and cascading down the floor. It was only then did DIO realize the crinkled edge of the photograph in his hand, the glittering shards scattered on the ground, and the wine that dripped from the wall to pool around the fragments of what once was a glass bottle. The quiet of the room was broken by three, quick knocks and a voice asking the man of his condition with an unmistakable, underlying tone of concern. DIO recognized the voice to be one of his most loyal subordinates, Vanilla Ice.

“What happened? Is something the matter, Lord Dio?”

A low growl rumbled in his chest. DIO closed his eyes, stopping time and pocketing your photo in one fluid motion. The World picked up one of the broken cameras and threw it out the window while the vampire stood over the Joestar photograph as if nothing happened. Images of you from his memories and your reincarnation occupied his thoughts; your photo burning a hole in his pant pocket. When time resumed, DIO swiped the photo off the table and thrusted the memories of his past to the darkest recesses of his mind.

DIO would leave you be for now if it meant he could take you back by his side in the end.

“Nothing that concerns you, Vanilla Ice. Come in, I have new orders for Enya.”

                                           ════ ⋆★⋆ ════

She’s not you. She will never be you.

But you want her to be, DIO’s traitorous subconscious whispered. This is ridiculous. The man has never even met your reincarnation. He never spent time with you in this life, barely even a ghost of a conversation between you two, yet he longs for your company more than anything. His rational thoughts and sentiments warred against each other, vying for his final decision on what to do with you. The moment DIO saw you, bleeding and bruised on the stairs below, his heart bled and his shoulders nearly hunched from the pain. His rational side of the argument was silenced and shackled by the chains of past memories that bound him to you. He ached to take you into his arms and whisper reassurances in your ears, that he will give you all the comfort and security he could never give you before.

He couldn’t. Not with Polnareff leaning into your touch; his arm slung over your shoulders and head dangerously close to yours. Not with his blood simmering under his skin and his nails piercing through his palm, blood slowly seeping through the fingers of his clenched fist. The fight in your eyes hid the intense worry for your wounded comrade—maybe even lover, DIO bitterly mused—as you pressed your side flush against the silver-haired man’s battered, stumbling body. You looked at DIO as if he was the gum stuck on the sole of your shoe; as if he was the vilest, most putrid thing that ever graced the Earth. The tension and anger twisted your expression into a scowl, brows furrowed and lips dipped into that all-too familiar frown.

DIO had so many questions to ask you; so many memories to share in the vain hope that you would sympathize with him and join him. One look in your eyes, the same indiscernible emotion flickering to life when you tended to his bruises before he was adopted by George Joestar, and DIO knew he would lose this battle with you just like all those years ago. He could feel your fingers wrapped around his arm again; the cold cloth pressed to his bruised cheek; the soft smile he hated and adored at the same time. White hot rage bubbled and coursed through his veins. His jaw clenched and his nails dug deeper into the scarred flesh of his palms, drops of blood dripping towards the floor. His heart pounded against his chest as if desperate to flee into your embrace.

“In your fucking dreams,” you spat, scowl deepening and shifting your hold on Polnareff. “I’d sooner die than join you.”

Phantom daggers planted themselves into DIO’s heart, violently thrashing in its cage, as the image of you in his memories clashed against your battle-worn figure. Remnants of your smile adorned your lips followed by the laughter that echoed in his ears; the teasing lilt reserved solely for Dio. Your eyes glowed with life, brimming with joy and love that he realized too late. Your outstretched hand implored him to take it; to cool the swell of his bruises and wipe the blood off his wounds; to run across the fields once more before he had to return to his studies; to spend another day with you in Victorian London before he found that stone mask. Then there was you of the present, breathing ragged and gaze lit with spite and abhorrence for everything DIO is. You struggled to carry Polnareff’s weight from how much you leaned on him. Blood matted your hair and a long scratch marred your cheek. He noticed your leg wobble, threatening to let you and the other man pathetically fall to the floor. Your hands gripped Polnareff closer to you, whether this was an intended or subconscious action was beyond DIO.

He still yearned for you, despite all of this.

                                           ════ ⋆★⋆ ════

His pained screams disrupted the once peaceful night of Cairo, Egypt.

“What?!” DIO felt the cracks viciously trail from his leg to his head, split in half similar to how Jonathan caught him off-guard on that fateful day. Humiliation, shame, disbelief, and a storm of emotions raged in his heart; eyes wide and lips parted from the turbulence wracking his body. Jotaro watched, heated glare shadowed under the brim of his hat, as DIO’s screams reached the heavens. The stars joined in the spectacle, mockingly bright under the torturous pain and suffering of the once invincible vampire.

“I-Impossible!” DIO warbled, choking and gurgling from the blood pooling in his mouth. “I… am DIO! I… am...”

Something in his gut coiled; whispers of his mind urged him to look in the direction of the harbinger of his demise. His gape drifted from the stars to Jotaro, but his attention was not on the high school delinquent. At least ten feet away from the two, you leaned on the railing of the bridge with trembling legs. One of your hands clutched the wound on your left side; a wound DIO inflicted himself. He clearly remembered the triumph and glee that dulled his senses; the swing of the stop sign that would bring the Joestar bloodline to an end; the surprise shifting into panic when you jumped in front of Jotaro with the intent to protect him. In his haste, DIO flicked his wrist and grazed your side with the edge of the stop sign.

He once thought fate favored him. That the decision to cut off his head and to take Jonathan’s body was fate allowing him to live another century. That your absence was a weakness that fate had nipped in the bud for him; that your reborn soul was another chance fate had given him to atone for his mistakes. So, why? Why would fate pit you against him, to relive that cursed night when Dio had taken your life in front of his very eyes? Were you fated to ally with the Joestars and die for them? Another corpse among the others that followed the wake of the Joestar lineage, all just to defeat him?

DIO couldn’t kill you, as much as he despised the sentiment.

A fool. He is and always will be a fool when it comes to you. Dio will always want you in each lifetime, and it pained DIO to admit it in his final moments. His heart lurched and lodged itself in his throat; the fire in his blood scorching his skin and insides. His hand reached out to you, just like before, but you’re not dying this time. He knew that, if the afterlife actually existed, he will never be able to join you. DIO saw your eyes widen as you took a step back, farther from his grasp. Another bloodcurdling scream rang in the night; dying gurgles heard only by the two people who brought him to his death.

Even in this life, Dio could never have you.

[lisinfleur]

FTM - Chapter 2: What separates boys from men

Author’s Notes | Second part of this small series! Hope you guys are enjoying! Words | 4353 ⁑ Warnings: Cursing. Mentions to betrayal and fat-shaming.

It was there.

Nevertheless, as he imagined, it wasn't easy.

To be a better man for you was a challenge he had to face with all his heart and Hvitserk wasn't really finding obstacles when he was with you. The moments by your side were just proving he took the best decision he could've ever taken: you were indeed an amazing wife, sweet company, gentle, always up to make his days better and prone to satisfy his needs even more and better than any other lover he ever had.

It was true he didn't have sex with you again yet, but the truth was that it didn't happen yet because of his lack of invests: Hvitserk was still thinking it was too soon to go for something so intimate when the two of you were building something he could see would grow into this level. It wasn't time to search for you yet and waiting to have his sexual desire satisfied was also proof of his change he was giving to himself.

He could find sex wherever he wanted. But he would wait for your time to give it to him once again.

However, he couldn't say it wasn't hard to avoid the "chances" he had everywhere. Getting rid of his ex-lovers was something worse than taking a bath after one huge combat: they were stuck to him like blood between his braids, finding ways to pop out of street corners or cornering him around, trying to get him by the dick as they’d always done.

The fight against his body was the hardest part, but the way his mind was focused helped him not only to fight his own need but also to see things he had never seen...

Many of those women he had in his bed really knew he was married. They not only knew, but they liked to know they were able to take him from his wife's bed! Some of them reached levels of cruelty in their words post being rejected that Hvitserk started feeling disgusted by the memories of every moment he shared with them against his skin.

"Do you think she doesn't know, Hvitserk? What woman wouldn't want to lay with a prince? What pig like her wouldn't know a man like you would want beautiful women by his side?"

"She's not even a woman!"

"By the gods! You'll exchange me for that bunch of meat?"

"Don't come back when you're tired of searching for her cunt in the middle of all that fat, prince Hvitserk!"

Their cruelty was... Despicable. To start for the smaller of the adjectives he could think about those women now.

Every time he would hear such a terrible thing about you from the former lovers he had just shoved away, Hvitserk would come back home and find you there, showing more of those sweet smiles, preparing different recipes for his meals, new clothes you started making for him or even simply being there to kiss his lips and welcome his tired self into the cottage you were turning into his favorite place in Miðgarð.

And it would fill him with the strength to continue changing more and more, facing more and more his own mistakes and changing himself into a better husband for you.

"So... I can see you're growing better."

Words from Ubbe that caught Hvitserk's thoughts from his moment at the Hall's table. He had gone there to drink with his brothers - this time for real, not as a disguise to leave you home for some whore around.

"What?" he asked, taking a sip from his cup and Ubbe smiled.

"You see, some women around have no shame to spit to me their anger about your... Madness," he mocked his lovers' words, smiling at Hvitserk. "I supposed they're becoming angry after being rejected since you seem to have chosen to settle down with your wife. Am I right?"

Hvitserk smiled, but before he could speak, Ivar intromitted himself on the conversation intrusive, as always.

"Our brother was always gluttony, Ubbe. It's not a surprise to see him choosing the bigger dish to devour."

In a different situation, he would've rolled his eyes. Ubbe was ready to reprehend his little brother for the mean comment as the reasonable voice he was always among them but it was Hvitserk's voice to be heard, surprising them all.

"Stop," he grunted, looking at Ivar. "It's not the first time you have mean words to speak about Y/N and I may have been quiet until now, but Ubbe is right. Things have changed and I decided to honor my trousers and stop being a boy which includes protecting my wife from mean words like these."

Ivar rolled his eyes, sipping from his cup as Sigurd and Ubbe were observing that scene with different tones of surprise in their faces: Ubbe, mostly taken by Hvitserk's rampant of maturity; and Sigurd, by the idea he wouldn't be the only one in that table facing Ivar's mean words anymore.

"You have to admit she's quite different from your usual taste, Hvitserk. And now that Ubbe is growing fond of Torvi, I was expecting you to do everything but embracing the female grizzly bear you were forced to marry and accepting your fate. Especially when Margrethe is free to..."

"I said stop!"

This time Hvitserk's voice was angry, followed by a punch of his heavy fist against the wooden table.

"My wife has a name, and her name is Y/N. And you will call her by her name and stop these mean comparisons right now, Ivar! Enough of your poisonous words! She's bigger and curvy, so what? Won't every woman grow bigger and curvy when bearing our children? Won't thin silhouettes grow round when their bellies are full of our seed? Y/N's curves are gorgeous. She fills her dresses, my bed, in a way no other woman ever did. And I may have taken longer to understand how precious she is, but now that I'm aware of my treasures, I won't admit your mocking anymore!"

Ivar had an expression twisted into irony while Ubbe's lips curved in a smile. His little brother was finally growing into the man he always thought was there, hidden behind that hedonist little boy and so, he straightened himself, resting against the chair, letting Hvitserk take care of that situation for his delight.

"It seems little Hvitserk found something hidden into his wife's folds..." Ivar mocked once again.

To what Hvitserk answered with a proud expression no one could really doubt was real in his heart.

"I found love, Ivar. Something I don't think you'll ever find with this bitter tongue and stone heart you insist on keeping inside of your chest. Speak as much as you want, brother. I have a wife, she's gold and soon she'll be full with my child..."

"Even rounder than before!" Ivar insisted, bittered by Hvitserk's words.

"Even rounder than before, Ivar, you're right," Hvitserk completed, not affected by his brother's anger. "Even more beautiful than she already is. And I can't wait to see her like this, waiting for the dreams I have already coming into my life. Now tell me, little brother... Ubbe is to get married for the second time. As long as I know, Sigurd grew fond of that farmer girl he was seeing around. What about you? Bittered by your loneliness, Ivar, the Boneless?"

Sigurd, who was silent since the beginning of that conversation, scoffed a giggle behind his cup causing Ivar to grunt infuriated, hitting the table three times, but having no answer against his older brother who just got up under the smile stamped on Ubbe's lips.

"Going home, brother?" Ubbe asked.

"Y/N will fry pork ribs for me today with lemon and a bittersweet salad she said she's created. I can't lose it, brother," Hvitserk smiled.

"When he comes back, our father will be satisfied, Hvitserk. You bet he will," Ubbe said, smiling at his younger brother who smiled back.

Ragnar was spending some time at the settlement in England and it would surely be a good surprise for him to come back and see that his son had finally settled up with his fate alongside the woman he knew was good for Hvitserk since the beginning.

Hvitserk just nodded, smiling before leaving the table towards the square. This time, he decided to walk himself home since Vakker - his horse - was left home to take a time to rest. Hvitserk smiled, thinking about the beautiful mantle Y/N had done for the horse as a gift since she saw him complaining to Ubbe his horse was slowed by the cold in the last Winter. She had used the pieces of cloth she had from the clothes she made for him and sewed a beautiful cloak that would cover the horse during the cold nights keeping his legs from being affected by the cold and weakened by the harsh time.

His smile became bigger. How was it possible not to love someone who cared even for the littlest things in his life that were important for him?

"I miss this smile in your face," Hvitserk's thoughts were cut by a familiar sweetened voice he wasn't hearing in a while, and raising his eyes from the desert road he noticed what would be his harsher challenge of all: Margrethe was standing near a tree in the middle of his way, close to his house.

Sweet Margrethe...

His first love, the burning desire of his youth. His heart ached once again remembering the sadness of the day Ubbe chose to make her his wife and she accepted. The pain of not being able to question or ask for her since he was already betrothed to Y/N and how he hated that compromise that was now his most precious treasure.

She came closer. Her clothes weren't that bright now, denouncing the effects of divorcing his older brother were already coming down on her life. Yet, she had the same slow way to walk closer. Those eyes he once loved so bad were still sweet, yet full of sadness.

"You should be home, Margrethe," Hvitserk said, keeping his position.

Keeping himself from walking forward to cover the distance she didn't have walked towards him.

"It's late and people know already you're not my brother's wife anymore..."

"I chose wrong, didn't I?" she spoke with a doughy voice he knew so well.

Hvitserk's heart ached inside his chest.

It was easier when they were cruel towards you... It was easier when they weren't into his heart. But she... She was something more in his life and maybe the gods were testing him one last time. One more time...

Was he strong enough?

"I should've married you," she continued, lowering her head.

And Hvitserk felt the impulse to touch her chin and lift her face tickling his fist he clenched, holding back the tense arm. She wasn't his wife.

You were home waiting for him.

"I can see how you treat her... And I envy her. I chose wrong and now I can see my mistakes," she continued.

"I don't blame you, Margrethe. You made a choice with your heart, I believe. Things were what they had to be and I was fated anyway. Y/N and I were betrothed and nothing would've changed my father's decision. After all, she's a good woman and I'm happy now..." Hvitserk tried.

Seeing when she lifted her eyes full of tears to look at him.

"And I'm doomed," she meowed.

Crossing Hvitserk's heart with a thousand blades.

Ubbe never told them why he just gave up on the woman they loved when younger like that. He was a prince and could've taken Torvi as his second wife. Instead, he took distance from her, and within a month, he just said he wanted to divorce and leave Margrethe who had no say in his decision spoke with stone-cold words.

It was like all the love they've once shared for her had gone from Ubbe's heart at once and he didn't know why.

"I'm fated to loneliness and this despicable life... This is not fair!" she cried.

And for a second, Hvitserk thought he could hug her. He could take her as his second wife maybe. You...

But you had suffered so much...

"It was supposed to be me! Now Torvi stands by his side as if she didn't have sat beside a prince before, walking around as the future queen Ubbe will make of her as if I didn't have worked my whole life for the chance she stole from me!"

Margrethe's words cracked the glass of that scene for a moment and Hvitserk blinked twice, looking at her. He couldn't believe what he was hearing so, he let her speak, keeping the attention, giving her enough rope so she could feel safe to keep pouring her heart out.

"All because of her children... All men want her because she produces children like the soil produces trees! It's not my fault the gods kept me dry! I tried... I tried so hard! But Ubbe gave up on me like trash... And you're now with her as if you didn't hate the idea of getting married to that unknown foreigner and cursed this fate so many times between my arms. Come back, Hvitserk... Leave her and stay with me. I... I know my mistakes now. We can be happy again!" she said, walking towards him.

To what Hvitserk stepped back, covering the same distance she had walked but away from her.

"I have no reason to divorce Y/N like this..."

"Björn didn't have any reasons to divorce Torvi as he did. Yet, he did. You can do it too... Isn't Ubbe taking his brother's ex-wife to himself? You can stick your claim over me. I'll gladly accept you, Hvitserk! I know you're fated to great things too... We... We could be so happy together!"

Fated to great things...

Hvitserk blinked twice once again, seeing more and more cracks on Margrethe's mask. How many times did he saw her smiling beside Ubbe after saying he would one day become a great king and she would be queen by his side?

And before his brother had taken her for granted, how many times he had listened to her speaking about the great things all sons of his father were fated to? How lucky the women by their side would be?

"Or maybe you don't love me as you said before..." she said, looking at him with a glow of anger inside her eyes. "Did you lie to me too, Hvitserk? Is Sigurd like the three of you, Björn, Ubbe, and you?"

She would go for his little brother in case of his denial.

Hvitserk stood straight, chest stuffed by the deep breath he took, face frowned to speak with a harsh glare towards the woman he once thought it was the half of his soul.

"Fated to great things, Margrethe? All of us are. But if you want to know which one of us is the fool that will fall for your lies at this point in our lives, the answer is none. Cause not even Ivar with all the sadness of his lonely soul would fall for lovely words poisoned with greed like yours. You're not after love as I thought you were... You tried for our seeds to fill you with child and grant you the life of a queen you thought you would be when you accepted my brother's proposal," he spat.

And almost as if the gods were confirming his thoughts, Margrethe's lovely expression turned into anger and the mask fell once and for all, shattering the loving memories he had kept from her in a million of pieces: she was nothing but an opportunist and somehow, the gods had saved his older brother from that viper he was seeing changing form in front of his bare eyes as if she was Loki himself and his shapeshifting trickery.

"And is it such a bad thing for a woman who lived like me, prince of Kattegat?" she spoke harshly, no sign of the sweet woman Hvitserk had once fallen in love with. "I was a slave! You know nothing of slavery, son of Ragnar! You know nothing about how it is to be used as a dumpster by your masters, passed from hand to hand as if you were nothing but a doll to be used! Even after you got married to one of them, to keep being shared with his brothers like a toy for their entertainment, keeping these stupid games for your husband just to be thrown away by a better whore who can give him the little ones you weren't able to produce! Discharged by all the brothers who liked to fuck you just because they found themselves some cunts they now think are warmer than yours once were for them! What do you know about the life of a woman, Hvitserk? You can't judge me!"

The sound of the door of the cottage being opened froze Hvitserk on his place: Margrethe's altered voice called your attention and you came out through the door to watch that scene, instantly causing her to turn against you as if you were a moving target to her fury.

As soon as you stepped outside, she pointed her finger towards you, infuriated. Her face defaced in an expression of pure anger Hvitserk had never seen on the woman he used to see as the sweetest of his lovers.

"And for her... You're exchanging me and all these years we spent together for her! A woman you barely knew before you got married to! A creature you didn't even want or chose to get married to!"

"Stop it, Margrethe!" Hvitserk tried, standing between the two of you, trying to get Margrethe to shut up, fearing her words would destroy his whole progress as you walked closer to that sad scene.

"No! I won't shut up, you despicable prince! It's true! And if you lied to her then I'll save her from your lying fairytales! This is what your prince is, dear Y/N! A despicable man just like his brothers! Who fell tired of fucking me while you were home waiting for him! Who told you dozens of times he was drinking with his brother when he was indeed drinking from me in his brother's bed! Like his brother, he got tired of the pussy he fucked when younger and now he may be playing the good husband for you, but the truth is that I wasn't the only one he had in his bed before and after you were laid by his side with this ring on your finger that means nothing but a collar his father forced him to wear! They left me to the gods but I won't keep my mouth shut any longer! Cheater, that's what your prince is. A scoundrel, that's what Ubbe is! A liar, what Sigurd is, and his useless cripple brother after him! The great, great sons of Ragnar Loðbrók! Nothing but bastards, that's what they are!"

It was enough for him. Nervous, Hvitserk rose his hand to slap Margrethe's face and she shrunk waiting to experiment what she used to have long ago when she wasn't their slave.

But that slap never came.

In awe, she looked up to see your hand calmly holding Hvitserk's arm. Your touch soothing his angry frown as you stood in front of him, your back turned to her.

