#refusing to lay down memories in times of duress

[whatiswhump]

Whumpee has memory problems.

It started with the trauma but then never went away after.

Old memories fade and jumble if not held onto tightly enough while new ones are hardly etched in most days.

Writers always say they’ll never forget certain moments but Whumpee is ashamed to realize they don’t always remember the name of their childhood bestfriend, nor the stories their dad used to tell, or what color the house was...

For Whumpee, it is an exhausting confusion.

Even the trauma, most of it flies away in wisps- only hints at what happened to them. The feelings of horror remain but not even the absolute of what occurred can be a certainty.

Because they don't even have the proof that their misery is their own.

If they can't fully grasp it do they deserve to suffer it? What if they made it up? Or it wasn't as bad as their breathless night terrors told them it was?

They just don't know...

[jisungparker]

but did you know that i loved you?

pairing: felix lee x fem!reader

song: fall - justin bieber

themes: fluff, angst, f2l, smut (warnings below)

snippet: felix has always been the more expressive of you both, feelings have just always come easy to him with you. that is why this hurts so much. you know exactly how felix feels about you, and you know it is not love. 4k

warnings: soft dom!felix, nipple play, alcohol, college!au

a/n: hi! i’m barbie! if i left warnings out, lmk!

“i can’t do this!”

the whispered emphasis you place on every word is lost on your friend. be it your breathless delivery or your ill-timed duress, jisung refuses to see your point. especially when his plans rely so heavily on the opposite. “jisung, stop! i can’t ask him to do this!”

“come on, y/n, you really think i’m that mean? you think i’d put you through that kind of humiliation?” jisung asks airily, his open palms landing with a smack on your shoulders. when you shake your head in relief, he adds, “of course not. i already asked for you.”

without another word, jisung ushers you into the already occupied room. he is quick to sag his left shoulder holding your holdall, letting it drop to the floor with less care and regard than he gave your earlier outburst. “felix doesn’t mind sharing. right, lix?”

of course felix doesn’t mind. he doesn’t mind anything. that much is evident by his little shrug, wide smile, and careless mishandling of your feelings. not that felix is at all to blame, not that it makes this any less infuriating though. if felix was even the slightest bit unpleasant, you could find something to help lessen this crippling spell he has placed on you. something to make life bearable.

but aside from the devil’s kin who sentenced you to this night of suffering, you have somehow surrounded yourself with a group of angels. and tonight, you lay with gabriel.

perfection incarnate takes the form of felix lee, who your eyes fall on right as he agrees, his head nodding with genuine enthusiasm. “you know i love spending time with you,” he grins angelically, while jisung grins devilishly. it’s hard to say which is worse. “it’s cool.”

“great,” jisung cheers with a glee that doesn’t meet his eyes. in its stead, you find fatigue. you are quick to gulp down the guilt you feel for delaying his slumber. it was jisung at fault, him who misbooked the trip. he offers a hastened goodnight, and you do not bother to bid him farewell. you will see him soon. when you journey from your restless slumber to infiltrate his, perhaps smothering him on your way out.

without meaning to, your eyes wander back to felix who has busied himself with preparing for bed. closing your eyes, you inhale, deep and hold. you can do this, y/n. you lie, busying yourself with your own preparations for the night ahead.

“um, do you need to use the toilet?” you try, swallowing around your words.

it was easy to stop your eyes lingering on him in jisung’s presence, even just for fear of teasing. but with him gone, felix’s freckled shoulders peeking from

beneath his damp towel are too enticing to ignore. he glows in the dim lights of the beachside motel room, his sun kissed skin stretched smoothly over muscle and bone. though these make up your least favourite parts of him - the best being things only life and experience could bring - they are the furthest thing from unsightly. hell, had your love for the man before you not grown from the kindness he exudes and the joy his presence alone conjures, you would readily submit to him. but those very things are what has made felix so unattainable. he’s just too perfect.

when he shakes his head telling you to go ahead, you scurry away, thinking up ways to take as much time as you possibly can. you’re unusually sore from rolling around in the sand, being thrashed around by waves, and beat on by the sun. the memories you have made today weigh comfortably on you as you wash up, your fingers rubbing moisturiser into your skin as you blindly search for your toothbrush. it is then you hear a knock, and the heavenly call of your name.

“‘sup,” felix greets happily, toothbrush in hand. “can i join you?”

“sure,” isn’t what you want to say. you want to jump out of the bathroom’s narrow first floor window and hitchhike back to the city. but felix is your friend, and surprisingly, quite the trackstar. you wouldn’t even make it past the motel’s front desk.

though one might assume so, it is not the proximity that bothers you so terribly, but rather the domesticity. standing side by side, suffocated in the sticky summer heat. your eyes cannot help but dance over the thin sheen that lines his bare arms, the bathroom and bedroom fans doing little to alleviate any heat. your pleasure is short-lived as his eyes catch yours in the mirror, his lips curving instantly. his head tilts as you turn away, his gaze unknowingly intense. you brace yourself when he spits.

“you okay?” you nod softly as his toothbrush re-enters his mouth, his eyes narrowing playfully while you calm yourself down. when you hold your hair back to spit, you feel his hands join you, gathering the parts you let slip. you cast your gaze toward him, glancing up at the proud smile he wears for coming to your aid. the intimacy is dizzying. “is that better?” you hum around your toothbrush. “good.”

he leaves when you’re both done, returning with a plastic cup, dropping his and your toothbrush in before leaving you to finish up. leaning against the counter, you try your damnedest to banish all thoughts of you and he with semi deep breaths.

you can do this, y/n. you can do this.

the chant does not help and all is made worse as you switch off the lights, felix illuminated by the glow of the lamp and his phone screen as he waits for you. a pair of basketball shorts hug his hips, a thin vest hides his torso. his already shining eyes light up as you return, the soft skin curving into moons, his body covered by a single sheet.

“too hot for the covers,” he explains as you approach the bed, raising the sheet to make room for you to enter. “come here, have you seen this?” this, is a tiktok jisung posted today. it’s hyunjin lifting you off of your towel in the sand and running full speed towards the ocean. you manage to break free, only to be caught by felix himself, and dragged into the ocean by the same arms that you just realised surround you now. your elbow meets his belly with little force when he laughs. “hey! seungmin filmed it, not me!”

“you’re still mean,” you lie, silenced by his chin meeting the skin of your shoulder. for your viewing pleasure, he tucks your back into his chest, resting your head on his arm.

at times like these, you are reminded of the irony. that in all the ways felix makes your heart race, he also seems to settle it. his touch is equal parts exhilarating and calming. when you are with the others you find no room to enjoy it, too busy trying to come across composed, unbothered. but when you are alone, you give in to the idea of reciprocation. you let yourself believe that felix would only ever share a room with you. that he would only ever hold you like this. that there are not many people felix cares this deeply for besides you.

but you are also quick to remind yourself that he does. which is why you love him how you do. and while it pains you to say it, the fullness of felix’s heart might be the very reason you can never make it yours. because maybe you really are loving felix all on your own.

as you begin slipping into slumber, you feel felix shift, locking his phone and placing it beside your head.

“you asleep?” almost, you think, heart beating the steadiest it ever has with his body this close to yours. it is too hot to lie pressed against him like this, but you know he braves it for your comfort. he really is perfect. “i probably should have said this before,” at your silence, his voice drops to a whisper, bordering on breathless. “i mean- talking to you is never hard, i could do it all day,” you think yourself lucky to be trapped in his embrace now more than ever. his words any other time would have you convulsing. “i just want you to know you mean a lot to me.”

felix has always been the more expressive of you both, feelings have just always come easy to him with you. felix could tell you every emotion he was feeling, as he was feeling it. he found a safe place in you and you have protected it ever since. it is for this very reason you know how he feels about you. you know you are just a friend to him. that is why this hurts so much. you know exactly how felix feels about you, and you know it is not love.

as he leans over to turn off the lamp, he feels warmth on his arm. his eyes flick down to find yours wet, your salty tears trickling down his skin.

“hey, hey,” he breathes as he turns you in his arms, holding your face in his palms. “hey, shh, it’s okay.” it is times like this that his presence is to your detriment: being the source and remedy of your pain all at once. “what’s the matter?” he whispers, lips pressed to your forehead. “talk to me, what is it?”

“nothing,” you lie, tears leaking down your temples. felix cages you in his hold, holding his weight over you as his thumbs redirect your tears. “i’m sorry, let’s just sleep.”

“hey, don’t be sorry,” he hums, lips pressing on the corners of your eyes. “don’t apologise, i just want to help.” you cannot seem to evade his gaze now, nor your own. his concern wafts over you as your sorrow is reflected back to you in his frowning eyes. “is it what i said?’ his frown deepens as you nod. “did i upset you?’

“no!” you nearly recoil at your urgency, scrambling for an excuse. “you just mean a lot to me too,” you admit, bleary eyes taking in his sweet grin.

“you know i love you, right?” he hums, pressing his pout to your forehead, temple, cheek. with each kiss, he lingers with fatigue, you feel his forearms straining under your clammy palms. you feel your body ache for him, gripping his arms tight, massaging the muscles as he pulls away, his eyes searching your face. “get some sleep, okay?”

felix has always been the more expressive of you both. feelings have just always come easy to him. that is why you know how he feels about you. you know it is not love.

you decided long ago that it was time to find peace in this truth. much like you do in the very arms of your very first love, and the hearty laughter of your friends. you focus on the latter tonight, as you all sit in a circle, music blending in with the crash of the rolling tides, voices bouncing off of the sea, inebriated beyond belief. the cool breeze licks your skin, but you cling to the warmth the alcohol brings, that your friends’ presence incites. the warmth one friend brings in particular.

“you cold?” not awaiting your response, he drags you closer, pulling you onto his lap and tilting your cup. “drink up.”

“felix, are you trying to-hic-get me drunk?” you accuse, forcing out your words.

“right,” he nods mockingly, pulling you closer when you shiver. “because you definitely need my help with that.”

with a light elbow to his chest, you lean as far into him as physically possible and socially acceptable. though your hand clasping his and the knowing gaze of your friends say different, the alcohol blurs those blunders. so you blame it.

“we should play a game,” jisung starts, earning a chorus of groans and agreement. as a decision is made, your eyes journey skyward. the summers you all spend at the coast seem to pass in a blur, though in moments like this you are offered reprieve. a moment to pause, enjoy, appreciate the time spent with the people you have come to love most in the world. it is short lived though, when jisung yells, the sound startling you slightly. “okay, hyunjin’s first!”

“what are we doing?” you mumble aloud, heard only by the man beneath you. his lips dance on the shell of your ear, his arms moving to close the already finite space that separates you.

“spin the bottle,” he breathes, pointing out the direction, explaining the rules. try as you may, all is lost in your inebriated mind until your name is called, indicating the start of your spin. “and it’s your go,” felix cheers, helping as you clamber off of his lap. your body sways as you crawl through the sand, steadied only by your single palm and two softer ones holding you by your hips. you ignore the shiver it brings. less for nerves’ sake, but rather to save face.

as soon as you spin it, felix is quick to pull you back, uncaring as you fall into his lap. you don’t care to see your spin’s outcome, the two of you finding fun in the act of spinning alone, unbothered by the game in its entirety. it isn’t until the group cheers, attention cast on you both that felix drags his gaze away from you. one look toward the middle has his eyes rounding, brows creasing.

“what?” you follow his peculiar stare, unsure what is happening. “oh, do i spin again?”

“nope!” jisung yells, waving off the idea. “no respins!”

“well i can’t kiss myself,” you start with a frown, unsure what they all found so funny. “what?”

“well,” seungmin hums mockingly. “from what i see, there’s two of you over there, no?”

that there are. behind you is the equal bane and blessing of your existence.

felix lee.

his hold on you falters only just, his eyes narrowing on all your friends before you turn. there are a few seconds of silence, filled only by the crackle of the fire and crash of the waves. for a moment, only you and he exist. silence billows all around you, broken by a question heard by and meant only for him.

“we don’t have to,” you breathe a decibel louder than the wind. “i mean, if you don’t want to.”

“i don’t mind.” at your slight frown he swallows, rephrasing, “i mean, i want to. unless you don’t want to-”

“i do.” you rush. “but only if you’re sure..”

“i’m not sure,” he corrects, sitting up straight. “i’m felix.”

he laughs when your eyes roll, stopping when you begin following his movements. his hand has been on your thigh for a while, yet you only feel it now as he tightens his grip, pulling you closer toward him. only now do you hear your friend’s low whispers, the classic ‘will they, won’t they’, their bated breaths. only now do you notice how close felix is.

in the second it takes him to lean in, you recall the million and one scenarios you had imagined where you kissed felix lee. the natural first being to an angels’ choir, felix stood a foot away, hands neatly on your waist, pressing a lone peck to your lips. another had been to the chime of wedding bells, you in a pretty white dress, he in a light shade of grey, his last name adjoined with your first. some were as you two ran home in a storm, fingers clasped together, felix stopping to kiss you in the heavy downpour.

the rarest was under ruffling sheets and laboured breaths. his hands on you as they are now, one clinging to your hip, one resting on your neck. his lips would be in its stead, dragging them up the column of your neck, his teeth not far behind. he’d pull you closer, as he does now. whisper an octave higher than usual, a soft tease on his tongue as his lips part, sweeping along his bottom lip, eyes dragging up the length of your face.

it’s now you stop imagining. it’s now you start believing.

because it’s nothing like you imagined, yet infinitely better. you kiss your best friend to the obnoxious sound of cheers, the crackle of the fire, the moon charged ocean waves and the deafening beat of your heart. it is unlike anything you had ever imagined, and still so much better.

kissing felix was not unreal, or fictitious, it was real. in the best and worst ways.

it was real in that, how else would you first kiss him, if not set up by your devious friends while also surrounded by them? is this not their love story too? have they not been there every step of the way? do they not reserve the right to hoot and holler as his fingers cling to your neck, his thumb hooking under your jaw, angling your mouth for him? did they not deserve to watch you melt, body moulded perfectly against his, your arms wound around his neck? that they did.

but for it to be real, you must acknowledge how it came to be. your first kiss with felix was not a gift to you from above, but from your friends. your friends who plotted on your behalf. your friends who yearn to see you win, so much so they throw their other friend under. did your first, and possibly last kiss with felix, become another reason to curse both cupid and his mother? perhaps you should take a leaf out of his father’s book, wage war on the infant for the hurt he has sentenced you to: belonging to the only man you cannot have. because how real can a forged kiss be?

this thought carries you to bed, as you struggle to fall asleep that night. your lips still tingling, your mind still hazy, and your heart still yearning. because while there is a lot you do not know, what you do know is felix has always been the more expressive of you both. feelings have just always come easy to him. you know how he feels about you. you know it is not love.

so, when he finally joins you in bed, hair towel dried and skin warm, you think nothing as he tucks himself into your side, his face buried in your neck.

“hi,” he mumbles into your skin, tickling you.

“hi,” you whisper back, fingers absently combing through his hair. “you okay?”

“mm,” his hum and followed silence have you reaching for the lamp, plummeting you both in darkness before he asks, “d’you have a good day?”

“uh, yeah,” you say, unable to find a single fault with it. “it was great. what about you?”

“yeah, it was nice.” the same silence lingers before he breaks it once more. “always nice being with you.”

your fingers stall in his hair before you wind your arms around him, skin buzzing as you pull him closer. as you bring a hand back up, letting your nails scratch along his scalp, you feel before you hear him groan, the sound reverberating through you, almost snapping you in two.

felix has always been the more expressive of you both.

feelings have just always come easy to him.

you know how he feels about you.

you know it is not-

the rest of your mantra blurs in your mind as his lips pucker against your skin, moving with an unnerving precision up the length of your neck. his teeth draw a path to your jaw, gnawing gently when you gulp. you find yourself in a daze, stuck somewhere between reality and surreality. his palms pressed to your hips, a lone hand dragging down your thigh to your knee, pulling it up as he rests himself between your hips. it is here in this limbo you feel him, really feel him. as he drags his hips along yours, watching with an unholy intensity as you let his name fall from your lips, the corner of his pulling up.

“hi.” he pants as his forehead rests against yours, eyes boring into your own.

“hi.” it’s weaker than his. you think he noticed, if his laughter is anything to go by. “what are we doing?”

“nothing right now,” he answers plainly, suddenly very aware where his hands are, what he’s doing.

“is that what you want?” he’s quick to shake his head, squeezing his eyes shut as you squeeze his forearm. “what do you want?”

“you.”

felix has always been the more expressive of you both.

“i have for a while.”

feelings have just always come easy to him.

“kinda thought i was being obvious.”

you know how he feels about you.

“i-i think everyone knows i’m in love with you.”

in a few seconds, felix obliterates your entire mantra. with a breathless confession and small smile, felix turns everything on its head.

“i think that’s why jisung made you stay with me,” he admits guiltily, giving your friend more credit than he deserved. “and tonight, with spin the bottle.” his eyes fall to your parted lips then, his parting in kind. “i’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable. i’m sorry if i did, or- i just-”

“lix,” his eyes meet yours when you smile, fingers tucking away his hair before they find his nape again. “it’s okay.”

because it turns out, you don’t know a damn thing.

he gasps when you pull him back down, lips slotting into the space between yours. he settles his hips between your own, forearms cradling your head as you succumb to the understanding there is nothing like being loved by felix, and loving him in return. like when he withdraws slightly, laughing as you whine, chasing him as his hand wanders up your t-shirt, stopping short of your chest.

“is this okay?” he breathes, kissing you when you nod, his thumb sweeping your nipple. “wow, you’re so- fuck.” he stops at your desperate whine, your hips rolling against his as he tweaks your nipple gently, lips parting as he drops them to your clothed nub. “you really want me?”

“y-yes.”

“how long?” he asks, as he rolls you between his teeth, his other hand sneaking up your spine to bring your chest to his mouth. “how long have you wanted me?”

“a while.”

“yeah?” his laughter brings you back, his dark eyes and slick lipped smile an awful contrast to his joy. “you’re so patient.”

“not really,” you mutter, pushing your chest toward his grinning lips. “just good at pretending.”

“mm,” he agrees, hiking up your top before sucking your nipple into his mouth. “so good, y/n.” he breathes around you, watching you intently. “so good.”

“lix-”

“i’m here,” you pull him up by his nape, slotting your tongue in his mouth, slowly moving his hand where you need him. your chest tightens every second, until he stops at your hip, thumb stroking your skin. “wait, i don’t-”

“what? what is it?”

“i don’t think we should,” your throat nearly closes before he adds, “believe me when i say there’s nothing i want more than you right now,” you have no choice but to, especially when you can feel the weight of his desire resting on your pelvis. “believe me.”

“then why?”

“you’ve waited a while? i’ve waited longer.” he can feel a retort on your lips, so he adds, “junior year.”

“ha, sophomore year-”

“junior year of high school.” he only grins when you frown, looking for a lie you both know you’ll never find. “it used to come and go,” he admits with an all too familiar longing, his hands cradling your face. “but at some point it just.. stuck. so please, let me do this right, okay?” he kisses you as he waits, the words on the tip of your tongue. “okay?”

“okay.”

“okay.” his grin blinding. you both bask in one another, a comfortable silence ruined only by the sound of lips smacking, and airy breaths. his thumb dusts your cheek when he finally asks, “what you doing next friday?”

felix has always been the more expressive of you both.

feelings have just always come easy to him.

you know how he feels about you.

“whatever you’re doing.”

you finally know it is love.

[ekaterinatepes]

Nothing but the Best

Author Notes: hello again my loves! Thank you for all your likes, reviews and specially your comments! I love it when you make questions and in general let me know what you think about the chapter. Thank you once more for all your support!

XII.

They say time heals all wounds, but there are some wounds that run so deep they refuse to stop bleeding.

https://youtu.be/s1tAYmMjLdY

A cold September afternoon welcomed the dying rays of the sun, the incandescent amber tones of the twilight illuminated the streets of Tokyo, ever so vibrant; full of life, people, delicious food, kaleidoscopic colors, laughter, children running…. Couples holding hands.

A tall man with a blindfold walked down a heavily transited sidewalk with his hands in his pockets and a small bag of pastries hanging off the side. Slowly, he made his way further away from the more concentric streets towards a park, he found a bench near a fountain and took a seat placing his bag right next to him.

The world remained the same and yet everything seemed to have changed, the days were now long and boring, conversations with people didn’t manage to hold his attention for long; missions were repetitive. Everything seemed… dull, opaque, flavorless, empty…

Everything, except perhaps his students who were the only sliver of hope he had left. Those kids would make it far in life, they were going to change the world and he was going to be there to help them along the way. A sad smile pulls at his peachy lips. You would have liked that. After all, the kids also enjoyed your company back in the day when you were still his. It was as if you had become their adoptive mother of sorts at some point. Your nurturing nature guided you to care for others.

A year ago when Yuuji was placed under his care and tutelage at Jujutsu High it had been hard for the boy. At the time the kid had just lost his only living relative and to top it off he also consumed the most powerful curse ever known to man kind.

He had so much responsibility on his shoulders Satoru couldn’t help but make the connection with himself when he was a kid his age. That’s how Satoru decided to take him home for dinner one night; he couldn’t have been more pleased with his decision. Of course, you adored Yuuji. His sweet snd enthusiastic personality, his polite manners and naiveté made him just endearing in your eyes.

Even Megumi, who barely spoke with his more taciturn approach asked about you. Satoru didn’t know how to answer. The dark haired boy would also come and visit your home to help you prepare some foreign delicacies you loved to cook. Sighing once more he ran his hands through his white hair.

***-Flashback-***

“So where’s Y/N-san? I haven’t seen her in a long time?” Asked Megumi right after Satoru returned from New York. It caught him by surprise

“She… she doesn’t live in Japan anymore” was all he said before changing the subject. Megumi looked at him with eyes wide open but decided not to pry.

Yeah… that probably was weird. Someone asks you about your spouse and you say they moved out of the country. It was pretty obvious what that meant.

***~End Flash Back~***

Sighing he opened the small paper bag containing his mochi, he loved his desert but lately he didn’t even have the will to indulge in sweets anymore. Satoru consumed insane amounts of sugar to stimulate his brain. The problem was that during the past year all that stimulation manifested in the form of vivid memories of you. Your voice, your smell, your presence. It was as if his brain chose to take him down the path to misery, as if to rub on his face what he could never have.

As of last week you were officially not Y/N Gojo anymore. He finally signed those blasted papers giving you your freedom and his capitulation.

It had been one of the worst days of his life.

After signing the divorce Satoru went straight to the liquor store where he found that exotic apricot liquor he liked in New York and bought a bottle. Once he made it back home he proceeded to get drunk out of his mind. The next morning he woke up by the pool, laying down on a tanning chair, wearing only a pair of boxers and hugging your wedding picture.

His head was killing him, at some point he had emptied his insides in the pool. A disgusted grimace reminded him he had to hire some help to take care of the house that was an absolute disaster, faithfully reflecting the state of its owner.

That morning, nursing a hangover he swore off alcohol for the rest of his life.

But hey! On the positive side he didn’t remember at all that night! Which means he ‘probably’ didn’t think about you (yeah right! As if he was ever not thinking about you) and how much he hated the fact you were not his Y/N Gojo anymore. You were not his wife anymore…

The memory made him want to cry like a baby. He lost the person he loved the most in his life because he had been one flaming idiot.

Despite all his efforts he could not forget you. Wherever he went, whatever he did… there you were, tormenting his waking and sleeping hours like his own personal curse.

He tried to get over you. He tried to be the asshole you knew him to be. He slept with so many women he couldn’t even count. But at the end of the night, in the throes of passion it was your face that he saw, your body that he craved, your flavor that he yearned and your name the one he called out when he climaxed.

He was absolutely fucked.

Revisiting memories of the last night he saw you he couldn’t believe how stupid he had been at the time. It took him so long to realize he had always been in love with you but Satoru, being well… himself, he didn’t want to see or admit that he had been head over heels, madly in love with you. He was a cynical bastard and that had cost him dearly. He chose to lie to himself thinking that THE Gojo Satoru was above all human weaknesses… including love. What an ignorant fucker he had been.

He wondered how you were doing and if you ever thought about him.

A frown made his handsome face look stern. Well… you were not alone anymore. Suguru also had stayed back in New York with you. After Satoru returned to Japan, Ijichi told him Geto Suguru wouldn’t be working out of Japan anymore. He had requested a transfer to the Americas.

Of course he did…

It had been one of the reasons Satoru fucked so many women. In his delusional mind he was ‘getting even’ with you for sleeping with Suguru. Not that he knew for a fact you were sleeping with him or not but… I mean….

Come on! It’s mother fucking Geto Suguru we are talking about here! 6’2 of pure sculpted muscles, tattoos and bad boy looks but with a Prince Charming complex. Yeah… Satoru was green with jealousy because he knew his former best friend was a better man for you than he ever was.

Looking down at his mochi bag he realized the small item had paid the price of his anger as he uncurled his death grip from the bag. Sighing he tossed the ruined pastry in the trash can to his left.

“Miss you….” He whispered to the wind.

———–

“I’m home!” You announced walking into your apartment. Setting you bag down as well as a couple of grocery bags “did you start dinner already?” You ask pleasantly surprised although you already knew the answer to that question since all the apartment smelled fantastic. Suguru walked out of the kitchen with a big smile wearing an apron that read ‘Kiss the Cheff’ nods “yes! I figured I would give you a hand tonight!” He answered as you walked to him to wrap your arms around his waist and give him a chaste kiss on his cheek “thank you Sugu. How was your mission?” You asked deciding to set up the table while Suguru finished dinner. “Not too bad actually, it was a special grade but nothing I couldn’t deal with” you returned a bright smile “I’m glad”

Your friendship with Suguru had slowly evolved into something else. You both spent all of your free time together. Your connection was deeper than mere sexual attraction. Suguru truly understood you, cared for you, shared your dreams and hopes. He was the type of poetic soul who would stay awake with you well into the night just to talk about the stars, the book you read that week that you loved, the new music you liked. It was wholesome.

On the more carnal side you desired Suguru and he desired you but you hadn’t taken what was going on between you two further than a few passionate make-out sessions and some cuddling.

After you last saw Satoru everything became worse before it got better. Suguru had been your rock, he had been there for the sleepless nights you spent crying. Without a word he held you in his strong arms and allowed you to let go. He knew you were deeply wounded, your emotions in disarray and your mental stability in peril. But Suguru never asked anything from you, he gave you the strength to go on. To take care of yourself, to keep going with your career. To have… hope.

It seemed like a dream to think that your life had changed so much in the span of a year. You weren’t able to recognise yourself anymore. Pain and duress molded you into someone new, better, more resilient, harder to hurt.

At this point, the only person you fully trusted was Suguru, he was always honest with you, no matter what happened or how much something hurt, he always remained true to himself and to you.

It was impossible not to love someone like him. He was the whole package.

Suguru was handsome, that was indisputable. But Geto was more than a pretty face. He was kind, truly kind! He did things out of the goodness of his heart, not because he expected anything in return. He was honest, Suguru Geto would never lie to you and THAT is what you loved the most about him.

He was patient.

He wanted you to be his but at the same time Suguru wanted you to heal, to have the chance to trust and love again, not as a means to forget about Satoru but because you wanted to choose a new path for yourself.

After diner you helped with the dishes and then settled on the couch. Suguru joined with a smile and two glasses of wine. He handed you one and sipped on the other one “what would you like to watch tonight Kitten?” He asked sitting next to you while picking a movie from the titles available on the screen of the tv.

“Anything you like! It’s your turn to pick” you said with a smile, leaning your head on his shoulder making Suguru smile. These tender displays of affection always made him feel so warm. Passing an arm around your shoulders he kissed your forehead.

You look up into his hazel eyes you blush. Suguru didn’t lose a second before he closed the space between your lips. The kiss was soft but meaningful, you didn’t hesitate to return it; wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to then climb on his lap straddling his hips.

The handsome sorcerer leans back, relaxing and running his hands slowly up and down your naked thighs covered only by the small fabric of your shorts, he strokes them softly leaving a path of warmth in the wake of his touch. Suguru deepened the kiss. His tongue delved in your mouth, slowly inviting yours to join the delicious dance. After a few minutes you pulled back, you are breathless. Your heart beats fast and the adrenaline was making you dizzy in anticipation.

Suguru looks at you, leaning his forehead against yours “I missed you” he ads before engulfing you in another passionate kiss, not even giving you the chance to reply. This time his lips are more demanding, his teeth nibbling your lower lip, requesting entrance. His tongue still tastes like the wine and you recognize his addictive flavor. Suddenly you find yourself laying on your back on the white couch, Suguru is on top of you and your legs are wrapped around his waist. Things are getting much more heated than you anticipated. Your hands roam the expanse of his back over hard muscles and warm skin covered only by the thin layer of his t-shirt. You know if you keep going this way you won’t be able to stop.

https://youtu.be/yBatuRGZAmA

A part of you doesn’t want this to end, you want to go all the way with Suguru. But… as much as you hate it, there is a tiny part of you that feels ambivalent about it. You wonder why is that you can’t just… do it!? You want Suguru! God! You desire him more than you can express with words, the growing wetness between your legs is evidence that you indeed were very much sexually attracted to him and yet your mind kept torturing you.

It was… complicated.

Your marriage with Satoru have been over longer than that piece of paper you got last week said. But erasing your feelings wasn’t something you could ever hope to do.

As much as you wanted to give yourself to Suguru it felt wrong that you were holding a part of yourself back. You wanted to give him everything, he deserved EVERYTHING of you. It wouldn’t be fair to just have sex with him when he deserved to be made love to.

You love Suguru, everyday that goes by your feelings for him grow and intensify, it was hard to even understand why would you hesitate and yet you did.

Your passionate kiss slowly becomes more tender until you are just sharing small pecks. Suguru pulls back with a little comforting smile; he felt the change in your body language, he knew what was going through your mind. You explained it to him before and he didn’t want to push you. He knew you needed to go at your own pace and he respected that.

“I’m… so-“ you starts apologetically but Suguru stops you with a little kiss “don’t… don’t apologize, I know baby…” he said reassuringly. Sealing his tender words with a kiss. When you separate again he asks “Alright little kitten, tell me… what’s it gonna be? ‘Dorian Grey’ or ‘Only Lovers Left Alive’?” Pulling you in his strong arms he cuddled with you on the couch, returning to the choices for movie you had.

You were so thankful for this man in your life “let’s go with ‘Only Lovers left Alive’”

With a last kiss he started the movie and pulled a blanket over you both.

He could wait, he would wait till the end of time. For you.

———-> Chapter 13/Part 1

Tags:

@sleepyamaya

@cloudsinthecosmos

@jxvajxy

@satoruhooraaa

@my-reality-is-in-my-head

@dok-ja

@jscarlet06

@fiona782

@thatsharklovingwoman

@heichoustheoryofcleanliness

@syynnaaah

@shaylove418

@coldvillainess

@vampgguk

@sukuna1stwife

@tampon-earrings

@actualdeemon

[imagine-darksiders]

Old Timer

Chapter 4 - Together again.

