#tentatively titled all the stains and things they wrote

[fallynleaf]

I'm trying to get my wrestling journal caught up, and am succeeding with mixed results. I wrote over 10k words on stuff from July alone, 4k of which were just about AEW Blood & Guts on July 19 (the Golden Lovers' first match back together since 2018). I've been toying with the thought of publishing that piece somewhere where people might actually read it, so I thought why not post it here?

(The usual disclaimer on my journal applies: please don't reprint any of these translations, as they're pretty rough and I haven't gotten them looked over by anyone.)

Kenny Omega & Kota Ibushi & “Hangman” Adam Page & Matt Jackson & Nick Jackson vs Konosuke Takeshita & Jon Moxley & Claudio Castagnoli & Wheeler Yuta & Pac

July 19

I’m at a loss of words to describe this match. Unfortunately, I’m at a loss of images, too. There is nothing I can put in this space that’ll do proper justice to the emotions I felt watching this. But I’ll try.

I don’t think Blood & Guts was the right match format for this story. There are simply too many moving pieces, too many distractions, too much for the cameras to keep up with. But pro wrestling teaches us to see things not as they are, but as they feel, so I will talk about how this match felt.

The feud between The Elite and the Blackpool Combat Club started a long time ago. So long ago that I can’t even pin down an exact start date in my memory. I suppose in some way, it started in the closing moments of the very first AEW show, when Mox made his surprise debut and breathed in his first taste of freedom, stained with Kenny’s blood.

Kenny vs Mox is such old history for AEW, it’s practically primordial. It’s in the company’s DNA.

Like many great wrestling feuds, there’s an ideological disagreement at the heart of this one, a disagreement concerning the fundamental nature of professional wrestling. More than anything, though, it’s about love.

Bryan Danielson said as much in the promo he cut on April 5 after the Blackpool Combat Club attacked Hangman on Dynamite. Interestingly, in this promo, Bryan seems to draw an equivalence between love and true professional wrestling. He treats them as one and the same. He talks about loving Mox, Claudio, and Yuta, whom he goes on to describe as “professionals” in contrast to the Elite, who are “amateurs”, and who don’t have love, or even understand the concept of it. 

To Hangman, he says: “And I love these men! I love these men! Do you know what? You don’t have anybody who loves you. Is anybody coming out from the back? No! Not a damn person! ‘Cause nobody loves this man! In fact, they don’t even know what love is! But I know what love is. In fact, when I’ve been at home, I’ve been teaching my kids a few things. A few things about how to fix up your house. And I think the house that is AEW needs to be fixed up. From all these amateurs.”

The house metaphor immediately caught my attention. It reminded me of an extended metaphor that Hangman employed in his monologue from episode 204 of Being The Elite, which was released on May 18, 2020, and which to this day remains one of the few pieces of art about the pandemic that I can actually tolerate. In his metaphor, he compares AEW to a house, and The Elite are both in the house and they are the house.

In Hangman’s own words: “I nearly won the prestigious ‘Man of the House’ award in May. I’d teamed up with our broom to clean the house better than anyone had ever swept it before. And I feel like I might have been starting to… patch up the holes of the walls of the house. The walls that made the house what it was in the first place.”

The Man of the House award is his failed attempt to become AEW World Champion in May 2019. Teaming up with the broom refers to his tag team with Kenny and their 6-star tag title match with the Young Bucks, which was considered by many people to be the best tag match in history. And the Elite are the walls. He’s talking about the slow, tentative process of repairing his relationship with the faction that quite literally made AEW.

I suppose in a very literal sense, The Elite are in AEW and also are AEW, in the sense that they’re the “Elite” in “All Elite Wrestling”. Hangman’s mixed metaphor is only as messy as reality.

The “AEW as a house” metaphor came up again two years later, on May 25, 2022, in a now infamous promo segment building up to Hangman vs CM Punk at Double or Nothing, where, with just two words, Hangman unknowingly set off a chain of events that would end up almost tearing the entire company apart, though no one realized it at the time.

He tells Punk: “You talk a big game about workers rights, yeah? Well, you’ve shown the exact opposite since you’ve gotten here. I love this place! I care about this place! This is my home! And this Sunday at Double or Nothing, I will not, I will not be defending this championship against you. No, for the first time in my life, I will be defending All Elite Wrestling from you.”

And Punk tells him: “Win, lose, or draw, I respect you, Hangman. But remember, those roads you traveled to get here? They were paved by me. This house that you built? It was constructed with lumber from trees that I chopped down. The world you traveled to get here, to create All Elite Wrestling, happened because I gave you the blueprint.”

Hangman fails to defend the championship against Punk. And in the months that follow, he fails to defend All Elite Wrestling from Punk, too. The philosophical divide was so true to reality and so exquisitely foreshadowed that it caused me to initially assume that the rumored backstage altercation between Punk and The Elite was part of an intricate work that connected back to this very promo. I was more right than I knew, but I didn’t know that the reason for the connection was not because it was a well-planned story, but because the conflict at the center of the story was real.

AEW is the house that Hangman built, and Punk says that it was made with lumber from trees that he chopped down. In saying so, he takes credit for The Elite’s work and implies that without them, he could simply fill the space left by their absence on his own.

But can he? Can anyone? Can there be an All Elite Wrestling without The Elite, or would the whole building crumble without its walls? For a few months in late 2022, we got to experience AEW without The Elite. It was not a particularly encouraging time for the company.

Which brings us here, to 2023. Bryan Danielson says that the house that is AEW needs to be fixed up. He doesn’t think the Elite can compare to the Blackpool Combat Club, not in terms of love or in terms of pro wrestling.

I’ll admit, when Bryan said that The Elite don’t even know what love is, I laughed. Kenny Omega has centered his entire wrestling career around love, to the point where “A Wrestling Love Story” is in the title of his documentary. I once heard someone sum him up by saying “in pro wrestling, you can choose to be whatever you want to be, and Kenny Omega chose to be in love.” 

Before he beat Kazuchika Okada to win the IWGP Heavyweight Championship in 2018 in what is widely considered to be the best match of his career, Kenny said: “I’m not saying that I’m arriving to this arena with a bunch of new moves, but I am saying that this version of Kenny Omega might be the most prepared. And a big part of that is because I’ve let someone back into my life that I cared about, that I loved, and that together with that power, we can’t lose.”

He says basically the same thing outside of kayfabe as well. In his documentary, he credits Kota’s support as being essential for preparing him physically and emotionally so that he’d be ready to pour his heart out in a match that he knew was going to last over an hour. Many of the hard lessons that his character had to learn about the pain of isolation and loneliness, and the redemptive power of love, are things that Kenny himself had struggled with.

In 2018, Kenny once gestured to Chuck Taylor and Trent Beretta, the Best Friends, and said “This is what friendship looks like.” Then he put his arm around Kota and said, “And this is what love looks like.” This is a man who knows what love is. He knows the pain of love as keenly as he knows the triumph and the sweetness of it.

In a way, I think of Kota not coming with Kenny to AEW as sort of the original heartbreak. It’s there in the background subtext of the entire major arc of AEW’s first chapter. It’s an unhealed wound that only leads to more hurt as time goes on.

Which brings us to Blood & Guts. The Blackpool Combat Club and The Elite are both lacking a 5th member for the match. The BCC has Jon Moxley, Claudio Castagnoli, and Wheeler Yuta, but not Bryan Danielson (who is out with an injury). Their fourth member is Konosuke Takeshita, who is fighting with a single-minded purpose, which is to surpass Kenny Omega. Their fifth member later turns out to be Pac, who has no real immediate story reason to be there, besides past grudges. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and all that.

The Elite has Kenny Omega, Hangman Adam Page, and Matt and Nick Jackson. I can’t recall the precise moment I knew that Kota Ibushi would be their fifth member, but it was before the Blood & Guts match was even announced.

The moment I knew for sure, though, was when I saw this clip, which was filmed after Dynamite on July 5. Speaking to the crowd, Kenny says that during the week when his whereabouts were unknown, he didn’t stay home, and he didn’t go to Canada. “But where I went was for a good old friend, someone who is very near and dear to my heart.” He smiles when he says that last part, and his smile alone is a dead giveaway.

If there was any remaining doubt, this article by Michael Nakazawa on the DDT site cleared it up for me. The article sums up Konosuke Takeshita’s AEW story, which of course I know very well, but I wanted to see Nak’s take on it. This part was another giveaway that Kota Ibushi was going to be the 5th person on The Elite’s side: "そして竹下が抜け一人欠けたジ・エリート側には誰が入るのか？DDTファンにとっては竹下とケニーという顔合わせは見逃せないものになるだろう。(ここで多く触れるつもりはないがジ・エリート側の伏せられたメンバーとの顔合わせも見逃せないものになるだろう。) " (“And with Takeshita out, The Elite are down a member. Who will fill in on their side? DDT fans won’t want to miss the face-off between Takeshita and Kenny. (I’m not going to touch on it too much, but I’m sure that the confrontation with the unknown member of The Elite is also something not to be missed.”)

On July 12, the week before Blood & Guts, they reveal the 5th member of the Elite’s team. The Blackpool Combat Club has Kenny at their mercy, a chair around his neck. Mox offers him the microphone so that he can say his last words. Kenny says, “We still have a fifth member, too.��� He’s laughing, even though he struggles to breathe. “Check the screen. Check the screen, you bitch.” The look on his face is absolutely serene.

The arena goes dark. Kota’s new music plays, though the crowd doesn’t recognize it. But everyone cheers when he shows up onscreen. I’d been wondering if a Canadian crowd would be more familiar with Kota Ibushi than an American one, since I’ve heard that the TV station that AEW airs on frequently plays Kenny’s documentary, so many regular AEW watchers in Canada likely have seen it. This crowd certainly knows who he is.

At the end of the video, The Elite is now listed as the Golden Elite instead.

The lights turn back on. The Young Bucks and Hangman are here now, ready to save Kenny. As the Blackpool Combat Club clears out of the ring, Kenny picks up the mic. He says, “We might be one man down, but we’re never out. Next week, Blood & Guts, we’re gonna show you guys it’s more than about fighting, it’s more than about your kill-jitsu; this is about more than that. Heart, passion, soul, friendship, love.” He smiles as he says love, his voice almost breaking.

He knows they’ve already won. Kota Ibushi is coming, and it’s all going to be okay.

After the reveal, Kota tweeted about it (he also posted it in English). That “AEW見ていたよ、ずっとね” (“I’ve been watching AEW, this whole time”) line in particular, I am overcome. I don’t even know how to put into words what it felt like to read that. Golden Lovers fans have been waiting four long years for Kota Ibushi to make an AEW appearance.

I don’t think any of us expected it would be anything like this.

Kota arrived in the US a few days before the match. He tweeted a photo of him and Kenny and Nak at Kenny’s house, which still feels utterly surreal to me. 

And here at last we’ve reached the match.

I’m going to preface this by saying that AEW did a spectacularly bad job with the production on this match, which isn’t exactly unusual for them, but I’m less forgiving with this one. I think every single time the Golden Lovers started interacting, the camera basically immediately cut away. It’s hard to interpret it as intentional malice, considering how bad their usual production is, but it was jarring how little the production team seemed to understand what people actually wanted to see here.

The photos on the official website are also an incredibly poor selection (Kota and Takeshita aren’t in a single one of them), which seems to be a theme with every Blood & Guts show. And because AEW bans fan photography, if Scott Lesh isn’t there, and the official photographers drop the ball, we’re basically entirely out of luck. I got desperate enough, I actually attempted the bold and unprecedented strategy of just asking AEW for access to more photos. I couldn’t get them retroactively, unfortunately, but I should have more photos for shows going forward.

The whole thing made me extra appreciative of the work of Japanese fan photographers, who are so good at not only capturing vivid and dynamic photographs of moves, but who also capture the quieter moments, like exchanges between wrestlers at the corner. A lot of pro wrestling lives in those quiet moments, not in the bloody violence or flashy athleticism.

I think fundamentally that’s where me and this match were at odds. I was watching for the quiet moments, and what AEW thought they were delivering to viewers was the blood and violence.

In the end, the Golden Lovers were only one of like a dozen things that were going on in this match. So ultimately, it wasn’t really about them. I’m more at peace with that fact now at the time of writing, over a month after the match, than I was when I watched the match live. I think when you’ve waited so long for something that means so much to you, it’s almost impossible not to be disappointed when you finally get that thing, because it’s competing with all of the versions of it that played out in your head.

Kenny entered first for their team, and Kota entered last. The two of them were the bookends for the Golden Elite, the beginning and the end, containing the entirety of the faction between them. Kenny wore fully Kota Ibushi themed gear, so the two of them matched. The Young Bucks and Hangman had their own set of matching gear, which was white and purple in contrast to the Golden Lovers’ white and blue (I’m sure this divide won’t become important later).

Leading up to this match, the Blackpool Combat Club had repeatedly had The Elite’s number. They’d beaten them up more times than I can count, had mutilated them with screwdrivers, and had dragged Kenny through the hell of Don Callis’s and Takeshita’s betrayal.

But now The Elite had their secret weapon. They were finally whole again.

From the second act onward, as soon as Kota Ibushi, the final member, made his entrance, the story of the match was that the Golden Elite needed him to save them. Whenever things started going too badly for them, he’d come in and change the course of the match so that it was in their favor. Every time.

I think my favorite spot in the match involved this horrific bed of nails which turned out to actually be a bed of screwdrivers. Very thematically apt. Mox was laid out on it, and Kota approached him, and I knew immediately what he was about to do, yet still gasped when he actually did it. He did his trademark standing moonsault, his knees impacting directly with Mox’s chest, driving Mox’s body deeper into the screwdriver heads.

The Golden Lovers reunited over Mox’s prone body. They reached for each other in relief, and I looked to see their expressions, my heart pounding, and the camera had already cut away from them.

Some other things I remember: Matt Jackson poured a sack of thumbtacks down from the roof of the cage into the ring, and Pac stomped Nick Jackson through a table in a dramatic spot that looked far better in the replays than it had in the original shot. Mox brought the wild violence probably more than anyone else in the match.

I wish we’d gotten a little more with Takeshita and Kota, as it was their first time sharing a ring together in many years. But this match wasn’t really about that, either.

In the final minutes of the match, Pac and Claudio get into an argument, then Pac cuts his losses and bails. Don Callis pulls Takeshita out shortly after, realizing that their side is almost definitely losing. The match has now become a 5-on-3.

The Golden Elite unleash everything they have left onto poor Wheeler Yuta. Then they hoist him up with the chain around his neck, and he starts to pass out. The referee calls for the bell. I didn’t realize exactly what had happened at first, because the production failed to show it, but it was actually Mox who had ended the match. He surrendered to save Yuta.

Someone summed up the story very succinctly in a discord screenshot from somewhere. A person with the display name “V….” said: “So in the end the story is that despite how much conflict the Elite have had over the years when the time came, they were the ultimate cohesive unit and the BCC, despite how much they crow about being professionals and loving each other, had to rely on mercenaries that coincidentally had grudges against the Elite that bailed because they didn’t have as much skin in the game and in the end Moxley, a man who tries to portray himself as nothing but violent and merciless, had to surrender to save his protege in practically a perfect mirror of him submitting to Hangman at Revolution.”

For once, I actually found myself in near perfect agreement with what seems to be the IWC’s general consensus of the story of that match. I really liked how my friend described it: “mox literally had to surrender to love in more ways than one”.

The end of the match ran up against the end of their TV timeslot, the enemy of televised wrestling in America, though we did get one final shot of the Golden Lovers together right as the show went off the air. The post-match stuff didn’t quite make it onto the show, but some fans captured video of it. Kenny spoke on the mic for a bit, and one of the things he said is that we’ll probably be seeing Kota in AEW again.

Kota was unfortunately at a pretty severe disadvantage this whole match for several reasons. This was only his third match since coming back from his 2021 injury, for one thing, and it was much more demanding than either of his GCW matches in March. It was also a match style he was not at all accustomed to, and it was his first time wrestling in AEW. 

We found out in a tweet he made later that he hadn’t realized that his normal wrestling shoes wouldn’t be well-suited for the match, so the thumbtacks and glass pierced through his shoes and hurt him throughout the match. Reminds me a bit of the original Little Mermaid story, where every step the mermaid takes on land hurts…

He didn’t actually come in contact much with the thumbtacks during the match itself, besides the ones that made it through his shoes. The thumbtacks in the photo in the above tweet came into play after the match. When they went off the air, Kota intentionally threw himself onto the thumbtacks, just for fun. Kenny had a pretty funny reaction, haha. He looked at him like he knew he’d be the person picking every single one of those tacks out of Kota’s back later.

And sure enough, Being The Elite featured a clip of Kenny doing exactly that. They talk briefly in Japanese while Kenny’s taking the tacks out of Kota’s back. Here’s a transcription of the Japanese. I love how Kenny takes care of Kota before getting his own wounds tended to, despite his own back being in far worse shape.

Kota explained the reason why he jumped into the tacks in a reply to El Desperado (English translation) (Despy also recently took a totally unnecessary tack bump himself). Since it was Kota’s first time in AEW, he decided to take a bump onto the tacks in lieu of a greeting. I think he knew that he really had to do something memorable to leave a strong impression in the minds of all of the American fans who’d never seen him before, so this is what he chose to do. It did make me smile seeing the reactions from Japanese fans. As soon as that moment happened, a lot of Japanese fans on twitter were like, “yep, that’s him; Kota Ibushi is back”.

After the match, apparently all ten of the guys in it were visibly emotional that they’d gotten that chance to wrestle each other, and Matt Jackson had them all sign one of his shoes so that he had a memento to remember the occasion by.

In Kenny’s unaired post-match promo, he says, “I'm a lover, not a fighter. You guys don't know by now, I'm a lover, not a fighter. There's one thing I learned throughout this rivalry of ours. When push comes to shove, you guys are as tough as they come. You taught us what it means to not only be a professional wrestler, but to be a wrestler.” He says, “I'm willing to stick my hand out and shake yours if you guys wanna let bygones be bygones, because love you or freaking hate you, Moxley, love you or hate you, Claudio, love you or hate your ugly ass [to Wheeler Yuta], I respect each and every one of you.”

And that’s that. The end of the feud. 

In an interview, Claudio said what they wanted to come across was that: “We lost that battle, but we won the war. Thanks to the Blackpool Combat Club, now The Elite is better than ever. We brought them to a place they’ve never been.”

In a way, the BCC did end up fixing up the house that is AEW. They patched up the walls by bringing the Golden Elite back together, thus repairing the original heartbreak that was what caused the cracks to form initially. The Golden Elite is the best version of The Elite. It is their truest form, shining with love.

https://www.instagram.com/p/CvC9uVHOHJZ/

https://twitter.com/JJWilliamsWON/status/1682966137187778560

[asmolbirb]

Pairing: Geralt & Jaskier, gen Word count: ~1k Warnings: angst Notes: as i mentioned in this post, i couldn’t stop thinking of “two minutes” by the amazing devil as jaskier’s reaction to his fight with geralt in rare species, and i finally managed to write a ficlet exploring that idea. i feel like i’m just going to end up writing a fic to every single the amazing devil song because they’re all so emotional and incredible for inspiration lmao. 

anyway, this is super unbeta’d and unedited, so this is still pretty raw both emotionally and creatively. sorry if there are any mistakes! idk if i’m going to toss this on ao3 as well, so please lmk if you’d like me to. 

***

Jaskier drops heavily onto the bench across from Geralt, as though the earth’s pull has increased twofold in an instant and Jaskier is helpless but to follow. He drains his mug in one long pull, grimaces as he thunks it down on the table, and gestures to the barmaid for another. While he waits for her to walk over, he pulls Geralt’s mug out of his hand and drains that as well. 

Soon a third mug is deposited in front of him, and a fourth in front of Geralt when Geralt turns a glare onto the barmaid. He expects Jaskier to bestow the same treatment on this drink as he had on the others, but instead Jaskier cradles the drink with both hands, his fingers interlaced, and stares into it as though it contains the lyrics to Jaskier’s next great masterpiece. 

In all this, not once does Jaskier look at Geralt. 

Geralt takes a long pull from his own drink, both to keep it out of Jaskier’s thieving hands and to avoid looking at the other man. Jaskier’s silence, once so coveted, now chafes. It’s a discomfort Geralt doesn’t want to examine too closely, so he ignores it, and it fades into the great tangle of bad feelings currently taking up residence behind his sternum. 

Finally, without preamble, Jaskier says, “Let’s not do this whole song and dance where you pretend you meant what you said and I pretend the words didn’t sting and we go on acting like we are simply strangers whose paths crossed through happenstance.

“I did mean them, I’m sure you’re planning to say,” Jaskier interjects, approximating a poor rendition of Geralt’s gravelly tone, before Geralt can say— well, exactly that. “To which I say, bollocks! You didn’t mean them. I know this because I know you. You don’t care for blessings or destiny or wishes, and if you had wanted me taken off your hands, you’d have done it yourself long before now.” He pulls one hand away from his mug to count with his fingers. “You could have pushed me into a ravine, maybe, or used me as monster bait, or simply ridden off and left me to plod along, steedless. But you didn’t.”

Geralt resists the urge to look away from Jaskier and settles for thinning his lips instead. Jaskier isn’t entirely wrong; even through the irritation thrumming like icefire beneath his skin, Geralt can admit he has had myriad opportunities to separate himself from Jaskier over the years. There is no logical explanation for why Jaskier is once again sat across from Geralt, rubbing salt into Geralt’s wounds with every word he says.

“So you don’t get to do this,” Jaskier insists, though his tone is still conversational, as though he is commenting on the fair weather or the cut of a woman’s bodice. “You don’t get to act like you’re not equally at fault for every complication that has entered your life — myself included. I may have shoveled the shit, but you’re the one who stood there and let me. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, mighty Witcher, but I have waded in after you every time to pull you out and clean you up again, with no regard for the shit staining my own trousers in the process.”

Jaskier swallows. He lowers his free hand to the tabletop, where his fingers begin drumming a constant tattoo against the surface. Slowly, as though he is tasting his words before releasing them, he continues, “I don’t expect you to apologize. I’m happy to play the fool, even now. That’s my role, isn’t it, in this two-man melodrama that we call our lives? I’ve been thinking, though, about what I said to you after Borch fell, and quite frankly, I am getting too old to deprive myself of the things that please me.”

Geralt stills at that. He had forgotten, between Jaskier’s inscrutably youthful looks and his stubborn insistence on surviving encounters that really ought to kill him, that Jaskier is human, with a lifespan a fraction of Geralt’s own. Jaskier will be dead long before Geralt reaches the midpoint of his own existence, Geralt realizes suddenly. If Jaskier had taken Geralt’s words to heart and disappeared before Geralt finally made the trek back down the mountain, Jaskier may have died with Geralt’s parting sally being the last thing Geralt ever said to him.

The thought makes Geralt’s stomach turn, though whether in vindictive pleasure or bitter remorse, Geralt doesn’t know.

“For example,” Jaskier is saying as Geralt tries fruitlessly to beat back the maelstrom currently swirling in his head. “Sleeping in open fields and shaded woods, the stars forming a glimmering tapestry overhead, without knowing what the next day will bring. A professionally crafted lute slung round my neck, its strings loose and familiar between my fingers, as a merry crowd claps and dances along. And your grumpy face peering at me from across the campfire, and ignoring me from Roach’s back, and telling me about monsters and adventures I could never imagine. 

“If you do not want me, then I will gladly leave you to brood alone while I set out to take the rest in whatever form I can find it. But life is short, Geralt, moreso for me than you, and — Melitele preserve me — I’d like to spend mine divesting you of the shit in which you so often find yourself.” Jaskier smiles ruefully. “Even the shit I’ve shoveled.”

Geralt still has not moved. He feels somewhat like he has taken all of his potions at once, and the world is splintering around him while he fights to regain his balance. 

“If you slip out without a word, I won’t fault you, and you shan’t hear from me again,” Jaskier says after a long moment. “But if you can find it in your heart to grant me one more chance, come find me, dear Witcher, and I’ll follow you without a word. A few harsh insults won’t succeed in banishing me where selkiemore guts and prolonged silence have failed, so let’s leave all that back at the dragon’s cave, yeah? I think I can forgive you, if you forgive me in turn.”

Finally Jaskier puts the mug he has been cradling all this time to his lips, and his throat pulses as he swallows. When he is finished, he sets it down next to the other empty mugs and stands, a smile stretching his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, though a casual observer would not know the difference.

Without ever having looked at Geralt, Jaskier turns to the bar, throws his arms out in invitation, and exclaims, “Who wants to hear a song, eh? The mighty bard Jaskier graces this lovely establishment tonight, eager to delight and enthrall, to make music and merry both!” 

Without ever having said a word, Geralt watches him leave. 

[after-witch]

Pinned [Yandere Shigaraki x Secretary!Reader]

Title: Pinned [Yandere Shigaraki x Secretary!Reader]

Synopsis: You’ve given him a kink and isn’t that your fault, really? Follow up to “Office Hours.”

For request:

-I can’t stop thinking about your secretary fic, I think it gave me a tickling kink that I never knew I had. I would absolutely love it if you wrote some more of creepy Shigaraki and his captive secretary!]

Word Count: 1334

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, tickling, just some kink PWP

You’ve given him a kink. 

Okay. 

A few kinks. 

And maybe they were dormant inside him all along but seeing you in your stockings and heels and that fucking blouse when it gets translucent and sweat-soaked underneath his fingers--you complained about the sweat but shit, it can be thrown in a washer if you really care that much--has awakened something in him. An itch that only you can scratch--or rather, an itch that he only wants to scratch with you. And sometimes that scratch is literal, depending on his mood.

Which is why he’s staring at you now. You’re sitting at the desk he’d found on the street, a scratched up ratty thing with a bum leg that someone was throwing out. Your fingers are flying over the keys of the laptop--his laptop, but he’s nice enough to let you use it, WiFi disabled of course--and who knows what you’re typing but what you’re typing isn’t actually important.

As long as as he can focus on the way your back arches in the uncomfortable chair, the way you idly slip a heel off and flex your stockinged foot, the swishing sound your skirt keeps making when you shift against the tattered leather seat. You were trying to drive him crazy, weren’t you? You had to be. Every sound, every movement, designed to make him want you. Need you.

Fuck, you were perfect.

He’s glad more and more that he took you, rescued you, really, from that shitty hero you called a “boss.” Hypocritical asshole. If Tomura hadn’t acted first, that lowlife do-nothing (seriously, you could’ve aimed for a higher caliber of hero) was surely aiming to get you into bed. Maybe he was spiking the orange juice at your boring little brunches. Maybe he would have told you he’d help your career if you “helped him.” What a sicko.

You’ve slipped both of your black heels off entirely and fuck, fuck, fuck. He presses his knuckles to his mouth and groans and your eyes dart to him and away and that’s it, he can’t sit here, half-paying attention to a video game anymore. He sets the controller down and he sees right away that your body is tensing up, wondering what he’s up to; well, you’ll see, won’t you? You were practically begging him to come over there, so you shouldn’t be surprised.

“Tomura--”

Your voice is sweet and he knows you want him to go sit back down, so you can work--”work”--but he just can’t. You’re making it impossible for him to leave you alone. Can he help it if the way you keep glancing at him, pretending you don’t care (but you don’t) what he’s going to do sends a thrill down his stomach?

And you really tense up once he makes up his mind what to do, plopping down on the stained carpet and ducking his head under the desk. You make to tuck your legs behind the chair, but you’re too slow, and he gets a firm grip on one of your feet easily.

“Tomura,” you say again, urgency overpowering the sweetness.

“Quiet,” he tells you. “Just keep working.”

Your foot seems made to fit in his hand, and no matter how you try to pull away, his grip stays firm. He wonders if it ever dawns on you that his hands can do so much worse than tickle. Not to you, though, never to you. Not that he lets you know that--a little threat in the air is needed, particularly when you’re being stubborn. It’s not like he can threaten to dock your pay if you don’t fall in line, right?

“Come on,” you whine, when he brings up his other hand and begins to stroke your foot, up and down, deceptively patient on his part. Your foot curls as much as possible and he can hear your breath, hitching and huffing.

This is his favorite part. When you try to block it out--when you’re surely thinking that maybe this time you can hold out long enough, and he’ll get bored and go back to gaming.

You’re silly.

He’ll never get bored of you.

He also knows that you can never make it that long without giving in. All it takes is a bit of digging, itching into the nylon with a single finger, and there--like always--you break, and your bubbling, beautiful little laugh makes his stomach do flips. Whatever feeble typing you were doing before ceases entirely in favor of your hands banging on the desk, pounding helplessly on the wood.

Fuck.

Do you know what you do to him?

Fuck.

He’s chewing on his bottom lip before he knows it and there’s a bit of blood in his smile as he glances up, almost pensive, not wanting to look straight up your skirt like some kind of perv.

“T-T--Tomura,” you grind out, voice fizzy and light and breathy and laughing. “Please-stop-please-stop,” and he can’t see your face but he bets your eyes are squeezed shut, bets the eye makeup is running a bit, bets your mouth is stretched wide and he wishes he could be up there and down here at the same time so he could kiss you.

He’ll have to get you on the couch if he wants to do that.

A quick glance up, the sight of your nyloned thighs underneath the skirt rubbing together as you squirm on the chair, is all he needs to change positions.

Your sigh in relief when he lets your foot ago, and when he gets out from under the table he can see that he was right--your mouth is still slightly curved in a helpless smile and your makeup’s a bit runny and your breathing in and out, catching your breath underneath that slightly sweaty white blouse. How, how, how did that dipshit hero who hired you not bend you over his desk the first day you walked into the office?

Not that it matters. Not that your former employer matters. Not that anyone should matter to you anymore but Shigaraki Tomura, right?

He feels your muscle tense up, tight and wary, but decides to be gracious and ignore it as he looms behind you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and inhaling your scent. A glance at the laptop screen shows what you were writing--I’mboredI’mboredI’mboredI’mbored, how cute; but he wastes no more time before leaning forward to shut the laptop and pull the chair--and you-- backwards, until the back of the gaming chair rests solidly against his chest.

The sound you make as as gravity pulls you down can only be described (affectionately) as a squawk, and your throat looks smooth and exposed as you stare up at him, probably hoping the chair doesn’t fall out from under you. You’re so damn cute. Hot. Perfect. His.

“Couch or chair?” He asks, and your eyes dart around for a third option that doesn’t exist. You bite on your lip, cherry red smearing a bit on your tooth.

“Couch,” you practically sigh the words out of your mouth. You start to lift yourself out the chair and pause, tentative. “Tomura?”

He hmms, only half paying attention, instead focusing on the way your body looks as you finally slide out of the chair and perch yourself on the couch in anticipation.

“Keep your damn fingers out of my armpits this time.”

He won’t make any promises.

[chemist-ana]

Ahoy there tumblr-verse. @txemrn and @kat-tia801 and I decided we had nothing better to do last night except drink and write. So as a nerd, I spent my Friday the 13th writing something super fun. And naughty. So we all had a little fun (hopefully there are some others that decided to join us because it’s open to all!!!) seriously check out their stories like NOW.

Once again I wrote for Open Heart. My lovely Scarlett and Ethan have made another appearance. Another angsty- NSFW smutty story with the ever famous Ethan Ramsey. We had a prompt and the only rules were, we had to be AT LEAST buzzed. Oh! And we also had to continue to drink while we wrote.

Book: Open Heart (definitely post book 3)

Characters: Ethan Ramsey x (F!) Scarlett Hunter

Series Warning: Please for the love of god, understand that I am over the age of 21 and am in no way condoning underage or over drinking to the point of being sick, blacking out, or worse. Want to participate? Message me or @txemrn!

Chapter Warning: 🍋 NSFW 18+

Word Count: 645

Prompt will be in bold: Spread your legs. I want to know how turned on I made you.

Title: Surprise

A/N: I was 100% faded when I wrote this so please take that into consideration when it comes to the grammatical errors that are definitely apparent.

“My god, you are stunning.” His hands delicately traced the curves of my satin draped waist down to my hips before he dug his fingers in tight, drawing me tightly against his strong chest. “Are you sure we have to go tonight?” He growled as his deep blue eyes lingered on my red stained lips.

“And miss the chance to watch you in action? Not a chance, Doc.” I purred as I straightened his lapels. I spread my fingers across the planes of his chest and he groaned as my hands trailed down towards the waistcoat of his tux. “Besides, you know what it does to me, watching you speak in front of all those people.” I drug my teeth across my bottom lip and his eyes darkened like the deepest depths of the sea.

He reached one hand up, his palm gently cupping my cheek as his thumb traced across my lip, pulling it from my teeth. “The things I do for you.” He shook his head, taking a tentative step back.

A smile curved my lips. “Yeah, yeah, because you love me. Let’s go before we’re late.” I grabbed his hand and drug him towards the door of our hotel suite as his deep baritone laugh vibrated through me.

***

I chewed on my bottom lip as I watched him work his magic, squeezing my thighs together as everything below my waist clenched. He had the entire attendance of this prestigious gathering of hospital chiefs eating right out of the palm of his expensive hands. And it was doing wicked things to my body.

His ocean eyes met mine across the expanse of the crowd and the corners of his lips turned up knowingly. The man knew what he did to me. I clung to my champagne glass like it was an anchor as I shifted between my red bottom stilettos impatiently. The room exploded into roaring applause and I shook my head with a smile as he graciously stepped off the stage, his eyes fixed on me.