"No," you said and Hvitserk's heart sunk into his chest.

He couldn't exactly define if it was the shame of losing control like that or fear that you were defending Margrethe's words, but for a moment, he thought his whole efforts to walk that way towards your heart since the beginning were lost in her words.

Your fingers touched his face. A gentle caress he was getting used to receiving from your tender hands. And his heart ached more, imagining it was the last time he could be tasting that touch.

But your voice sounded calm, almost resigned.

"I know," you said, finally looking at her. "I know he got laid with you. And others. Many others. I know Hvitserk is a cheater and I know he gave around what was supposed to be mine only. I know of his treasons and all the many lies his mouth gave me."

Heavy words that enlarged Margrethe's eyes and shrunk Hvitserk's throat making it hard for him to swallow as you kept speaking.

"But I also know he's changed. And I know it not from his actions nor from the sweet words he started speaking into my ears, but from the stones you and the others started having into your hands whenever I'm around."

Hvitserk looked at you, surprised. Were they coming to you?

Why didn't you talk to him?

But you continued, eyes into Margrethe's full of a kind of security you'd never felt in front of her before.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, Margrethe, but the anger in your eyes just tell me you're not my husband's ways out anymore. The fury of the words you all have been driving to me just vouch for his honesty and prove to me he has been denying what before would put that air of superiority I don't see in your eyes any longer. I have no reason to hate you, Margrethe, because I know Hvitserk was the one who chose to hurt our compromise by keeping his side relationships, living a life that wasn't his anymore. But I won't take from him what he has been doing to fix his mistakes nor how he has grown into a better man in my eyes. So, like the others, keep your words to yourself and leave. I chose to leave the past where it belongs along with all of you in my husband's life: in the past. Please, do not come back to my house anymore. I thank you for the honesty about my husband's crimes but I also expect you shall respect my decisions about it and leave."

If there wasn't a reason for Hvitserk to fall in love with you before, he would've fallen helplessly with you now.

The sweet princess with tender hands and beautiful smiles was also a strong woman, decided, who had just shown him she could have kicked his butt before, and if he had a chance to change and show himself a better man it was entirely her decision to offer this chance for him.

"I hope he cheats on you again... And one day you'll be like I am now! Exchanged and discharged as he lays with a thinner bitch in your bed!" Margrethe cursed.

But Hvitserk watched as his wife spoke calmly, dressed in the mantle of sureness and certain of her own place in his life - an assurance his actions had given to her and he knew it.

"Instead of cursing the other's lives, you should care about your own. It's late, it will be night soon. Find yourself a shelter instead of trying to invade mine. In other words, Margrethe, try to find your own fate instead of trying to insert yourself into mine. And may the gods bless your life, woman, as much as they've been blessing mine."

"I hate you!" Margrethe yelled, angrily out of herself. "I hate you for taking him from me! I hate you, and Torvi! And that bitch of Sigurd's girl as well! All of you! I hate you! I hate you!!" she kept yelling, walking away into the forest like a witch with all her curses.

Hvitserk then felt the heavy weight in his shoulders again. His eyes landed on Y/N as she sighed turning herself to start walking back into their house.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, causing her to stop and look at him. "I'm sorry for all the things you've been hearing, all the stones they've thrown on you, all the time they've looked at you from upon your head as if they were better than you are. I granted them this right and I gave them reasons to do what they do and for this, I'm truly sorry," he said, with all his heart.

But instead of looking at him with disappointment or anger, Hvitserk saw a smile in Y/N's face. one of those smiles he loved so bad and thought he would never see in her face once again.

"I know you are sorry, husband. You have been changing it every day and I know your feelings are real. Don't worry... As I say, I can handle their anger and their stones don't hurt me. They make me happy. Cause if they're frustrated and angry it means you're keeping yourself faithful. And I have nothing to fear anymore."

Hvitserk came closer, caressing her face gently. And her chubby cheeks became red that way he learned he liked the most. She smiled, touching his face that way he thought he would never feel again and his lips turned into a smile as well.

"You have nothing to fear, wife," he mumbled, touching their foreheads. "Cause I love you. I may have failed to notice how possible it was before. But now I know what my heart wants and it's you."

His words preceded his lips touching hers gently, getting her into a warm kiss that lasted as long as their breath could take.

And then, Hvitserk giggled noticing he had managed to get her whole face red and she was now looking like a beautiful ripe cherry, fully shy in front of him.

"The... Ribs... They're ready and..." she babbled and Hvitserk giggled, embracing her tighter, happy to have his arms full of her.

"I can barely wait!" he smiled.

And as she smiled back, Hvitserk felt maybe the gods were satisfied with his actions, because she was there, with him. The smiley girl he married to was back and he couldn't be happier to be blessed like that.

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[mcheang]

Fjerdan Border

What if instead of being sent across the Fold, Mal and Alina were sent to the northern border? This is a draft because I feel like there could be more to follow only I’m not sure what

Let’s face it, the Darkling would only want the best trackers to find Morozova’s stag so when Mal’s incredible tracking skills earn him attention, he is reassigned.

As for Alina...does it really matter where she is assigned?

Up in the north, Alina is more vulnerable to the cold due to not using her powers (look what happened to Baghra)

She isn’t popular and her vulnerability in the snow impedes her mapmaking progress.

When Mal comes back, he immediately seeks her out, having missed her after weeks of separation. He is horrified to find her near freezing.

They move away from the camp to huddle in an isolated section of the forest. Why? Because Mal wants her relocated but he doesn’t want to be separated from her either. Same goes for Alina. They need to think of a plan.

What should they do?

Desert? They would have to cross the Fold... but what is there for them here anyway? Mal has to fight Fjerdans. Alina has to fight the winter chill. But if they surivive the Volcra, they could be free.

Alina asks if Mal is willing to give up his rising career for her.

Mal: none of that matters when it comes to you. All that time we were apart, I had never realized how much I took you for granted. But now I know. And I see you, Alina.

Alina would have responded, but something caught her eye.

Alina breathed, “Mal, look.”

She spoke softly so as not to startle the majestic stag with moonlight fur and gleaming antlers.

Alina belated noticed that there were hinds following him but was distracted by the sound of Mal cursing. “Damn it. I don’t have any rope. We need to capture the stag alive.”

Alina stood in front of the stag, and blocked Mal with her shivering arms flung out wide. “Don’t you dare!”

“But Alina,” Mal entreated, “once the stag is captured, I can get reassigned. We don’t have to desert and face punishment if we’re caught.”

But Alina was stubborn as ever. “I’d rather freeze to death than give this stag to the Darkling.”

Mal: that’s treason

Alina: we were planning on it anyway!

Alina suddenly felt a snout muzzling her hair. She recalled she had been previously lying on a haystack and there must be some hay still stuck in her hair.

Giggling, she turned around and cradled the stag’s head. She felt warm when she touched the fur. It was like he was calling to her and wanted her to answer.

Alina had no idea what answer the stag was hoping for, maybe more hay or carrots. But some part of her answered anyway.

Mal: um, Alina...you’re glowing.

Alina looked down at herself before looking up at the stag. “I think he saw me freezing and wanted to help. Still think you can stomach turning him over?”

Mal grumbled but could not deny his gratitude to see Alina’s face flushed with warmth and the stag’s mystical presence.

Mal: so then what do we do?

Alina shrugged. “No clue.” She peered at the stag. “Got any ideas?”

Before Alina could see if the stag could actually talk, she heard an unwelcome but familiar voice shouting out, “the stag! Quick, get some rope!”

Alina turned around quickly, just in time to see Dubrov’s back as he ran back to camp with a few other trackers. They had probably come in search of Mal. Mikhael was easing down the slope, trying not to startle the stag.

Turning around, Alina stared deep into the stag’s eyes and urged him with a whisper. “Run! Now! Don’t come back.”

The stag didn’t move. He was still staring at her like he was mesmerized by her light show.

Mal yelled, “hurry up with that rope!”

The hinds were startled and ran off. The stag snorted but galloped after them. Mal could have sworn the stag was practically saying “Real subtle.”

Mikhael: what the hell? You startled it, Mal.

Mal: how was I suppose to know my shout would chase it off when yours didn’t?

Mikhael stared at Alina. “did the stag really make you glow?”

Alina: I was freezing! I think he wanted to help.

Mikhael shook his head. “And what about the rest of us freezing on Fjerdan lands? Sheesh. Just like the fairy tales. Pretty deer only want to help maidens while boys have to fight dragons.”

Alina snapped, “Maybe the stag wasn’t impressed with your attitude or desire to capture him!”

Dubrov returning with the tracking party but too late. Their captain believed their story about the deer, seeing the massive hoof prints for himself. But he was skeptical when not only Dubrov and Mikhael, but two more trackers, gave their witness testimony that Alina had been glowing.

Which sucked because now the captain decided to use Alina as bait, without fire to keep her warm in the clearing.

Only, Alina felt like she could summon some heat into her bones whenever she looked up at the stars for company. She didn’t want to glow again but she did miss the warmth.

Eventually the captain decided to use a different girl instead. Which made Alina unpopular with them. Like she made the switch suggestion herself. Typical.

It didn’t help that Alina started having an appetite and they could no longer scavenge her leftovers.

After maybe a month of this, of trying to map out their new border with Fjerda, Alina was surprised to see the Darkling arrive.

Looking to Mal for answers, he could only offer what he suspected. “The Darkling must really want that stag. The captain wrote a report on the whole thing as usual, to explain why we’re sitting here instead of ranging the forests.”

Only the Darkling wasn’t interested in the trackers so much as Alina.

Alina’s brain was whirring at the idea of giving her own testimony to the Darkling himself.

Darkling stared at her from his desk. “Were you tested by a Grisha examiner before?”

Alina nodded, confused. “Yes, when I was eight.”

Darkling: but they concluded you didn’t have any power

Alina: yes.

Darkling: only I was told you just summoned light

Alina: that wasn’t me. It was the stag.

Darkling: the stag can’t give you power unless you already have it. And ever since then, you’ve been able to summon heat to survive the cold nights and even your health has improved from what I hear.

Alina: I’m not Grisha.

Darkling: only one way to find out. Come here.

Alina took a few steps to the middle of the room.

Darkling: closer.

Alina walked until she was in front of the Darkling. “It wasn’t me.”

Darkling: lift up your sleeve.

Alina frowned. She pushed up her jacket sleeve, underneath, there was no sweater. But the Darkling could feel the sunshine heat somehow coating her skin.

The Darkling lifted his palms and Alina was terrified to see darkness blossoming. “Now let’s see what you can do.”

His palms met and the darkness spread.

Alina glanced around frantically and startled when she felt the Darkling’s cool fingers close around her arm.

Instantly she was met with another call. Albeit this one was more cool and bossy than the stag’s.

Alina felt something inside her start to answer. Like it answered the stag or her longing for warmth.

She was hesitant to answer the Darkling’s call. But her body had already been summoning for so long, it reacted.

To her surprise. She began to glow. It was gentle, practically hesitant in front of the Darkling, dimmer than the radiance she showed in front of the stag.

Alina looked around and saw the Grisha were slack-jawed.

The Darkling let Alina go but she still glowed like a small sun.

Alina: you’re like the stag...

Darkling nodded. “And you’re Grisha.”

Alina: wait, what?

Darkling: Ivan, see to my sleigh. We leave for the Little Palace before nightfall.

Alina shied away from the huge man in the red kefta. “Hang on! I think there’s been a mistake. I’m not what you think I am.”

Darkling: I doubt you have any idea what you are.

The Darkling turned to Ivan. “Go.” Then addressed the captain. “Keep searching for the stag. It was drawn to the sun summoner but we can’t risk the Fjerdans getting her.”

Needless to say, Alina spent the carriage ride with the Darkling protesting as he tried to explain what being a Grisha meant and lowering her défenses.

When the Darkling admitted he intends to use the stag’s antlers to amplify Alina’s abilities, she downright protested.

Darkling: is one life worth so many of Ravka’s people?

Alina hesitated. “Give me another amplifier. There has to another powerful one.”

Darkling: there is, but we would have to cross the Fold to reach it.

Alina: Can’t you amplify my powers for that?

Darkling: I have an army to run

Alina pretty much gives the Darkling the cold shoulder from that point onwards.

[robin-the-enby]

Treasure of all war boys p.2

Pairing: Nux x oc

Summary: A girl is allowed to join the war boys after catching Immortan Joe's attention. After taking the time to get to know who they really are, she makes it her goal to make their lives at least a bit better.

Warnings: suggestive talk, gore (there's a dead body), depressive thoughts (just a tiny bit), argument

A/N: I don't know if anything I wrote about is cannon, I just wrote it how I interpreted it. With the help of the game and my favourite fanfic ^^. If I didn't separate this, it would be too long I think. So here's part 2!

Gifs found on Google

* * * * *

Weasel stuck by Nux after that night. Partly because she felt like she owed him for saving her life and partly because he was like an endless well full of information.

She realized that all this time she was so occupied with her thoughts, that she couldn't see, truly see, those around her. Luckily for her, Nux was very sociable and knew a lot about the war boy hierarchy.

She traded affection for information without him ever realizing and before they knew it, a beautiful friendship bloomed between them.

They were there for each other at all times. He held her close and whispered encouragements in her ear. She was there for him when he discovered his tumors, which he named Larry and Barry. Many nights she spent the whole night wiping sweat from his face when night fevers hit him. On those nights, she let him play with her hands and examine her scars, just to distract him from the pain he was in. He comforted her when others made fun of her third eye, reassured her that it doesn't make her any less fierce or intimidating. "If anything," he said "it makes you even more chrome."

When she felt ready and educated enough, she put her plan to action.

She started off easy, with the youngest pups. Some of them were barely three years old, scared and unknowing, just like she once was. She made sure to be kind to them, play with them, give them affection and sometimes sneak some leftover food for them. Soon, she had her own little army of little pups following her every step, learning everything from her.

This, in the end, helped everyone in the hierarchy. With the youngest cared for, the older, more important war boys, had one worry less.

She also made sure to spar with her peers, learn their names and exchange tips and advice on eachother's techniques, while the youngest observed from the sidelines.

At that point, the war boys acknowledged her existence and didn't put so much work on her, seeing as she became the selftitled mother hen.

But in the end, she always came back to Nux. During the day, when she'd focus on her goal, he spent his time with blackfingers, learning about cars and other machines.

And at night, they would hold eachother close and confess their dreams as well as their fears. They were so proud of one another and they often made it known.

And so they grew. Both of them became war boys and got their markings. Nux had markings on his lips, vertical lines that made him look more like a skeleton, to appear more intimidating and a whole V8 engine on his chest, to show his devotion to cars, machines and drivers, who he had become.

Weasel's markings were simpler. Two canines on her lower lip to represent her name and some details around her third eye, a fake eyebrow and some details on the eyelids, because everybody saw her as the one who watches over all, like a mother and like a friend.

That night, Weasel and Nux laid facing eachother, caressing their new marks with ghostly touches. It was at that moment something in their gazes changed, and even though they felt it, they didn't think much of it.

Now that Weasel was a war boy, she needed to up her game a bit. She still took care of the pups, but mainly teaching the older ones how to take care of the youngest, sometimes training with them in her spare time.

When she wasn't raiding, she challenged other war boys to friendly fights, befriending them in the process. She knew pretty much everyone and soon became a very strong and skilled fighter, often using her quick wit as an advantage and gained respect among young and old alike.

However, she often visited her friends in the Organic mechanic's shop and helped them from boredom or with their treatment.

All of this took a lot of her energy, but even so she still listened to Nux rambling about his day every night, lulled to sleep by his voice.

He didn't mind it at all. She told him what she was trying to do and when he thought about it, she was the only one to treat them like actual living beings. Not even they treated eachother like that. And maybe that's why everyone liked her so much.

Despite her daily activities, Weasel's official position in the army, the war boy hierarchy, was a lancer.

When on a raid, she stood on her perch behind the seats and did things the driver didn't have the time for, like looking out for enemies or protecting the car and the driver in it.

Although she and Nux were in the same pack, she wasn't his lancer. Nux found another friend, a war boy, strong and ambitious, it was no wonder Nux was drawn to him. His name was Slit.

Slit was Nux's lancer. However, unlike other drivers and lancers, these two almost always kept eachother company outside of raids. Some would say they could even be called friends. But Weasel had a knack that Slit would immediately disagree with that statement.

He was an interesting character to her and she liked observing the strange relationship Slit and her dear Nux had together. Slit wanted to be noticed by the Immortan himself, much like every other war boy, but Slit's desire rooted deeper than the rest's. And Nux admired that.

Something inside their souls linked them, creating a strong bond and even after all the years spent as their friend, Weasel found herself completely clueless as to where their bond originated, at times creating a massive tension between the two males.

Perhaps it was the thrill of challenging one another, because both of them were so unpredictable, searching in the other's eyes for their next move.

At the end of the day however, no matter how many times Slit said friendship was for weaklings, he didn't have anyone, and so they welcomed him every night onto their cuddle pile, with Nux holding Weasel and Slit laying haphazardly over them, war pups serving as a good blanket.

The silence in the desert, that used to be an ocean, was interrupted by the majestic roar of V8 engines, red dust thrown into every direction by spiked wheels.

Excited cheers of young war boys filled with bloodlust were just a tad quieter than the singing of their war vehicles. Their pack had been assigned this part of the Great white to be scavenged for parts and other useful items and they took their orders seriously. Well, as seriously as a bunch of young adults can.

So far, it was pretty mediocre. The pack haven't encountered any enemies, but no treasures were found either. For now, they just playfully raced eachother, trying to be faster than everyone else, to be the leader.

Their game was interrupted by the victorious yelling of a lancer on the currently leading car, announcing smoke on the horizon. And there it was, black like the night, signaling a possible car wreck. The drivers willed their machines to go faster and cheers errupted once again as they took off, speeding to their destination.

It seemed that no one got to the wreckage, because it didn't look taken apart. It couldn't have happened too long ago, the two cars that must've collided were emitting black smoke, one of the cars was even aflame.

The war boys knew they had to act quickly, a treasure such as this was bound to attract attention and so they got to work. Most of the pack started throwing sand at the burning car, while others, including Nux, Weasel and Slit, went to search through the other car. Slit went to see the engine, Nux climbed under the car and Weasel pulled open the damaged door to search the inside.

There weren't many useful things inside, a canister of guzzoline and last few drops of water in a flask, which she hid in her pants' pocket to share with her friends back at the Citadel, and a body of a dead man. With nothing better to do, she pulled him out of the wreck and looked him over.

He didn't have any ammo or weapons on him, but he sure as hell had nice clothes. A cool leather jacket, but Weasel didn't want it, it was too hot for that, she wasn't in need of new pants either...

Her eyes fell on the man's firm, brown boots. Weasel smirked to herself, she was going to look so chrome in those. Before she could even reach for the man's legs, a voice suddenly spoke over her shoulder "What'chu got there?" Nux asked, looking at the corpse with interest. "Nothing. 'S just a corpse." Weasel shrugged "But it has a cool jacket, if you want it."

But Nux's attention was on the same boots Weasel wanted, his thoughts not at all different from hers. He crouched down next to the deceased man's legs and undid the laces, before Weasel slapped his hands off, roughly pulling the boots off and cradling them to her chest "Hey, I saw them first! They're mine!" she barked out.

Nux only smirked to himself. Of course she'd want the boots too, they were very chrome after all and he didn't mind fighting a bit for them. "Oh really?" he cocked his head to the side, the smirk still present "Well, I'm a driver, so I deserve them more." and he reached towards her chest.

"And what would you need them for? Pushing pedals? Please, without lancers, you drivers would be dead! I at least need good boots to hold my ground!" Weasel retorted, jumping away from his prying hands.

At that point, everyone turned from whatever they were doing to watch the fight unfold.

Every time Nux tried to grab the boots, Weasel managed to jump away, which left him to chase her around the wrecks to everyone's amusement.

After a few attempts he finally managed to trip her. After she fell onto her stomach, boots still cradled to her chest and the wind knocked out of her lungs, he straddled her lower back, like all those years ago. Then he flipped her onto her back and slid lower so that he was straddling her hips.

Weasel knew that she was practically screwed and if she wanted to keep the boots, she had to stop Nux wrestling them out of her grasp. Her eyes locked to his own, which were set on the boots, sparkling with determination. His eyes were the prettiest blue she's ever seen, playful and deep down even kind. He was grinning at her from above and she found herself drawn to it, to his face, to him.

As if on instinct, her body sprung upwards, stopping centimeters away from his face. Nux felt it more than saw it, the wet sensation that made the time slow as she licked his cheek. Startled, he immediately jumped away from her, one hand placed over his cheek.

Weasel, too, stood up, looking at her friend worriedly. It seemed like she broke him and for a moment she wondered if she went too far. She internally shook her head. No, she just did what she had to, Nux would understand.