-----------

“Eideard?” 

His name tiptoes from your lips in a whispered breath.

You stare at him, your mouth hanging slightly agape and refusing to close, as though the very muscles in your jaw have forgotten how they're supposed to work.

There had once been a thousand things you would have wanted to say to him, if ever given the chance, yet now, in the moment where that chance has actually come about, you find yourself devoid of any words or thoughts.

“You all right there, bonnie?” the maker asks, his lips twitching into a hesitant smile, “Look like you've seen a ghost.”

'A ghost!.... Ha!' 

You'd laugh if you didn't think you might faint at any moment. Instead, your mouth opens with the intention to scoff at the dramatic irony of his statement, but what comes out instead is a strangled sob that causes the maker's ears to tilt down in alarm.

“Hey, hey now...” he utters softly, lifting his hand up towards you, his gaze darting to the tears that have begun to roll down your cheeks, “What's this about? Eh? Did old Cruim scare you? Is it your leg?”

Covering your mouth, it’s all you can do to just stare back and shake your head.

As far as Eideard knows, something truly horrific must be happening to you that would warrant the spilling of this many tears. Makers are seldom known to cry, even under the most terrible, unimaginable duress. 

Guided by something that's not quite instinct, but stronger than a simple urge to help, to fix, he reaches up to his shoulder until a careful finger hovers gingerly just inches from the skin of your cheek. Then, sucking down a steadying breath, Eideard wills himself to close the distance, hardly daring to inhale again as he sweeps the very tip of his forefinger over your cheekbone and brushes away the wet tear tracks that linger there.

To his utmost dismay, the action only makes you start to cry even harder and he quickly withdraws his hand, worried that he'd somehow managed to hurt you.

He has no idea that by wiping away your tears, he'd unintentionally echoed the very last moments you'd spent with the Eideard from your timeline.

He’d collapsed, laying prone in the soft grass. Your tears had mingled with the blood pooling in his clavicle as you knelt on his chest and wailed, your fists pounding above his heart in the desperate hope that you could bully the fading organ into beating strong and steady once again. You'd gone still however, weeping hopelessly when Eideard's thumb swept gently over your cheek and gathered up the tears there.

The memory is a powerful one, and you have to blink furiously until the blurred image of a dying Eideard is replaced by the very much alive maker staring at you with concern lining his youthful features.

You've seen that expression so often, you never thought you'd miss it so much after you stopped seeing it.

All of a sudden, through no real cognitive decision of your own, you promptly launch yourself sideways along the maker's broad shoulder and collide with his head.

Though reflex tells him to flinch, Eideard forces himself to keep still as thin, delicate arms are slung around his face and a warm body squashes into his cheek shortly after.

He's monumentally glad that he has yet to venture down into the village proper. Standing up here next to the entrance, none of his fellows will be able to make out the rosy flush that has shot up into his ears, should they happen to look.

It isn't as though makers are a species for whom intimacy is a foreign concept, but intimacy outside of social circles is a rare and seldom-witnessed occurrence, whilst intimacy between members of two separate species is all but unheard of.

Despite his uncertainty, Eideard's heart flutters at the thought that he's managed to earn this splendid reward and he momentarily forgets that he's supposed to be worried about you, too distracted by the realisation that he has never known a touch so gentle, yet so fierce at the same time. If he dwells on it for too long, he'll probably grow sad to consider how he's lived his whole life deprived of the sensation of hands pressing indents into his skin.

Of their own accord, his fingertips come to rest on your fragile spine and '...Oh,' he thinks as you bury your face even more firmly against him, '...I could get used to this.'

But when a hitching sob suddenly causes you to jerk beneath his fingers, he springs to attention once more and banishes the desire to push his head urgently into your touch.

“I didn't thank you...”

Eideard freezes at the sound of your voice, trembling and small next to his ear.

“What's that you say?” he swallows.

But it's as though you don't even hear him. From his angle, the maker can't see that your eyes are wide open and staring out towards the village beyond, yet you're completely blind to everything happening around you whilst the same, terrible memory plays cruelly in your mind's eye. 

Eideard, laying on the ground, blood trickling from his nose, mouth and even from behind his eyelids, like little rivers running off the face of a mountain. His once pristinely white beard had been so stained with blood, your hands became soaked with it when you clawed your way up his chest, delirious beyond coherency.

“I-I can't remember if I ever thanked you,” you say again in a warbling whisper that causes Eideard's ears to perk up attentively, “For saving us - For... for everything.”

Your slip-up doesn’t even catch his notice, not that you really notice it either, though. 

Another sob catches like a rock in your throat and you turn your face away from the village, burying it into a soft, fluffy beard and letting your eyes dampen the old maker's cheek. A cheek that's warm and flushed with colour, a far cry from the cold, pale cheek you remember crying into at the centre of the valley all those long months ago.

Eideard's familiar smell fills your nostrils as you draw a deep inhale through your nose and let yourself bask in the unplaceable scent that reminds you of wood and soil.

You've missed him.

Shit... You've missed him so much.

It's perhaps a blessed thing that you hadn't said that last part out loud and baffled the maker even more than you already have, because not a second later, his throat rumbles with an uncertain chuckle and he says, “S'this how you thank everyone who saves you from a demon? Or am I just a special exception?”

And just like that, the reality of the situation comes flooding back to hit you with the force of a speeding bullet-train, smacking you from your memories and dumping you unceremoniously into Tri Stone once again.

Lurching away from the maker, your eyes snap open and you tear your arms from his face and sputter out a nonsensical string of sounds, earning a bemused grin from Eideard, who twists his head sideways to watch you raise your hands to your face, covering it slowly as rationality cuts through the haze of shock and a horrifying realisation dawns on you.

This is Eideard. But this is not your Eideard. Not yet.

He has no idea that you're thanking him for so much more than he could possibly imagine.

“I-I'm sorry,” you stammer at last, swiping furiously at your eyes, “I just... wanted to thank you for saving me from the stalker. Yeah. B-but, I didn't mean to, uh, hug you like that. I'm... honestly not sure what came over me.”

His expression softens and he quirks his lips into a playful smirk. “Hmm, well, whatever it was, I hope there'll be more.”

'Oh for god's sake.' Mortally embarrassed, you turn away from him and hope that the heat in your cheeks isn't obvious.

For all he knows, you've just draped yourself across his face like a lovesick fool, all because he saved you from a stalker.

But perhaps most mortifying of all, what really disturbs you, is that Eideard – your Eideard, the kindly maker with the disposition of a doting father – is, or rather, used to be a shameless flirt.

An attractive, shameless flirt.

Oh God... You're fairly certain you flirted back.

And it's Eideard...

Your vision starts to swim.

Just then, an enormous fingertip slides beneath your chin and you find yourself helpless to resist as your face is guided back towards him. Red-tinged eyes meet ethereal blue and for one, jarring moment, the stern yet fretful tilt of his golden brows ages the maker's face enough that you catch a glimpse of the old Eideard hidden underneath.

“Hey. Don't you go hiding that pretty face from me,” he rumbles, “I need to know you're all right.”

Your heart does a somersault.

“I'll be fine,” you slur, swaying on his shoulder, “Think I just need to lay down..”

Eideard's bemused expression quickly shifts to alarm when your body goes limp and you begin to tilt sideways, gradually slipping from the maker's broad shoulder. Fortunately for you, Eideard has always been an exceptionally attentive maker, even at this young age, and without missing a beat, he spins his hand around to capture you gently between his fingers.

The motion jerks you back to full consciousness again and you give your head a shake, blinking up into the pale, blue eyes of a highly concerned maker.

“Think it's time I got you to the Shaman,” he suggests.

Sagging heavily against his fingers, you can't help but agree. “I think that's a good idea.”

You wish you could just disappear, save yourself from the mortifying ordeal of knowing that you've been receiving advances from Eideard of all people.

That's... going to take some adjusting to.

Eyeing the village ahead, the maker turns his focus onto the eastern side, where the lights are dimmest and the gaps between each stone hut are frequent and draped in shadow. He hums pensively and begins to walk.

It isn't that he doesn't want his fellow makers to meet you – but he'd prefer to get you to the shaman sooner rather than later and get your leg tended to....

…

And... though he isn't proud to admit it, he wouldn't mind keeping you to himself just a little while longer.

Slowly, steadily, he carries you down the village steps, casting frequent glances down at you to ascertain your condition. Every time, he finds you staring back at him with a spell-bound look in your eyes.

Glowing under the attention, he spares a moment to waggle his brows at you, relishing the squeak that jumps out of your mouth as you hurriedly avert your gaze.

With a warm chuckle, Eideard returns his attention to the walled garden at the far end of the village – and promptly stiffens at the sound of voices calling his name.

“Eideard!”

“You're back!”

He doesn't miss that you turn rigid in his palm, prompting him to lift you a little higher into the air as he shoots you an apologetic glance, slowing his gait just in time to avoid tripping over a trio of tiny, excitable younglings who appear from nowhere and fall into step around him.

“Where've you been!?” a maker boy shouts, and grinning so widely, his cheeks start to turn red. “Did you kill any baddies!?”

Curious, you lean forwards over Eideard's fingers and peer down, only to find yourself biting back the urge to coo out loud at the endearing sight.

The youngling who'd spoken looks as though he'd barely stand a few heads higher than you and he's jogging backwards to avoid Eideard's boots as the older maker continues to advance cautiously down the path. A mess of shocking, copper hair sticks up from the top of his head, though it's clear that at some point, another maker has tried to gather the unruly mess into some semblance of a braid that hangs down to his shoulders and is sloppily tied off with a blue ribbon. The moment your face pokes out from behind Eideard's fingers, the youngling lets out a loud gasp and nearly trips over his own feet, eyes growing round.

“What. Is. That!?” he exclaims, pointing up at you.

“Mind your manners,” the older maker scolds gently, “It's not nice to point. This is my new friend – Oh.” Swivelling his gaze back onto you, he blinks, looking the slightest bit sheepish. “I don't think I ever did catch your name.”

“Huh? Oh, I guess we never really introduced ourselves properly, did we?.” Scratching at the back of your neck, you introduce yourself. “Y/n. My name’s Y/n.” 

“Y/n...” he repeats in a dulcet murmur, his attention never leaving you, even as he addresses the boy at his feet, “This is my friend, Y/n, Ulthane.”

The youngling's eyes remain wholly fixed upon you and he utters a small 'oooh' of wonder, standing on the toes of his boots to see you better. And whilst you're just as intrigued with the maker-in-miniature, it's his name that catches your ear.

“Wait... Did you just call him Thane?” you blurt, incredulous.

All of a sudden, another voice pipes up from Eideard's left. “He's not Thane, I am!”

Startled, you glance down to find another maker youngling frowning back up at you and jabbing a finger towards the copper-haired boy. “That's Ulthane. He's my brother.”

With a slow blink, you take in the new youngling as he trots along at Eideard's side.

“No way,” you breathe, letting your jaw drop further and further with each passing second.

Well. It's Thane alright - from the steely eyes that regard you warily, to the walnut-brown hair sticking up from his head like a bird's nest, much akin to his brother's. There's a purple bruise colouring one of his cheekbones, worn proudly, no doubt the mark of accomplishment from a bout of rough-housing with his fellow younglings.

Slowly, with the kind of hesitancy that's fostered from sheer disbelief, you work your lips into a half-smile and utter, “Hi... Thane.”

Flicking his gaze between you and Eideard, Thane fidgets under your stare and drops back a little until he's partially hidden behind the larger maker's boots.

“Ha!” Ulthane jeers, “He's scared!”

In an instant, his brother raises his voice and retorts, “I AM NOT!”

You pick your jaw up and rub tentatively at your forehead, sensing the beginnings of a headache coming on. To think, one day, this boy will turn into the herculean warrior who once bested Death in combat...

“You're pretty,” an airy, feminine voice suddenly pipes up, and you whip your head around and down once again, catching sight of yet another, even younger maker beaming back at you, so small that she's practically jogging to keep up with Eideard's lengthy strides.

“Told you,” the elder in question murmurs smugly, pushing his thumb into your ribs.

Momentarily forgetting about Thane, you flop your jaw around for a few seconds before any sort of thought finally occurs. “Uh... Thanks?” you reply, hastily adding, “Y-you too.”

Pawing her long, blonde hair behind one of her ears, she giggles and ducks behind Eideard and out of sight, though the pitter-patter of her feet mixed between the heavy stomps of his own betray the fact that she's keeping pace close at his heels.

Meanwhile, Thane has finally left the safety of Eideard's shadow and has joined his brother in trying to walk as tall as he can on his toes to see over the older maker's hands, evidently curious about the newcomer in his midst now that your attention has turned elsewhere.

After a moment, he pipes up. “What are you?”

You don't think you'll ever get used to looking down at Thane.

Before you can open your mouth to reply, Ulthane suddenly blurts out a question of his own. “How come you're so small?”

“Um.. well, I -” you attempt, but no sooner do you try to speak than questions begin to take turns flying from their tongues, each fired off far too quickly for you to formulate a single response.

“Are you a maker?”

“Where'd Eideard find you?”

“Where are your tusks?”

“How old are you?”

“Why do you -”

“All right now, you lot. That's enough,” the older maker interjects, coming to a stop at the foot of a staircase that leads up towards the luscious garden you'd seen on your arrival, “I didn't bring Y/n back to the village to be interrogated. Why don't you three wait here while we go and find the shaman, eh?”

Almost instantly, his suggestion is met with a chorus of disappointed moans and objections.

“Aw, but Eideaaaard!” Ulthane whinges, putting a broad grin on your face.

Thane, in the meantime, steps forward to grab Eideard's trouser leg, tugging at it imploringly. “We promise to not ask any more questions!”

You risk a subtle glance up at the maker's face, admittedly curious to find out whether he has always been a pushover, even from an early age. And from the press of his lips and rapidly-tilting brow, it looks as though his resolve is already starting to waver.

“I... I don't mind if they come along,” you suggest at last, earning a delighted gasp from the younglings and a skeptical look from the older giant.

“You sure?” he asks, “Don't want you to be-” Something abruptly tells him that you won't appreciate it if he says 'scared.' So, instead, he mumbles, “- overwhelmed.”

You almost want to laugh aloud. How in the world could you be any more overwhelmed than you already are? You're sitting in a young Eideard's palm, being stared at by a much younger Thane, in a Tri Stone that's twice the size of the one you left.

'Overwhelmed' is a gross understatement.

Instead of voicing that thought however, you simply brush it aside and offer a shrug. “I don't mind,” you say again. And honestly? You really don't mind. There are far more pressing matters weighing on your conscience than a couple of adorable, curious younglings.

Eideard however, still seems hesitant, a direct contrast to the three young makers who, at your words, promptly dart up the steps, with Ulthane in the lead.

“Muria!” he hollars her name boisterously, “You'll never guess what we've found!”

At hearing the confirmation of Muria's presence, your heart soars into your throat but you're quick to rein in your enthusiasm, aware that she, like Eideard, will have no idea who you are.

“We?” you mouth at him, echoing Ulthane's claim.

Eideard's moustache twitches and the corners of his eyes lift up until they're wrinkled with a friendly smile. “Ah, don't mind the boys. They just like to be included.”

Gradually, he begins to take the steps after the youngest maker, watching vigilantly as she struggles to keep up with the brothers, whose legs are far longer than her own.

Sadly, she must have misjudged the distance between herself and one of the steps, because when she leaps up onto it, only half of her boot makes it with her, and there's a heart-lurching second where she begins to tip backwards again, her chubby arms flailing as she tries to propel herself out of losing her balance.

“Careful!” you gasp.

But then, to your relief, Eideard stoops and throws his hand out, halting her fall with the back of his knuckles. “Easy there, Elanya. What’ve I said about looking where you’re going?”

Gently, he pushes her upright once again and she tosses him a bright grin over her shoulder before scampering up the stairs, as though she hadn't almost fallen down them mere seconds ago.

Standing to his full height, the maker watches her all the way up the stairs, releasing a sigh of relief when she arrives at the top with no further incident. Tipping his head down, he's about to begin his own ascent when he catches your eye and hesitates with one foot poised to carry him forward. You're lounging back against his fingers, an elbow balanced on the edge of his thumb and your fist propping up your chin, giving the maker your most knowing stare.

“What?” he asks.

In response, you merely lift your shoulders in a shrug and say, “Oh, nothing. It's just nice to know I'm dealing with a gigantic softie, that's all.” Of course, you've known that all along – but it does provide you some comfort to know that it won't be age that softens Eideard's heart. Evidently, he's always been of a gentler nature than most.

Furrowing his brow doesn't hide the glint of playfulness in his eyes as he begins to take the steps two at a time, shaking his head.

It doesn't escape your notice however, that he never disputes the claim.

[dinfeanoriel]

Ghoul Rats and Gibdos

Boy, how I’ve missed writing! Hope you guys enjoy this 5k+ fic I’ve had laying around for months... ~~~~~

I swear to Hylia, if I’ve gone blind…

This was the first thought to filter across Twilight’s muddled mind when he cracked open to pitch blackness. There was no light, no glow, no luminescence of any kind to be found. It was as if the Ordonian had awoken to find himself trapped in a void. A place completely enshrouded by darkness. 

Tell me we did not switch while I was sleeping...

There was no answer save for the silence. Not a voice was to be heard, not a rustle, nor a breeze. Only the absence of sound. 

The Ranch Hand frowned starkly to himself. The absolute stillness and nothingness unsettled him. It reminded him of his time in Arbiter's Grounds- a time he would rather forget. 

Wonderful. How am I supposed to figure out where I am? 

He supposed he could light his lantern but there was no telling if any enemies were nearby. He didn’t want to risk being ambushed if there happened to be a band of Bokoblins or Moblins somewhere close. It wouldn’t do to fend off Dark Link’s infected enemies alone.

He strained his ears, going as far as to extend his senses but couldn’t detect a single sound or presence. With a sinking heart, Twilight came to the grim conclusion that the group must have been separated else the noise would have been plentiful. A welcome distraction from the inky darkness enshrouding him. He could not hear a single, comforting, heartbeat or calm, steady, breathing. He was alone with only the silence for company and no way of knowing whether or not his companions were safe and sound. 

Twilight suppressed the urge to growl. 

Displeasure mingled with worry welled in his chest. There were vague reminders of the time the children of Ordon had been abducted from their homes he couldn’t ignore. For weeks, Twilight hadn’t known whether or not Beth, Talo, Malo, and Colin were alive. Weeks he suffered and wallowed in uncertainty and fear for their lives yet he valiantly pressed on. He stalwartly refused to believe they were dead. 

 It was by chance he’d found them in Kakariko, virtually unharmed but not unaffected by the traumatic experience. Since then, Twilight found himself reluctant to allow anyone out of sight. He’d grown especially protective of the group of Links, keeping a watchful eye on every Hero and tracking where they went. 

It was a habit he couldn’t bring himself to break. An instinctive urge of his he knew grated on some of their nerves but he refused to explain himself. Wild had once tried to ask the reason behind his fierce vigilance only to receive an ambiguous response. The younger Hero merely shrugged it off and let his mentor do as he pleased. 

Twilight grit his teeth together, shoving the dark memories into the furthest corner of his mind. It wouldn’t do for him to linger on them. Three years had passed since that dreadful day and, yet, the experience stubbornly clung to him, refusing to relinquish its grasp. 

He shook his head, inwardly barking at himself to focus. 

Find the others. 

That was his singlemost priority as of this moment. 

A quiet hiss and soft, measured, footsteps from behind broke into Twilight’s thoughts, disproving his aforementioned belief of being alone. With bared teeth, Twilight spun on his heel, ready to attack should the unknown entity prove to be a foe. He instinctively moved to grip the handle of the Ordon sword, poised to unsheathe the blade and strike, but something stilled his hand. His senses weren’t warning him of any danger and he sensed no evil lurking around. He didn’t feel the least bit threatened by this presence. 

His hand slipped from the sword, moving instead to draw his lantern free from his pack. 

The chainlinks of the metal contraption clinked ominously and the ambient, red-orange, candle flared to life. The glow chased away the darkness and allowed Twilight to see- 

“Gah!” “Ah!” 

Two startled cries pierced the foreboding silence. 

Twilight’s heart thundered in his chest, beating a mile a minute as it struggled to overcome the sudden spike of undiluted fear that had seized it whole. He’d been given the scare of his life when the light of the lantern revealed something green and blue standing directly across from him. 

“Hylia’s Grace, Twilight!” Warrior breathed, his voice a pitch higher than normal. The Knight had a hand pressed to his chest, cobalt blues wide with an echo of shock and startlement. “I thought you were a poe!” Twilight, still recovering from his own fright, snapped back just as fraily, “I thought you were a Bokoblin!” 

The look of incredulity and affrontement stealing across Warrior’s features would have been amusing had both not been reeling and fighting to compose themselves. “A Bokoblin?” Warrior repeated sourly, “Really?” 

“What else was I to think?!” “Do Bokoblins wear scarves, Twilight?” The Captain flicked his scarf in emphasis, entirely deadpan in both looks and tone. Twilight defended himself, “You came out of nowhere, Warrior! All I saw was green and blue-” “-And all I heard was the clinking of your lantern!” 

The bickering died down, granting the Ordonian and Captain a moment to recover and collect themselves. The lantern swayed in place, basking them in a warm glow and keeping the darkness at bay. 

“Pretty sure I lost ten years of my life in a single second…” Twilight’s sharp hearing caught Warrior’s murmur. He snorted softly to himself and with a shake of his head, straightened his back and shoulders with a deep exhale. 

“Let’s find a way out of here.” The sooner they were out of the dreadful place the better. 

Warrior followed suit, “Let’s.” 

Slipping alongside the Captain, Twilight held his lantern up to illuminate their path. The Ranch Hand found himself glad for the company. He was reassured upon seeing Warrior unscathed. The blond did not appear the least bit frazzled or disgruntled by the sudden shift. He was calm and collected, taking the abrupt switch in stride and Twilight commended Warrior’s ability to remain level-headed and composed especially under duress. 

The more the Ordonian mulled on it, the more he realized he’d never seen Warrior crack when pressure was high or when circumstances were dire. He marveled at it and wondered if his capability to remain poised and unruffled stemmed from the wars he’d fought.

Together, they followed the tiled path leading across the sandy depths. Twilight suppressed a shudder. This place was increasingly similar to Arbiter’s Grounds. The darkened chamber, the broken and cracked tiles, the neverending sand, and the hollow and ruinous atmosphere… He half-expected stalchildren to unbury themselves and come swarming them with their minuscule spears. Arbiter’s Grounds had been a grisly and gruesome shock to Twilight. The tarnished history of Hyrule brought to life and accentuated the further he’d traversed into the desolate and ghastly dungeon. The heinous crimes committed there...the wretchedness and sufferings of the Gerudo prisoners...The tortured souls...the air of devastating despair and anguish and hopelessness capable of stealing his own living breath... It was not difficult for Twilight to understand what had taken place during the Gerudo-Hylian war. It was painstakingly, earth-shatteringly, clear and vivid. The unimaginable atrocities and horrors sickened him. Twilight persevered to the end of the daunting dungeon through sheer will and determination alone. Midna’s companionship helped. Had he been left on his own, Twilight wasn’t sure he would have managed to endure the vile and tragic environment. At times he swore he could hear the cries of the dead… 

The echoes of terrified, disconsolate, screams ringing in his ears and heart-rending wails piercing the still silence. Sometimes, he thought he caught glimpses of mutilated and deformed spirits floating listlessly and purposelessly, waiting to be released from their tormented state.  

The atmosphere was heavy with grief, wallowing despair, endless cruelty, and malevolence. 

“Oh, look!” Warrior’s voice drew Twilight from his dark thoughts and his keen eyes were quick to follow the direction he was pointing, “A door!” 

A locked door, they soon discovered. 

Blades hissed as swords were unsheathed and the two Heroes pressed their backs to one another, waiting. Twilight found their reaction to be a little saddening although he couldn’t deny his gladness for the distraction. After all, locked doors told of something to come. 

For a long anticipatory moment, both stood unmoving and weapons extended. Nothing happened. “What’s taking so long?” Twilight muttered, loud enough for Warrior to hear. The Captain surveyed the old, archaic chamber as best he could given the limited light. “I see torches there,” He said with a jut of his chin, “I’m guessing they need to be lit.” 

Twilight did so with a couple well-aimed swings. “I hate this part,” He groused to himself, earning a hum of agreeance from his companion. He wanted to be free of this place. He wanted to escape and never look back. He stepped closer to Warrior, ensuring little distance existed between them. The Knight took note of his movement but refrained from remarking on it. Instead, he adapted to the change in position and turned his body so he stood next to the Ordonian. 

Nothing prepared them for what took place next.

A deafening sound erupted from the furthermost wall. The chamber shook and groaned as intense tremors racked the foundation of the old depths. The ground and ceiling quaked violently, showering them with loose rocks and debris. Twilight and Warrior stumbled when the earth then wrenched beneath their feet, arms flailing uselessly as they strove vainly to maintain their balance. The world around them crashed and crumbled. 

The room fell apart. 

The ceiling caved, the walls collapsed, and the floor began to gyrate. 

Instant regret is what Twilight would identify the feelings coursing through him as. He grit his teeth together, expression hardening and growing fierce. “This is not what I imagined would happen!” Warrior’s voice was hardly audible over the chaos taking place around them. It was thanks to his heightened hearing Twilight was able to hear him. “What is going on?” 

Twilight had a sinking feeling he knew. He’d experienced this before. The severe and discomforting sense of déjà vu was so potent it momentarily threw him off-kilter. “Whatever you do, stay off the sand-” He started to holler, words drowned out and unable to reach Warrior through the pervading cacophony of sounds. The sands of the dungeon-like chamber started to drain, the tiles disappearing into its gulphs. “What?” 

It was this moment- this single split second- in which everything spiraled out of control. Warrior staggered back and off the stone ledge. His boot was immediately swallowed up by the thick, coiling, sand. Twilight could pinpoint the exact instant Warrior realized his costly mistake. The look on his face...the widening of his eyes… Twilight made a desperate lunge for his friend, an alarmed cry tearing from his throat, and arm extended in the hopes of snatching him back to safety- “Warrior!” 

The Captain’s back slammed into the sinking sand. 

I shouldn’t have lit the torches

The excruciating thought racked Twilight’s mind, body, and soul as he watched the sand engulf the Hero’s lower half and shoulders. The Ordonian snapped his hand out, curling his fingers tenaciously and yanking Warrior’s wrist. With nothing save but brute strength, Twilight combatted the might of the subsiding sands and succeeded in tearing Warrior partway free. His head, shoulders, and midriff were visible but it wasn’t enough to appease the horror-stricken and determined Hero. Cobalt blues locked onto cerulean and Twilight grimaced as his arm shook from exertion. The strength of the submerging sand forcefully pulling and tugging Warrior towards the center caused his muscles to scream in protest. He refused to relent. “Get out of here, Twilight!” Warrior shouted, earnest and concerned for the safety of his companion and friend. He recognized the dangers. He knew Twilight was risking his life trying to pull him to safety. 

Twilight despised the intrepidity etched into the Captain’s features. His eyes shone, fearless and bold in the face of certain death. Stubbornly, Twilight ignored Warrior’s urgings and bent forward to grasp Warrior’s forearm with his free hand. He leant back on his heels, hauling with all his might. The old, frail and rotting tiles beneath his feet splintered, cracks webbing across and bits of stone disintegrating. 

Pain flashed briefly across Warrior’s face then vanished. He grew more insistent, bellowing and shouting but Twilight couldn’t hear what he was saying. The thunderous roar of the chamber collapsing into itself filled his ears and when the tiles beneath him gave way under the strain, Twilight and Warrior were plunged into the whirling sands. 

Twilight was immersed in complete darkness. He sealed his lips and screwed his eyes shut as his body twisted and turned, prey to the sinking sands. He clung fast to Warrior, never relinquishing his grasp. 

The sands drained, drowning them in its unforgiving depths when suddenly, the disorienting whirling, tossing, and turning stalled and the world froze. Twilight felt gravity take its toll soon afterwards. His back crashed onto solid ground, his breath escaping him with a wheeze, and Warrior’s body tumbled atop him. 

Twilight’s mouth opened in a silent, breathless, gasp. No air left or entered his screaming lungs. The reservoir was completely depleted and a surge of panic ensnared him. 

Sand filtered around them, spilling into the room they’d been unceremoniously discarded into. 

Warrior was the first to recover, his fall having been softened by the unfortunate Twilight. His shock was cast aside as the Knight rolled and scrambled to his hands and knees. His attention was solely on his winded and wide-eyed rescuer. “Twilight!” 

Hands grasped his shoulders, Warrior’s face obscuring his vision of the rough-textured ceiling as the Knight spoke speedily and urgently to him. Twilight understood not a word. Warrior’s expression hardened with steely resolve. The Captain disappeared from view. A strong arm wound around his chest a second later and the Ordonian was effortlessly hauled to safety as the discharge of sand continued to flood the room.

At long last, the ability to breathe was granted to him and Twilight greedily sucked in a huge breath. “Sweet mother of breathing-” 

Warrior slumped with relief, plopping back onto the ground with a shaky exhale. 

The Ordonian remained collapsed against him, dropping his head back and shutting his eyes. 

Warrior was alive. They were alive. Neither of them had died. 

When next he looked, he found the Captain taking in their newfound surroundings with a critical eye before he turned and scrutinized Twilight’s prone form with a creased brow. When the Ordonian grimaced and tried to sit up, Warrior swiftly moved to help. He curled an arm around Twilight’s shoulder, lifting him with ease.  “That was a rough landing,” You don’t say, Twilight grumbled sassily. 

“You’re not hurt are you?” A thread of concern seeped into Warrior’s tone when the Ordonian remained seated. Twilight was simply relishing in his ability to breathe again. With a belated shake of his head, Twilight responded, “A little banged up and bruised,” He took another breath, “But other than that, I’m fine.” The answer satisfied Warrior. “Good to know.” Something in his tone alerted Twilight and the Hylian-turned-wolf studied the Captain in the corner of his eye. “What is it?” He muttered quietly. Warrior pursed his lips, gaze flickering to the far wall. The chamber they were in was brighter than the last with lit torches casting an eerie ambience. 