I watched him wind his way through the countless elite doctors who tried to stop him to sing their praises, but he shrugged them off, his dark gaze settled on mine as every one of his long strides brought him closer to me.

My breath left my lungs in a rush as he came to a stop in front of me. He leaned closer to me and his lips brushed the shell of my ear as everything else faded away.

“Let’s go.”

“Mhm. Yes.” I murmured breathlessly as he grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the exit. All eyes were still on Ethan, but neither of us cared anymore.

***

My back slammed against the closed door of our suite as my lips pressed passionately against his. Our tongues were dipping and tasting each other. And he tasted so damn good. Electricity arced between us, the instinctive recognition that we had been made to fit together perfectly.

I wrapped my legs around him at the same time that he lifted me effortlessly into his strong arms. I felt him move through the room and I gasped as he dropped me down onto the bed.

“Mmm, I need to know what other sounds I can elicit from those beautiful lips of yours tonight.” His voice sent shivers through me as I watched his nimble fingers undo the buttons of his dress shirt, shrugging off the expensive silk to expose his rippling muscles. He rolled his lips as his eyes scaled down my body.

“Spread your legs. I want to know how turned on I made you. How wet you are for me.”

I complied, willingly as his eyes fell to my exposed cunt. A groan leaves his lips.

“No panties?” His hands ball into fists at his sides.

I shook my head with a devilish grin. “Surprise.”

Perma Tag: @txemrn @secretaryunpaid @pixie88 @thefrenchiemama @shewillreadyou @melalicious8383 @somersetmummy @sfb123 @mainstreetreader @nestledonthaveone @jerzwriter @adiehardfan @khoicesbyk @forallthatitsworth @quixoticdreamer16 @kachrisberry @kat-tia801

OH tags: @headoverheelsforramsey @izzyourresidentlawyer @irisofpurple

[trekkiepirate]

TOP FIVE The Amazing Devil lyrics!

YOU ALSO MADE THIS HARD HOW DARE YOU YOU MAY MAKE IT UP TO ME BY LISTENING TO LOVE RUN AND SCREAMING ABOUT NEW YORK TORCH SONG WITH ME, MEI MEI.

1. Welcome to the storm/I am thunder/welcome to my table/bring your hunger (it was my gateway lyric, the one I listened to a bajillion times in a song I listened to a million times until I finally bought the album so Bandcamp would let me listen without limits and started down the path of being a TAD nerd/Dear Heart) - The Horror And The Wild

2. It’s like all the wallpaper inside my heart/is slowly slowly peeling off/and I’m showing all the stains and things/they wrote on the wall before (I mentioned this a bit in the songs list, but when I was very sick, like sauntering vaguely towards literally dying, all I could do was lay and stare at my wallpaper in my childhood bedroom, so I built this image of my heart, covered in wallpaper to hide the pain I was in and the heartaches I’d had, and the dark parts of me, slap some pretty floral wallpaper on it so no one would see how very much I was hurting and wanted to give up already and die. When I heard this line, I had to pause the damn song and cry. Like, pause the song, slowly get up from my work desk and make my way to the bathroom in the building and just go into a stall and lean on the wall a bit and cry. How Joey Batey could write something like that, speaking so completely to a very private part of myself, cracked me open enough for the absolute LOVE I have for TAD to come flowing in) - Two Damn Minutes

3. I promise you I’m not broken/I promise you there’s more/more to come, more to reach for/ more to hurl at the door/goodbye to all my darkness/there’s nothing here but light/adieu to all the faceless things that sleep with me at night/this here is not makeup it’s a porcelain tomb/and this here is not singing I’m just screaming in tune (basically all of Farewell Wanderlust is utterly fantastic, but this part is so good for just singing at the top of my lungs, it’s hopeful and dark and emotional and gorgeous and if I ever meet Joey Batey, I may have to kiss his forehead just to get close to kissing the beautiful brain that came up with it, well with all these lyrics, well just because it’s a cute forehead on a perfect, stupid face and I wanna kiss him) - Farewell Wanderlust

4. Though some would harm you/none not one no none/would raise to you a hand nor thumb/not while by you I stand and hum (1. I am GONNA write the fic that needs that last bit as a the title one day; 2. it’s just utterly gorgeous and the rhythm of it and the way it feels when you sing it, this whole bit is *chefs kiss*) - Not Yet/Love Run

5. Burying her head into his chest and clinging to the moment, ‘where have you been?’/She’ll whisper ‘I’ve waited oh so long for you to come’/And as the stars above them hum and hear them/he’ll turn to her and say ‘that’s what she said’ (1. I really think the entirety of Fair is the best love song I have ever heard in my life and I want to find someone who makes me live it but this bit is so funny and cute and perfect, 2. when I read a comment to Dandelion/Jaskier in the books: “maybe the ability to go from touching lyricism to obscenity so easily is a talent” I thought of this line and just yelled IT IS AND JOEY BATEY GOT IT IN SPADES HE WAS BORN TO BE JASKIER) -Fair

Honourable mentions (Like I could only choose 5 C’MON Y’ALL KNOW ME AND YOU’RE LUCKY I JUST DOUBLED IT AND I DIDN’T PICK A LYRIC FROM EACH SONG COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS LIEBLINGS):

5. And they’re telling jokes/tell ‘em that one about two men in a tent/laughs out loud at mine/do you like my accent, like my accent? (mostly because telling the joke this references is always fun and I got to tell it to Jason Ritter and it was one of the best moments of last year for me when he chuckled a bit) - Pruning Shears

6. Could be ghosts or monsters or a robot vampire I dunno (It’s just silly and fun and I love it muchly, also hella fun to sign) - Wild Blue Yonder

7. Pray for me cause I won’t pray for you (this just speaks to the former Catholic school kid I was, and also I would 100% not be surprised if Joey grew up in a Catholic/Christian school too because this whole song seems just FEELS like someone who grew up in that world and had a few too many questions about it for the other people to be cool with, like I did, but I may be projecting) - Pray

8. Sing me awake with a song about pirates (Grabs the lyrics to “Shipful of Monsters” JOEY I CAN 100% DO THIS IF YOU’D LIKE *wink and eyebrow waggle*) - Not Yet/Love Run

9. I am above you, And I love you, don’t you know/That I’ll be with you all along, as long as you are kind/To those who are not strong and cannot find their scarlet welly boots (this line has been comfort and pain and fire and balm to the soul wound left by my beloved grandma’s death) - Welly Boots

10. Every moon in the sky/Every promise and lie/all hell and its fire waits for us (I just love the rhythm of this 10/10 would recommend tossing your head back and sing-screaming this at the sky)

Honourable Honourable mention to the way Joey Batey growls “No, no, not I” in That Unwanted Animal and single-handedly claimed all the tiny fragments of sexual attraction my gray-ace ass was allotted for the next decade

[hungryflowers]

You’re Different Backstage

Title: You’re Different Backstage

Rating: Explicit (NSFW)

Continuity/Fandom: Balan Wonderworld

Character Relationship(s): “Balance” Balan/Lance

Character(s): Balan, Lance

A/N: This is going to be my FIRST NSFW submission for this fandom. Do not come at me with the torches, pitch forks, knives or shotguns. I, very recently, sent myself down the rabbit hole of Balance (Balan/Lance) and kept wondering: how nice would it be to see some good ol’ fashion sexy time with the two of them? Since no one has done it yet, I thought, why don’t I? What’s stopping me? Who can stop me? NOBODY!!! So I did this. And it took me 10 days to do, so please accept my thing!! Also, also, this will probably be the longest porn w/o plot I’ve ever written. Hence why it took nearly ten days. The editing alone was bananas!! Another thing, I’d like to apologize in advance if I offend anyone here who is Non-Binary or go by They/Them pronouns. Since Lance is canonically non-binary, I tried to keep it as close to the orientation as possible. This was real hard as I usually default to male pronouns for both of them. 

However, I didn’t do the same for Balan, as he does tend to go by more male pronouns than Lance does even though they are also androgynous in appearance. Maestro is a more masculine term even if neither of them actually are. Another big thing: Balan’s genitals here. Since they don’t have actual default genitalia, I like to think that he has the ability to oscillate his genitals. He can have male and female parts just not at the same time. With that out of the way, please indulge in this steamy lil’ fan fic. And yes, I take criticism.  

Other/Warning(s): Massive smut warning!! Penetrative sex, Oral and Cunnilingus, Some minor swearing, graphic depictions of sexual situations as well as multiple orgasms.  

Lance didn’t enjoy setting the ‘mood’ as others had assumed it. They weren’t  deeply inclined to romantic, or sappy gestures like the better half of themselves had been. Balan seemed better at the sentimental side of affirmations of love and adoration. Or of praises and well-wishes that devolved into lasting conversations of love and happiness. 

No. No such things came out of Lance. They never gave in the way Balan would crave it. All they have ever wished for in turn was the physical catharsis of those suppressed feelings. Lance never called it love. Far be it from them to say what it wasn’t, but call it what it is. For them, it was just sex. The debasing art form of it too; bed-rocking, sloppy and wet, body tingling sex. That kind one would have as a means to purge the physical, mental garbage of the day and get back to work. The sex that revolved around more the need to take and not deal in the emotional ramifications. Lance’s fangs would draw in a wicked grin, the idea of that perfect, lasting till the morning time sex rarely sounding so bad. They had raptured, fantasized of the feel of Balan’s more delicate, tender frame mashed into theirs as he was ridden to a mind-blowing high that could leave them both speechless for a long while. 

They would languish in these thoughts. The perverse nature of them driving him to do insane things in search of the release from the monstrous, bone-rattling ache. For now, Lance busied themselves to look away... their thoughts hazy and muddled with the resurfacing gnaw of pursuing pleasure. Their mouth ducked into their tattered caplet, hiding the baring growl that prickled at those lips. Soft, ocean-colored eyes hardened with shock, and some surprise as they locked with Balan’s. They must’ve been so entranced with the inner turmoil, Lance never registered the glance the maestro was giving them. The Maestro of Wonderworld’s presence did things to Lance. Things they acknowledged and didn’t like. Gods, who decided to torment them so by making this being so damned beautiful and siren-like? How dare he sit with an air so casual, it appeared nothing ever bothered him? Damn him. Damn his soft, luscious and devilish curves; feminine in some ways while masculine in others. But moreover, damn those goddamn large and intelligent yellow eyes.

Golden pools shimmered deliciously in the lamplight of the slow evening. The theater was always quiet at night. It was period of reflection, relaxation. Or maybe a time to finish some old project. Maybe begin anew. For Balan tonight however, it was his time to catch up on a few good reads. He hadn’t picked up a good novel in some time. Usually the only papers he read were his rough drafts of scripts and plans. But he loved to read. When he didn’t harass Lance with trivial tasks, or for the nuisance of conversation, Balan read. If not that, he wrote. He was a maestro of the craft; short stories, full-lengths, prompts and scenarios, or sometimes just a journal entry. On this night he didn’t busy himself with putting quill to parchment. 

Balan's mouth opened, a sound coming out but no words. He wasn’t entirely sure how to ask about Lance’s wellbeing with being snapped at. The other appearing to be in a dour mood tonight. Placing the book on the small, rounded oak table Balan unfolded his legs to stand. He stretched idly, rubbing at the back of his top hat before pulling it off his head to fluff out his bouncy mint-colored dreads. Humming a little tune, Balan rummaged through his showman jacket, pulling out a golden rubber band to tie his long dreads back. The tendrils folded down his shoulders neatly once they were out of the way, exposing the intricately made heart marking atop his dark forehead. 

His eyes fanned over the negati’s hidden features before he walked over to the bar on the far side of the room. Opening one of the cabinets, he pulled out an aged bottle of wine; the label slightly tarnished and dusty read in calligraphic silver “Caraveét”. He grabbed gold-rimmed chalices, pouring the shimmering iris colored wine into each of the glasses. He grinned, smelling the sweet and tart flavors. He took a slow sip from his glass before tapping the bar table with his gloved fingers, the racketing bring Lance out of their stupor.

“Did you want some?”, He inquired, hoping the swirling liquid would ease the storm that ravaged the negati, “You seem a bit broody tonight. Perhaps, a couple of glasses should ease both our minds.” The maestro chuckled giddily raising his glass as it gleamed in the low light. 

Lance regarded the glass, then the maestro as he walked over to them. The tentacles on their back lashed so abruptly, Lance had to do a non-verbal apology when they knocked over a few chairs by accident. They weren’t brooding. Not even mad, but they were feeling something. Just not sure how to find the words for it. 

Balan’s eyes drifted to Lance’s, regarding them. Waiting for them to answer the question they most likely didn’t hear in the first place. 

“What?” The tone was not to be a biting, agitated type yet Lance couldn’t make themselves look at Balan, knowing full well the turmoil they were in.

“Nothing... I was just asking if you would like a glass of wine? You are more the brooding lot than usual. Drink with me.” Balan’s playful baritone voice felt like velvet as it caressed their ears. That voice caused Lance to sulk further more, hiding their face inside the caplet as the thoughts, seeming to feel more like whispers of temptation, dominated their rational thinking. 

He took the offered glass yet chose not to drink of any of it. Instead he loomed over the rim as Balan took a long swig of his. 

Lance licked at their lips, unknowing of the gesture. They would give more than anything to kiss the taste off of Balan’s lips. Or just to kiss them at all. They had wondered what it would be like to feel the maestro’s lips tentatively licking, caressing theirs in a heated lip-lock. The maddening thoughts came back tenfold, causing the other in audible snarl, attempting to shut them away. 

“Lance... are you okay?” They heard Balan on the bridge of their conscious, the other’s voice like a muddling hum as they stood up quickly to move in front of Balan. The other, not knowing how to judge the move, backed into the bar, his glass still in hand while he searched the eyes of Lance. They appeared to be wild, nearly frantic with an energy Lance never expressed. 

Lance leered at the other silently before pushing himself right into the maestro’s form; trapping him in front of the wood lacquer. Balan’s fleeing gaze made Lance smile. Not grin... smile. His mouth perking with something that could not be said as his hands went to Balan’s cravat, pulling the other slowly toward him. 

“No...”, Lance confessed, eyes lulling closed dreamily, “I am not okay. And you are to blame.” That smile showed off the fangs, the points flitting in the soft lamplight. 

Balan could not fully process what was going on before Lance leaned in fully to capture the other’s lips. Night after night, they had dreamt up this moment and even now they cannot believe they had gotten this far. It was far better than any dream or wish; light blue eyes sliding closed as a slender tongue went past the maestro’s parted, stunned mouth. That moment caused a ripple of shock to seize Balan, contents of his glass spilling onto the floor, no doubt leaving a stain that’ll have to be dealt with. He didn’t even have the knowledge of dropping it, yellow eyes staring at Lance’s softened face before he willed himself to kiss back. His hands, once frozen indecisively, pulled Lance in close.  

Neither were sure how it had come to this, but Balan didn’t have the heart in him to make Lance stop. A small purr rumbled the kiss as Lance began to pull off. They disconnected breathlessly, only the small tail of spittle between them. Their breaths were heavy and hot, burning like steam with each exhale. It took the maestro to gather his bearings before his mouth was able to work again. 

“W-Why am I to blame?? Lance what’s happened to you?” Balan felt as if he knew what was about to happen, and tried his best to make it all make sense. He was normally in a lot more control in surprise like situations; yet here... he was unable to predict the sheer tumbling force that Lance was portraying. 

“You’ll understand soon enough,” Lance whispered, deftly kissing down Balan’s neck, inky-black hair brushing amethyst sparkled cheeks, “I’ll make you understand.” They said louder with a growl that exposed fangs.

Purrs rumble through Lance as they fumbled with anything that would be able to get Balan’s ensemble off. Instantly they are met with resistance as Balan shoves at them, hands going to the sharp shoulders defensively. 

“Lance! What do you think you’re doing?!” Balan exclaimed, standing his ground before Lance doubles their efforts to expose the maestro. They are only slimly successful when get to expose Balan’s upper shoulder; the tear just big enough to reveal swirling lines of golden runes, “Have you lost your mind?!”

 The other refuses to answer him, bringing themselves flush against Balan to kiss down the exposed markings. 

Had they managed to lose their mind? Lance would have to give that some thought later on. In the afterglow. But first, they’d have to get down from the tantalizing high that has them under a spell. Their lips brushed softly down the exposed skin, running lightly over the maestro’s clothed arm. Gods, both of them just had on too many layers. Lance flared up, frustrated by the inability to firmly feel the decadent skin.

“Lance, let me go!” Balan demanded, the command in his voice barely swaying Lance to push off him. He was losing control of the situation. And the scary part of it was that was what he wanted. Balan would have been lying to himself if he said that he didn’t want this. Yet to get it from Lance this way was never a part of the plan. 

“You don’t want me to let you go.” Lance stated, eyes twinkling with more than just mischief behind them.

“Yes I do!” Balan choked out, his act and bravado beginning to fail him.

“Then why are you pulling yourself into me?” Lance chuckled, allowing their hands to wander down Balan’s waist.

“I’m-” He stammered not expecting to see or know that he had been pulling Lance closer the entire time. Forbid it all, he wanted this negati more than anything right now. And he was showing how badly. Damn his body for this. He was normally in better control of his reactions, this lapse should not have been tolerated. 

His be-speckled face shown with the brewing embarrassment of being caught before shoving himself a bit harder, finally escaping Lance’s grasp. The poor thing looked a fright; face flushing a deep violet, hair askew as it rolled down his shoulders and back, teeth clenched in discomfort as he attempted to steady his breathing. His chest must’ve rattled from the urge to scream at Lance. Instead he stamped off, refusing to let Lance see how flustered he became. He’ll have to be in his room for a while to work out the steam that began to build.

He didn’t get far as a few tendrils of inky black wrapped around the other’s waist. He could hardly make a verbal protest while being pulled back into the other’s form. Large claws going up his neck, arresting Balan’s smooth belly as the tendrils dipped further. The tentacles moved lively, squeezing and pulling on the other as Lance’s hands swept and groomed over the maestro’s suit. When one hand dipped between Balan’s legs, he seized up. 

Yellow eyes dilated, Lance’s touch freezing his mind. The groan that escaped him was not intended yet was enough to make Lance’s groin ache. He was going to force those sounds out of Balan. In one way or the other. Their night was going to be fulled with these delicious noises. The tendrils smoothed over him, probing the other perversely. 

“Lance...please.” Balan became unaware of what he was begging for. He wanted this to stop, but he also felt like he’d regret refusing. This Lance... was much different than the one he’d encountered previously. The change felt real jarring; since they never made moves into his personal space. For anything. Least of all... This! He wanted to see where this could go. How much better it could get. 

His own hands skimmed over Lance’s suit, prompting the other to loosen their grip as Balan slid away from the tendrils. Balan took one coil in between his fingers, golden eyes gazing into the blue ones. The heat behind the other’s eyes made Lance shudder, a harsh sigh coming from his mouth as Balan took the tip of Lance’s tendril into his. The look stayed as the tendril came from Balan’s mouth, his tongue connecting it. The appendage darted out to swipe at the excess spittle left behind, the maestro’s eyes still glowing with a renewed heat. 

The action prompted a sneer from Lance’s features, their hand waving for a portal to open up behind Balan. The maestro gasped, turning to the hazy violet-colored portal. The shout of shock was to be expected as he was shoved right through it, the residual tethers of Lance’s self control snapping audibly as it receded. 

The overwhelmed, unknowing audience of Tims sat, wiggled, waddled and creeped up to sit in the place both beings had been.

                           ______________________________

It was not the fall that left him breathless as he landed on the massive expanse of what felt like a lavish bed. It wasn’t the deep contrasting colors of purple and gold accents that were illuminated by rainbow-esque runes and paintings of Negati markings throughout the immense, intimate space. Nor was it the pulsating rivets of scarlet that blended salaciously with the black and purple blankets and amassing of huge, plumy pillows. 

Lance himself left him utter breathless; transfixing him, mesmerizing him with the oscillating negati runes that gleamed in the room. Lance had never done this display before. Their runes barely pulsed or shined vibrantly whenever they were around each other. Evermore rarer when he was alone. The runes gave him an ethereal hue that the nighttime sky couldn’t rival. He brushed that thought away as Lance struggled out of their wardrobe, hardly mindful of seams, buttons or zippers as the top half of his shorn cloak was disposed of somewhere in the low lit room. Balan flinched yet shuddered at the ferocity Lance had showcased in removing his own tunic and darker colored vest from underneath. With his chest exposed; the tapestry of rune lines and fuchsia gleaming in the violet backdrop of the room, he was on Balan.

The maestro’s bright color scheme contrasted a great deal with the whole room, snow white wrapped in gold and scarlet with the fettering of navy with his undershirt. The colors screamed obnoxiously in comparison, and Lance wanted them all off. Balan looked on, dazed by the negati while Lance’s -no longer gloved, dark- fingers delved to pull apart the top of the collar, effortlessly tearing it asunder, a low suffering sound coming from the maestro but not much else. He would figure that Lance would be like this. There was no such thing as intimacy or care with the negati. Everything he touched broke in his hands. Balan knows well that this time will be no different.

 Those warmed hands skimmed over the prone body, fingers probing through the opened seams of the tattered clothings. They tickled him, a warm and fuzzy sensation spreading throughout the squirming frame. Balan felt lips on his chest, hands assisting in the pleasing endeavor while the other arched and shook. His mouth opened in an exhalation of steaming desire. When Lance pinched a nipple, Balan shot upwards in heated rebellion, forcing Lance to restrain him with his tendrils. 

He was about to demand that Lance release him yet was cowed into silence by a startling growl, “This ends if you keep moving.” That voice, their voice had done something to the maestro. In other instances, Balan would have fought Lance until the other relented control, but during this... he went oddly still, placate as Lance continued to trace a trail of kisses down his chest. He brought his hips forward and up as the negati began kissing down his belly, stopping shy of the seam of his pants. Warm hands went into the other’s pants, the kindled heat coming off of Balan’s genitals enough to make Lance purr. 

The maestro struggled against the hold as Lance pulled his pants down, heeled boots joining them as pile on the floor; kissing trails down his waist and down his legs. When the teeth pricked his skin, Balan thrashed. His face aglow with purplish speckles that brightened with his flush. He sparkled everywhere; cheeks, chest, hips and down the markings of his illuminated, swirling markings. Even the tendrils of his hair began to glow a slight with the forbidden heat. The hold on the restraints doubled.

“What did I just say?” Lance growled, the reverberating making Balan tense.

“L-Lance! Lance...”, Balan was calling to him yet couldn’t reach him as the negati roughly rid him of his clothing. Nearly naked, Balan shivered in the cool of the room as well as under the heated gaze of the negati, whom crawled up his frame to, again, kiss and lick at his newly glowing speckles, “Please... don’t stop! Please, Lance.” The maestro whispered pleas were a shock to the negati’s ears. He still wanted to punish him for fighting but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was becoming so lost to the feelings. 

“Save your voice, pet...”, Lance whispered as his fingers slipped past the maestro’s brightly colored panties, feeling him for the first time, “It is too premature for you to be screaming for me now.” He chuckled more as his folds became reactive to the fingers smoothing them over, luscious wetness forming inside the panties. 

Balan’s eyes widened, the shock of Lance’s finger boldly touching him made him to squirm, his own palm moving atop the negati’s. Much to Lance’s surprise, he didn’t hinder him yet chose to guide his fingers even closer, near enough for them to breach the delectable, delicate walls. Sun-yellow eyes rolled back once he felt one fingertip push its way inside, stopping short of sinking in completely. The maestro’s moan was unabashedly loud, body rolling in venture of more fingers. Lance marveled with fascination at the other’s willingness; form softening as he shook his head to and fro in delirium. He couldn’t stop shaking, lithe body aroused as the finger came from his wet sex. He smelt utterly delicious, dripping the natural nectar like a perfectly ripe fruit. His tongue slipped out to have a taste of it... and it had been everything he had hoped for. 

The aroma of the finest wine with the scintillating notes of vanilla and lavender. His cock pulsed in his own pants, over eager for its own taste. 

In horny glee, Lance yanked off the maestro’s panties, tossing the last piece of clothing into the darkness of his chambers in order to marvel at the most succulent sight in between the other’s rune spiraled legs. The plump lips of the vulva were just perfect enough to kiss, the natural wetness dribbling onto the blankets, glittering a soft purple as it did. The negati locked eyes with the heated, glazed expression before moving to take Balan’s mouth in a heated, soft kiss. The other kissed back with more fervor than before, free hand going behind Lance’s head to drag him down. 

 They pulled away with a long, loud sigh. The other scoring hot in contrast to the sheets beneath. Balan splayed his legs more, allowing for more room.

Lance grabbed up his thighs roughly, pulling him to the end of the bed to comfortably rest on their knees. Without much warning, Lance dipped his mouth right onto the humming lips of his vulva. That tongue went right to work at lapping up the sticky juices in and around those lips, a soft chuckle coming out of Lance as Balan shouted in lewd desire. His giant hands went right to Lance’s head, twining his fingers in the other’s hair as he shook and shimmied to the lapping tongue, hips arching to bring those lips closer to his pussy. 

Lance focused on the luscious flavor of his cunt, dragging Balan closer to them as the maestro attempted to pull back. Their grasp got tighter the harder Balan fought against the hold.  He felt the other’s grip in his hair, the tugging just enough to keep Lance deep. He lost his mind to Lance’s teeth grazing the top of his clit before sucking hard on his folds.

“Gods! Uhh, huh, L-L-Lance!”, Balan stammered, the corner of his eyes prickling with unshed tears while he fought and screamed into Lance’s lips. He was in heaven, but damn him if he’d admit that to the Negati. Balan flailed his head, mint-colored dreads going all over as he lost all semblance of control, “Dear gods Lance! Please! I cannot take...!” Balan pleaded for him to stop, to show any mercy on him as an intense rush of savage, carnal desire shot through him. When the other didn’t heed him, he wept. A startled sob ripped from his gasping maw as he arched into Lance’s rippling tongue. 

Lance backed off in order to awe at the loss of self control Balan was beginning to display. He took in the panting, shaking mess of a maestro before his very eyes; mouth hanging open as he greedily swallowed gulps of air, body aquiver with mind melting lust, hands holding his head like a vice as those sinful thighs wrapped around him. The sight of him made the negati moan unintentionally, tongue plundering the maestro. The vibrations of it caused Balan to clench on him and scream, both hands abandoning Lance’s hair to slide against the cooler sheets. 

“Oh! Oh gods, please, please...” The maestro whimpered, body relishing in that feeling while his mind boiled in intensity. 

Lance, accounting for Balan’s behavior, moaned louder and longer against the lips of Balan’s clit, as well as kept their tongue inside with the intent to find his G-spot. They kept at it for sometime, their tongue buried deep as their hands massaged over Balan’s heated, dark thighs. They kept the maestro as close as they could as they tongued the bundle of nerves located far up the other’s pelvis. 

“Wait! Wait! Lance please... don’t...please-” He hardly could finish the plea as instant rapture shot through his frame, causing him to clench on Lance’s tongue in a spine-melting orgasm. His mouth hung open in a room-rocking cry as his body snapped rigid, arms behind him as he grasped tight on the sheets. His chest thudded rapidly to his erratic breathing. His flesh clenching and tingling around Lance’s tongue the climax continued through him. There would be no reprieve however as he became rigged again, legs snapping around Lance’s head suddenly with another powerful orgasm. 

Lance had not stopped even through the second climax. Not even with Balan wailing in what could be felt as pain. The silky walls gushed with his essence, the liquid sex simmering on the negati’s tongue as they drank it. A pleasured laugh rippled through them as they pressed hard kisses to the top of Balan’s pussy. Kissing it several more times as Balan screamed at them in another language. They still didn’t stop as he felt the other kicking at them with feverish intent. When he almost clambered away, Lance reinforced their hold to plunge their tongue into him again. 

“For gods sake Lance! I can’t take anymore! Stop, please! I beg of you!” He wailed as tears streamed down his face. 

An empathetic grimace came to Lance’s face as they finally relinquished his hold on the thoroughly ruined maestro. Their lips were deliciously wet with the slick of the other’s sex, the taste even better than the wine he captured on Balan’s lips only moments ago. He watched him roll on the sheets, finding some balance of his overheated body and the cold contrast of the dark sheets. Deliriously, he crooned and purred as he came down from the high. It took him about five minutes total to calm himself. And then he smacked Lance’s shoulder. Hard. 

“Bastard! I told you to stop! What in the hell would it have taken for you to listen to me?!” He hissed, eyes narrowing darkly as he sat up. He seemed the opposite of pleased at the moment. A contrast that Lance felt prepared to deal with. Can’t please some people. The sentiment literal in Balan’s case. 

“You were fine with me not a few minutes ago.” Lance jabbed as they groaned at the pressing of that erection against their tight pants. The glare Balan shot at Lance made the other’s ears pin low. 

“That was before I had two orgasms in a row, heathen! You should have more respect for me. And be more receptive Lance. This isn’t just about you!!” He snapped. Nope. None too pleased at all. 

Lance blinked, “This... wasn’t about me. Trust that if it were; I would’ve fucked you through this bed. The only reason I didn’t do that is because I want to see you cum. I’ve only ever heard that-”

“Wait, wait a minute. You’ve heard me climax?” Balan started, a touch confused. 

“In your bedroom, when you think you’re alone. True, there are no visitors around but someone was always in the theater,” Lance purred as soft as a breeze. The negati smiled at the brightening embarrassment on Balan’s face, wishing now he had his hat to hide it. It softened them so seeing the normally composed, bombastic maestro reduced to a shivering, blushing mess. Gingerly as allowed, Lance caught Balan’s face, causing the other to look at them, “I guess I just wanted to put the face to the voice. And I am not disappointed.”

Lance leaned over to kiss the still warm cheek of the maestro as the other side-eyed him, the smallest smile forming. 

“I’m... not used to this side of you. You’re normally so far away from me. In fact doing you’re very best to stay out of my sight. Even when I want you there. You know...”, A slow pause before Balan finished the thought, “You are different... too bad we both have to be backstage to see it.” 

“I’m different backstage?!”, Lance’s long ears perked at the comment, not ever having someone feel or compare the sentiment, “I’ll remember that then. Do you want me to continue then? Or would you rather sulk about how I never know about your needs and cues?” Lance’s eyes sparkled with a mischief that could rival Balan’s.

“Yes, damn you. That...was a genuine experience.” He giggled, the noise a delight to Lance’s ears, leaning back on the plushy pillows, tendrils sprawling out comfortably behind him. With a singular exhale Balan relaxed against the sheets, hands going in his hair, fiddling with and tossing a singular white sliver of his tendrils. Only... it wasn’t his hair, Lance noticed and then raised an unseen brow in suspicion. 

“Is that... an ear?” They breathed a laugh as Balan hid it in his hair again. When he sat up, it confirmed everything that Lance thought prior; he had the same ears as they did, a slight longer, floppier and appeared to be super soft. The negati’s eyes sparkled as they pulled out the hidden appendages, wondering why they hadn’t noticed them until now. 

“I-I-I never liked them. They’re long, cumbersome and don’t fit under my hat properly. So I just have been tying them back along with my dreadlocks. Wha? Why are you pulling them?!” Balan shrieked, his sensitive membranes folding as Lance fiddled with them. The stark white with the hue of light green made the ears stand out, the occasional flap picking up the slightest noise. 

“Why hide them? I think they’re absolutely wonderful.” Lance emphasized as they waggled their own long, dark ears. Their ears sat higher than the maestro’s and didn’t bend as much. He crawled over to the negati, aligning his hips in between the others legs with care. Their pulsing erection awoke his deepest desires, causing Lance to grind their clothed crotch into Balan’s exposed one. He gasps weakly, feeling the outline of the negati’s cock against his sensitive folds, gloved hands moving up Lance’s arms to bring them in for a deep kiss. 

Consumed by more the kiss than the passion behind it Lance drove their tongue deep into Balan’s mouth, tasting the other’s breath and intermingling the taste of his fluid sex. Balan’s tongue stuck out as Lance’s lips engulfed them, teeth grazing over the appendage while Balan groaned hotly. He brought his head higher, the expert work of that tongue making him drunker than any alcohol. The longer it went, the more impatient the maestro became; his hands going from Lance’s arms to dip into their pants to rip out the other’s cock. 

Lance’s eyes flew open as hands peeled off their pants and pulled out their cock, the member free from the strain at last. They’d never lie to themselves about not feeling relieved. The darker phallus was impressive at best; thick in girth and longer than Balan’s, some negati rune marks trailed on either sides of their crotch and lower hips, and the tip looked spire like yet appeared to be soft to the touch. Balan would find out soon enough. 

“I get it. This is moving too slow. But I thought that you’d appreciate it.” Lance inquired, chest rippling in steady laughter. It felt like a punishment for forcing Balan to ride out his first orgasms. 

Balan didn’t speak as he shoved Lance over, raising himself atop the other. Seated on their lap Balan took in the sight of his paramour, and just how dazzling they appeared. Chest rising and falling with softened breaths, the runes coming to life again in a brief flashes of multicolored lights, but he couldn’t stop looking at the other’s face. The heart marking atop his forehead blazing almost vermillion instead of the darker pink it usually was, their small fangs bared, glittering in the soft purple hue of the bed chambers. 

He leant down, kissing the long neck, chest, pressing his lips hard onto his ribs and trailed a heated kiss down their pelvis; stopping just short of that maleness. He spared them a coy heated glance before kissing the drooling tip, eyes going to Lance to see their reaction. The other tensed, mewling the moment they felt those lips, tip swelling on demand.  