With one last and sort of apologetic look towards her confused friend, Weasel took off to her perch to hide.

After a moment of silence, chuckles sounded throughout the pack, increasing in volume, until every last war boy was laughing. Nux felt his cheeks redden and couldn't do anything but stand there like a rock. A heavy pat fell on his shoulder "Careful, before you get a stiffy." Slit smirked at him and slowly, still chuckling, everyone made their way to their vehicles.

Nux didn't join his pack in victorious cheers on the way back to the Citadel, instead he frowned the whole time.

On one hand, he was angry at Weasel. He thought they were just playing around with those boots, she didn't have to embarass him in front of the whole pack. That was not chrome at all.

But on the other hand, when he thought about the feeling that bloomed inside of him when she licked his cheek, he shuddered. But not with disgust, no, more with...longing. He didn't understand it, she made him look weak, why did he want it to happen again??

Weasel felt immense guilt swirl in her gut when they came back and Nux didn't even look at her, instead passing her like she wasn't there, with a frown on his face. Perhaps she did take it too far.

Her feelings even doubled after finding out that the boots were too big for her feet. From that moment she tried to search for him, to apologise, to make up, anything, because frankly, she missed him.

From that raid she rarely ever saw him anymore. During the day he was in the blackfinger's cave, but whenever she went there to visit him, it was as if he was never there.

He even stopped coming to the cuddle pile, spending his nights elsewhere. It worried Weasel. The thought of him suffering through the night fevers alone or worse, with someone else, scared her.

Of course, she couldn't just stop doing her job, so she went through her days, but with a heavy heart and dark thoughts of failure clouding her mind.

It seemed like this fight between the two affected the whole hierarchy. The mood in the caves wasn't busy and cheery like always, instead everyone felt gloomy and under the weather.

After maybe a week, everyone was so fed up, their only wish was for Nux and Weasel to just talk, or fight, it out, for they couldn't stand the tension in the air for a second longer. And so the older war boys made a plan.

Two of them went into Organic mechanic's shop, where Weasel was currently helping tend to wounded and grabbed her by the armpits, while two others did the same to Nux. Nobody interfered, on the contrary, an internal finally crossed everyone's tired minds.

The two of them were thrown into an empty garage, emptied specifically for this mission. Once they were both in the same place, the older war boys left with an accomplised feeling.

The two stared at eachother for a moment, before Nux got up and went for the exit, but Weasel grabbed his wrist. He whirled around, fury and frustration in his movements.

However, he immediately stilled and his eyes went wide when he saw the expression on his dear Weasel's face.

Her eyes held deep guilt, sorrow and desperation, lined with little drops of tears. The way she clung to him, as if she'd lose him if she'd let go, made him week at the knees and he cursed her for it.

But for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to be really angry with her. It was just something about seeing her face again that put him at ease, despite what he believed he should be feeling.

"Please don't go." she whispered, afraid of angering him even further. But Nux's anger was long gone now. "Don't cry." he tried to gently wipe the tears away, but all this was so new for them both, he didn't really know how to be gentle. But as his palm smeared the liquid around her eyes, more than dried them, little giggles escaped her mouth and he knew he did it right.

"I'm sorry." Weasel looked down after smiling at him, her apology raw and sincere. "You should be sorry. That was so mediocre of you." Nux frowned, but only jokingly. She nodded her head and whispered 'I know' in a barely there voice.

Seeing that she was still feeling down, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed her flush against him.

They both froze, not only because they haven't held eachother for so long, but because of the new feeling it awoke in them.

There wasn't just the warmth, physical and emotional, they were used to, but a strange desire as well. As if something inside of them wanted to be closer together, closer than ever before, closer than what was even possible.

If Nux had to be honest, it was the same feeling he felt when she licked his cheek. He thought that maybe by distancing himself he'll get rid of those debilitating feelings, but no. The exact opposite happened, they grew and grew, but now they felt like they were multiplied and Nux just couldn't hold himself back anymore.

Pushing Weasel to the stone ground, he pressed his body on top of hers, legs tangled, hips pressed tightly against hers, pinning her into place, his hands grabbed her wrists and wouldn't let go. Not that she wanted him to.

None of them knew what they were doing, but they both wanted it more than anything in their whole half lives.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes on her lips, parted, and he could hear her shallow breaths through them."You're gonna pay." he whispered and their lips collided in a hungry kiss.

Maybe they would've understood better if only someone would told them about love.

[adeliaharris]

My Favorite Books...

1. Harper Lee "To kill a Mockingbird"

The story of a small sleepy town in the South of America told by a little girl. The story of her brother Jim, dill's friend and her father - the honest principled lawyer Atticus Finch one of the last and best representatives of the old "southern aristocracy". The story of the trial of a black guy accused of rape a white girl. But first of all it is the story of a turning era when xenophobia, racism, intolerance and bigotry inherent in the American South are warming to the past. The "wind of change" has just begun to blow over America. What will it bring?

- This is probably one of my favorite books.The book captured from the very first pages and did not let go for a long time after reading. You can say a lot of things but better read it.

2. Khaled Hosseini "The Kite Runner"

A heartfelt story of friendship and fidelity, betrayal and redemption, penetrating to the very core. Delicate, ironic and sentimental in a good way, Khaled Hosseini's novel resembles a painting that can be looked at endlessly set in pre-war Kabul in the 1970s. In this magical city shimmering with all shades of gold and azure two weather boys Amir and Hasan live. One belonged to the local aristocracy the other to a despised minority. One's father was handsome and important the other was lame and pathetic. Master and servant, prince and beggar, handsome and crippled. But there were no people in the world closer than these two boys. Soon the Kabul idyll will be replaced by formidable storms. And the boys, like two kites, will be picked up by this storm and scattered in different directions. Each has its own destiny its own tragedy but they like in childhood are tied by the strongest bonds. You run after the kite and the wind as you run after your destiny, trying to catch it. But she will catch you.

- Psychological novel on the theme of "crime and punishment". Deeply elaborated images, convincing children's characters, a remarkably built plot - everything speaks of a great master. For me it is "heavy" literature but it has the right to be because it calls things by their proper names. And most importantly there is light in the stories of Hosseini! The light of true human feelings.

3. F. Scott Fitzgerald "The Great Gatsby"

A jubilant, sparkling thirst for life, a desire for love, alluring and elusive, exciting pursuit of wealth - but now the dream breaks to the sound of jazz and the eternal holiday turns into a tragedy. "The Great Gatsby" is a novel about "how illusions are wasted which make the world so colorful that  having experienced this magic, a person becomes indifferent to the concept of true and false." F. S. Fitzgerald

- I read it and was not at all disappointed! Elegant presentation with high meaning - everything in this life is done for the sake of love. And no amount of money can replace the woman you love... And even if she is stupid, frivolous and idly living her life. I have great respect for Gatsby and contempt for Daisy. There are a lot of wonderful quotes, phrases in the book, it's worth thinking about. I didn’t expect to literally fall in love with this piece! In the future I will definitely re-read it more than once!

4. Daniel Keyes "Flowers for Algernon"

Forty years ago it was considered a fantasy. Forty years ago it read like fantasy. Exploring and expanding the boundaries of the genre eagerly absorbing all sorts of newest trends trying on a common human face bravely ignoring the Cain's stamp of the "genre ghetto". Now it is perceived as one of the most humane works of modern times as a novel of piercing psychological power, as a filigree development of the theme of love and responsibility. It is not for nothing that Keyes called his book of memoirs published in the 1990s "Algernon, Charlie and Me."

- The book is an emotion that will not make you think about something particularly difficult. All the thoughts that it generates are very simple and understandable. Without revelations, of course, but not bad either. The assessment will, rather, depend on the degree of personal sensitivity because the author often uses the concept of "naive hero-evil reality-collision-squeezing out sympathy" during the work.

5. Agatha Christie  "Murder on the Orient Express"

The great detective Hercule Poirot who was in Istanbul returns to England on the famous "Orient Express" in which it seems, representatives of all possible nationalities travel with him. One of the passengers an unpleasant American named Ratchett offers Poirot to become his bodyguard since he believes that he could be killed. The famous Belgian brushes off this absurd request. And the next day the American is found dead in his compartment with the doors closed and the window open. Poirot immediately takes up the investigation - and finds out that the compartment is full of all sorts of evidence pointing... to almost all the passengers of the Orient Express. In addition the train gets stuck in snow drifts in a deserted place. Poirot needs to find the killer before the express can continue on its way...

- I liked the book. Pretty easy to read. The plot is "confused" from the very beginning but Mr. Poirot is yet  a world-famous detective. It is better to read about all the twists and turns of the investigation on your own, "immersion" is guaranteed.

6. Stieg Larsson "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo"

Forty years of the mystery of the disappearance of a young relative haunts the aging industrial tycoon and now he makes the last attempt in his life - entrusts his search to journalist Mikael Blomkvist. He takes on a hopeless business more in order to distract himself from his own troubles but soon realizes: the problem is even more complicated than it seems at first glance.

What is the connection between a long-standing incident on the territory with the use of mobile devices which happened in different years in different parts of Sweden? What does the quotation from the Third Book of Moses have to do with it? And who, after all, attempted on the life of Michael himself when he came too close to the solution?

- The whole trilogy left a deep impression. Such books appear very rarely. Out-of-the-box characters, amazing Sweden, dark atmosphere. I advise absolutely everyone!

7. Ray Bradbury "Fahrenheit 451"

Perhaps the best of Bradbury's writings. The story "Fahrenheit 451" depicts a dystopian society of the future but in fact - "our reality, reduced to absurdity." Bradbury invented a state where reading and keeping books is prohibited. For the sake of political correctness and general peace of mind the general level of spiritual and intellectual demands of citizens is artificially lowered. But there are rebels and fugitives.

This is one of Bradbury's rare sci-fi works. Very exciting touching and at the same time very lively and dynamic. With a relatively simple plot, it is full of allusions including biblical texts and complex symbolism.

- This is just a great book! I advise everyone to read it! Despite the fact that the author wrote it in 1953 this does not feel at all. A very interesting and poignant plot for our time.

8. Victor Hugo "Les Miserables"

All the works of the great French poet, novelist and playwright Victor Marie Hugo (1802-1885) are covered with a halo of romanticism. The idea of ​​life-giving love, mercy, the triumph of good over evil - this is the core of his novel "Les Miserables". Among the "outcasts" are Jean Valjean sentenced to 20 years for stealing bread for his starving family and the little dirty Cosette who turned into a charming girl and a child of the Parisian streets of Gavroche...

- Brilliant work! So thoughtful, so overwhelming and so humane. The inimitable Hugo put all his philanthropy into this magnificent novel!

9. Stephen King "The Green Mile"

Stephen King invites readers to the eerie world of the death row where they leave in order not to return, opens the door of the last refuge of those who have transgressed not only human but also God's law. There is no more deadly place on this side of the electric chair! Nothing you've read before beats Stephen King's most audacious horror experience - a story that begins on Death Road and goes deep into the deepest secrets of the human soul...

- I have been familiar with the work of S. King for a long time and have read more than a dozen of his books. The work "The Green Mile" is a story that will not let you go for a long time. She leaves a residue in her soul - mixed feelings and indescribable impressions from the story itself, unique and ingenious.

10. Gregory David Roberts "Shantaram"

This art-refracted confession of a man who managed to get out of the abyss and survive, has sold four million copies around the world and has earned rave comparisons with the works of the best writers of the modern era from Melville to Hemingway. Like the author the hero of this novel has been hiding from the law for many years. Deprived of parental rights after a divorce from his wife, he became addicted to drugs, committed a number of robberies and was sentenced by an Australian court to nineteen years in prison. Having escaped from a maximum security prison in his second year, he reached Bombay where he was a counterfeiter and smuggler, traded arms and participated in the showdown of the Indian mafia and also found his true love, to lose it again, to find it again...

- It is very difficult to somehow categorically evaluate this novel. There are many advantages here: a fascinating story of the wanderings of the protagonist in the world of a harsh exotic country. Together with him, the reader develops, absorbs the alien culture and energy of other people, people of another world to which we are not used to. However there is something ridiculous about this.  At times it seems that we are watching real Indian cinema - the brainchild of Bollywood naive and merciless. In general I liked the novel, it is interesting, bright, impetuous. During the period of reading this great story, I have never been bored. Despite some controversial points - I advise!

[sugarfreecapsicle]

old magic (2/3)

A/N: well it is spooky time, my dudes. although this isn’t all that scary, it’s a little rattling. written for and with lots of support from @moonstruckbucky​ and her Halloween writing challenge!  As always, huge props to @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​​ for beta-reading, helping me when I’m stuck, for adding the read more cut while I’m limited to mobile and for this gorgeous moodboard!

prince!bucky x reader

warnings: 18+ smut, angst, sub!bucky

DISCLAIMER: this is in no way a reflection of anyone who identifies, practices or otherwise affiliates with witchcraft. I bastardized some basics and ran with it. Please don’t come for me and correct my poor development of a fake magic system.

James stares in bewilderment at his trembling hand. Brow knits together in confusion, eyes dart quickly between the hand and your knowing smirk.

“A simple protection charm,” you answer. “No physical contact without my permission.”

He whines in the back of his throat, knees wobble as if a child in a tantrum. James had for the past week been a man in a desert in search of an oasis found only with you. Your skin, your body, so close and yet too far. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, desperate and wanting.

“Please.”

———————-

You’d bottle it if you could - the pretty keening of a desperate crowned prince, heir to the throne of one of the most powerful kingdoms in the realm. His right hand glides a short distance from your arm over your stomach to your shoulder to finally rest close enough to your cheek you can feel the warmth radiate from his palm.

“Please, love, let me touch you.”

The pet name unravels in your chest, tender, softer than you’d expected. You waver, a part of you moldable to his whims and pretty words, but the stronger part wills against such foolishness.

“And why should I allow it?”

The exasperation overflows into his posture - sagging shoulders, knees finally weighing him down to the floor, trembling hand weakly hovering over your hip and thigh.

“I ache for you in a way I have never longed for another,” he croons. “I fear if I cannot be with you, I may burst into flame. Without your love I will starve, waste away. Please, please don’t deny me.”

James leans in as if to place his forehead against your stomach and chokes on a whimper when he knocks against firm air guarding your bare belly. The tears dot his long eyelashes now, dangerously close to spilling out onto ruddy cheeks.

You crook a finger below his chin and direct his attention to your face once again - giving yourself ample time to appreciate each glimmer of desperation in his blue eyes.

“What kind of woman would I be to deny such lovely poetry?”

James’ entire body sags in relief, pushing out breath held deep in his lungs, chin pressing into your pinched finger.

You tsk quietly, and he startles.

“Conditions, my prince. Let me help you.”

James is astonished when he realizes belatedly you’ve touched him. The prince has never known a hunger like this - compelling, painful, obsessive. Since his resurrection, an event his father demanded be kept quiet, James only thought of the witch. Your beauty, your scent, your voice. An all consuming force. Compelled to go to you, must go to you, even if only to see you once more. No, even that would not be enough. He longs to touch you, to feel your skin against his. He wonders if it’s soft, supple, if it would bruise under his rough touch.

Would you keen, make noises in the back of your throat as he feasted upon you? Thoughts such as that surprised him. He is far from a blushing virgin, but he hardly ever fantasizes about tasting a woman. He wants to worship your body, bow down and pray at your altar, confess his transgressions, beg forgiveness. On his knees before you, James realizes the control he craves belongs to you, and pleasure washes over him as a wave in the sea.

How he stays upright on his feet without your constant aid, he’s unsure. An afterthought has both hands, flesh and metal reaching for you but without purchase.

“I can touch - you cannot,” you explain with a gentle shove against his thick chest.

The mattress on your bed is lumpy, scratchy - a far cry from his plush featherbed in the castle, but this foreign land of magic and lust erases any discomfort. His body simmers where your hands haven’t touched, blazes where they do. Careful, spindly fingers dance across his shoulders, chest, shivering stomach. Deft teasing, nails combing through wiry hair - he’s breathless.

His own hands betray him, reach for any part of you within inches of him but the damned charm holds true, keeping his fingertips close enough to feel heat but no friction. Unbearable torture for a man starved, deprived.

“What would you do, my prince, if you could touch me?” Even your words are made of sin. “Tell me. I do so love to hear your voice.”

James can barely breathe let alone form a sentence when your thighs flex against his hips. Dry lips babble out nonsense, his gaze focuses on your smug expression. Pouting mouth, mischief all over.

“I would- I’d, gods above, I’d bruise you, make you mine, anything to touch, please,” he whines, back arching for more of you.

“Should I not be afforded the same opportunity, James?”

He reels, explosions of desire barreling through him at the idea of your teeth biting into him, nails tracking pink lines on his chest and back. Willingly he would trade his family’s crest on his heart for your own mark.

A long drag of a single fingernail commands his body’s curved answer, stinging a trail from clavicle to hip. Sweat lightly covers him, his restraint on a fraying tether.

“Have I made you suffer? Am I too cruel a mistress?” Desperate eyes watch as you lift and align yourself with his pulsing need, red, angry, begging. “I can soothe your pains, my prince.”

Stars collide when he’s sheathed inside you, your clenches in time with the throbbing ache of him. Somewhere in the distance he hears blankets rip and tear by his own hands - the price of inability to touch you directly - and howls, all gravel and raw that eviscerate his throat.

With your palms splayed over his chest, at last comes a minute relief. Your touch ignites every nerve in his body, once dead alive again. Every shift and roll of your hips pulls cries of bliss from deep within him, and he catches a few soft moans from you.

The beauty of you writhing in sensual dance above him is obscene enough to make a harlot blush from head to toe. James understands now what it means to bed a woman, what he has been missing, why men flood brothels. Nothing compared.

“Oh, my prince,” you breathe against his lips, ghosting a kiss. “Come undone for me.”

Delayed only by a moment of your white hot climax and gnashing teeth against his lower lip, he releases, loses his vision behind a plethora of colors and whimsical patterns. His entire body stutters then falls loose to the bed, sated at last.

The required fire in the hearth crackles on long after the throes of passion dissipated. Delicate fingers wind and furl over tracked skin, broad chest heaving in breath. Cool metal plays at the small of your back affectionately.

“Tell me about your castle,” you offer, something to bring back the dazed prince. He inhales deeply, settles into the lumpy mattress.

“Old, wet, miserable.” The grin is all mirth in nostalgia, as if he could never return to a distant memory. “Why trouble yourself with such a thing as that? That place is nothing more than a prison of unhappiness.”

“It made you happy once.” Regret pricks at your heart briefly, but James seems undeterred.

“Once,” he allows. “Not anymore.”

You watch orange flame dance against the calm blue of his eyes, your prince’s mind taking him back to the castle, back to his proper life with a sardonic grin that you aren’t sure tells the truth.

“Did she make you happy?”

James shifts under your gaze, meeting it with all the wrong understanding.

“She could have, if Sophia had been you.”

The name halts your entire being, heart stopped, breath held. “Sophia?”

“The daughter of a land baron who owed great debt to my father. The marriage came to be since she was the only woman of title who could -“ James ends his retelling upon seeing your troubled expression. “Love?”

“James, I — there’s something I must consult with the Mother, don’t trouble yourself with awaiting my return,” you rush, saccharine and final. “Rest well, my prince, and I will be here when you wake.”

The ritual takes the remainder of your night, and exhaustion sweeps over you as the tears shed down your cheeks. Breathing hurts, air pulling tightly in your lungs in wheezes. James deserved this much. As did you.

Magic comes at a price.

[theonceoverthinker]

When Will My Life Begin? (Fair Game, 12/?)

Summary: Tangled AU. Clover Callows has been confined to a tower for all of his life, and given the threat that his Uncle Tyrian says his semblance poses to his safety, he accepts that fate. It’s the only life he’s ever known, after all. But when he’s offered the opportunity to fulfill his greatest dream after a chance encounter with a thief -- or bandit, as Qrow Branwen insists there’s a difference between the two -- both Clover and Qrow will discover joys that they never knew life could offer them before.

AO3

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A/N: ...You guys are either going to love me for this chapter or hate me! Just so you know, I’m preparing an umbrella for the things you’re going to fling at me for this one! XD Anyway, enjoy!

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Sometimes, raising Clover Ebi -- or rather, Clover Callows, as he now called him -- as his own ‘nephew’ was more trouble than it was worth. 

Sometimes, it was a lot more trouble than it was worth, so much so that Tyrian had to remind himself that it was an endeavor that still merited seeing through.

Right now, as Tyrian trudged through the forests of Remnant, it felt like one of those times.

‘Uncle Tyrian! I put some dough in an oven and managed not to burn the tower to the ground! Aren’t I so smart?’

‘Uncle Tyrian, I want to see some stupid green lights and give away my identity to everyone you’ve carefully hidden it from for over twenty years!’