A chill raced down Twilight’s spine. A sense of wrongness, a deep thrum of warning, crawled along his skin. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, his inner wolf growling. “I don’t think we’re alone.” The foreboding words gravely spoken by the Captain urged Twilight to reach out with his senses once more. He closed his eyes, calling on his wolf spirit to aid him in an in-depth search of the room. A growl rumbled in Twilight’s chest and up to the back of his throat when he detected movement. His ears twitched, eyes narrowing dangerously in the direction Warrior was staring intently in. Warrior flashed him a quick, bemused, glance. “Tell me that was you.” “And if it wasn’t?” Twilight coyly replied. Warrior’s expression flat-lined. “Not funny.” His ears twitched again and Twilight sharply raised a hand in a gesture for silence. Warrior clicked his jaw shut. The Ordonian focused on the subtle sound he’d caught, trying to ascertain the cause of it and determine whether or not it was a threat. He ignored the steady beating of Warrior’s heart and his quiet, even, breathing, forcing them into the background. Something is in that room, Twilight signed. 

Warrior snapped to attention. Drawing his left up, he demanded to know, Threat? 

Without a doubt. Plan? 

Warrior pondered for a moment, perusing their limited options. With no knowledge of what to expect or what anomaly Twilight sensed could potentially be, there were few reliable plans to rely on. 

 Right approach. I’ll take left. 

The two separated into their designated directions, weapons drawn and ready. They crept silently towards the wall. Their eyes met the moment their backs touched the coarse bricks. 

Secret chamber. 

Opening? 

They needn’t look far. Warrior pressed against the wall and a protruding brick was slid back into place. 

The locks and gears of an unseen mechanism started to turn, grinding against one another with a resounding groan. 

Found it. 

Twilight suppressed a snort. 

You don’t say. It’s funny how sarcasm and sass could translate so blatantly clear in their use of sign. 

The entrance to the hidden room was revealed when a part of the wall jerked and coasted open. Dust trickled down on the waiting Heroes. 

Warrior took the first glance into the section. “Gibdos!” “You have got to be kidding…” If there was anything Twilight detested more than the disturbing, mutilated, and terrifying Poes in Arbiter’s Grounds, it was the rotten, bandage-wrapped, limping Gibdos. Their manner of walk, the dragging of their sword, their chilling screams capable of freezing one to the core, was something he could not forget so easily. 

The look on Warrior’s face was difficult for Twilight to interpret but he could recognize the horrified remembrance etched into his tense features. 

“Yours, then?” Twilight asked, risking a peek into the dank, musty, chamber. His nose crinkled from the nauseating scent of death and decay. His fierce eyes fell upon the bony, decrepit figure swathed in bandages and his brow creased. “No, mine.” Warrior spared him a sharp glance, “They’re from your world?” Twilight cocked an eyebrow, “You recognize them?” 

“How could I forget?” Warrior muttered in reply. Twilight shared the unspoken sentiment. 

A terrifying, blood-curdling, screech pierced the silence, cutting sharply into their exchange. The two Heroes pivoted around to discover three skeletal Gibdos gimping towards them. Deformed faces with gaping mouths, broken and distended jaws, and scarred or absent eyes, drew closer. “I’m beginning to believe your world is the most terrifying, Twilight,” Warrior remarked uneasily, shuffling closer to the Ordonian, “And I have yet to visit it. On to more important matters, we need to take these guys down. The three are in close proximity to one another, so-” “Range attacks.” 

Warrior blinked at the abrupt interruption. 

“What?” Twilight took a few steps backwards, features contorted with disgust and unease, “I usually attacked from a safe distance away. Bomb arrows.” He gestured vaguely to his pack. “You…” The corner of Warrior’s lips twitched upwards in repressed mirth. His eyes practically shown with amusement. Twilight narrowed his own with a small snarl, “Careful, or I will leave you to them.” 

Warrior bit his lower lip to keep from smiling. He cleared his throat, trying to compose himself, 

“Right, right. Sorry.” A snicker escaped before he could quell it. “By Hylia’s Grace, War-” 

“I’m sorry!” 

Twilight’s senses told him the Captain was completely unrepentant. A laugh broke loose. 

“You’re on your own.” 

“Hey! Get back here, mutt!”  ~~~~~

“So...How was it?” Twilight asked minutes later when an exasperated, adrenaline-filled, and mirthless Warrior stalked his way. 

“Absolutely wonderful,” Warrior deadpanned, “The thrill of battle, the adrenaline racing through my veins, and the song composed by swords and discordant shrieks was lovely. You should try it sometimes.” 

Twilight couldn’t suppress his grin. “In fact, why don’t you? I handled two of them. You’ll be fine with one, right?” Without giving the incredulous Twilight a chance to respond, Warrior plopped down on the ground beside him and slumped against the wall with his eyes closed and hands casually folded behind his head, “Good. I’ve done my share. It’s only fair you do yours.” 

“What?” 

Warrior peeked an eye open to find Twilight searching thoroughly for the remaining Gibdo. He released a small laugh, “I got rid of all three, Twi.” 

Twilight stilled, then, with agonizing slowness, turned to fix Warrior with a venomous glare. 

The Knight was unfazed. 

Twilight stewed in indignant silence. He utilized the time the Captain used to rest and regain his strength to think of ways to seek vengeance. 

“Alright,” The Captain grunted, moving to stand, “We should probably get a move on. There’s no telling where the others might be.” 

Twilight followed after him. He didn’t spare the dead Gibdos a single glance. 

“Not a fan of them, I take it?” Warrior teased lightly, nudging Twilight with his elbow. Twilight’s lips furled. 

“They are absolutely wretched. Their screams, their walk, the way they freeze you in place then jump and latch onto you-” Warrior abruptly stopped. 

“They what?” Twilight paused, turning slightly to find the Knight looking vaguely ill. 

“They latch onto you..? And...strangle you…” He trailed off at the glimmer of horror stealing across Warrior’s calm features.

“They do?!” The Knight slid a hand up to his neck, horrified. “Is that why they scream when they come close?” “...yes? It makes it easier for them if you are paralyzed and unable to move.” 

Understanding dawned on Warrior and he turned to shoot Twilight a penitent look. “That’s why you hate them so much.” 

Warrior looked horrified enough, Twilight figured, and so the Ordonian did not expound on how exactly the Redeads would fasten onto their victims. He spared the Knight the disturbing details. 

~~~~~

“I don’t like this.” 

The quiet-spoken words gently broke the eerie silence of the chamber Warrior and Twilight had stepped into. Yet another door leading to nothing but a dank, empty, and eerie room with chains, broken tiles, and vases. 

Twilight’s inner wolf huffed, shrinking into itself. Another intense wave of déjà vu washed over him and the Ranch Hand stifled a world-weary sigh. 

Something was wrong with this chamber. He could sense it. 

“There’s a door on the other side.” “Of course there is,” Twilight groused, rolling his head back to give the ceiling his best woe-is-me look. He dropped his chin forward and pursed his lips, “Should we dare to cross..?” 

Warrior hummed. With a small shrug, the Captain murmured, “We might as well go for it. How else will we find a way out?” “If we find a way out.” “Come now, Twi,” Warrior drawled, amusement seeping into his tone, “Have some faith!” 

“In what? You?” 

“Ouch. Felt that one.” Warrior slapped a hand over his heart with a look of mock hurt. He dropped his arm with a growing smile, “This is a first. I don’t think I have ever seen you so antsy before.” 

Twilight shot him a side-eyed glare but reluctantly followed after the Captain when Warrior started to make his way across. 

If Warrior’s strides were noticeably faster than usual, Twilight didn’t remark on it. It let him know he wasn’t the only one affected by whatever place they were trapped within. 

Keen, cobalt blues searched the hollow chamber endlessly. Twilight would not allow himself to be caught off guard by anything. There was no doubt in his mind that there was something in this chamber. It was only a matter of finding out what exactly was there with them. 

Squeak

Twilight came to an abrupt halt, his skin crawling and goosebumps scattering across his skin. 

The spirit of the wolf whined, curling up tightly. 

This was a sound Twilight was far too familiar with. A sound he could never forget no matter how hard he tried. Already, he experienced the phantom sensations of tiny little paws grappling onto his clothes and scrabbling upwards. Sharp, piercing teeth and hauntingly beady eyes that glowed in the dark filtered through his mind. 

He waited for a second, straining his ears to catch the sound again. 

Nothing but silence met them. 

Slowly, Twilight relaxed, the tension bleeding from his back and shoulders. Perhaps it was his paranoia acting up and his mind was making up the noises. This place was a great deal like Arbiter’s Grounds. It would make sense. 

He shook his head and hastened forward. Warrior was already a good distance ahead of him. 

The Ordonian swore he heard the scraping of claws against the disjointed and fractured tiles but he refused to believe it. Reliving Arbiter’s Grounds was not something Twilight was keen on doing. 

And that was when he felt it. 

Something latching onto his pants leg and racing upwards. 

Horror and dismay contorted Twilight’s features as he instinctively stiffened, all sense of mobility fleeing from him. 

“Warrior - Captain - Pretty Boy-” He sifted through Warrior’s names, body paralyzed and frozen stiff. The claws climbed precariously higher, but the Ordonian couldn’t bring himself to look and see what had latched onto him. If it was what he knew it was… Warrior whirled around, concern creasing his brow at the urgency in Twilight’s voice, “Twi, what-” 

Twilight flinched, eyes squeezed shut, limbs cold and hands raised, “Get it off, get it off, get. it. off,” He repeated the mantra two more times. 

Warrior rushed to his side, searching for whatever it was Twilight felt. He saw nothing. “What-” “My back!” Twilight grit his teeth together, catching a barely-audible squeak as razor-sharp claws made their way up his spine, “It’s on my back! Don’t just stand there, Warrior, if you don’t-” He was cut off when Warrior cast aside his confusion and swiped his hand down Twilight back. 

He was taken by surprise when he was met with some resistance. Both Heroes heard a startled squeak as an invisible force made contact with the ground, the impact ringing in their ears. 

Warrior blinked dumbly down at the ground, arm half-bent and hovering in the air. 

There was nothing there. He hadn’t seen anything on Twilight and yet...He’d clearly hit something. “What was that?!” Warrior shrilly demanded to know. “A rat.” “A rat?! I didn’t see a rat!” “Of course you didn’t,” Twilight said with a trace of sarcasm, his heart rate slowing now that he was in no imminent danger, “They’re ghoul rats.” “Ghoul rats?!” 

As if called upon, several other squeaks and the speedy clicking of claws came from somewhere around them. Warrior looked around incredulously. 

A slightly hysterical laugh rose in Twilight’s throat because of course this would happen, but he suppressed it when the Captain shoved him forward. 

“Out, out, out,” The Knight prompted urgently, racing for the door, “I don’t do invisible rats.” 

“You only deal with the visible ones then?” Twilight couldn’t help but quip. 

Warrior all but threw open the door in response, the two stumbling free of the room and slamming it shut behind them. Several thumps resounded against the door. 

Leaning against the cold metal, Warrior heaved a sigh and swore, “Never again. Never.”

Twilight collapsed beside him, more than happy to take a brief respite. 

“Gibdos, ghoul rats, and sinking sand,” He listed off unhappily, his head falling back, “I can only imagine what comes next.”

Warrior turned to him, chest heaving from having all but booked it out of there. 

“No more. I don’t think I can handle whatever horrors your world holds, Twi,” 

Twi snorted quietly. “I’m beginning to wonder how I did.” 

It was a good thing, Twilight figured to himself, that Warrior had never seen what the poes of his world looked like. 

~~~~~

“Should we even dare?” 

Twilight wanted to tear his hair out. 

Warrior shifted indecisively. 

This, Twilight grumbled, is pathetic. 

“There’s no telling what’s behind this door.”

“No, but if we’ve learned anything, it’s that nothing good is behind this door,” Twilight muttered and his wolf self yipped in agreement. 

Warrior gave a small chuckle, the sound lacking its typical warmth and genuinity. He rubbed at the back of his neck, staring at the door in consideration. 

“It could be the last one we have to go through.” 

The ‘or not,’ was left unsaid but not unheard. 

Both knew they were stalling. Neither one of them wanted to cross the threshold to discover what surprise this chamber might hold. Heaving a sigh, eyes closing in resignation, Twilight planted a hand against the cool metal, 

“We might as well get this over with. The sooner we get out of this place, the better.” 

Warrior huffed. Then, with a dramatic gesture of his hand, said, “After you.” 

Twilight was not amused. 

With both hands, he unstuck the door and shoved it upwards then quickly stepped to the side once it vanished. 

Cautiously, both Heroes peered inside to scope out the interior of this new room. 

Warrior blinked, a vague impression of unease and revulsion etched into his features. Twilight was too tired to care anymore. 

“You...Am I seeing correctly?” Warrior asked, his voice the ghost of a whisper. He turned to Twilight, pointing with his left. 

“Well you aren’t imagining it,” Twilight muttered in response. He took hold of the Ordon blade and unsheathed it, “Come along now, Captain, the sooner we finish this, the sooner we leave.” 

Warrior raised both eyebrows, commenting wryly, “Now where was this attitude when-” 

“Captain,” 

“Coming.” 

And with that, Warrior slipped into the room after Twilight. Both stilled when the door slid shut and locked behind them. They spared it a glance then returned their attention to the center of the musty chamber. It was, by far, the smallest room they had been in, meaning there was little space for them to move. 

“Ominous,” Warrior remarked idly, taking in the grotesque, rotting, bony arms sticking out of the ground. “Must be our boss battle.” 

“Disgusting,” Twilight tacked on. His nose crinkled at the foul and overwhelming stench of death and decay in the heavy air. Sometimes, it did not pay to have heightened senses. 

His wolf self grumbled in indignation. 

“Do we chop off the arms?” Warrior wondered aloud, studying the eerie skeletal limbs swaying in a nonexistent breeze. “Where is the main body?”  “If there is one,” Twilight scowled. He and Warrior slowly approached the center of the room, careful not to step within reach of the stiff arms. 

“Here goes nothing,” Warrior shrugged, taking a swing of his sword and chopping a couple of the limbs halfway. 

There was an ear-splitting shriek that made Twilight slap his hands over his ears and cringe.  “Din’s name! The arms grew back!” Warrior exclaimed, drawing Twilight’s attention back to...whatever they were facing. Revulsion contorted Warrior’s face, “Oh, that was sickening.” 

Twilight’s lip curled back in agreement. 

“Maybe all of the arms at once?” He suggested. Warrior gestured for him to give it a whirl. Twilight exhaled deeply and moved to the middle of the extended limbs. Without warning, one of the bony fingers of a nearby hand twitched, agitated after sensing his movement, and snatched. 

Twilight gave a muffled shout when the hand grasped tightly at his face, his vision going dark from his eyes being covered. Sharp nails cut into his skin, trickles of blood slipping free from the slivers.  The Rancher’s hands snatched at the offending limb, striving vainly to tug himself free. He felt Warrior trying to help him, the Knight muttering harshly under his breath. His sharp ears also detected something unburying itself from the ground and his heart plummeted. 

“Sweet Hylia!” Warrior cried from behind, “Din, Farore, and Nayru forbid, that thing is atrocious! Holy heavens,” 

Would you focus on setting me free?! Twilight inwardly shouted. His wolf spirit howled, barked, growled, and snapped his teeth.  

“Oh, gross, it’s coming closer-” Warrior iterated, “-Disgusting. Look at those teeth-” 

I can’t, Twilight deadpanned, not daring to speak. The slimy, rotting hand on his face prevented him from doing anything. He didn’t want to risk even breathing. 

“I have never seen anything so hideously hideous in my entire life-” 

Have you looked in a mirror? Twilight wanted to quip, his wolf self snickering. He growled, the sound muffled. 

“I am not going anywhere near that thing, so-” Strong arms wound around Twilight’s chest and Warrior yanked with all his might, tearing Twilight free of the hand just in time to see what exactly had taken him captive. 

Deep, abyss-filled eyes on a gaunt, white, sickly face inches away from Twilight’s own greeted the Ordonian. Wide, long, teeth stretched in a broad smile on that thin head at the end of an extended neck momentarily horrified Twilight.  Wolfie all but shrieked at the unexpected and ghastly sight, fur standing on end. 

He grunted when Warrior crashed back onto the ground, still holding onto the Rancher. Both stayed sprawled on the ground, staring in terrified wonder at this unfamiliar, wretched, and slouched creature. 

The monster, realizing they were now out of reach, disappeared back into the ground. 

Twilight and Warrior simultaneously released sighs of relief, jumping when the door behind them crashed open. 

“What in Hylia’s name is going on here?” A familiar voice demanded to know. Twilight and Warrior scrambled to their feet with an enthusiastic cry of,  “Time!” 

Time’s eye darted between the two as they bolted towards him, a brooding look of wearied exasperation etched into his features, “I could hear the two of you from down the corridor-” He was cut off when the teens found refuge behind him, huddling together in a vain attempt to disappear from view. His expression flat-lined. “What are you both doing?”  “Did you know Ghoul Rats exist?” Warrior asked, beyond disturbed and scarred.  “Not to mention that thing,” Twilight added with a shudder of his own,  “We don’t talk about that thing, Twi,” 

“’That thing’ came out of the ground-” Twilight pointed ahead of them. Time suppressed the urge to sigh and turned his head to pin whatever creature the two were so thoroughly shaken by with a glare. 

His gaze froze when he took in the rotting, white-limbed, arms sticking up from the ground, clawed fingers curled and ready to snatch at anyone who dared come near.  A strange expression crawled across the Old Man’s face. One neither Twilight nor Warrior had ever seen him wear. His eye had gone dead and cold, recognition flaring to life before the elder Hero spun on his heel, grabbed the teens by their shoulders, and ushered them out. 

“Um, Time, shouldn’t we-” Warrior began, gesturing vaguely back to the room they’d left. 

“We don’t have time to waste,” The Old Man smoothly interjected, patting Warrior’s shoulder. He slipped between the two and began striding down the corridor. “We still have six other Links to find.” 

Twilight and Warrior shared a bemused look but dutifully followed after the golden-clad Hylian. They spared one last glance at the metallic door hiding the monster from view and, recalling the horrors they’d experienced in the span of two minutes, and skittered away. 

“Never again,” Warrior swore, hastening his pace. 

Never, Twilight agreed. 

[nevtelenwriting]

Excerpt: Hotch&Reid

Part of that longfic I’m writing that’s at like 35K with no end in sight

Pairing: One-sided Hotch/Reid, Reid is a pining disaster

Rating: T, Humor, slight crack, mostly shenanigans

Word Count: 1800~

Premise: Set early in Season 3, directly after Gideon leaves and Reid is very much struggling. Reid wakes up after a night of black out drinking, in attempts to curb the urge to use dilaudid. Apparently a bad decision was made. 

***

If he felt any comfier Reid might have actually been dead. Apparently last night ended very well, considering his immediate senses filled with a warm chest moving with even, slow breaths underneath his own, his face buried against a man’s neck with a pleasant deodorant and salt to his skin. It was unexpected, and the lack of memory would probably hit him harder once he let himself wake more.

Reid refused to lift his face because he could feel the throb behind his eyes beginning to escalate with consciousness. He was about to pass out again and ignore the urgent necessity to find a bathroom for his poor, unloved bladder when a few things start clicking into place.

The first was he was on a couch. Second, he was surprisingly clothed for what seemed to have transpired last night. He had on a shirt, so did the man, and he could only sense bare skin from mid-thigh down where his legs were tangled up in Reid's own. The third, was that after tall, dark, and mysterious ordered him shots at the bar, he didn’t actually remember anything. He couldn’t remember the guy’s face, either.

The fourth was Reid realizing he recognized the smell of this deodorant. The fifth, he also recognized the watch on the man's wrist. And that hand. And the wedding ring.

Reid bolted upright with a horrified, gasping wheeze, hands on either side of the broad torso of his human bed. Wide eyes bugged out further with every second seeing familiar hair, familiar nose, familiar jaw. Aaron Hotchner, his married boss, was passed out underneath him.

Reid immediately regretted his decision to lurch up when the floor tilted sideways and wow, he hadn’t had a hangover this vicious in…ever. Reid groaned and pressed his palm to his throbbing temple, wincing at the daylight filtering in through his blinds. His apartment. Hotch came back with him to his apartment, so at least Reid didn’t have to hide his shame from Haley Hotch’s wife oh god what happened last night.

Hotch grumbled underneath him. He ran a hand through his hair, long fingers carded through messy tresses sticking up from whatever product remained from yesterday. He winced a little before blinking open his eyes, staring up at Reid with a sleepy, hazy gaze not yet aware of his predicament. Reid looked down at Hotch, blinking his own eyes rapidly to remove his hallucination, but the image beneath him was not dissipating.

Help.

“You ready to get off me now?” Hotch murmured, a brow quirking up and Reid was almost positive he had died, but the decision was still out on whether this was heaven or hell.

“Sorry,” Reid fumbled off of him, eyes still huge on Hotch in panic, standing there awkwardly in his lanky t-shirt glory before he crossed his arms over himself. Hotch had on an undershirt, but was sans pants, donning only boxers and socks and Reid was utterly dumbfounded. Either they hadn’t undressed, or in a drunken stupor managed to put back on the weirdest assortment of clothes. Reid resisted giving himself a smell-test to confirm their…nighttime activities.

Hotch sat up and studied him silently, neither affected nor concerned he was half naked on Reid’s couch. Maybe Hotch was in so much shock that last night hadn’t hit him yet? Or he was stroking out. Was he stroking out? Reid scanned his face for signs of cranial dysfunction, regret, or dismay.

Hotch blinked slowly, rubbed his cheek with blearily blinking eyes. Hotch was a slow-waker, no, why did he have to be cute right now.

“You look like you don’t remember,” Hotch mumbled.

Reid bit his lip hard on a pitiful whimper, ground his palms into his temples and whacked one a few times to jog some form of memory, “I don’t. I am so sorry, Hotch, I have no idea what came over me.”

“Nothing happened.” Hotch scrunched his nose, shaking his head, “Didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’m going to put my pants in your dryer.”

The relief was superseded by confusion. Reid’s lip curled. “My dryer?”

“Pants first. Explanation second.” Hotch pushed off of the couch, his bared bicep flexing to do it. Reid bit his lip.

Pants were a good idea. Reid was in shorts only, he didn't wear briefs to bed which meant now Hotch likely knew he wore no underwear to bed and—wait Reid was on top of Hotch, did Hotch feel his—?

Pants first. Crisis second. Wait no, bathroom first oh god.

It took Reid three tries to go in the right direction of his bathroom, where he relieved himself and grabbed Tylenol for his throbbing hangover. On the way through his messy room he crashed into his door in his haste to jump into sweats, change into a new shirt that didn’t smell like Hotch. As much as he tried he was unable to invoke any memories through the fog. It all turned to nothing like he fell asleep in the middle of chatting up an attractive, older brunet and—oh, that was a new memory.

Hotch didn’t comment on the crashing and thumping he must have heard when Reid came back out, leaning against his kitchen counter still in nothing but his undershirt and boxers, his hair no less tamed though Reid could tell he tried. His eyes were clear with wakefulness, though he hadn’t quite drudged up the stern appraisal that was near constant in their workplace. He still looked, in a word, soft from rest. If anything he was considerate of his space, not taking up more room than necessary with hands braced on his counter, out of the way of Reid’s direct path back into the open main room. Reid had never seen him in anything but suits or warm, comfy clothes almost a size too big. He was in good shape, as Reid had been made acutely aware of the tone of his stomach when laying on top—

Focus, Reid.

Reid crossed his own arms tight over his body, rubbed at his cheek when no immediate words came. Was it more appropriate to offer food or thanks when one woke up straddling their boss with no memory of how it happened? He couldn’t give Hotch an out, not with the dryer still holding hostage what he presumed to be the rest of his clothes. What the hell happened?

“I don’t think I’ve ever blacked out before,” Reid conceded, though it sounded more like an excuse. Old movies of girls who would never sacrifice their sensibilities unless under the duress of a hot man flittered by and Reid was disappointed at himself. He shook his head clear of those thoughts.

“I figured,” Hotch replied, still surprisingly level. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“…Sitting on the lap of a 40-some-year-old male with dark hair.”

“Ah.” Hotch’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He cleared his throat and suddenly found Reid’s couch unavoidably mesmerizing.

Reid studied him through narrowed eyes, and then horror flooded his veins as he whispered, “Was that you?”

Hotch’s eyes bugged out of his head, “What? No!”

“Oh.” The horror faded away. “Good.” He wasn’t a total mess then. Reid’s eyes went wide again though, at the realization he just asked his boss that question.

Reid looked back to Hotch, and his face looked sunburnt.

“Can we forget I asked that.”

“Fine by me.”

Reid still wasn’t sure how to request Hotch’s memories of last night. It felt like retribution, not being able to recall how he ended up waking to his boss artfully disheveled underneath him and his clothes apparently ruined enough to need laundering. It may be a good thing, honestly. Reid never blacked out; he wasn’t one of those people that could, or so he thought. He always got sick before he drank so much that it shut down his brain. Who knew how he had embarrassed himself in front of his coworker?

Yeah, that seemed right; lust after his married straight boss, live with shame for eternity.

Reid chewed his lip before saying, “I can’t believe you stayed. Isn’t Haley worried about you?”

Hotch cleared his throat, mumbled “It isn’t a problem,” and provided no additional input.

Well, this wasn’t awkward at all.

He felt bad just standing here. A check to his phone—placed in the charger, which was not something even sober Reid did, so Hotch continued to be nice last night too—showed it was past 9am and if his stomach was gurgling, he had to assume Hotch’s was, too. He also felt bad Hotch was still in boxers.

“You know, I have some shorts that might —”

“We tried that,” Hotch replied, his mouth tightening.

Reid’s eye twitched and cursed black-out Reid. “I have sweatpants too, they—”

“Also tried that.” Hotch furthered, and Reid groaned inwardly.

“Do you want food?” Reid tried, “You don’t have to fit into that. And I have a spare hairbrush, if you…”

Hotch’s mouth twitched, still a little bit tense, and he covered his mouth with his hand. Reid blinked at him. He swore he saw…

“Are you…are you laughing at me?”

Hotch stared up at him from above his palm, “No?”

Reid’s mouth hung open, “You are!”

Hotch’s shoulders shook for a second, forced out behind his palm. “I swear I’m not.”

Reid threw his hands up. It was hell. He died and went to hell. He got the rare chance of seeing his boss half-naked in his apartment, glowing in morning light, and it was punishment.

“Thanks, Hotch,” Reid groused, and he hated how defensive it sounded. He was not in a place to be the angry one here, but—but of all people, he didn’t expect Hotch to be cruel.

“No, Reid,” the laugh was gone in his voice now, “I’m sorry, I swear I’m not laughing at you.”

“Your laughter says otherwise.”

“No, it’s just.” Hotch stammered behind his back. “You’re astoundingly hospitable. It’s… I was laughing because you offered the same things last night, and you haven’t even—how are you so generous right now?”

Reid’s face twisted up in confusion, he turned back to Hotch. “What does that mean?”

“I…” Hotch scratched his head, “You weren’t in the best of conditions last night.”

The contriteness in Hotch’s statement, the averted gaze and the next memory slapping him in the face suddenly made a question creep up. Reid was in a gay bar last night.

Reid squinted his eyes, “Wait, why were you there last night?”

“Um,” Hotch replied eloquently, scratched at his jaw. “I might…have been. Concerned. About you.”

Reid blinked, “And what does that mean?”

Hotch sighed, his arms crossing and schooled his features back to what passed for stoic concern. “It means I followed you after work.”

“You…” Reid balked, “You did what?”

[pauldron-pieces]

Destrier Revel: Worth The Wait

Fandom: Dungeons And Dragons (5E)

Pairing: Destrier Revel/Illeria Stennas (F!NPC)

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: This is a hypothetical narrative scenario featuring original characters in a world created by my Dungeon Master. As usual, this is non-canon and I own nothing aside from intellectual properties specifically attached to Destrier Revel. This installment is mechanically unsound in a multitude of ways and ignores certain important lore facets.

Trigger warnings are listed inside. Enjoy!

Taglist: @sporadic-fics and @cookiethewriter!

Inspired By: Josh Groban: When You Say You Love Me and Michael Shynes: The Slowdown

Destrier Revel’s Backstory: Burn The Wicked

For Leofore

Light And Home

So Little Time

A Choice

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains body dysmorphia, pregnancy, emotional duress, triggering terminology and sexual acts between two consenting adults. Stay safe!]

It had been two months. 

  Technically, sixty-four days. 

  Sixty-four days since Destrier and the rest of the King's Elite had departed on what the king claimed was, ' the last hurrah .'

  Sixty-four days since Knight-Captain Destrier Revel had promised her with an easy, confident grin that he would be back.

  Sixty-four days since Illeria had desperately tried to convince Leofore to let Destrier stay behind. She had gone before the stern senior paladin, refusing to be cowed or to resort to an emotional outburst even as her hands trembled. 

  Knight-Commander Leofore had set his jaw, the lines in his face deepening while she explained her current situation. " I understand that you are his wife, Illeria, but I cannot show favoritism among my men. The amount of spouses and partners that have thrown themselves at my feet to beg for leniency over the course of this war… " he had trailed off, turning Illeria's fragile hope to dust that clogged her throat.

  " He does not know, Knight-Commander. I did not believe it would be fair to tell him and distract him further ." She managed to say. 

  Leofore had looked surprised, then grateful. " You are a strong woman, Illeria. You have made my former charge the happiest man alive, and I thank you for that. Should anything occur to Destrier, I will personally see to it that you are well taken care of. "

  " With all due respect, Knight-Commander, " Illeria had replied, perhaps a bit more tartly than was proper, " that is my husband's responsibility ."

  It had been simpler then, like putting on a performance. But her life had become so deathly quiet in the absence of the bright beacon that was Destrier. It was as if winter had descended over the land early, sapping the color from everything and leaving it lifeless and dull.

  More than once she succumbed to weeping, cupping her abdomen as if to shelter the innocent life that currently grew within her. The midwife had told her that her emotions would run high, that she would be sick and changeable. Destrier hadn't seemed to notice before he left, his easygoing nature more than able to adapt when she snapped at him. 

  Illeria smiled sadly down at the shirt she was mending. Truly, the man could be so incredibly oblivious when he was off the battlefield. 

  The ring he had given her caught the light of the fire in the hearth, the recessed stone seeming to glow in the amber illumination. Illeria hadn't removed the ring since Destrier had presented it to her, and often found herself absently toying with it during quiet evenings as her mind wandered. This was apparently one such evening. 

  "All I can do," the woman sighed aloud, "is simply continue to hope and pray for his safe return."

  /x\

  Destrier was wracked with impatience to the highest degree. He knew that it was not prudent to urge their remaining troops to march home any quicker, but his mind was ablaze with concern for his wife. 

  His pregnant wife.

  "I still cannot believe she didn't tell me." He huffed at Leofore for possibly the hundredth time. 

  And for the hundredth time Leofore replied, "she did not wish to seem as though she was using the child to barter, Revel. Indeed, had you not been so reckless, you would still be unawares!" The older paladin knocked a gauntlet into Destrier's right elbow teasingly, making the younger man wince. 