“I’m going to suck the soul out of you. Just as you had did to me.” The heat in those words made it more fact than statement and Lance couldn’t wait long enough. They could have never imagined having the current maestro of Wonderworld’s mouth on their dick. To be honest, they could not imagine any of this happening right now. There was something so decadent and sinful about the way Balan talked dirty. Such things were just never heard from such an angelic mouth. 

He stopped thinking altogether as Balan removed his gloves, throwing them onto one bedside table to fist his thickness roughly, stroking the lengthy girth. Thumbing over the head, he gauged how steady Lance was, the swelling member making the maestro’s mouth drip with unshed spittle. From the way he opened his mouth and sucked in them in deeply, Lance could have sworn that he had done this before yet can never remember a time this would ever happen. 

“Ohhh yes! Balan...” Lance’s lungs stopped working the second Balan’s tongue encircled the head and bobbled repeatedly, his saliva silkening his hot length. Lance shuddered, moaning deeply as the tendrils on their back came back to life and spread across Balan’s pussy, massaging the outer vulva instead of the velvet walls. The sensation caused the maestro to moan around the dick in his mouth, a chain reactive shiver from Lance followed. 

Balan slowly rocked on the tentacles that fondled on his folds as he swallowed down more of Lance, lips almost resting on their crotch before pulling off. Soon the maestro began working his hands with his tongue, hands pulling at the medium sized balls as the underside of the long cock was stroked by Balan’s tongue. 

The tentacles worked Balan harder, the other groaning loudly with the near penetration on one tendril. The movement caused Lance to swear, hands digging into his hair, pushing the mint colored coils out of his face. 

“Don’t stop Balan! Please don’t stop!”, Lance cried as they got closer to an explosive release. The vision of seeing cum painting the maestro’s immaculate, lovely face caused a shudder to surge out unconsciously. The tentacles groped the silky vulva with an intensity that caused Balan to pull off the other’s cock to choke out a cry. 

“Lance!,” Balan called, drippings of drool falling onto the sheets as he shivered on the tentacles that never penetrated. He growled low as he pushed himself back on the largest of the tentacles, the bulb going right into his pussy, slicked with the welcomed wetness, “Ha, oh yess.” He crooned before stuffing the throbbing cock back into his mouth, pumping and sucking with the same vigor as the tentacle inside. 

Lance mumbled something in a different language, thrusting into Balan’s warm mouth, along with the tentacle slipping through the sticky mess seeping from his tightening walls. They could barely muster the maestro’s name as a ringing sound flushed through their ears, body going tight as a bow while Balan swallowed down the cock fully. Their hands dug into the other’s hair making sure Balan was close enough to swallow all of the rich, violet colored seed as it splashed down his throat. The tentacle widened inside of his pussy, pushing on the clit with the vibration of its master’s climax.

They thrashed in zeal as Balan continued to suck them dry, not worried about the veiny tentacle that fucked him deep. He was determined to live up to his statement; soft, warm hands smoothing over Lance’s sharp hips as he swallowed him down more, moaning and whimpering as the length sputtered more seed. When the tentacle pushed more into the G-spot, Balan cried out, forcing his hips down to rock with his new orgasm. He had to get the cock out of his mouth in order breathe a bit proper as his walls vibrated with the climax.

The room became blanketed in a contented silence as they both came from their highs; Lance’s chest heaving air as Balan sat on their hips to find his mind. He purred with fervor as the tentacle slipped out of his cunt.

“That was good, yes?” Balan inquired, eyes wide and soft, body just as soft and pliant as he awaited a reply. The poor darling was self-conscious. A trait he never displayed when performing for anyone, nor anything. 

Lance’s laugh brightened the maestro’s be-speckled face, ears twitching with the tenor of sound.

“That was the best head I’ve ever gotten, my lune-light. And you did what you said you would do.” Lance spoke breathlessly while they leant up to brush their forehead against Balan’s. The feathery kiss, as well as the compliment, drove the other to keen delightedly, ears flapping in exuberance. 

“Your... ears. They flap whenever you’re excited or praised don’t they?” Oh, Lance was about to be so evil now. The sly grin invited as much. 

Balan nodded his head, not even knowing he was acknowledging the question, smiling and flushing like mad as he did. 

“Look at you. Flushed, heated and so devilishly handsome. A most salacious siren you turned into,” Lance growled as they pulled himself up but kept Balan in his lap, “A gorgeous being like you deserves to be drenched in the most opulent of pleasures. The thickest form of desire. Do you want me to worship you?” That damning voice caused Balan to shudder and grasp them in desperation. 

“Yes! Worship me, worship my very body, revere it!”, He shouted, no longer bringing himself to care about anything other than the euphoria, “I want to feel you in me, on me, all over me!” Heat basked from his body as his ears flapped, mouth open in heavy pants. His naked cunt rocked on Lance’s cock, not sinking in fully. The movement caused Lance to spur into action, going on their knees to better to better position Balan, the maestro spreading his thighs eagerly on Lance’s lap. 

Lance’s fingers intertwined with Balan’s, his hands warm and only touch wet. They pressed their teeth into the skin, reveling in the dark wrists that glowed subtly with golden accents and swirling patterns. Lance repeated the motion, tongue lapping at both wrists, palms and fingers. Lance felt the smoothness of the maestro’s beautiful hands. Their eyes shimmering in reverence as they pressed sweet kisses to each fingertip slowly. Their own hands felt up his palms; still so warm and just as silky soft. That tongue continued to trace the long golden lines, taking his time to press his lips into his wrists. 

“Balan...” There weren’t enough words for Lance to say, or piece together for the time spent with each other. Nothing could prepare either of them for the sheer intensity of this new emotion. Melding of carnal lusts neither have the ability to describe. So for the first time tonight... Lance stopped talking. Letting only their bodies say so much more. 

Steadying him, Lance brought Balan down on the hard thickness slowly, agonizing slow. The maestro’s glint was hot and heady, hands going to Lance’s shoulders as support. Lance heaved a hot moan, aligning the next thrust directly into the maestro. There wasn’t a need to test if the other was ready for it or not; his tightness giving way subtly with each small piston. The fiery gaze of Balan soften into kindled embers once he was fully seated on the other’s cock. He was starting to perspire, a reaction that Balan never had to anything in his life. Rushing sweat beaded down his neck, his chest and around his waist glazing him in a hue of condensation that began to make his body slippery. 

They stayed in each other’s laps for a second before Lance thrust upwards, igniting Balan’s tongue again. He cried out in another language, most likely a swear considering the dialect. He groaned weakly, his body submitting to the roughness Lance invited with each movement. The moment Lance had worked out the rhythm the thrusts became harsher, more precise, pinpointing the exact spot to hammer him into a delectable frenzy. Lance’s breaths got rougher, louder, more of their teeth becoming exposed as they snarled in ecstasy. 

Balan could barely hold on. Literally. His grip on Lance’s shoulders loosened each time the negati impaled him, the motions making him too sensitive, body on fire. Though barely cognitive, Balan did his best to rock up to meet with his thorough pounding. Moving his hips at an angle, Balan caught the ribs of Lance’s spired phallus, screaming out as it stabbed him. 

The maestro’s screams did something primal to Lance, the sex-fueled fire warping and corrupting their licentious mind. 

“You like it?”, The negati spoke deeply, the baritone voice smokey and laced like a honey-tipped whiskey glass, “Look at yourself. Becoming undone with just my cock. You cannot comprehend how fucking devilish you are! Siren!” Lance dragged Balan down, further stabbing him with the rigged member. They were so close yet weren’t about to go if Balan didn’t first. They were going to see the maestro climax on his dick. There would be nothing to stop it now. Astoundingly, Balan replied to the question, voice much like Lance’s yet tremulous in its form.

“Yes! I love it, I love you!,” His gaze meets the others in an embrace that Lance cannot escape from, “I love you so much, don’t stop please.” The plea is whispered as the remainder of Balan’s self control is pounded out of him. His lanky legs surrounding the negati, forcing them to stay the course as his cunt devours them hungrily. 

It becomes too much for Lance; the fucking, the confession... just the sounds of Balan’s voice as they fuck. They snap forward hard, cock slamming the maestro’s pelvis as they climax, taking Balan right with them. The guttural snarl that surges from Lance actually scares Balan, those golden eyes wide with an erotic fear of the other before it fades with a deep-bodied orgasm that reverberates through his soul. He wails out, the pleasure so cavernous it eats him alive, body stiffening to the point of pain, absolution and exultation drowning him in high waves. His clit sucks Lance of everything; reason, sense, the will to stop. He trembles at the feeling of the other’s seed shooting inside of him, viscous ropes of cum shoot forth as Lance loses the rhythm of their own thrusts. 

They stop fully when Balan’s cunt loosens its hold, the negati falling forward atop the messy sheets. Balan makes a cry of something between pain and pleasure when he is flopped on his back with Lance atop him. Lance’s member has yet to soften inside the other’s creamy walls, the spired tip rubbing on Balan’s g-spot. 

The room falls silent again, save for the heavy pants and breathless laughs from the two. Neither recovering fast enough as the euphoria drains all other sensations from their bones. Lance’s spine is dexterous as wet spaghetti, mouth open in loud gulps of air. Balan fares no better, legs twitching uncontrollably. Bare chest dripping with sweat, golden markings along his arms and stomach gleaming and flickering in the contrasting violet lights. His coils are drenched as well, pouring over his eyes and messily over his face. Speckled markings aglow with the shades of amethyst make him look pulchritudinous. 

Lance raise themselves up, both of their hands going on either side of the exhausted maestro’s supine form, loins still burning from the near volcanic heat from their fucking. They readjust their position, body flush to the other, seeming to never be close enough. They smile softly as Balan smiled chastely at them. 

“That was fantastic... honestly the best sex I’ve ever had.” Balan complimented, his eyes not as glazed from before. 

“Good to know, but I hope you didn’t start thinking it was over?” Lance drawled, the tone eerily lustful.

Balan stares quizzically. How could anyone want another go after that?

“You want to go again?”

“Just one more?,” Lance breathily laughed as their hips rock gently, phallus a touch harder than prior, “If it helps, you can lie on your back and I’ll handle the rest.” They lean over Balan, kissing his cheeks and the heart on his forehead. 

Balan rolled his eyes. He wasn’t complaining about another time, but his body sure was. He internally decided one more bout wouldn’t cause too much strain. 

“Lancelot, the insatiable one. Who knew you’d be addicted to my cunt?” Balan chuckled; the nickname still an endearment to Lance. It would be rude to lie about how the name made them warm on the inside. And hearing that sugared voice utter it with a playful air softened the negati. 

“Not just your cunt... but you as well. I love you too.” The words came out before Lance knew. Their lips moved yet didn’t have any prior knowledge of it until seeing the way Balan stiffened, long ears swaying upwards at the words.

Both of their chests fluttered; Lance never expected to say those words during sex. This...this was not supposed to be about love. And yet, it was all Lance had on their mind. They had Balan now. All they would have to do is love him. In more than this way. With all of this joy they had felt in the confession, the familiar ick of something tar-like bubbled to the surface. Lance’s mind honed in on all the deprecating things the voice said.

‘What? You can love? Oh Lance... it will be ruined by you so soon.’

‘You once loved...and look at what it turned you into!’

‘This is sex Lance... that’s all it will. ever. be.’

‘He can only feel pity for loving a monster like you’.

The voices began to make Lance physically sick. No matter how hard Lance tried, they wouldn’t be willed quiet. They began to tremble uselessly, a sob retching from the negati as those thoughts and words; their own words swallowed them.

The maestro lunged forward, planting a kiss on the other’s lips. The cathartic heat that came from it brought Lance out of their head, focusing on the other below them. They both stayed lip-locked for a moment, Balan kissing as if Lance were about to drown any minute. The kiss saving them from themselves for a moment like this. The voices dissipated, barely a hum coming from the back of Lance’s mind. They didn’t matter. Only Balan did. The kiss ending when Balan pressed those lips to the fuchsia colored heart atop Lance’s brow.  

The touch was so gentle. So tender that it made Lance’s heart swell.

They looked down at Balan, who smiled pleasantly back at them. The look of love so much more than it could ever be. ‘It’s okay. You’re okay’ is what those golden pools spoke even if Lance didn’t hear it aloud. There wouldn’t be a need to. 

In spite of how small it was; Lance smiled. The motion felt real. He hadn’t had a genuine smile in over a thousand years. Gods, when was the last time he felt pure happiness unfold in his heart? There’d be a time and place to think on that later as they shifted Balan’s hips more, grinding forward, hips shifting to reawaken his long erection. The stings of pleasure rode through Balan, arms going behind his head to grab for the jumbled mess of velvet purple blankets. A small whine went past his lips as Lance’s midline bumped against Balan’s pelvis again, causing a flare of scorching desire to arise. The maestro never subdued, or otherwise suppressed his moans. He would allow Lance the ability to hear how he felt for him. 

The negati gripped Balan beneath his thighs, pulling his legs away so they could splay open. The new position allowed Balan to relax instead of trying to readjust too often. 

A surprised gasp from the maestro made Lance look at his face; the beatific expression of this dazzling, bewitching and downright mesmeric creature spurring Lance to pump into him harder. The be-speckled maestro had his eyes closed, turning out the warm, shimmering pools of the richest gold many would never see. 

“Please lune-light, open your eyes for me.” The reciprocal adulation of love  Lance gave could break someone’s heart and warm another’s but it was his tone that made Balan’s eyes open; aroused and so husky. When he looked upon the negati, a form of ardor seeped through him. A shy smile graced his features as he nuzzled into Lance’s chest. 

“Ohhh, say that again. Call me that again,” He whispered as his body arched with the deeper, slower thrusts, “I need to hear it again, Lance.” He began pining for the sound of the other’s voice, chest heaving in irregular patterns. Long ears flicked up, picking up the sounds of Lance’s exertions as they grounded each other closer to climax. 

“Lune-light...my lovely lune-light, you are so stunning.” Lance cooed, eyes warm as they watched Balan’s ears flap in jubilance. They fucked into him harder, faster when Balan’s hands went from the sheets to cling to Lance’s arms in order to steady himself. He was succumbing again, mind lost as avaricious lust ensnared his visage. 

Lance repositioned one hand to grab the maestro’s tight waist and underneath his back, slowing their thrusts first in order to shift a portion of their weight to sink in deeper. They kissed the inner thigh of Balan’s left leg as the other hand grabbed there and held him tight. The new position brought Balan’s ass up from the bed, both legs hanging on either side of Lance as they brought their pelvis’s together. The negati had to get to their knees for the next part to become effective, sprawling their hips a little. When they had gotten in position, they leant over to press another reverent kiss to Balan’s forehead, the friction causing the maestro to growl. 

“Move. Lance, I beg you.” Balan’s resistance melted a long time ago as his hands tightened around Lance’s upper arms. 

When they move, Balan’s equilibrium gets flipped upside down. The position had the maestro screaming so loud, Lance tipped their ears down to block out the sound. The reaction was instant, the gorgeous being’s mouth flying open as he threw his head back with each stroke. His hands scrambled for purchase of the negati as he began thrusting back on the other’s cock. Body spasming at the rippling sensations. 

The change in position did wonders for Lance as well; they were able to take in all of the other’s grace, elegance and succulent desire. The screams of pure ecstasy powered Lance onward, eyes half-lidding as they aimed their thrusts. Lance felt the maestro’s bruising grasp loosen, the body tightening from the exertion. He looked as if he was going to lose his mind again; assuming he had ever found it after the first few times. 

“Look at this.... look at you,” Lance growled, hands leaving Balan’s waist to drag the other further down, “This is what I have been wishing for. I’ve have been waiting for you and this! Gods, now that I have you, I’m not letting you go.” The negati enunciated a portion of their words with alternating thrusts that caused Balan to spasm around them erratically, the maestro’s head swaying, more mooring, like a boat on torrential waters. 

Balan tried to stutter something in response. There could not be any words he could be able to use in a circumstance like this. The euphoria blanketing his headspace, only the want for this to never end on Balan’s mind. He wished he could stay like this forever; being loved in between his legs the way that Lance was loving him. Tears welled up but were blinked back. That familiar entrapment, that build was upon him now. A spring ready for release as Balan angled himself to meet a harsher thrust from Lance. He didn’t know what to do with his hands so he tugged on the negati for some leverage. And he tugged at him desperately. 

“I-I-I can’t-- hold it back much! Lance, I need this! I can’t hold back! Oh my gods!” Balan’s pleasured whimpers were music to the other, the noise causing Lance to pulsate inside those divine walls. He was about to let it all go. Neither of them capable of denying their animalistic need for a blissful finish. 

“Do not hold back my lune-light! I want us to be in climax together. I’m ready, just like you are. Lock me inside your heaven!” Lance yelled, throwing their head back unabashedly for the final few thrusts. 

Something in the gravelly tone caused Balan to relent all self control at that moment, the high octane pressure rushing from his pelvis, seeping into his blood in a body rattling orgasm. He screamed, more belted out his release, muscles contracting and constricting in a severe, mind-numbing vice. He could no longer keep his eyes open, passion scalding his insides making his body heat unbearable. 

He kept spasming, helpless as Lance roared one last time, pinning Balan’s softened frame to theirs in a rough, possessing manner. They dove off the  pinnacle with as much fury and need as Balan did. Their fingers dug into the tender skin, maw wide with a roar that shook the room. The negati’s own form convulsing and seizing as Balan’s cunt squeezed their cock to the point where it ached. They shuddered with the intensity and rush of seed; feeling way too hot inside of the maestro, shooting deep inside, not stopping even as Lance humped Balan through their own climax. 

When they were sure they had nothing left to give Lance let Balan go, the other’s spent body flopping atop the bedspread. The negati pushed back their inky dreads back from the sweat drenched face, eyes slightly glazed. They shook with the inglorious feeling of satisfaction before pulling out of Balan’s thoroughly ruined cunt, their cum drooling out in delectable, erotic ribbons. The scent of the intermingling sex made the cock twitch. Without a thought given, Lance’s pointer finger went past the swollen, beat-up lips of the maestro’s pussy; swiping the oversensitive folds for just a taste of the cream. 

Balan yelled, overstimulated and a touch annoyed, kicking at Lance.

“Fucking stop! You’re going to kill me!” Balan cursed, his chest heaving. He was the perfect picture of the word ‘ruined’; mint-colored coils askew all over his face, sublime form thrumming with the residual orgasm. 

“Would this have not been the best death to have?” Lance giggled sweetly, tongue slipping out to lap at the mixed cream of their sex. The taste was of it was so divine, it couldn’t be described. When their legs regained function Lance dipped into the conjoined bathroom. Balan barely registered the sound of water coming from a faucet. Though he wasn’t going to register anything for a while. His eyes slipped closed, breathing becoming more steady as the high simmered out of his frame. He didn’t hear Lance’s footfalls when the other returned into the room yet the feeling of the cold, damp cloth felt exquisite on his hypersensitive skin. He smiled happily as the cloth went over his face, chest, arms and even his back, swiping away as much sweat that wasn’t collected by the sullied bedsheets. 

He winced as the cloth went between his legs, touches kept tender and dainty while the negati cleaned his clit. The movements were apologetic in the sense of the rough handling. With the remnants of their sex thoroughly cleaned, Lance threw the dirty cloth into a hamper nearby and crawled into bed. They felt the need to say something to Balan, yet was not prepared to see the other fully asleep. The smile remained on his face as he dreamt soundly. Safely. 

The maestro rarely slept so seeing him do so, even in the other’s bed, was recherché. The moment a surprise to see with their own eyes. It warmed their heart in so many ways. Lance wondered inwardly if their heart could get any fuller. Carefully, as to not wake him, they slid Balan’s frame underneath the heavy blankets, keeping his head low to rest it against the larger puffy pillows.

As much as Lance tried, they couldn’t lie to themselves about how adorable and desirable this being was. Is... and still will be. They could make up some spun tale about how Balan lusted for the feeling of this sex. And yet, they wouldn’t. They weren’t going to deny the affirmations and litanies of love, passion and reverence he bestowed. In this way, Lance loved Balan. Balan had loved them too. This new feeling blossomed and flowed within them. It was all Lance cared about and would gift this love in kind to Balan tenfold. It was definitely what they both deserved. 

For now, Lance snuggled into the maestro, a happy little smile playing on their cheeks whilst pressing their face into the other’s neck. The mint-colored coils of the other’s hair fell in a tangle on Lance’s face, making them wrinkle their nose. 

“I...love you, lune-light...”, Lance whispered pressing a singular reverent kiss to the glowing heart on Balan’s forehead, the mark shimmering against the darkness. The negati nuzzled the sleeping being, arms crossing Balan’s chest to swaddle him close to their body, “I don’t know if you had heard me, but I just hope you know.”

Unknown to Lance, Balan had heard him. His own smile was genial and kind, taking the affirmation as it was. There was no need for Lance to explain themselves. Such things like this rarely, if ever, happened. So Balan accepted this. He had openly accepted that Lance is, and will remain, worthy of love. 

“I love you.” The enamored statement was simple, sweet and soft-sounding. So such so that Balan wasn’t sure Lance heard him, the negati was already snoring before he could say anymore. With an exhale, Balan’s eyes slipped shut once more. His own hands went around to hold Lance’s closer to his body. Their combined warmth radiating soothingly as they slept throughout the rest of the night.

[asfaltics]

A brown moth fluttered.

  The curtain was down, and the carpenters were rearranging the “No, no, no! I can’t breathe       1       volatile I can’t breathe.” And such a fit of suffocating       2   “I can’t breathe,” she would sometimes say       3 and the minisnever! I can’t breathe it in fast enough, nor hard enough, nor long enough.”       4   and started up up. to return to the tent, only to check him No, I can’t breathe the same air self in the act as often as he started, with ye to-night, but ye’ll go into the he lost consciousness in uneasy dreams       5 meet me at the station. I can’t breathe in this wretched       6   “sickening down there — I can’t breathe!  I can’t stand it, Drewe! It’s killing me!” — Tears       7 struggling to altitudes that I can’t breathe in.  I could help him when he was in despair, but he is the sort who       8   sometimes I find I can’t breathe in it.  Perhaps some folks will say “so much the worse for you”       9 it seems if I can’t breathe in the house. not dared hope       10   “Well, I won’t wear ’em. I can’t breathe” “Sure! Blame ’em!” “I can’t breathe a square breath.” Oh       11 things I regret I can’t breathe.       12   bramble bush. I can’t breathe. I can’t eat. I can’t do anything much. It’s clear to my knees.       13 I can't breathe, I can't talk,       14   lying on its “I can’t stay here I can’t breathe” side, the cork half-loosened. A brown moth fluttered.       15 “I can’t breathe beside you.”       16   the needs of any reasonable young lady. “I can't breathe there,       17 I can’t breathe — I really need the rush of this wintry air to restore me!”       18   I can’t breathe no more in that coop upstairs . tablet ; two he said is what you need.” of flame shoots through a stream of oil       19 no friction. It’s friction—rub- / asthmatically.] “I can’t breathe deep — I can light and of reason. But I’ve a notion       20   out of it. I can’t breathe in the dark. I can’t. I / She withdrew       21 “I can’t breathe or feel in”       22   Up a flight of stairs, and there was the girl, sitting on the edge of an untidy bed. The yellow sweater was on the floor. She had on an underskirt and a pink satin camisole. “I can't breathe !” she gasped.       23 I can’t breathe in the dark! I can’t! I can’t! I can’t live in the dark with my eyes open!       24   One never gets it back! How could one! And I can’t breathe just now, on account of       25 that old stuff, I could shriek. I can’t breathe in the same room with you. The very sound of       26   don’t! I can’t — breathe.... I’m all — and bitter howling.       27  

sources (pre-1923; approximately 90 in all, from which these 27 passages, all by women)

1 ex “Her Last Appearance,” in Peters’ Musical Monthly, And United States Musical Review 3:2 (New-York, February 1869), “from Belgravia” : 49-52 (51) “Her Last Appearance” appeared later, “by the author of Lady Audley’s Secret” (M.E. Braddon, 1835-1915 *), in Belgravia Annual (vol. 31; Christmas 1876) : 61-73 2 snippet view ex The Lady’s Friend (1873) : 15 evidently Frances Hodgson Burnett (1849-1924 *) her Vagabondia : A Love Story (New York, 1891) : 286 (Boston, 1884) : 286 (hathitrust) 3 ex “The Story of Valentine; and his Brother.” Part VI. Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine vol. 115 (June 1874) : 713-735 (715) authored by Mrs. [Margaret] Oliphant (1828-97 *), see her The Story of Valentine (1875; Stereotype edition, Edinburgh and London, 1876) : 144 4 OCR confusions at Olive A. Wadsworth, “Little Pilkins,” in Sunday Afternoon : A Monthly Magazine for the Household vol. 2 (July-December 1878) : 73-81 (74) OAW “Only A Woman” was a pseudonym of Katharine Floyd Dana (1835-1886), see spoonercentral. Katharine Floyd Dana also authored Our Phil and Other Stories (Boston and New York, 1889) : here, about which, a passage from a bookseller's description — Posthumously published fictional sketches of “negro character,” first published in the Atlantic Monthly under the pseudonym Olive A. Wadsworth. The title story paints a picture of plantation life Dana experienced growing up on her family’s estate in Mastic, Long Island. Although a work of fiction set in Maryland, the character of Phil may of been named for a slave once jointly owned by the Floyds and a neighboring family. source see also the William Buck and Katherine Floyd Dana collection, 1666-1912, 1843-1910, New York State Historical Documents (researchworks). 5 OCR cross-column misread, at M(ary). H(artwell). Catherwood (1847-1902 *), “The Primitive Couple,” in Lippincott’s Magazine of Popular Literature and Science 36 (August 1885) : 138-146 (145) author of historical romances, short stories and poetry, and dubbed the “Parkman of the West,” her papers are at the Newberry Library (Chicago) 6 ex Marie Corelli (Mary Mackay; 1855-1924 *), Thelma, A Norwegian Princess: A Novel, Book II. The Land of Mockery. Chapter 12 (New Edition, London, 1888) : 432 7 preview snippet (only), at Ada Cambridge (1844-1926 *), Fidelis, a Novel ( “Cheap Edition for the Colonies and India,” 1895) : 289 full scan, (New York, 1895) : 261 born and raised in England, spent much of her life in Australia (died in Melbourne); see biography (and 119 of her poems) at the Australia Poetry Library in particular, the striking poems from Unspoken Thoughts (1887) here (Thomas Hardy comes to mind) 8 snippet view (only) at F(rances). F(rederica), Montrésor (1862-1934), At the Cross-Roads (London, 1897) : 297 but same page (and scan of entirety) at hathitrust see her entry At the Circulating Library (Database of Victorian Fiction 1837-1901) an interesting family. Montrésor’s The Alien: A Story of Middle Age (1901) is dedicated to her sister, C(harlotte). A(nnetta). Phelips (1858-1925), who was devoted to work for the blind. See entry in The Beacon, A Monthly magazine devoted to the interests of the blind (May 1925) a great-granddaughter of John Montresor (1737-99), a British military engineer and cartographer, whose colorful (and unconventional) life is sketched at wikipedia. 9 Alice H. Putnam, “An Open Letter,” in Kindergarten Review 9:5 (Springfield, Massachusetts; January 1899) : 325-326 Alice Putnam (1841-1919) opened the first private kindergarten in Chicago; Froebel principles... (wikipedia); see also “In Memory of Alice H. Putnam” in The Kindergarten-primary Magazine 31:7 (March 1919) : 187 (hathitrust) 10 OCR cross-column misread, at Mabel Nelson Thurston (1869?-1965?), “The Palmer Name,” in The Congregationalist and Christian World 86:30 (27 July 1901) : 134-135 author of religiously inflected books (seven titles at LC); first female admitted for entry at George Washington University (in 1888). GWU archives 11 OCR cross-column misread, at Margaret Grant, “The Romance of Kit Dunlop,” Beauty and Health : Woman’s Physical Development 7:6 (March 1904): 494-501 (499 and 500) the episodic story starts at 6:8 (November 1903) : 342 12 ex Marie van Vorst (1867-1936), “Amanda of the Mill,” The Bookman : An illustrated magazine of literature and life 21 (April 1905) : 190-209 (191) “writer, researcher, painter, and volunteer nurse during World War I.” wikipedia 13 ex Maude Morrison Huey, “A Change of Heart,” in The Interior (The sword of the spirit which is the Word of God) 36 (Chicago, April 20, 1905) : 482-484 (483) little information on Huey, who is however mentioned in Paula Bernat Bennett, her Poets in the Public Sphere : The Emancipatory Project of American Women's Poetry, 1800-1900 (2003) : 190 14 ex Leila Burton Wells, “The Lesser Stain,” The Smart Set, A Magazine of Cleverness 19:3 (July 1906) : 145-154 (150) aside — set in the Philippines, where “The natives were silent, stolid, and uncompromising.” little information on Wells, some of whose stories found their way to the movie screen (see IMDB) The Smart Set ran from March 1900-June 1930; interesting story (and decline): wikipedia 15 OCR cross-column misread, at Josephine Daskam Bacon (1876-1961 *), “The Hut in the Wood: A Tale of the Bee Woman and the Artist,” in Collier’s, The National Weekly 41:12 (Saturday, June 13, 1908) : 12-14 16 ex E. H. Young, A Corn of Wheat (1910) : 90 Emily Hilda Daniell (1880-1949), novelist, children’s writer, mountaineer, suffragist... wrote under the pseudonym E. H. Young. (wikipedia) 17 ex Mary Heaton Vorse (1874-1966), “The Engagements of Jane,” in Woman’s Home Companion (May 1912) : 17-18, 92-93 Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn (1871-1940, artist and book illustrator who became a New Thought spiritual teacher and metaphysical writer in her middle years. (wikipedia)) Mary Heaton Vorse — journalist, labor activist, social critic, and novelist. “She was outspoken and active in peace and social justice causes, such as women's suffrage, civil rights, pacifism (such as opposition to World War I), socialism, child labor, infant mortality, labor disputes, and affordable housing.” (wikipedia). 18 ex snippet view, at “Voices,” by Runa, translated for the Companion by W. W. K., in Lutheran Companion 20:3 (Rock Island, Illinois; Saturday, January 20, 1912) : 8 full view at hathitrust same passage in separate publication as Voices, By Runa (pseud. of E. M. Beskow), from the Swedish by A. W. Kjellstrand (Rock Island, Illinois, 1912) : 292 E(lsa). M(aartman). Beskow (1874-1953), Swedish author and illustrator of children’s books (Voices seems rather for older children); see wikipedia 19 ex Fannie Hurst (1885-1968 *), “The Good Provider,” in The Saturday Evening Post 187:1 (August 15, 1914) : 12-16, 34-35 20 OCR cross-column misread, at Anne O’Hagan, “Gospels of Hope for Women: A few new creeds, all of them modish—but expensive” in Vanity Fair (February 1915) : 32 Anne O’Hagan Shinn (1869-1933) — feminist, suffragist, journalist, and writer of short stories... “known for her writings detailing the exploitation of young women working as shop clerks in early 20th Century America... O’Hagan participated in several collaborative fiction projects...” (wikipedia) a mention of St. Anselm, whose “sittings” are free, vis-à-vis “Swami Bunkohkahnanda”... “Universal Harmonic Vibrations”... 21 OCR cross-column misread (three columns), at Fannie Hurst (1885-1968 *), “White Goods” (Illustrations by May Wilson Preston) in Metropolitan Magazine 42:3 (July 1915) : 19-22, 53 repeated, different source and without OCR misread, at 24 below 22 ex Mary Patricia Willcocks, The Sleeping Partner (London, 1919) : 47 (snippet only) full at hathitrust see onlinebooks for this and other of her titles. something on Mary Patricia Willcocks (1869-1952) at ivybridge-heritage. in its tone and syntax, her prose brings Iris Murdoch to mind. 23 Katharine Wendell Pedersen, “Clingstones, A week in a California cannery.” in New Outlook vol. 124 (February 4, 1920) : 193-194 no information about the author. the journal began life as The Christian Union (1870-1893) and continued under the new title into 1928; it ceased publication in 1935; it was devoted to social and political issues, and was against Bolshevism (wikipedia) 24 ex Fannie Hurst (1885-1968 *), “White Goods,” in her Humoresque : A Laugh on Life with a Tear Behind it (1919, 1920) : 126-169 (155) 25 ex snippet view, at Letters and poems of Queen Elisabeth (Carmen Sylva), with an introduction and notes by Henry Howard Harper. Volume 2 (of 2; Boston, Printed for members only, The Bibliophile society, 1920) : 51 (hathitrust) Carmen Sylva was “the pen name of Elisabeth, queen consort of Charles I, king of Rumania” (1843-1916 *) 26 OCR cross-column misread, at Ruth Comfort Mitchell, “Corduroy” (Part Three; Illustrated by Frederick Anderson), in Woman’s Home Companion 49:8 (August 1922) : 21-23, 96-97 (hathitrust) Ruth Comfort Mitchell Young (1882-1954), poet, dramatist, etc., and owner of a remarkable house (in a “Chinese” style) in Los Gatos, California (wikipedia) 27 Helen Otis, “The Christmas Waits,” in Woman’s Home Companion 49:12 (Christmas 1922) : 36 probably Helen Otis Lamont (1897-1993), about whom little is found, save this “Alumna Interview: Helen Otis Lamont, Class of 1916” (Packer Collegiate Institute, Brooklyn, 1988) at archive.org (Brooklyn Historical Society)

—

prompted by : recent thoughts about respiration (marshes, etc.); Pfizer round-one recovery focus on the shape of one breath, then another; inhalation, exhalation and the pleasure of breathing; and for whom last breaths are no pleasure (far from it); last breaths (Robert Seelthaler The Field (2021) in the background).