‘Uncle Tyrian, I want new paint from the furthest Gods damned corner of this dog’s dropping of a continent! Go get me some as well as a bag full of some other trash from the ground!’

What. A. Pest.

For twenty years, he���d had to live with that constant pest yammering in his ear all day long, asking -- nay, begging -- for trash or praise for his mediocre accomplishments or answers to his positively inexhaustible supply of banal questions.

This domestic life caring for Clover that Tyrian had subjected himself to was without question relentlessly dull, annoying, boring, and miserable.

Gods, if it weren’t for his semblance, he’d-

Well, if it weren’t for his semblance, Tyrian wouldn’t be so close -- so very, very close -- to being Salem’s right hand man, and with his ‘nephew’s’ continued help, he’d likely get that spot soon enough.

After all, that’s how he’d gotten so far. Others near the top of her hierarchy had fallen prey to many tragic ‘accidents’ over the years. 

Who could have predicted how Arthur Watts’ latest invention would not only malfunction, but that the explosion would release chemicals that came together to act as a pheromone for Grimm? 

How cruel could fate be to have the support beam that Hazel Rainart was hiding behind collapse just as he was about to complete his most recent mission for Salem?

What could have been done to prevent Leo Lionheart from attempting to desert Salem’s forces just as she’d had one hundred Grimm return from battle eager for something -- or rather, someone -- to eat?

And what sort of disaster would just the tiniest bit of luck have in store for Cinder Falls, Salem’s current right hand?

So yes, Clover was a pest, but he was a pest that nonetheless had been very successful at improving Tyrian’s placement in Salem’s hierarchy.

Tyrian supposed it stood to reason that he had to do things to keep Clover happy to ensure that that would only continue. He’d been careful to never push his luck too hard in that regard, knowing that even fear and guilt had its limits on what they could make a person willingly endure, and after their fight -- especially when it involved discussing actually going outside -- Tyrian knew Clover was getting agitated enough to possibly act on his desires.

Tyrian wasn’t about to let that happen, and so now here he was, about to make a trip all the way to the Argus Coves.

It was an ordeal, if for no other reason than that he’d be away from Salem, but it was one he would suffer all the same in her name.

He was lucky -- Salem had decided to spend the next fortnight in her Grimm pools, devising new forms for her malicious, yet stunning pets to take. She wouldn’t need his -- or, more importantly, anyone else’s -- services, nor ask about his whereabouts -- not that she ever did, always so respectful of her loyal subject’s privacy.

Salem trusted him…

In return, just as he gave her his unconditional admiration, he also gave her lies.

Tyrian hated lying to her about Clover, but he reasoned that helping her by channeling all of Clover’s luck into her most adoring servant’s being would be a better way of ensuring her victories. After all, who else would care about nothing more than Salem’s continued successes? Her other minions all had their own concerns and even if they didn’t, Train found that they were about as competent as a cat being trained to not drink milk.

In any event, his strategy had worked over the past two decades, and if he had anything to say about it, it would continue to work for the rest of his days. Perhaps, should he not only tell Clover about her, but also inspire him to love her as well -- and he absolutely could -- his scheme would persist even after his death.

He could only hope, for it was what Salem deserved.

Salem...Salem was a Goddess -- radiant, bold, cunning, enchanting, beautiful in both her body and soul, wise, gentle, ruthless, and far more qualities than Tyrian couldn’t state with all the world’s air in his lungs on top of even that. How the pitiful wastes of life in Remnant managed to not only not spend every waking moment of their purposeless days either bowing before her glory or gathering gifts to bestow upon her, but actually oppose her, he’d never know.

Cretins, the lot of them -- hopelessly lost cretins.

And of all the cretins Remnant had to offer, he got stuck with the worst of them to play the role of a lifelong babysitter -- and at present, delivery boy -- for.

Tyrian mentally mapped out his trip. If he stayed at a steady speed, took regular breaks, and ate and slept as he planned, he’d be at the Argus Coves by tomorrow afternoon. He’d spend two or three hours collecting shells and then head back to the tower. While he hated collecting the shells, and knew it would be a complete bore of a chore, it was best not to give Clover any reason to ask for more of them next year, or the next few of them, for that matter.

Then again, Clover had shown himself to be at least a little unpredictable, so he could only guess as to how quickly he would go through those paints, or what else he would desire for future birthdays.

After all, somehow, Clover had managed to conceal that mural of his from him for Gods knew how long. If it wasn’t for the subject matter of its depiction, Tyrian would almost be impressed by that bit of stealth. Clearly, he’d taught Clover well.

However, he may have been teaching Clover too well. If he could conceal an entire wall of the tower from him, what else could he be hiding? That tower might not have been large and Clover never left it, but it was fitted with many a nook and cranny for which to tuck away any number of trinkets.

Well, he’d just have to have a little search when he got back to the tower. He could disguise it as a game of hide and seek or just a checkup to make sure Clover was cleaning his living space well enough.

Clover might have believed himself to be clever -- he may have even crossed the threshold of cleverness a few times in his life -- but Tyrian knew he could put him in his place easily enough. Given how much lip disguised as wit Clover had started to show as of recent, perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea to do so sooner rather than later.

Tyrian had just started to drum up more ideas for how to best reign in his ‘nephew’ when suddenly, he heard a voice cry out.

“Let me go!” It was a man’s voice, one Tyrian thought he might have recognized, but was unable to recall its source on just it alone.

“Not a chance, you thief!” a woman’s voice responded, a low chuckle underneath her words. 

Now that voice, Tyrian was reasonably sure he did recognize.

Before he could confirm it, another set of noises grabbed his attention -- the woman’s, and by the sounds of it, others’ footsteps were approaching

Quickly, Tyrian hid himself behind a tree, and just in time. Keeping careful as to remain unspotted, Tyrian peeked to look at the opposite side of the tree.

There, a group of five people, one of whom seemed to be something of a prisoner held tightly in one of their arms, emerged into his line of sight.

However, the four non imprisoned people weren’t just any people.

They were the Ace Ops. 

Comprised of General Ironwood’s four children -- Harriet Bree, Elm Ederne, Marrow Amin, and Vine Zeki -- The Ace Ops served as the leaders of Remnant’s royal guard.

But what were they doing here?

Tyrian had only a small handful of run-ins with the Ace Ops all that much over the years since their formation, but despite that, he knew all about them, from their names to their weapons to their semblances -- when one was regularly gathering intel, threatening informants, and killing bystanders and witnesses who saw him doing either of those things in order to best assist Salem’s strikes against the kingdom’s capital, it was practically a requirement. 

Because of that, it was odd to see Harriet on a horse, given that her semblance revolved around her own speed, but Tyrian didn’t let himself think about it too much, preferring to get an answer to his inquiry about just what led them so far out in the woods.

He looked at the prisoner in Elm’s arms and immediately, his eyes bulged with recognition.

Mercury Black.

Tyrian knew this man well. He was a thief, and unfortunately, a rather good one, or at least he seemed to be prior to this moment.

Salem had given Mercury not a small amount of her attention as of late. She entertained the idea of him as a prospective recruit for her forces, sending him out on missions to see just how much he could achieve. While he lacked Tyrian’s dedication to serving her, Mercury’s talent and need for direction as well as means for his survival in the cruel world they lived in piqued Salem’s interests. Like a lump of clay, Salem felt that she could perhaps mold him into a model member of her inner circle, one strong enough to enact her schemes and ready as well as willing to die for her at a moment’s notice.

Alas, it looked like Mercury’s talents had failed him. Tyrian knew Salem well and a failure that ended up with him in the custody of the Ace Ops of all people was likely a big one, all but guaranteeing the destruction of any interest she had in Mercury as a member of her forces.

Well, that just meant more attention and admiration for Tyrian to enjoy. 

And not only that, but he would have the esteemed pleasure of reporting the news of his -- judging by Elm’s grip -- literally crushing defeat to Salem once she returned to her throne.

How lucky was that?

Hmm. So this is why he had to get Clover those paints. 

It was a worthwhile enough sacrifice.

“Let me go!” Mercury repeated.

“I don’t think so, buddy!” Elm said, gripping Mercury tight in her unwavering hold, her feet firmly on the ground as to restrain any attempts of his to fight out of her grasp.

It didn’t appear to stop him from trying though.

What a waste of his goddess’ sights he turned out to be.

From her horse, Harriet turned to him. “If I can’t bring my father Branwen’s head, then I’m at least bringing him yours!”

“I don’t even have the stupid brooch!” Mercury yelled, still fighting for some nonexistent leeway in Elm’s vice like grip, not that he’d get that far if he even found it with the three other Ace Ops directly next to her. 

“Don’t you worry -- it will be found.” Harriet then looked out to the team. “Elm, stay here with the prisoner and keep an eye out for Branwen. Vine, Marrow, and I will continue to comb the forest, and we’ll reconvene here in an hour with our findings. We’re not going home without that brooch.” The determination in Harriet’s voice had Tyrian bite his lip.

Crap. Knowing Harriet, that last sentiment may very well have been a true one.

In the twenty years since Tyrain took Clover, guards have searched the forest, but they’d never come across the tower’s hidden entryway. While the brooch was likely nowhere near the tower, and the Ace Ops were still roughly a quarter of a mile out from its exact location, Tyrian couldn’t help but acknowledge the feeling of unease in his stomach.

If Remnant’s most specialized guards -- Clover’s siblings, no less -- were searching this bit of the forest, whether looking for their long-lost brother or not...they might actually find something more than just some brooch.

Harriet directed the horse she was riding on towards the tower’s general direction.

Clover!

Knowing what he had to do, Tyrian slunk away from his hiding place and snuck through the forest, careful to keep both a strong distance between himself and Harriet as well cautious, yet quick movements to pass her and get back to the tower before she could ever learn about its existence. 

It wasn’t hard. Tyrian had traversed these woods so much over the course of his life, especially over the past two decades, that he grew to know them better than he did his own hand. Every twist and turn and fork in the road on its dirt-floored surface was committed to his memory like the appearance of the very sun that shone above him.

When Tyrian at last made it to the tower’s entryway, he was well ahead of Harriet, ensuring that he would be absolutely safe crossing the canopy of vines in a way that would keep him as well as their odd disposition unspotted by her.

Tyrian rushed through the caves and clearing, all the way to the base of the tower.

“Clover!” Tyrian called out when he finally arrived. “I forgot my rain boots! Bring me back up!”

It was an odd excuse -- especially as there was no sign of rain coming for the foreseeable future -- but Clover would ask why he came back if he didn’t have one at the ready all the same.

Tyrian waited a second for Clover to respond, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, when he called to the tower, he heard nothing back. It was a foreign feeling, one that at present grated on Tyrian’s nerves like a room of mumblers.

“Clover!” he half shouted and half growled. “Wake up!”

Still, not a sound left the tower. 

As soon as he realized that no sound would be coming out, Tyrian whipped the sharp, metallic end of his tail out and slammed it into the dirt between the tower’s bricks, pulling himself up and then clinging to the bricks with the help of his blades as his tail ascended his form further up the tower’s length.

It was a method for climbing the tower that he hadn’t used in years, manually climbing it himself -- practically antiquated thanks to Clover’s weapon, but it was handy in a pinch.

Right now, Tyrian absolutely felt like he was in the pinchiest of pinches.

With exhaustion that only climbed in magnitude as the seconds passed, Tyrian made his way the tower.

Tyrian called out Clover’s name twice as he rose from the ground, but to no avail. Clover’s room was as quiet as a tomb.

Oh, that room would be a tomb alright when he was finished with Clover…

No, he couldn’t think that way...as much as he wanted to...

Upon reaching the tower’s window, Tyrian paused for no more than but a second to catch his breath, looking around the room frantically all the while.

The tower was dark.

The tower was quiet.

Neither of those things had ever been true when a waking Clover Callows roamed its singular upper room.

Hell, thanks to his brat’s snores, the tower was never quiet, even when he was sleeping!

As soon as Tyrian had recovered enough of his breath to continue, he ran to Clover’s bed, pulling off the blankets with a harsh tug.

Clover was going to pay when he woke up.

However, underneath the covers, there was no Clover.

“Clover!” Tyrian called out.

Maybe...maybe he was just using the bathroom...in the dark...without noticing his uncle’s cries…

Tyrian rushed to the bathroom, but just as with Clover’s bed, Clover wasn’t there.

Oh Gods, where was he?

Confused, Tyrian ran around the tower, tearing apart anything Clover might be hiding or sleeping either in or under. He even opened the door to the tower’s stairwell which led to his own room and checked there. However, not one place held Clover’s form.

As Tyrian approached the tower’s window, he couldn’t help but run his fingers through his hair in much the same fashion as he searched for Clover -- frantically.

Was he actually kidnapped?

There seemed to be no sign of a struggle, and he’d taught Clover to distrust outsiders enough to at least cause something of a scuffle should one ever show their face in the tower.

Suddenly though, something removed Tyrian from his thoughts.

By the bottom of the tower’s small balcony’s staircase, a small glimmer of something was reflecting off the sun, creating a glare of light that went right into Tyrian’s left eye. Tyrian sidestepped the glare’s direct trajectory, but kept its location in his mind as he steadily approached it.

He had given Clover many things over his nearly twenty years in this tower, but never had he been given something so shiny as to create such a harsh glare.

What the hell could this be?

 Upon reaching the staircase, Tyrian lifted the semi-broken plank where the glimmering object sat. 

Inside the makeshift cupboard was a satchel...and inside the satchel was an emerald encrusted, clover-shaped brooch.

No…

It couldn’t be...

Had Clover learned of his identity?

While it made all too much sense for his mind to go there, Tyrian fought the instinct with facts. If Clover had learned who he really was, why would he leave behind the key piece of evidence of his discovery? He clearly wasn’t trying to make a point to Tyrian given how he hid the brooch in such an odd location and didn’t provide his beloved ‘Uncle Tyrian’ with so much as a note for context concerning the brooch’s existence and his reaction to it. 

No, for some reason, Clover wanted the brooch and the satchel that held it to remain here, and Tyrian immediately swore to himself that he was going to discover that reason before any havoc on his life could be further wreaked.

He already had an inkling of a clue.

The Ace Ops were searching for a man called ‘Branwen’ -- whoever that was. Tyrian believed he’d heard the name once or twice in passing, but based on what they were saying, Branwen was a thief, a thief that had stolen the brooch. 

It now made sense as to what mission Salem had put Mercury up to, as well as why the Ace Ops were called to take on a thief.

Wherever Clover was, it was likely with Branwen, and judging by the still revealed painting of Clover’s wish, Tyrian had a pretty good idea of where it was they were going.

Now, all he had to do was find them and end this trip of lunacy before they got there.

Tyrain warped the satchel in a bundle and hid it in the basket Clover had prepared for him. He then felt for the handles of his blades, The Queen’s Servants. Even without touching them, he could sense they were as hungry to restore his brand of order as he was.

It was a good feeling.

Approaching the tower’s window, Tyrian shot the long way down an exasperated look.

What a pain this was going to be to climb down manually once more for the first time in so long.

He swore to the Gods, without that semblance of Clover’s...

Sometimes, raising Clover was more trouble than it was worth, but for the benefits his semblance provided, Tyrian knew he had no choice but to clean up his ‘nephew’s’ mess.

[admiralty-xfd]

the whole truth

My constant, my touchstone. We have arrived, folks.

This is the final chapter. To start at the beginning, click here.

Thanks to everyone following along with this fic, I’m sad it’s over but I’m so proud of it, it makes me happy so many of you gave it a chance. -a;)

Chapter 17: The Constant

She walks alone on a beach, feeling the sand between her toes, the breeze gentle against her face, the waves crashing onto sand. Crystal blue water. No blood. No boils. No locusts. She closes her eyes, enjoying this: the solitude.

Loneliness is a choice.

At first there is no one around, but then a man appears. Kind, familiar, he approaches and gives her a warm smile.

“Where is Mulder?” she asks the man.

Albert Hosteen doesn’t answer her question, instead only gazes at her with wrinkled, soulful eyes, imploring her to grasp the things that are beyond her understanding.

“I have a message for you,” he then says. “From someone you love.”

“What?” she asks, confused. “Who? What message?”

Please, not Mulder, she thinks. Please tell me he isn’t with you yet. Somewhere deep inside she knows Albert is either dead or close enough to talk to the dead.

“Your sister,” he then says, much to her surprise.

“You- you’ve spoken with Melissa?” she asks hesitantly. This is a dream, just a dream, she thinks.

He nods solemnly. “She told me to tell you... that great change is coming for you and your partner.”

Scully pauses, reflects. These are the same words Albert spoke to her at Melissa’s funeral, so long ago. It hadn’t meant anything then, but now…

"What kind of change? When?” Please don’t tell me he dies, please…

“You must help him,” Albert continues. “You must save him. But then... change. Change that you desire.”

Change that she desires… could he mean…?

She glances around the beach and feels it palpably: loneliness. The loneliness she’s chosen for most of her life.

She suddenly knows he must mean what she thinks he means, what she wants him to mean, because that’s how dreams work.

“How will I know?” she asks. “How will I know when things will change? How will I know when it’s right?”

She wants it to be right for them now, but it’s never right for them now.

Albert doesn’t answer but again, as he did so many years ago, responds by simply pointing a weathered brown finger directly at her heart.

***

Scully awoke on the floor of her apartment to the sound of rustling at her door. Her eyelids could barely open, so deep had her sleep been.

She got up to investigate the noise and saw that something had been slid beneath her door. It was an envelope, unmarked. Inside was a keycard for a building operated by the Department of Defense.

Her first thought was Kritschgau; that perhaps he’d been a party to what had happened to Mulder all along. Perhaps it had been him keeping Mulder captive, letting the life drain away from him as it got Kritschgau closer and closer to his revenge. Closer to his proof. And maybe he’d finally hit his limit; perhaps his conscience had finally got the better of him.

But when she found a note nestled inside the envelope she couldn’t have been more surprised at who’d sent it; at whose conscience had actually gotten the better of them.

She unfolded the note and read.

Agent Scully-

I want you to know you were right.

I should have fought harder. I’m not excusing or justifying anything I’ve done over the past several years of my life, but suffice it to say, I’ve made difficult choices; choices Fox never knew about.

I did send you that book. I thought if you understood why I did what I did, you might understand that I believed I was doing the right thing. I believed Fox would understand as well- that he would accept the work I was doing was for the good of everyone, for the world. But I was deceived, and now I have only myself to blame for my own foolishness.

I owe Fox an explanation I’ll never be able to give him. And I’ll never forgive myself for betraying him. All I ask of you is to please understand that harming him was never part of my plan. I hope you can believe that I did everything I could to save his life, and I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.

Please take care of him, Dana. I know you will.

D.F.

Scully stood in her doorway, stock still, trying to process what she was reading. At the bottom of the note was a D.O.D. address that would, ostensibly, lead her to Mulder.

She knew she had precious little time to get to him but she couldn’t move. What was she to make of this? Was it a trap? What would she find when she arrived? A dozen guards with guns? The cigarette smoking man, ready to pounce?

A dead Mulder?

She wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted to believe anymore, who she could trust, what she should do. But there was something about this note, about the other woman’s words, that struck a chord somewhere within her heart.

She suddenly remembered Albert Hosteen being here with her in her apartment, remembered them kneeling down to pray for answers, and then everything that had followed.

Had it only been a dream?

Her first instinct was to question her own sanity. Had he really been here? Or had her lack of sleep over the past few days caused her to hallucinate his presence? There were a number of external factors that could have caused the visitation.

But… no, she shook her head determinedly as she held Fowley’s apologetic confession in her trembling hands. She thought of Ahab, how he had come to her once in the night as well.

This meant something.

She was so confused, not knowing which way was up and which was down anymore, but she remembered Albert pointing a gentle finger towards her heart.

There are more worlds than the one you can hold in your hand, he’d told her before she’d fallen into a deep sleep. It was so hard for her to see that, to understand that some realms were beyond her understanding.

Some truths were not for her.

Diana Fowley had been wrong in so many ways, but there was one thing in the end she and Scully had in common: they both cared about Mulder. She was being sincere, Scully knew it in her gut, and even if it was the first time she was being so since the day they’d met, this was when it mattered most.

That thought pushed every other from her mind as she found herself moving with purpose towards her hallway, towards the street, towards her car. Towards this address, wherever it would take her. She would go wherever he was.

She felt ill-equipped at the moment to make this decision with her brain. She would have to make it with her heart.

In this moment Scully chose to do what Mulder had asked her to do for months.

She chose to trust Diana Fowley.

***

Scully...I knew you’d come.

There had never been a doubt, not really. Even while stuck in his nightmare vision he knew at some point Scully would arrive.

He’d waited, and waited. He’d seen the life he might have had if Diana had stayed, if he’d never found the X-Files. If he’d abandoned his search.

If he’d never met Scully.