  Destrier's right arm was bandaged to the shoulder and rested in a ramshackle sling against his chest. A Kull laying in wait to ambush them had nearly ripped the limb from his body when it had hurled him through the air; even their most skilled healers had their hands full with repairing such a wound. Mainly due to the young man staunchly decrying the aid, claiming that he was fine , there was work to be done! 

  It wasn't until Leofore had shouted at him, upbraiding the knight for being foolhardy, do you wish for your child to grow up fatherless, Knight Revel?! , that Destrier stopped in his tracks and permitted his wounds to be tended to. Partially out of shock, of course, but also because he knew that Leofore would not lie to him.

  Now, every second that they were away was another second he didn't have Illeria in his arms. To say he was 'startled' by his body's reaction to her absence would be a lie. He could barely contain the desire to spur his warhorse to a gallop.

  As the first scattered outlying farms of Mid Port came into view, Leofore finally took pity on the other paladin. "Go already! I'm about to crawl out of my skin just watching you!" He urged, giving Destrier a wink. "Go to her, lad. She's waited long enough to tell you."

  /x\

  As the seasons were waxing into fall, travelers were few and far between. Far better to travel during the warm summer months than to endure the raw, rainy atmosphere of the current times. 

  Illeria had decided that Maplecrest would be closed for the week to offer her the ability to properly scour the establishment clean and swap the bedding to thicker articles. Between cycling the linens, sweeping the floors, cleaning the chimney, washing the curtains, dusting the rafters...the young woman had been so busy she didn't even have time to think, which had done wonders for her emotional state. It was so much easier to cope with the uncertainty when she wasn't actively thinking about it, when she could just collapse exhausted into bed at night and sleep undisturbed.

  She was in the middle of hemming some old linens to use as cleaning rags when the sharp sound of the front door hitting the wall caught her attention.

  The awkwardly mumbled apology also caught her attention. 

  Illeria jolted, her eyes flying to the doorway where her husband stood. 

  Her husband. "Destrier!" She cried gladly. "You're back!" Heedless of the linens, she bolted from her chair by the fireplace and pitched herself into his arms.

  The large man cradled her to his chest, pressing his face into the kerchief covering her hair. She heard him inhale deeply and then Destrier gave a long, heavy sigh. " Illeria , I've...I am so…it's good to be home, my love." He suddenly sneezed violently. "I see you have been busy! You are coated with grime." The blond laughed, running a finger down the bridge of her nose and across her cheekbones as if to dust her off.

  Illeria floundered, her face going hot at his teasing and at the realization of the state she must be in. The woman took a step back to observe him and she realized suddenly that his right arm was bound to his chest in a sling. "Oh, what happened? You…" 

  "It's nothing, my love. Nothing at all." Destrier tipped her chin up and gave her a soft, tender kiss. "I'll be fine once I can get you alone once more." His words were bold, so bold, brown eyes alight with mirth as he watched her try to regain her composure. "Don't let me keep you from your work, my love."

  Illeria, still overcome with relief at his safe return, returned his kiss in a manner that was incredibly improper. Her tongue stroked his own in a lascivious echo of what she would love to do to him, right here if he wished. 

  "Iller-Illeria, please, mercy." The knight murmured against her lips, his gaze heated when he reluctantly pulled away. "Mercy, for a time. There are a few matters I must tend to, but I will return in the evening." 

  "You're leaving? Again?" Illeria's emotions roiled uncertainly, tipping between sadness and joy. 

  Destrier seemed to notice, his hand gliding over her cheek and cupping the heated skin. "Aye, only for a few hours. What is a few more hours for us, my love?" He reasoned. "I am certain we will have much to discuss!"

  Oh, if only you knew! Illeria thought mournfully, wondering if this was the last time she would be on the receiving end of his affection. Many men said they craved children, a family, but when confronted with the reality…

  Destrier had given her no reason to doubt his intent, she scolded herself. Now who was the fatalistic one? Illeria forced a melancholy little smile for him. 

  " 'What is a few more hours' , indeed. Hurry back, love." Her panic set in once the door closed after him. "Oh Goddess ," Illeria swore, "I need to bathe! " She scrambled for the door of her quarters, nervous nausea bubbling in her throat while she stripped nude.

  Her stomach was becoming more obvious by the day. Soon enough she wouldn't be able to hide it, even with her heavier homespun skirts. Illeria sighed unhappily, running a hand over the still-small bump. Perhaps...perhaps Destrier would want a family. Perhaps now, they could be simply husband and wife.

  But did she have it in her to tether him so blatantly? Despite the burden it would put on her, Illeria was loath to clip his wings. Would he grow to resent her? Hate her even, for coming between himself and his pursuit of martial superiority? 

  The young woman set her jaw firmly after a moment, willing her lower lip to cease trembling. Surely he would not have married her if he intended to flee at the first sign of their activities bearing fruit, she tried to reason with herself. The memory of their nights spent together before his most recent departure was tinged with a bittersweet melancholy, the echo of his touch haunting her in his absence. 

  The realization that she may still have such a lonely life ahead of her left Illeria clinging to the washstand for support. 

  It was a long time before she could rouse herself to continue to prepare for her husband's return.

  /x\

  "She does not know that you know? Why did you not tell her you knew?!" 

  Destrier blinked, absently nodding his thanks to the young cleric who had tended to his arm. The appendage still ached, but at least he could move his fingers once more. "I...If it is her news to give me, Knight-Commander Leof-"

  " Lad , you vex me endlessly!" The older paladin cut him off in exasperation, whirling on Destrier so sharply that his mantle cracked! in the still air of the throne room. "I love you like you are my own brother but gods , you are dense! This woman, your wife , has the patience to rival any saint. 'Tis bad enough that you came here instead of staying with her to allay her fears."

  "I did not wish to stand on ceremony with our monarch, Leofore. King Jonathan deserved to hear my resignation as soon as possible, that he may find a suitable replacement." Revel replied stiffly. "Illeria understands that I have a responsibility to His Majesty and His subjects."

  "She is your wife , Revel! She cannot, should not be second to your responsibilities!" Leofore retorted. 

  King Jonathan, observing the two men with more than a fair share of bemusement, nodded his head in agreement. "The knight-commander is right, Destrier. I appreciate your care in this matter and we will attempt to expedite the process as much as possible, but the eve of your return is not the time to discuss such weighty matters." The king took his wife's hand, his eyes growing distant. "You must cherish what you have, Destrier. Life is an immeasurably precious thing." With a wave of his free hand, the monarch dismissed the two paladins.

  Leofore appeared ready to seize Destrier by his gorget and haul him bodily along, the older man escorting his blond subordinate to the nearest washroom. Forty minutes later, scrubbed pink and unruly hair plastered down, Destrier Revel emerged sans armor. His ascot was untied but Leofore assured the other knight it would not be improper for him to return to his wife in such a state of undress.

  And if she was waiting for him…

  Destrier couldn't help the impatience that took hold of him, his stride lengthening to devour even more ground. Across the courtyard to the stables where his mount rested serenely, anticipating his return. "Aye, you know where we're headed." Destrier murmured to the beast once he settled into the saddle, gathering the reins in his good hand. 

  The white horse tossed its head as if to agree, taking off at a brisk trot. Truly, Destrier knew he could have simply walked; the distance was reasonably short. But this would be even quicker still.

  Illeria's belligerent plow horse didn't even look up when Destrier rode into the barn, the swaybacked animal too absorbed with its nightly feed. The knight rushed through the motions of stabling his horse clumsily, the weakness of his dominant hand making the task more challenging than it needed to be. But finally, finally , it was done.

  Destrier's boots felt impossibly light as he strode across the sodden courtyard. Gods , being apart from her was torturous. "Illeria?" He called as he opened the door, raising his hand out of habit to graze the wood carving overhead. 

  "The bedroom, love!" Her voice met him and he struggled out of his boots, certain that tracking mud across her floors would be grounds for expulsion.

  Her bedroom. Their bedroom. His heart ached. How long had Illeria known that she was with child? Keeping the secret so that he could fulfill his duties without distraction…

  He didn't deserve her selflessness.

  Destrier closed his eyes momentarily, attempting to regain his composure. Deep breath in, slow exhale out. The blow always hurts more if you're bracing into it. Relax , Revel!

  It was now or never. The blond man squared his shoulders. 

  "Illeria, we must discuss-" he began to say as he pushed open the door to their bedroom, but the words left his mind the moment he saw her. No matter how many damned times he had been graced by the sight of her nudity, Destrier still found himself a bit awed. "Ah." He finally managed to say.

  He was not so far gone that he didn't notice how pensive she seemed, the young man taking in the way her teeth worried idly at her lower lip. "You don't wish to touch your wife, Knight Revel?" Illeria teased after a moment, but an odd tension was in the air. "I have been remarkably patient, wouldn't you say?"

  "Beloved," Destrier murmured, "you are the most patient woman alive. However, be patient for a moment longer. There is an important matter we must discuss."

  "It cannot wait?"

  "Absolutely not." Destrier took her hand in his own and he was discomfited to find that she was trembling wildly. "My love, you are shaking."

  "Anticipation, that's all." Illeria attempted to brush off his concern, the young woman propping herself up on her elbows and then wrapping her arms around her knees protectively. "Well, let's hear it."

  "I...I know why you did not tell me before I departed, of course. I understand somewhat." Destrier started cautiously. "But it grieves me all the same that you had to endure such a burden of knowledge alone, to say nothing of the physical strain!" He wrapped her in a one-armed embrace, resting his cheek on her head. "You are my wife , Illeria. My partner, my equal."

  She was still for a moment, and then Destrier felt her shoulders shudder. Her hands dug into the fabric covering his back, gripping it so tightly. "I was afraid." Illeria hiccupped, her voice small.

  "Afraid? Of what?" Destrier asked, genuinely puzzled.

  "How you would react. Whether you would even wish to have a child at all. Your duties-"

  " Illeria ," Destrier interrupted her gently. "My love, I have resigned."

  "You…what?" Illeria blinked up at him, her face wet with tears. Revel used his ascot to tenderly blot them away. "B-But the kingdom-!"

  "His Majesty has already approved my request. There is the paperwork, of course. I'm certain there will be stacks, yet I feel nothing but elation." Destrier told her, sure that his smile was insufferable to behold.

  Her own smile in response was slower, tentative, until it bloomed fully and he was blinded by the radiance of it. Her laughter was like the first drops of rain that heralded the end of a drought, the build to incredulous jubilation that had her throwing herself headlong into his chest and covering his face with excited kisses.

  Gods , he had to be the luckiest man in the entire world. Destrier simply listened to the praises Illeria murmured against his skin as if she was offering prayers to some ancient, sensual deity, and he felt more alive than he ever had on the battlefield.  

  Abruptly Illeria leaned her weight on his injured arm and despite his best efforts, Destrier couldn't conceal his wince. She pulled back, her brow furrowed and mouth opening to say something. No doubt she was attempting to apologize. Destrier shifted his body, his lips meeting her own hungrily once more before he settled onto his back. "I'm afraid I am too weary to fully solve this problem myself tonight." He said with a contrite grimace, gesturing at his arm. "If you would be kind enough to help me disrobe, I will pay you back in the morn."

  /x\

  "Are you certain? If you are not... able , I would not ask anything from you." Illeria protested, heat surging in her face from the implication behind his verbiage.

  Destrier caught her hand, bringing it to his lips so he could kiss her knuckles softly. "I need you tonight, beloved. I am a greedy man, craving the warmth of your body." He murmured, his honest words sending a frisson of delight down her back. "My life has been fraught with sharp edges and the weight of hundreds of lives on my shoulders, please , let me find peace with you." 

  His eyes had gone distant, dark even in the orange glow of the fire, and Illeria watched silently as he pressed a final kiss to her palm and then rested their joined fingers over the curve of her stomach.

  "What we have created...what you have nurtured faithfully in my absence…" the knight whispered, words trailing off as his voice broke. 

  "I should have been honest with you." Illeria blurted out. "I just didn't wish to pin you down. I see now that it was foolish of me to fear your reaction."

  "I love you, Illeria." Destrier assured her while she began to unbutton the placket on his breeches. "You don't ever need to fear me, beloved. I would never willfully cause you harm, but I beg you to be plain with me from this point onward. Do not suffer in silence. Will you promise me that?"

  Illeria rested her forehead against his, smiling at him. "Of course, my love."

  Through her efforts, she managed to successfully unbutton his shirt and wrestle his breeches down over his knees, his smallclothes soon following suit. Destrier groaned low in his throat, his good arm slung over his eyes as if he was attempting to hide his reaction to her touch. But the flush that no doubt reddened his face also extended down his chest, his unbuttoned shirt exposing him thoroughly. Nevermind his cock, already hard and weeping on his stomach. 

  It jumped when Illeria stroked her index over the tip and Destrier exhaled a ragged gasp. "So eager, my love! Surely it is enough that you already have me with child?" Illeria teased. 

  "Illeria, if it is you, it is never enough." He answered her bluntly. "Rend my completion from me a thousand times and it will never be enough, beloved."

  The low timbre of his voice burrowed beneath her skin, setting her body alight. Illeria straddled his thighs, her hand gripping the base of his cock to steady him. She tapped his hip bone sharply, and Destrier's eyes flew up to meet her own. "Please don't move until I permit you to. Give me a moment to adjust." The woman requested, relieved when her husband nodded rapidly. Destrier could be overeager and, while he did his best, he still was a bit hazy on the intersection of his own strength and her bodily limitations.

  Illeria rose up on her knees and sank slowly down onto his cock, a whine escaping her at the slide of his length into her body. Destrier's weakened hand was fisted so tightly that his knuckles had gone as white as the bedding, his other hand tangled desperately in the blankets. "Ille-" He tried to speak, but she settled down on his hips and he made a strangled noise instead. 

  Illeria widened her stance slightly, doing her best to take him as deep as she could. He filled her so well, stretching her nearly to her limits as she rutted her mound against his pelvis. The woman took a selfish moment to minister to her own needs, her hands cupping her breasts to stimulate herself as she rocked back and forth on her husband's cock. Destrier bore it all while echoing her own moans, his teeth gritted.

  "You're so good to me, Desty." Illeria managed to say, her hips moving of their own accord in the age-old rhythm of copulation. "So good, so patient-"

  "You're killing me, you're killing me, gods let me move ," Destrier pleaded. "Let me love you, let me touch you-"

  "You may move, love." No sooner had she given his permission than Illeria found his hand grappling at the small of her back, the knight urging her down to lay nearly prone on his chest. He then began thrusting upwards into her fiercely, punching the breath out of her with the depth of his motion. Illeria whimpered, the sound seeming to drive him into a frenzy as his movements became erratic.

  " Gods , I-" Destrier choked out, " cannot last, damn it --"

  "Come inside me, love." Illeria commanded him breathlessly, loving the way his entire body shuddered at the order. 

  "Gods yes, gods yes, as many times as you want, fuck -" The blond swore, his hand splayed on the small of her back pressing her firmly down on his length as he came inside her. 

  Illeria laid on top of him for several long moments while the two of them tried to catch their breath, her ear pressed to his chest so she could hear his heart's wild tempo. "I've missed you, love." She whispered, surprised when he dropped a clumsy kiss on the top of her head. 

  "Did you come?" Destrier asked bluntly, grimacing when she shook her head. "I apologize, I'm afraid my eagerness overwhelmed my consideration. I will not send you to sleep without your release." He promised, his smile a bit crooked. "I just need a moment to regain my composure."

  Illeria put her palms on his chest, leveraging herself upright. Destrier groaned when his cock slipped free of her body, a muttered oath issuing into the heated air between them. Illeria, for her part, smiled down at him and then sat back on his hips. Her husband's still half-hard cock slotted smoothly between the folds of her cunt, and she shivered when the blunt head of it pushed hot and slick against her clit.

  "Illeria?" Destrier called her name, his tone bordering on curiosity. "Does it...is that satisfactory to you?" 

  "Very much so, love." Illeria assured him, and his hand found her left breast. Large, calloused fingers cupped her, his touch almost reverent in its delicacy. 

  "I doubt you will wish for me to touch you in this manner once you are truly heavy with child." Destrier remarked, his expression distant once more. "But it is already more than I deserve to witness you like this."

  Illeria bent down to press her forehead to his own, the woman forcing him to look at her, really look at her as she stroked herself over his member like some wanton, feral thing. "Destrier," she whimpered, feeling the way his cock leapt at her voice alone. "I never wish for you to stop touching me. I love you so much."

  "And I you, beloved." Destrier kissed her eagerly, only breaking away to tilt his head back and gasp for air. " Gods Illeria, you urge me to expedite my recovery!" He huffed, chuckling ruefully. "Soon enough I will be able to give you what you crave. Forgive my momentary incapacitation."

  "Don't rush yourself, my love. I rather enjoy having you at my mercy." Illeria replied playfully, loving the way his eyes lit up at her words.

  "You would!" He retorted, sounding absolutely delighted. "But you know you need only ask. The very breath in my chest is already yours, beloved." Destrier reached up again, taking her chin and kissing her sweetly. "Anything you desire, anything in my power to give." He murmured into her mouth.

  "All I ask for is your love, Destrier." Illeria answered, tenderly sweeping the hair stuck to his forehead out of his eyes. 

  "All that she asks for is all that I have to give." Destrier sighed, "it is all my heart beats for, beloved. For you, and…" he paused, laying his hand on her stomach while he gazed up at her lovingly. "For the little one."

  Illeria bit her lip, warding off the tears that threatened to spill over. "Show me, my love."

  /x\

  When she woke in the gray light of dawn, it was to the hot, wet sensation of her husband's hard cock sliding back into her cunt from behind. Barely awake, all Illeria could do was keen and whimper while he sank deep. Destrier's mouth pressed against her ear, his long, low growl of satisfaction sending a searing wave through her body.

  "How are you always so tight for me?" He muttered, filthy words that had the woman burying her face in the pillow even as she arched her hips up to greet him. Destrier grunted, shifting his weight slightly and reaching around to brush over her clit. 

  Illeria sobbed out a breath, too spent from their night of debauchery to do much of anything aside from angle her pelvis downwards against his fingers. Destrier let her struggle for a moment before he tapped the top of her shoulder, easing her back down until she was prone yet again. He didn't appear to care overmuch that he had trapped his good hand beneath her, the fingers of his other hand twining through her own as he lowered himself down with her. 

  Illeria's cunt throbbed with want around his length, the peaks of her breasts teased by the rough homespun blanket beneath her. She could have come just from that little stimuli alone, already so sensitive and alight from prolonged desire. But Destrier was thorough and patient, soothing her halfway back to sleep as he slowly rocked her between the searing embrace of his body and the warm, calloused touch of his fingers. 

  "Shh, it's only a dream, my wife." He teased her breathlessly as she cried out his name into the pillow. "I know, I know, I am a cruel and pitiless man to deprive you of the rest you need so dearly. Permit me a moment of selfishness." Destrier whispered, his pelvis seated firmly against her rear. "Just a moment, and then we shall sleep until noon."

  "Fill me up, Destrier, make me come-!" Illeria begged, her voice cracking with desperation. 

  Destrier made a strange noise behind her, half-pained, his fingers spreading her folds so she could grind herself into the heel of his hand. It was barely a breath before she was coming, every inch of bare skin tingling in the frenzied glow of her aftermath. 

  Destrier's skin slapped against her own as he lost the fight with his patience, the young man grabbing her hips and thrusting into her as deeply as he could. "Gods, I love it when you come for me." He muttered through his teeth, almost as if he was speaking to himself. "So wet , warm, need you, gods what have you done to me--"

  "P-- lease ," Illeria moaned, her breath hitching from the vigor of his motions. "Oh, please Destrier…"

  " Yes ." Destrier's voice lowered to a strange, rich register as he found his completion, the man effectively pinning her down to the bed with the weight of his body while he came. Illeria felt his grip on her hand twitch with every throb, unconsciously echoing his release. " Gods , there. There. Now we can go back to sleep." He gasped after a moment, dragging himself up onto his elbows and rolling to his side.

  Illeria, too tired to even think about moving, vaguely felt his weight leave the bed. After a moment, a warmed washcloth grazed her quivering cunt and she couldn't help the whine she let out, her hands clutching at the bedspread. 

  Destrier urged her legs apart and his fingers plunged into her, the man mercilessly stroking down against the sweet spot on the inner wall of her stomach. Illeria, though exhausted, felt yet another orgasm begin to curl in anticipatory preparation as her husband worked her over with practised, circular strokes. "One more for me? I am so greedy for you, beloved, please." He implored sweetly, like he wasn't the devil incarnate who had already kept her up half the night with his lovemaking. 

  Tears pricked at the edges of her eyes and, thoroughly overwhelmed, Illeria had no choice but to surrender to the burgeoning arousal that Destrier had coaxed to the surface. The way he moved, the expertise of his touch...she had never had a chance in the first place. Her husband, Destrier Revel, always brought her to such lofty heights and took his blessed time returning from them. He savored every moment with her after their first coupling, drawing the pleasure out until it lingered bright and sharp, wavering on pain. 

  Such was his love for her, and such was her love for him. Brilliant as starfire, soft as moonlight, endless as the very cosmos.

  /x\

  "What shall we name them?" Illeria mumbled sleepily to Destrier after he had cleaned her off. He was not quite as comfortable with his prestidigitation as he would like to be and besides, there was something achingly intimate about tending to her in a practical fashion. "The baby," she clarified needlessly.

  Destrier froze midway through the motion of tugging the blanket up to shield them from the (comparatively) chillier air in the room. The baby . Gods, they were having a baby. He would be a father . Overtaken by emotion, he kissed her forehead softly. "It can wait, beloved. We shall have months for you to decide."

  "No," his wife slurred in protest, clinging to his hand and blinking blearily up at him. "You decide. Pick a name."

  "I...Illeria, you cannot expect me to name them. We know not whether they shall be a boy or a girl!" Destrier reasoned. 

  Truthfully, he was fearful to name a child as he had named himself . Gods only knew what his birth name actually was. Leofore had never questioned the validity of his identity, the dark-haired paladin unaware that the orphan had simply blurted out the first thing he could think of after Leofore had dragged him out of the muck of the barracks stable. It was truly a miracle that Destrier had managed to get so far in life with a moniker that reduced him to nothing but a warhorse.

  The blond man's brow furrowed and he rotated his previously-injured arm, wincing a bit when it twinged slightly. He was on the mend, if only just. Perhaps he was aggressively foolhardy for being so active , but with a wife that was as eager and affectionate as Illeria…

  Well, any man would be hard-pressed to consider their wounds under such pleasurable duress.

  Illeria grumbled and grudgingly let him sink down onto the bed beside her. Soon enough she pressed against his ribs, her cheek resting on his chest as she hummed wearily and he stroked her hair. "It will be a boy." She murmured, sounding nearly asleep. 

  "Oh aye? You are sure of that?" Destrier teased. 

  "I am." His wife insisted, rubbing her nose against his chest. "I can tell."

  "Very well. I shall not poke fun at your maternal intuition." Destrier promised solemnly, earning himself a one-eyed glare. "However I will reiterate my previous counsel, beloved. Rest . When you wake, then we may discuss further." He gestured out the window at the grey twilight, "the weather promises to be rainy, and if there is no reason for us to leave this bed…" the blond man trailed off pointedly.

  Illeria still put up an admirable fight, lasting an entire seven seconds before she was sound asleep on his chest. 

  The former Knight-Captain Destrier Revel smiled, his finger delicately tracing the bridge of Illeria's nose. "I am so glad to have you by my side," he whispered to her, blinking away the grateful tears misting his eyes when she snuggled a bit closer to him, " my wife ."

Part Seven: The Most Important Part

[magsdomino]

@minadeku

Izumina week has come and gone, but I wanted to do one more thing for it. So here is a late entry for day 5: Second chances.

It is based off of an idea I had for the sequel to Walk. Might not use it as I am unsure how well it gels with the rest of my plans, but here had a look at a possible timeline, I guess. (P.S. I will try to get the first chapter of You Say Run out soon. If not this week, then early next week.)

Title: Hold Me Closer

It hurt. Burned even. Izuku had faced villains that could turn him to dust or freeze him in place. He had been beaten and bruised, and even broken his own bones. A lot. He had a reputation for that nowadays.

And yet this hurt more. Mina had been one of his first friends in years. She had been a light in his life that he desperately needed and had opened the door for him in several ways. He had hoped to repay that kindness to her every day, as he had felt blessed to know her. All those memories with her and his friends kept him going.

And yet at the end of the day, he had hurt her. Scared her. They had broken up because she couldn't handle it. Her words echoed in his mind.

"I can't do this. I can't.deal with you jeopardizing your life and body."

That voice was like honey to him and now it was like the very acid she produced. He had really messed up. It was a good thing It was a weekend. He felt like just laying in bed and sleeping, especially after how awkward things had been and how horrifying the ordeal before it was. 

Izuku had been through the ringer and just needed sleep. A knock on the door had other plans for the boy though.

Izuku just rolled over and pretended to be asleep. He wished he were at least.

"Izuku? Can we talk?" It was her voice. Mina's voice.

Dammit. He couldn't say no.

"Um...sure…" Izuku opened the door and ushered her in. He sat on his bed and sat awkwardly. He normally would have patted the bed, offering her a spot. He had picked that habit up from her. The air was more tense, however, so he decided to let her stand. "W-what's up."

"Nothing...just wanted to…" Mina sighed. She wanted to be her own cheery self, act like things were normal. They weren't though. Or maybe They were. Maybe this was the new normal. She wasn't a fan of it. She liked to be flexible about life, but this was not fun at all.

She started again. "Look. We both messed up… You definitely did. I want to be honest.You could have gotten killed. Or expelled. Maybe both if that works somehow. Sometimes, I feel Sensei would find a way… and you went to save someone who hurt you…"

"There is no amount of sorry that will fix this, huh?" Izuku chuckled sadly, Looking up at his ex. She was the kindest, prettiest soul he knew, smiling no matter what. It honestly inspired him just as much as All Might did now. Close enough, at least. And yet knowing he was responsible for causing her worry and duress was the final knife in his chest. He felt ready to collapse. He felt her warm hand lift his chin and their eyes met.

"Easy there, green bean...I...it was hypocritical...I got scared of losing you and yet I pushed you away. You messed up and put yourself in danger for someone who likely wouldn't risk the same for you...but …"

"Yeah. You think I would learn. I just… " Izuku paused, Looking for the right words. He couldn't even muster a mutter. It was that bad.

"It's what heroes do though, right?" Mina smiled softly. Once again, she took the words out of his mouth.

Izuku nodded. An uncomfortable silence took hold for several minutes. The One-for-All inheritor choked up. "I hate this, Mina… I didn't want to scare you. I should have just let him go. Heck, he has his own classmates that could risk it all for him...but I knew him longer...I felt responsible in some messed up way. I couldn't let them go into it and say "not my problem anymore". They are my schoolmates and I couldn't risk it…"

"I guess we both are bent up about this, huh?" Mina admitted.

"I guess so…" Izuku replied.

Mina took a seat next to Izuku and fiddled with her thumbs. It was all starting to come out. It was more of a sputter than a steady stream but it was coming along regardless."You are too forgiving..."

"Yeah. I know. Bakugou hasn't been my friend for some time…" Izuku frowned. He thought it would get easier, but there was still that complicated feeling in the back of his mind.

Mina looked at the ground. "Not him, no. Not this time. You forgave me too easily. I mean I went to Aizawa! Aizawa! I dumped you and narced on you. Glad he didn't expel you. God I am such an awful girlfriend. I betrayed you...I just...I didn't want to lose you and I got scared and acted all weird and..." Tears fell from the pink girl's eyes, emotion pouring like a faucet now. Her eyes opened as Izuku brushed her cheek. His scarred hands felt so gentle despite their roughness. She had to resist the urge to nuzzle them. It was too soon.

"It's different with you. You gave me more love and concern than I ever felt deserving of. I mean, forgiveness is in my nature, I guess. Might be tied to my self worth. But how could I not?" Izuku held her hands. Both their hearts still ached. They were raw from the events that just unfolded and the regret of how things turned out.

What had happened had happened, but it hadn't changed the love the two still had. Despite the heartache and complications, those feelings lingered

Mina wiped her tears away and smiled weakly. Soon after, something occurred to her as her face produced an mp3 player from her purse, complete with wireless speakers. Izuku learned not to question how she fit them in there.

"It's not breakdancing or roller disco, but please...dance with me...I don't want this weirdness between us...just please don't do this sort of thing again. Not without me...I know you're smarter...get better grades...but my concerns matter too. My insight matters too. I know you know that… just...don't forget, ok?"

Izuku obliged. "Ok… looks like my muttering rubbed off on you a bit," Izuku joked.

"Shut up and hold me, dork," Mina huffed, leaning into him gingerly.

The two joined hands and danced slowly together in Izuku's room, cheek to cheek. A soft chiptune song played, something from an old video game. Regardless, it carried all the weight the two teens could no longer bear to handle alone.  Was it too soon to reconcile? Was there any reason not to? Those concerns could wait until later. Right now, they needed this.

"I'm sorry, Mina...I keep causing you worry…"

"Yeah you do...you're my boyfriend…" Mina murdered into Izuku's shoulder

"Was your boyfriend...you dumped me...I would dump me too probably." Izuku gently pulled away but was pulled back in.

"Yeah...well...I like having you around...I could say let's just be friends...take it slow."

"That...might be for the best" Izuku's heart sank a little but he expected it. He was even ready to make peace with it.

Mina looked up in confusion. "What? No! I mean...that is probably how we should do things. We're young and stupid and emotions are still raw...but I always wanted to fall in love, Izuku. I knew there was a whole life in front of me but I wanted a live story. It appealed to me. And yet I didn't really...get those feelings, you know? Until you...I don't want to lose that...or you...just please...if I say stay, stay. Ok?"

"I promise. I stake my future as a hero on it." Izuku did a mild All Might impersonation. Mina ruffled his fluffy green hair in response.

"Dude, that is a bit overboard...don't put your dreams on hold because of me. Besides, I would miss you. I would want to rain blows upon you for being reckless and almost dying, but I don't want to lose you."

"Yeah...I don't want to lose you either. I-I just want to show you how much you matter. I don't think I would be here without your support? Not to discount everyone else. I feel so blessed. All Might, mom, Tsu, Kirishima, Uraraka, Iida...everyone… but above all...you...I'm sorry. That sounds cheesy. I just wanted to be honest and also sound cool but I might be going too fast again and..."

"Pretty sure you would. You're that good… And don't worry. I'm going the same speed as you" Mina laughed more genuinely now.

"I...maybe...But it feels empty to think about that." Izuku's tone became somber again.

The two cradled each other, tears staining their clothes as they refused to let go for the rest of the night.

"We should probably rest. If we just got back together...I don't want to push my luck." Izuku broke off slowly, allowing Mina the space she needed.

"Yeah...I'm going to sleep in my own bed. You're still riding the couch, buster." The pink girl gently booked her green-haired nerd's nose.