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all tagged breath all tagged cento  

[toraashi]

princess au ft. chuuya nakahara prt 2

Title: Untitled Princess AU prt 2

Pairing: Chuuya Nakahara x Fem!Reader

Warnings/Genre: fluff, swearing, horribly written ending and lots of cringe, nothing bad though. Um also aristocratic standards of beauty are mentioned rip

Word Count: 2,221

Author’s Note: I must’ve gotten hella tired when I originally wrote this because the ending is literally garbage but I don’t want to edit it right now, so here it is for you. Love you all thank you for joining Chuuya princess AU brainrot hours

 She stumbled out of the carriage awkwardly, desperately grabbing her escort for balance. 

“Oi!” Of course, the unsuspecting ginger was caught off guard as she tumbled to the ground. 

“My lady!” The driver exclaimed, but was shot down by the bodyguard’s sharp glare. With a huff, she stood back up, brushing off her dress.

“I’m definitely not suited to this life. Chuuya, why do I have to go to every single damn ball my father is invited to?” The man chuckled.

“Something tells me you’ve been around the staff too much.” He held out his hand, eliciting a soft blush. 

“Look, Chuu-Chuu, I can walk by myself.” 

“Clearly not, and make sure you don’t call me that in front of anybody.”

“Why? Does it embarrass you? Chuu-Chuu! Chuu-Chuu-” With a low growl, he scooped the shorter being up, tossing her over his shoulder and twirling around.

“Shut up! You sound like a goddamn train!” The girl squeaked, giggling as he tickled her sides. The entire scene was entirely unprofessional and illegal, but adorable nonetheless. The duo couldn’t help themselves, for each time they approached each other, explosions equivalent to bombs exploded in their hearts. 

How unsightly.

The king’s right hand flitting around with his liege's daughter.

Upon setting her down, she rested her hand on his elbow, allowing him to walk her inside. 

“Erg. These pins hurt my head.” Before she could reach up to yank them out, her loyal bodyguard caught her gloved hand. 

“The boss won’t be too happy if your hair’s all wild and out, you know.” Pouting, she whined,

“I know, Chuuya, but I hate it!”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got to do it. No prince is gonna want a princess who is all messy.”

“But what if I don’t want a prince?” Her murmured words were enough to cause his breath to catch in his throat. They both knew what she was implying, but it was all for naught.

“[Name]-” 

“Don’t even start with me. I already know.” With a reluctant sigh, he squeezed her hand reassuringly.

“Are you walking me in?” the redhead huffed, an endearing pink stain coating his cheeks.

“No! That’d be inappropriate!” She fell silent before murmuring,

“I don’t feel comfortable walking in alone. Besides, you’re my bodyguard. It’s no secret that my father is very protective of me. How is it inappropriate?” 

“Because a suitor is supposed to walk in with you!” his hissed words were strained as if he was struggling to form them.

“Introduce yourself as an executive then! I’ve never had to announce myself like this before, Chuuya. Please?” The male hesitated, falling prey to her vulnerable tone and visage. He gave in before he realized it, adjusting her precariously placed tiara and holding out his arm. 

“The things I do for you…” Gingerly, the princess placed her gloved fingers on his arm. 

“Like this?” With a softened gaze, he nodded, walking her up the vibrant crimson carpet. Each movement felt like he was trekking through an endless swamp of cement. Chuuya had no idea how this was going to reflect on his flawless track record, but in his heart, he knew he'd do it a thousand times over if it provided her with some semblance of comfort.

They approached the inner door, a pair of servants swinging them open at the sight of their invitation cards. The ballroom below them was exceedingly elegant, chandeliers glittering of the vast, domed ceilings, gold lining every rampart and ledge. Intricate paintings and murals were displayed above them, and the pair was awestruck at the magnificence. They tentatively walked forward, revealing the majority of the guests, who were all gazing up at the balcony expectantly. The shorter being beside him stiffened with anxiety, her delicately placed hand shaking on his arm. He strode confidently up to the announcer, speaking each word for his charge.

“Princess [Name] of Yokohama.” The weasel-faced man cast him a strange look, but turned, clearing his throat and bellowing the words.

“Her royal highness, Princess [Name] of Yokohama.” the room applauded, but Chuuya could sense the gossip formulating at the oddity before them: King Mori’s heiress attending with her simpleton bodyguard. Chuuya tensed, resisting the urge to protectively leap in front of the lovely lady. 

The walk down the grand spiral staircase was worse than the walk up. All eyes were tracing every movement they made, and it was clear that the attention was searing [Name]’s nerves. After years of constantly being around her, he had learned to recognize what each finger twitch she made represented. 

“Ah! My lady!” A tall blond man approached them immediately after her crystal slippers made contact with the marble floor.  “You look absolutely ravishing in that gown, has anybody ever told you that?” [Name] gave a tight, polite smile.

“Lord Steinbeck. I’m sorry to say that you’re not the first. A very handsome man told me moments before we arrived.” Chuuya felt a smirk touch his lips and desperately tried to hide his oncoming smug expression. 

“Really? Another suitor, perhaps? Surely you rejected him in that feather-soft tone of yours.” 

“Surely.” The male drew closer, dangerously close.

“My lady, what would you do if I proposed you send your “escort” away while I take you around the palace?” Any stray eavesdroppers would surely not think much of Steinbeck’s proposition, but Chuuya knew exactly what kind of man he was and what “touring the palace” really implied, and it made his temper snap.

“Oi-”

“Well, I’d probably reject you in my fancy feather-soft tone.” Steinbeck looked sincerely shocked.

“Hm? You’d rather be constantly hounded by your father’s lackeys all night long?”

“U-uh… of course not! You know that very well, Steinbeck.” His icy blue eyes were blown with pride and mischief.

“I knew you’d relent, princess.” Chuuya felt a growl rumble in his throat, his eyes burning with rage when he lugged her away from him.

“Oi! What the hell do you think you’re doing?! You don’t get to do that.”

“Oh? And what say do you have in the matter?”

“Last I checked, it’s my duty to protect the princess, and you don’t seem to have any good intentions in mind.”

“I sense that there’s a bit more to the story,” he smirked deviously, “Isn’t there, Chuuya Nakahara? Escorting a dignified lady, not to mention a princess is a far more intimate action than a bodyguard and executive should partake in.” The man’s fingers trailed a sensuous path down her smooth skin, but she pulled away.

“I did not ask for your affection, My Lord. The affairs of my kingdom are most certainly none of your concern. Perhaps you do things differently in your department, but my staff is eternally devoted to my father and me, so this ordeal is hardly out of the ordinary. I strongly suggest you educate yourself before you make such a bold and faulty accusation.” With a fiery glare, she turned and marched off, her skirts rustling behind her. As was in her nature, she tripped over the indigo hem of them.

“Damn these skirts!” Chuuya quickly recovered from his burst of fury, rushing to her aid.

“It’s unseemly to curse in public, My Lady.” He murmured, balancing her.

“It’s also unseemly to insult my father’s prime business partner’s cousin, Chuuya.” A scoff burned his throat. 

“As if I’d let him taint you like that.” 

“Only him?” Her voice suddenly got timid as she swept herself into a nearby love-seat, running her delicate fingers over the gold embroidery.

“What do you mean?”

“Well…” She flushed, “Eventually it’s bound to happen, you are aware, right?”

“Maybe so, but like hell I’m gonna let it be with some nauseating bastard like Steinbeck.” A small smile colored her cheeks.

“It’s unseemly to swear in public, Chuu-Chuu.” 

It’s unseemly to make me fall for you this hard. He thought, turning his face to hide his minuscule flush.

Throughout the course of the ball, many a man asked for a dance, but she deftly refused all of them, lounging in silence with her red-headed companion. 

“[Name], you need to accept someone.”

“You know how dreadful I am at dancing!”

“So?” She let out an exasperated groan.

“I’m not suited for these sorts of things. I’m not elegant like those duchesses and queens. Not to mention I only seem to feel comfortable around you.” Chuuya felt his heartstrings tug. “Chuuya?” 

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen my father anywhere?”

“No, surprisingly. He’s likely treating Elise.”

“Then I have a proposition.” Training his eyes on her, he examined her determined expression. “Let’s go somewhere else.” 

“[Name]...”

“Just somewhere quieter… please, Chuuya?” His name on her tongue was like a choir of angels to his ears, and with a relenting sigh, he caved.

They finally stopped in the vast library, books lining each wall, a cozy fireplace surrounded by expensive sofas. Normally she’d run her hands over the spines of the novels, gushing about her favorite ones with endless delight, but instead, she tugged him into an obscure corner, looping her arms around his body.

“Chuuya…”

“I knew there was more to this escapade.” 

“Please. Just let me hold you. I know this is taboo, but we’ve known each other for our entire lives. I can’t ignore the feelings I’ve developed for you. I know you feel it too, so please, indulge me just this once. I love you. I love you.” Her grip around his waist tightened in sheer desperation, and the urge to kiss her was more powerful than ever. Her sweet vanilla scent pervaded his nose; her warm body was the perfect size for his arms to wind around. 

“This is impossible.” 

“I know, Chuuya!” Warm wet splotches seeped through his shirt, and the male lifted her tear-stained face, gazing intently into her honey-sweet optics with his fluorescent sapphire ones. 

“Chuuya?” He felt frustration, despair, and endless longing contort his soul. She was so close, yet so far.

“Princess.”

“I want you to kiss me.”

“I can’t.”

“Please, Chuuya.” Her soft words seared his mind with white-hot streaks of temptation. “I don’t care about propriety anymore, please, Chuuya.” Her face grew dangerously close and he could feel her minty fresh breath waft over his face. 

“[Name]...” Finally collapsing, he let his mouth capture hers, but he quickly got caught up in her and her taste. His hand flew to her waist, the texture of the gown silky beneath his fingertips. Leaning closer, she placed her hands on his firm shoulders. Suddenly, she bit down on his bottom lip, fingers sliding up his neck and into his ginger locks. Chuuya involuntarily groaned, backing her up against the wall, his kisses gradually growing rougher. Stringing through his hair, the girl in his arms knocked his hat off, letting out breathy moans. As if against his will, his mouth moved down, smooching a trail of fire down to her jaw.

“God, I love you…”

“Chuuya…” As he showered her in affection, he let his endearment for the princess pour out in waves. As wrong as he knew it was, the sensation of being kissed by someone you loved was euphoric to him. The way she whispered his name was honey to his ears. 

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”  They split instantly, but Chuuya still rested his hand on her shoulder protectively. 

“Steinbeck.”

“I suppose I was right in thinking something more than a platonic relationship was blossoming between you two. A princess and her father’s right hand, how scandalous.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” The man gave a sardonic smile.

“Wouldn’t I?” Chuuya growled, stepping forward with less than proper intentions.

“Wait!” Both men glanced at her questioningly. “Don’t endanger him, please. I’ll get my father to accept your marriage proposal.”

“No. I won’t let you wed this scoundrel.” With a melancholy smile, she whispered,

“You’re not my father, Chuuya.”

“But it’s my job to watch over your stupid ass, and I’ll kill him before I let him even touch you.”

“Chuuya-”

“All right, I accept, but any tricks and your secret romance will be mercilessly exposed.” The ginger shoved the girl behind him, fury burning in his veins.

“Over my dead body.”

“Is that so?” Chuuya seethed at his words. “If you even touch me, you’ll create an enemy out of a business partner.”

“It’s not worth it, Chuu.” 

“You are worth it.”  Her breath caught.

“You’d lose everything.”

“You’re everything.” A chuckle escaped her smooth lips.

“Exactly.” With an unsatisfied and murderous glare glazing his crystalline eyes, he reluctantly backed down.

“Then it’s a deal? I guess that means we’ll be seeing each other tomorrow, correct? Without your brainless bodyguard, of course.” In an impulsive burst of adrenaline, Chuuya glowed red, sending a bookshelf tumbling on top of the blond. 

“Chuuya!”

“What? He valiantly saved you from the falling bookcase. Why’re you crying to me?” She was stunned, her [e/c] eyes wide and her hair falling out from its precarious updo. Her shining tiara was lopsided and she smiled. It was such a lovely smile and Chuuya could hardly believe that he was lucky enough to see it every day. 

“Chuuya, I know this isn’t safe, but I want to make this work with you, will you at least try?” And with that one sentence, their lips were pressed together once more.

MASTERLIST

Request Here!

[chelsfic]

Unseemly Desire, or Nandor's Season of Self-Discovery - Nandor x Guillermo Fanfic

Sequel to I Fell into Fantasy | WWDITS Masterlist

Summary: In which Nandor tries to convince everyone, including himself, that he does not have any unseemly feelings for his familiar. 

A/N: I couldn't decide on a serious title or a goof title, so I went with both. Thanks so much to Spiff from the Nandermo server for helping me workshop this idea. After I wrote "I Fell into Fantasy" I just kept thinking about how Nandor would spin into denial and the angst that would ensue. Then I woke up this morning with the idea of an axe throwing competition?? And now we're here?

Oh, yeah....this is a multi-chapter fic *flops around the floor helplessly*

Warnings/Tags: Angst, mutual pining, Eventual smut, Blood drinking, Toxic Masculinity in the Ottoman Empire, Repressing feelings, Axe throwing...the usual

---

Nandor wakes to the sound of his familiar quietly shuffling about the crypt, no doubt lighting the dozens of candles that line the room. The vampire shifts inside his coffin, frowning at the sticky feel of dried seed on the inside of his trousers. He’d gone to bed that morning with a powerful desire still coursing through his veins along with Guillermo’s sweet, virgin blood. The mere memory of last night’s feeding is enough to stir him once more and he growls, driving the heel of his palm against his crotch to stifle his reaction.

“Master? Are you alright?” Guillermo’s voice is sweet and tentative.

“I’m fine! Why would you ask such a thing?” he snaps irritably, then in a softer voice, “Is it safe to open my coffin now, Guillermo?”

In answer Guillermo cracks the lid, easily lifting the solid weight after years of practice. His master sits up quickly, tugging at the bottom of his loose nightshirt in an effort to cover the obvious stain on the front of his pants. 

“Good evening, master,” Guillermo greets with his usual respectful subservience. 

Good. Perhaps he won’t have to work too hard at reestablishing the boundaries he’d so savagely torn down the night before. It’s imperative that Nandor reminds his familiar of his place within the household and, especially, within their...relationship. His reaction to drinking Guillermo’s blood was shameful and he does not want his familiar getting any high ideas about a romance with his master. 

He knows--how could he not?--of Guillermo’s inappropriate attraction to him. He hears the way the human’s heartbeat races whenever they are physically close. He sees the secret grins on Guillermo’s lips when Nandor does anything the least bit kind. But a romantic relationship between a vampire and a familiar? Yeeck! It’s just not done. Of course, he considered the sex slave option when this unnatural lust first manifested. Other vampires make such arrangements with their familiars. But Guillermo would want more. He would want snuggles and romance and caring and...maybe even a break from his chores?! And the idea of using Guillermo for sex, while appealing, also causes him to feel a burning, stabby pain in his chest that he can’t identify.

No, it is better that he keep things strictly professional. A master and his servant. Nothing more.

Nandor finally steels himself to look up at his familiar, keeping his face a cold, forbidding mask.  And then he sees the massive bruise on Guillermo’s neck.

It’s an angry, deep purple that extends from his jaw down the side of his neck and beneath the collar of his fuzzy sweater. Two scabbed puncture wounds sit in the center of the damage, like demon eyes looking back at Nandor accusingly. He sucks in a breath and involuntarily reaches out to brush his fingers against the wounded skin. Guillermo flinches away from the touch with a pained mew.

“It’s just...tender, master,” Guillermo explains, almost apologetically. 

Nandor can’t think straight. His eyes, liquid and deep, full of some unnameable emotion, focus on the damage he’s caused. How many dead bodies has he tossed aside without a qualm? How many bruises and bites and broken bones has he caused? But he’s never seen the results on someone he--

“I...Guillermo,” he whispers, finally locking eyes with his human and bringing his hand up to cup his cheek, “I did not mean to be causing permanent damage…”

Guillermo gasps softly at his master’s touch. He leans into it, silently thrilling when Nandor doesn’t immediately draw his hand away.

“Permanent? No, master, it’s just a bruise. It will fade eventually,” Guillermo assures him, but Nandor still looks skeptical.

“Does it hurt?” he asks and Guillermo brims with happiness at his master’s concern.

“Only a little bit, Na--master,” Guillermo stumbles, nearly breaking the carefully established protocol between them. 

Nandor notes the mistake and snatches his hand away as if he’s been burned by holy water. He clambers out of the coffin without Guillermo’s assistance. They go through the motions of dressing. Nandor bends down so that Guillermo can get his shirt on over his head, steps into his trousers and boots, and sits quietly while Guillermo arranges his hair. All the while a single word cycles through his head.

Fuck!

---

Guillermo is practically buzzing with energy despite last night’s blood loss. Every time he moves he feels a delicious tug on his wound and the memories of his master’s touch come flying back to the surface of his mind. He doesn’t even care that Nandor dismissed him so abruptly after getting dressed. Nor does he care that he gave him a seemingly random and unnecessary order before fleeing the crypt in his bat form. Guillermo sits on the floor surrounded by his master’s extensive blade collection, carefully cleaning and polishing each one with a giant, goofy grin on his face.

---

“Well, well, well...doing the flight of shame, Nandor?” Laszlo chuckles at his own joke as Nandor drops out of his bat form into a chair in the fancy room. 

“Very good joke, darling! Because he’s finally given the sex to Gizmo!” Nadja crows.

The couple are sitting together in the loveseat. Laszlo is bent over Nadja’s hand, painting her nails and heedlessly dripping lacquer all over the upholstery as he does so.

Nandor’s face blanches in alarm and he cries, “What the shit are you two talking about!? I have not been doing sex with Guillermo! Yuck! Unspeakable! Why would that even occur to you?”

“Me thinks he doth protest too much, eh, darling?” Laszlo remarks to another shriek of laughter from his wife.

Nandor jerks to his feet, bristling and defensive, but before he can think of a reply Laszlo continues, “Well if you weren’t having sex then what the blazes were you doing to the chap to cause those tantalizing moans?”

With this Laszlo launches into a cartoonish impression of the desperate cries and moans that Guillermo made as Nandor drank from him. Nadja claps her hands in delight and joins in the fun. The pair of perverts are soon screeching and twitching in exaggerated, obscene mockery of his familiar.

“Enough!” Nandor roars, stomping his foot petulantly. “Stop speaking of my familiar this way! It’s highly inappropriate!”

“So, you’re saying you didn’t roger your little rotten soldier last night?” Laszlo arches a brow, snorting under his breath derisively. 

Nandor stares back at him in confusion, “What the fuck--?! No! Certainly not. Very...disgusting to even say such a thing. Gross!”

Laszlo glances to Nadja with a sly smirk as he speaks, “Then you wouldn’t mind if my good lady wife and I extended an invitation to the fellow to join us in a ménage à threesome?”

Nandor takes to the air, eyes glowing with rage as he hisses wildly at Laszlo.

“Hey dudes, what’s all the fuss about?” Colin Robinson, drawn by the pulsing waves of drama emanating from the room, appears in the doorway.

Nandor drops back onto his feet and whines, “Laszlo is making unsavory claims about my familiar and I won’t have it!”

“Nandor’s being a snake dick because he’s horny for his familiar and won’t admit it!” Nadja counters. 

Nandor’s mouth snaps shut at that. Nadja’s words have struck true and Nandor feels a shiver of panic at the thought of his shameful secret being known throughout the household. He must convince them they’re mistaken...but how? 

He’s still too enraged to think straight and rather than address Nadja’s words he simply bellows, “Satisfaction! I will have satisfaction against these two perverts!”

Colin grins, his eyes lighting with hungry delight, “How about a contest of some sort? Whoever wins is right. Of course, you should choose a neutral activity. Something in which you’re all equally matched. A checkers tournament? Scrabble, maybe…”

“A contest! Yes!” Nandor interrupts with an excited grin. “A challenge of strength and accuracy! Guillermo! Bring me my axes for throwing! My throwing axes!”

Nadja rolls her eyes and looks about to argue when Laszlo stops her with a hand on her arm.

“I say, good idea, Nandor. We’ll compete in a game of throwing axes. But to prove that you really are telling the truth and you don’t harbor secret, moist fantasies about your little familiar, we’ll make it more interesting. Whoever gets their axe closest to Gizmo without skewering the little guy wins!”

Nandor deflates, “That’s not...I don’t…”

Guillermo enters carefully holding a bundle of wickedly sharp axes. The blades shine in the candlelight and contrast against the soft, muted colors of his sweater. Nandor imagines one of those blades sinking into his familiar’s soft flesh and he shivers. 

Laszlo looks as if he’s already won the little game he’s playing and Nandor clenches his fists, forcing levity into his voice as he announces, “Everyone in the garden! We are going to have a little game!”

---

Guillermo can’t decide if he’s more livid or terrified. He’s standing up against the fence, shivering despite his hat and coat, and desperately trying to hold still as his master casually tests the weight of the axe in his hand. Nadja and Laszlo look on, each carrying axes of their own, and Colin Robinson looks positively frenzied as he feeds off the tension in the air.

“Master, why are we doing this, again?” Guillermo wishes his voice didn’t have such a marked tremor in it.

“I am defending your honor, Guillermo. Now be very, very still,” Nandor launches the axe without any further warning. 

Guillermo shrieks and he feels the air to the right of his head part as the blade sinks into the wood of the fence an inch away from his face. He turns to stare at the quivering handle with wide, horrified eyes.

“There!” Nandor announces with a smug smile. “No one could beat such a throw! Contest over, I win. Guillermo, attend me--”

Nandor is already starting to stride back to the house but Guillermo barely has a chance to let out a relieved sigh when Laszlo steps up wielding his own weapon. 

“Not so fast, Gizmo! I’ll have my turn, thank you!” his voice lilts up dramatically as he raises the axe, screwing one eye shut and taking aim.

Nandor whirls, eyes wide with panic as he urgently hisses, “Be still, Guillermo!”

Guillermo shuts his eyes, whimpering as he awaits his fate. One second Laszlo is letting out a manful bellow as the axe leaves his fingers and the next second Guillermo is hissing in pain as the blade cuts into his cheek. His eyes flash open in shock and he brings his hand up to cup his face. Blood pours from the shallow wound. The pain is a sharp, burning intensity that brings tears stinging to his eyes.

“Ha!” Nandor gloats. “You’ve lost! Your blade touched...him.”

Laszlo swears under his breath but Nandor has lost his steam as the reality of his words hits him. He steps forward, involuntarily reaching for his wounded familiar. Then he catches the knowing look on Laszlo’s face and he stops himself, straightening his spine and raising his head in a show of haughty indifference that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“My turn!” Nadja trills, flipping her axe from hand to hand with a little skip in her step. 

“Master… please!” Guillermo begs. There are tears leaking from his eyes now. Whatever fucking insult Nandor thinks they made against him isn’t worth this!

“Yes, Nandor, the boy has a point. My lady wife is known for many...eclectic skills, but her aim isn’t one of them. We could put a stop to this if you’d care to admit we’re right about your shameful little secret…”

“Never!” Nandor shouts, looking like a giant, angry toddler.

Guillermo’s head spins, “What? What is he talking about, master?”

Nandor turns to his familiar, injecting authority into his voice as he commands, “Guillermo, tell Nadja and Laszlo that we were not doing sex together last night!”

“E-excuse me!?” Guillermo sputters, feeling a heated blush creep up his neck.

Nandor lets out a frustrated growl and his lips curl in revulsion as he shouts, “Tell them that I did not have disgusting, unnatural sex with a...a...human servant! I order you!”

The hand he’s kept clutched over the bleeding wound on his cheek falls limp at his side. Guillermo looks from his master’s cold, detached expression to Nadja and Laszlo’s expectantly curious faces and he sighs in resignation even as another tiny piece of his heart chips and falls away.

“...He didn’t,” he says in a small voice and then, more loudly, “We did not have sex.”

Laszlo looks unconvinced and Nadja just looks annoyed.

“This is getting very boring and I still have not had my turn to throw the axe! Here I go!”

She flings the blade through the air with barely a glance in Guillermo’s direction. It wobbles in the air, toppling end over end as it cuts a deadly path that Nandor immediately sees will end in his familiar’s gut. Guillermo has barely enough time to flinch but Nandor moves with supernatural speed, dashing in front of his human and plucking the axe from the air before it can hurt him.

“Nadja!” Nandor admonishes in an affronted tone. “That was very careless of you! You could have seriously injured my Gui--my familiar! I’m very annoyed with you both!”

Guillermo trembles from behind Nandor, clinging to the fabric of his cape for comfort despite the anger, hurt and resentment that still broils just beneath the surface of his emotions. He’ll deal with all that once his legs resolidify.

Laszlo waves away the near-catastrophe with a flick of his wrist and holds out his arm for Nadja as he comments, “I think we have our answer, darling…”

Nandor’s hands curl into fists at his sides as he watches the other vampires stroll away with smug satisfaction on their faces.

Fucking shit!

---

“Guillermo…” Nandor pauses on his way up the step stool, he squeezes his familiar’s hand in his. “About tonight…”

He’s going to apologize for putting me in danger...for saying those things… Guillermo looks up at him with hopeful expectation in his eyes.

“I hope you are not getting strange notions in your little human brain because of what Laszlo said. It was very wrong of him to make such a sickening claim,” Nandor’s voice is pure condescension.

Guillermo is silent for a beat, swallowing against the lump of emotion in his throat and blinking his eyes rapidly before looking his master in the eye and lying, “Of course not, master.”

Nandor nods in satisfaction and he swings down into his coffin. But he tastes the edge of human sadness beginning to taint the air of the room and he frowns. Hadn’t this whole mess started because he was trying to get rid of the sad human smell? He is caught in one of those hog day loops!

Nandor hesitates, scowling as he chooses his words, “But… I am sorry about the axes. It wasn’t my idea. And… and… I would have been really sad if you had died, because you’re...special to me, Guillermo.”

Nandor lets the words hang in the air for a moment, watching the start of a smile curling his familiar’s lips before shaking his head and waving a hand in front of Guillermo’s face in a flourish, “You will forget about that last thing I just said.”

[gaasaku-fanfests]

The Blacksmith’s Daughter

Title: The Blacksmith’s Daughter Author: gaarasgoddess Rating: T Word Count: 2,906 words Summary: What happens when a fallen daughter meets a rising son? What happens when they discover that fate had more in store for them than the lives they’d planned? Japan’s medieval, Edo Period is the background as Gaara and Sakura miss each other in a series of missed connections only to fall into each other hard. Warnings: Mentions of blood and murder. Author’s Note(s): Definition from google: “Medieval Japan is characterised by a decentralised government, warfare, and the rise of a powerful warrior class. Fighting was a way of life for the men and women and politics was as changing as a fire’s breath.” Trope: Medieval Japan AU

.

Her parentage was never in question. Sakura was the fifteenth daughter born to the Emperor of Japan. She was the only daughter of a noblewoman who had been sold to the Emperor when her father couldn’t pay his debt. A woman who had failed to produce any more offspring since.

It was a fact. That was who she was. Who she was told never to forget.

And so she believed for eighteen years of being prepped for a marriage to some unknown man, whichever suitor her father decided brought him the most money or power. She learned her kanji, her cursive, her history, her airs and pomp, and her manners. Anything that would be needed to attract a high placed family to want to welcome her into theirs, was taught to her.

She said “yes” to a stranger. To a man she would spend her life with. A man that refused to meet her until then. But she would do her duty. She would wait for him.

In the meantime, her father saw fit to send her to the allied camps to learn to heal. To learn to take care of people. She already knew how to serve her future husband and what to expect when she moved to his land to begin her new life. For now her present was spent tending to the injuries of soldiers who fought and died to keep her father’s control of this land in his own hands. She got a taste of what life was supposed to be about.

With war and death rampant in the country, the shoguns fought over who had dominion where and who deserved to. The Emperor was just a figure head but he was an important one. He spent his days in meetings and adding this pomp and stature in the eyes of the lowly, commoners, and his nights whoring - with whores and wives. Sakura had so many siblings she didn’t think it meant anything who she was, really. Or him. The father who didn’t care about appearances.

And who had no control over what was coming.

.x.

He was the son of a whore. The devil didn’t care about gender. His father was a whore. It didn’t matter that he carried the title of shogun. It didn’t matter that he was well respected. It only mattered that the man deserved to die.

Gaara caught him fucking the servant girls on a weekly basis and a noblewoman’s daughter - or two - every other week. Rasa didn’t bother to hide it anymore. His wife was expected to not care. But his children hated him for it.

Gaara grew up respecting this man; he wanted to be just like him and signed up to become a samurai, as his father had done in his youth, without a second thought. He wanted to get married once he turned eighteen, like his father did, and carry on the tradition of moving into politics and teaching everything he’d learnt to his children. He wanted to matter.

But on the eve of his sixteenth birthday he’d had enough. Gaara packed his bags and enlisted with the regular army and didn’t look back. His father didn’t bother trying to stop him but said he had to return to marry some rich man’s wife in two years.

Not happening.

He never bothered to ask what the girl’s name was. Nor to attend the meetings that had been organised between them. He should get to know her, his mother said, and he almost yelled back “like father is getting to know the servants?”. Almost. She was to be pitied and he did. His father was a whore and a cunt.

But he couldn’t bare to watch her suffer Rasa’s indiscretions. So he left and didn’t look back. His siblings went their own way too, also disgusted.

That was a decision he’d never regretted. Until the day he met the blacksmith’s daughter and decided fate was indeed a fickle bitch.

.x.

Sakura wiped her forehead with the back of her hand before standing and stretching. The last group of soldiers had been hit by enemy arrows in a final attempt to rule the battlefield and were full of holes for their troubles. She’d been on her feet all night.

After years of tutelage, she was almost ready to be allowed to return home. She enjoyed healing people and was not looking forward to returning to the noble court. Her mother’s latest letter had her afraid of what awaited her. She wasn’t ill but talked as though her days were numbered. It made her want to rush to her side but it also left her fearful for her own well being.

Mebuki spoke of assassination attempts and having betrayed her Emperor. That she was going to hell for what she’d done. The raving comments also told Sakura that she was in danger.

‘Don’t come here.’ She wrote. But it made no sense.

“Lady Sakura?”

She started before smiling at her newest patient. Sakura smiled widely at him. “Lord Kankuro, you need to rest.”

He scoffed, failing to sit up in his cot. “I’m fine.”

“Your arm was infected and you’ve been unconscious for days,“ she said, fussing over his bandages.

“You sound like my mother,” he mummbled. And she tutted at him. “Are you busy after this?”

“Huh?” She frowned at him, confused.

“Uh,” he rubbed the back of his head. “I’m not coming onto you, I promise. It’s just, I asked out a cute nurse and she turned me down but if she thought it was a group thing... never mind forget I asked.”

Sakura glanced at the nurse in question when Kankuro looked over at her. She was one of the new recruits who barely knew anything about medicine. Called Matsuri, or something. Sakura also knew that Matsuri was crushing on some other soldier who apparently refused to give her the time of day and had transferred out of this med-tent when the brunette girl wouldn’t stop following him around. Kankuro might be just what she needed, since the rejection from the other soldier had affected her performance in surgery.

Sakura sighed. “I’ll get her in the mess tent and you can bump into us.”

“Thanks, Saku-chan.” He grinned.

She shook her head. “And don’t call me that.”

“Okay, Saks.”

She poked him.

“Okay, okay.”

.x.

Gaara left the tent for two reasons. One: that Matsuri chick was getting on his nerves. Two: the flush of embarrassment he felt when he spotted his brother. He was talking to some pink haired physician and the brothers had not spoken for years. He knew Kankuro had enlisted but didn’t give it much thought, since he kept to himself and took on the more dangerous missions. And he remembered his brother as hating conflict. But so much seemed to have changed.

Pink hair.

Something stirred in his memory but he brushed it aside.

“We’re heading out.” Baki, his commanding officer, hollered at him.

Gaara took a last look at the laughing man he’d once called brother (his eyes drifting over the pretty physician) before following Baki. The redhead had risen in the ranks so fast because of his power and prowess that even the General had stood to attention. The strange man that had connections to nobles and warriors alike.

The Emperor’s favoured mass killer.

.x.

A month of blood stuck to his skin. Gaara didn’t wash except to trek through streams. He smelled like the country side. It made for decent cover as he slinked into the shadows and pounced from bushes and hovels to kill his targets.

He’d become an assassin. After Baki’s death and word spreading of the decimation of his entire platoon, he was reassigned to the darker, specialised killers. He wasn’t a ninja. He wasn’t one of them. But he drew as much blood as they did. He killed like he’d been born to it. Gone were the concerns over the brother and sister he’d left behind. The mother who had passed to illness in the last winter.

Six months ago he’d avoided Kankuro in a medical tent and now he stood, face-to-face with the man, unable to hide his true intentions. He’d been sent here to assist with a platoon that was trying to take out a rival shogun’s family. They needed this family dead. They needed someone who could disappear into the shoin-zukuri in shadow and slit those throats without raising any alarms.