I knew you’d come.

“Mulder, you’ve got to get up,” he heard her voice. “I don’t know how much time we have…”

He wanted to, but he was stuck. He tried to break free of his mind prison, of whatever was keeping him tethered to the wrong path. She was the right path.

She was the only path.

Get up, he heard her saying in his dream.  

He wanted to get up, to obey, but his mind was engulfed by thoughts and dreams and memories. He felt adrift, and he searched for something to cling to, something to hold onto. His mind was screaming so loudly to get free.

“You’ve got to get up, Mulder,” her real, actual voice was saying.

He saw her face materialize like shoreline breaking through fog and all he wanted was to go to her, to go with her. To leave this place. But he couldn’t move.

He couldn’t do it alone.

I don’t want to do this alone.

“No one can do it but you,” she continued quietly. But she was wrong; she was the one he needed, she was the one who could help him. She was the only one.

I need you, Scully, he said, every part of his body paralyzed, but she couldn’t hear him.

“Mulder, help me…” she whispered.

He could feel her drawing nearer and in his mind they were in the forks of West Virginia again, clawing at the dirt, uncovering truth.

Help me, Scully.

“Please help me…”

He’d been all of the things she’d accused him of: a traitor, a deserter, a coward.

A traitor for trusting Diana over her.

A deserter for abandoning her, for leaving her behind in this nightmarish fantasy; for leaving her in the dark, something he’d sworn in that trainyard he would never do.

A coward for not telling her all the things she deserved to hear from him: that she was the only thing in his life worth living for.

But she was here for him, still, in spite of everything.

He felt wetness on his cheek, a real tear that wasn’t his own. And through that single tear he felt her desperation, her dedication.

Her love.

His eyes opened.

Help me, Scully.

“You... help... me...” he grunted, his arm finally breaking free, wrapping around her neck.

And she did, just as he knew she would.

2630 HEGAL PLACE

HALLWAY OUTSIDE APT 42

ALEXANDRIA, VA

(ONE WEEK LATER)

Mulder had survived his ordeal, which Scully had to convince herself was the most important thing. The appropriate tests had been run and his memories and brain function seemed to be back to normal.

Even with all of her medical training she had no particular expertise on the brain and was nervous he might have permanent damage. There was no way to know what exactly had been done to him in that operating room, not for sure. All the doctors could do was let him rest, and heal.

After a few days he was given a clean bill of health. She could only hope he would be okay.

She brought him home to his apartment and tended to him in his semi-conscious state. She stayed by his side, quite literally, and watched over him. After a few days he was well enough for her to go home, but not before apprising him of the things she’d discovered while in Africa, and her encounter with Albert Hosteen.

She didn’t mention Diana Fowley. She still wasn’t sure what to say, or if the woman actually deserved any kind of explanation as far as Mulder was concerned. Scully had never intended to keep Fowley’s involvement concealed from Mulder forever, but when Skinner called to inform her Agent Fowley’s body had been discovered after a neighbor reported a bad smell seeping from under the door down the hall, it changed things.

Scully still couldn’t believe that Fowley had done a damn thing to help either one of them. But she had. And now she was dead. The petty jealousy Scully had felt over the past several months felt trite and insignificant.

Mulder deserved to hear the truth, and she would give it to him.

She knocked on the door, steeled herself for this task. At first he was playful, lighthearted, and while part of her was relieved he seemed like himself again, she prepared herself to deliver the grim news.

Mulder had other plans, however.

“Scully, I, uh-- I was comin' down to work to tell you that Albert Hosteen is dead. He died last night in New Mexico. He'd been in a coma for two weeks. There was no way he could've been in your apartment.”

This news shocked Scully. “He was there. We-- we prayed together,” she insisted.

He eyed her and with a single look they were dancing once again. She could tell from his eyes what he was thinking, almost as if she had acquired his mind reading skills.

A visitation. A ghost. A spirit.

See it, Scully.

“Mulder, I don't believe that. I-- I don't believe it. It's impossible.”

“Is it any more impossible than what you saw in Africa?” he inquired. “Or what you saw in me?”

The truth was she probably did believe it, because she had no choice anymore. She knew as surely as she was standing here now that an alive and well Albert Hosteen couldn’t possibly have been in her living room when she’d thought he was. That she’d been dreaming, or hallucinating. Or maybe what she could intuit from Mulder’s look that he believed was right, and she’d seen a ghost.

“I don't know what to believe anymore,” she admitted, as tears started flowing.

She sensed Mulder nodding as he stepped closer to her, prepared for their usual dance. He’d anticipated this, surely. But she was tired, so tired of these well-trodden steps.

“Mulder, I was so determined to find a cure to save you that I could deny what it was that I saw.”

She’d seen the craft on the beach, the sea of blood. She’d seen the locusts and the shaman. She’d seen all of it. It had all led to Mulder. She would have believed anything to get to him, accepted anything to save him. And that knowledge scared her.

She could feel herself beginning to break down already, but in his eyes she saw patience and understanding.

“...And now I don't even know… I don't know what the truth is, I don't know who to listen to, I don't know who to trust.”

Her own faith in everything she knew, in science, in God, in all of it, had been so shaken during this ordeal; she truly felt a bit unhinged. She’d thought she could trust Skinner, and she couldn’t. She’d thought she couldn’t trust Diana, but in the end she had. Everything felt upside down.

She decided before this went any further she’d have to simply rip the band-aid off. It was the best way to deliver this kind of news, the way she’d been trained, the way he’d been trained. Both as a law enforcement officer and as his friend.

“Diana Fowley was found murdered this morning,” she said with no preamble.

His eyes lifted to hers in what seemed like resignation, as if he was surprised and somehow expected this all at once. She didn’t want to talk about Diana Fowley any longer than necessary but Mulder deserved the truth of how she’d helped him in the end.

“I never trusted her, but she helped save your life just as much as I did,” she revealed. “She gave me that book. It was her key that led me to you.”

Mulder looked unsure of what to say, how to react.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” Scully said, genuinely upset by the conflicting emotions rolling around in her mind. “I know she was your friend.”

She reached out to pull him into an embrace, partly for comfort, but mostly because she couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes and watch him break down over some other woman.

But he didn’t. His next words weren’t about Diana Fowley at all.

“Scully, I was like you once,” he said, wistfully, pensively. “I didn't know who to trust and I-- I chose another path, another life, another fate where I found my sister.”

He was speaking softly into her ear and she could feel each hair on her neck standing at attention. “And even though my world was unrecognizable and upside down, there was one thing that remained the same.”

She knew how he felt; unrecognizable and upside down was an understatement.

He took her face in his hands and caught her eyes in a gaze so intense she’d never seen anything like it before, and they’d shared several such gazes. His determination in this moment to get something important across was evident.

He was here, right in front of her, and in a single moment as she felt his touch, she was snapped back to reality.

She thought of Diana Fowley, and how she’d died for Mulder after everything. I know she was your friend, Scully had told him. The words echoed inside her head like absolution she hadn’t intended to give.

“You were my friend,” he clarified, almost in answer to her last words to him, “and you told me the truth.”

She remembered being in that train yard, their bond having felt so broken and battered, and how she’d fought for him. Her truest friend.

“Even when the world was falling apart, you were my constant, my touchstone,” he declared.

Her tears fell freely at this as she smiled in relief. When she looked into his eyes everything felt put back into its proper place, their trust intact.

Here they stood again in Mulder’s hallway, the do-over she’d so desperately wanted now within her grasp. But even though she was free to try again, to kiss him properly, it felt like this moment was too big; it seemed to transcend all the complicated, messy feelings of the last several months.

This wasn’t about a kiss, not right now. It was about this moment; this opportunity to tell him what he needed to hear, what she wanted him to know. The same way he had all those months ago when she’d been headed out the door.

This moment wasn’t about what they might become. This moment was about what they were; here and now, to each other.

Constants. Forever.

“And you are mine,” she responded.

It was naked, uncomplicated honesty, finally.

He smiled and nodded in return, his eyes bright in absolute understanding.

She then leaned forward to kiss his forehead, in his hallway, just as she’d done all those months before. She held his face between her hands as she remembered what Albert had told her.

There are more worlds than the one you can hold in your hand.

The meaning wasn’t lost on Scully but she had a fleeting thought that the world she was currently holding in her hands was the only world she ever wanted to be a part of.

Her thumbs slid down his face and danced softly across those beautiful lips that she still hoped to press her own against.

She would, someday. Great change was coming for them, and soon. She could feel it.

Loneliness is a choice, she remembered thinking not so long ago. It had been a time when things were confusing between her and Mulder; a time when her love for him had been clouded by doubt.

She’d always believed there was nothing in her life more constant than her own faith: in herself, her science, her rationality. But she knew the truth now more than ever before: above all else, her faith was in him. It always had been. And no matter where their lives might take them, no matter what twists and turns they would encounter, and no matter how much longer it took them to get there, she knew for certain loneliness was no longer her choice.

***

He climbs the mound of sand- his sandcastle, his spaceship- and soon he is joined by the young boy once again. They build together, laughing and smiling. After a while the boy looks up at him, taking his hand.

“I want to show you something,” the boy says. “If you’re ready to see.”

Mulder nods, smiling. He’s been waiting for this, wanting this answer for a long time. The real answer, not the one the smoking man had shown him.

And suddenly the boy is Scully. She is right here next to him. It’s been her all along.

She is with him, holding his hand, and she sees the spaceship.

She sees.

“This is ours, Mulder,” she says. “Yours and mine. And we built it together.”

He nods, knowing the truth. This has always been the truth, will always be their truth.

“Let’s keep building, then,” he replies with a smile.

They kneel down in the sand and build.

Epilogue

A tiny cry pierced the air and Mulder’s eyes flew open. He felt Scully shift in the bed next to him, and he leaned over to kiss her temple.

“Stay, I’ll get him,” he said softly.

He slid out of bed to scoop their son up out of his bassinet. William instantly quieted as Mulder held him over his shoulder, carried him to the changing table, and changed his diaper.

When he returned to Scully she was sitting up in bed, turning her bedside lamp on. She reached her arms out as he handed her the baby.

“You can leave the light off, you know,” he smiled.

“I know,” she said, as she got William to latch. “But I want to watch him.”

Mulder slid back into bed next to her and touched their son’s soft head as the newborn nestled into Scully and began to nurse. It had barely been a day since he first laid eyes on William in Democrat Springs but after a whirlwind of activity they’d finally come home from the hospital.

He knew he should probably go back to sleep and take advantage of William’s current state of silence but in this moment he could only agree with Scully. All he wanted to do was watch, so he did.

He watched Scully look at the baby, their baby, and she absolutely glowed. Everything about her as a mother felt right, and although he’d entertained the possibility in the past, seeing it in the flesh made him believe it even more fervently.

He had a fleeting moment of self-awareness as he realized what Diana had said to him in his fever-vision all those months back had been right: looking at his family now, everything else seemed unimportant. Silly.

Childish.

He knew, however, that he hadn’t been wrong. Having a child with Diana would never have been right. It could never have felt the way he felt right now. Even before, when he and Scully had only been friends, he’d been prepared to have a child with her because he knew, absolutely knew he was bound to her forever, no matter what.

These thoughts of his past with Diana were clouding his mind, and he had a strong desire to focus on the task at hand, his task, which was being present for his family. He knew he had to tell Scully what was on his mind to banish the thoughts forever.

To be free of Diana Fowley, once and for all.

He sat up in the bed to face her. “Scully, I need to tell you something.”

She looked up. “What is it?”

“I want to be with you, really… be with you.”

“Well, I just had your baby, Mulder, so I certainly hope you do,” she said playfully, cooing at William. But Mulder wasn’t in a playful mood right now. He was serious.

“I think...in order to do that, I need to be completely honest with you.”

She looked up from the tiny infant and her brow furrowed. “What is it, Mulder?”

He sighed. “I should have told you this years ago, actually,” he said uncomfortably, his hand on the back of his neck. “But it’s… been difficult, for obvious reasons. And it’s been weighing on me more heavily lately.”

“Okay.”

When he looked into her eyes, telling her the truth felt like the only thing to do, although he had no idea how she would react when he revealed it.

“I was married once. Before you and I met.” Her eyes flashed. “It was a long time ago.”

The “M” word hadn’t been uttered by either of them up to this point. Hell, they’d only just dropped the “L” word to each other for the first time a few hours ago. He may very well have gone to his grave with this secret. But as he looked at her now, holding what was essentially living proof of their unassailable bond, he knew complete and utter transparency was the only course.

“Oh,” she said. Her eyes dropped, and he could tell she was disappointed to hear this. On what level, he wasn’t sure.

He waited, and she said nothing for several seconds. As he watched her he could practically hear the gears in her head turning, piecing it together. He knew what would come next, inevitably, as if he’d activated Richie Lupone’s Rube Goldberg machine, and the noose was tightening around his neck.

“Diana Fowley?” she asked, with an air of veiled trepidation.

“I was young, and it was a mistake. But I just… wanted you to know,” he affirmed. “The whole truth.”

She nodded back, thoughtful, then turned her gaze back to the child in her arms. The child that was half his, half hers. She smiled as she gently stroked the infant’s cheek.

“Thank you for being honest with me, Mulder.”

He moved his head lower to better catch her gaze. “Are you upset?”

She looked at him tenderly. “Of course not. How could I be upset about anything right now?” She smiled, indicating William. “Nice job on the timing, by the way.”

“It wasn’t intentional, I promise,” he chuckled softly.

“How long… did it last?” she asked.

“About two years,” he admitted.

She nodded thoughtfully. “But I’ve seen your FBI profile,” she said suddenly. “It has no mention of a divorce.”

“Yeah, that’s what happens when you’ve got Langly for a buddy,” Mulder explained. “Most guys take you out for beers to cheer you up. He took me for a good scrubbing.”

She laughed softly, and reached out to hold his hand. She didn’t say anything for a while and he knew she was processing it all.

“I suppose if Langly scrubbed it, it never happened, then,” she pointed out.

“Even so,” Mulder said, “I still wanted you to know.”

She thought a moment. “It explains a lot, to be honest," she admitted. "Why haven’t you told me this before?”

He’d wondered that too, for years. The answer was obvious. “Because I didn’t want you to know, Scully,” he sighed. “I knew how you felt about her. Not to mention how I felt about you, and how it made me sick to think about revealing that to you.”

“But… later? Even after she died? Why not then?”

He thought about everything that had brought them here together. If he traced it back, oddly enough, Diana was the one who had set the ball rolling. If she hadn’t persuaded him to unearth the memories of his sister that spurred him along this journey in the first place, he and Scully might never have met.

He closed his eyes and thought of all the events that led them here; the moments that had defined both of their lives. He remembered every step that had led to he and Scully taking that ultimate one: how they’d been each other’s constants, how he’d kissed her at the New Year’s ball drop at midnight and waited for her so patiently to be ready. Months it had been, until she’d finally let him in: body, heart, soul. How the rain had pounded against his bedroom window that night as their bodies had moved together, slowly and reverently. Finally.

How love hadn’t meant what he’d thought it did before that night; not at all.

Every choice he’d made, every fork in the road had led them both to each other, right here and now. And as he looked down at their son and up to her he knew why he’d never said anything.

“I guess I’d convinced myself that telling you would somehow lessen what we have together,” he confessed.

“But that’s not true,” she said with a smile. “I didn’t know you then, Mulder. You can’t change your past. And even if you could, why should you? Everything you’ve gone through has made you the man you are today.” She reached out to lay her hand against his cheek and his eyes closed.

He covered her small hand with his larger one. They fit together so perfectly. “I know. I know that now, and that’s why I’m telling you.”

She smiled down at their son, then looked back up at him. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Only that I love you,” he said, meaning those words more than he ever had in his life. Maybe he’d never meant them at all before her. “Diana was in my past, and that part of my life is over. The love I feel for you, though... that love is endless, Scully.”

She closed her eyes and brought his hand to her lips to kiss it. Her eyes peered at him over his own fingers and he watched them actively changing in hue: aquamarine, cornflower, cerulean. Scully. How did they do that?

She brought his hand down and a smile spread across her face that put every truth he’d ever searched for to shame. The truth they both knew; this love they shared that they could no longer deny. That he no longer had any desire to deny.

“I’m in love with you too, Fox Mulder,” she said.

His insides fluttered in an inherently Scully-induced manner. He would never tire of hearing her say the words.

“I think I have been since I met you,” she continued. “I only wish I’d been brave enough to tell you sooner.”

He sympathized with her admission; how much heartache and shame they could have avoided if they’d both been braver.

“I wanted to tell you in Antarctica,” she revealed to his great surprise. “I was about to say it but you found that gas can and then… life intervened, I guess. I lost my nerve.” She looked him right in the eye. “I regret that.”

He shook his head. “I have so many regrets, Scully… things you know I’d change if I could.”

His list of regrets was long, especially when it came to Scully. Countless mistakes that, especially during the time Diana had been in their lives, had hampered their progress towards the inevitable; towards each other.

But there was one regret he held higher than any of them.

“That goddamn bee,” he chuckled. “How many things that would have changed if we hadn’t been so rudely interrupted. How many times I’ve wished for a do-over of that moment.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” she said softly, and he believed her.

Their smiles mirrored one another’s, understanding that now was not the time for regret. Now was the time for action.

“There aren’t any bees in here, are there, Scully?” he grinned.

“No, there aren’t,” she replied.

He took her face between his hands and leaned in, so grateful to not be afraid, to not be confused. To know with such certainty she was his and he was hers, and there were no more questions anymore.

Their lips touched and he felt it again; that feeling of absolute bliss that occurred every time he was lucky enough to kiss her. That feeling he suspected would never, ever go away.

He knew the way she kissed by heart now; the taste of it, the softness of her rosy lips, the tiny sighs of satisfaction she probably thought he couldn’t hear but he could, always. Her unoccupied hand combed through the hair at his nape, twirling softly.

Two days postpartum he knew the kiss couldn’t lead anywhere, but it didn’t have to; it was everything, all he could ever want in such a full, perfect moment.

He suddenly felt a sharp pinch at the back of his neck and he reeled backwards, eyes wide, looking for another arthropodal interloper. No fucking way.

Instead he saw only Scully, eyebrow raised, a mischievous look in her eye.

“I had you big time,” she said, barely containing her glee.

They shared a laugh as William fussed in protest. Mulder reached out to comfort him.

“I’m not used to sharing you, Scully,” he chuckled as he stroked the infant’s head.

After a moment, a slight smile appeared at the corner of her mouth. “Wow, Mulder. Marriage.” She shook her head. “I never pictured you as the marrying kind.”

“Oh?”

“It’s just so... ordinary.”

"I might be more ordinary than you think,” he laughed. He looked at her earnestly. “Is… that something you’d consider? Someday? Maybe?”

She smiled in surprise. “Someday. Maybe. Do you think you and I could dabble a bit in the ordinary?”

“I think we could,” he replied honestly, looking down at the tiny baby nestled in her arms. “I really think we might even be good at it.”

She nodded, her eyes shining, and he kissed her again softly. She reached out to turn out the light as he laid his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes, the quiet sounds of William nursing a pleasant symphony to his ears.

***

He’s on the beach again, the wind blowing through his hair, the waves crashing onto the sand; only this time there is no spaceship. There is no mission.

There’s only him, and Scully, and their child.

It’s nothing less than extraordinary.

[scav-eng-er]

“If Nothing Else, We Have This.”  TROS Alternate Ending Part 1/?

OOOO I FINISHED IT (well the first part) of how TROS should’ve ended in my opinion. It will be in multiple parts because I didn’t realize how long it would actually be. Also in this story, nothing has happened to Leia until our good boi comes back, which will make more sense in the next part. Thank you!

This is dedicated to my amazing new love of my life, my reylomate @reylo-trash-4ever who literally GASSED ME UP so much for this story that she told @mojona1999 who also is my sweet bean. Thank you for ranting with me my dears.

She couldn’t help it. It was as if every being, every fiber in her body was telling her to do it. And she had no problem obeying. His lips were soft and so full, his warmth transferring to hers made her feel whole, complete, and at peace. Rey’s other half had found it’s way back to her. Ben was holding her against his chest, his heart, his soul and she never wanted to be pulled from him again. After defeating Palpatine, Rey had felt her world go black. She was exhausted, torn apart by the power inside her. She remembered collapsing, too tired to notice her heart stop beating. Next thing she knew, it was like she woke up from sleeping and found herself held in the arms of Ben. She could see the moment his eyes met hers. They were warm and curious, and searched hers in wonder and hope at this erupting spark between them. Her skin tingled as his fingers caressed the nape of her neck, supporting her recovering body while she examined him. Kylo was gone. Ben came back. Rey wanted to, had to touch him, feel him real and in front of her. Her fingers gently grazed his cheek, warm and alive. Rey couldn’t put into words why she kissed him, but her soul was telling her to do it, go for it. And like a string weaving its way from her heart into his, she knew he had the same feeling, an understanding, and he desired her lips just as much as she did his. She felt her soul leave her body as it danced with his among their entwined lips. Her heart raced in excitement at whatever was to happen after this, she didn’t know. As long as he was by her side, there was nothing they couldn’t do.