"I have a bed though." Izuku cocked his head inquisitively.

"No. Beds are for good boys who don't scare their girlfriends." Mina huffed teasingly. Her face relaxed. "Maybe in a day or two though, we can go back to normal...what passes for normalcy I mean."

"Y-yeah...that's fair. We can't just jump right back into things."

"Which sucks, because now we can cuddle...like...any time we want. Unless Iida comes in and physically puts a stack of textbooks between us. I feel he will want the glasses back that I stole from him as well."

"He could be listening. He might get ideas...but yeah. I respect that. Honestly, if we stayed broken up, I would have had to change my hero name. Calling myself Green Rush without the person who inspired it would seem weird."

"What would you pick though? Don't say Deku. I liked the reasoning Ochako gave for it but it still carries that Bakugou stink. It would be like you calling yourself "Stupid asshole, the traumatized hero"."

"I mean." Izuku rubbed the back of his head but was pulled into a quick kiss by Mina. It was just a short peck but it still sent lightning through his body and straight to his heart in a way full Dowling couldn't match. Soon after, a flurry of gentle blows found their way into his shoulders.

"No. No self deprecation. Not tonight. Just hold me please, ok?"

"Deal." Izuku rested his head against her shoulder, hesitating afterwards. "Sorry. I am rushing things. I need to slow down and…"

Izuku was cut off by a hand to his scalp. "Sssshhh. Stay. You're warm." Mina nuzzled him.

"Didn't you want to slow down? Stay in your own bed for a night or two? N-Not that I am complaining. I just...I don't know," Izuku stammered. 

Mina pulled Izuku onto the bed as they fell backwards. "I changed my mind. Don't make me change it again, you beefy otaku." She muttered in a sleepy tone, voice slightly hoarse from crying. 

"Yes ma'am" Izuku smiled softly as he fell on top of Mina. 

"I love you, Izuku." Mina yawned as she buried her head into the crook of Izuku's neck.

"Love you too, Mina." He adjusted his head to avoid being poked by her horns. It wasn't long before the two passed out in each other's arms. Between the room competition, the move in, and everything else, the young couple had been exhausted. They needed this rest. Together.

Unbeknownst to them, a pair of eyes watched through a creak in the door. The figure croaked silently and headed back to her room, unsure of how to word what she wanted to say. Sleep would help. Besides, her friends needed this and she didn't want to ruin it.

[shardminds]

The Swan that fell for the Sea (2/3)

Thank you to @itsfabianadocarmo for being so patient with me! This story, at this chapter, clocks in at 10k which is the longest thing I’ve ever written and there’s still one chapter to go! Your gift, my sweet, will continue on into 2020 as work and Christmas and other commitments have kept me from it :( I’m sorry for keeping you waiting but hope you continue to enjoy where this is going ♥ It’s been a pleasure to write for you! 

Another big thanks to @cssecretsanta2k19 for running this fantastic event! You ROCK! 

And, last but not least, we ALL owe a round of applause to @thisonesatellite for 1) putting up with me, 2) calling me out when things don’t make sense and 3) being an unwavering pillar of support through this whole process. THANKS LOVE!

Emma Swan falls for a man of the sea. She doesn’t mean to but she does all the same. The scent of salt and leather and rum lingers on her skin long after he’s gone and, as the warm summer breeze makes way for winter’s icy chill, she wonders if he’ll ever return.

He does, and things will never be the same again.

Part 1 ¦ Also available on AO3 ♠

Emma waits for him.

She waits and waits, dismissing any rational thought that tells her to stop. Four months is a long time but, despite the fallen leaves turning to mulch on beaten passageways in the town, she waits. Sweet ale in her tankard. The memory of a kiss on her lips.

She sneaks out of the palace nearly every night, dressed in plain skirts. The ones that now had her fading into the background, not to be noticed other than by those that looked too closely.

Ruby tries her best to bring the smile back to Emma’s eyes. Sometimes it works; dragging her up to dance and sing, around the people she’d come so close to, unlikely friends among the dirt, slamming tankards together in cheers and living in the moment. Those moments helped, patching up the longing in her heart, however temporarily.

The docks die down in the cold, the revelries of summer no longer calling forth traders and night markets, performers and tourists, or pirates. Emma still visits, hoping to see The Jolly Roger moored up, the crewmen she’d grown familiar with greeting her with fond smiles and the Captain she loves wrapping her in his warm arms, fighting off the ache in her chest that had settled when he left.

It hurts to see it empty.

After such time apart, their summer together seems like a dream. If it weren’t for the chain at her neck, she’d wonder if it happened at all.

She’ll know soon enough. Solstice is tomorrow.

The preparations spread throughout the palace with the first frost; wreaths and garlands adorning the entire place in swaths of green, red and gold, fireplaces eternally lit in an attempt to warm the cold stone floors to no avail. On the rare nights Emma didn’t venture down to the tavern by the shore, burrowed into soft blankets and furs smelling of woodsmoke and frost, she wishes that she wasn’t alone.

A giant spruce, felled recently, lays in the courtyard, a smattering of snow covering its evergreen foliage.

Emma uses it as cover, walking behind it’s thickest part to obscure herself from the prying eyes of servants whose whispers would inevitably make their way back to the ears of her mother. She hasn’t been caught yet, in her months of running away to the docks at the fall of night and crawling back home in the early mornings, but she dreads what would happen if she did.

She dips past the thick shrub along the palace wall that hides a long forgotten passage up, up and up until it reaches just shy of her chambers. In the past, they’d probably been used for more important things – escaping assassinations, fleeing coups but those days were long gone. Misthaven was at peace; her father made sure of that.

She climbs the staircase in the dark. It takes minutes to get to the tapestry-covered exit but, in the pitch black, it stretches seemingly into hours. The sensory deprivation is all-consuming, but she continues on. Exhaustion tugs at Emma’s limbs, causing her to almost lose her footing a couple of times, grabbing the cool stone walls for balance. How long has it been since she slept? Two days? Three? Between fulfilling royal duties and drowning the dull ache in her chest, there isn’t a lot of time for sleep.

When he returns. That’s when she’ll sleep.

Before she can reach to pull the tapestry aside, it’s already gone.

In its place, the Queen.

She’s cast entirely in shadow, light from the corridor outlining her in an ethereal glow but Emma would know that silhouette anywhere.

Fuck.

“If you don’t want your Father to chain you up, I would suggest using the south entrance to sneak in, far less prying eyes this time of year. People are getting wise to your ways.”

Her mother, cinched into an opulent gown that makes Emma’s threadbare and frayed skirts look like rags, fixes her with a questioning look. Despite her age, Queen Snow has always been beautiful, once holding the title of fairest in all the realm for both her rule and her appearance. As her daughter, Emma held a biased opinion, of course, but now, with one groomed eyebrow hiked up, she cultivates the seed of anxiety in Emma’s stomach until its vines wind around her limbs, rooting her in place.

“Mother, I–”

Snow’s expression softens, a cheeky knowing smile replacing any animosity Emma could’ve sworn had been there not seconds earlier. It knocks her back like an unexpected wave.

“Hush, Emma.” She steps to the side, allowing space for Emma to emerge into the empty corridor. Hesitantly, she takes it. The light, albeit dim, is still enough to be blinding after the total void in the passageway. “I too was young once. Come along now.”

“I think the circumstances were slightly different then,” They fall into step together, heading in the direction of Emma’s chambers. Nerves still tingle in the pit of her stomach, sharper and heavier than the crown her mother wears. She hadn’t expected such a… non-issue. If her father found her, she’d be having an entirely different conversation right now. “You were running from a power-hungry sorceress who tried to turn the kingdom against you. I, on the other hand, am under no such duress.”

“My stepmother was– yes. I suppose you’re right.” She muses, looking off into the middle distance as Emma pushes against the dark wood of her bedroom door.

The whole room is immaculately kept, further evidence that it had not been slept in for some time, but the hearth is lit, embers glowing, warmth only spreading as far as the dressing table and doing nothing to bite off the bone-deep chill that settled in Emma’s bones from the walk. On the bed, atop furs and throws and soft pillows, is a dress.

“I assume Father expects me to wear that.” She sighs, picking up the offending article between two fingers. It’s softer to the touch than she expected, pleated silk and silver beads, with elaborate lace sleeves that flare at the wrists.

“You assume correctly.” Her mother nods, taking a seat by the fire and swiping an apple from the fruit basket on her way. “Johanna prepared you a bath so you can make yourself a little more presentable for later.”

“Later?”

“Yes, your Father has requested our presence in one of his meetings this morning, which is why I was so anxious for you to arrive,” Emma rolls her eyes and starts towards the bath, peeling off her outer shirts and leaving a trail of clothes on the floor, leaving her undergarments until she’s safely behind the screen separating the clawfoot tub from the rest of the room. Snow tuts at the mess. “but enough about all that, I do believe I am owed an explanation.”

The water is just a touch cooler than scalding when she steps in, but her mother’s words send a spike of fear down her spine. The girl that exists there, at the docks and taverns, she has no place in this palace. Emma tries her best to shove her down, letting only the Princess remain.

“In order to rule the people, one must know the people.”

“Oh, how diplomatic! We’ll make a Queen of you yet.” Snow calls back, voice laden with sarcasm. “Now, the truth, if you will.”

Emma pauses, letting the heat from the bath sink deeper into her bones. How does she even begin to explain?

Oh yes, Mother. I spend most of my nights at the docks staring at the horizon, waiting for a Pirate, who I seem to have fallen in love with, to return from a voyage I regret refusing to join him on and when it all gets a bit too much, I find solace in drink and frantically attempt to sober myself up on the walk back to the palace at sunrise because I fear you and Father finding out the truth of my whereabouts.

“That is the truth, partly.” Letting her head sink under the water’s embrace, she sighs. The bubbles rise and pop, words she wishes she could say. She trusts her mother implicitly.

She doesn’t, however, trust her father, who would see Killian’s head on a spike if he ever found out.

Her lungs burn when she comes up for air.

“I’m suffocating here.” Emma can’t stop herself, words spilling forth like a burst dam. “My duties are limited to appearances and dinners, where all anyone wants to talk about is who I’m going to marry. I’m the fucking Princess, adored by all and all that rubbish, but I’ve never felt more alone than when I wear that tiara. I’m nowhere near ready to rule. I don’t know the first thing about defending my country and that scares me, but when I’m down there with the people– our people, I can be someone else, even if it’s just for a night.”

For a second, the only sound in the room is the gentle splash of bathwater and the faint crackle of embers.

“Emma–” There’s a creak of furniture followed by the soft clack of heels on the stone floor. Her mother pauses and Emma can see her shadow against the screen.

“Please, Mother.” She pleads, voice unbroken. “Don’t take this from me.”

Snow emerges from behind the screen, an apologetic look casting her face in a sad smile, and reaches for one of the perfumed soaps that had been laid out for Emma to bathe with. Unperturbed by Emma’s nudity, she comes to kneel behind her daughter’s head.

“I spent so much of my youth fighting to get into a palace that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be trapped inside one.” Her fingers, small and dexterous as they are, massage the soap into Emma’s scalp, forming a liberal lather. Tension leaks out of Emma’s shoulders with each touch and, before long, she’s completely lax. They don’t speak, but Killian’s name sticks in her throat, a lump she can’t shift. In another life, were she not a Princess, perhaps she would have the courage to speak it.

Her mother and father have so many tales, stretched across years of rebellion and revolt; of the Evil Queen, of the dwarves sworn to fight by her side, of banditry and betrayals and true love– that’s what Emma had been searching for each night, between dirt and flame and ale. A story, an adventure, something for people to talk about in hushed whispers, of the Swan that fell for the sea.

They don’t have to know that the Swan is their Princess.

Not yet.

Her fingers are pruning in the lukewarm water, body lulled half to sleep, by the time her hair is washed and towel-dried. Her mother sighs, knees creaking as she stands – age has been kind to both her parents but it creeps in slowly, in the silver gracing their temples hidden by golden crowns. It comes for everyone eventually.

“I’ll ask Graham to scale back patrols on the south gate and Johanna to fetch you a better cloak than that which you’ve taken to using,” She starts, placing a fresh towel by the bath side. The satin skirt of her gown is darkened with damp spots from the water, but she pays them no mind, pressing a kiss to the centre of Emma’s forehead. “and please remember that I am always here for you, Emma. I mean it.”

There’s sincerity in her eyes, sincerity and love— so much love, more than Emma can even begin to comprehend, but she trusts it. In the list of moments she would pause for an eternity, this is one of them.

“Mother.”

“Yes, dear?”

Her voice catches, a soft hopeful smile making its way to her lips. “I love you.”

“And I you.” Snow nods, making her way behind the screen, leaving Emma to dress alone. “Meet us in the great hall in an hour.”

When the door shuts softly, confirming her mother’s exit, she emerges from the water.

--

Cold stone walls, cast-iron chandeliers with tall flickering candles, fires in every hearth, stained glass effigies of past kings and queens lit with the late morning sun, eaves decorated with garlands of holly and ivy, and, raised on marble steps, three golden thrones. The great hall really is just that. Great.

Emma grew up here, excited to be involved at first, to wear the tiara her father said she was born to wear.

As time moved on, so did she.

“Emma!” A voice rings out, echoing against stone.

Her father, the King.

Seeing him smiling, lines of age forming around his eyes and mouth, has her own smile falling into place as he walks across the great hall to embrace her, posture never slipping.

As much as she may not enjoy the formalities of her role within the court or the isolation that it’s afforded her, she holds nothing but love and respect for her father. Love and respect and a sliver of fear.

“I was wondering where you managed to run off to.” Emma leans into his embrace, letting herself be wrapped up in his arms. One hand cradles the base of her skull, the way it always does when her father holds her. He pulls back to adjust the silver circlet woven into her curls. “I take it you like the dress, then?”

He takes a step back, admiring the fabric with its delicate drapery and flowing skirts, letting Emma twirl for him to better view the garment. Killian’s ring, tucked between what cleavage her bodice creates, threatens to come free, the weight of it tugging as she turns at her Father’s request. It longs to be free. “I do, Father. Thank you.”

“Excellent.” He nods, holding his arm out for her to take, and she does. “There’s only one audience today so this should be short but I wanted you here as a witness.”

Arm in arm, they walk the carpet running the centre of the room, ascending the marble steps to where their thrones, forged by the finest smiths in Agrabah, stand tall and proud. Emma slides into hers, the metal cold against her legs. It’s the first time in weeks she’s had to be present for an audience, usually boring affairs, with very little involvement on her own part and more just an excuse for David to assure the people of their strong and unified family. It’s true, for the most part.

“I must apologise, Emma,” Kneeling by her feet, David starts. Like this, she can see just how much age has crept into his features, how it lingers in his eyes and in the recede of his hairline and the grey and white peppered throughout his dark blond. “I feel like I’ve been lax on preparing you for what will inevitably be yours.”

“Father–”

He takes her hand in both of his, squeezing reassuringly as Emma’s face changes from confusion to acceptance.

“The crown will be yours, Emma, and I won’t be here to guide you forever. I should’ve done this sooner. From now on, I want you to shadow me in all audiences, all council meetings, everything. If I’m there, I want you by my side. I want you to speak up, to learn, to build your own opinions. I hope I can save you the struggle of finding your feet so, when the crown does come, you’ll hit the ground running.”

The thought of ruling is terrifying.

The thought of ruling without her father’s guidance? Even more so.

If she agrees—

She will never be Swan again.

She looks down at him, a smile, soft as the fur around his neck, meets her there.

“I’d like that.” She nods, wondering if he’s convinced by the lie that comes so naturally.

“Wonderful!” Her father beams, pulling her in for a hug. It’s an awkward angle but it doesn’t last for long. “We’ll start proper preparations after Solstice.”

Soon, David is standing, smoothing the wrinkles from his slacks and shirt before righting the fur edged robe around his shoulders. He’s a picture of opulence and authority. If Emma hadn’t seen him wear his royal garb over a thousand times already, she’d be in awe of it. Privileges of royal life, such as fancy silks and furs, didn’t draw her as they once had. She craved leather and linen and simplicity.

Summer had changed her.

“Who is it that’s requested an audience then?” Tracing the indentations in the arm of her throne, she probed, noting that her father had not divulged that particular information.

“Ah, yes.” He starts, lips pulling into a tight line as he paces before his throne. “I hired some external support on retrieving an item of extreme value from the edge of our kingdom. Upon my wake this morning, I received word that they’d returned and had requested to meet. That’s why I wanted you here today, Emma. To show you that, sometimes, even Kings have to convene with miscreants.” His voice drips with venom on the tail end of his sentence, as if the words burn as they leave his mouth.

She stays silent, the admission, dying on her tongue, that sometimes Princesses convene with miscreants too.

“Your mother will be here soon,” Taking his own seat, her father continues, picking invisible traces of lint from the flowing fur of his robe. “She’s just overseeing Graham’s security detail for the festival, you know how it is.”

That is not, in fact, what her mother is discussing with Graham but it doesn’t seem appropriate to mention it now.

They make idle conversation, discussing alliances and trade deals and all the politics that Emma is expected to learn when she takes her father’s throne. Most of it, she knows from the tutors of her youth but there are intricacies she’s not privy to that David is keen for her to learn. Agrabah will trade wine and jewels for grain when the harsh summers perish their harvests, Arendelle will trade furs, silks and meats when the arctic winters perish theirs. They will reach out in times of bountiful harvest too, offering to send what exotic fruit and spices will survive the voyage. Neverland rarely makes trade requests, their young ruler too stubborn to accept the aid of those his senior.

“Is it true his court is filled with children? I imagine that’s difficult come nap time.” Emma jokes, curiosity sparked by the mention of their most mysterious neighbour.

“Emma!” David scoffs, trying to stifle the laugh that breaks free. Like this, unconcealed laughter causing him to squint, crows feet deep and apparent at the corners, he’s no longer the King. He’s the man that wrapped her up in his furs after she’d fallen through the frozen lake as a child, who smudged cake on her nose every birthday until she was old enough to evade it, who would do anything to see her safe, no matter the consequences. “Wherever did you hear such a thing?”

Killian had told her. They’d been looking through his maps, his shirt covering her modesty and his arms circled around her waist. They hadn’t even made it to the tavern that night, need too prevalent, and after, when they were fully sated, she’d explored his cabin. He let her, watching from the bed as she went from shelf to shelf, admiring his treasures. He’d joined her by the time she reached his desk, never a fan of the distance between them. The maps outlined each realm, annotated with notes in Killian’s own cursive script.

“Neverland,” He’d said, pressing a kiss to her bare neck. “Would be far less treacherous if it wasn’t governed by children.”

She’d raised an eyebrow at him, reluctant to believe, the silent How? written all over her face. He shrugged in response, a smug smirk peering back at her.

“Magic, love.” He’d punctuated the words with a wink and they’d fallen together again, maps forgotten beneath them.

Emma can’t help her own laugh, partially at the memory but mostly at her father. It joins with his, ringing out in the echo of the hall. It’s been a long time since she’s been able to laugh with her father. It feels good.

Her mother appears, hurrying along the carpeted walkway with a determined look on her face. Their laughter dies down as Emma and her father both take her in. She’s flustered, taking the marble steps two at a time before sitting back in her spot on the King’s right. Emma gives her a questioning look at the same time David does. She smooths down flyaways at her temples and adjusts her dress to sit better against the throne before looking up at her family and nodding.

“He’s here.”

As if summoned, there’s a loud knock against the grand wooden doors directly ahead of them, at the foot of the great hall. It echoes against the stone walls, causing the chandeliers to shift slightly with the power of it.

The King straightens up, matching his posture to that of his title, and bellows in response.

“ENTER!”

Emma can feel the creak of the door in her bones as it screeches from the protesting hinges, it swings open slowly, only enough to let through one man before shutting with a slam. The man does not flinch; instead, he begins his walk towards their thrones. He’s familiar in a way that has her on the edge of her seat but his head is hung, thick dark hair touched with grey and white and the angle of her position obscuring his face.

With each step he takes, her heart stutters, he looks like– no, it can’t be. She’d been at the docks the night prior, The Jolly Roger nowhere among its moorings. She’d asked countless merchants and fishermen over the months for news of its return but none could provide any more than Killian had provided her on his departure.

I’ll be back when solstice comes.

Yet, this man, with his battered leather overcoat and dark embroidered waistcoat, strikes a pang of similarity in her she’s never quite felt. If it weren’t for the hook in place of his left hand, she’d have been entirely convinced that the man before them is, in fact–

When at the foot of the marble steps, he raises his head.

David tuts. “Captain Jones. You’re late.”

Emma’s breath catches.

It is him. Killian.

Her Killian.

Here.

She fights– oh, she fights – to keep her face void of emotion, praying the well of tears that threatens to spill at the sight of her love to lay dormant. He’s here. he’s here he’sherehe’sherehe’sherehe’s–

He’s here?

Joy turns to terror in her blood, clawing away until it’s consumed her entirely. He hasn’t yet noticed her or, if he has, he shows no indication of it. His eyes, as tempestuous as the day they met, are rage and fury and fixed only on her father.

Why is he here?

“Apologies, your Majesty.” He bites out, voice clipped and sarcastic. She has to bite the inside of her mouth to stop from smiling. “I’ve had to adjust to captaining a ship with one hand as the bloody dragon you neglected to warn me of seemed to enjoy slicing off my other one.”

He holds up his left arm, from under the wind-battered leather sleeve of his overcoat, the awkward brace of the prosthetic sits, a vicious curved hook attached to its end.

Emma gasps. The Swan he loves writhes beneath the surface of her skin, itching to be free.

“You knew the risks, Captain.” Her father adds, flippantly. “Treasure troves often acquire pests.”

Killian’s stare is fire and daggers, meant for no one but the King. It fills her veins with ice in a way she never knew he was capable of. In their time together, this was a side of him he’d never had to reveal. Emma wants nothing more than to go to him but she’s stuck on her throne, it’s golden embrace holding her tight as she watches steel form in her lover’s eyes.

“I have cleared you of all outstanding sentences, bounties and warrants held against you and your men and there’s five hundred gold ready to be transported to your ship,” David continues, motioning to the same doors Killian had entered through. His tone is terse, sharp as a blade’s edge. “I have upheld my end of our agreement.”

Killian scoffs, his eyes glance at her for less than a second and Emma’s stomach drops, but he doesn’t seem to pick up on who she is, refocusing his sights on the King.

She’s not sure what would hurt more, for him to know she lied or for him to not recognise her at all.

“I lost four men and a hand. Aye, we knew the risks, but the situation was not as you’d explained. We walked in unprepared and were almost destroyed because of it.”

“I trusted you with the information from my scouts, Captain. I hid nothing from you. Your lack of preparation is through no fault of mine.”

“Had I known the truth, I would not have lead my crew like lambs to the slaughter!” He shouts, looking for somewhere, anywhere to plant the seed of his own mistake. Beneath it all, Emma knows he’s in pain. She can hear it. She longs to soothe it. She cannot.

The King matches his shout, standing in the process. “That was your decision to make!”

A low growl rumbles between them and Emma doesn’t need to see it to know it’s Killian’s. The sound of it has imprinted itself in her mind, from when times were much simpler. He takes a step forward, but before his boot can even make contact with the polished marble step, David reacts.

Time slows to a halt with the familiar sing of unsheathed metal as her Father trains his sword on the approaching threat, poised to strike at a seconds notice. The breath leaves Emma’s lungs, stolen by the deadly sheen of steel forged in the belly of a long-dead beast. She wants to scream, to put herself between her lover and her father, she wants to but her feet are lead and her tongue is ash and all she can do is watch as Killian stares down the length of the King’s blade.

Killian’s eyes widen momentarily, fixed to the point mere inches from his face. It reaches almost to his throat, barely a step separating the tip of the blade from its target. Her father, the King, is power and justice with calculating eyes and, in that moment, Emma is afraid.

“One more step, Pirate.” The King spits, blade unwavering in his palm.

Emma’s heart stops, or maybe it’s racing, anxiety permeating every pump as it speeds faster and faster, fight or flight response triggered by the furrow forming in Killian’s brow. He does not step back and his eyes do not leave David’s.

“Don’t think the presence of my wife or daughter will impede me.”

“Father.” Her voice catches before she can even think to stop it, more forceful than she anticipates. David turns to her in complete silence, his gaze smouldering anger and his sword still trained mere inches from Killian’s throat. He’s met with her own powerful stare. One day, he expects her to rule this kingdom. One day, she will. It’s frightening and her stomach churns as the urge to bend to her father’s– no, the King’s will stirs within her.

Emma ignores it.

“Be rational, there’s been too much blood spilt already.”

The King’s fury softens, but doesn’t disappear completely. She half expects a reprimand for her outburst or at least a look to convey his disapproval but it never comes. He turns back to Killian, allowing Emma to do the same.

If he had been ignorant of her identity before, there’s no way to hide it now.

She can see the cogs turning in Killian’s mind as he takes her in; the top of her head and the circlet glinting in the sunlight streaming through the windows, her face and the sad eyes he’ll find there, her neck and his own thick chain tucked beneath lace. He goes no further. At the sight of his own ring, something breaks within him. Emma can almost hear the shatter from where she sits. He is here but he’s never been further away and it’s killing her.

So many things she should’ve said cross her mind all at once, screaming inside her skull, begging to be freed.

Despair and disbelief flash across his features–

And then it’s gone.

He faces David once again, the fire and fury he once held now calm and cold.

“I apologise for my manners, your Majesty,” He begins, his voice is controlled and a vision of decorum. Not Killian. Not her Killian. “I am not myself. Those men, they were brothers to me. It’s– It’s my fault. I could not protect them.” Taking two steps back, he bows, low and deliberate. David lowers his sword but doesn’t sheath it.

“My daughter thinks you’re deserving of mercy.” He muses, waving a hand towards her that Killian’s eyes don’t follow. It hurts a little. “I suggest you take your gold and leave before I ask my wife what she thinks.”

The Queen, sitting silently throughout the whole exchange, raises a single brow at Killian.

He nods, opening his mouth as if to speak before thinking better of it and turning away, coat billowing behind him, footsteps muffled by the carpeted walkway.

“I thought you a better man than most, Captain, agreeing to undertake such a perilous task for the chance to pardon your crew, give them clean slates. I admired you for it.” David shouts after him, returning his sword to its place at his hip. Killian stops in his tracks, turning only slightly to look upon the King’s face. For a second, there’s grief in his eyes, genuine hurt that Emma knows she put there. He blinks it away without acknowledging it ever existed.

“I am truly sorry for your loss.” David continues, all traces of anger gone from his voice. “But, disrespect me again and I’ll have you hanged.”

The slam of the door shatters the paralysis she’d fallen under, lips parted and eyes wide, watching the space where Killian had been not seconds before. The weight of David’s words hang in the silence.

[amrefevr]

@crowleyisms for that meme ‘my muse is dead. tell me how yours is dealing with it.’ 

       SOUND CEASED TO EXIST , fanning out to white noise that pitched into a heightened ringing. continuous & piercingly loud within his ears. unable to focus beyond the sight before his eyes , the noise providing little distraction. only amplifying the duress that was stirring within , surging forth & taking fierce umbrage with the veil of shock that’d sought to conceal the reality from the angel’s heart. & despite its fight to shadow the truth in numbness & disbelief , it would last no longer against the rising horror & swelling grief. 

       A TIGHTNESS ENCIRCLED HIS throat , choking the inarticulate cry as it left his lips. strangling the agonised sound , distorting it’s strive to be heard & twisting towards a dismal gasp. breath hitching , the construction spanning downwards to his chest , latching onto each rib of his corporation to leash them around. reins pulled taut. 

       SPLUTTERING UPON THE NEXT exhale , his strength faltered. his legs buckled , his entire frame trembling to the point of shuddering nothing could stop his descent. lacking the coordination to do so & the will to even want to , his knees smacking the flooring with an audible crack. register the pain not , nor much else beside the thick , oddly coloured pool that lay just in the doorway. despite the indistinguishable nature of the puddle , it’s signature lay with two presences aziraphale knew intimately. that of divinity & occult , of holy water & demonic. 

       NO DEMON WOULD COME within sight of holy water had they the choice. 

       THIS IT TOOK LITTLE thought to deducing what had happened. there was only one reason there would be holy water in crowley’s flat. the memory of him gifting the thermos to the demon so many years ago lay fresh & easily recalled , every second of that day drawn up in sharp clarity from the dithering on his options to the preparations of both himself & the holy water to his arrival then the conversation thereafter. 

       HIS HEART HAD HAMMERED , beat a vicious pace against his ribs , then , as it does now. although it edges more toward fluttering without a proper beat in its want of denial to this wicked truth. his begrudged gift had done exactly as he had feared ; it’d taken the life of his long time friend. his only friend. 

       IF HE COULD EVEN call him such after so long of knowing each other. their shared history reaching all the way back to humanity’s creation. what a cruel joke that it should end just as humanity was meeting theirs. crueller still it was by his own actions that it came to pass. blame lay with neither heaven nor hell in this. 

       HE HADN’T THE REDEEMING chance to share his findings on the antichrist , nor of his realisation that heaven held no allegiance from him any longer & it had been fading towards nothing over the last six thousand years. nor had he the opportunity to apologise. 

       PERHAPS IT WAS PUNISHMENT for speaking such vile words toward one he loved had cared about all along ? he hadn’t meant them , thus compounding dagger - like words with lies compiled his sins to enact so grievous a discipline. at expense of a lovable demon. 

       HOT TEARS , STINGING FROM the backs’ of his eyes to their forefronts , flooded his vision. welling up to spill over , creating shining rivulets down each of his reddened cheeks. so great was the volume that twin streaks ran from each eye , dripping silvery tears from the bridge of his nose & off the lines of his jaw. 

       SIGHT OBSCURED & VISION BLURRED past recognition , yet the image lie seared into an unfailing memory. naught could chip it’s presence from his mind’s eye nor fade it’s edges with time. starkly at attention in the foreground whilst torturous remembrance of key moment’s raced forward. the garden’s wall , outside the ark , before a wooden cross , at tavern then restaurant with plates of oysters , wessex on a foggy morning , shakespeare’s theatre , an old church during an air raid & the bookshop thereafter , rendezvouses after hours as nanny & gardener , trailing off to this last week & finalising with just outside his bookshop. 

       HIS LAST MEMORY WOULD forever be of an intractable angel who he’d come back for but had refused once again. 

       ACCOMPANIED BY HARSH , WET sobs that racked their way up his throat & from his mouth. snatching at each unneeded inhale , reprising shallowly without only enough to fuel the next heartsick cry. bewailing & lamenting a loss that’d cut him to his core , leaving him gutted & keening at the encompassing agony of it. 

       SOMETHING INSIDE SEEMING TO to whither & convulse. whether it be heart or soul , it shattered. 

[mymusehatesme]

Silver and Gold

Words: 1632

Part: 5 of 7: In which the giant remembers you.