His father needed to appear to have clean hands in their deaths.

Times were changing and the old man was losing control. These enemies needed to die. And so they did. Gaara emerged from their home, covered in blood. He faced down his brother - the man who greeted him and thanked him for his service as though they hadn’t once occupied the same womb.

Gaara’s grip on his sword was tenuous even as he gripped it tighter. How he wanted to just charge the stranger in front of him. To show him who it was that deserved to be in the light and put the dark behind him. But then a mousy girl came out of the tent behind Kankuro.

His wife.

Matsuri had given into him after all. And her belly was full of his brother’s child. She watched on at the silent exchange as though she had never followed Gaara around hoping to be the one to carry his children.

Who cares?

But it made him wonder if someone could. If the monster he’d become could have that. So his hand slacked and he lowered his weapon. This was not worth the aching in his heart. It was time to choose his fate and he refused to die here.

Gaara turned and fled back to the dark. Back into the pain of his life.

.x.

Her return home had not been the horror story Sakura had feared. Though she wished she’d not returned at all. She’d stood at the walls and contemplated fleeing her future. The man who’d been her betrothed had been killed in battle, she said. He was a stain on the memory of her family, so she was to pretend he’d never existed.

But she’d also heard rumours he’d simply defected. A runaway and potentially a traitor. The son rose high and she’d been falling from herself so far. Sakura could not climb the wall in front of her. So she let the guards usher her inside. To see her mother’s corpse. The accident had been tragic they said. The poor woman died so suddenly they claimed. How sad.

Sakura did not spend much time in the presence of the body but even she had seen how only poison could make those pink lips turn so blood red. But what was she to do? She questioned the mortician. She asked to see the autopsy report. But nothing came of it. At last, her father sent an official to inform her she was being sent out again.

Where you’ll cause less fuss.

And this was how she descended into infamy.

.x.

Sakura did not correspond with Kankuro and Matsuri after that first time they’d spent together. She helped him woo the girl and got out of there. Apparently, the man the brunette had liked was determined to ignore her and had gained a reputation for being blood thirsty, which was unbecoming of his noble status. No good was going to come of it.

She wasn’t even invited to the wedding.

But she didn’t care. Sakura returned to the medical tents and threw herself into the work. But she knew she couldn’t keep this up for long. Soldiers would give her strange looks. Shogun under her knife would not call her Lady anymore when she visited them in recovery. And every night she sensed the hidden follower when she returned to her tent. Someone had decided she was trouble. What she could have done, other than question the healers back home, she didn’t know.

But time was getting short as she started to get called into the med tent less and less. She was not as needed as before. She was getting a bad feeling. Rumours of how the war was turning away from her Shogun had her worried. Perhaps the children of the Emperor were being watched more closely? But nobody here should know who she was. She was just supposed to be another noble, not royalty.

Her surgery talents were being wasted.

After overhearing her superior talking to a soldier about transferring her to the front line to get rid of her, Sakura had had enough. She decided to take things into her own hands.

.x.

He followed the girl as she began packing and making her excuses to the soldiers that she was going for a run to get rid of hospital scrubs. He watched as she stole a horse and rode away as though the devil were on her tail. He was tempted to follow. So desperately so, that Gaara didn’t bother questioning that urge. He took his horse and rode into the darkness of the night that surrounded the camp.

Pink hair.

She was the same healer who had helped his brother. The one who’d given Kankuro his happy ending with Matsuri. It had to mean something that he’d been assigned to watch her, and kill her if she tried to flee.

.x.

They did not get far. Sakura and the horse she’d dubbed Shugo. A dark brown pedigree that she’d pushed to its limits in the span of the night. The devil was on her tail. But a day had passed and already she had to sell it for supplies. She needed to go incognito and figure out her next move. Sakura had no idea how to live as a peasant but she’d dealt with harsh circumstances before. Living as a physician in the middle of a war was not the lap of luxury of her former home of course.

And still she felt the weight of eyes on her like that shadow from the camp would not leave her alone. Something or someone was following her and she needed to get out of the open. Dyeing her hair and offering her services as a weaver seemed the sensible thing to do. Nobody noticed the dark haired girl walking among a crowd of similarly dark haired girls.

A month later she was still being hounded by the darkness of her shadow and no amount of companionship from those she met and dallied with could throw off her feeling of being hunted. But the hunter did nothing. And she was letting everything go.

One day, her lowered guard would be the best of her.

.x.

He enjoyed watching her. She was his target but her desire to run from the same life he abhorred kept his knife in its sheathe. It kept his eyes feasting on her flesh instead of tearing into it with a weapon that he still wanted to use.

Gaara did not need to kill to survive. He was beginning to realise that. So he decided to take her lead and ingratiate himself into this new world. He found a dwelling and scrubbed the smell of the land from his body. It seemed to take months to finally be free of the blood. But nobody knew how much was still on him more than he did. It would be there forever.

But he finally looked like he belonged the day he purposefully, accidentally ran into her, knocking her groceries to the ground.

This was how the woman came to know him. She had been going by the name Amaya but introduced herself as Sakura the moment he asked. They both looked surprised at this and she realised who he was the moment he smirked, his canines almost looking like they were dripping in blood.

Her heart beat raced. Her palms were sweaty. Her eyes were wide.

But all he did was bow to her and offer his help in picking up her dropped supplies. All he did was ask her to allow him to pay for her dinner. All he did was touch her softly, carefully, to make sure she knew what he wanted from her.

And Sakura had no idea why she gave it to him. Waves of blinding light and rocking motions and crashing against each other; humming and moaning and joining and she was his. They came together in so many perfect ways. She didn’t question why her shadow decided to love her instead of kill her. She was lost to the pleasure and the touches that gave her reason to let go.

To just let go.

.x.

News of her father’s death and his father’s brutal murder did nothing to stir them.

Sakura just smiled as the local gossip spread the news and the official reports came in. As though she were just another citizen. A dark haired girl who used to be pink.

Gaara helped her to her feet and they wandered out of the temple where they’d finally made their life official. Nothing else mattered. Their pasts were fake and they had their eyes on the future, instead.

That’s how he became just some random farmer travelling into the area with his pregnant wife. And that’s how she became the Blacksmith’s Daughter travelling into the new area, pregnant and looking to start a fresh life with her new husband.

.x.

[gaarasgoddess]

The Blacksmith’s Daughter

What happens when a fallen daughter meets a rising son? What happens when they discover that fate had more in store for them than the lives they’d planned? Japan’s medieval, Edo Period is the background as Gaara and Sakura miss each other in a series of missed connections only to fall into each other hard.

Notes: Definition from google: “Medieval Japan is characterised by a decentralised government, warfare, and the rise of a powerful warrior class. Fighting was a way of life for the men and women and politics was as changing as a fire’s breath.”

Her parentage was never in question. Sakura was the fifteenth daughter born to the Emperor of Japan. She was the only daughter of a noblewoman who had been sold to the Emperor when her father couldn’t pay his debt. A woman who had failed to produce any more offspring since.

It was a fact. That was who she was. Who she was told never to forget.

And so she believed for eighteen years of being prepped for a marriage to some unknown man, whichever suitor her father decided brought him the most money or power. She learned her kanji, her cursive, her history, her airs and pomp, and her manners. Anything that would be needed to attract a high placed family to want to welcome her into theirs, was taught to her.

She said “yes” to a stranger. To a man she would spend her life with. A man that refused to meet her until then. But she would do her duty. She would wait for him.

In the meantime, her father saw fit to send her to the allied camps to learn to heal. To learn to take care of people. She already knew how to serve her future husband and what to expect when she moved to his land to begin her new life. For now her present was spent tending to the injuries of soldiers who fought and died to keep her father’s control of this land in his own hands. She got a taste of what life was supposed to be about.

With war and death rampant in the country, the shoguns fought over who had dominion where and who deserved to. The Emperor was just a figure head but he was an important one. He spent his days in meetings and adding this pomp and stature in the eyes of the lowly, commoners, and his nights whoring - with whores and wives. Sakura had so many siblings she didn’t think it meant anything who she was, really. Or him. The father who didn’t care about appearances.

And who had no control over what was coming.

.x.

He was the son of a whore. The devil didn’t care about gender. His father was a whore. It didn’t matter that he carried the title of shogun. It didn’t matter that he was well respected. It only mattered that the man deserved to die.

Gaara caught him fucking the servant girls on a weekly basis and a noblewoman’s daughter - or two - every other week. Rasa didn’t bother to hide it anymore. His wife was expected to not care. But his children hated him for it.

Gaara grew up respecting this man; he wanted to be just like him and signed up to become a samurai, as his father had done in his youth, without a second thought. He wanted to get married once he turned eighteen, like his father did, and carry on the tradition of moving into politics and teaching everything he’d learnt to his children. He wanted to matter.

But on the eve of his sixteenth birthday he’d had enough. Gaara packed his bags and enlisted with the regular army and didn’t look back. His father didn’t bother trying to stop him but said he had to return to marry some rich man’s wife in two years.

Not happening.

He never bothered to ask what the girl’s name was. Nor to attend the meetings that had been organised between them. He should get to know her, his mother said, and he almost yelled back “like father is getting to know the servants?”. Almost. She was to be pitied and he did. His father was a whore and a cunt.

But he couldn’t bare to watch her suffer Rasa’s indiscretions. So he left and didn’t look back. His siblings went their own way too, also disgusted.

That was a decision he’d never regretted. Until the day he met the blacksmith’s daughter and decided fate was indeed a fickle bitch.

.x.

Sakura wiped her forehead with the back of her hand before standing and stretching. The last group of soldiers had been hit by enemy arrows in a final attempt to rule the battlefield and were full of holes for their troubles. She’d been on her feet all night.

After years of tutelage, she was almost ready to be allowed to return home. She enjoyed healing people and was not looking forward to returning to the noble court. Her mother’s latest letter had her afraid of what awaited her. She wasn’t ill but talked as though her days were numbered. It made her want to rush to her side but it also left her fearful for her own well being.

Mebuki spoke of assassination attempts and having betrayed her Emperor. That she was going to hell for what she’d done. The raving comments also told Sakura that she was in danger.

‘Don’t come here.’ She wrote. But it made no sense.

“Lady Sakura?”

She started before smiling at her newest patient. Sakura smiled widely at him. “Lord Kankuro, you need to rest.”

He scoffed, failing to sit up in his cot. “I’m fine.”

“Your arm was infected and you’ve been unconscious for days,“ she said, fussing over his bandages.

“You sound like my mother,” he mummbled. And she tutted at him. “Are you busy after this?”

“Huh?” She frowned at him, confused.

“Uh,” he rubbed the back of his head. “I’m not coming onto you, I promise. It’s just, I asked out a cute nurse and she turned me down but if she thought it was a group thing… never mind forget I asked.”

Sakura glanced at the nurse in question when Kankuro looked over at her. She was one of the new recruits who barely knew anything about medicine. Called Matsuri, or something. Sakura also knew that Matsuri was crushing on some other soldier who apparently refused to give her the time of day and had transferred out of this med-tent when the brunette girl wouldn’t stop following him around. Kankuro might be just what she needed, since the rejection from the other soldier had affected her performance in surgery.

Sakura sighed. “I’ll get her in the mess tent and you can bump into us.”

“Thanks, Saku-chan.” He grinned.

She shook her head. “And don’t call me that.”

“Okay, Saks.”

She poked him.

“Okay, okay.”

.x.

Gaara left the tent for two reasons. One: that Matsuri chick was getting on his nerves. Two: the flush of embarrassment he felt when he spotted his brother. He was talking to some pink haired physician and the brothers had not spoken for years. He knew Kankuro had enlisted but didn’t give it much thought, since he kept to himself and took on the more dangerous missions. And he remembered his brother as hating conflict. But so much seemed to have changed.

Pink hair.

Something stirred in his memory but he brushed it aside.

“We’re heading out.” Baki, his commanding officer, hollered at him.

Gaara took a last look at the laughing man he’d once called brother (his eyes drifting over the pretty physician) before following Baki. The redhead had risen in the ranks so fast because of his power and prowess that even the General had stood to attention. The strange man that had connections to nobles and warriors alike.

The Emperor’s favoured mass killer.

.x.

A month of blood stuck to his skin. Gaara didn’t wash except to trek through streams. He smelled like the country side. It made for decent cover as he slinked into the shadows and pounced from bushes and hovels to kill his targets.

He’d become an assassin. After Baki’s death and word spreading of the decimation of his entire platoon, he was reassigned to the darker, specialised killers. He wasn’t a ninja. He wasn’t one of them. But he drew as much blood as they did. He killed like he’d been born to it. Gone were the concerns over the brother and sister he’d left behind. The mother who had passed to illness in the last winter.

Six months ago he’d avoided Kankuro in a medical tent and now he stood, face-to-face with the man, unable to hide his true intentions. He’d been sent here to assist with a platoon that was trying to take out a rival shogun’s family. They needed this family dead. They needed someone who could disappear into the shoin-zukuri in shadow and slit those throats without raising any alarms.

His father needed to appear to have clean hands in their deaths.

Times were changing and the old man was losing control. These enemies needed to die. And so they did. Gaara emerged from their home, covered in blood. He faced down his brother - the man who greeted him and thanked him for his service as though they hadn’t once occupied the same womb.

Gaara’s grip on his sword was tenuous even as he gripped it tighter. How he wanted to just charge the stranger in front of him. To show him who it was that deserved to be in the light and put the dark behind him. But then a mousy girl came out of the tent behind Kankuro.

His wife.

Matsuri had given into him after all. And her belly was full of his brother’s child. She watched on at the silent exchange as though she had never followed Gaara around hoping to be the one to carry his children.

Who cares?

But it made him wonder if someone could. If the monster he’d become could have that. So his hand slacked and he lowered his weapon. This was not worth the aching in his heart. It was time to choose his fate and he refused to die here.

Gaara turned and fled back to the dark. Back into the pain of his life.

.x.

Her return home had not been the horror story Sakura had feared. Though she wished she’d not returned at all. She’d stood at the walls and contemplated fleeing her future. The man who’d been her betrothed had been killed in battle, she said. He was a stain on the memory of her family, so she was to pretend he’d never existed.

But she’d also heard rumours he’d simply defected. A runaway and potentially a traitor. The son rose high and she’d been falling from herself so far. Sakura could not climb the wall in front of her. So she let the guards usher her inside. To see her mother’s corpse. The accident had been tragic they said. The poor woman died so suddenly they claimed. How sad.

Sakura did not spend much time in the presence of the body but even she had seen how only poison could make those pink lips turn so blood red. But what was she to do? She questioned the mortician. She asked to see the autopsy report. But nothing came of it. At last, her father sent an official to inform her she was being sent out again.

Where you’ll cause less fuss.

And this was how she descended into infamy.

.x.

Sakura did not correspond with Kankuro and Matsuri after that first time they’d spent together. She helped him woo the girl and got out of there. Apparently, the man the brunette had liked was determined to ignore her and had gained a reputation for being blood thirsty, which was unbecoming of his noble status. No good was going to come of it.

She wasn’t even invited to the wedding.

But she didn’t care. Sakura returned to the medical tents and threw herself into the work. But she knew she couldn’t keep this up for long. Soldiers would give her strange looks. Shogun under her knife would not call her Lady anymore when she visited them in recovery. And every night she sensed the hidden follower when she returned to her tent. Someone had decided she was trouble. What she could have done, other than question the healers back home, she didn’t know.

But time was getting short as she started to get called into the med tent less and less. She was not as needed as before. She was getting a bad feeling. Rumours of how the war was turning away from her Shogun had her worried. Perhaps the children of the Emperor were being watched more closely? But nobody here should know who she was. She was just supposed to be another noble, not royalty.

Her surgery talents were being wasted.

After overhearing her superior talking to a soldier about transferring her to the front line to get rid of her, Sakura had had enough. She decided to take things into her own hands.

.x.

He followed the girl as she began packing and making her excuses to the soldiers that she was going for a run to get rid of hospital scrubs. He watched as she stole a horse and rode away as though the devil were on her tail. He was tempted to follow. So desperately so, that Gaara didn’t bother questioning that urge. He took his horse and rode into the darkness of the night that surrounded the camp.

Pink hair.

She was the same healer who had helped his brother. The one who’d given Kankuro his happy ending with Matsuri. It had to mean something that he’d been assigned to watch her, and kill her if she tried to flee.

.x.

They did not get far. Sakura and the horse she’d dubbed Shugo. A dark brown pedigree that she’d pushed to its limits in the span of the night. The devil was on her tail. But a day had passed and already she had to sell it for supplies. She needed to go incognito and figure out her next move. Sakura had no idea how to live as a peasant but she’d dealt with harsh circumstances before. Living as a physician in the middle of a war was not the lap of luxury of her former home of course.

And still she felt the weight of eyes on her like that shadow from the camp would not leave her alone. Something or someone was following her and she needed to get out of the open. Dyeing her hair and offering her services as a weaver seemed the sensible thing to do. Nobody noticed the dark haired girl walking among a crowd of similarly dark haired girls.

A month later she was still being hounded by the darkness of her shadow and no amount of companionship from those she met and dallied with could throw off her feeling of being hunted. But the hunter did nothing. And she was letting everything go.

One day, her lowered guard would be the best of her.

.x.

He enjoyed watching her. She was his target but her desire to run from the same life he abhorred kept his knife in its sheathe. It kept his eyes feasting on her flesh instead of tearing into it with a weapon that he still wanted to use.

Gaara did not need to kill to survive. He was beginning to realise that. So he decided to take her lead and ingratiate himself into this new world. He found a dwelling and scrubbed the smell of the land from his body. It seemed to take months to finally be free of the blood. But nobody knew how much was still on him more than he did. It would be there forever.

But he finally looked like he belonged the day he purposefully, accidentally ran into her, knocking her groceries to the ground.

This was how the woman came to know him. She had been going by the name Amaya but introduced herself as Sakura the moment he asked. They both looked surprised at this and she realised who he was the moment he smirked, his canines almost looking like they were dripping in blood.

Her heart beat raced. Her palms were sweaty. Her eyes were wide.

But all he did was bow to her and offer his help in picking up her dropped supplies. All he did was ask her to allow him to pay for her dinner. All he did was touch her softly, carefully, to make sure she knew what he wanted from her.

And Sakura had no idea why she gave it to him. Waves of blinding light and rocking motions and crashing against each other; humming and moaning and joining and she was his. They came together in so many perfect ways. She didn’t question why her shadow decided to love her instead of kill her. She was lost to the pleasure and the touches that gave her reason to let go.

To just let go.

.x.

News of her father’s death and his father’s brutal murder did nothing to stir them.

Sakura just smiled as the local gossip spread the news and the official reports came in. As though she were just another citizen. A dark haired girl who used to be pink.

Gaara helped her to her feet and they wandered out of the temple where they’d finally made their life official. Nothing else mattered. Their pasts were fake and they had their eyes on the future, instead.

That’s how he became just some random farmer travelling into the area with his pregnant wife. And that’s how she became the Blacksmith’s Daughter travelling into the new area, pregnant and looking to start a fresh life with her new husband.

.x.

[matsumi101]

Who is this Kid?

Crossdressing Fem!Reader Hamilton Insert

Secret

Description:

General Washington has been relentlessly receiving letters one after another that has been requesting two same things over and over again. It’s high time he confronts the writer directly about it, and maybe clear something that he’s been hearing around while he’s at it.

———————————

Warnings: swearing, drinking

———————————

Notes:

> Masterlist

> Read from the beginning.

> “F/N” means fake name and “Y/N” means your real first name

> I don’t think I warned y’all before but I wasn’t really planning on writing chronologically. I’m not sorry lmao

> Surprise Wednesday update! I’ve been reading the rb tags and the replies you guys keep leaving in my story and honestly it makes my heart go 💞 aaa ily guys sm and im glad you’re enjoying the story 🥺🥺🥺

———————————

Taglist (if u wanna be added do tell!)

@thebitchiestnerdtowalktheearth  @cutie1365 @girlmadeofivory @i-honestly-dont-know-anymore  @takemyhand-bitch @hamiltrashqueer​

———————————

“Hey, Juggernaut.”

You adjusted your coat before pulling your tent open. “Yo,” you greeted quietly to the soldier waiting in front of your tent. “General Washington calls for you,” he informed you. You nodded and ducked out of your tent, not wanting to wait another second to know what your superior wanted to talk about. You walked at a brisk pace, never stopping until you were now in front of the tent that was noticeably larger than the rest.

You swallowed thickly, millions of possibilities running in your head to as why you were called. A big part of you hoped that it was with regards to your plans, though there was a smaller bit of you that feared that it might be of something else. Not wanting to keep yourself on edge any further, you pushed the tent open and let yourself in.

"Your excellency, sir. You asked to see me?"

You readily saluted at the presence of not only George Washington but the aide-de-camps and officers that were with him as well. They circled a table, where a map and a few mock pieces were laid out for them to view and move around. While John and Lafayette's eyes twinkled with recognition, the others simply stared at your arrival. "Private F/N L/N?" George assumed. He motioned you to be at ease, which you silently obeyed.

"Yes, sir," you confirmed with a steady voice.

George quickly dismissed the rest of the people out of the tent, the only ones remaining were you, him, and Alexander who was busy writing something at his desk at the corner. “I’ve been reading your letters,” George began, moving to get something from his main desk. You immediately tensed as he pulled out a small stack of envelopes underneath. You kept your lips sealed, waiting for the General’s input on your requests.

“You’ve been asking to have the same thing approved for years now,” he began, “and recently, you’re asking for a rather unique position in your unit, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

From the corner of your eyes you could see Alexander perk up slightly at the conversation. He subtly glanced up from his work, his eyes falling on George as the general picked up an open letter that had been lying on his desk. “Let’s talk about the first one,” George announced. “I’ve noticed there was a slight change with your offer.” You licked the bottom of your lips out of nervousness, fiddling with your hands behind you.

“Unfortunately, even I can’t agree to it.”

“If I may sir, why not?”

George looked up from the letter to you. “Women cannot be paid to study, son,” he explained plainly. You tilted your head the slightest, confusion from his statement evident. “Sir, I do not seek for women to be paid to be taught basic medicinal procedures,” you murmured, and that was enough for George to mirror your expression.

“That doesn’t seem to be the message I’m getting from your letter, L/N.”

You opened your mouth to counter, but when a vague memory hit you like a punch in the gut, you couldn’t help but to smack your forehead in realization. “Shit, I am so sorry,” you apologized, the annoyance woven in your voice directed to yourself more than anything. George furrowed his brows at your sudden drop of formality, noticing how you were cursing under your breath as you returned to position.

“I must’ve sent you my draft letter instead of the actual one. The pay that I mentioned in the letter refers to the pay of the nurses, not the education that I wish to be provided to them.”

Your face turned to more of an embarrassed one. “I... might’ve written this late at night so my thoughts merged while I was writing,” you confessed, looking down at the ground. “I apologize for causing a misunderstanding. Writing... has never really been my best suit.” You could feel the back of your neck heat up with embarrassment, and the blood was slowly creeping its way to your cheeks the more you dwelled on your mistake. George huffed, and you could’ve sworn there was laughter that came along with it.

“We have our own weaknesses, son,” he said. “Rewrite your statement, then I’ll have it sent to the Congress for approval. Hamilton.”

“Yes, sir?”

The called man straightened from his seat almost instantaneously. “If you’re not too busy, you can help Private L/N draft his proposal to the Congress tonight?” he requested. You looked at Alexander almost the same time he looked at you. “I take it you approve of his plans, sir?” he asked George, though it came off more of a statement than a question.

“Yes. If our nurses are given the same pay as our male doctors, or at the very least raise it, then there wouldn’t be any need for our officers to resort to... violent methods of recruiting them.”

Your jaw visibly clenched at the last few words, and George wasn’t dense to not notice it. “If we treat our camp followers properly, as we should’ve been since square one, then they wouldn’t be working out of spite or fear,” you pointed out through gritted teeth, “and by teaching them the required medical procedures to treating our wounded, then there would be more hands on our medical team without really hiring more hands.” Alexander nearly beamed at your words and hurriedly wrote something down on a spare piece of paper.

“That’s an excellent point F/N, I’ll make sure to include that in your proposal,” he announced eagerly.

You stared at Alexander with surprise while George chuckled in amusement. “Now, since we’ve cleared all misunderstandings for your first request, I take it we’re good to move on to the next one?” his voice wasn’t as light as when he brought up your first request. “Ready as I’ll ever be, sir,” you replied. George nodded, pulling a different letter.

“Private L/N, I’m sure you already know the contents of your own letters, so I will say right now that I just can’t approve you to a... what is this term you used?”

“Field medic, sir.”

“Right.”

“Field medic?”

Alexander wasn’t really supposed to be a part of the next conversation, but he couldn’t help but inquire about the strange new term he just heard. “Basically a doctor soldier tasked specifically to treat wounded men while on field and pull them out of there,” George explained, and you nodded. Alexander’s face contorted, and you sighed internally as it was the response you already expected to get from someone hearing your concept for the first time.

“I... I don’t get it,” Alexander murmured. “We can bring our men to the backlines just fine during combat, I don’t see the point of having a person to specialize in that.”

You were just about ready to explain, but then George put up his hand to stop you. “I can hand you Private L/N’s letters of proposal for later, son,” George reasoned. Alexander’s face fell, and the man buried his face back to his work. “With all due respect sir, I feel like I am fully capable of putting this concept into action. My endurance is beyond average to run around the field and carry our wounded, all I need left is some proper first-aid training.”

“And we need your endurance in the frontlines!” George retorted. “Juggernaut, you’re our best foot soldier, I cannot afford to send you to the medics.”

You nearly physically recoiled at the use of your nickname. You wore the title “Juggernaut” with pride ever since, and George knew. Your tendency to almost never use your gunpowder and instead resort to close combat was what earned you the nickname, and your commanders made sure to utilize you best for that. Simply put, your fearlessness to be up close with the redcoats was something praised by your fellow soldiers and feared by the enemy.

“Sir,” your voice dropped low. “Many men die bleeding out in the field when they could’ve lived if only someone had been there to pull them out, but the second they’re crippled they are not our standing soldiers’ priority. Moreover, many more die in the tents simply for having infected wounds that could’ve been survivable had someone treated it long before. These men have hopes of coming home to see the end of this war and what follows as much as any of us, even while they lay in their own pool of blood as the rest of the fight ensues around them. Sir, they have lives they want to go back to, too, just like us.”

When you were done talking, the air within the tent was heavy. Was it out of realization or just the sheer weight of your words, no one was quite sure, but the tension was so thick no blade could cut through it. “I can see you are as adamant in saving lives as you are taking them,” George mused, finally breaking the suffocating silence that wrapped around the three of you. He glanced down at your letter, hesitancy clear as day. Between the two of you, it was the sixth one you sent for your proposed role. For every letter of declination he gave you, you rebutted with a new letter no more than two to three days later countering his reasonings. For someone who isn’t the best at writing, you do write a lot, he thought.

“Let my hands be stained saving the blood of my allies than spilling the blood of my enemies,” you responded, quoting your own letter.

George huffed, setting down the letter. “I will... think this through for the meantime,” he announced. You resisted your mouth that nearly quirked upwards at his words; consideration was a good enough sign for you. “Thank you sir,” you breathed. George eyed you carefully, thinking if there was anything else needed to be said to you. “I suppose that will be all for now,” he decided tentatively. He dismissed you, and just after you thanked him for his time and turned around was then he remembered.

“Hold on, Private. I feel like there’s one more thing needed to be discussed.”

You looked over your shoulder, almost fearfully, as you moved away from the tent’s exit. George leaned back, crossing his arms as he looked at you with a nearly blank stare. “I feel like we should address the secret circulating around you,” he pointed out. Your jaw dropped to the floor, a chill striking you from the feet up. A hand flew over your arm as goosebumps riddled your limbs, and you feared the worst.

“What secret, sir?” you asked, your voice nearly returning to normal with panic.

“Juggernaut, I don’t think we need to beat around the bush over this. Other soldiers have seen it, too, and you need to come clean with it.”

Other soldiers? The thought was everything but comforting. You always thought you had been discreet with your identity, but apparently you weren’t based on the General’s accusations. However, you kept your mind straight enough to keep droning on. Maybe it was just a mistake, maybe it was just a false rumor that was meant to drag you in the dirt. Yeah, maybe that’s it. You desperately wished that was it.

“It must be a mistake, sir. Whatever this secret may be must be just a measly rumor to throw me off,” you tried to reason out.

“Would it be considered a rumor if we have a witness?”

Your stomach dropped. So there are people who saw? That was definitely not right. You were always sure to have your corset on, only taking it off inside the tent, and whenever you bathe you made sure you were either alone or the last one out and never surfacing from the water. George glanced over to Alexander expectantly, and for the first time the secretary seemed to not want to partake in the conversation.

“Hamilton here has your verbatim.”

You could feel your palms turn sweatier as the seconds passed. You steadied your breathing, trying to calm yourself and stay reasonable. Alexander stared at George incredulously, as if he was the one who’d been ratted out by their superior. He looked over to you, and despite your seemingly calm stature there was nervousness in your eyes that spoke otherwise. Not wanting to lie, Alexander nodded almost apologetically to confirm. You felt your shoulders sag. Had you been too lax when you discussed about pretending with other disguised women? Or had you been too loud when you were rambling to yourself in your own tent? You feared what was next to follow, but if there was someone who bore evidence of your secret, then it was better for you to speak the truth.

“I apologize for deceiving you, sir,” you conceded, dropping your head. “I am more than willing to accept the punishment for my actions.”

“Funny, I figured you’d know enough the consequences of having more liquor than the daily rations you’re given.”

“Wh... what...?”

You tried to wrap your head around the new information. Liquor... daily rations... was that what General George Washington accusing you of this whole time? “Or is the excess whiskey your secret to your fearlessness after all?” George mused teasingly, and you shot up straight when it finally registered to you. “No sir, that would be my low sense of self-preservation,” you answered hurriedly, jokingly. Thankfully for you, George chuckled at your banter.

“Well, don’t think of dying too early, young man,” George advised lightheartedly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

The tight feeling that was mentally suffocating you the whole time released your entire being. “Though, if it’s any assurance, my stash of vodka hasn’t really been consumed,” you informed. “If anything, I think the only time I made use of it was when I disinfected someone’s wound.” George sat up straight, a curious look flashing in his eyes.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’d you heal?”

You paused, wondering if you should really say. “It was Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens.” You glanced up, noticing the inquisitive look both George and Alexander held. “If it’s any compensation for my troubles, I can offer some of my personal beverage. Surely, you’d like a shot,” you then offered, swiftly dodging the questions that might’ve followed your prior statement.

“And how will I know this is not a ploy to try on my good side, son?”

“Was I on your bad side this whole time, sir?”

“With the direction your letters were going, you might be at the tipping point of being so with the Congress.”

You laughed uneasily. “Rest assured sir, my offer is all in good faith.” George uncovered the mug that rested on the edge of his table, and you took that as the sign to approach. You pulled out your flask, which had been refilled from the much larger bottle that you were hiding in your tent (you wondered if someone that visited your tent before saw the bottle which led to the accusations), and poured a hefty amount into the mug, much to George’s pleasure. You waved to Alexander with the flask. “Do you want some too, Hamilton?” you asked him. Alexander stared at your flask, then to George, and then to his papers.

“Come on, son. It’s not everyday we have a little extra liquor,” George insisted, a welcoming smile on his face.

Alexander didn’t hesitate to come over to the table the second he got George’s approval. He brought his own cup, and you readily poured him almost the same amount as George. “Thanks, I needed this,” he sighed gratefully, the strong scent already wafting through his nose. The three of you shared a toast, and you took a nice, long swig from your flask. A satisfied growl emitted from each of you, the burning sensation running down your throat.

“Well sir, I should head out now,” you said quietly.

George nodded, and finally dismissed you. “Call the others back on your way out,” he ordered, and you gave a verbal confirmation before pushing one of the tent flaps open. You peered outside and saw that Lafayette and John were talking nearby. You headed to them, waving a hand to catch their attention.

“F/N! The General didn’t chew you out too much, I hope?” John teased.

You rolled your eyes. “Well, I got out alive,” you joked. “The General requests you guys and the other officials to return, by the way.” John chuckled, patting your shoulder as he passed by. Lafayette ruffled your hair before he and John headed out to look for the other officials that dispersed in the camp. You sighed and walked back to your tent, the clashing sensation of relief and anxiousness washing over you.

Your secret was safe... for now.

[marauders-groupie]

This basically turned into me going through all your fics (again) to find some of my faves oops. I would love an inside scoop on I'd Love to Change the World but I Don't Know What to Do, Livewire, or Feel It in the Space Between!

Ahh, that’s lovely to hear! Thank you! <3

Director’s Commentary: I’d Love to Change the World but I Don’t Know What to Do (Bellarke modern royals/arranged marriage AU)

First things first, Nat @alltheworldsinmyhead suggested this idea to me and I’ve loved her ever since.

Clarke doesn’t know a lot about the revolution in the streets of The Kingdom of Ark. The only thing she remembers is Wells making her get up in the middle of the night, eyes like a forest animal caught in wildfire, saying, “We’ve got to go.”

I really wanted this beginning to be impactful. I had the whole scene in my head - royalty looking back over her shoulder, only to find her home burning.

One thing is true about the revolution and it is that it devours its own children.  

This is something that my dad once quoted to me: “Revolution devours its own children.” It became the leitmotif for the entire story because in the second part - I Just Want to Turn the Lights on in These Volatile Times - Bellamy was betrayed so yes, revolution had indeed planned to devour that particular child.