Rey pulled away and like a lovestruck little girl, smiled into the eyes of the love of her life. At the realization of what they just did, the two couldn’t help but share a small laugh amongst the dark and decrepit canyon. How foolish and stubborn they both were, to be hiding these feelings for so long. Rey grazed featherlike touches against Ben’s dimples. She loved those dimples, she loved his smile. Seeing his eyes crinkle and feeling his chest huff in giggles was more refreshing than gulping fresh, clean water after scavenging. Rey vowed she would do anything to keep that smile on his face.

And just as quick as it appeared, she saw it fade. His bright smile disappeared and his eyes suddenly became empty. Ben’s body felt heavy and instinctively, Rey protected him as much as she could, bracing his fall back onto the hard, stone ground. Her body was weak, like someone had stolen half of her strength, her determination, her will to live. He was still in her arms.

“No…no no no. Ben?” A gentle shake of his shoulders did nothing.

“No..No! Please, please Ben. You can’t do this!” Rey climbed onto her knees, kneeling over him to find some way, anything she could do to bring him back. She glanced around her surroundings, nothing but the barren land of Exegol. The sounds of blasters and explosions above them were nonexistent as she strained to hear any breathing come from Bens soft lips. Nothing.

She felt her body begin to shake in fear, gasps of air stinging her throat as she tried to hold back tears. Pushing his hair back to see his face, Rey begged, “You can’t leave me here Ben! I just got you back. We’re in this together, remember!”

Her hands clutched against his tunic, his body still warm, but there was no heartbeat beneath her fingers. She sobbed, and through her blurry vision, cried out to nothing in particular.

“Please!” Her screams bounced along the walls of rock and soil. When the world went silent again, Rey took a deep breath, and using whatever strength she had left, focused on her breathing. She closed her eyes, imagining his smile, her heart breaking at never seeing it again.

When her breathing relaxed, Rey began to feel calm again. She had remembered the first time she felt this..peaceful. Her first lesson with Luke. He had shown her how the power of the force is in all things, good and bad, dark and light. Life and death, chaos and peace. It was everywhere and anywhere, touching us, filling us, a part of us. Goosebumps prickled her skin, and she felt as light as a feather. In the darkness of the cave, far from the sounds of war and battle above, Rey called to the force. A silent plead for help. She was still so young, she had so much to learn and didn’t know if there was anything in the force that could help, but she had to try. She felt her mind expand to any dimensions, galaxies and beyond. Past earth, water, mountains and deserts she called out for help. A soft sound trickled out of Reys lips.

“Be with me.”

A warm sensation clasped over Rey’s knuckles. She opened her eyes in shock to find hands, clear hands? They gently sat atop of hers, but she could still see hers, clutched to Ben’s clothing. Her eyes widened to see multiple people surrounding her, glowing in blue hues, transparent. A sense of peace washed over her at seeing them, her tear stricken face lifted in a small smile, hopeful.

To her left, there was a man; young with a mischievous face, but his eyes looked hurt, ashamed, and wise. He briefly glanced at Rey, nodded and focused on the young man before him. A faint scar ran down his right eye and and his locks flared out, similar to Ben’s. His robes were light and dark, mixing into one. His right hand was gloved. Another man stood behind him with a hand on his shoulder. His hair was clean and swept, with a thick beard highlighting his bright eyes. Two small moles on his face were darker, prominent for Rey to see the details in him. Beside him was a beautiful, young woman. She smiled at Rey, but her eyes looked sad as well. Someone so young who may have lost so much, so soon. Too soon. There was something regal about her, that made her almost stand out from the rest. But nothing stood out more than the small green creature to the right of Rey. His small stature put him eye level to her, seeing the details in his face. His ears stood out, pointy and wide. A wrinkled head with age lines and sprouts of hair peaked around. He squinted at her, gave a throaty “hmph” in acknowledgment and continued his work. When Rey looked up at the last spirit, she gasped.

“Master Skywalker?” She questioned.

Luke Skywalker only gave a small smile and knelt beside Rey. He placed his hand on her free shoulder, and a tingle ran up and down her body. She began to feel emotional again, like all the years of repressed fear of abandonment, loneliness and hopelessness wanted to come pouring out. She wanted to apologize to him, to cry and say how sorry she was for not being strong enough on Crait, or how naive she was on Ahch-To and never getting the chance to say goodbye before he was gone. As she gazed at her mentor, clouded once again with tears, he knowingly stated, “No one is ever really gone.”

A bright blue flash erupted from the spirits. Rey clutched her eyes shut to shield away from the blinding light. She grabbed at the only thing she could feel, Ben. A powerful wave, deep and vibrating echoed against the walls, making Rey dizzy even with her vision blocked. The planet shook beneath her, from the spirits or the battle above, she did not know. But all she could think of was Ben.

A baby Ben Solo, giggling in his father’s arms as his mother kisses him over and over again. A child, excited to start training, ready to be a great jedi like his uncle. She imagined a teenager, scared and alone in the shadows of his room. Cold sweat stuck to his lanky form as he cried in the dark. The nightmares and voices were getting worse, but he was too afraid to ask for Luke’s help. He could fix it, he could do this on his own, right? A terrified young man, shaking as he watched the temple burn, this was all his fault..

Ben Solo was trapped. Trapped in Kylo Ren, in Snoke, in Palpatine. The grimy, evil creature that dared to call himself grandfather to Rey had poisoned Ben’s mind. He was alone, abandoned, and forged to become a weapon.

‘I’ll make it right.’ She promised to herself, ‘we’ll make it right.’

The vibrations began to dissipate and opening her eyes, Rey saw the sprits around her fade.

Where was Luke?

The older Jedi was on the opposite side of Ben, gazing at his nephew. His poor nephew…who had faced the consequences of his uncles failures. A boy who was caught by the darkness, with no one to reach out and save him. No one until her. Luke smiled at Rey, understanding the passion they had for the other. He felt a weight off his shoulders, hopeful that the two will never be alone again. She had helped Ben pull himself back from the darkness. Her stubborn determination, passion and hope to fix the galaxy was something Luke would’ve thought was naive and ignorant before. Now he understood, seeing her clutching onto him, heartbroken tears in her eyes, unwilling to give up, even in the darkest of times. It was more than determination or stubbornness.

It was balance, an equal force between the two, a dyad… love.

With his hand on his nephews cheek, he placed a sweet kiss on his temple. Master Skywalker gave a nod to Rey as he vanished, knowing this wouldn’t be the last time they saw each other.

Rey was about to question what she just witnessed, when a quiet voice below startled her.

“Rey?” Ben’s voice was groggy, raspy and tired.

She felt her heart swell, shaking hands grasped at Bens face, desperate to see his eyes open, his chest rise, his smile.

“Ben?”

His warm eyes were open - pained and tired, but open. He placed his hand over hers, needing to feel her warm and inviting touch.

He smiled, “Hey kid.”

Ben Solo was alive.

Ben was alive!

Rey laughed and she tumbled into his arms, taking him to the ground with her. He scoffed at her weight hitting him, but happily accepted her hug with no hesitation. Her laughs turned into sobs into his neck. He was warm, his heart and pulse raced wildly under her and Rey had never felt anything so good in her life. His strong arms around her made her so safe, she had almost forgotten there was a war happening right above them. Small giggles in her ear lifted her spirits, ready to spend years hearing it again and again from Ben’s lips. He inhaled her scent, taking a gulping breath, to appreciate the ability to breathe again.

After holding each other, Rey had to look in his eyes again. She pulled away, but never once lightening her grip. His eyes were searching deep in hers.

I’m back, they said, I’m not going anywhere.

Rey placed her hand against his chest, needing to make sure it wasn’t failing. It beat strong and constant beneath. His breathing was normal, and finally, Rey sighed in content. With her in his arms, she rested her forehead against his, taking each other in.

Outside the cave, the world continued to fight. Ships of all shapes and sizes fought against the undead army of Star Destroyers. One by one, they began to fall. Ships collapsed on each other in defeat. Explosions and thunderous booms rained the skies above them. Yet, they heard none of it. The two souls were brought together and breathed as one. They felt nothing but the touch of each other, heard nothing but the soft breathing of each other, and saw nothing but the teary, hopeful, loving eyes of each other. They just wanted each other. And they could have that. If nothing else, they could have that.

Far across the skies, among the stars and planets, unbeknownst to her son, General Organa felt a her breath escape her. However, as she felt her body begin to fall, to give up, her mind was flooded with visions. Hidden among dust and rocks, she saw her son, warm and alive, surrounded by love of her padawan. She knew. The two polar opposites, yet connected as one, by fate. She felt the warmth of their love hug her, supporting her as she collapsed to the ground.

“General!” Lieutenant Connix cried out, hurrying from her control board to the princess. “Get the medics! Hurry!”

[elopez7228]

Scenic Route 41/47

Read on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268208/chapters/43229774

Start over : https://elopez7228.tumblr.com/post/620919089893933056/scenic-route-0147

From the minute she got into Rose’s car, Rey realized that unlike the time she spent with Ben, the next five hours were going to be exceptionally long. San Francisco seemed a world away. Rose stared straight ahead, cheeks still flushed and lips pursed in consternation. Rey pretend to be engrossed in her phone. Suddenly, Rose held out here hand, palm up, without even turning to look at her. Rey’s eyes widened, unsure. “The microchip. Hand it over.” Her companion ordered. “No way, I risked my life for this thing; I’m keeping it. I won’t give it to anyone but Leia Skywalker herself.” Rose gave her an exaggerated eye-roll. “Let’s just say I don’t exactly trust you,” she said through gritted teeth. “Given that I spent a long sleepless night worrying about what happened to you, only to find that you’ve been having a great time in Kylo Ren’s arms!” “Come on! As if you or Leia ever even bothered to warn me about the massive risk you were exposing me to. You can sulk all you want. I almost died, on three separate occasions! Is this what you people always do? Take some poor unsuspecting passerby and throw them into No Man’s Land?” “It was for an important cause,” Rose stammered. “You gave no idea what this trial means to us, and to Leia Skywalker...” “More than a stranger’s life, in any case,” Rey retorted dryly. “You sacrificed my life without hesitation. No wonder Ben ran away. Did his mother throw him to the wolves too, in the name of the ‘greater good’?” “I won’t let you talk about Leia like that!” Rose snapped, her bottom lip quivering with rage. “You have no idea the hardships she’s been through, none!” “I have a very good idea of what she did to her son, though. Pardon me if I can’t find enough compassion for the woman who considered Ben and I negligible losses!”

Rose took a deep breath before answering in a low voice : “He did this to you. He filled your head with lies without you realizing.” “Kylo Ren lied to me. Ben Solo would never. Ben was willing to sacrifice everything to make things right. No one can convince me otherwise.” “And there’s another one,” Rose sighed, visibly exasperated. “Oh really? He was the one who brought me here, did you ever see him hurt me? If he wanted to kill me, didn’t he have a thousand perfect opportunities to do that already? How do you explain that?” Rose hesitated, uncertain. “What if he...put a tracker in you bag! You’d lead him right to the Earth Soldiers HQ!” “Stop the car,” Rey demanded. “What?” “I said, stop the car. Do you want to search my belongings? Park the car and do it right now. If that’s what will get you to stop imaging whatever nonsense, do it now and save us the argument!”

The other woman turned red. “You know what?” She raised a brow. “Okay. Okay, we’re doing that!” True to her words, she flashed her signal and turned to park just off of the highway. It wasn’t a rest stop per se, but an emergency parking area just large enough for a vehicle. Rey wasn’t sure if this counted as a real emergency, but she didn’t want to push her luck today. After days of being hunted by FORCE she’d imagined finding some comfort in the company of an Earth Soldiers op, not another trial by fire.

Rey stomped angrily out of the parked car and shouldered her bag out of the trunk, dropping it on the ground. “Go ahead, take a look. I’ve got all day.”

Rose walked up, her head held high. She began to carefully unpack the bag. She searched every garment she withdrew, using her fingers to trace the fabric and feel every inch for abnormalities before moving on to the next one. When the bag was empty, she checked the every corner of the lining and the straps too. Finding nothing, she turned to Rey with her fists clenched at her sides. “Your handbag too.” “Very well.” Rey surrendered the other bag.

Rose’s eyes widened at the sight of the box of condoms, but she said nothing. The soon-empty handbag was subjected to the same thorough investigation, yielding the exact same results. Nothing. Rey repacked her things, her expression hovering somewhere between triumph and annoyance. But Rose was still determined. “Undress yourself.” “Not even in your dreams.” “Then I’ll search you myself.” Rey rolled her eyes. “You’re wasting your time.” “I’ll be the judge of that. I lost plenty of time coming all the way to Winnemucca to wait for you. I wonder if you made up the story about the fire to spend more time with him, that wouldn’t surprise me. Hands up!”

Rey begrudgingly raised her hands, hoping to be done once and for all. As soon as Rose realized there was nothing to see, she would leave her alone. So she let the agent search her hair, her t-shirt, her bra (cringe) and her jeans. Rose stuck her fingers in the denim pockets, where she would soon find the microchip that Rey had refused to hand over earlier. They would have it one way or another in the end. She paled however, when she fished yet another condom from the girl’s back pocket. Rey flashed her a cynical smile. Oh yeah, that was for exactly what she thought. Still curious, Tico? Apparently so, because the next thing Rose unearthed was the microchip. Rey maintained a neutral expression. Behold! The prodigal microchip. Could she leave now, and go find Ben...whenever he was? They could be together somewhere else, anywhere else, hopefully far away from these lunatics.

But Rose’s face fell as she looked at it. “It’s ruined!”

Rey held her breath. What did she mean, ruined? Rey had carefully inspected it earlier this morning with her own two eyes and it looked fine! Rose was a furious scarlet as she held the plastic square right under Rey’s nose. “It’s damaged, you broke it! You sabotaged the mission on purpose!” “What? No, it’s not,” Rey protested incredulously, her blood pressure spiking. “Show it to me!” Rose placed it in the palm of her hand and she bent to look at it up close. Shit. Rose was right, the chip was thoroughly warped. Rey looked up, mortified. How was it possible? Did Ben actually double-cross her? But how, when she had kept the thing on her person at all times throughout— Suddenly she understood. Her thoughts flashed back to that morning in Elko, where she had struggled to take her jeans off. She’d been in such a rush to undress, bouncing from one foot to the other, trampling her jeans between her feet and the craggy, rock-studded ground...completely forgetting that the microchip was still in her pocket. Rose had been right all along: her desire for Ben had lead her to betray Earth Soldiers in the end. Rey’s face was impossibly pale. She died a little on the inside as she passed the chip back to Rose, who was still waiting for an explanation. “Yes, it was me. I damaged the chip but...” “But?” “But I have no way to prove it was an accident.” It was almost exactly what Ben had said, when she’d caught him red handed. She could now empathize with the position he was in—the feeling of helplessness and fateful injustice. She would be condemned by Earth Soldiers, and hunted like an animal by FORCE. Rey had never felt more alone, yet again. And yet she knew that the only person who could ever understand her, could ever commiserate with her empty, aching heart, was Ben Solo—who was some hundreds of kilometers away. The two of them stood alone against the world, linked by destiny. And all hell was about to break loose. “There’s nothing for it,” Rose declared solemnly. “You’ve clearly chosen your side.” She punctuated the last word with a swing on the car door. “I would leave you here but it’s up to Leia to decide your fate. And mine.” Rey’s eyes widened. Hers too? “I was the one who sent you to her.” The other woman explained. “It’s my fault if we made a bad choice. I thought I saw loyalty and grit in you, but I was wrong.” What a drama queen. Rey could practically feel the thinly-veiled anger behind her dismay. The girl was full of herself. She wasn’t the unsuspecting mule on the frontlines and yet she wanted pity as she fancied herself on the chopping block. “Right, then.” Rey held her head up. “I’ll talk to Leia Skywalker myself. Maybe she’ll understand. Let’s go.”

The rest of the journey to San Francisco was long and silent. Rey gnawed on the sandwich Ben had bought her. He’d left her the water bottle too. BB8 whined uneasily in the back seat, clearly design the tension in the air. With nothing better to do, Rey contemplated the surrounding landscape. After Reno, the desert was slowly replaced by a coniferous forest that wound around a mountain road. They had reached California, the west end of the world. Tahoe boasted wide, tree-studded prairies, Sacramento was surrounded by acres upon acres of fertile farmland. Napa Valley was full of rolling green hills that slowly but surely led them to the sleek skyline of San Francisco. Rey perked up as they got on to the Oakland Bay Bridge, which offered them a breathtaking panoramic view of the city. And beyond that, the endless blue of the Pacific.

Rey had never been so far from home. Nor so alone. She took out her phone and typed a message to Ben:

Arrived in one piece at the end of the world. Wish I could share this moment with you. I’m lonelier than ever. Take care of yourself — Rey

He responded immediately.

You’re not alone. Be strong, we’ll see each other soon. I love you —Ben

“Who are you talking to, Kylo Ren?” Rose snorted derisively beside her. “Yes,” Rey answered, unmoved. “Do I need permission to text, now?” “If you’re talking to FORCE, the answer is yes. We’re at war here, in case you’ve forgotten. Your double-crossing has to end somewhere.”

Rey put away her phone, forcing herself to remain calm. “We're going to win this war not by fighting what we hate, but saving what we love, Rose.” “Still,” Rose shrugged, “we’re not going to disarm FORCE with tickle attacks.” “You’d be surprised,” Rey mused.

The car continued into the city, and Rey took a moment to admire the skyscrapers and winding streets. Despite her bad mood, she marveled at every new sight like a child. Cable cars, Victorian houses...if she ignored the feeling that she was about to walk into the gallows, she could just about enjoy the city’s charm. Rainbow-colored pride flags adorned many a building entrance, and on the wall of one particular church, Rey spied the words REFUGEES WELCOME written in large, bold letters. She would have loved to discover the city with Finn. In the meantime it was vital that she soak everything up to describe to him later. One day he would get better and see it with his own eyes. By the time the car finally stopped somewhere, Rey had lost track of their location. They were in an underground parking structure. Rose buzzed past a security checkpoint, and then another, before they finally parked in the darkest, lowest level. The whole place was mildly claustrophobic to Rey. “Are we there yet?” “No comment,” Rose replied.

They unloaded the bags and let BB8 out. Rose opened a metal side door to reveal a long corridor lined with yellow fluorescent panels. They passed many rooms as they reached the end of the corridor, where another door stood, practically identical to the last. Rose used her badge to open this one, which lead to...another parking garage. With a press of her thumb on a key fob, the vast space was illuminated with a flash of light from yet another car. “Another car, really?” Rey asked. Rose gave no answer. Another car, another interminable drive through the city. Rey yawned. Who did these overall-clad ecotypes think they were? Super heroes? Ridiculous. The next parking garage was better. Rose typed a code into the intercom. Rey didn’t recognize the voice on the other end, but she heard Rose whisper the password (“resistance”, she rolled her eyes). The door opened. Corridor, elevator, corridor. If this setup was meant to intimidate newcomers, it was certainly effective. The prepared speech that Rey had come up with during the long hours on the road seemed to wither away with every row of corridors and armored doors that they passed. Finally, Rose motioned to her to enter a room. It was a dark room littered from floor to ceiling with boxes upon boxes of documents. Little windows let in little daylight. A coffee machine bubbled away in the corner. And sitting on a large futon was a blonde woman Rey had never met. Her fingers tapped impatiently against a tablet. In the middle of it all sat Leia Skywalker herself, dressed in a long grey dress and a matching manteau. She was commanding despite her small frame, and Rey felt intimidated already, knowing she was almost a divinity to these people. Behind Leia sat a tall, thin woman with strangely elegant pinkish-purple hair. Rey stood, frozen for a moment and unsure of what to do. Was this her grand trial? Who were these people? Was Leia going to crucify her on the spot? It was Leia who crossed the few steps that separated them to hug Rey, holding the girl in her arms.

[misstinfoilhat]

Whumptober 2019 #12: Field-Medicine - Bungou Stray Dogs

(This is one of the optional alternatives in the prompt-list for Whumptober, replacing “don’t move!”) xXx12xXx The thought “why do I always find myself in situations like these?” had occurred to Osamu Dazai a number of times. Like, the time he had woken up, stranded on a deserted island without even remembering having boarded a ship, or the time he had locked himself out, on top of the roof of the Agency building in the middle of winter and being stuck there for hours without his coat. It turned out that Kunikida had been well aware of where he was, but apparently had such a strong need of a break from him, that he honestly did not care if he stepped off the ledge and plummeted down from the roof to the sweet relief of his death or not. Obviously, that had totally killed his desire to do just that.