  Part one, two, three, four, six, and seven.

Summary: A beanstalk in the woods and your curious brother are not a good mix.  He steals from the giant that lives in the floating castle and you are left to deal with the consequences. [Gender neutral reader.]

This is an at least half-white Mixed!Reader, as their mother is Kelly Kline, but the father is not described.

Warnings: Sarcasm, anxiety, trust issues, yelling, and over-protectiveness.

Masterlist

Three days later, you and Balthazar were walking up to your farmhouse. “I’m gonna miss him,” you sighed fondly, “Him and his golden-green scales and his sass.” You shook your head to clear the thoughts. “Now, please remember,” you reminded Balthazar gently, “Mind your manners. My mother doesn’t like sass or snark.”

“Ah, that pains my soul,” Balthazar complained, placing a hand over his heart.

“Oh!” You teased wickedly, “So the great Balthazar has a soul, after all!”

As soon as you stepped foot onto your property, the front door of the house flung open and your brother rushed out toward you, calling your name in a panicked relief. Jack threw himself at you, practically sobbing, “You were gone for so long!” He cried, grasping your shoulders and clutching the fabric, “Mom asked where you were and I didn’t know and she was so sad and I couldn’t do anything to make her happy! I thought you were dead!”

You rubbed his shoulders sympathetically and glanced up at Balthazar, who was politely keeping himself occupied with the calico cat currently winding herself around his ankles. “Yeah... yeah, I accidentally went on a little bit of an adventure, Jack! You want to know what happened?”

He sniffed and nodded into your neck.

Clearing your throat, you began in your best storyteller voice, “I found the golden harpist you were talking about, we got chased by the giant in the castle, and then we fell out of a window! Then we landed in the ocean and were rescued by sailors – but they got scared when the mer stirred the sky to make a storm, and they made us stay out on deck while the crew stayed safely below!”

A horrified expression took hold of your little brother’s face. He couldn’t believe that the sailors had done that to you.

“I lost my balance in the rain and got tossed overboard, but Balthazar saved me,” you continued, gently gesturing to your friend, who waved at Jack, “And then I met a really nice mer who saved us both and got a new ship to take us to land!”

Jack perked up and pulled away slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes. Confusion reigned as he asked, “A mer?”

You smiled and nodded. “And he asked me to kiss him, too!” The memory of Gabe’s smile and, ‘How about we try on the lips this time,’ made you smile even wider. You hoped you would see him again.

Jack smiled and wrinkled his nose, showing his teeth. He was somehow disgusted and yet fascinated. “Did he smell like a fish?”

You laughed heartily and answered, “No. No, he didn’t, Jack.”

He gave a short laugh before he stepped away and pulled on your hands. Come on,” he urged, his sunshine smile nearly blinding you, “Mom will love to see you!”

Balthazar made an insulted noise and trailed after you. “I suppose I’ll have to invite myself in, then, eh?”

Before he could follow you, there was a terrible cracking sound. The three of you stilled immediately. Dread pooled in your stomach as tremors shook the ground and you prayed that you were wrong.

It would not be hard to imagine what a giant on a rampage would look like, sound like, or even smell like. But to actually experience it was another thing entirely.

The ground shook violently as a great foot landed on the earth. Birds shrieked and scattered through the sky as a terrible BOOM followed the quake. A few breathless moments as Balthazar, Jack, and you glanced at each other as if to ask, ‘What in the Hell?!’ before the ground shook again - closer, this time.

Another footstep. Closer.

Jack was terrified. He clung to you as though you could save him, and you pushed him behind you and stood tall as if you were able to do so. He was your little brother, after all.

And then there was Balthazar. He practically threw himself over your shoulders, holding you and Jack tightly. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry,” he cried, as trees cracked and toppled to the ground, “I shouldn’t have pulled you out the window,” the giant approached, his expression stony and angry, “I shouldn’t have bargained with the mer,” CRASH, CRUNCH, BOOM, “I shouldn’t have involved Gabe,” the giant was only about ten steps away now, “I shouldn’t have joined you, I’m sorry!”

Your face twisted in confusion and slight disgust. Balthazar? Begging for forgiveness? It wasn’t the end of the world yet. “Oh, stand up, Balthy,” you chastised as the giant took three steps, “You saved my life more times than I can count.” Two more steps. “Besides,” another step, “I never accept apologies when they’re under duress.”

Balthazar withdrew quickly. Without looking, you know he looked astonished and appalled. “Duress? Duress??” Two steps. The tallest tree came up to the giant’s midsection.

“Yes, duress,” you said firmly, taking a step forward to meet the giant, “it means any action that forces someone to do anything against their will or better judgment.” Two steps. The giant broke through the tree line and uprooted trees were tossed forward with the momentum of the giant’s movement.

“I know what ‘duress’ means,” Balthazar insisted as the giant slowed his pace, “I just- oh, nevermind....”

The giant stopped and you continued to walk toward him, your pulse pounding in your ears and your limbs felt weightless. You could do this. You were strong. You had done so many new things and seen so many strange sights and you could not be any happier with what you had learned in the past two weeks.

The giant may very well kill you. But your family was behind you and you would not stand down from this. You stopped when you were about halfway between the giant and your family. The air was colder in the enormous shadow, and you were grateful for the lack of sun currently blinding you.

Looking up at the terribly frightening creature before you, you extended an arm and waved very deliberately. “Hello,” you called up from the ground, “How can I help you this fine day?”

For a long moment, the giant did not respond. He simply stood there, seething and scheming.

Then, in a voice so deep, you swore you heard the windows of the house shatter he said, “YOU ARE THE THIEF THAT STOLE INTO MY HOME.”

Well. There it was.

You took in a breath. “Good sir-”

“MY NAME IS GORDON.”

‘I don’t care,’ you thought icily, but corrected yourself regardless. “Gordon. I apologize for any and all transgressions against you and your house. My brother is young and curious and I refused to let him return your goose to you, so I did. While I was there-”

“YOU STOLE MY HARPIST!”

You flinched as his thunderous voice rattled in your chest and hurt your ears. “With all due respect,” you began, slightly cowed by his display, “he wanted to leave. If he had wanted to stay with you, he would have! Instead, he got me out of your house and-”

“I KNOW WHAT HE’S DONE AND IT MEANS NOTHING. HE BELONGS TO ME.”

You bristled and took in a deep breath. This must be the thing that Balthazar had been avoiding talking to you about. Wonderful. Indentured to a giant.

“I DON’T WANT TO GO BACK!”

“What, uh,” you asked loudly, “What do you want?”

“I WANT MY HARPIST BACK.”

You frowned and quirked an eyebrow. “Buuuut, he’s a person? And I already returned the golden egg-laying goose?”

“I WANT. MY HARPIST. BACK.”

“Hey! Tell him I’m not going back there with him!” Balthazar’s voice carried faintly through the air.

Tossing a glare over your shoulder, you screamed, “Do you want to die right now?!”

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Balthazar called back, “Not particularly!”

You almost heaved a sigh in exasperation. You knew he didn’t want to go back to the castle, he jumped out a window to get away! You knew what you were doing, he just needed to leave you to it. So you shouted back, “Then shut the hell up!”

Jack’s jaw dropped and he gaped at you. He had not heard many curse words fall from your mouth.

Oh, shit. “Uh, I mean – be quiet and let me deal with this!” Yeah, much better. Balthazar rolled his eyes. Even at that distance, you could tell when he was rolling his eyes.

Three days with the man and you knew enough about him to know when he was rolling his eyes.

Turning back to the giant, you sighed and said, “Look. Balthazar doesn’t want to go back with you and frankly, I don’t blame him.”

The giant’s face soured and his upper lip curled back to reveal his enormous, chipped teeth.

“VERY WELL. YOU SHALL DIE. AND I WILL RECLAIM MY HARPIST.”

“Uh, no! No, thank you! I do not want that, thank you very much,” Balthazar cried out. You heard the panic in his voice.

You ignored him and continued to address Gordon. “What- what do you want him back for?”

“BY HIS OWN DOING, HE IS BOUND TO ME.”

That was not an answer. “That’s not an answer,” you cried up at him, “I need a real answer! Why is he bound to you?”

“HE PLEDGED A FAVOR TO THE ONE THEY CALL RUMPELSTILTSKIN. AND SO I BOUGHT HIM.”

At the name of the most feared fae in the land, your skin crawled and your spine tingled with the urge to make sure the fae didn’t suddenly appear.

Taking in a breath, you slowly turned to face Balthazar, whose face was pale and ashamed.

This was going to be more difficult than you could have possibly imagined.

< part four     part six >

[verai-marcel]

A Fortnight of Falling (RDR2 Fanfic, 18+ ONLY, Chapter 2 of 3)

Notes: I don’t know how I got here. Trigger warning for gun violence & blood in this one.

WC: 3236

Part 1

AO3 Link here!

Chapter 2 - An Unexpected Kindness

You were pretty sure things were going to change. Any day now, he’d turn into that ravaging beast.

The past few days had been so mundane, so normal, that you couldn’t believe it. Well, except for the fact that he touched you every night. Every. Damn. Night. Made you scream and moan and cry with no shame.

You had never slept so well in your whole life.

But he hadn’t taken his own pleasure from you, hadn’t done anything else beyond satisfying you. You knew he wanted you. You could feel his hardness every time he held you close. But he had held back. Not only that, but much to your annoyance, he was a very considerate person. He would quietly give you the larger portion of meat if you mentioned missing lunch due to work; he would even wash dishes for you if you looked tired during dinner.

Thus, you were very suspicious. He was being too nice.

***

As you cleaned up your desk and bid the doctor good night, you stretched your arms and took in a deep breath as you stepped outside of the office to wait for Arthur. Tomorrow was your day off, and you were looking forward to it. You could read a book, do some grocery shopping, weed the garden…

Oh lord. For being stuck at Arthur’s under duress, you were adjusting rather well. But you were always good at adapting; after leaving your family farm out west, you had thought to go to St. Denis to study medicine. After being robbed of your tuition money, you ended up in this town to spend the night before going back home, but you made friends with the doctor who thought you would could be a good study. Taking advantage of the opportunity, you decided to stick around until you had learned all you could before heading out again.

A year later, and you had a nice little cabin, a few friends, not close, but nice ladies you could ask to have a dinner with if you were feeling lonely, and a fulfilling job. And of course, your side hobby.

Of course, said hobby was now on hold because of an ocean-eyed deputy, no, ranger, who was holding it over you.

You debated going back to your hobby after Arthur let you go. He was observant, too sharp for your liking. The moment he got a report from one of the richer families saying they were missing an article of jewelry or something, he'd probably question you first.

You sighed deeply. You should have fenced those things in St. Denis instead of keeping them. Then there would have been no evidence.

“What’s the matter?”

You turned to see Arthur walking up to you, leading his horse.

“Nothing,” you lied, and fell into step with him.

He just peered at you knowingly.

“It’s nothing!” you insisted.

“Yup,” he said sarcastically.

You stomped away, hearing his chuckle before he took three quick steps to pick you up and put you on his horse before getting on himself and riding home.

***

You ate dinner, refusing to give into Arthur's questions. He seemed amused by your reticence, trying to ask you in roundabout ways to get to your innermost thoughts, while you just gave him short answers, or switched topics, or just didn't respond at all.

You stood to clean up, but he got up as well and put his hands on your shoulders, pushing gently downwards. You sat back down, but he didn't let go. He started to massage your shoulders, his thumbs working your muscles and getting out the kinks. You sighed in relief; you had been tense all day, for various reasons. Closing your eyes, you relaxed as his hands worked on your body, first gently rubbing your shoulder blades, then towards your spine, and down your back. His fingers ghosted down your sides, gripping your waist as he molded circles around your lower back muscles with his thumbs.

You moaned. You thought about walking away from him, but his hands felt so good that you opted to set aside your annoyance with him for now. You felt like butter, melting under his warm touch, and your body relaxed so much that you lay your head down on the table and just breathed.

You felt his hands leave you, heard him put dishes away so the table was clear. And then his hands were on you again. But this time, he pulled you up from the table and reached around to unbutton your blouse. He slid the fabric off your shoulders, let it slide down your arms, and kissed your revealed skin. He started to slide your chemise off as well.

“Stand up,” he said, his voice dropping.

You stood, a bit shakily, as he kicked the chair aside and pulled you to his chest. Teasingly slow, he skimmed his fingers all over you as the fabric fell away.

He turned you around and took your hands. Placing them on the collar of his shirt, he didn't have to say a word. You started to unbutton his shirt, your hands trembling as you worked each button.

You knew what was coming. It didn't occur to you to say no. You weren't sure you would’ve meant it if you did.

Sliding his shirt off, your hands ran over his chest and down his biceps, squeezing his lower arms before stepping back. He threw his shirt on the table behind you and reached for the buttons on your skirt, undoing them and letting the fabric fall around your ankles, and then pulled the ribbon on your drawers so they fell as well. Naked in front of his hungry gaze, you resisted the urge to hide yourself. This was the price you paid, so let him have it. You stuck your chin out with pure stubborn grit.

Arthur smiled and picked you up, sitting you on the table. Spreading your legs, he stepped between them and touched your center.

“You’re so wet, kitten. I’ve trained you well these past few days,” he said, his voice low and hoarse with need. “Do you like this?”

“I… I do. I like it,” you mumbled.

“That the truth?”

You were silent, thinking about it. To your dismay, it was the truth. You nodded.

“Good. I want you to enjoy yourself. It means a lot to me.”

Something resembling devotion was ablaze in his eyes. You looked away. It was too much. All you could do was lay your forehead against his shoulder as he played with your clit and fingered you, his chin resting on top of your head as your breaths became ragged and shuddering. Your legs shook and clamped around his waist as he curled his fingers up inside you, and you dug your fingers into his shoulders.

Then, just as you were on the brink of ecstasy, he stepped away, leaving you empty and frustrated. You cried out wordlessly at the loss.

“Just give me a second,” he said, his voice rough with desire. You watched him drop his pants in a heartbeat and step towards you, guiding his cock to your wet entrance. With his other hand, he gripped your chin and forced you to look at him.

Too intense. You started to hyperventilate as he entered you. His eyes were drowning you with passion.

“Easy now. Breathe,” he murmured into your ear as he pushed deeper into you, filling, stretching, a sweet burning that made you whimper. You took a slow, shuddering breath, inhaling his scent.

He wrapped his big hands around your hips, his fingers digging into you as he drove the last inch inside of you. He stayed that way for a minute, watching you adjust to him. You dug your fingers into his back as you exhaled slowly.

And then he began to move. Short shoves at first, but then he was taking you with long, forceful strokes. He grabbed your legs and wrapped them around his waist, then held you tight as he fucked you on the table.

Your head lolled back and you cried out with each thrust, unable to keep your reactions under control. His grin turned feral as he watched your body under his power.

“That's right, you're mine,” he growled. He pulled out of you and flipped you onto your stomach, your legs hanging over the side. He nudged them apart and entered you from behind, holding you down by your upper arms against the table.

You cried out over and over; it was too good, he was hitting you inside at just the right angle, in just the perfect spot to make your body tighten with each thrust. He murmured your name, praising how good you felt around him, how much he loved being inside of you.

Arthur reached down and rubbed your clit, and you jerked violently under him as you got close to your release. He showed no mercy as you started gasping; he knew exactly how to touch you, making you come hard, feeling his cock pumping in and out you, his hot breath on your neck. He rode out your release until you were panting heavily, squirming under him.

He pulled out, grabbed your hair at the base of your neck, and pulled you off the table onto your knees. Forcing your head to his cock, he rumbled, “Drink up, kitten.”

You wrapped your lips around his cock and bobbed your head up and down on him, looking up at him with your glassy, afterglow stare. He looked back at you like you were the sexiest woman alive, and when you moaned around his length, the grip on your hair tightened and he thrust into your mouth for a few intense seconds before shooting his spend down your throat, moaning your name.

You got up to go clean off, but Arthur picked you up and took you to the bedroom.

“I'll clean you up,” he said gently as he lay you on his bed. You just let him tenderly wash you as you started to fall asleep. When he was done, he got into bed with you, kissing your forehead.

“Sweet dreams.”

***

Six days had passed since you started house arrest.

Slowly waking up, you stretched and looked around. You felt sore, but relaxed. After getting out of bed and putting on some casual clothes, you walked into the main room and saw a note on the table.

Out patrolling. Be back at dinner.

“Guess the law doesn't get a day off,” you muttered to yourself. You looked over at the sink; it was full of dirty dishes and pans from last night. Remembering why you hadn’t cleaned last night, your face warmed at the memory, but now you had to pay the price for being seduced.

“Dammit,” you grumbled as you rolled up your sleeves and got to work.

***

You were so focused on tending the garden that you didn’t notice Arthur until you finally stood up to stretch your back. With dirt smudges on your face and your hair haphazardly tied up so it was out of your way, you looked a mess. And yet the look on his face, like he was staring at an angel, made you smile. Until you remembered that he was the reason you were here in the first place.

You dropped your smile and glowered at him.

He ducked his head down and walked around the corner to hitch his horse. You could hear him talking sweetly to her, telling her what a good girl she was, how brave she was. Laughing softly to yourself, you remembered last night, what it felt like to be on the receiving end of all that praise.

You mentally kicked yourself for the memory and went inside to make dinner.

***

Nine days had passed since you started living with Deputy Morgan, not that you were counting. Despite your resistance, you felt yourself being lulled into a feeling of normality; each day was the same, yet each night was something new and yet slowly becoming familiar. You were growing accustomed to his touch, and you weren’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing. If you were any other woman in this town, surely you would have thought this was a dream come true.

But you were you, with your own thoughts and a strong sense of independence. You recognized that the method in which he had coerced you into this situation was wrong. But you also recognized that he was doing a lot of good for the town. And you also knew that your thieving wasn’t exactly something most people would sympathize with; if Arthur had outed you, you suspect that most of the town, while shocked, would turn on you quite quickly, especially since you had taken some decent items from some of the more rich people in town.

In the afternoon while the doctor was away on a house call, a man you didn’t know showed up at the door, with two gun holsters and an arrogant grin. You immediately stood up and asked him to wait as he sauntered past you towards the doctor’s room.

“I don’t need your permission, missy,” he snapped, continuing to walk towards the back of the office. You watched him begin to rummage around in the cabinets, so you quickly reached into a drawer under your desk and pulled the revolver out. You had really hoped you’d never need to use this, but you were grateful the doctor had stored it there in case he was out and you were alone.

“Please leave,” you said, proud that your voice didn’t waver. You pointed the gun at his back, the biggest target. Even from across the room, you were afraid you’d miss.

The man laughed. “You ain’t gonna shoot. You ain’t that kind of person.” He turned around and started stalking towards you. “I’m just lookin’ for a bit of cash to help me along. No one needs to get hurt.”

You pulled the safety.

He sneered at you as he stopped walking. His hand twitched, hovering over his holstered gun.

You fired at the same time he did. He was fast, a real gunslinger, but he hadn’t expected you to actually pull the trigger. Your shot went through his shoulder, and his shot grazed the side of your neck. You immediately fell to your knees, your hand going to your neck and holding the wound while your other hand still gripped the gun tightly. Your skin burned, and you could feel blood oozing from the wound.

The man staggered towards you, pissed as hell. “You bitch,” he hissed. He lifted his gun to your head, and you looked up into the barrel, shocked and angry that you hadn’t had the sense to shoot him again.

You heard a gunshot, saw the man’s head explode with blood. You had seen wounds, sure, but you had never seen anyone killed in front of you. You were used to blood. But just now? That had been a lot of blood. You shut your eyes and focused on just breathing shallowly through your mouth so you couldn’t smell the blood.

There was a loud buzzing in your ears, but beyond that was a voice calling your name.

You opened your eyes. Arthur was kneeling in front you, his face creased with worry. When you blinked and said his name, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Then as you moved your hand, he saw the blood coming from your neck and paled. But you took a deep breath, waved him off and went into the doctor’s office. Cleaning your wound in the sink, you gritted your teeth against the cold water. Arthur stood nearby, unsure of what to do. You would have laughed, if not for the fact that his fretting was out of concern for you.

Grabbing the bottle of whiskey and pouring some over your wound, you hissed in discomfort. Then you wiped your hands clean and took a roll of gauze from the medicine cabinet, wrapping it around your neck. Checking your work in the small mirror above the sink, you nodded at yourself before turning back to Arthur, who was staring at you with something too close to awe.

“What?” you asked, curious.

“You’re amazin’,” he said bluntly.

Taken aback, you could only open and close your mouth like a fish out of water.

“I mean, anyone else would be in shock, cryin’, blubberin’ incoherent. You just… you just carry on,” he said as he slowly walked towards you as if you would run away if spooked.

You stood still, watching him warily. He was being too nice again. Your heart hurt to look at his face, at the open tenderness in his eyes. He gently wrapped his arms around you and pressed his lips against your forehead.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispered.

***

He helped you clean up the office, and when the doctor showed up, the two of you told him what happened. Giving you a pat on the back and expressing his gratitude to the deputy for showing up when he did, the doctor examined your wound, praised you on your bandaging, and sent you home early to recover. You insisted you were fine, but he ignored you and asked Deputy Morgan to take you home.

He was quiet on the ride back, as were you. But he held you close, his lips never far from your skin. When you got back, he held your hand and told you he’d take care of you that night. He cooked, cleaned, fed you…

Honestly, you were getting a little annoyed at everyone treating you like an invalid. You just shot a man, so what?

Oh lord.

You shot a man.

You faced the wrong side of a gun barrel.

You saw a man’s head explode with blood.

You recognized shock when it was in others; you hadn’t recognized it in yourself until the dam that was holding your emotions back crumbled after dinner as Arthur was washing dishes. You were just sitting at the table one moment, and the next, tears starting flowing and you couldn’t stop. You started shuddering and pain bloomed in your muscles, as if you had been tensed up this whole time and only now did your body relax.

Arthur dropped what he was doing and turned to you immediately at your first whimper of pain. Crossing the room in a flash, he carried you to the bedroom and held you close, massaging your back and murmured comforting words in your ear.

You took slow, deep breaths to calm yourself, and with each breath you inhaled his scent, wild herbs and gun smoke. Eventually you felt in control again; your body stopped shaking, your tears stopped. And in your calm, you noticed that Arthur, holding you like a glass vase, was trembling ever so slightly.

“You're shaking,” you said, confused.

He was quiet as he took a deep breath as well.

“I was afraid,” he finally whispered. “Of losing you.”

You wanted so badly to just scoff at the idea. But seeing the way he was looking at you, with his eyes gazing so deep into yours, you found that you couldn't say anything at all. So you just pressed your forehead to his and hoped he would understand.

Thank you for saving me.

--------

Part 3 is here.

[leaughrilke]

Karolina + 3, 5, 8, 22

oh u just went right for some angst huh

3.  Scars or painful spots

she has a scar on her ribcage from her fight with jonah

it’s hardly raised, blends in with the rest of her skin for the most part, but sometimes she catches sight of it in the mirror and feels sick.  sometimes she sees it and she needs to just.  sit down for a moment.  take a deep breath.  remember that she isn’t scary like him.  remember that she is loved.

sometimes it gets hard to remember that stuff when she sees it or when nico skims her hand along it when they’re lying together.  sometimes when that happens, she has to roll away, put some distance between them if only just for a minute, just long enough for her to bite back the feeling of revulsion that creeps up the back of her throat.  nico never lets her go far, though, reaching out across the bed for her hand

(post season 2) she has a scar that runs up her back from her rescue.  she’s not exactly sure when she got it - whether it was when she was taken or sometime during her captivity or during the actual rescue, but weeks later nico sees her without a shirt on for the first time since before she was taken

sometimes it hurts.  she might have fucked up some nerves or something, or maybe its muscle memory, or maybe its phantom pain.  maybe it’s her body’s way of remembering.  maybe it’s saying you’re not okay.  you’re not okay.

when she tells nico this one night, months later, when she’s laying on her stomach with a hot water bottle pressed against her back to loosen the tense muscles there.  nico doesn’t say anything for a while.  for a long while.  then - 

“no.  you’re not.  none of us are.”  karolina doesn’t respond.  nico adds, “we might never be again.”  some more silence.  “but we’re trying.  we’re still here.  you’re still here.  that’s good enough for me.”

karolina turns to look at her, to see how the weak light of the bedside table casts her face in shadow and light, sharp angles and smooth curve.  “yeah,” she agrees finally.  “i think it might be for me too.”

and this is more of an emotional painful spot, really, but it’s never been addressed in canon and it bugs me

karolina doesn’t do parties.  she just doesn’t.  she’ll go with the rest of her friends, she’ll gamely hold a red solo cup, but she won’t drink, won’t dance, and won’t wander far from the group.  she gets rlly antsy if they start to separate, or if gert goes off to the kitchen when the rest are in the living room, or if molly goes to play beer pong in the backyard, or if nico steps out front for air.  the boys she worries about, but its a little less urgent, a little less pressing.  she doesn’t feel fear for them pressing into her chest the way she does for the girls.

she doesn’t talk about it.  in fact, she kind of refuses to - refuses to consider what almost happened, what might have happened.  she won’t put a name to it.  but she makes it a point to stay level headed, clear eyed, and with a good vantage point of the room

chase figures it out at some point, connects that night with the way he notices karolina’s watchful eyes tracking molly and gert on the dance floor.  he takes up a post beside her, doesn’t say anything.  it’s enough.

5.  Guilty pleasures 

oh a truly horrifying amount of pie.  like genuinely.  when she goes to pick up the order at the bakery, they send her along with maybe twenty pairs of utensils and a whole stack of napkins, but based on the worried look the girl working the counter gives her, no one that works there is under any illusion that karolina won’t be consuming the entire stack of pies over the course of the next 36 hours.  her sweet tooth is truly astounding

on another note: nico and molly are rlly the only two that are allowed a slice of pie from her hoard.  and even that is given under duress

its not fair that molly can make her chin wobble just a teeny bit and karolina caves instantly

its even less fair for nico to look at her like that and for anyone to expect karolina to have any backbone left at all

 shitty gay media

im talking the cheese fest that you start watching when you’re getting desperate for something gay.  im talking the objectively poorly produced movies that you watched when u were first starting to think oh hm am i maybe...........Gay.  im talking the shows that were largely just subtext but that you, a baby gay, latched onto anyway

when karolina has a very bad week or something particularly awful happens that makes her heart hurt in old, familiar ways, most of the runaways know that karolina doesn’t like being seen like that.  they know to allow her to stay tucked away, hidden up in her room and away from the fray.  she doesn’t like people seeing her with anything less than a mega-watt smile on her face and, while she’s getting better about being comfortable showing a more vulnerable side of herself, she still falls back on old habits when she’s particularly sad or hurting

on days like that, nico can find her curled up in their bed with her laptop, watching episode 4 of warehouse 13 or something

“hey.”

“hey.”

“do you......want to talk about it?”

and karolina won’t answer.  she’ll just reach out her arms, the oversized sleeves of the thrift-store hoodie actually longer and giving her sweater paws and making her look heart-wrenchingly adorable, and nico will crawl up next to her and settle in, biting back her groans at whatever movie karolina queues up next

8.  Bad memories/experiences 

answered here!

22.  People who’ve influenced them greatly 

okay.  hear me out. 

her mother.  it’s - it’s difficult to reconcile it after everything she learns, but her mother is one of the biggest influences on her life and her choices.  

karolina has a very solid foundation, something that shores up her confidence and, for the most part, withstands the pressure of being ostracized in high school and the relative isolation of questioning her sexuality.  and frank was kind of a good dad when karolina was small - he wasn’t around much because he was filming.  when his career petered out, he was around more, but he was still distant to a degree.  she loved spending time with him and adored it when he was around, but he was desperate for recognition and parenting is a thankless job.  frank dean doesn’t really do thankless jobs.

leslie was similarly distant sometimes, but when she was around, it was clear that there was nowhere else she’d rather be.  when she was around, her world very quickly reoriented, making karolina the center of it.  why else would karolina be so dedicated to the church?  yes she believed, but more importantly she believed in her mother.

leslie taught her kindness, ironically.  she taught her compassion.  she taught her to care for her friends passionately, to care for the world passionately.  it’s hard for karolina to separate her anger and betrayal and honest to god fear from those lessons, but she has to.  she’ll eat herself alive if she doesn’t.

[webcricket]

Looking Glass

Chapter 20 - The Reckoning

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader, AU!CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 1697

Summary: When it comes down to the heart of it, AU!Castiel and Cas really are the same. Pre-warning for the next chapter, 21 - Eisodos, it contains smut not necessarily relevant to the plot and should be skipped by anyone not 18 years of age or older.

Miss a chapter? Have a Masterlist Link!

Charlie’s chilling scream piercing through the crackled tempered glass and boarded window slats of the derelict building and into the dusky night means there’s no time for pep talks; but it doesn’t mean, however much the desperate cry gets their adrenaline pumping, they don’t need a hastily assembled plan going in.

Dean grabs Jack roughly by the shoulder as the Nephilim attempts to continue the charge ahead after destroying an angel posted as guard outside with an explosive gold burst of grace. “Jack, you stay put. Anyone with a halo comes out that door, you put ‘em down, got it?”

“But-” The boy’s lips press together and pop open to utter the pretty unconvincing single syllable argument.

Throat rumbling incoherently in a manner suggesting any and all further protests Jack might make in this moment are moot, Dean spins his green eyes and the angel blade poised in his grip upward. “Sammy, you’re with me. Mom, Cas, you go left.” The hunter crouches and stealthily bolts right toward a side entrance.

“We know you can help, and you are.” Sam pats reassurance into the boy’s back before ducking and darting off in his brother’s footsteps.

Jack accepts his assignment with a begrudging bob of the head.

Fingertips clamped across his brow, weapon clenched in his white-knuckled fist, Cas struggles – bleary eyed and brained – to focus through the deafening plea of your prayers at this proximity. You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be in the bunker; it’s not necessarily the safest place in that world what with being a bridge for the rift, but it’s safer than this world, and safer still since Lucifer is here now and not there. Torn by an unflagging loyalty to his friends and surrogate son, he’s not certain with the stakes of the situation changed and his loved ones scattered and exposed to different degrees of duress, who to protect when you all need protection. Your beseeching howls for help, though, do resonate loudest in his head and heart.

Mary lays a palm to the angel’s sleeve to cement his attention; the concerned gleam of her gaze and the twist of her body in the direction indicated by Dean silently ask if he’s okay, and if he’s coming.

Thus conflicted, Cas nearly misses the whimper of his name emanating from the far end of the overgrown gas-n-sip parking lot. You’re not praying anymore, you’re petitioning aloud.

Mary hears you and, Dean must take after her when it comes to giving direction with zero room for a democratic vote, she whispers, “Go!” Hurtling herself on an opposite trajectory to the left side door, she’s not about to let her boys barge into that building without backup.