After the wedding, Clarke pretty much tells him the same thing:

“Let me tell you how this is going to go, Blake.” She draws closer to him, careful to stand her ground and to stop her voice from shaking because she is seething with rage – this boy wants nothing but power and he thinks it’s going to go so well now that he’s got it. “The king is dead, long live the king. Is the phrase familiar to you? Because no king is loved, every king is just tolerated. That’s how it goes. They’ll string you up the same they want to string my mother up.”

I really wanted to show the clash of their personalities through this fic, how they’re approaching the same goal with wildly different methods. I also wanted to emphasize the importance of being as careful as Clarke when changing the world.

Also, I wrote the sex scene to the tune of Jetta’s Start a Riot. (:

I was also going to write a Lincoln + Octavia one shot inspired by Joseph Brodsky’s poem, Belfast Tune.

***

Director’s Commentary: Livewire (Bellarke soulmate AU)

This was written during my “Oh my God, he’s Atlas, how d e e p” phase. In general, I don’t really understand why people like Livewire so much, but I do have a sweet spot for it. (:

Another thing is that I wrote so much soulmate AUs is because I love writing magical realism. The other part of the appeal was the fact that at the end of the day, there was still a choice. Soulmate or not, you get to choose whether that’s the person you want to be with, stars be damned. 

"Maybe I am ridiculous for not caring, but." But it feels like it's not real, like the soulmate is just a dream, a haze bound to dissipate any moment now. "I have time." 

You know that feeling when you’re with someone and you know that a first kiss between you two is somewhere down the line? You can feel that it’s bound to happen. 

And because it’s a given, you make that sweet moment of electric anticipation last as long as possible, just savor it all.

This is partly the idea behind Clarke’s reluctance to meet her soulmate. She’s got time. He’s there already. What’s the rush? Make the delightful suspense last.

(I mean, she’s obviously angstier than me, too.)

A new drawing appears on Bellamy’s wrist when he starts working in the diner. It’s old, exposed brick and chipped away paint, linoleum floors that transport him to a different age and a creaky coffeemaker.

I really, really fucking love diners. I don’t know what does it for me, but like - checkered linoleum floors? Leather booths? Comforting hot coffee? Sign me the fuck up!!!

Idk if this is something people notice, but I have A LOT of diners in my fics.

The artist sits in the last booth every morning, takes her coffee with two sugars and frowns after the first taste. She never pours maple syrup on her pancakes, but she wants cream and gets it on her nose more often than she would like. Her fingers pull at her sleeves, tug them over her knuckles, and she looks like she’s cold even when it’s more than warm in the diner.

Love is attention, y’all!

Also, pay attention to how their relationship develops from there without them knowing they were soulmates. I think that’s really important, I try to incorporate that in my soulmate fics to reinforce the point of them liking each other as people, and making that the reason they’re going to be together - not stars or soulmarks or whatever. 

They sit on the warm asphalt in front of a kebab kiosk, shoulder to shoulder, and Clarke is the one who reaches for him first, tentative.

I saw a picture of a girl wearing a gown and a leather jacket and just sitting on the pavement, and I loved it. Also, I love kebabs.

Personally, what I dislike the most about Livewire is that I didn’t go into detail on some aspects of Clarke and Bellamy as people. But I think it turned out okay anyway.

Also, the fic was titled after Oh Wonder’s Livewire. It’s a gorgeous song. :)))

***

Director’s Commentary: Feel It in the Space Between (Bellarke dancers AU)

Ahh look okay, listen, I’m a good dancer. A really good dancer. (In terms of club dancing, that is.) But the one thing I cannot do is relax my fucking shoulders. I deeply admire people who can, especially those who can wave their arms up in the air and everything.

This fic was born out of that particular frustration. 

I also watched a lot of contemporary dancing videos on YouTube and they were just so, so stunning. 

Dancing comes easy to some people, as easy as drinking water. They move and you can feel the unity with the universe in their bones. They move and it feels right.

To Clarke, dancing is blood and viscera, muscles spasming after a long practice, beads of sweat pooling in her collarbone. To her, it’s a battle, it’s a fight, it’s more bloody knuckles than soft swaying.

Dancing was also a good channel through which I could express Clarke’s fear of losing control and giving in.

I also really loved all the soft, golden glow-y scenes in the studio. They felt really tender to me and I enjoyed writing them. :)))

Clarke can’t cook for shit but he can. He putters around her kitchen with practiced ease as she sits on the kitchen island and pours them wine. 

(...)

He flicks his water-soaked fingers at her and Clarke squeals, readying the tomato sauce-stained rag.

........ and then there was domestic intimacy.

My fics also contain a lot of scenes where Bellamy is cooking and Clarke’s just chilling on the counter, shooting shit.

(Probably because I, too, cannot cook, and I appreciate being fed well.)

Finally, the one thing I’d change would be that miscommunication - she thought he was rejecting her, and he was just surprised she kissed him. I don’t like using miscommunication as part of the plot because it always feels very lazy to me.

But it was something new to write, and I’m glad you liked it! :D

Do you want director’s commentary on a fic, section, or line?

[sparkythehappygiraffe]

i don’t wanna be lost

So after all of our GIVE JASON EMOTIONS shenanigans, this kinda wrote itself. I won’t pretend it’s good, but I enjoyed myself lol.

Anyway, here’s the fic on ffn if you prefer

Summary: When Jason's past comes back to haunt him, he is forced to deal with the emotions he's been ignoring for years. Luckily, he doesn't have to do it alone. (Title from Lost by Montell Fish)

~

It was another average day at the antique shop.

The Odyssey Historical Society had just brought in a few boxes for Jason to appraise for them and he was in the back of the shop, getting ready to open the first one.

Jillian was lingering in the doorway between the front and back of the shop. She was supposed to be at the counter, but the shop was empty and she was curious about the boxes.

Jason opened the first box and started carefully sifting through its contents.

"Looks like old war gear," Jillian said distastefully.

He pulled out a helmet. "From the Vietnam War," he said, brow furrowed.

"How do you already know that?" She asked.

Jason shrugged, but his voice came out a little quieter than usual, "I used to study this type of stuff."

"Ugh," Jillian groaned. "U.S. troops shouldn't have even been in Vietnam. All of those soldiers were literally killers. They did such awful stuff. It's a stain on U.S. history."

Jason dropped the helmet back into the box and forcefully closed it. His chest felt tight, his breathing, shallow. "Can we not talk about this," he said through gritted teeth.

"Why?" Jillian asked, confused. "Don't tell me you're actually a Vietnam War supporter. The people who died there died for nothing. It was such a waste of a war. I thought you were good with history, Jason. You should definitely know about that."

Jason didn't respond. He was breathing heavily now. His hands were starting to shake. When he tried to stand up, he knocked his chair over, sending it crashing to the floor.

"Jason what's wrong?" Jillian reached out to put a hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off.

"I–I'm fine." He could barely speak. He felt like the walls were closing in around him. Everything was blurring. The lights seemed so bright they were blinding. His eyes were burning and watery. He staggered toward the door to his office. He tripped over something on the floor and stumbled into the wall.

"Jason?" Jillian asked again.

Her voice felt so loud. Like she was pounding on his ear drums with drumsticks. "Just stop!" He heard himself yell. He didn't even realize he was doing it.

Finally, he opened the office door and made it into the room, slamming the door behind him. Hands still shaking, he fumbled to pull his cell phone out of his pocket. It took a few tries, but eventually he dialed his dad's number.

"Hey, Jason!" his dad answered brightly.

So loud.

When Jason didn't answer, Whit immediately sounded more concerned. "Jason? Son, are you there?"

After what felt like an eternity, Jason finally made his lips move. "Dad, I need you," he said softly.

"Are you at the antique shop?" Whit asked quickly.

"Yeah," Jason croaked, unable to elaborate.

His knees buckled underneath him and he sank to his hands and knees on the floor. He must have dropped the phone, but he didn't really notice. He felt like a weight was slowly crushing him to the floor. It was crushing his lungs so he couldn't breathe. It was crushing his head so he couldn't think. All he could hear was Jillian's voice: "All of those soldiers were literally killers," repeating over and over in his head.

Jerry wasn't a killer. He wasn't. He would never.

~

Whit rushed into the antique shop.

Without a greeting, he turned to Jillian. "Where's Jason? What happened?"

"He's in his office," she said. "I don't really know what happened, one minute we were looking at some war memorandum–"

"Memorabilia?"

"Yeah that. One minute we were looking through the stuff the historical society dropped off, the next he was yelling at me and he shut himself in the office."

"What kind of war memorabilia was it?" Whit asked.

"It was from Vietnam. Dumbest war in history."

Whit bristled a little. "Is that what you said to Jason about it?"

"Well yeah, I mean that's pretty common knowledge."

Whit sighed heavily. "Jillian, have you ever seen the war memorial in McAlister Park?"

"No," she said hesitantly.

"Why don't you go take a look at it?" Whit suggested. "Read the names on there carefully."

"Okay, but I don't–"

"Just go, you can come back in a little while."

After Jillian left, Whit tapped lightly on the office door, "Jason?" he called softly.

The only response was the sound of a muffled sob.

Whit carefully opened the office door. None of the lights were turned on. Jason's phone lay on the floor, as if tossed carelessly to the side. Jason himself was curled up on the floor, shoulders shaking as he cried.

Whit knelt next to his son. "I'm here, Jason," he said. Tentatively, he placed a hand on Jason's back. When he didn't flinch away, Whit rubbed slow circles there, like he had when Jason was sick as a kid, staying quiet for a long time.

After a while, Jason rolled over to face his father.

Whit's heart broke to see the despair in his son's eyes.

"I– I don't know what happened," he whispered. "I didn't think I would react that way."

Whit nodded. "Sometimes grief hits when you least expect it. It can be over the smallest thing. But it is normal."

"But I've seen so much," Jason said, voice cracking. "Something so small shouldn't be able to take me down like that. I was trained to be better than that."

"Jason, you're not undercover anymore," Whit sighed. "The way you've been living for so long… it's okay to be honest again."

Jason nodded, but he found it hard to take comfort in that.

~

That night, Jason sat alone at a bar just outside of Odyssey. He shouldn't be here. He had been dry for months now. But after the day he'd had, he didn't know what else to do.

He had waited until his dad was asleep and then snuck out of the house like some guilty teenager. It wasn't the first time. He wished he could say it would be the last, but he knew he'd be lying to himself.

He'd started drinking when he was undercover as the Stiletto. At first it was just a drink here and there while he met with contacts in random, grungy bars where no one would give them a second look. He had quickly realized how much he liked the numbness that a couple of drinks brought. It made him feel like maybe he was doing the right thing after all. It's not like he had wanted to go back to his life as an agent, but somehow he always got sucked back in.

When he drank he forgot his guilt. The guilt of living a lie day and night for months at a time. The guilt of leaving Odyssey and never looking back. The guilt of leaving Tasha to think he was dead. But he also felt guilty for drinking. So he drank to forget that guilt too.

Eventually, the alcohol didn't work like it used to. He could drink the night away and never feel the light numbness that he desired. He didn't even enjoy drinking anymore, but he did it anyway.

One night his habit caught up to him. He was on a mission, but decided to drink a little beforehand. With his senses dulled ever so slightly, he had missed every warning sign in the book. Next thing he knew, he was waking up tied to a chair.

After his escape (though he didn't make it out unscathed), he had quickly worked to curb the habit he had created. By the time he moved back to Odyssey, he was back to only drinking occasionally. He wanted it to stay that way.

But then there were nights like tonight.

He knew he would just lay in bed staring at the ceiling for hours if he tried to go to sleep. He would be thinking about Jerry. About all of the times he had failed Jerry. How he had wanted to become an agent to be like Jerry, but instead he had become a liar and, very nearly, a killer.

Jerry wasn't a killer. He wasn't. He would never.

Out of habit, Jason had sat at a spot along the bar that gave him a good view of the door. Each time it squeaked open, he instinctively looked up. Once an agent always an agent.

He had just finished his first drink when the door squeaked again and he looked up to see just about the last person he expected.

He and Connie made eye contact almost immediately. They both froze, equally surprised to see each other. Connie sheepishly made her way over to sit next to him at the bar.

"Wasn't expecting to see you here," was all she said.

"I could say the same thing to you."

She sighed. "I shouldn't be here."

"Me neither," he replied.

Neither of them moved.

He turned to look at her, "so what brought you to this fine establishment at midnight on a Wednesday?" he joked.

She laughed a little. "It's about the only place a girl can just sit alone after 10pm without getting strange looks. And I would know a lot about sitting alone."

Jason raised an eyebrow at her.

"I went on a date tonight," she explained.

"Ah," he said, finally understanding. "Was it that bad?"

"No," she said after a moment. "But it wasn't good. It wasn't a good fit. I'm starting to think I'll never find a good fit."

"I know how that feels," Jason muttered.

"I mean all I want is a good Christian guy with some common interests. It shouldn't be that difficult."

"Try looking for someone with common life experience," Jason said sardonically. "It won't get you very far."

Connie laughed.

The bartender brought them each their drinks.

Connie and Jason fell into a comfortable, but heavy silence. The silence of two close friends who had mourned together more than anyone should ever have to. Friends who understood each other's pain and loss and loneliness more deeply than most.

~

When they'd each finished their drinks, Connie spoke up again. "I heard about what happened earlier."

"Yeah," Jason sighed, looking down at his drink.

The look of shame on his face made Connie's heart feel heavy.

"Jason, look at me."

For a second, she didn't think he would respond, but finally, he turned his head to face her.

"It's okay," she told him. "It's okay to feel that way. It's okay to fall apart sometimes. To tell someone when you feel like you're going to fall apart. You can talk about how you feel. To me or your dad or even Eugene. You have friends, you know."

Jason looked back down into his empty glass. His lips were pressed tightly together. His eyes were shining and watery when the light hit them. He took a deep shuddering breath.

Connie put a hand on his arm as Jason started to cry. She quickly pulled out enough cash for each of their drinks and left it on the bar.

With a hand on Jason's back, she gently guided him outside.

When the brisk night air hit her skin, she turned to look up at Jason's face. Tears were openly falling down his cheeks now.

Without warning, Jason enveloped her in a hug. Pressing his face into her shoulder.

She held him tightly and for a while they just stayed there. Standing outside of a bar that neither of them wanted to be at. Thinking about things they wished they didn't have to think about.

Eventually Jason released her from his embrace and wiped at his face with the back of his hand. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Don't be," Connie said firmly. He looked down at her and when they made eye contact, she realized they understood each other better than either of them had realized before.

A cool breeze blew between them and Connie shivered involuntarily.

"Let's go to my car," Jason suggested.

Connie followed behind him and got in on the passenger's side.

Jason started the car and cranked up the heat.

For a while they sat in silence.

"I'm so hungry," Connie finally said.

Jason laughed. "Me too."

"Where should we go?" Connie asked. "We can't go to our houses and everything's closed by now."

Jason thought for a moment. "Let's go to the shop, we can stop at the 24-hour gas station for snacks on the way."

Connie giggled, "let's do it!"

She felt so warm and happy sitting in the car with Jason. She knew some of that feeling was from the alcohol, but that wasn't the only reason she felt this way. She hadn't just spent time with friends on a late night in ages. Most of her friends were married and they all had jobs and responsibilities to deal with. She hadn't done something this spontaneous since her last picnic with Penny and Wooton; and she certainly hadn't been out this late since one of Penny's painting parties back when she still lived at the house.

They stopped at the gas station and bought a ridiculous amount of overpriced junk food. By the time they left the store, Connie was laughing so hard she was getting a stitch in her side.

Jason parked his car behind Whit's End and they hurried to unlock the door and bring their bags in before anyone saw them (not that there was anyone else in McAlister Park at 1am).

They turned on the lights in the kitchen and dumped their stash of snacks out on one of the counters.

They ate and talked, Connie laughing a little too much and even Jason being sillier than usual. They talked about everything from the important to the trivial. Connie told Jason about the woes of raising a teenager. Jason told her about a big auction he would be going to the next weekend. It felt nice.

Eventually they decided to bake some cookies. Connie knew she wasn't thinking straight at all by that point. Her low tolerance for alcohol combined with the exhaustion of staying up so much later than usual was making her act goofy.

At some point, Jason accidentally dumped flour everywhere, including all over Connie, and instead of getting mad like she would normally, she just laughed even harder.

They kept baking, but by the time the cookies were out of the oven, they had both decided they were too full from the junk food to try them.

When they both started yawning, they headed to the office, continuing to talk softly as they drifted off.

The last thing Connie heard before she fell asleep was Jason's low voice telling her about some mission he had been on once, but his sleepy, mumbled words were too difficult to understand.

~

Jason woke up disoriented and groggy. He looked at his phone: 5am. Then he remembered where he was.

He quickly hopped off the couch he had fallen asleep on. He and Connie were in the office where they had been talking until they fell asleep. He must not have been asleep for long, but if he didn't hurry up and get home, he wouldn't make it back to the house before his dad woke up.

He glanced over at Connie who was peacefully asleep and sprawled across the desk chair. Her head was hanging at an angle he was sure would give her a neck ache for the rest of the day and her mouth was hanging open just slightly.

He decided to let her sleep until he was ready to leave.

Jason hurried downstairs to survey the mess they had made in the kitchen. There was a sheet of cookies sitting out that he only vaguely remembered baking. He picked one up and tried it. Immediately, he gagged and spit the cookie back out. He had no idea what was in it, but it was awful.

He scraped the rest of the cookies off the sheet and into the garbage. He washed dishes, wiped down counters, and swept the floor. He took the trash out and then went back upstairs to get Connie.

She was fast asleep on the desk chair, flour still clinging to her cheek. He reached out and gently wiped it off with his thumb.

"Connie," he whispered.

No response.

He reached out and shook her shoulder gently, "Connie, wake up."

She stirred, grimacing as her eyes slowly peeked open. "Huh?"

"Sorry to wake you up, but we have to go if you want to be home before Jules and Jillian get up."

That woke her up. "What time is it?" She asked, quickly standing up and running her fingers through her messy brown hair.

"Ten 'til six."

She gasped, "we still have to go get my car."

He nodded, "let's get out of here."

They shut off all of the lights and locked everything up, just as it was before they had gotten there.

The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, the sky slowly changing from dark blue to purple to pink.

Jason wished they had more time to stop and enjoy it together, but they didn't have a second to spare.

They hopped in the car and Jason drove as fast as he dared back to the bar.

When they got there, he and Connie paused, neither of them really wanting to go home.

"Thanks for this," Connie said. "I really needed someone who… understands."

Jason nodded, smiling a little. "Next time we want to, you know," he tilted his head toward the bar. "We should hang out again. Without the alcohol."

She smiled, "Definitely. Call me any time."

She opened the car door and climbed out. "I mean it," she said before closing the door. "Any time."

He watched her walk to her car, get in, and drive away.

For some reason, he really hoped he would see her later that day.

When he got home, he unlocked the door and crept in as quietly as he could.

"Morning, son," his dad's voice called from the kitchen as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

He froze. "Uh, hey, dad."

"Getting some early morning fishing in?"

Jason walked into the kitchen. "Yeah," he said, but it didn't sit right with him. "Well, actually no."

Whit raised an eyebrow at him.

Jason sighed. "Dad, I need to talk to you about something. I need help."

[keichanz]

Another Day in Hell

*in a horrible flirty voice* so...ya like zombies

I don’t know if there will be a part 2. i just got the sudden inspiration at work yesterday and i just had to write it. i blame @clearwillow and @bearpluscat for their horror red riding hood au that i am already hopelessly addicted to lol idk why but that one pic of woodcutter Inu inspired me and i was like “shit i wanna write him being all badass and killing monsters” and then suddenly this happened. 

whoops. #sorrynotsorry

don’t worry, i’m still working on Move Your Body and the next part will be posted soon. YRM is still in the works as well. this was just something i had to get out of my brain because i really liked the idea. like i said idk if i’ll continue it but there’s definitely potential so. *shrug* we’ll see, i guess.

please note: the title is tentative; i’m not sure if i like it but i can’t think of anything else at the moment so please be aware that it might change in the future. feel free to give suggestions. also i wrote this entire thing in a single day and it’s unedited.

fun fact: i hate zombies. i loathe them. they freak me the fuck out and the nightmare i had about them once is entirely to blame. 

anyway, enjoy. :). 

Read on AO3

Ch. 1 || Ch. 2 || Ch. 3 

You know that phrase, “Just another day in paradise?”

Well, the same thing could be said now for one Kagome Higurashi. There was just one small difference, however, because Kagome sure as shit wouldn’t call this paradise. 

The undead and monsters both of the bestial and human variety wandered the streets looking for their next kill. To trust blindly could very well mean your death so it’s easier to not trust anybody at all even when they claim all they want to do is help. The smartest thing to do was to look out for number one, question everything, and always, always watch your back. Evil lurked around every corner, hid in every brush, and nowhere was safe anymore.

No, definitely not paradise. Because this was just another typical day in goddamn hell.

Careening through the desolated streets, dodging rotting trash, abandoned cars, half-eaten carcasses, and dead bodies, a lone figure bit back a desperate sob as she looked over her shoulder with wide, terrified eyes. Covered in blood, some of it hers, some of it not, pale, and shaking, Kagome looked for a place to hide, her exhausted body starting to slow down from all the sleepless nights and lack of proper nourishment. She was cold, hungry, in pain, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to go on for much further.

She could hear them behind her now, snarling, groaning, growling and the sounds forced her to keep moving as tears ran unchecked down her face. She was being tracked, hunted by more than just the rotting undead, remembering with a terrified whimper the manic, inhuman eyes glittering malevolently down at her and the flash of cold, bloody steel as the knife plunged for her neck. She’d narrowly escaped with her life, fleeing from the crazed man she’d been stupid enough to trust and now he was after her and she knew he wasn’t going to rest until she was dead. There had been a loud bang followed by searing, burning pain in her left shoulder but she’d forced herself to ignore it, gritting her teeth and not stopping.

It was while she was escaping that she’d grabbed the attention of the undead currently giving pursuit, relentless, driven mad with hunger, thoughtless and determined and unstoppable.

Desperate, knowing that screaming for help would be useless, Kagome dove for one of the abandoned shops lining the streets, hands yanking at the door but of course of course it was locked. She let loose a sob and sparing a quick look over her shoulder with wide, frightened brown eyes, Kagome darted into the dark alley beside the shop, hoping for another way in, another doorway, a broken window, anything.

What she found instead was a heap of scrap metal leaning against the wall and knowing she was out of time, without hesitation squirmed her way behind it, ignoring the cuts she got from the sharp edges as she crouched down low and held her breath, shaking, eyes squeezed tightly shut, praying the monsters would keep on going.

Mercifully they did and Kagome withheld a sob of relief, clamping her hands over her mouth as she took a moment to just breathe. She didn’t stay long though, because lingering in any place for too long was never a good idea. So not quite recovered but left without a choice, Kagome slipped from behind her cover and carefully peeked out from the alley—

Only to come face to face with another monster, amber eyes cold and piercing, the huge sword in his hand dripping with fresh blood, and Kagome didn’t give herself time to think.

Emitting a short shriek she ran, thinking that the undead must have drawn his attention and he’d come out of his bloody hidey-hole to investigate, no doubt looking for his next victim. She heard him curse, heard his hoarse shout for her to come back but of course she ignored him, pumping her legs, breathing hard, sobbing when she detected his heavy footsteps behind her.

And really she should have realized that with the racket they were making it would once more attract unwanted attention so when she spotted the same horde of rotting bodies stumbling their way toward her, snarling and falling over themselves in their haste, Kagome really shouldn’t have been surprised.

She stopped short, trapped, the undead before her, the murdering swordsman behind her, and with a desperate sound she dove to the right, toward a sedan that miraculously still had its windows intact. She locked herself inside even though she knew it was fruitless, it wasn’t going to do her a bit of good and cowering on the floor, curled into a ball with her arms wrapped around her head, she waited.

What she heard instead of the car door being ripped off its hinges was a loud curse, excited sounds of the undead as they targeted their next meal, and then vague sounds of a fight. Grunting, snarling, low growls and wet squelching sounds were all she could hear for the next few minutes and even when all went silent she didn’t dare move, shaking, eyes shut tight, jaw clenched, waiting.

Waiting. Waiting.

A knock on the car window had her jumping in alarm but she shook her head, hunching in on herself. “Go away!” she screamed, her breath hitching in her throat, heart hammering wildly in her chest.

She heard a growl and more insistent knocking--or more like banging, really. “Open up, you wanna fuckin’ die in there?”

“Fuck off!”

With a screech, Kagome moved, unlocking the door and then shoving it open so hard the killer on the other side grunted and stumbled back from the force. She didn’t revel in the brief victory and instead made another run for it, sobbing as she ran away as fast as she could, demanding her tired body to keep moving, dammit.

Please please please please plea—

She screamed when a familiar figure suddenly dropped in front of her and Kagome made the horrifying realization that the man wasn’t human. She looked at him now with wide eyes, spotting the dog ears on his head, the sharp talons tipping each finger, and the fangs that were clearly displayed in a dangerous and...annoyed? snarl.

“Dammit bitch, I’m trying to—”

“No!” Kagome shrieked and swung her fist, landing a blow to his stomach, but the guy hardly even flinched. Tears running down her face, Kagome did the only thing she could, punching him with all that she had, kicking his legs but when a large hand suddenly clamped down on her wrist in a vice like grip, Kagome wailed.

“Wench! Fucking listen to me, I’m not gonna—!”

“Please,” Kagome begged, yanking fruitlessly at her hand, shaking her head while her free hand banging uselessly against his chest. “Please, let me go, I don’t wanna die, I don’t—”

“Fuck’s sake, woman, you’re—”

He suddenly cut off and Kagome went limp, knowing this was it, she was going to die, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do. She slumped against him, waiting for the inevitable to happen, wondering if he’d use that huge sword or the claws stained with blood.

She heard a low, thundering growl, felt it in the hard chest she lay against, and she tensed. But then he cursed - again - and muttered, “Fuck it, we don’t have time for this,” and she frowned. What—?

A strong arm wrapped around her waist and Kagome was abruptly lifted off her feet and promptly thrown over a broad shoulder. She gasped, eyes going wide and instinctively she fisted the material of his shirt at his back.

“What are you doing?!” she screeched. “Let me—!”

“Shut up,” he bit out as he started stalking back toward the shop where she’d tried to take shelter earlier. “Do you wanna alert every fucking undead asshole—fuck, you already did. Dammit.”

Before Kagome could utter another word, she was hauled back down, her would-be executioner darted into a familiar alley and he was crushing her against him, pressing her face into his chest to prevent any sounds from escaping as his arm went around her waist, a steel band.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move,” he hissed in her ear and Kagome stiffened, eyes wide as another hoard of undead stumbled down the street, perilously close to their hiding spot. She couldn’t see them but she could hear them, groaning as they dragged themselves along the blood-stained pavement, searching for flesh, creepy clicking and grunting noises echoing as they communicated with each other.

A small eternity passed as they waited for the undead to pass them by, frozen against the wall, unwilling to move even after the noises had faded away to silence. Another five minutes passed before the man dared to move, his grip loosening slightly as he sniffed the air a few times and grunted.

“They’re gone,” he rumbled and without warning swept her up into his arms. Amber eyes collided with dark brown and Kagome gasped at the intensity in them, for some reason feeling her face heat in a blush. “Keep your mouth shut, wench. I fucking mean it.”

Before she could respond - like she had even been able to anyway - he scowled and then abruptly launched them into the air. She bit her lip to stifle her startled cry and instead clung to him, her thoughts a jumbled mess, wondering for the first time if this man meant to kill her or save her. What was happening?

The guy was fast, not taking any chances in being detected by undead or other as he darted across the rooftop he landed on and swiftly dropped into an opening in the roof–a door, she realized somewhat dazedly. 

It was dark inside but the storefront windows provided a little light as he gruffly instructed her to close the door using a crude pulley system he’d no doubt manufactured himself. Wordlessly she did, a little impressed, and then afterward he was maneuvering through the darkness of the store, being cautious and ducking behind shelves nearly picked clean of all their merchandise. 

Kagome was quiet, biting her lip as she foolishly allowed this stranger to carry her into the depths of the store, pushing through the doors marked “Employees Only” into the storage room. He bypassed pallets of shrink-wrapped food and other supplies and hunger gnawed at Kagome’s stomach, but she ignored it, fearing that if she spoke up the man would react negatively after he’d told her plainly to keep her mouth shut.

She had no idea if he was friend or foe but figured it was out of her hands now either way so she did as she was told, biting her lip to quell any questions as he made a sharp turn toward the back and headed for yet another trapdoor-looking opening in the floor.

Kagome blinked. Stores had basements?

Evidently this one did, she mused as the man dropped down and this time Kagome shut the door without prompting, spotting the simple chain drilled into the underside and tugging until it was sealed above them. Pitch black surrounded her and she could see nothing. It was cold and smelled a bit like mildew but still she said nothing as he moved forward, the darkness hardly a hindrance to him and Kagome secretly marveled at that fact.

He suddenly stopped and then Kagome was blinking against the harsh glare of bright florescent lights as he flipped them on. After her vision cleared, Kagome took in her surroundings, her eyebrows rising and her mouth parting slightly in wonder.

She hadn’t really known what to expect, but it certainly hadn’t been an efficient and clean looking hideaway. Amidst the hot water tank, the plumbing system snaking across the ceiling, and a large metal box that looked to be some sort of electrical system, he had made himself a little home, complete with a bed compiled of stacked wooden pallets and a thick mattress with clean blankets and pillows.

She spotted a two-way radio on a sturdy looking table with three chairs surrounding it, a bookshelf filled with non-perishable food, and a freezer chest beside it that she suspected was filled with frozen meats and meals. There was an old television but she doubted it worked, a beat-up washing machine that acted as a cooler from what she could see, and a very old, puke-green armchair that had seen better days. A mini fridge sat against the wall with a timeworn microwave on top and beside that what appeared to be one of those old fashioned water pumps protruded from the wall, situated over a drain in the cement floor.

Kagome was impressed, and okay, yeah, a little envious. It was safe, secret, and protected, hidden from the outside world. It was a slice of paradise in a world gone to hell, a safe haven from death and disease with enough food and supplies to last for a very along time.

The man grunted, disrupting her thoughts, and crossed the floor to set her carefully down on the bed.

“Don’t move,” he rumbled her eyes followed him as he wandered over to a large chest she hadn’t noticed before, opened it up to retrieve a small bin, and came back over. He set the translucent green container beside her and Kagome received her second surprise to find it filled with various medical supplies.

Was he...going to treat her injuries? What kind of serial killer was this guy?

Or maybe...maybe he wasn’t one?

Biting her lip, Kagome refused to get her hopes up, still too frightened and wary to say anything and watched as he walked back with a cooking pot filled with water before dragging a chair in front of her, sitting down and carefully setting the water on the floor at his feet.

Wordlessly he reached for her arm and Kagome instinctively flinched back, a sound of fright echoing in her throat as her wide eyes stared at his blood covered hands. He paused, stared hard at her face for a moment with a deep frown, before taking the rag he’d gotten from somewhere, dipping it in the water and wiping off the dried blood on his claws and hands.

Kagome blinked, not expecting that.

He continued to silently clean his hands the best he could, the rag becoming a ruddy brown color and the water turning a light pink.

“You got a name?” he asked out of the blue and frowned when she jumped. He paused and studied her quietly, eyes searching the dark, terrified depths that gazed back at him.

“Relax,” he murmured. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

Kagome’s lips pressed into a thin line and she ducked her head.

He rolled his eyes. “If I wanted you dead, wench, don’t you think I woulda already done it? Clearly you know what I am, and yet I still saved your ass from becoming zombie food twice now. You can trust me.”

She still looked uncertain, worrying her bottom lip and avoiding his gaze and he sighed. He could understand her hesitance; it was foolish to trust so blindly during these trying times, and he suspected she might have already made that mistake once which explained her wariness now. Still, he needed to treat those cuts and that nasty looking gash on her temple. Poor girl looked like she’d been through hell, and he was worried she might either pass out from sheer exhaustion or fever if any of her injuries were infected.

How the hell did he get her to trust him, though?

Racking a hand through his short hair, Inuyasha blew out his cheeks in another sigh and studied her, eyebrows dipped into a deep frown. His ear flicked, and then with slow movements, making sure she saw what he was doing, he dropped his hand to the Glock holstered at his hip and pulled it out. He’d gotten it from the dead body of a cop a week or so before and it was more for backup than anything since Tessaiga was his favored method of destruction.

Predictably she tensed, the color leeching from her face at an alarming rate but before she could bolt, Inuyasha flipped it around and held it out to her, the butt facing her.

She froze and stared wide-eyed at the firearm being offered to her for a long minute before lifting her dark eyes up to his, her shock evident. Inuyasha said nothing, silently waiting, his gaze steady and expression carefully blank.

Her eyes kept darting between him and the gun but Inuyasha remained patient, waiting for her to take the offered protection he knew would provide at least a little reassurance. Sure enough a moment later she slowly wrapped her fingers around the butt and drew the weapon into her lap, finger poised on the trigger while still avoiding his gaze, her face turning a light shade of red.