Still, he kinda did. He summoned his inner Chuuya and climbed down two stories, just so he could knock on the office windows, smiling and waving as every face turned towards him paled sickly, and full panic had erupted.

It had been totally unnecessary and completely over the top. Sure, his fingers were freezing and he couldn't feel his toes- one wrong move and he would surely have fallen off. But, he felt like he had the situation mostly under control.

That wasn't necessarily exactly what was going on right now though, but he for sure felt the same way about it. He was stuck in a very unpleasant position without any obvious way of getting out of it.

They were out on a mission, looking for a young boy that had been missing for a couple of hours. The kid had gotten scared when he had realized that he had a special ability. Neither of his parents had any, and the boy had no experiences with that kind of power. They weren't sure what kind of gift he possessed yet, only that it had almost resulted in their entire house burning down. It had been an explosion, but luckily, no serious injuries or fatalities. The fire department had found a gas leak in the grand country house, but the boy was the only one who could answer what had actually triggered the eruption.

In other words, this child could potentially be very dangerous to himself and others if he wasn't found soon.

The search was what had led him into these woods. Dazai absolutely hated the woods. There were mosquitos and horseflies, the air was humid and he had stepped in a puddle of mud, which he was about 85% sure wasn't bear excrements.

So now his feet were cold and he had several of itchy bites all over his arms and who-knows-where-else. Also, he was soaking wet after an undesired swim down the stream.

Oh, and then there was the bullet that was currently lodged inside his thigh.

It would seem like they quite possibly had another Atsushi on their hands, (his name even resembled the tiger boy's own name) because someone was after this kid. Someone they didn't know yet, but dangerous enough to carry weapons and be out here with them in the middle of nowhere, looking for him.

Dazai had been separated from the rest of the group when the shooting had started. They didn't see anyone, but they had clearly seen them. The shooting came from behind a thicket of bushes, and none of them had really felt the need to linger around to check it out once they were being fired at. He had no idea where the rest of them were, but he could only hope that none of them had been fatally wounded.

When he first realized he had been shot, he hoped it was just a graze. Tumbling down a steep hill while trying to avoid the bullet rain that chased him didn't leave much room for stopping and assessing the injury.

Luckily, he had been able to crawl his way off the trail, painstakingly slowly and made his way through the grass, finding a small creek. He was unable to walk, so his best, or perhaps only option to get away, was to let himself flow down the stream for a little bit. He wasn't much of a swimmer, but he wasn't much of a walker right now either. He plumped into the water and drifted down for about a hundred meters, where he spotted a large rock that was placed in a way that it looked like it might have a gap under where he could hide. Once he was back out of the water, he was able to crawl his way over to it and worm his way into the small space. It wasn't a good hiding spot, but it was the best he could do at the time. His phone was obviously dead from the swim, which was so typical that he wasn't even able to be bothered by it.

Now that the adrenaline had started to wear off, the burning sensation in his thigh was making itself very well known. His hands patted the underside of his thigh carefully, and it quickly became clear that the bullet hadn't gone all the way through, which would mean that it was still boarded inside his leg. That was not good. The bullet had also penetrated his flesh way too close to his femoral artery, which meant he had to remove the bullet quickly.

Wearily, he leaned his head back, resting it on the rock and cursed silently. It wouldn't be the first time he had to pry a bullet out of himself, but he had hoped that the time before this would have been the last. Oh well, better luck next time, he scoffed unimpressed. If he was going to get the bullet out on his own, he would need to make an emergency-tourniquet. Making a proper tourniquet was impossible to do on oneself. If done correctly, it was humanly impossible not to faint from the excruciating agony one would feel. That also meant that there was an increased chance that he would bleed out before he was able to get proper medical treatment- well, if he didn't nick the artery in the process of course, which would without a doubt make his demise quick and very unpleasant.

Either one was not a desirable way to die- lying in the woods, being eaten on by maggots and flies and eventually having his face bitten off by some predatorial animal was not what he had in mind when planning his death.

He really hated those goddamn bears. And he would much rather bring his face with him into the afterlife.

Heaving for a deep breath and holding it, he twisted his injured leg a little, winching and biting his lip to not cry out in pain. Of course, it would be the same leg as he held his switchblade on. He lifted his pant-leg and dragged the folded knife out from his sock, before settling back into a more bearable position. He unfolded it with a slight frown, before cutting a long piece off the bottom of his coat.

His blood-covered hands left splatters all over the highly beloved jacket, and each tear in the fabric tore a small piece off his soul.

With quivering hands, he inched the piece of textile under his thigh, a little above the wound and started binding the cloth around his leg. But, he had to pause mid-knot, because the brambles in front of him started rattling. The sound of footsteps came closer and closer, and Dazai tried to sharpen his senses and listen closely.

All he had to defend himself with, was the small folding knife, which would not hold up in a gunfight. The phrase, don't bring a knife to a gunfight, had never felt more fitting.

Out of any other options, he tried to get to his feet. As soon as he laid any weight on his damaged leg, it gave out under his weight and he was left dragging it behind while trying to get some distance between himself and whoever was heading his way.

Right behind the rock he'd been hiding under, he collapsed. Beams of agony fired through his entire leg and blinded him for a moment, long enough to make him lose his footing and topple to the ground. He pushed himself as closely to the cliff as he could and tried to stay hidden while peeping towards the bushes.

The first thing he noticed was a disheveled head of blonde hair and two chubby hands pushing the overgrown plants away before two large hazel orbs watched anxiously from side to side.

It was the boy.

Just as Dazai recognized him, the kid startled abruptly, noticing the blood trail that Dazai had left behind. He backed away with staggering footsteps and was ready to run off.

Dazai threw himself from his hiding spot, hitting the ground and squirming a few feet to make himself visible. If he could only remember the kid's name.

“Wait,” he screeched after him in an asphyxiated voice. His wound was not content with the harsh treatment and pulsated tortuously. His left hand clutched to it, hoping it would stifle the pain while his right hand reached out for the boy.

“Please,” goddammit, what was his name? “Y... Ya- Yasushi? Yasushi Inoue, right? Please, I'm Osamu Dazai, I'm here to help.”

The kid turned around, eyes glossy with unshed tears and he looked horrified at the bloodied man in front of him, still ready to jolt if Dazai gave him any reason to.

“I'm not going to hurt you, and you're not in any trouble,” Dazai deliberated calmly, but couldn't get rid of the tension in his voice. Demonstratively, Dazai held his hands out, showing that he did not have any weapons. The knife was left behind the rock, so he couldn't have reached it if he tried.

“H-how do you know my name?” Yasushi asked in a shaky voice, fighting back the sobs that desperately wanted to escape from his chest.

“I'm from the Armed Detective Agency-” Dazai began but realized quickly how those words could sound triggering to a boy he was trying to convince that he was in fact not armed. The blonde child was already getting ready to split as Dazai quickly tried to clarify. “-b-but not actually armed. We have abilities, you know, just like you,” Dazai explained desperately, catching Yasushi's attention again. Dazai swallowed down a cry of hurt before he was able to proceed.

“We've been hired by your family. They're really worried about you, and not angry. They just want you to come home safely.”

Green eyes looked away, still unsure if he should split, or if he should trust this stranger, lying as a bloodied lump on the ground.

Dazai determined that the child was very smart to not trust him. He didn't look like the most reliable character at the moment.

“Also, I think you should stick with me. There's someone out there. I don't know who they are or what they want, but...” he eyed his leg and chuckled humourlessly, “...but I think we should stay together. I will help you to get back to your family, and, to be honest, I could probably need some help from you too.”

A stout hand quickly brushed over the young boy's eyes, falling back to his side while he approached carefully, like a frightened animal. “W-what happened to you?”

Dazai wracked his brain for the right answer. He had never been good with kids, but he knew that he needed to keep some things from them. It would be unwise to blurt out that he had been shot by someone hunting for the kid when he needed him to be calm and level headed. 

Still, there was no denying that he had a gunshot wound to his leg, and he still needed to dig the bullet out before they could move anywhere. This “throwing himself around” business had been hazardous enough, and he only hoped that it had not made anything worse.

“If I tell you, will you promise me that you'll continue to be brave for me and not run off?” Dazai finally returned, peering intently at the boy who had slowly moved closer towards him now.

With a small frown, Yasushi subsequently nodded. Dazai mirrored his motion, taking a deep puff before he began to explain what was going on, keeping a close eye to the kid's reaction.

He didn't respond like Dazai had anticipated. Instead of looking alarmed or distressed, he simply looked guilty. His lower lip started to wobble somewhat, and he bit it tightly to prevent it from showing.

“It's going to be okay, Yasushi-kun,” Dazai cooed. “We're going to to find my coworkers, and then, we'll get you home.”

Yasushi lowered his head in shame and sniffled softly. “I burned it down,” he muttered quietly.

Dazai could've kicked himself. He needed to be more careful about how he chose his words.

“Well actually, they were able to save most of it. Only the kitchen was destroyed from what I read in the report. But you're right, you won't return there tonight. We are going to reunite you with your parents though, and then you're probably going to spend a couple of nights in a nice hotel, or with extended family perhaps.”

The child swallowed audibly and finally looked up. “Okay,” he said hoarsely and bobbed his head. “Okay, I'll trust you.”

“Great,” Dazai beamed. “That's really great. But now, if you would be so kind, I need you to grab my switchblade from over there so I can dig this bullet out of my leg.” xxxxxx

This kid was seemingly a bottomless pit of vomit. He hadn't even been able to assist Dazai in rotating the stick to help to tighten the tourniquet before he was out for the count.

That was certainly a little annoying.

Dazai turned to look for another small stick, luckily finding one close enough to reach without moving and placed it in his mouth and bit down on it hard.

There was no reason to put it off, any hesitation would only make it worse. He grabbed the twig sticking out from the knot in the cloth and turned it quickly, several times until the pain shot up his leg like a lightning bolt and he could feel his teeth quirk from the harsh bite on the branch in his mouth.

He let it go, letting go of the stick between his teeth and allowed his hands to fall to his sides while he strangled a growl and tried to breathe through the nauseating pain. A couple of choked coughs wracked their way through his body and he had to fight to stay conscious.

Good, that meant it was good enough.

As long as he could stay conscious, it would be as good as it was going to get, especially since he was going to prod this bullet out all on his own. Glancing over at the kid, who had finally stopped dry-heaving, that seemed to be the most likely scenario.

“Hey kid, you okay?” Dazai asked weakly, still wheezing heavily. Beads of sweat were trailing down his face, burning lightly at the small cuts that scattered his face from that tumble down the hill earlier in the day. “Y-yeah, sorry.” Yasushi sounded even worse than him, wiping his mouth and getting up from his stance at all fours into a seated position, while being careful not to catch a glance at the gore that was going on behind him.

“Good... This got a bit much for you, huh?”

The young boy only hummed his response, while nodding his head vigorously. Dazai imagined that what he really wanted to do was to shout something along the lines of “fuck yes.”

“Well, uh, just so you know, I'm going to remove the bullet now... If you could talk to me while I do it, it would be of tremendous help,” Dazai admitted. 

He wasn't looking forward to this one bit, but it had to be done. It was getting dark, and he was starting to catch a chill from his wet clothes. Yasushi was not dressed for a night in the woods either, only wearing a t-shirt and shorts.

Also, where the hell was the rest of the agency? He hadn't drifted down that far.

“O-okay, I can do that,” the boy agreed and pushed himself a little closer, still looking pointedly in a different direction.

“Thanks,” Dazai replied, shifting his attention back to the wound. The knife was in his hand, and he started to cut open his pant leg. The bleeding had slowed, which had been the point of the tourniquet after all.

The hole in his thigh was almost black from old blood, while still spilling out fresh, brighter liquid. Dazai only wished he had gotten this done when the light was better, but now he needed to get a move on before it got even dimmer.

“I'm starting now,” he announced and pinched around the wound to squeeze out the access blood that was just remaining inside the deep wound. He winched, but kept his hands steady and wiped it away.

“So,” Dazai began, in a tight, tortured voice. “How about you tell me a little bit about your ability?”

“I- I don't want to,” Yasushi denied. He sounded scared, which Dazai determined that he probably had every right to be. It was new, and yes, really scary.

“But, if you don't mind me asking,” the kid continued, falteringly.

“No, not at all, please continue,” Dazai pressed in agony, just as he let go of the pressure.

“When did you discover yours?”

Dazai closed his eyes and mentally prepared himself to put his finger inside the wound to feel around for where the bullet was stuck.

“I can honestly not remember,” he said, slowly inserting his index finger. It was deep, and the bullet had probably hit the bone. A whispered few curses left his mouth as he carefully forced his way through muscle and tendons, breathing through the pain.

“Oh,” Yasushi uttered in disappointment.

“But, I was presumably born with it. It's just always been in use, for as long as I've been conscious enough to know what was going on around me,” Dazai resumed explaining, as he touched the tip of the bullet with his finger and bit his teeth together while he was retracting his hand. Without taking the time to gather himself, he placed the tip of the knife to the wound and made a small, careful insition.

“Can I ask what your power is?” Yasushi asked shyly, knitting the edge of his t-shirt together as a defense mechanism. 

“Yyyyes,” Dazai wailed out in obvious pain, while he made the first step towards digging around in his thigh with the serrated knife. “I can nullify all abilities,” he continued in a strangulated voice.

“Are you okay?” Yasushi asked fearfully, half-turning his head to check on him.

“D-don't look right now! Trust me,” Dazai panted, implanting the knife further into his leg while twisting the point, searching for the bullet. “J-just keep talking.”

“Of course, sure. Sorry. Uh.” He desperately sought for anything to talk about, catching the aggravated grunts and moans coming from the older man seated behind him. 

Oh God, the only thing Dazai had asked of him was to continue talking to him. Why wasn’t he even able to do that?

“My ability shoots bullets,” he suddenly called out, hastily covering his mouth as if it would somehow take back his dark secret.

“W-what?” Dazai uttered, stopping his prodding for just a second.

“I'm sorry,” the boy begged, finally turning around. His hazel eyes were filled with tears now, and they were steadily gushing down his face. “I'm so, so sorry. I... it was me. I think... I heard you in the woods and I got scared. I sent the bullets at you.”

Dazai looked at him quizzically, one hand holding the knife while the other clamped down around the bullet wound.

“Huh,” he deadpanned and cocked his head. “That was certainly unexpected.”

The boy had scooted all the way over now and was sobbing freely, masking his face with his hands and cradled himself back and forth.

Dazai wasn't sure what to do.

“Listen, Yasushi-kun, I need you to pull yourself together, just for a little bit. There's currently a knife, inches away from my femoral artery and it hurts and I kinda need to focus on that right now.” The child snorted a couple of times, nodding vigorously, rubbing his eyes raw.

“I can do that,” he stammered weakly, slowly peering up into Dazai's dim eyes.

“Thank you,” the ex-mafioso sighed and prepared to proceed.

Yasushi scooted over to sit beside Dazai, a little to the side as not to accidentally look at what the older man was doing. Again, he had needed to think a little about something to say. His expression changed as he suddenly realized what Dazai had told him moments before.

“Dazai-san? You said you could cancel abilities, right?”

“Mhm,” Dazai squawked. All Yasushi could see of what he was doing, was small movements in the slender man’s shoulders, but his voice was pained and intense.

“Then why were you not able to cancel mine?”

“I have to,” Dazai began but needed to quit talking to prevent himself from shrieking out as he reached the bone in his leg, and had to tilt the knife to catch the bullet.

“Ngh, I... I have to be in direct contact with... oh, fuck, with the individual,” he wheezed painfully.

It was so close now.

“I would have to touch you to stop it,” he eventually managed.

“But, if... if I was unable to control my ability, if I was scared, w-would you be able to stop it if you tried?”

“Most likely,” Dazai stated as he finally saw the bullet surfacing from the gaping gash in his limb. 

With one last, possibly too rigid jerk, the bullet moved down his thigh and hit the ground. Utterly spent, Dazai dropped and skidded down against the rock with half-lidded eyes. The sweat ran uncontrollably down his face and his breathing was rough and raspy.

“I'm done,” he said quietly, and Yasushi shifted around.

“Are you okay?” he asked worriedly, frowning frightenedly at the pale heap next to him.

“I don't know, but I don't have a bullet in my leg anymore,” Dazai murmured, bearly lucid.

“It's my fault that you're hurt,” the child mused with tribulation.

“Stop that, it's not... you said it yourself, you can't control it.”

“No, but you wouldn't be here if I hadn't run off, and you surely wouldn’t have been shot. I destroy everything.”

Dazai only wobbled his head. It was getting hard to stay awake.

“I have a friend...” Dazai started but quickly trailed off. The boy's green eyes were focusing expectedly at him, and he suddenly remembered what he was saying.

“I have a friend, that you remind me of. He couldn't control his... potentially dangerous ability either when I first met him. I think you two should talk.”

Yasushi perked up, smiling for the first time since Dazai had met him. He was a cute kid when he wasn't bawling his eyes out.

“Atsushi,” Dazai informed silently, smiling himself at the thought of how far the young prodigy had come since he first met the starved kid.

“What?”

“Atsushi,” Dazai repeated, glancing back at the perplexed child.

“What is it?”

Dazai rolled his eyes tiredly. He could not start with this.

“Never mind.”

They sat together in comfortable silence for a couple of minutes. Dazai was freezing, and he could hear the kid's teeth begin to clatter too. If something didn’t happen soon, he wasn't sure if he would be able to make it.

That's when it finally dawned upon him.

“God...dammit,” he uttered, catching a glimpse of Yasushi as he blushed deeply from the bad word.

“Yasushi-kun, if those bullets came from you... there isn't anything out there to be afraid of. The only people out there are my colleagues, and they are out here to help.”

“What do you mean?”

“You should try to find them.”

“B-but, you can't walk.”

“That's why I'm not coming with you, kid.”

Yasushi waved his head. “No, I'm not leaving you.”

“Yeah, you are. Now, get going before it gets too dark.”

“But, what if I'm not able to control my ability again?”

“Then you should aim at the tall blonde man with glasses.” Dazai gave the boy a pointed stare.

He fidgeted a bit, twirling his thumbs and clearly pondered about something.

“O-okay, fine. I'll get them. And then we're coming to get you, okay?”

Dazai gave him a tired smile, finally able to relax his body a little. He nodded faintly at Yasushi before the younger turned and started to walk away, sending worried glances towards the fatigued figure he was leaving behind.

For some time, Dazai was able to stay awake. He would prod lightly at his wound whenever he felt himself drifting off, giving himself a shot of pain to stay alert.

Could bears smell blood? If so, they had a fiest waiting right there.

More time passed, and he still couldn't hear voices or see the shimmer of flashlights that might be out searching for them. But eventually, as much as he poked at the gash (at some point wondering if he should push the bullet back in and start the process anew, just to stay awake), he finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

---------

For once, waking up again was a relief. He could hear faint sounds of familiar voices closing in from the distance. He honestly thought he had kept himself awake, but when he blinked, he abruptly gazed up at Yosano's apprehensive expression.

They were still out there, so at least he hadn't been out too long this time, but he couldn't see the kid. “You did a good job at slowing the bleeding down,” Yosano smiled reassuringly. Kunikida loomed behind her with a deep furrow on his forehead.

Dazai could feel his gaze getting more and more blurred, and he knew he didn't have much more time to make sure that Yasushi had found them before he would be out again.

“Yasushi,” he urged in a rasped voice, looking quizzically at the peering eyes that were currently assessing his injuries.

“Atsushi's fine, he's back at the base,” Kunikida answered dryly as he assisted Yosano with something.

Not this again.

“N-no, Ya-sushi,” Dazai tried to over-pronounciate, but all he got in response was Yosano's hand on his forehead, checking for a fever.

“Yeah, he's burning up. We need to get him to a hospital right away,” she told Kunikida urgently.

'No, not what I meant!' was what Dazai aspired to say, but he was unable to move his lips anymore. His brain was processing so slowly and sluggishly now that he didn't even realize that was blacking out again.

He could faintly sense himself being moved off the ground before everything went back to all darkness. --------------

The white ceiling looked vaguely familiar, and the white dots flickering in his vision even more. His head was pounding and he felt generally awful all over.

Only when the sickening smell of antiseptics reached his nostrils, he understood that he had just woken in the hospital.

Damnit, he didn't really feel like waking up yet. Not to the miserable existence inside a hospital room. At least it didn't seem like anyone had realized he was awake yet, so he might as well just go back to...

“Ya-sushi,” he exclaimed suddenly, eyes widening in terror and suddenly completely alert. “Where is Yasushi?” 

He tried his best to sit up, but for some infuriating reason, his body just wouldn't let him.