Blind to anything else, Cas stalks toward the sound of your voice, ignorant of the angel Jack smites as he moves to the perimeter.

*   *   *   *   *

Releasing Charlie, an amalgam of frustration and fear flashing over his features, Castiel spins. Striding toward the exit, self-preservation prompting a swift departure, he hauls you up by the arm as he retreats and drags you along with him. He left you behind once, before he knew what you were to him, or at least the other of him. A compulsive longing for that drives him; perhaps a smidge of jealousy, too. After all, this is your world, and you are his.

Vestiges of the angelically-induced nap wearing thin, you fight to find footing on numb feet and claw at where his fingers fasten firmly around your bicep. “Let me go!” you shout.

“Stop it, little one,” he scoffs over his shoulder at your scuffle for freedom. His fist cinches tighter into muscle as he slogs you across the threshold into the open air.

The pinch of pain hits you as a wave of nausea. Swallowing a rise of bile, you continue to resist. “Where are you taking me?” you spit and try to kick, unable to get enough purchase on the ground to mount a meaningful attack.

Dirt gone airborne in your wake coats the black of his coat. He doesn’t know where, only away – away from here. Away from angels and men. He barely comprehends the why. He doesn’t answer.

“Castiel!” you screech. “Cas!” It seems the more defiant you are, the more hardened his hold.

Halting suddenly, he swings you boorishly round to face him. “I said,” –his mouth spasms as he leans nearer, laboring to stay in control– “stop it.” His gaze drifts backward, perceiving some sound of pursuit too subtle for you to hear – Sam, Dean, maybe even your Cas. Jaw gnashing, he shoves you ahead, pushing you to keep moving.

Planting your feet firmly in the gravel, you resolve on a different tactic. Appealing to the buried part of him that revealed itself to you in the burnished blue, you say his name again, persuasively softer, “Castiel, please. You’re hurting me.”

His fractious handling gentles somewhat at the soothing tone. He looks warily to wood’s edge.

“Castiel,” you repeat in a whispered exhalation. Fingers reaching up, you caress the tips tentatively to his cheek, garnering his rather astonished scarred regard – it’s evident the tactile tenderness is new to him. “You-you tried to help us once – humanity, didn’t you?” His skin starts and skips beneath your touch.

He glances back once more; a blur of beige movement emerges from the treed outskirts.

You keep talking, distracting, gambling words to win time, hitting on the truth. “And they punished you for it – clipped your wings, forced you to serve their will, didn’t they?”

A harsh hum catches in his throat, a half-hearted effort at denial. “What you say,” –he wags his chin– “it didn’t happen. I am a soldier. I serve willingly. I-I volunteered for this assignment.” A severe judder quakes his vessel; his lashes lower in a wince. The more he tries to suppress who he really is – an angel with too much heart, an angel who once put humanity first, and angel cruelly manipulated by Naomi to wage battle on wrong side of the war – the greater his loss of control.

You flex your fingers to cup his cheek. “It did happen. You don’t remember because they took your memories too, manipulated you into someone else, a shell – just like you do to us. They turned you into a machine to do their bidding.”

Wiring of reason and recollection rerouted in a chaos of crossings and cuts to bypass his empathetic heart, minute muscles misfiring as his control falters in affront to the gentleness of your touch and accuracy of your supposition, he refuses even as tilts into the curl of your palm to concede to a possibility too painful to consider. “Little one . . . you don’t know anything about me.”

“I do. Castiel, you have a choice.”

Doubting, his eyes open to lock on yours. “Choice? What choice? There is no choice.”

You make a final daring last ditch bid. “Angel, what does your heart tell you?”

They’re the wrong words; words so repulsive to Naomi’s reprogramming his automatic answer is as immediate as it is self-protective. “There is only duty, to suggest otherwise is” –he’s too close, features a maelstrom of motion, for you to see the angel blade slip from his sleeve– “disobedience.” He centers the lethally tapered tip of celestial metal directly over your heart. “And there is only one remedy for disobedience” –you feel a prickled warmth of blood when you shallowly gasp and your ribcage expands– “death.”

Lids heavy, your eyes shut, prepared for the fatal plunge. In those stretched seconds of stillness, you’re sorry for what happened to him. Sorrier you didn’t go to Sioux Falls to stay safe like Cas wanted. You worry he’ll find a way to blame himself. You offer up a prayer of gratitude for these few borrowed weeks with him and, despite the rough patches, the happiness, love, and hope highlighting them you thought you lost forever.

The reverberating ring of metal bouncing on stone prompts you to blink.

The dropped blade lies lolling on the ground between you. His heart heard you, and in choosing life – your life – Castiel’s countenance, no longer churning, is a sea of calm.

You have a mere instant to process what happened before he leaves, fleeing toward the armored truck a dozen yards off.

Dumbstruck, you watch Cas, weapon wielded, rush the vehicle and haul the unarmed Castiel out by the coat collar. Limply pinned against a column, the latter doesn’t attempt to mount a defense. They speak in hushed unhurried tones until Cas’ elbow swings backward to stab his mirror through the heart.

You stumble forward, a shriek lodged in your throat meant to stop him, to stay his hand, to tell him Castiel isn’t who you thought he was, who Cas thinks he is, that somewhere deep inside they are the same, but it’s too late. You sink to your knees at the lifeless angel’s side in an emblazoned shadow of broken wings.

Cas crouches beside you, sliding a palm across your back and hooking a finger beneath your chin to pivot your tearful gaze to him. “Are you okay?”

You shake your head no and lunge into his arms, weeping into the hollow of his neck. “You-you killed him. Cas, he-” You trail off in a tumult of tears.

Burying his nose into your hair, wrapping his arms securely around you, his eyes settle on the peaceful face of the fallen. “No, Y/N – I saved him from a worse fate. Killing him was more merciful than what would have befallen him once the angels learned he let you go.”

Sniffling, you nod into his shirt to indicate you understand – no place exists in this world for an angel sympathetic to humanity. He never had a chance.

“Come on” –straightening, he encourages you to stand, supporting your swaying figure around the waist– “let’s go home.”

“Home,” you exhale in echo. For so long the word held no tangible meaning – four empty letters with nothing except regret to occupy the void. Now there’s Cas, the bunker, a whole new world with him. “Yes,” you repeat in a wondering whisper, “let’s go home.”

Next: Ch. 21- Eisodos

[willowlark369]

Survival is Imperative

This post discusses a concept which is controversial and features a great deal of disturbing information. There is a great deal of torture and misused (abused) medical procedures/practices discussed. Yet what I feel may be most problematic for most people to digest is that the concept I will be laying out will challenge the idea that an individual’s agency is a hard set dichotomy where one either has it completely or they have been stripped of it entirely.

I’m not treating this as a proper essay or academic paper. I’ve taken several levels of courses in the fields of Psychology, Sociology, and Anthropology along with specialty diversity courses. I’m pulling a lot of concepts from that academic work, and since I am not making a paper to present, I will not be citing the dual-minors-worth of knowledge that led me to the conclusions I am sharing. I apologize if this upsets you. I know that Tumblr is such a bastion of academic learning that this must be absolutely shocking. (Was that too sarcastic? OFW.)

Reader discretion is advised after the Read More break.

Let’s get the hard part out of the way:

Steve Rogers is wrong about Bucky Barnes, and he’s only showing disrespect by making his claims about Barnes’ innocence of the crimes of the Winter Soldier. Whenever Steve Rogers talks about the Winter Soldier as a separate entity from Bucky Barnes, he is ignoring the trauma of the man he claims as his friend.

Still with me? Haven’t skipped down to the bottom to post nasty comments?

Good. Now I will lay out the why for you.

Everyone has heard of Ivan Pavlov or more likely, Pavlov’s experiments with conditioned responses in dogs. He rang a bell before giving his dogs a treat and eventually all he had to do to get the dogs to salivate was ring the bell, regardless of the presence of a treat. This basic concept is actually the idea behind Cognitive Behavior Therapy (CBT) where a person works on identifying their own conditioned responses and work to disable them (and/or redirect them, depending on the goals set by the patient).

Yeah, that’s right, folks. Conditioning is something which can be done to humans. How do we know? Because Dr. John Watson--the less fun one, apparently--and his lovely graduate hostage assistant Rosalie Rayner figured out how to create phobias in an otherwise healthy child, and that was apparently really inspiring to a great many people including the Mother of Behavioral Therapy Mary Clover Jones. Dr. Watson’s paper on the experiment came out in the early part of 1920.

For those of you playing the home game, that’s almost a decade and a half before a certain sniper took his tumble off a train in the Alps. In terms of science, that’s a really long time.

It’s long enough for the science branch of a certain religious cult to start working on a device to make it easier. This device’s purpose was understood to be memory suppression. This effect was achievable through what could be loosely described as Electrical Shock Therapy (EST). Pass enough current through the synapses and they don’t connect so good, at least for a little while.

It also hurts like a motherfucker, which is also what makes EST so useful for the treatment of behavioral disorders. I’m using the term disorder here in its most antiquated definition. Some of the disorders treated with early versions of EST were ‘hysteria’, masturbation, book-reading (in women), and refusal to marry (again, in women). Treatment was given until the patient stopped showing the problematic behavior.

It also works as a deterrent for not showing desired behavior, where the patient is given treatment for not doing what the doctor wanted. Other behavior modifying treatments are isolation, withholding of food/drink, other pain delivery systems... really, there’s a lot of manipulation techniques out there, in the real world. A lot of them can be unquestionably considered torture, but some are just simply psychological. Repeat something in a calm, reasonable tone of voice enough times, and a person begins to believe it. Show kindness to someone whose world is narrowed into nothing more than bright spots of pain and they will want to believe you, even knowing that you are the source of the pain.

Eventually, inevitably, reward does not need to be kindness, does not need to be pleasurable or unquestionably positive. It just needs to be a cessation of pain, maybe even just a lessening if given enough time. Given enough time, a knowledgeable individual can create conditional responses for any number of things, especially once the subject begins to show willingness to adapt.

That’s what we humans are good at, you know. We adapt to our environments, even if doing so might compromise firmly held ideals and principles. Instinctively, we seek to survive and to that end, nothing becomes taboo. It’s easy to stand outside of a situation and say “I’ll never do that” but historically speaking, yeah, you probably would. If the situation called for it, if it were bad enough, if the options were laid out the right way and every other path was blocked--if you knew that everyone had to think you were dead and there was no hope of rescue.

See, Sgt. James “Bucky” Barnes fell from a train traveling through the Alps. They thought he was dead, even without recovering a body. There was no hope for the SSR to come to the rescue, no reason to believe the punk was going to show up once again to save him from the pain, the hunger, the cold. He was alone in enemy hands, undergoing torture as they sought to shape him into what they wanted him to become: a willing participant in their plans capable of taking care of any problem they needed cleaned up.

He was alone and without hope, but Bucky still fought them for over twenty years before they deemed him controlled enough, conditioned enough, to begin using. The problem with conditioning is that the associations need to be maintained routinely or else they fade. So, despite being usable, Barnes would still have been routinely and methodologically tortured in order to preserve that willingness to obey without hesitation or question.

Sgt. Barnes spent over seventy years as a prisoner of war. Sgt. Barnes managed to survive over seventy years in the control of a known terrorist organization by learning when to fight and when to acquiesce to the demands of his captors. Sgt. Barnes learned how to disassociate from emotional responses which only served to slow down action and become better at the behavior Hydra wanted from him.

Sgt. Barnes became the Fist of Hydra in order to survive an untenable situation. He is the Winter Soldier and he willingly completed all missions given to him. Because his entire existence relied upon pleasing his handlers and if there is one thing that humans are good at, it is survival.

Survival is imperative.

However, while there is no question about innocence in this case, the responsibility is also not in question. Sgt. Barnes is not innocent but he is also not responsible. The responsibility shift is two-fold: military chain of command and ability to consent without duress.

Military chain of command creates a buffer of sorts for military personnel who are following directives from those higher in their direct chain of command. There is bleed-over of this buffer into similarly martial organization such as the FBI, CIA, and police. Pretty much, if an organization is authorized to use force against others, then there’s a chain of command exemption to responsibility. Hesitation or refusal to follow the chain of command is actually considered a negative trait that can limit promotions and career duration. Entry programs (such as Basic for the Armed Forces) are specifically designed to create a mentality where the knee-jerk reaction is to follow the commands of a recognized superior. Of course, under normal circumstances, most individuals will not mindlessly follow orders if they go completely contrary to social mores such as harming traditional noncombatants (women, children, the sick, the elderly) or seem really questionable (blow up this bomb while standing beside it; poison this well; execute the ally standing next to you).

Which brings me to the second fold: ability to consent without duress.

In case y’all haven’t heard, no means no. (Yeah, I’m fucking going there. Buckle up, readers. This is a crash course in Consent 110.) Straight up, body autonomy is sacrosanct. The only person allowed to make your body do things is you. You are the only one who gets to choose what your body does, even if that choice is to let someone else make your body do things. Anything else is a violation of your body autonomy.

However, it must be recognized that there are times when saying no is not really an option, for whatever reason, and even saying yes is done due to circumstances which negate the expressed permission. Why? Because it’s not really consent when there’s a threat or manipulation involved, when the choice is between doing the thing or dying (or being harmed or someone else being harmed/killed). That creates duress, which negates consent even while willingness to participate continues.

Analogy time: think of any sex act you want. Maybe it’s your favorite; maybe you’ve done it hundreds of times and you’re damn good at it. The only difference is that you don’t want to do it this time with this partner. Now imagine that partner holding a gun to your head, telling you that they will shoot you if you don’t do it. You do that thing and manage to live. You did that thing, and nothing really changes that. However, it was not consensual.

You are not innocent but you are also not responsible.

Ultimately, what you are left with at end of the day is a PoW who did everything necessary to survive, including a lot of horrible things that affected others. I think this is really fucking important to note: Sgt. Barnes is a survivor. He did things, made choices, which clearly haunt him in order to ensure that survival.

He did those things because Sgt. Barnes became the Winter Soldier to survive.

Steve Rogers continuously invalidates that. Steve Rogers makes himself unavailable as a recovery support person because he refuses to acknowledge the trauma and guilt that would accompany such actions. I’m sure that his intentions are to be helpful and comforting. Steve Rogers once went on a suicide mission for Sgt. Barnes and later decided letting the guy beat him to a pulp was a good idea when the alternative was fighting him. Never doubt that Steve Rogers loves Bucky Barnes and that it is unconditional.

However, harm is not measured by intention. It is measured by effect.

Invalidating a survivor of violence? Not cool. Insisting that “it wasn’t really you” to someone who had essentially been raped? Also not cool.

And you know what effect that has? It makes the survivor unable to comfortably open up to you. Especially if disagreement with an authority figure was a past cause for corrective behavioral modification. Logic may say the punishment won’t happen but emotionally? Essentially, you are removed from the support team, and this is after you have created a situation in which the survivor is unable to remain in their previous safe place.

So, in summation, Bucky Barnes is the Winter Soldier due to being a PoW willing to do what it took to survive, but his blast-from-the-past best friend doesn’t acknowledge any of that which is hella hurtful and dismissive, regardless of said friend’s intentions. It interferes with the possibility of recovery which is inherently harmful to someone who has already been through so much and sets up the continuation of the conditioned behaviors, furthering the trauma in a way that is quite possibly worse than the outright violence of before.

Because Bucky Barnes will not stand up for himself. Resistance has been conditioned out of him. And now the person hurting him is a trusted individual declaring that he just wants to help.

Please respect the survival of Sgt. James Barnes by acknowledging his trauma, even if it makes you uncomfortable. Survivors do not have to make you comfortable with what it took to gain that status. Survivors do not owe you a picturesque view of their trauma.

Survival itself is the only imperative.

[mei-be]

My new therapist wants me to write letters to my mother. Ooooohhh boy. Where do I even start with that? It would be one thing to write an epic, sprawling, manifesto of rage, hurt, and loaded questions. Probably pretty therapeutic. But what I think I’d rather do, is small, short, everyday letters to my mother, full of intimacy and the lovely mundane details that I love to read in the work of others. I know the deep shit, the looming shadows, the claws of pain that rip me to pieces. What I don’t know, is how I would relate to my mother on a small scale, a constant, prayer-like meditation of all my days. So let’s see what happens.

9/21/20

Dear Mom,

Today I am doing a bit of a spa thing. I recently found some grey hairs sprouting up, and they are filling me with a mortal dread that I can barely contain. So like everything else that frightens me, I am choosing to hide from them, and to hide them from me. I’m doing a henna and amla treatment, and so far, having this bag of drippy baby poop on my head has been fucking miserable. When I first spotted the greys, I immediately tried to remember you. How old were you when you first noticed these? Granted, my first memories of you don’t begin until you are at least 10 years older than I am now. Unfortunately, those early memories don’t involve your hair, but maybe I can think about your beauty regiment. I remember that your body seemed really large to me. In reality, you were probably a size 8, probably 5’6, an average size, maybe on the tall end for an Asian woman. I remember the texture of your thighs, the bluish purple of your varicose veins. I have always been afraid of getting those. I remember that you became concerned about your weight, starting to power walk around the block. Back then, and even into the early 2000s, we didn’t really have access to the Internet as we do now, and we didn’t know that diet had a lot to do with weight. I remember that you napped often, which really laughed in the face of my own insomnia. I wondered if that was a thing old people did, napped daily. You had psoriasis, patchy brown and scaly spots on your elbows and knees, and you were always applying this smelly ointment on them. You hid from the sun, wearing long sleeved shirts, gloves and hats, even in the hottest summer days. You tried to hide me, tying ugly bonnets on me, making me wear visors, headwear that I tore off myself the moment I got out of eyeshot. I don’t know why you didn’t just use sunscreen. We both would have had a much better time. I loved the sun, I still do. You use to tell me that being animated with facial expressions led to wrinkles, and would always catch me laughing or smiling and tell me to stop. Now all of my joy has a catch. Maybe I should thank you for it, but in the back of my mind, I wonder if it’s worth it. The mental weight of constantly mediating one’s reaction to the world might not be written on the skin, but it’s paid for in other ways. I do remember the first time you henna’d your hair. It was in my early college years, and man, was it ugly. Orange and black, it was more of a white hair highlighter than a fix. That image is what propelled me to research henna, amla, and indigo blends as hard as I did. I won’t look like you. I refuse. It scares the shit out of me. For years, I used to chew my nails down to the nubs. I’ve since stopped, but every so often, Ill look down at my hands, and for a moment, I’ll see yours. Rough, strong, brown hands. Shiny skin, broad white nails. Those hands hit me, held things that hit me, scratched at me, grasped my own. I hate your fucking hands. Mine are longer, more delicate, and despite all your efforts and mine, a much lighter color. Sometimes, after weeks of growing out my nails, I would see your hands, superimposed over mine like the echo of a curse, and I’d immediately rip off that hard-earned nail growth, the blood seeping out of them like a red sigh of relief. Occasionally, I still want to. I am within 5 years of the age you were when we first met. We look nothing alike. I look like my father, thank god. You have a rectangular face, while mine is on the round end of heart shaped. You have a long nose, mine is small, squat and smushable. We have opposite parted hairlines. You kept yours short, chin-length. Mine flows down my back.

You are like a ghost that haunts me in the slyest of ways. I only catch you out of the corner of my eye. I smell you sometimes, in certain types of cloth, in the jar of garlic paste. I hate those moments. It smells like claustrophobia, of stale air. It smells like yearning, like imprisonment. I can’t hardly stand those moments. I hate that your smell creeps through the grates when the heat is turned on for the first time. You feel like the chill that penetrates the late summer nights. It tells you that this can’t last forever, that one day, the winter will arrive, and nothing will be okay. This is not the feeling that one should get from their mother. I am angry about it. It’s bad enough that you ran my childhood like a concentration camp. It’s heartbreaking that I missed out on all that comfort, that care, that love. How am I suppose to go out in the world, to love and be loved, if i was never shown how? And now, I am a full fledged, grown-ass adult. I’m suppose to make my own way, to be strong in my life, my choices. I’m suppose to have conviction, some kind of foundation to build myself upon, and I don’t. I don’t have that. I still feel like a lost kid, unmoored, adrift. We are still ruining my life. Yes, now I am complicit in this too. Moreover, I am angry that we never got to turn a corner in the relationship, to be adults together. Maybe we would have never been the mother and daughter that text everyday, or get coffee and chat, or go hiking or whatever. But maybe we could talk, and have a laugh every so often. Maybe you could give me unsolicited advice, and I could tell you about my day. But no, I can’t barely stand to be in the same room as you. I feel like screaming. It hurts to lay my eyes on you. Seeing you is like a flashing neon sign that is bellowing “DANGER”. Seeing you is a horror show of everything I don’t want to be. Seeing you sends me into a week of panic attacks, a month of intermittent insomnnia, a high-ass shrink bill. The worst part of it, is that I can’t harden my heart to this. I can’t turn my back to you. Despite all the years of violence, trauma, the evilness in your voice, I want you. This wanting of you reeks of betrayal. Betrayal of my strength, my work, my journey, my very life. It turns me into a fraud. I’ve worked my whole life to be nothing like you, and hidden in the deep recesses of whatever flimsy facade I’ve managed to create, is just that same sad little girl, who’s wishing that her mother would come to her.

It’s infuriating bullshit, because it’s not reality. You won’t ever come and scoop me up. Unless it’s to throw me to the ground right after. No matter how much power I put into it, the work I do to get better, to be healthy, to forgive, having a true mother will never be my reality. Being in that state of child, where my job is simply to exist and learn the world and your job is to keep me safe and teach me the world is just something I didn’t get, and won’t get. Reality is that I will never be safe and cherished. I will never know “carefree” or “innocence”.

Reality is that it’s dinner time, so I gotta cut and run. Pragmatism, not idealism.

Sincerely yours,

Mei

P.S. God, you were a shitty cook. I’m not.

9/22/20

Dear Mom,

Today I did not experience any triggers. I had a good time. I expressed myself completely and properly. I explored and accomplished everything I wanted to. I learned about stuff, I had a killer yoga practice, I worked in my garden, I went foraging and processed my wild harvest. I was content with the person I inhabited today. So, yea. Suck a dick, Mom.

Sincerely,

Mei

9/23/20

Dear Mom,

The nice shrink lady wants me to write a vision of how I wish my childhood had gone. She does not know what she’s asking for. I remember having these fantasies as a young child. I’d dream of being whisked into a different life, a warm and safe life. It would be quiet, and calm. There might even be laughter. It would always come if I was at someone else’s house. I’d see their full refrigerators, stocked pantries, houses heated, the way they spoke to each other at normal volumes, the lack of tears and chaos. I would be transported into this life, almost automatically. I wouldn’t be hungry, my face wouldn’t hurt from being so dry and cold, my socks wouldn’t have holes in them. I’d have friends over, you would fix us all a fun snack. I wouldn’t be scared, watching and waiting.

When I would have this fantasy in my head, whatever morality machine that lived inside me wouldn’t allow you to be dead, or hurting. You’d just be removed, innocuously. You’d have moved back to China, willingly, and not under duress. You’d have had some sort of episode that erased me from your memory, and we just naturally fell into separate lives. At my very worst, you had fallen into a coma. You were peaceful and sleeping, in stable condition, but you just couldn’t be my mother anymore. Years later, when you had your stroke, I’d wonder if I had done that to you. But I’m innocent. I never wished for this. You were always okay! A shard of irony would twist in my heart, because I was 19, and it was too late, for either of us.

In every dream of my ideal childhood, it would just be my dad and I. We’d be in a cozy room, in armchairs, by a fire. Dad would be doing paperwork, I’d be reading. I had a blanket tucked around me, not because I was very cold, but because it was nice. We were quiet, together. We were doing exactly what we wanted, and it was sanctioned. We were okay.

As far as child fantasies go, mine was pretty dull. No grand adventure, no excess, no magic. Just the simplest version of Maslow’s Hierarchy of needs. Pretty attainable, really.

There’s a deep sadness in this. A little girl with boundless imagination, and all she wanted was to be safe and warm and read a book next to her dad. There’s a deep righteousness in this. A little girl with boundless imagination, and she wanted to do no harm to the Big Bad in her life. You could learn from her, Mom. I wish you had treated me with the same kindness as I treated you with.

Maybe that’s the ticket. Maybe the kindness that lives in my heart is my roadmap to forgiveness. And maybe then, you’ll really be gone from my life, and I will finally be safe. Until then, it’s still you and me, and Dad.

Sincerely yours,

Mei

9/24/20

Dear Mom,

I talked with Dad last night. It was a short call. I have mixed feelings about that. I’m generally grateful for short phone calls, just less chance of something triggering me, or infuriating me, or hurting my heart. But in the same exhale of relief, comes the flood of guilt. You talk to him once a week, Mei, sometimes less. You can’t give the man 20 minutes of your time? It’s so boggling to think about how that relationship changed. It was mostly you and me, Mom. Day in and day out, the two of us, with me trying to disappear. Hoping you’d forget about me for small pockets of peace. When I did get time with Dad, I hung on to every precious second, like they were running out. I felt so damn good around him, so free, so much like a child. I loved him so much, it hurt. Like that love was too big to be confined in my small body, and it’s mass was breaking through my skin. I loved his wonderful face, with kind eyes, and crooked smile. I loved holding his rough hands, one pointer finger in my whole fist. He told me that even though he worked as a doctor, he didn’t have doctors hands. His were short, wide, rough and strong. He said they were farmers hands. He’d laugh and tell me that patients would flinch at the sandpaper nature of his skin, even though he slathered on moisturizer. He said this with pride. He’d tell me that you could tell a lot from a person from their hands. He said that when I eventually looked for a husband, I should look for a man who had the hands of a worker, but smooth and soft. It meant that he was capable of great physical labor, but had instead chosen to use his mind, so that he could make a comfortable living without taking it out of his body. He said I’d be happy with a man like that. He told me I had piano fingers, long and nimble, quick and delicate, which is why they had started me on piano so early. He never told me about your hands, Mom. I’m not entirely sure what you did. He mentioned that you were a teacher for a time in China, but that was really it. You helped out around the office, you were, very briefly, a waitress. You raised me, and kept the house microscopically clean. Except for the kitchen and bathrooms. I kept those. I think you hated that kind of work. You made me wipe each tile individually, and would use gloved hands to check the caulking, the grout, and spaces behind the toilet. I was 6, Mom, and the tiles were one-inch squares. It took hours, and I cried with frustration. Ironically, these are the spaces I love to clean now. The kitchen is 100% my domain, I am more comfortable doing it, than any bathroom or living room. It fits into the atmosphere of my OCD perfectly, when not much else does.

Working with Dad was different. The time I got with him was his “leisure time”, but the man never stopped working. He was always fixing a car, hammering something, cutting a tree, dragging various heavy items out of one space and into a different one. But I got to be outdoors, breathing the fresh air. This was something I craved, constantly. The rise and fall of the sun terrified me. I felt each passing moment that I was not outside as a curse, as something taken away, a missed chance. And you very rarely let me out, Mom, so I felt this pain constantly. I still do, torn apart by the need to accomplish, and by the need to grab hold of sunbeams. It was absolute torture, Mom, it was probably the worst thing you did to me, and I don’t even think you knew it. I could handle the cold, the hunger. I could handle the hot magenta lightning flashes of pain that slashed out of all the different objects you hurled my way. I could handle being on my knees, shamed into begging for you forgiveness (for what?). But I writhed in the knowing that while I was bound, the dark was coming, and the sun was fading away. Another day, and another and another and another....

Dad would lament that I wasn’t born a boy. He’d do it jokingly, lighthearted. I took it so seriously. I’d try to learn the “boy things”, battering away at a little piece of wood, while he worked on the real project. Trying to hammer straight, trying to screw things down. Constructing things is still a task I am shit at. Turns out, it’s not a physical issue. After all, I have piano fingers. Turns out, I have an huge problem with spatial reasoning. It’s all a mirror-scape to me, topside down, inverted, refracted. Dimensions get lost in translation. Mom would lament that I wasn’t born a boy. She’d point out my father, working hard by himself, without assistance. She’d tell me I was killing him, that my existence was going to be his undoing, dying to support my worthless life. And so I tried, tried to do the “boy things”. I dragged garbage cans, cut tree limbs, little buckets of dirt. I felt useless and weak the whole time, so I tried to make up for it in speed and perseverance. I would do the damn thing until I died trying. I am full grown now, a tall person, although still rather slender at 5’9 and 115 pounds. I was recently helping my dad move, hauling boxes and furniture. Dad is now 80 years old, still with farmers hands, but also farmer knees and back. He stopped and looked at me, and for the first time, he said, “Wow, you work so fast and well. I couldn’t do this without you. How do you do it?”. Shocked, I stammered out something about being a server and a bartender, and the breakneck nature of the service industry. But what I really meant to say is, “Dad, I’ve been trying to be a son to you for my entire life. I was just too damn small before.” He told me I was purposeful and valued. That’s all I ever wanted to be. I wish you could understand that I didn’t have to be a boy to do it. Just a child that didn’t want to kill her father, or be killed by her mother.

I guess it all sounds pretty good, right Mom? You pushed me, pushed all my buttons, threw me into the fire, down stairs, on the floor, into the deep end of a pool, and I came out strong. You can rest easy now, pat yourself on the back even. But I’m scared, Mom. I’m scared all the fucking time. I’m an adult now, so we call it anxiety disorder, but the truth of it is that I’m so scared. I’m scared of every mistake I make, of even the possibility of a mistake. I build entire dams made of buffers against that fear. I feverishly work through to-do lists that I make, lists that are so long and involved that I can’t possibly complete them in the time allotted, and then I beat myself up for not finishing my tasks. I work my body, miles of cardio, hours of exercise. A regiment that is not sustainable, and burns me out every time. I get hurt, I get sick, I can’t rest. I feel the crushing weight of the entropy of my world, every second of every day. I feel panic with every inhale, and defeat with every exhale. I go to work, and I prepare for everything that can go wrong, I back up my back ups. I get in before everyone else, and I’m the last to leave. I’m part of a team, and yet, I do the lions share of the work, because if I don’t do it, then something will go terribly wrong, and it will be my fault. I can’t fucking sleep, Mom. I’m going through every transaction I had that day, and I had hundreds. I’m checking to see if I could have possibly done it better. I’m ruined, Mom. I can’t manage my time, because I have no idea how time is related to tasks. Something might take half an hour, but I have to have a 15 minute buffer before and after, and in between every phase, and by the time I get done planning, it’s a 3 hour job and I can’t do it because I’m out. I can’t focus on anything, because the rituals surrounding it snowball over me and I’m defeated before I even start. I’m an adult now, so we call it ADD and poor executive functioning skills, but the truth of it is that I’m set up for failure, and I’m so ashamed, and you’re going to whip me with a metal hanger, and I’m killing my father, and I’m on my knees begging for forgiveness (for what?).

Mom, tell Dad I’ll call him back.