He fought a grin. It wasn’t loaded; he’d used up the last bullet just earlier that day when Tessaiga had been knocked out of his hand, but she didn’t need to know that. Then as an extra precaution, still keeping his movements slow, he jerked Tessaiga from the belt loop of his opposite hip and lowered it to the floor before lightly kicking it away, out of his reach. She relaxed visibly after that, the tension leaving her shoulders and she released a shaky breath.

Gratified, Inuyasha steeled himself and carefully reached for her arm again. She tensed, he paused, and waited a few seconds before trying again. She let him grab her arm this time and with measured movements, after wetting the rag again, he carefully began washing her skin of blood, both dried and flesh. He was glad to see that it looked worse than it really was, most of the cuts superficial and already clotting.

“My name’s Inuyasha Taisho,” he told her as he worked, voice low. “I’m thirty-one and I own the dojo across town, Sword and Shield.”

Surprise flickered across Kagome’s face. She recognized that name; she passed it every day on her morning commute to work.  Or at least she used to.

Her eyes met his and Inuyasha’s lips twitched, his expression softening. “I’m a half-demon,” he said and her lack of surprise suggested she’d already guessed that. “But I’ve never killed another human before.”

Inuyasha paused, and then grimaced before amending, ”Uh, that hasn’t tried to kill me first.”

Her lips twitched slightly and she nodded. She understood that.

Relieved, Inuyasha worked on cleaning up her cuts and then treating them with antiseptic and bandages, muttering a soft apology when she winced as he doused the deeper ones. He did the same with her other arm, carefully cleaned and treated the gash at her temple – being sure to keep his claws away from her soft skin – and sat back.

“…Kagome.”

Inuyasha paused in studying his handiwork to flick his gaze to hers, giving her his undivided attention.

She blushed, gave him a trembling smile, and repeated softly, “Kagome Higurashi. Twenty-nine. Office worker.”

Inuyasha gave her an easy grin and he nodded once, eyes locked on hers, the vulnerability and lingering fright still clear as day. “Kagome,” he echoed, sliding his hand down her arm to grasp her hand and squeeze. “Thanks for trusting me.”

“Don’t make me regret it, please,” she whispered and relinquished the Glock back into his grasp.

“You’re safe here,” he rumbled and swiftly holstered the firearm. “I promise.”

Then she gave him her first genuine smile and something in his chest tightened as his breath caught in his throat.

Well. Fuck.

Clearing his throat and shaking his head, Inuyasha stood and went to the washer-turned-cooler filled with melting ice to get a cold bottle of water.

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten anything? Or slept?” he asked, frowning down into the well of the washer. He’d have to get more ice soon.

When he didn’t receive an answer, he looked over to find Kagome sheepishly avoiding his gaze, blushing and biting down on her lip. That didn’t exactly look encouraging.

“Um…like, three days?” she admitted with a shrug, and then immediately gasped and winced as hot pain flared in her shoulder.

Inuyasha’s frown deepened. “What’s wrong?”

“Shoulder,” she murmured, hissing through her teeth as she attempted to raise her left arm, but couldn’t move it without stabbing pain shooting down to the very tips of her fingers. She bit her lip to stifle her cry of pain.

Instantly Inuyasha was there, sitting beside her and gently nudging her to twist around so he could take a look. What he found had him sucking in a sharp breath and his eyes to go very wide.

“What?” Kagome pressed, trying to crane her neck around to see without jarring her shoulder too much. She failed. “What is it?”

“What the fuck,” Inuyasha growled, ears pinning into his hair. “Kagome, you’ve been shot.”

Kagome blanched. “W-what?” she squeaked, the disbelief clear in her voice.

“That’s a fucking bullet hole,” he went on and started lifting her shirt to get a better look at it. “Christ, wench, who the hell did you piss off to get them to shoot at you?”

Kagome was barely aware of him tugging her shirt up and over her shoulder as she suddenly recalled with vivid clarity a loud bang followed shortly by burning agony exploding in her left shoulder as she’d sought to escape the murderer she’d foolishly trusted.

“Oh,” she breathed, feeling lightheaded and slightly nauseous. “That’s what that was.”

“What do you mean that’s what—dammit, wench! Why didn’t you fucking tell me about this?!”

Growling, Inuyasha ended up slicing her shirt to get it off without moving her shoulder; it was already torn and bloody anyway so he didn’t think she’d mind. With hard amber eyes, Inuyasha took in the neat little dime-size hole on the back of her left shoulder. Oozing fresh blood in a steady trickle, the edges were red and inflamed and Inuyasha knew the bullet was still lodged inside. There wasn’t an exit wound on the other side of her shoulder and he could already smell the beginnings of infection from the foreign material embedded in the tissue. Shit.

He needed to get it out, quickly, before the infection set in and caused damage that he did not have the required medication for. He did, however, have the tools for it; he’d been shot at more than once, which was how he recognized the wound for what it was, so at least she’d have the comfort of knowing that he had experience with this sort of thing. Unfortunately he did not have any numbing agents so this was not going to be fun for her. Since he’d only ever done it to himself, figuring he’d never have to perform the “procedure” on a human, he’d never bothered to look for some since he could handle the pain.

Kagome, though? God, this was going to be a bitch for her and he hated himself for what he was about to put her through.

Swearing under his breath, Inuyasha left Kagome’s side to get clean water, a fresh roll of gauze, a mini stitches tool kit, and even though infection had already started to set in, he still grabbed the antibiotic ointment to prevent it from getting any worse. She seemed to be in a bit of shock, sitting there staring dazedly at the air in front of her and either unaware that she was topless with her white cotton bra revealed to him, or she didn’t even care. He suspected it was the former and he muttered another curse, grabbing a handful of rags he’d made from random articles of clothing before returning to where she sat.

Inuyasha set what he needed on the chair and hesitated briefly before crouching before her, hands resting lightly on her knees. Her face was pale and tightened from pain, however her eyes were surprisingly clear as she stared down at him. She worried her bottom lip, sighed, and the fleeting look that crossed her face suggested she knew what he was going to say next.

“I wish I didn’t have to say this,” he began, the regret on his face and in his voice genuine. “But I need to get it out. And I’m sure you already know, but it’s not gonna be fun. I don’t have any numbing solution, Kagome. I ain’t gonna lie to you, it’s gonna hurt like a bitch and I’m gonna need you to stay as still as possible for me so I don’t slip and accidentally cause more damage. Alright?”

If possible Kagome paled even more and she grimaced, but gave a curt nod, setting her jaw in determination and sucking in a steadying breath. She could do this.

He had to smile at her bravery. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve done this before so I know what I’m doing. I’ll try to be quick.”

Kagome nodded again and that time offered a trembling but genuine smile. It made his heart hurt so swallowing the lump in his throat, Inuyasha stood and sank on the bed, kicking up a leg to stretch out beside her and urging her to turn so her back faced his chest and nestled comfortably between his legs. She kept her arm to her chest while doing as she was bade, shifting until both of her legs were stretching out before her and unable to hide the wince of pain when her pain flared briefly in her shoulder.

His ears flattened and clenching his jaw, Inuyasha got to work cleaning the surrounding area of dried blood and disinfecting it with some rubbing alcohol. Predictably she hissed and arched her back at the sting, instinctively trying to escape it as her hand reached down and fisted in his jeans.

“Okay?” he murmured, setting aside the antiseptic before wrapping an arm around her waist and brushing his fingers over her shoulder, readying to dig out the bullet.

Breathing deep, Kagome closed her eyes and jerked her head. “Yes,” she breathed and couldn’t stop the way her body tensed, preparing for the pain she knew was coming. “I’ll be fine. Just—get it over with. Please.”

Fuck, but he wished he didn’t have to.

“On the count of three,” he rumbled, swallowing thickly as he poised his claws above the wound. “One, two...”

Stifling the whine that welled in his throat, Inuyasha plunged his fingers into the open wound and Kagome screamed.

Burning, searing, agonizing pain exploded in her shoulder and ricocheted down her arm, sending every single nerve on fire and compressing the air in her lungs until she was gasping for breath. Tears pricked her eyes and Kagome tried very hard not to withe in agony, sobs catching in her throat as she girt her teeth and dug her fingers into his legs beside her, her body shaking, her stomach rolling, and her chest feeling impossibly tight.

Behind her Inuyasha wasn’t fairing much better, jaw clenched hard as he rooted around for the bullet and tried to pinch it between his claws, but the blood made that difficult. Switching tactics he tried to scoop it out instead, tightening his arm around her waist as she started to jerk and twist against him and he knew it was an unconscious bid to escape the pain.

“I know, baby, I know,” he soothed her as she cried, wanting nothing more than to heed her pleas for him to stop but knowing he couldn’t until the damned bullet was out. “You’re doing great, Kagome, just a little more, hold on for me, alright? You’re doing great, just a little more—”

He kept repeating the same things over and over again in her ear as he dug around for the blasted bullet, being careful not to dig his claws even more into the tissue of her shoulder but it was difficult. Kagome keened and sobbed, legs moving restlessly but the arm around her waist prevented her from jerking away from him.

Her entire arm was on fire, her shoulder felt like it was being stabbed over and over again and Kagome idly wondered if she’d ever been in as much pain before as she was right now. It was excruciating, blinding, and she almost wished she could just pass out so she wouldn’t have to endure it even a second longer—

“Got it.”

Inuyasha crooked his fingers, jerked his hand and the bullet popped out of her shoulder, glistening with blood and landing on the floor with a soft clink.

With a sob of relief Kagome went limp against him, curling her knees up as she turned her head and buried her face into his chest as she cried.

Though he wanted nothing more than to hold her, the tiny tremors that rocked her frame and the muffled whimpers against his chest tugging at his heart, Inuyasha forced himself to stay focused on the task at hand. Hurriedly he reached over and wet a rag before cleaning the wound. Though he felt like he was going to be sick, Inuyasha prepared the needle, making sure it was thoroughly disinfected and then giving a soft word of warning, he speared the flesh around it and stitched the wound closed.

Kagome jerked and issued another low moan of pain, her body stiffening but she offered no other protests, knowing it was necessary. At least he seemed to know what he was doing, his movements sure and swift. Kagome was surprised, but grateful when only seven minutes later he announced he was finished and then he was spreading the antibacterial ointment over it, staunching some of the blood flow. He wasted no time in pressing a thick gauze pad to it and keeping it secured with medical tape.

He remained quiet as he dressed the wound, and though he wanted to ask if she was okay, he had a feeling she would scoff in the face of his concern since she clearly was not.  Still, the need to distract her even a little bit from the pain was urgent and so he repeated his earlier question.

“So,” he rumbled and reached over to grab the roll of gauze. “How’d you get it?”

More or less composed by now, her sobs having died down to sniffles and quiet sighs, Kagome sucked in a shaky breath and sat up straight to make it a little easier for him. Her newly bandaged shoulder protested and she winced, but the pain was tolerable.

“I made a stupid mistake,” she answered, her voice hoarse. Inuyasha started wrapping the gauze over and around her shoulder and she lifted her arm the tiniest bit so he could pass it under. “I trusted the wrong person and he ended up being...not very nice.”

“Let me guess.” Inuyasha frowned and added another layer of gauze, passing the roll over, under, and around again, passing just beneath her breasts. “One of those psycho axe murderers from a bad Halloween film?”

She gave a watery laugh and nodded. “Basically. I ran when I realized what he was and narrowly missed having my head cut off. I didn’t know he had a gun too, and as I was running away I heard a loud bang and then sharp, burning pain in my shoulder. I think I was too scared to really understand what it meant, and the adrenaline probably temporarily numbed the pain, so that’s why I didn’t tell you about it. I didn’t even know I had it until just now.”

His frown deepened. It made sense, but he didn’t like that she’d been so frightened the pain from the bullet hadn’t even registered, hadn’t even penetrated the terror she was feeling then.

Why did that make his gut twist and make him physically ill?

“That’s why I ran from you at first, you know,” Kagome said softly, drawing him out of his thoughts. “When I saw you standing there, your sword dripping blood and looking...well, terrifying, to be honest, I thought you were another crazy and didn’t think before I ran.”

Inuyasha grimaced and shook his head, recalling what he’d done right before he discovered her in the alley. “Yeah, I can imagine how bad that must have looked. I’d just finished tussling with a few of the undead fuckers myself. Damn things had been hanging around the shop for days before I finally managed to catch ‘em off guard and slaughter the lot of ‘em. I hadn’t even gone back inside when I heard someone yankin’ at the doors, trying to get inside, and that’s when I saw another group of them pass by with that single minded focus that could only mean they found their next meal. I was about to give chase, hoping I could get to whoever it was before they did, but then I heard something, ended up finding this tiny thing looking and smelling absolutely terrified, and she ran from me before I could ask if she was alright.”

Kagome blushed and smiled sheepishly even though he couldn’t see it and ducked her head. “Then what happened?” she asked and he easily detected the teasing lilt to her voice.

Inuyasha’s lips twitched. “Then I chased after her, killed some zombies, and tried to coax this terrified creature out from a car she’d locked herself in. She nearly knocked me on my ass with the door, told me to fuck off, ran away again and I had to stop her before she went and got her fool ass killed.”

“What an idiot.”

He chuckled that time. “Then I carried her back to my poor excuse of a shelter, treated her wounds, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

Kagome hummed but said nothing more and Inuyasha took that cue to reluctantly remove himself from behind her and put away the supplies. She slowly swung her legs back over the edge of the bed, releasing a yawn and Inuyasha suspected she was minutes away from passing out but first he wanted to get something in her stomach. It was obvious she hadn’t had a decent meal in a while so he’d start her off with something small first lest she get sick.

Kagome was seriously considering laying down and crashing for the next day or so when Inuyasha suddenly appeared before her, holding a bottle of water and some crackers, and her stomach loudly told of its emptiness at the sight of food. She flushed but gratefully took them, choosing to ignore his knowing smirk as she uncapped the bottle and took her first drink of fresh water in three days.

“Slowly,” he murmured and she forced herself to do as much. “You’ll get sick if it’s too fast.”

While Kagome slowly but surely drained the water and nibbled on saltines, Inuyasha made himself a PB&J and pretended it was a big juicy steak as he chomped down, finishing it in four bites. He rifled around in a box of clothes and found one of his clean t-shirts for to wear since her last one was nothing but rags now.

Wordlessly he walked over and held it up. Predictably Kagome flushed, setting down her small meal so he could help her put it on. Though she was gritting her teeth the entire time, Inuyasha managed to get her arm through the sleeve with minimal difficulty and she breathed a sigh of relief when she was covered once more.

“Thank you,” Kagome whispered softly, sincerely, and Inuyasha’s expression softened.

Because the urge was too great, he reached out and tucked a strand of raven hair behind her ear, prompting her to lift her gaze to his.

“Don’t mention it,” he rumbled, quirking a grin, and dropped his hand. Before he could step away, however, a small hand darted out and grasped his shirt, keeping him there, and he frowned down at her in concern.

“S’matter?” he asked, kneeing down and brushing his fingers against her arm. “Do you need—”

Shaking her head, Kagome tugged on his shirt, cutting him off and she finally lifted her head, deep pools of chocolate brown locking with burnished amber.

“Not just for that,” she murmured and the smile she graced him with was shy, but stunning. “For...everything. For chasing after me, feeding me, for...saving me. Thank you, Inuyasha. You didn’t have to, but you did, and...”

Her throat closed up and she could say no more, but she didn’t need to. Her eyes told plainly of her gratitude and a peculiar warmth spread throughout Inuyasha’s chest as a knot developed in his throat, suddenly making it a little harder to breathe and goddamn, but she was pretty when she smiled like that.

Composing himself, Inuyasha cleared his throat and tossed her an easy grin, though his eyes were soft and his words genuine when he rumbled, “You’re welcome, Kagome. I’m glad I did.”

Her smile widened and her blush deepened. “Me, too.”

He stared into her eyes and had the insane urge to...well, he didn’t know what, but then Kagome abruptly yawned and the spell was broken.

Shaking his head, not without an amused chuckle, Inuyasha sighed and stood up going back over to the chest of medical supplies and digging around for some painkillers. The second she spotted them Kagome made a little noise of demand and made grabby motions toward them with a little pout. He grinned and shook out two for her.

“Get some sleep,” he rumbled and waited for her to knock back the Ibuprofen with the rest of the water before taking it the empty bottle and tossing it in the cracked recycling bin that served as the trash. “Honestly I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long. Three days is a long time to go without sleep for a human.”

Kagome shrugged and then immediately regretted it when her shoulder twinged in protest. She winced and mumbled, “Kinda hard to sleep when you’re trying not to get to eaten or killed.”

Inuyasha snorted. He could agree to that.

Sighing, she carefully lowered herself down onto her right side and it was like her exhaustion hit her all at once, suddenly struggling to keep her eyes open as her body melted into the mattress and her mind became hazy. Her shoulder was stiff and still hurt like a bitch, her arm didn’t feel much better, but she was easily able to ignore all of that because she was finally able to get some sleep on an actual bed, in a safe place without worry about being discovered, without the fear that she might never wake up.

She was covered with a light blanket and she sighed, losing the battle to keep her eyes open as she murmured,  “N’yasha.”

“Hm?”

“Stay.” It was barely above a whisper, her voice nothing but a breathy wisp of air, but Inuyasha heard it anyway and he felt that weird tugging sensation on his heart again.

“I’ll stay,” he replied roughly and gently brushed her bangs back, his touch lingering, a feather-light caress. “Sleep, Kagome. I’ll protect you.”

Kagome smiled, sighed, and slept. 

Ch. 2

[yiangchen]

Hey, I wrote a thing, and it’s another divergent Bellarke fic. I feel like I’ve been working on this for so long, and maybe it could use more editing, but I don’t care. I just need to post it already.

Anyways, this fic diverges from the end of 4x04. So, essentially, the last scene never happens because Octavia died in the fall, and this fic follows Clarke helping Bellamy come to terms with that, as well as Octavia’s treatment of him since Lincoln’s death. This fic is not Octavia (or Kane) friendly, so you have been warned.

Title from “The Scientist” by Coldplay.

you don’t know how lovely you are

Clarke can’t believe they’ve wound up here again—on the brink of war.

Then again, a part of her had known it was inevitable. No matter what she does, it seems, this always happens.

As she stands with the gates to Arkadia at her back, she knows she should have seen it coming, but she’d just had so much on her mind. Bellamy still hadn’t returned from the hunting trip, and she’d been struggling without him by her side. Still is, actually.

She takes a deep breath, channeling the strength she only feels when she thinks of him, and starts down the path the Ice Nation warriors have left for her. They lead to a tent—a large one that’s surrounded by many others, where they’ve set up camp for the night.

Clarke can’t help but be reminded of the last time the land before Arkadia was lit with torches in the night, surrounded by a grounder army. She can’t help but think that this time they could have Bellamy—another person who she loves—held hostage.

Part of her hopes they have him, if only it means he’s alive and not dead somewhere in the woods, but there’s this other part. This other part of her that remembers so clearly what it felt like to slide a knife into the heart of the boy she loved. This part that desperately needs for Bellamy to be far away from all this, safe and unharmed, maybe just lost with the others.

When she pulls open the flap to the tent, her heart nearly stops. Roan stands before her, and Bellamy is on his knees, gag in his mouth and wrists bound, but that’s not what has her heart feeling like it’s breaking inside her chest. No. That’s the look in his pained, watery gaze. How his cheeks are stained with tears. She doesn’t think he’d move or say a word even without the restraints. It’s enough to have her bottom lip tremble, despite how desperately she tries to keep her voice steady.

“What did you do to him?” she manages to ask. She tries to step towards him, stopping instantly when Roan holds a knife to Bellamy’s throat and takes a handful of his hair in his hand.

Bellamy’s eyes land on Clarke’s, and he swallows, hard. Clarke aches to go to him, to hold him, and the realization that she can’t comfort him in this moment kills her.

“What do you want?” she asks Roan when he doesn’t respond, eyes not leaving Bellamy’s.

“The truth.”

That gets Clarke’s attention. Reluctantly, she lifts her gaze from Bellamy to Roan. “I don’t understand.”

“You’ve been working on a way to save your people and not mine behind my back.”

“I—” Clarke blinks. “I what?”

“The ship you’re restoring will only save a hundred people. Your people.”

“That’s a backup plan.”

“To what?”

“The nightblood solution,” Clarke says, exasperated. “We’ve been working on a way to make us all nightbloods.”

Roan is unimpressed. “You don’t believe in religious bullshit. Neither do I.”

“It’s not about what the blood means to your culture. It was genetically-engineered to withstand high levels of radiation.”

Roan just gives her a blank look and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“It can help us survive the end of the world.”

“And you know this how?”

“Luna. The nightblood who fled her conclave a few years back. She was infected along with the rest of her clan, but she survived and the rest died.”

Roan shakes his head. “You couldn’t know that. Luna lives in a hidden settlement somewhere off the coast.”

“She came to us when she got sick.” Clarke sighs. “Look, you just have to trust me.”

Roan considers this, then nods. “Okay, on one condition.”

“Yeah?”

“Half the spots on the ship belong to Azgeda.”

Clarke opens her mouth to protest, but Roan continues before she can.

“If you really have faith in the nightblood solution, you won’t mind sharing. Besides, you don’t have much of a choice now. It’s either this or war.”

Clarke holds her chin high, calm and collected. “We have more bullets than you have men. You’ll lose.”

“We’ll both take loses.” The ghost of a smirk graces Roan’s mouth. “Bellamy among them.”

Clarke falters, her resolve fading away, and she returns her eyes to Bellamy’s. He shakes his head. Don’t do this for me.

But she does anyway.

I’ll do anything, I’ll stop fighting—just please don’t kill him, she had told Roan months ago, giving up her chance at freedom so that Bellamy could live.

And she’d still do anything for him. Even sacrifice the lives of fifty of her own people.

“We’ll share the ship,” she says, looking back at Roan.

He nods. “Good choice.”

“Now please,” Clarke goes on, and she doesn’t care that her voice is trembling. “Let him go.”

He does, making a comment as he releases him, but Clarke hardly notices, taking the few strides that separate her from Bellamy and kneeling in front of him. She doesn’t notice when Roan pulls back the flap of the tent and leaves either.

All she can think is Bellamy.

She reaches out, without hesitation, to pull the gag from his mouth and tenderly brush the hair out of his eyes. “Hey.”

His eyes flutter closed and he shutters, leaning into her touch when she cradles his cheek in her palm. She doesn’t ask him what’s wrong, knowing he’ll tell her when he’s ready. Somehow, she knows what happened before he says it.

“She’s dead,” he whispers brokenly, eyes opening into hers as he shakes his head, and this time, Clarke’s heart does stop. “They killed her, and I—” Tears slip down his cheeks. “I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t—”

Clarke brings his head into her chest, holds him as he falls apart in her arms. “You’re okay,” she says into his hair, and her voice is shaking nearly as much as his body. “You’re okay.”

I’m not, he says without having to and Clarke squeezes her eyes shut.

Because she knows that. Knows Bellamy and how Octavia was his whole entire world.

He gave up any life he could have had on the Ark; nearly killed the chancellor just for a spot on the dropship, not knowing if he’d survive the landing, let alone a potentially radiation-soaked planet; left camp in the middle of the night and searched dangerous, grounder-inhabited woods; and took the blame for Lincoln’s death—all for her. He suffered every day because she was his sister, his responsibility.

And now she is gone. He’s lived for that one girl—so detrimental to his own well-being—since he was six years old and now she is gone.

The last thing Bellamy is right now is okay, and Clarke has no idea how he’s going to survive losing her, but that’s not going to stop her from trying to comfort him.

“You’re okay,” she says again. “You’re okay.” She can’t help but repeat the words to him, over and over, and maybe, just maybe, if she holds him tight enough, she can just be here when he feels like he’s lost everything.

The last time he needed her, she ran.

She’s not running now.

…

That night, Clarke wakes to light knocking on her door. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she makes her way across the room and answers it.

Bellamy is there, hair disheveled and gaze faraway. She opens the door further to let him inside.

He stops when he sees the bed, as if just now realizing that they will be sharing it. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Clarke shakes her head. “I don’t mind, Bell. I’m here for you, in whatever way you need.” Bellamy nods, and Clarke climbs into bed. “The left side is yours.”

Bellamy hesitates, but at the look she sends him, soft and warm, his feet are carrying him forward.

For a few minutes, they lay there, not touching, facing away from one another, but then Clarke turns and brings a hand to his bicep. He softens into it instantly. Clarke takes this as an okay, shuffling in behind him and wrapping her arm around him to pull him against her chest, where her heart beats. His hand covers hers, clutching her fingers.

Instinctively, without thinking, Clarke presses a kiss between his shoulder blades. His shirt separates her lips from his skin, but it’s still the most intimate they’ve ever been, and maybe that’s why he starts to cry just then. There’s nobody’s else's arms he feels safe enough in to fall apart in.

…

In the morning, Bellamy is gone when Clarke wakes, but there’s a note on his side of the bed.

Had to get going on today’s work, but you should get some sleep, so don’t rush out of bed, okay?

Thanks for last night.

— Bell

It brings a closed-lip, half smile to Clarke’s face. Even in his grief, Bellamy cares so much. He’s the one who needs more sleep than her. The girl he sacrificed everything for is dead, and she’s never coming back.

Clarke wishes he would give himself a moment to rest. A moment to grieve. One that lasts more than half a day. But she knows he won’t. That’s not Bellamy. He’ll find comfort in her during the night, but when there’s work to be done, nothing can stop him from doing everything he can to save their people.

It’s what frustrates her the most about him.

But it’s also why she loves him.

With that thought, she pulls back the covers and gets out of bed. If he’s not resting, she’s not either. They’re in this together, and this time she really means that.

…

She finds Bellamy speaking with Monty.

“Raven radioed,” Bellamy says to her when she joins them. “Nightblood can only be made in zero g.”

Clarke visibly deflates.

“But there might be something we can do about that,” Monty goes on. “Raven found a rocket in the lab, and we have enough hydrazine to get us into space and back to the ground.”

“Okay,” Clarke nods, but by the looks on their faces, there’s a catch. “Then what’s the problem?”

“Hydrazine is highly unstable and dangerous. The littlest bump in the road could cause an explosion, and we need every last drop of fuel to get back down.”

“The plan is to have everyone wait until we’ve made it back down, but…” Bellamy trails off.

“But if we lose a barrel, we’ll be stuck in space, and we won’t be able to distribute the nightblood before the death wave hits,” Clarke finishes.

“And everyone dies but you guys and the lucky hundred that are picked,” Monty says.

Clarke nods, taking all that information in. For once, she doesn’t have to choose. They can strive to save everyone, and if they fail, humanity still survives. The thought makes her feel lighter. They can do this. “Then we won’t lose a barrel.”

“You’re in?” Bellamy asks.

Clarke almost smiles. “Of course.” Bellamy nods and turns to leave, presumably to prepare the rover, but Clarke stops him with a hand on his arm. “But first…”

“Yeah?”

“We should probably let Roan in on the plan.”

Bellamy tenses at the idea of walking into the Ice Nation army, still camped out beyond Arkadia’s walls.

Clarke sees this. “I can go alone.”

“No,” Bellamy says instantly. “No, I’m coming with you.”

…

They’re lead into the same tent Clarke found Bellamy hostage, only this time, Echo is there instead of Roan. Clarke watches as Bellamy visibly hardens at the sight of her.

“My king will be here shortly,” she says, and a muscle in Bellamy’s jaw ticks. “But first, I just wanted to…” She takes a step forward, stopping and trailing off in what she was going to say when Bellamy moves to stand protectively in front of Clarke.

“You’ve already gotten two people I loved killed,” he says at the questioning look in her brow. “Forgive me for not trusting you.”

“Your sister was an accident.”

Bellamy fights back against the tears gathering in his eyes. “Gina wasn’t. And you’ve already threatened Clarke numerous times. You nearly killed her a few weeks ago.” He swallows. “Right in front of me.”

Clarke doesn’t cut in and say that she can handle herself. She knows Bellamy knows that. This isn’t him disrespecting her own ability to take care of herself. He’s just scared of losing anyone else.

She gets it. She felt the same way when Finn died.

I can’t lose you too, she’d said all those months ago, refusing to let Bellamy go undercover as an inside man.

She knew he, more than anyone, could do it. She had faith he could survive. But that didn’t mean she wanted him to go ahead and risk his life. Not even when she turned to believing love is weakness. Even then, she cared. Even then, she struggled without him and longed for his safe return. Desperately did everything she could to keep him alive in there.

All that said, of course she understands his need to do the same. So, she stays quiet, hand on Bellamy’s arm to calm him. Let him know she’s right here and not going anywhere. Not if she can help it.

The touch reaches him, if the way she feels the tension there ease is any indication.

But that muscle in his jaw is still working. Part of her wants to bring a hand to his cheek, press her thumb there until it settles.

Before she can, Roan enters the tent.

“Leave us,” he says, almost instantly.

“But, sire—”

“Now, Echo.”

Reluctantly, she does as she’s told.

The moment she’s gone, Bellamy seems to relax just a bit.

“Sorry,” Roan apologizes, moving to take Echo’s place in front of them. “I didn’t know she was in here.”

Clarke gives him a small nod before getting right to it. “There’s been a slight change in plans.”

…

Much to Bellamy’s annoyance, Roan decides to come with them.

“I just,” Bellamy sighs, hand shifting on the wheel of the rover, “I needed a moment away, you know? He’s not the one that did it, but…”

One of his hands twitches on the stick, and Clarke reaches out to steady it. “He’s a reminder.”

Bellamy looks at her softly. “Yeah.” He blinks at the tears already starting to form again. “Everything is.”

“Everything?”

He nods. “Even you, but with you…” Bellamy swallows and returns his eyes to the road. “With you, it’s different.”

Clarke’s lips part at that. Before she can think on it much, there are some grounders on the path. Bellamy slowly comes to a stop.

“They have wounded,” Clarke says, instantly hopping out.

“Clarke.”

She ignores him, and Bellamy sighs.

“What is she doing?” Roan asks.

Bellamy brings the radio to his mouth. “Being Clarke,” he says before hoping out to follow her. “Nobody else gets out.”

…

When Bellamy sees the ocean hours later, it’s everything he needs. Soothing. Calming.

And that he expected.

But what he didn’t expect was Clarke taking him by the hand and dragging him towards the water. Come on, she had said, a smile on her face, one hand in his and the other tugging off her boots and then her socks.

Okay, he had said back, the barest hint of a smile glinting in his eyes. But just for you, okay?

She had beamed at him, and he swore for just one moment his heart stopped.

Now, he’s standing with Clarke, just far enough out so that the water reaches their ankles, with his pants rolled up to keep them from getting wet.

Dork, Clarke had teased.

“Thank you,” he says once it’s been a while since either of them have said anything, and amusement pulls at Clarke’s lips.

“It’s nothing.” She shrugs. “You smiled earlier today, and I just wanted to see you happy like that again.”

Something in Bellamy’s chest swells at that. Something warm. “Not just for this,” he says softly, bringing a hand to the back of his neck. He thinks about today. How sure he’d been that he’d lost her. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”

Clarke shakes her head and steps into his arms. “That’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Bellamy doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her, pull her closer. The ocean breeze is brisk and chilly, but Clarke is solid and warm in his arms.

“Sounds good to me, princess,” he murmurs, and Clarke hides a smile in his chest.

“Princess?”

“Thought it was about time I brought that back again.”

“Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I missed it.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes fluttering closed. “Yeah, me too.”

“Hey, guys,” Roan calls suddenly, pulling them from the moment. “We’ve got a problem.”

…

It turns out losing a barrel of hydrazine isn’t the only problem. According to Raven, the death wave has accelerated significantly.

It’ll be here in a day, giving her just enough time to get the rocket ready for takeoff before it comes.

There are only four spots, one for Clarke, Bellamy, Raven and Luna. The rest have been sent back to Arkadia with the rover, not knowing if they’ll survive until tomorrow.

(Initially, Bellamy had been adamant about someone else taking his place, but when he realized that Clarke would do the same if he did, he quickly changed his mind.

If I’m on that list, you’re on that list, she had said to him, echoing his words.)

Now, Clarke stands alone in one of the rooms in Beca’s lab, trying and failing to keep it together. She just said goodbye to her mom, possibly for good.

Take care of each other, Abby had said, looking between Clarke and Bellamy.

Yes, ma’am, Bellamy had said back, and Clarke had only nodded before burying her face into Abby’s shoulder.

She’d fled shortly after.

“Clarke.”

It’s Bellamy, and she shuts her eyes at the sound of his voice, how soft he says her name.

“You okay in there?”

Clarke answers the door but doesn’t say anything. Just shrugs weakly. The second her face starts to crumble, vision blurry, he steps towards her and closes the door behind him.

“Hey,” he says, barely audible, and wraps her in his arms. A tear slips down her cheek as his warmth surrounds her.

(Much like him, there’s nowhere she feels safer to fall apart than in his arms.)

Her trembling body nearly brings Bellamy to tears and he rocks her side to side, not planning on letting go anytime soon. But she’s not either. So he just continues to hold her.

And in that moment, though everything in her is breaking, he’s enough to keep her standing. Something to cling to when the world is ending. Her home.

…

After exchanging tearful may we meet agains with their friends in Arkadia, the ss4 get right to work. They only have ten hours now. Ten hours for Raven to survive ALIE. Ten hours to prep the rocket. Ten hours to make it off this planet.

Raven saving herself and Clarke nursing her back to health take up most of it. By the time she can be up and moving around again without the risk of her heart giving out, they’re down to just an hour. Now, she’s getting the rocket ready for takeoff with Luna while Bellamy watches from above, Clarke checking over the plan for rationing.