A head of unnaturally light hair came into his vision, dual-colored eyes looking worriedly down at him.

“For fuck's sake,” Dazai cried out furiously before a second blonde head appeared beside the tiger-boy.

“Oh thank God,” Dazai sighed as he recognized that glassy, hazel glare, and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Are you okay, Dazai-san?” Atsushi asked with an anxious pout, looking confusedly at the smaller boy next to him.

“As long as everyone calls you Nakajima as long as you two are in the room together, I'll be just fine,” Dazai exasperated, slowly opening his eyes and smiling serenely at the two boys.  ------------

So, I'm not going to pretend to be very familiar with Japanese authors, so I had to look for a name that could fit the original character in this story. I did a google search and found a book called The Hunting Gun, which I figured would make a good name for his ability. Then, I realized the whole name thing, and somehow it took over the whole story. Also, sorry if there’s a lot of spelling errors in these stories. English is not my native language, and my spelling-check is being kind of a brat lately.

[caffeineivore]

M/N fic for Wils!

For @nelwynp aka The Ebil Enabler. I actually wrote this longhand on a notebook as is my habit during long plane rides and so on. Recently got back from a two week vacation to Spain and Portugal so... there was a lot of plane time. Also chilling time post-evening sangria. I managed to write a few ficlets during this trip, and will tag them all under “travel ficscribble”.

Set in a ficverse not yet really published, but the same as the last few things I posted. Will eventually compile everything after the main fic is published for the @ssrevminibang.

Prompt: M/N, “Buffoon”, “I hope you’re miserable”

**

“You great buffoon! Why in the names of all the saints would you attempt to keep up with me Uncle Murphy, then? It’s tea and dry toast for you this morning, and possibly into this afternoon, too.”

There’s an army of mad leprechauns doing an Irish step dance in the space in his skull where his brain used to reside before it was pickled to death by a gallon of Guinness last night. His mouth tastes like the Sonoran Desert, scorpions and lizards and all, and Noah is pretty sure that if he attempts to move his limbs, they might fall off. Had it been any other person than Mary Kathleen talking to him and breaking the silence of the room, he might have cussed them out. Or at least made plans to do so sometime in the near future once the room stopped spinning. 

“Your Uncle Murphy was the one who kept refilling my cup! I wasn’t trying to start anything with him! Does he hate Americans or something? I mean, we are kind of a bunch of assholes, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t personally do anything to him.”

Mary Kathleen tsks at him, but sets down the tray of toast and tea on the nightstand by his bed. Noah is not above admiring the glimpse down her shirt as she bends over. He might be suffering the Hangover From Hell, but the day he couldn’t find the wherewithal to appreciate Mary Kathleen’s incredibly fabulous boobs, he’d have to be blind, dying or both.

Not that he thought of her in some sort of sleazy, disrespectful, sexual object type of way. And certainly not anything he’d admit to, aloud. Mary Kathleen was a friend-- they’d kept in touch since meeting each other at her graduation two years ago-- and besides, he wasn’t going to discount the fact that she could quite possibly kick his ass. Or at least make his life a complete living hell. Nor was he about to make things awkward, particularly on her home turf.

It’s his first time in Ireland and certainly it’s a pretty big departure from America. Mary Kathleen’s family comes from a tiny village that looks like something out of a postcard, and just the other day, they were stuck behind the local idea of a traffic jam-- a flock of sheep taking their sweet time to cross the road. The land is a bit hilly, but lush and green, with a great deal more rain than he was accustomed to. But he could hardly complain. Not when it never came close to the downright dangerous temperatures of a sweltering Arizona summer, and especially not to Mary Kathleen’s exceptionally friendly family.

She’d told him, perhaps a year ago, that she’d lost both parents in her teens to a plane crash, and that she’d been taken in by an aunt and uncle afterwards, who’d lived in London at the time. They’d since moved back to Ireland after Uncle Murphy had retired, and though the sleepy little village of her youth certainly offered less by way of employment opportunities, there was no other place she’d rather be in the summers between school terms.

And so, as her friend, and as Zack’s unofficial babysitter, here he was. At least, that is to say, he got Zack safely into the UK and dropped him off into the competent hands of Amy, then embarked upon this little detour. And though he hadn’t exactly done anything super exciting thus far, it was worth it just to see this side of Mary Kathleen’s life, in her natural habitat, as it were.

He was never going to spend an evening at the pub with Uncle Murphy again, however. Everything that people said about the Irish and their alcohol tolerance was true.

About two hours later, Noah is roughly human again, after about four slices of dry toast, three cups of tea and two cat naps. He blearily makes his way towards the direction of the bathroom, which is tiny and adorable and had lace curtains on the windows, but also a shower about the size of a shoebox. The water pressure leaves something to be desired, but at least it does get good and hot. He sweats out the last little bit of alcohol left in his system, gets dressed, and wanders outside in search of his elusive hostess.

He finds her-- or at least a pair of very long and shapely legs that definitely look like hers-- sticking out from underneath a rusted, ancient jalopy of a car in a shade of brown-green usually associated with bird droppings or guacamole past its prime. The car is parked in a neighbour’s yard, and the neighbour in question seems to be a fairly ancient man wearing a sweater and a cap, who calls out when he sees Noah approaching.

“Yer Yank’s here, Mary Kathleen, and sure and he’s looking a lot more lively now than last night.”

“Me Yank’s a great buffoon who can’t handle his drink, but at least he conducts himself well enough when he’s half-pissed. I remember the time when Fergus McLean ran bare-arsed through the village singing ‘Whiskey In The Jar’, and if he wasn’t a walking advert for the evils of over-indulgence, I’m sure I can’t think of a one who’d suit it better.” Mary Kathleen, butt wiggling in her well-worn jeans, shimmies out from underneath the fugly car, a streak of black grease on one cheek, and grins up at him from her prone position on the ground. “I’m changing the oil of Flynn Malone’s car for him. He’ll be giving me some fresh eggs and a loaf of his wife’s soda bread for tomorrow’s breakfast, and perhaps if he’s feeling particularly generous and kindly, a pot of fresh butter as well, for none make better bread and sweeter butter than our Bridget Malone, aye?”

“‘Tis why I married her, to be sure,” Flynn Malone says agreeably, even as he gives Noah an unmistakable side-eye. “Now, my Bridget’s Da was fit to string me up by the bollocks, he was, when he caught me singing for her at her window in the moonlight before we were married. Our Mary Kathleen’s quite the prize herself, and I’d be happy to stand in for her Da if a lad comes sniffling after her and doesn’t do right by her.”

“I’m pretty sure if I did anything untoward in her presence, let alone directed at her, Mary Kathleen’s completely capable of kicking my ass herself,” Noah remarks in as polite a tone as he can muster, considering the conversation topic. “Therefore, I’m not going to try anything funny. I want to live.”

“Oy, yer smarter than ye look,” Flynn Malone guffaws as Mary Kathleen ducks back under the car to finish up. “We had our doubts. A body who makes a living getting pictures taken of his naked chest doesn’t always have a great deal going on upstairs.”

“The Yank’s working on his post-graduate in Physics at his Uni, and I’d thank you to be nice to my company, Flynn Malone.” Mary Kathleen reappears out from underneath that car. “Don’t be troubling him too much, or I’ll be tying a knot in your fuel line.”

Mary Kathleen wipes her hands and face clean with a damp towel, and Flynn Malone hands her a covered wicker basket full of the agreed-upon bread and eggs and butter, and after bidding her neighbour farewell, she and Noah head back to the house of her Uncle and Aunt.

“So, you never answered my question.” Noah carefully steers clear of any implications of his intentions towards Mary Kathleen. Not that they’re dishonourable, per se, but why bring a beautiful friendship into an awkward and potentially disastrous direction? Mary Kathleen, he knew, would never consider getting on a plane to even visit the United States, let alone move over there. “Do people here hate Americans, or do they just enjoy messing with me? I mean, I’m not mad. Just kind of curious.”

“Oh, you’re not from around here, and moreover you’re a male non-relative visiting my home. This part of Ireland is still quite traditional with things, so me neighbours probably want to make sure you’re not here to shag me and whistle off on your merry way, leaving me pregnant and unwed.” Noah’s eyes go wide at the last part of her explanation, and to his chagrin, Mary Kathleen blithely misinterprets his expression. “Not to fret, lad. I know you’ve no interest in such a matter. You’re quite safe from the parson’s trap. In the day and age of Flynn Malone, a man and a woman could scarce smile at each other without threats of the Banns being read, but I’m expecting naught from you of that sort.”

“Sure. I’m safe with you. Just not with any other number of people who’d like to see me miserable. Sounds good.”

“Maybe you should improve your constitution before we visit the pub again.” Mary Kathleen smirks up at him. “At least you no longer look like you’re fit to go to the Devil. You’re not quite to shirtless kilt standards, yet, but perhaps a nice walk in the fresh air will help you.”

“As long as I don’t step in any more cow shit.”

“I make no promises. You should have been more careful and watched your step.”

Noah says nothing about the fact that he’d been distracted staring at the freckles on her nose, and the glint of gold in her green eyes, and the way her t-shirt clung to her in a way white cotton had no business doing to anyone at any time, and follows her down the lane. He’d perhaps die in Ireland, but at least he’d die happy.

[littlewhitetie]

(Mostly) Shiro-Centric Whump Fic Recs!

You bet I do, anon!! Always happy to share. :) I’m sure I’m forgetting some, but here are some favourites:

I've had Worse by cabbagespoon / @cabbagespoon​ (some gen, some Sheith)

A collection of sickfics and stand-alone drabbles focused on whumping the hell outta Shiro. 

Full Circle by Glass Soldiers (subtract) / @glass-soldiers​ (gen)

The ripe scent of the blood pouring out of the body nearly made Shiro gag, but now that he was up close he could see that the rebel still had some sort of grenade attached to his belt. A terrible idea presented itself to Shiro in the few seconds of time he had left.

“Keith,” he said into his comm, “make sure you get the rest of them out of here.”

"Wait, Shiro!"

“There he is! Fire!”

Shiro will do whatever it takes to save the other paladins when they get in over their heads in a very dangerous situation. And then, they will do whatever it takes to save him.

The Greatest Challenge by VelkynKarma / @velkynkarma​ (gen)

Getting the Rembelii to join the coalition should be in the bag, an easy first mission back for Ryou after months of recovery. He shouldn't need Shiro for backup at all. But the leader of Rembeliss isn't interested in the coalition; he's interested in Champion and a challenge, and won't take no for an answer.

from the inside by valkyriered / @queenvallkyrie​ (Uliro)

Voltron gets hit with a virus. It doesn't feel nice. 

brace by buttered_onions / @butteredonions (platonic or romantic Uliro)

Twenty minutes in to the space-thunderstorm, Ulaz notices Shiro is missing.

All Too Familiar by oldmythologies / @oldmythos​ (gen)

5 times Shiro couldn't sleep and the 1 time he could.

One For All, All For One by KaijuDork / @sheithlings​ (gen)

Everyone in Team Voltron has their own struggles, and Shiro always makes it a priority to help them out when he can. It's not always easy on top of his own issues, though; He's plagued by nightmares and flashbacks, and a growing sense of disgust at who he's become. His brave face is slowly crumbling as it begins to take its toll, and the other paladins agree to do something about it.

Or: Shiro helps each paladin out in turn, and sometimes they help him, but eventually they all come together to return the favour.

Numbers by oldmythologies / @oldmythos​ (platonic or romantic Sheith)

Shiro would hate it. He would hate knowing that Keith heard him scream sometimes, that Keith knew that he wasn’t completely okay. He’d feel weak, and he’d hide behind his speeches and his optimism and would be ever more careful about where and when he let himself fall asleep.

The cry reaches him from behind the door. It sounds like a child, and god, that child is so afraid.

This time, Keith doesn’t hesitate to open the door.

One Hundred Percent Probability by VelkynKarma / @velkynkarma (gen)

Shiro has no one to blame but himself for getting stuck on a mission with Slav, really. And of course it has to go all wrong, because really, when does it ever not.

Shadows of Our Dreams by KUG (gen)

-There comes a time and place where you don’t stand so tall-

The Paladins of Voltron have been reunited and are now resting and trying to heal, but nightmares tend to stick around longer than physical injuries. Time for a good ol' fashioned sleepover with the team. (Post-episode 11) 

Parasite Knight by VelkynKarma / @velkynkarma (gen)

“You may refuse all you like, Champion, but I have found the one thing in the universe that can be absolutely counted on is that everything that exists desires to survive. Even you. Perhaps especially you.”

Something’s not right with Shiro, but it may go far deeper than anybody anticipated.

Beast You've Made of Me by BossToaster (ChaoticReactions) / @bosstoaster (gen)

The Alteans once had powerful allies. Some were wiped out, and some fell.

In hopes of regaining powerful friendships, the team land on a planet to search out signs of rebellion against the Galra. What they find instead are old acquaintances, court intrigue, and old wounds.

Or: One time the universe conspired to make Shiro's life hell

Drown Out Your Mind by BossToaster (ChaoticReactions) / @bosstoaster (gen)

Continuation from Chapter 4 of Like Forgetting The Words.

Shiro is sick. Very, very sick. The team tries to help. 

for every bird there is a stone by lacking / @lightshesaid (gen)

Shiro walks away from his confrontation with Haggar injured and shaken. After falling through the corrupted wormhole and finding himself stranded alongside Keith on a solitary planet, Shiro begins doubting his bond with the black lion and his place among the other paladins. As the team is reunited and his health continues to decline, Shiro is forced to confront parts of himself he thought were long buried, and everyone is left questioning just how far he’s willing to go in order to survive.

Trust Me by votsalot / @saumenschliesel (gen)

Pidge is having a late night snack when Shiro comes to her for help only she can provide. 

Hurricane by a_fearsome_thing / @thehouseofthebrave (gen)

Shiro is injured and very pragmatic about it. Hunk is decidedly less so.

Grounded by buttered_onions / @butteredonions (gen)

Separated from the rest of the team, Shiro must wait for rescue. In the meantime, he's not alone.

Spark to Ignite by BossToaster (ChaoticReactions) / @bosstoaster (gen)

Shiro wakes up in the dark.

He is alone.

Routine Maintenance by VelkynKarma / @velkynkarma (gen)

Being an amputee with a prosthetic limb is difficult enough. Having a solid metal alien prosthetic forced on you by another species entirely is even worse.

OR:

Five times Shiro’s Galra arm caused him trouble in some way and another member of the team helped him out with it, and the one time the same arm is the only reason any of them survive.

i have dug this grave for two by radialarch / @radialarch (Sheith)

This is what Keith promises himself: both of them will make it out of this. [Post-S1]

piling sandbags on parapets by alessandriana (gen)

"It's really not that bad," Shiro said.

Keith shot him a look of raging disbelief. "Pidge said you got tortured."

(Episode tag for Fall of the Castle of Lions/Tears of the Balmera.)

But I'm Sick of Learning How to Die by yet_intrepid / @apaladinagain​ (gen)

The paladins caused collateral damage in a battle, and they've resolved to do what they need to so their alliance with the impacted planet stays intact. Unfortunately, said planet has a judicial system based on corporal punishment.

Shiro has a plan to deal with this, but he underestimates what his team will do to protect him.

Where the Ocean Hits the Sky by maychorian / @maychorian (gen)

Shiro is sick and Lance is the only one who can look after him. If Shiro will let him, of course. Hopefully it's just a cold.

Breathless by radiofreekerberos / @radiofreekerberos (Sheith) (Keith and Shiro whump)

Shiro and Keith are stranded on a toxic planet that is slowly killing them. Can team Voltron rescue them before the clock runs out on them both?

Not long after they’d crashed, it became apparent that some element of the red dust was especially toxic to Keith. Shiro suspects it has something to do with his Galra DNA. He’d pulled Keith out of the red lion just before she’d been buried, but those few minutes of exposure to the storm as they’d retreated inside the black lion had taken a toll.

The Nature of Your Ways by ThatAcePaladin / @thatacepaladin​ (platonic or romantic Sheith) (Shiro and Keith whump)

Shiro always knew there was something special, something unique, about Keith. He never suspected that he would be half-alien, let alone half-Galra, but after learning that, everything seemed to fall into place.

or: five things Shiro thought were different about Keith, and the one two times he knew that Keith was still Keith.

Shifting Sands by Cardigan_Quincy (gen) (Lance and Shiro whump)

Lance picked himself up from the floor gingerly, testing his muscles before putting too much weight on them. Nothing seemed injured, aside from a few aches that would likely become a nice collection of bruises by tomorrow morning. But considering how hard Blue had fallen, Lance felt lucky. Blue was less lucky. --- Lance is stranded on a desert planet, injured and captured by someone who will go to any lengths to get their hands on the Black Lion. Fortunately or otherwise, he's not alone.

Boom Crash the Sound of My Ship by maychorian / @maychorian​ (gen) (Lance whump)

After a Galra attack splits Voltron, the blue lion is damaged and falls toward the jungle planet below. Shiro follows, and now he and Lance are stranded in hostile territory, fighting to survive. Lance is injured, Shiro is having flashbacks, and help is far away. And the Galra just...keep coming.

Won't Let Fade by Haleykim84 (tristen84) / @haleykim84 (gen) (Keith whump)

At a Voltron Coalition after party, Keith attracts some unwanted attention.

Compromised by gringle (gen) (Keith whump)

Keith ignored the rolling sensation of pain radiating from his stomach. “I’m uh… I’ve been injured. I can make it-” probably. Keith was never a betting man in the sense that he’d think in terms of probabilities. He just worked toward a goal, and he either succeeded or failed, and he can’t fail this. “-I just need more time.”

“That information is invaluable in overcoming this sector of Empire Control. You have five minutes, or until we’re compromised ourselves,” Kolivan stated, grim and final.

Another click, and Kolivan’s voice went silent.

If those aren’t enough for you, here are some of mine:

Interlude (platonic or romantic Sheith)

"Where are you going?” Keith asks, just barely catching Shiro before he collapses.

“My room, or just… not here. Please.”

Shiro should probably stay here in the infirmary where he can be monitored, but his eyes are pleading.

“Alright,” Keith concedes. “But I’m not leaving you alone.”

--

In which Keith takes care of Shiro after The Journey.

Lost and Found (light Sheith)

“Keith?” Shiro’s voice is barely a whisper, hoarse and wavering with disbelief.

Conflicting emotions seize Keith’s heart at the sound of Shiro's voice: utter relief in that they’ve finally found him; sheer horror in that they’ve found him here.

As Many Times (Sheith)

Shiro has fever dreams; Keith does what he can to help.

Silence (pre-Allurance; platonic or romantic Sheith)

An anti-Galra nanoweapon leaves Keith ill and Shiro badly injured. It's up to Lance and Allura to find them, take care of them, and get them home safe and sound.

Linger (light Sheith)

“You should go back to bed,” Keith says. “Get some more sleep.”

Shiro’s tired, but no. He can’t go back to his room, not yet. He’s not ready to be alone again.

--

Not wanting to leave Keith's side, Shiro looks for excuses to linger.

Pulmonary (Shallureith)

Infected with a disease that feeds off of heartache, flowers bloom in Shiro’s lungs, choking him with petals. He keeps the petals he coughs up a secret, but it’s getting hard to hide. The only thing that can stop its trajectory is if the person he’s in love with returns his feelings.

Shiro doesn’t even know who it is he’s sick for—Keith is Shiro’s anchor, his sun; but Allura is his compass and stars. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Neither of them could ever be his. They’ve each made their feelings for him—or lack thereof—known.

Not to mention the fate of the known universe is contingent on their upcoming marriage.

The coughing attacks get worse, but he can’t let them find out why. All he can do is try to push down his longing and watch as, little by little, Keith and Allura fall in love.

Finding Home (gen)

Shiro has hands that are his to hold.

After suffering a concussion and nearly drowning, Shiro falls ill. From the jungle to caves to cities and space, through fighting the Galra and seeking a cure, Keith and Allura are with him through it all.

What Once Was Lost (gen)

Shiro doesn’t want to remember, but he realizes he really should. He has his memories extracted, replaying them in the hopes of finding useful information, and maybe as a starting point in confronting his trauma. The days he spends watching them aren’t easy, but at least he’s not alone.

What We Do (gen)

On a mission gone awry, Shiro and Keith are captured and imprisoned. Shiro is injured and sick. Keith has no idea how to take care of someone, let alone comfort them, but he does his best.

Elementary (gen) (Keith whump)

A poison in the building they're captured in leaves Keith delirious and vulnerable, with only Allura there to take care of him. Unused to comforting others, Allura is completely out of her element. Luckily, she has Lance on the other end of the line to walk her through it.

Hope that helps!! And don’t forget to leave a comment if you enjoy a fic (even if it’s short!)--comments always appreciated and encourage writers to keep creating content. These authors are amazing and deserve a lot of love. :)