Sincerely yours,

Mei

9/25/20

Dear Mom,

The news is extra-incredible today. Trump is refusing to commit to a graceful exit from the presidency if he loses (please lose, you scumbag). We had a near miss with a school bus sized meteor. People are rioting. The virus is still running rampant, and the country is on fire. As a kid and younger adult, I had a love affair with the idea of a post apocalyptic world setting. It feels like we’re living in the end times, and I am still miserably un-trained, reasonably dependent on the grid, and my outfits won’t be nifty, studded leather, steam-punk get ups, but probably ugly pajamas. Fucking fantastic. So what do I do? I try to be what I’ve always try to be, an example of incredible, but it feels insincere and like going through the motions. Before sobriety, I’d go all hard-core bacchanal on this bitch, make mistakes and let myself go Id. And now I’m on Amazon, weighing the cost of liquid vitamins versus how much money I made this week. Story of my life, I’m $200 away from public aid, and from making what I need to survive. Lovely. I don’t have it in me to go deep today, to free-fall into the pain of my memories. My bottom line is that it all feels fucked right now. I wonder about your point of view in these times. You, in a 7-layer, Dante-esque prison of isolation, of separation from information, of mediation, of communication, of corporeal limitations. I wonder if you are afraid, if you think of your ranking in zombie-apocalypse terms, and if you feel fucked too. I suppose you’ve had 16 years of the worst case scenario, and maybe all this is just another Friday to you. I’m so sorry for you, Mom. I started to write about your stroke, and then backspaced out of it. I just don’t have the substance in me to do it justice today.

Sincerely,

Mei

9/29/20

Dear Mom,

I had my shrink appointment yesterday, and we talked about reframing my mental narrative. This is nothing new to me, I’ve been practicing reframing all year. But she suggested that instead of reframing in my idea of reality, that I think of the most positive possible outcome. I remember doing something like this when I was younger, in my daydreams, as a sort of fantasy life. The problem that comes from fantasy, with the addition of a killer imagination and the ability to entrench myself quickly and deeply in any mental landscape, is that it always ends, and coming out of it hurts. It occurred to me that I haven’t let myself daydream in quite a long time. I guess as an adult, letting myself indulge in something so far from the truth feels like a mockery. Hello, Shame, old friend. I’ve long wrestled with the idea of success, versus my life. I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s something between fear of failure and fear of success, which is just so tautological in nature, that I find it laughable. There’s also change. The landscape of my mind is so very capricious, that even if I let myself dream of a good life, that good life is so mutable, that I couldn’t use it as a compass if I tried. But, I did promise to give all therapies a chance, even if they seem pointless, so here we go.

What does success look like to me? Well, in my teens and twenties, it always involved art. As a writer or as a visual artist. I would do good art, have the time, space, and freedom to let my mind expand, breathe, and then contract, take it all in. The magic of the world, in the mundane, in the micro. There’d be room for my buffers to exist, and not butt heads with anything as common as “making money”, or a “schedule”. There’d be adventure, friends, and every wonderful day would be met with a party that lasted all night. Every hour would count down to a new event, a treat, something to look forward to. There would be no ending to joy. I guess it was a direct reaction to my childhood, where things were so bleak, so small and sad, that I would look forward to things like a church outing, one TV show a week, one gift, as if my whole world hinged on it. I guess it did. It makes me cringe now, just how grey that little girl’s world was. And if that “thing” were not to pan out? Well, then all the lights inside of me would go out. Disappointment is probably the human emotion that I find most tragic. I used to wonder why I did it to myself. Why I would even let myself hope. The answer was that I had no choice. It was fickle hope, or pain and cold. Is that the world you meant to build for me, Mom?

For all my dreaming, there was always a dark place that never really believed it. I had grit in me, I’d try for a goal until it killed me. But if I’m being honest, I also didn’t really think I’d make it. There was a gap, a missing link. I knew how to put in effort, but I didn’t really know how to lock it in. I still don’t, really. My mindset is always, “I’ll believe it when I see it”. And for someone who sees so much value in controlling her environment, well, it’s definitely out of my control. That missing piece both pushes me, and deceives me. I never know how much effort is the right amount, and so it’s all of me, or none of me. I think this is why I always feel like I’m reading the instructions in a foreign language, or that the rules change. I very much wish to identify this, at least find its name. One time, I had taken some acid, and was deep in a trip. I found myself on the train tracks, and there was a slow moving train behind me. God was in the train, and was both life force and obvious death. I had to keep going, or else the train would kill me. I plugged ahead, best I could, one foot in front of the other, with the train steadily closing in on me. It’s pointless, death will come. Keep going! It’s pointless. Keep going! On and on like this, until a friend who was acting as Watcher shoved me off the tracks. Drug addled symbolism or not, it never occurred to me, that I had the option of getting off. This feeling of hopelessness follows me, and the feeling of Duh does too. God is in the train....

What a does success look like to me now? Well, my dreams change seasonally, which doesn’t help. I’ve since given up on the dream of being an artist. Turns out, I’m not very good at it. It’s sad, because having skills as a writer used to be my superpower. It use to be the thing that made me even a little special. The muse would come in the darkest hours of the night, and I would be illuminated by the spark of a poetic phrase, a chord that would lead to worldbuilding. It was larger than me, I couldn’t control or explain it, and that was exciting. Turns out, I’m simply mediocre. Ironic, because being mediocre was always something that frightened me. I was okay with being very bad at something, and of course I wanted to be very good. But average seemed unworthwhile. And that’s where I am as a writer. Better than many, but not great. For some reason, that clicks off my give-a-shit. I wish it didn’t. It might be the thing that makes me make myself great. Currrently, the flavor of the week is foraging. For the past 6 months, I have feverishing pursued identifying and propagating wild edibles. The artist is now trying to be a forest ranger. If I’m being honest, I’ve gotten surprisingly far in it. I’m not half bad. I’ve gotten to understand how wild things grow, I’ve implemented research successfully. And I haven’t poisoned myself and died. Point. My built in OCD fits in this foray, my search for absolutes, for tangibility. I may not know a great number of species, but the ones I know, I know for sure. But like everything else, I can feel this passion drain out of me, fading, like the season. It’s hard to invest in yourself, when you can’t trust yourself to even show up. I’ve no-call-no-showed myself so many times that even though I’m a good worker, I’m ready to terminate. So, I guess the real test of success for me is just showing up. I wish I could find my purpose, my passion, and I wish it would stay. Even simpler, I wish I could just name the demon that keeps me from it. Is it just ADD? Thousands suffer from this, and you can fix it with a pill. If that’s the thing that keeps me from my life’s worth, I’m going to laugh my ass off.

I just want to be self-actualized. As a first worlder, it’s the next logical step for me. I wish I could find the path.

Sincerely yours,

Mei

10/03/20

Dear Mom,

I was talking to my co-worker Sara yesterday. Just some small talk, chatter. I’m usually not about those conversations, but I like Sara. She’s smart, outspoken, articulate, and fun. She was telling me some basic details about her business. She sounded so capable, well-researched, informed. I’m so very attracted to people like that. I want to grab some of their shine, just to be around it, to soak up what it might be like to be so sure of oneself. I want to be apart of it, I want to learn. I find this to be a driving force in a lot of my relationships, especially romantically. I feel like there has always been a piece missing from the roadmap I’v been given. The landscape and the rules always change on me. I think maybe it has to do with my suspected autism, problems with being literal, with being unable to read certain social cues. It’s funny to be this way, because I am also simultaneously deeply empathetic. But that empathy seems to come from a different place. It’s like reading auras, but as a sound. Many times, I’ve told someone that they sound lower or more staticky or distorted, and ask if anything is wrong. You can imagine how this goes. It’s the overt I don’t understand. Sometimes the concentration needed to be engaged in conversation is so great, that I actually lose power, and stop understanding English. Literally, the spoken word, my native tongue, turns foreign and I don’t know what words mean. This even happens when watching TV. Wotthehell. But what a person is experiencing inside, the thing they are trying to hide, that, I can usually read like a book. Usually, sensitivity like this is inherited. So I wonder, could I possibly get this from you? My first instinct is no, because, if you could see how I felt, would you have treated me so badly? But then, my mind travels to your friendships. At first many, and close, and then, as you got older, they fell away. There was always a falling out, an unforgiveable act. I remember your long phone conversations. Decades ago, when we use to talk on the phone for fun instead of communicate with text, when speech was less mediated and immediate. I remember, even as a small child, sensing a sort of manipulation in your conversations, a passive agressiveness. The exact interaction that I least understand. I remember wondering if you really thought that THAT was good advice. I wondered if you knew that what you said wasn’t actually nice, that you just demeaned your friend’s pleasure, their passion, the thing they did that wasn’t female duty, but rather, a outreaching of the soul.

Now that I’ve had my fair share of trying to be a mean girl, a person searching to control something that wasn’t hers to control; and more expertly, being on the other side of a mean girl, I wonder if you indeed had the same sensitivity. Maybe you could see how your words and actions darkened a persons heart, a muddying of clear waters. Maybe you liked it. I’ve spent a lot of output trying to walk in your shoes, to be sympathetic, to try to see the person underneath the monsterous acts as something other than a monster. But maybe you were exactly that thing. A shitty person that did shitty things, that browbeat her husband, that abused her daughter, that wasn’t a good friend. A small, petty person that did things to garner favor, that bartered in things unquantifiable. I can feel that desire in me, to hurt those that are smaller than me, to fight for control over things not in my dominion. I guess it’s fortunate that I am hamstrung by the inability to see large and far enough to gaslight; too neurotic to be cruel. At the end of the day, I want to chase the light and take it inside me. I don’t want to make it dark. It’s been dark, long enough.

I am nothing like you.

Sincerely yours,

Mei

10/05/20

Dear Mom,

Today I read a little meme that stated, “Your love language is the thing you didn’t receive as a child”. Well, shit, that would be all of them. Let’s have a look: 1. Words of affirmation 2. Quality time 3. Receiving gifts 4. Acts of Service 5. Physical touch

Quality time: I think this used to be mine, back when I was lonesome, and needed someone to help keep the wall of screaming anxiety at bay. This is no longer the case. It’s funny that things can change so much. Now my quality time is alone time, and I protect it wholeheartedly. I wonder if it means some of my dysfunction got better, and some of it got worse.

Receiving gifts: Gifts used to mean a lot to me. I had so very little. But gifts also are a double edged sword. They were used against me, taken away from me. They are loaded now. It’s a weight on me, something I have to repay, something I ruminate on too much.

Acts of service: Yea, I’m too much of a control freak for this. Although, being offered help is something that always surprises me. I forget that I can ask for help. I also doubt the integrity of the help, and obsess over where credit lies.

Physical touch: Fuck that. I don’t like being touched. Even the softest, most innocuous touch feels like suffocation or like a ripping of skin.

Words of Affirmation: I think at this time, words may be my love language. Tell me I’m doing a good job, and beating myself and impressing you becomes my number one objective.

So, words of affirmation, eh?

I can remember the words you used to affirm me. All in Chinese, most things I had to intuit with context. You told me I was a domesticated animal, a unwanted bastard child, a ghost. You called me things that got me in trouble once I repeated it. Dad would never, ever tell me what they meant. It took 20 years, and lots of technology, but today I learned that I’ve known how to call someone a “fucking cock” since I was 3. Really? Fucking cock? That’s simply inaccurate when used on a toddler. Come on, Mom. Curse better. I learned that you told me to go to hell, called me a cunt, called me a bitch (which in Mandarin, is a very adult term, since the symbol for woman is intrinsically used), cursed my “unknown origin” (what the hell?). You told me I was acting as a prostitute when I hugged my dad and uncle, called me insane, a son of a bitch. Wow, thanks Google translate.

I’ve tried to find these phrases before, but between bad pinyin, bad Chinese and uncertain English translations of colloquialisms, today is my lucky day. I finally understand the scope of your vitriol. I wonder, did it matter that I didn’t understand what most of your curses meant? I knew they were really bad words, evil words, and the sound of them hurt me. The fact that Dad was shocked by them confirmed it. I am so frustrated that he wouldn’t tell me what they meant. I get it, he was trying to protect me, but what use is it to protect me from the definitions of things if the weight of them was already on my shoulders? Maybe this is where my need to label, to understand what meanings are and where they come from originates from.

It got so bad, that whenever you said kind words to me, they would hurt more than the bad ones. I can’t really put my finger on this emotion. It’s hard to verbalize, or even cognitively understand. I state this because I do want to say, for the record, that you did say kind words to me. It’s important for me to be fair. I think it helps to keep an objective point of view of my childhood. However, acknowledging the good parts, the moments of sweetness, feels like shit. Why? Well, first of all, it was really confusing. Most times, I didn’t know why I was being treated well, what I had done, how to replicate it. A lot was in front of other people, so I guess that makes sense, you were putting on a good front. But there were times when you really did seem to be happy to see me. I can remember a handful of times after school, when you might have missed me; occasional Saturday mornings where you made me a treat, and watched a movie with me. I remember feeling warm and good and full. The contrast is absolutely unreconcilable. I cannot understand it at all, and it makes my heart ache in a way that I don’t have the words to describe. The tenderness hurts so much more than the wickedness, Mom. Why did you have to be kind to me at all? No love is better than fleeting moments of love. It shows me that you were capable of it, which tells me that it was me. What did I do in those lovable moments? What did I do in the moments where your rage poured onto me and wanted me dead? What what what what what?!?!?!

I can make myself cry on cue. It’s a superpower I have. All I need to do is remember a lullaby you sang to me sometimes. It’s very sweet, and lovely and maternal. I think you had a nice singing voice, I can barely remember your voice, but I remember the song like it’s etched in my bones. In English, a rough translation, as I understand it, it goes:

Sleep, my treasure

Sleep, my treasure

You are mother’s precious jewel forever.

Sleep, my treasure

Sleep, my treasure

Mom loves you so much.

I remember crying quietly then, tears flowing down into my hair line, hot then cold, hitting the pillow. A thick sorrow fills me now, especially at the last line. The words I interpret as “loves you so much” also has a implication that means “loves you truly”. It feels like a confession, or an admittance, that you do, somehow, love me. And for reasons unknown, that fucking sucks. It burns my heart.

I think maybe this is a conflict because it threatens my identity as the abused and your identity as th abuser. As much as I want to be fair in my stance regarding my childhood, every time I think of a good memory, or a positive, I feel like a liar. I feel like I’ve misrepresented my experience, and that I can’t be trusted to provide a fair and unbiased view of my childhood. I feel like maybe I am that child that no one believed. I’ve worked so hard to fine tune my insights, that if my very integrity is questioned, it all falls apart. So many times, Dad told me, “You are just a child, you are overreacting.” Do you comprehend how fucking helpless that made me feel? That somehow, my chronological age distorts my comprehension of things that are happening to me, to my own body? “You have an overactive imagination... you misunderstood what she meant... it didn’t really happen like that....” And I begged him, I begged Dad to hear me, to do something, to save me, to take me away. Somehow, I felt shame when he didn’t. I felt myself disengaging, losing faith in my father’s ability to take care of me, to protect me. I stopped believing that he could change things, that things could change.

I used to believe in God, wholeheartedly. I was told that I could have a personal relationship with God, if I studied and prayed, and cultivated one. And so I tried, oh, I fucking tried so hard. I prayed all day, I tried to control my thoughts, to have clean, sinless thoughts, to only come to God as pure and good and righteous as I could. I thought faith was like a muscle I could build, control, and use. I believed in magic, that one with a truly virtuous heart would be chosen for a quest, and would be rewarded for their sacrifice, their loyalty. I thought I saw fairy circles, I thought the treasures I found in the woods were meant for me, a secret message, giving me strength to carry on. I believed and I prayed and I tried to make my faith everything. But they never came. Not the fairies, not a magical hero, and not God. Eventually, I saw holes in my beliefs. I saw that the only time anything changed was when I changed it. My final disengagement came when I asked for a sign, I begged him to keep me as his child, I begged to remain a believer. I looked into my faith, and I saw that if I believed so completely in God, I also had to believe in the possibility of no God. It gave me permission to doubt, to test my faith. I tested it out of existence.

I don’t know why God came up. I guess losing faith, even though it was my choice and my journey, somehow feels like a betrayal to me. Even though I did the doing, it feels like something was done to me. I guess it’s another avenue of powerlessness, and mad, pointless grabbing of control. I feel out of control, like I was lied to. I was told if I was good, and followed the rules, that I would be loved. I did those things. No one loved me. And when they did, it hurt. I’m so confused. I fucking hate this. Someone get me a decoder.

Whatever, I don’t know. Words of affirmation are my current love language.

Sincerely,

Mei

10/08/20

Dear Mom,

My shrink Rhonda did something super interesting in our last session. I was struggling with some core issues. I’ve managed to identify that I have a fear of success, fear of failure, and a big fear of being average. What a lovely and unbearable place to be, eh? So I realized these things, but I had no idea what to do with them, how to navigate a web of mutual exclusivities. So, Rhonda had me distill the feelings behind these fears into one encompassing word for each. My word for fear of failure was DISAPPOINTMENT. My word for fear of being average was STANDARD, which Rhonda interpreted as the theory of acceptance and I agreed. My word for fear of success was HARM. All of these apparently falls under the umbrella of trust. A lot of my bullshit comes down to trust issues, and that makes sense. Everything I ever put trust in failed, including myself. Well, I guess that’s not really fair. I didn’t put trust in myself, I never even knew how to start.

So let’s start with DISAPPOINTMENT. I think if I were to point out the most poignant, multi-faceted and painful of all human emotions, disappointment would be it. That seems strange, doesn’t it? In the sphere of all the words we have in this weird language, words like MURDER, BETRAYAL, TORTURE, RAPE, GENOCIDE, why is it that DISSAPOINTMENT takes the cake? Well, it’s omnipresent. I think behind all those other awful words, there’s the feeling of disappointment. A sense of this isn’t what I was put on the earth to experience. A soft, sad sense of the unjust. There’s also a sense of helplessness. Adjacent feelings like anger, sorrow, offense have an active nature to them. Something uprooted what one was trying to DO. DIsppointment seems more passive, something was done to you, and no part of your spiritual or physical strength could have stopped it. I have a very early memory that really embodies this emotion for me. I had been given a bunch of helium filled balloons, and that gift made my whole world. I was so excited to bring them home, to have them in my space, to really possess something so colorfilled and alive. It was a windy day, and in the parking lot, the whole bouquet of balloons was ripped from my hands. My dad chased after them, and in the nature of a buoyant gas filled in a thin membrane, they seemed to magically elude him. He was within inches of them so many times, and each time, a freak gust ripped them further away. I cried into his shoulder as I watched them float tiny into the sun. At that moment, I learned that no power could bring them back. They were gone. They were mine, and then they were lost forever. Destroyed by the ephemeral nature of things, my heart was completely shattered in that one moment. This is the what I perceive as disappointment. I put so much stock into a stupid thing, and it went away before it was even mine. I wonder if this is where my obsession with the fight against entropy comes from. If it’s not strong and sturdy and lasting, I don’t want it.

Next up is fear of being average, or STANDARD. I spent a lot of my youth trying not to be like other girls. Boring story, meta in how in trying not to be part of the mainstream, you end up being just another stereotype. In my peer group, I was a total freak. When I hear about other people being outcasts, there’s always a group of kids that they were outcasts with. Not so much here. I was the bottom tier. When people thought they were at their worst, I was the person that made them feel better. I didn’t have a group of other losers to feel shitty about. I was alone. I was so completely fucking alone. If school was bad, home was worse. They didn’t hit me at school. Much. I was so weird. So ugly, so awkward, so stupid. I was even smelly, thanks to my mom’s rationing of bathing and clothes washing. The weird Chinese lunches, reaking of seaweed and looking like a damn alien didn’t help either. Bento boxes weren’t going to be cool for another 20 years. I could go a week without speaking to or being spoken to. As I got older, this status of being the ultimate pariah evolved into being super punk rock. I mean total anti-establishment, anti- status, fuck your opinion type of punk rock. Thank god for punk. I spent my teenage years trying to shock, using the foulest language, wearing the ugliest clothing, getting as drunk and high as I physically could, trying to convince myself that life was bullshit, so I was going to fuck it up. I hated pink, I hated “girl things”, I hated squares, and I hated being that “good Asian girl”. My manifesto was shock, I was terrified of being derivative. It was exhausting. It still is.

Finally, we have HARM.

The most ironic point of my life, how I am perceived as an adult. They think I’m smart, they think I’m fast and capable. They think I’m pretty and charismatic. They think I’m exciting and unique and interesting. I’m the most stupid and ugly person I’ve ever come across. The sight of my own face use to hurt my eyeballs with how completely grotesque it was. It got to the point where I’d avoid my reflection so much that I wouldn’t recognize myself in photos, or realize that the being in the mirror was me. This may explain the body dysmorphia. I am also so completely stupid that I am amazed every time I get into a vehicle that they let me operate one of these things. The things that make me smart are obsessions. I can’t not do them. The skills that I have are from eons of furious practice. The things that come naturally to others, like how to operate their meat suit, make it do things, are the things I struggle fully with. I am trying with all my might, just to speak in a way that seems natural, human and meaningful. Sometimes, the amount of concentration it takes to follow a conversation gets too large for me and I stop understanding English. What the fuck. How the fuck?! I’ll be watching TV, lowest common denominator type shit, and the words cease to be words and are just sounds with no meaning. This happens in daily speech, where I’ll have to “rewind” the moment, and try to decipher the sounds using context and tone. I’m constantly asking my boyfriend, “What did they just say?” I’m foreign in my own native tongue. Numbers, spatial reasoning skills, the cardinal directions, just forget it. Trying to calculate 360 degrees versus 180, 200% versus 100%, it’s near impossible. And this is such basic shit, it might as well be innate. So simple, that it’s harder to verbalize than it is to do. So yeah, if someone places any speck of responsibility my way, there’s a really good chance that I will absolutely screw it up. Even giving it so much effort I feel turned inside out, I will miss a directive or protocol, and despite every ounce of strength I have, it goes tits up. So how can I try for anything, there’s so much at stake? If my job is serving fries, and I screw it up, okay, someone gets shitty fries. If my job is in healthcare, and I screw it up, someone DIES. Hell yea, I’m afraid of success. Not for me, but for the people I might do harm to. It’s amazing, because I’m often seen as a leader, a self starter, and I often end up as a promotable person. If they only knew... I can barely operate my cell phone, you want me to MAKE SURE YOUR OFFSPRING STAYS ALIVE?! Fuck no. I’m amazed when I remember to feed myself and understand what time means.

Sincerely,

Mei

10/11/20

Dear Mom,

Another thing that my shrink wanted me to explore was how I feel about getting my Masters Degree. Truth is, I’m not very proud of that degree. It’s not so much that I ended up not doing much with it, but that I was giving a great opportunity, and I didn’t give it my all. I guess it’s worthwhile to say that I didn’t really want to go in the first place. I had finished college, and had stuck around my college town for a while. I had two jobs, and it was really nice being around my friends, doing art and projects, and yeah, partying a lot, without actual schooling getting in the way. My dad put his foot down, and said that if I didn’t get myself into graduate school, he’d get me into graduate school. He was going to have me go to school for educational administration. What the fuck! So I could be a dean or a principle?! I never once in my life considered doing that, and I abhor kids. And administration. It never occurred to me that he couldn’t actually make me go to graduate school, or would even have access to the records that would make my application a successful one. So I applied: MA in English to every school that didn’t require a GRE. I got into one school, Chicago State University, a historically Black college on the south side of Chicago. This premise is rife with problems. One can see what happened in undergrad. My parents forced me into a second rate college, because it was what was suppose to happen. I had not one red clue with what I wanted to major in, and ended up with mediocre grades and a half hearted education. I did discover passions, interests, hobbies, and a feel for how I wanted my life to go, but that had nothing to do with school, and everything to do with living a semi-free life. And now, we were going to repeat the experiment with graduate school. Also, I’m not Black, and I had no clue that the school I was going to was. Not only did I get in, I was awarded an assistantship, that paid for my tuition and even provided me with a stipend, in exchange for 20 hours a week working in the school. I never applied for the assistantship. I think someone might have mixed up application forms.

I did well, grades wise. I got straight A’s, all 2 years, graduated with a perfect 4.0 GPA. But I didn’t deserve those grades. I was working 3 jobs, commuting over 2 hours a day to get to school and back, and my focus was as it always was: making a family out of friends, partying, and art. These things sound great together, but at the end of the day, I was trying to drink my way out of a broken engagement, then a failed relationship with one of my best friends. I was lonely, angry, sick, broke as hell, homesick for my college town, aimless, and anti-establishment in a truly meta way. I hated everything, and there was a hole in my heart. School was quite often at the bottom of a very long, very inebriated list. It just so happens, I’m good at writing, I’m really good at academic bullshit, and I read fast. I pretty much half-assed every assignment that didn’t organically catch my interest, which was most. I didn’t deserve half those high marks I got. Like in college, I blew off or blustered my way through most projects. The course load also was not challenging to me, and the most students were far behind me, academically. This is not to say that I am very bright, or a good student. I just happened to be better than most of them. My last A was for my thesis advisement class, where I pretty much plagiarized my own work. I only got that grade because I was selling my professor drugs, giving him cigarettes, and letting him abuse my position as his assistant. I washed the man’s dirty moldy dishes, for fucks sake. It reminds me of how I passed a math class in college, I sold my professor drugs and messed around with the TA. I guess part of secondary education is to teach you that there is more than one way to skin a cat, or how to get to the bottom line no matter what, but it always felt a little dirty to me. It feels like my matriculation is the funny montage part of a shitty comedy movie, some coming to age trash. The worst part of this whole thing, is that this is a small inner city college, set in a problematic urban area. I repeat, it was historically Black. This school wasn’t for me. I feel like I took an opportunity away from someone, that I cheapened the very spirit of that institution. I came to school hung over, did non-curricular activities, did NOT my best work, and received an ill-gotten degree, with a perfect GPA, only to fuck right off back to the rich, white suburban town that I lived in. I didn’t have to spend my free time breathing in stale, polluted air, walking through dangerous projects, fending for myself. I got to go home to a well lit, tree lined neighborhood, drink craft beer and port wine, and listen to my hipster friends play the banjo and hand drum on my front porch. It’s absolutely laughable.

Now, I can say that I love the poetry that comes out of the Black tradition, and that I learned a lot about myself and my writing from grad school, and that it sharpened my socio-ethnic world view, and none of that is a lie. I can say that I worked really hard during those years, and that I did complete the task at hand, and that is also true. At the end of the day, I didn’t give it my all, and worst of all, I felt like phony through the whole thing. Maybe because it wasn’t my idea, it wasn’t my passion. I got something that I didn’t ask for, and didn’t deserve. Now I get these accolades, like, “Oh wow, you have a Masters Degree, smart girl.” Or, “Oh, you are dedicated to your craft”, or worst yet, “Oh, African American literature, that’s so different.” I wear a mantle that I didn’t earn, and I am defined by these genre-bending qualities, and my background is so interesting and diverse, and it’s all such bullshit. I have words to use against the colonializers, words that I understand, that are so relevant and woke. I am the ultimate colonizer. I took from marginalized peoples what wasn’t mine, and I wear it like stripes of honor. I am like a white girl, hiding in a yellow coat, a thief of Black tradition. I am a fucking fraud, and I am ashamed of myself.

Sincerely,

Mei

Why do I feel like shit after talking to my dad? Long conversation full of triggers? Bad. Short innocuous conversation full of politeness? Bad. I feel guilty about not ever calling. I feel guilty that I really don’t want to talk. I feel badly that his world is so small. I feel guilty that I don’t get involved. I feel guilty about being an outsider. I feel guilty that I don’t care. But I do care, but I don’t. I’m afraid. The weight of being their caretaker, their prisoner, looms. It is inherent in every conversation. My parents don’t bring comfort, I need comfort after dealing with them. They make me feel so alone. I’ve always been alone in this, this fear. He used to be my lifeline. He let me down. Now I feel like I let them down. What a sad, stupid life this turned out to be.

Words to sum up this: Guilt. Bad. Resentment. Grief. Shame.

10/14/20

Dear Mom,

Last night, the thought of being a woman came up in my mind. I’ve written about this before, couple years ago, on this very blog. Exploring the idea of what a woman is, and if I am one. I’ve spent my whole life calling myself a girl, and thinking of myself as a girl. I’ve identified who women in my life are (you, and Mandy) and looked at the qualifications of what made y’all women, and how I stack up. Last night it occurred to me, that I am so very full grown, that I’m about to turn the corner of adult. If I am not a woman yet, well, I’m going to seem really goofy, really soon. Imagine a 45 year old, taking calcium supplements, saying, “Oh hi, I’m Ruth, I’m a girl.” Weird, and so creepy. I watched a video yesterday, a hair salon owner telling a racist client that her behavior was unacceptable, and to get out of her place of business. The owner was somewhere in her twenties, but man. She was so self assured, there was no question, no conflict between the side of her that is meant to give a service, and the side of her that is a human being. She spoke clearly, and had total conviction, even though she was obviously upset by the interaction. I thought, “Now that is a woman. That is someone who knows what her right is.” That person is not me. I take my roles seriously, and they have no bend to them. I know if the situation was mine, I would have bungled it up. I would have negotiated with myself, and I would have lost. What good are principles if you lack the strength of character to uphold them? I can rationalize this all day. I can say that in my occupation, it is hardwired in me to please my client, to take the hits, to smile through anything. I can say it’s not my fight, that I represent a company, and that my opinions can’t be voiced due to that association. And I would’ve be wrong about any of it. But the truth is that I have no spine, that I am a chronic people pleaser. Even if I were to take up the mantle of radical honesty, to speak my mind no matter what, I’d fuck that up too. Because things are absolute with me, I wouldn’t know the difference between screaming at an enemy versus screaming about my messed up coffee order. It would be all or nothing. This quality makes me feel diminutive, this makes me feel like a girl.

I was foraging in the woods yesterday, and I watched my brain automatically identify plants that six months ago, I didn’t know. I read the land, the trees, the flora and fauna like a book. I felt like I had cracked a code and now I knew how to weld a part of the natural world that most don’t. I did this through tedious, painstaking work. I felt absolutely confident in my identification skills. I felt like a woman then, a wild woman, surrounded by tools and armed with the knowledge to use them. I felt right in the world, a small moment of belonging. Very nearly a sense of righteousness in the silence.

I think of you as a woman, because you were a mother, and ran your household like a motherfucker. You were punishing, and your word was law.

I think of Mandy as a woman because she takes no shit, and she doesn’t care if she snubs people in her convictions.

I think of myself as a girl because I am uncertain, the rules of the world seldom make sense to me, and I feel small in it.

I guess my definition of woman is boundaries and a steadfastness.

I wish my definition of woman was kinder, more accepting. I wish there was room for me in that definition. I hope I find the woman inside me.

Sincerely yours,

Mei