“...So, let’s go over this again. I figure two months until the algae farm produces enough to feed us. If we ration the MRA’s, we should get there.”

She lifts her gaze to Bellamy, planning on saying more, but stops herself when she sees him standing at the railing, looking out, and makes her way to stand beside him.

“A grounder in space,” he says to her. “It’s an oxymoron.”

“Survival’s a team sport, especially up there. It was the only choice.” She looks at him, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Only choice, also an oxymoron by the way.”

Bellamy reaches out to her. “So is cold sweat,” he says, brushing the back of his hand across her forehead and down her cheek. Her eyes nearly flutter closed.

It makes what she’s about to say so much harder. She’d promised him he wouldn’t lose her, but she’s not sure she can keep that promise anymore.

“My mom had a vision of me dying,” she says quietly. “Just like the one that told Raven there was a rocket here.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“They were both EMP’d.”

“And Abby will be fine too. Raven told her how to stop it.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Clarke swallows. “If anything happens to me—”

Bellamy doesn’t let her finish that, instantly placing his hands on her shoulders. “Nothing is happening to you.” When he releases her and walks back to the computer, Clarke sighs. “Now, come on. Let’s run these water numbers again.”

She follows him. “Please, Bellamy. I need you to hear this.”

He refuses to look at her for a moment, stubborn, that muscle working in his jaw like always. And like always, she wants to reach out and steady it.

But then he looks at her. Albeit reluctantly and with a look on his face that says he really doesn’t want to be having this conversation, but he’s looking at her all the same. He’s listening.

Clarke falters a moment, not sure entirely what to say. There’s just so much he needs to know and so little time.

“We’ve been through a lot together, you and I,” she goes with, and she finds that despite feeling more comfortable around him than anyone else, she’s nervous.

Bellamy gives her a small nod, afraid of where she’s going with this.

“I didn’t like you at first, that’s no secret,” she says, trying to lighten the mood. It has him ducking his head in the way he does, a closed-lip smile on his face. It gives her the strength to go on. “But even then…” She shakes her head, a soft kind of adoration in her eyes as she realizes just how much he means to her. “Every stupid thing you did, it was because of this.” She reaches out to place her hand over his heart, feeling it beat beneath her palm. “And it’s why I—” She hesitates. “It’s what makes you you, but the only way to make sure we survive is if you use this,” her hand rises from his chest and she taps his temple, “too.”

Bellamy’s lips part and he shakes his head. “I got you for that…”

Clarke’s eyes water. “Raven’s premonition came true.”

He shakes his head again, but before he can fight her on this, convince her that she’s not dying today, an explosion and simultaneous frustrated cry from Raven interrupt them.

…

According to Raven, the generator that they need is far too heavy for a single person to lift, let alone carry for nearly quarter a mile. With her bad leg, Raven won’t be any help, and of the remaining three, Bellamy and Luna are the strongest, so she sends them off to collect it and assigns Clarke the mission of realigning the satellite dish.

But before they go their separate ways, Clarke calls after Bellamy. “Wait, Bellamy—”

“Clarke, if this is one of those moments where you tell me to use my head—”

“No, I was just gonna say…” I love you. “Hurry.”

Bellamy stares at her, eyes wide and lips parted, like he wants to say something more too. He doesn’t.

“You too.”

And then he’s gone, and Clarke’s face crumbles as she watches him go, fearing that might have been the last time and she couldn’t just fucking say it.

She’s just too afraid. The last person she gave into her feelings for was shot and killed with a bullet meant for Clarke.

I love you, her mind screams. I love you. I love you. I love you.

…

Her heart breaks when she realizes she’s really not gonna make it back in time.

“Raven,” she says into the radio, and her bottom lip trembles when she gets ready to say his name. “Bellamy…” She swallows. “If you can hear me, don’t wait.”

…

She makes it back before the death wave.

Her face is covered in boils and she passes out for who knows how long—a day or several, she can’t be sure—but she made it back. Not before her friends had to leave, but at least she’s alive.

Without nightblood, she can’t be sure how long she’ll last. There are only so many rations stored in the lab, and it’s not as though she can go outside. The only thing holding her together is that she thinks she managed to realign the satellite dish and send power to the ring.

“Hey,” she says into the radio. “Bellamy.” Her voice nearly cracks on his name. “Please tell me you can hear me up there.”

Silence.

“Please tell me you made it too. I can’t—” She purses her lips to keep them from trembling. “I need to know you’re okay.”

Again, silence.

It has a tear slipping down Clarke’s cheek. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be—

“Clarke?”

Her heart stops and starts again all at once, and it’s like she can finally breathe.

He’s crying. She can hear him sniffle after he manages to ask her, “Is that really you?”

Tears slip down Clarke’s cheeks, but she’s smiling. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, it’s really me.”

“I thought—” his voice cracks and she aches to touch him, but there are miles and miles separating them, “I thought you were dead.”

Clarke huffs out a watery breath of air. “I thought you were dead.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Yeah,” she says, actually manages a laugh. “I gathered that.”

When she hears his responding weak laugh, her heart swells with something she recognizes as hope.

“Clarke,” he says then, and she can hear how his amusement is fading. “I’m so sorry.”

She shakes her head even though he can’t see her. “It’s okay.”

“Clarke—”

“I’m so proud of you,” she says, and she wishes she could see his face. Her voice cracks. “I’ve never been more proud of you.”

Bellamy huffs out a breath on the other end of the line—because of course Clarke Griffin found a way to be proud of him over that.

“I can’t believe you can hear me,” she goes on. “Even if I could have made it on my own, I don’t think I could have survived five years without hearing your voice.”

“You might get more than that,” he says, and she can almost hear his smile through the radio. “We’re not alone up here.”

Clarke’s brow furrows. “There were still people left on the ring?”

“No. There’s another ship up here.”

“Another—another what?”

“I know. I couldn’t believe it either, but they left before Apocalypse I.”

“So, you’re with their ancestors?”

“Actually, no. They’ve been asleep the whole time. Raven called it...cyro sleep, or something.”

“Cryo,” Raven cuts in. “It’s called cryo.”

Clarke smiles. “Raven?”

“The one and only,” she says, proud, but Clarke can hear that she’s been crying.

Clarke laughs. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

“Yours too.”

“Is Luna there? You all made it?”

“Yeah, she was just resting while I figured out how to work the radio.”

Clarke starts crying again.

Bellamy’s voice comes through, worried, when she hasn’t said anything in some time. “Clarke, you still there?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m still here.”

“Okay, good. Look, I hate to do this, but I have to go so we can get ready to come back down. There’s enough fuel, but Raven has to make the nightblood serum first before we go anywhere.”

“Wait.”

“Yeah?”

“How are we going to survive down here? The death wave must have wiped everything out.”

“There’s a small patch of green left. It looks plenty big enough for us.”

“How is that possible?”

“We don’t know. Not even Raven can figure it out.”

“Hey.”

Clarke laughs again.

“But anyway,” it’s Bellamy again, “we’ll see you soon, princess.”

Princess. Clarke’s heart swells at the nickname.

“See you soon.” She’s about to leave it at that, but then she remembers what it felt like to lose him and never having said it. “And Bellamy?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you,” she says with so much emotion her voice nearly cracks with it, but she says it without hesitation, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to say. As if she’s said it a million times before. “I love you so much.”

His voice is gruff and thick with tears when he says it back. “I love you, too.”

And Clarke swears that even though he’s thousands of miles away, she just knows everything’s going to be okay. Because he’s alive. He’s alive and in just a short while, he’ll be coming home to her. It’s enough to have her crying again, but she’s never been happier.

…

Bellamy calls Clarke again just before they head back to the ground the following day, and again when they land. He even radioes her the entire eight-hour walk to the lab, only stopping once he’s inside and lays eyes on her slumped against the wall.

“You getting here any time soon?” she asks into the radio, bored, not noticing him standing by the railing and looking over her; Luna and Raven in tow.

Bellamy grins. “Look up.”

She does, hopping right to her feet the second she sees him and dropping the radio in her haste. Bellamy has already made it halfway down the steps, and so she only has to run a few strides before taking his face in her hands and kissing him.

His eyebrows raise in surprise, heartbeat picking up, even though he’d met her halfway. He’s still reeling over the fact that all this time, she’s loved him back. Can’t believe that after thinking she had died for him, she’s right here, kissing him, and she tastes so much like home that he can’t help but smile. It makes it kind of difficult to kiss her, but he doesn’t care.

“I thought I told you to hurry,” she says when she pulls away.

Bellamy breathes out a watery laugh, that adoration in his eyes that’s always there when he looks at her. He leans back in, just to press his forehead to hers and allow his eyes to flutter shut as he takes it all in. Clarke alive and well. “I love you so much.”

Clarke’s nose brushes his own, and she smiles, stupidly giddy. “I love you,” she breathes.

When he pulls back, his face falls instantly, and she feels the happiness fade. Bellamy tentatively brings his hands to her cheeks, eyes roaming over the radiation burns. Tears gather in his eyes.

“Hey,” she says, placing her hands over his own when they start to tremble. “I’m okay.”

He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, vision blurring.

“Hey,” she says, leaning forward to press her forehead to his.

“When I said I could use a break from keeping you alive,” his voice cracks, “this isn’t what I meant.”

A breath of air that sounds a lot like a sob escapes her and she kisses him. “I know,” she says, carding her fingers through his hair, and he shutters. “I know.”

…

Clarke runs a thumb over the inside of her elbow, where Raven had helped her inject the nightblood serum. It’s weird to think that all her life she’s had red blood running through her veins, and now, black.

But it’s better than having to have spend the next five years alone.

She looks at Bellamy then. He’s seated beside her, lost in his thoughts, and she brings a hand to his cheek to draw his eyes to hers.

His gaze is so soft she feels her heart thump against her ribs. She opens her mouth, then closes it and glances around to look for Raven and Luna. She spots them talking in the corner and then turns back to Bellamy and drops her hand from his cheek to take his hand in hers.

His brow is furrowed when she gets to her feet and pulls at his hand. “Come on,” she whispers.

He follows her. “Where are we going?”

Clarke just looks at him and smiles, eyebrows raised, and he understands instantly. He shakes his head at her, amused, and puts a hand on her back as they sneak out of the room. “You’re gonna be the death of me, princess.”

…

When they return to the lower floor of the lab, Raven is exasperated. “Where the hell have you two been?” she asks, but then she sees that Bellamy’s hair is a complete mess, even more so than usual, and Clarke’s doesn’t look much better. “I hope it was worth it,” she says, flat. Luna almost laughs, and Raven sends her a look.

Bellamy glances at Clarke, amusement glinting in his eyes, and she smiles, leaning up to kiss him. She would be lying if she said part of jumping him hadn’t been because...well, he’s Bellamy—one of the most beautiful humans she’s ever seen—and the dropship girls hadn’t been lying when they said how good he was, but this wasn’t about that.

At the start it was. When they first snuck off, she wanted to keep things light and fun, but then the weight of what was actually happening set it. She’d cried, feeling stupid until she saw that there were tears in his eyes too.

“Look,” Raven says, bringing Clarke from her thoughts. “I’m happy for you two, but we gotta get going.”

Bellamy nods. “How far is it to Arkadia?”

“By foot?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. A few days. A week.”

“Unless we can find the rover,” Clarke speaks up, and Bellamy can’t help but grin at that.

That’s my girl.

…

They find it almost completely buried in sand. Bellamy nearly cries when they do. “I know it’s only been a week,” he says, adjusting the gear as he accelerates. “But I really missed this.”

Clarke pouts at that.

“And you,” Bellamy adds, a teasing smile on his lips. “Missed you the most actually.”

“Nice save,” Clarke says.

Bellamy leans across the console to press a chaste kiss to her lips. “I thought so too.”

Clarke laughs—a real, full laugh—at that, and damn, if it isn’t the best sound Bellamy’s heard in a while.

“Hey,” Raven calls from the back, putting her feet up on the console to separate them. “Eyes on the road, dumbass.”

“There is no road,” Bellamy quips back.

Raven makes a face and whacks him on the head over the top of his seat.

“Watch it,” Bellamy mutters when he swerves.

“What,” Raven says. “I thought there was no road.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes.

…

They stop when night falls.

Bellamy is about to turn towards the back seats and say something smart—Clarke knows him too well—but she puts a hand on his arm before he can, drawing his attention to her. She brings a finger to her lips.

Bellamy turns to see that Luna and Raven are fast asleep, Raven snuggled into Luna’s arms. He gives Clarke a look, eyebrow raised. We’re teasing her about this tomorrow,” it says.

Clarke nods and smiles. Oh, definitely.

With that, she hops out of the rover and gently closes the door so as not to wake Raven and Luna.

They build a small fire, made from what was left of the nearby trees seared by the death wave. Clarke instinctively snuggles into his side and he throws an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her temple. They’ve done so many terrible things, but around each other, they’re soft. Around each other, they can just be.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks after a moment.

“What makes you think I’m thinking about something?”

Bellamy shrugs, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth that Clarke can practically hear. “You always are.”

“You’re not wrong.” She laughs, the sound muffled into his shirt. “I was thinking about you. Us.”

“Yeah?”

She pulls away and looks up at him, nodding with a smile on her face, one that reaches her eyes. He leans down the slightest bit and she leans up to meet him halfway, and God, it still feels like the first time. She still feels warm and fuzzy, just from the soft press of his lips against hers.

When she pulls back, it’s just to tuck her head under his chin, rest her cheek against his chest. She can feel his heart beating beneath ear—a comforting rhythm that has her eyes feeling heavy.

“Tired?”

She nuzzles further into him and allows her eyes to flutter shut. “Just a little,” she says.

Not a minute later, the steady beat of his heart lulls her into sleep.

…

When she wakes, she’s in the passenger’s side of the rover, head resting against the window; he must have carried her.

With groggy eyes, she looks over at Bellamy, brow furrowed. The early morning light dances across his freckles, lights up stray curls. It would have her heart beating faster if not for the muscle working in his jaw.

“Morning,” she says, pushing off from the window to sit upright in her seat.

“Morning,” he says back, not unkindly, but he doesn’t look at her.

This time there’s nothing stopping her from reaching out to steady the muscle in his jaw. Her voice softens. “Hey.”

She cradles his cheek in her palm, thumb brushing across his jawline. His eyes flutter, but they don’t close, and maybe that’s a good thing since he’s driving, but it’s not how he usually reacts to her touch and that worries her.

“Hey,” she says again, even softer this time. She brushes the hair back from his eyes.

This time, his eyes do shut for a moment, but that muscle in his jaw is still working.

“There’s no way all of the 100 were chosen,” he says, at last. His watery gaze finds hers.

“You did everything you could for them.”

He shakes his head, turning back to face the windshield. “Not enough.” A tear slips down his cheek, and she catches it with her thumb. “I wasn’t enough to save my sister either.”

“Shh.” Clarke runs her fingers through his hair again.

“Or even you.”

“Bellamy, I didn’t die.”

“But you almost did.”

“That wasn’t your fault. None of this is.” She sighs, hand leaving his cheek in favor of interlacing her fingers with his own. “Okay?”

When he doesn’t say anything, she folds herself into his side. She doesn’t say anything more. She knows words won’t reach him in this moment. Won’t comfort him.

Only her touch will.

So, she stays there, cuddled up against him, for the rest of the drive, Luna and Raven still fast asleep in the back of the rover.

…

They arrive in Arkadia that same day.

Clarke smiles when she hears Raven yawning in the back. “Good afternoon, sleepy head.”

Raven stretches her arms above her head as Luna wakes. “How long were we out?”

“A solid fourteen hours.”

“Fourteen hours. I was asleep for fourteen hours and you didn’t think to wake me?”

“You obviously needed it.”

Raven scoffs, and Clarke’s grin widens. She chances a glance at Bellamy, and even he cracks a smile.

“Alright,” he says, amusement fading as quickly as it came. “We’re here.” He has a faraway look in his eyes, and it worries Clarke. “Home sweet home.”

…

There are far more than a hundred people crammed into the ship, it turns out. In a panic, many had stowed away in places no one had thought to look.

(To Bellamy and Clarke’s immediate relief, what remains of the 100 are among them, along with Gaia, Indra, Niylah and Emori.)

Things were just about to descend into chaos before Clarke and the others showed up. It’s still quite chaotic in there though, Clarke would argue, considering that she, Jackson and Abby are rushing to administer the nightblood in an effective and safe manner. The quicker they can disperse people from the area, the better.

Meanwhile, Bellamy and Miller—one of the first to be given the treatment—are delegating everyone outside and keeping them calm, informing them on the plans for food, water and shelter.

The rover can only carry so many and it’s already running low on fuel, so it’ll only be used to transport the children. The rest will have to walk, and the valley is quite a journey away from Arkadia.

However, they had stocked up on rations, both of water and food, before leaving the lab, and they should have just enough for everyone to make it.

It won’t be a comfortable trek, but they’ll survive. At this point, that’s all that Bellamy cares about. Well, that and Clarke not overworking herself to death, which she seems to have done by the time she’s finishing up with her last patient.

“I’m fine, Bell,” she tries to say when he asks her, but then she sways on her feet and Bellamy rushes to her side.

“You’re not fine,” he murmurs, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

She wants to fight him on it, but she’s just so tired. Her eyes flutter closed and she allows herself to lean her head against his chest. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Can I get that in writing?” he asks wryly.

Clarke huffs, amused. “No, but I’ll let you take care of me for once.”

Bellamy’s lips quirk up at that. “I’ll take it.” He bends down. “Get on.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, but for once, she listens to him and climbs onto his back.

Bellamy rises back to his full height and hoists her up further. “I’m taking care of you,” he shoots back, but there’s no heat it in.

“Hey, Bell?” she asks, after just a few steps.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here either.” Bellamy’s heart swells at that, and Clarke presses a tired kiss to his cheek. “I love you,” she adds then, soft.

Bellamy just smiles. “You have no idea, princess.”

…

Much to Bellamy’s disapproval, Clarke only lets him carry her for about an hour.

“I’ve taken a nap,” she tells him. “I’m good now.”

“You need about twenty more of those and then you’ll be good,” he argues.

“I’ll take it easy when we get to the valley.”

“You promise?”

Clarke rolls her eyes fondly and kisses him. “Yes.”

…

A week of uncomfortable nights huddled together on the ground, days of seemingly endless walking, and far less food and water than any human being should be getting, they arrive in the valley.

Luna is already there, having volunteered to care for the kids, but for the rest of them, this patch of green has the first vegetation they’ve seen in over two weeks.

Bellamy lets his eyes flutter closed, a breeze ruffling his curls and bringing him the fresh aroma of flowers blooming.

“It’s so beautiful,” Clarke says.

He opens his eyes into hers. “I know, right?”

“I was actually talking about you,” she teases, a tired kind of amusement reflecting in her eyes. “But yeah, the valley’s beautiful too.”

Bellamy laughs and pulls her in for a kiss. Clarke smiles into it. In that moment, she realizes she’ll never tire of kissing him. She’ll never tire of him.

…

After Praimfaya, only a few of each clan remain, but they still insist on living separately (aside from Luna who decides on staying with the Sky People). Sky-landia—the temporary name Clarke and Bellamy have been calling it—is only one of twelve. The other eleven are scattered about the valley.

Sky-landia is the largest, with a population of 73 people, but it’s still relatively small, and as such, its construction has been slow moving.

Clarke hopes to bring everyone together with a celebration of humanity’s survival, but Roan doubts that it’ll work.

“I’m not sure about this gathering,” he says. “The world ending did the opposite of uniting the clans. I think a little separation might do us some good.”

“He has a point, Clarke,” Bellamy says. “There hasn’t been any conflict since before Praimfaya. It would be better not to rock the boat.”

“I don’t see how a gathering with food and moonshine would cause problems.”

“You’d be surprised,” Roan says.

Clarke sighs, exasperated. “Well, I’d rather we try for peace now than wait for a new conflict to arise. If things aren’t resolved, that’s inevitable and you know it.”

“Conflict is inevitable no matter what course of action we take.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Then you’re just being naive,” Roan says, and with that, he turns to walk away.

Clarke glares. “And you’re just being a coward.”

That stops Roan in his tracks.

Bellamy puts a hand on her arm. “Clarke.”

“I know what I’m doing,” she assures him, soft so only he can hear, and then she turns her attention back to Roan, who’s looking at her now with narrowed eyes. Clarke arches an eyebrow at him. “Am I wrong?”

Roan huffs. “Funny how I’m the coward when you’re the one who couldn’t sacrifice one life,” he motions at Bellamy, “to save fifty of your own people.”

Clarke swallows at that. Because he’s right in some ways. She’s done so much for her people, but she’s done more for Bellamy.

You worry about him more, Lexa had said.

She had been the one to pinpoint Clarke’s “weakness” before Clarke herself had been able to.

And then there was her mother under the control of ALIE, wanting to torture Bellamy first.

Start with Bellamy Blake.

Even though she hadn’t needed to make the choice in the end, she knows what she would have done. She’d have saved him over humanity. In a heartbeat. No question. Even if it meant that the rest would die, and possibly herself and Bellamy, for just the chance that he might live—she’d do it.

But she’s learned something since then, and Roan is wrong about one thing. Bellamy is not her weakness but her strength.

“Roan,” Clarke calls after him as he turns to leave.

“What now?” he asks, annoyed. “More genius ideas to stop the violence that’s plagued my people for a hundred years?”

Clarke ignores him. “I’m not a coward for loving someone. When I was forced to murder a boy I loved and pushed people away that cared for me, that made me a coward. When I ran away and isolated myself for months, that made me a coward. But choosing Bellamy over the rest of my people?” Clarke shakes her head. “No. I love him, and that does not make me weak. And I’m not going to let anyone else convince me of that. Least of all you.”

Roan just looks at her, having expected none of that. He opens his mouth, closes it. Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. After a moment, something she says must reach him, but he doesn’t respond directly to anything she just said. “You can have your gathering,” he decides on.

Clarke’s lips part and she nods.

He nods back before leaving.

“That was some speech,” Bellamy says to her then, amused.

Clarke breathes out a laugh. “Come on,” she says, taking his hand in hers. “We should go tell the others.”

…

Sky-landia hosts the gathering on a brisk, chilly night—one that has everyone wrapped in blankets and seated around the fire with cups of Monty and Jasper’s moonshine and various fire-roasted meats.

It’s one of the best decisions Clarke has made, if only for seeing how adorable Bellamy is with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, cheeks and nose red and puffy from the cold.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks her, but he himself is smiling and it even reaches his eyes, something that warms her heart. He’s been through so much, lost his sister, but he still manages to find these moments of happiness.

Her smile widens and she presses a kiss to his cheek. “Just you.”

“Me?”

“Have I ever told you how much I adore you?” she asks then, and it’s probably the cheesiest thing she’s ever said, but she doesn’t care. Not when his heartbeat picks up beneath her fingers and his eyes flutter.

Instead of responding, he brings a hand to her cheek and kisses her softly. When he pulls away, it’s just to rest his forehead against hers. “Have I ever told you how happy you make me?”

Clarke breathes out a laugh at that, kisses him again. The fire is warm, but Bellamy is warmer, and she just wants to be warmer. “Let’s get out of here,” she whispers.

Bellamy looks at her, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Your the host of this gathering, Clarke. We can’t just leave.”

“We won’t be gone long. Five minutes.”

“Which will turn into ten,” Bellamy teases, and Clarke makes a face at him, scrunching up her nose in the adorable way she does, “then fifteen…”

“Shut up,” Clarke says, but there’s no heat in it. Bellamy grins.

“I have to hand it you, Clarke,” a voice cuts into their moment, and Clarke and Bellamy turn to see Roan take a seat across the fire, “no one’s stabbed anyone yet. This gathering might just be what we all needed.”

She shifts so she’s snuggled against Bellamy’s side, his arm thrown around her shoulders to keep her close. “I told you.”

“If things turn out okay, maybe we could make this a monthly celebration. Trading during the day. Food and drinks at night.”

Clarke looks at Bellamy and they share a nod before she returns her attention to Roan. “Sounds like a plan. Bellamy and I have actually been discussing what we should do about governing the land.”

“There is too much rivalry between the clans to have just a single leader,” Bellamy goes on. “We were thinking we’d have a small council instead, with a representative from each clan.”

Roan raises an eyebrow. “There’s an even number of settlements. How would we decide in the event of a tie?”

Bellamy shares a look with Clarke. Should we tell him?

She nods.

Roan is looking at them both, brow furrowed, when Bellamy explains. “When we said that Raven found a way to get us back down to the ground, it wasn’t entirely true.”

“How so?”

“They kinda,” Clarke purses her lips, “stole fuel.” Roan blinks. “From another ship.”

Roan’s eyes widen. “There are more people in space?”

“Yeah, but there’s no need to worry for now,” Bellamy says. “They’re from before the bombs destroyed the world, and they’ve been asleep since then. It’s complicated—you’d have to ask Raven or Monty on the science behind it—but essentially, they haven’t aged a day.”

Clarke has to stifle a laugh at how Roan just looks at them, slack-jawed. “When they wake, we’re sure they’ll come down and want to settle in their own area of the valley. They’ll be the thirteenth member of our council.”

“And if they don’t wake?”

“Raven can hack into the system and wirelessly open the cryo sleep pods.”

“She can do that?”

Clarke and Bellamy nod.

Roan huffs. “You people are insane.”

“Raven is insane,” Bellamy says. “I couldn’t disarm the acid fog in Mount Weather without her help to save my life.”

Clarke looks at him, amused. “Bellamy Blake: nerd in history, not in science.”

His lips twitch with a smile and he kisses her.

Roan clears his throat, rising to his feet. “I’ll leave you guys to...” He shakes his head and walks off.

Clarke hardly even notices him leave.

…

They find Madi a few weeks later.

Things have really started to get up and running when they do. With Monty in charge of food, Raven a water system (and possible shower), and Bellamy the construction of a new settlement, they’re well on their way to building a life here.

Clarke had indirectly gotten Bellamy to take a day off, with the help of Miller who had told everyone not to listen to a word he says.

They had all listened, of course, knowing that Bellamy, more than anyone, is in desperate need of a break. They love him. They really do. But he’s been short with everyone lately, and he just really needs to get away for the day.

He doesn’t agree, but if no one is going to listen to his orders, there’s no point in sticking around. He even tried doing the work himself, but Miller had already anticipated he would, also informing everyone they are not to allow him to help.

Every time he tried to pick anything up—a piece of wood, a tool, anything—it was taken from him.

Fed up, he returned to the makeshift shelter he’s been sharing with Clarke, only to find a note in her place.

Went for a swim. Join me?

— Clarke

Bellamy couldn’t help the smile that broke out across his face.

I should have guessed you put Miller up to this, he’d said to her when he found her, and she’d just laughed.

“Admit it,” Clarke says to him now, in the water, as she brings her hands to either side of his face and wraps her legs around his waist. “You’re happy I got you the day off.”

His hands come to rest on her hips. “Yeah,” he says, brushing his nose against hers just to make her smile. “Yeah, I’d say I’m pretty happy.”

Clarke closes the small distance between them and kisses him, but they both startle when a rustling in the trees reaches their ears.

What was that? Clarke mouths to him.

He shakes his head, brow furrowed in concern. I don’t know.

Slowly, Clarke untangles herself from him and they both make their way up out of the water, drying off before tossing one another their respective clothes and slipping them back on.

Clarke grabs the knife she usually keeps strapped to her hip. “Stay behind me,” she tells Bellamy, and he nods as they venture towards the source of the noise.

Clarke stops suddenly when she sees movement in a bush and holds out one arm to stop Bellamy from going any further, holding the knife in the other hand.

Just then, someone emmerges and Clarke is about to lunge forward and attack, but then—

“She’s just a kid,” Clarke says, eyes wide.

There before them stands a girl who can’t be older than six, and her hair is a mess atop her head, eyes wild like those of an animal.

“She’s not with us. How…?”

“Nightblood,” Clarke says. “She must have been in hiding when the death wave came.”

The girl just eyes them warily during the short exchange, unsure. She’s not running, but that doesn’t mean she won’t.

They expected her to run. What they didn’t expect, however, is that she was going to run towards them. With a scream that sounds nothing short of a battle cry, she starts after them, knife in hand.

Clarke hardly has time to wonder where the hell she got that before she and Bellamy are running. Of all things, she never thought a six year old feral child could be this terrifying, but here she is, practically sprinting. She’d be embarrassed, but Bellamy is just as frightened.

“What the hell is happening?!” he shouts as they weave in and out between the trees.

“I don’t know—!”

Her voice rises into a high pitched scream of surprise when the ground suddenly rises before him, and she swears she hears him yelp.

But she doesn’t stop running.

“Clarke!”

“A little busy at the moment!” she yells back, registering that he just got caught up in a net, but the more pressing matter is that she’s squaring off against a fucking demonic child. She turns her attention back to the kid. “Hey,” she says in trig. “It’s okay. We’re not here to hurt you.” She holds her knife out and goes to place it on the ground. “Look.”

“Clarke, what the hell are you doing?!”

She ignores him.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she repeats. “Now put your blade down and we can talk, okay?”

To Clarke’s surprise, she drops it and actually smiles.

“Bellamy?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s smiling and it’s kinda freaking me out.”

The little girl laughs at that, and it brings a nervous smile to Clarke’s face. “You speak English?”

She nods.

“Great,” Bellamy calls, “now that that’s established, can you maybe let me down?”

Clarke rolls her eyes, fond, before turning back to the girl. “Can you help me get my boyfriend down from there? I promise he’s just as nice as me.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she seems to understand, picking up the knife and walking to the base of the tree where he had been caught.

“Wait.” Clarke runs after her when she raises the blade to the rope that’s holding him up. “There has to be another way—”

She breaks away when the little girl cuts through the rope and Bellamy lands with a thud. Clarke winces and hurries on over to him.

“Hey,” her hands instinctively go to his face, “you okay?”

Dazily, he blinks up at her. “I think so.”

She rises to her feet and holds out a hand to help him up, and he’s a little unsteady on his ankle, so Clarke reaches out to steady him.

“You good?”

“Yeah.” Bellamy winces. “Just need to walk it off.” He turns and meets the young girl’s gaze. “Do you have a name?”

“My name Madi.” Her English is broken when she says it, and Clarke thinks, despite everything that just went down, she might just have the most adorable voice she’s ever heard.

“Madi,” Bellamy repeats.

Clarke just looks at him and smiles. Somehow, she knows this one’s going to become one of their own.

…

“She reminds me of Octavia,” Bellamy says to Clarke one night. They’re by the fire, his arm thrown around her like always, and she follows Bellamy’s gaze to where Madi is “sparring” with Luna. “Only difference is she didn’t have me to screw her up.”

“Hey.” Clarke brings a hand to his cheek, presses her thumb against the muscle working in his jaw. What she became is on her, not you, she wants to say, but she knows Bellamy too well. He won’t believe her, and saying anything that shifts the guilt he feels onto his dead sister will just push him away. That’s the last thing he needs right now. To grieve alone. So, instead, she just presses her forehead to his temple and whispers, “I wish you saw yourself the way I do.” Bellamy’s eyes flutter shut, but he doesn’t say anything to that, so she slides her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck—the way she knows he likes, the way that comforts him when he’s close to falling apart. I love you. She doesn’t say it this time. She doesn’t have to.

He brings a hand to her cheek and kisses her. I love you, too.

…

They hold a funeral for Octavia a week later.

The other lives lost during Praimfaya had already been honored upon the Sky People first settling here, but Bellamy hadn’t been ready.

Even now as he stands at her grave—one without her actual body buried—he’s not ready. Saying goodbye to the person he’s spent his entire life protecting isn’t something he can ever prepare for.

Clarke is at his side while Kane, Abby, Raven and what remain of the 100 stand before them.

Bellamy opens his mouth, closes it, as tears gather in his eyes. He doesn’t know what to say. Whatever he does, it won’t be enough. It won’t bring her back.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can manage, a lone tear at last slipping down his cheek.

Clarke has to look away when her own tears threaten to fall. Tentatively, she places a hand on his back.

Kane steps in. “Would anyone else like to say something?” When no one speaks up, he goes on. “Because I’d like to.”

Miller scoffs.

Everyone turns to him, but he has his eyes on Kane.

Monty reaches out to him. “Nate—”

Miller ignores him. “Now you have something to say?”

Clarke looks between both of them, sees how Kane swallows hard but says nothing.

“Nate,” Monty says again. “Not here.”

Miller still doesn’t look at him, eyes trained on Kane until he turns and storms off. Harper starts to cry.

Clarke’s eyebrows draw together. There’s something she doesn’t know. She turns to Bellamy, and he’s even more closed off than before, shoulders tensed up, that muscle in his jaw working.

Her eyes water further, but she says nothing, and for the rest of the funeral, Bellamy doesn’t look at her, doesn’t say anything.

…

Clarke runs into Miller a few hours later and pulls him aside. “What the hell was that about earlier?”

Miller’s lips part. “You don’t know…”

“No,” Clarke says, crossing her arms over her chest. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

Miller swallows. “He didn’t tell you.”

“Didn’t tell me what?” Clarke asks, exasperated.

“Clarke.” Tears gather in his eyes. “It’s not my place to tell.”

“Miller.”

He sighs. “She beat him.”

“She—she what? When?”

“After Lincoln died.”

Clarke’s eyes water. “The cuts and scrapes he had on his face…” Miller nods, and Clarke brings a hand over her mouth, her stomach twisting into knots. “Oh my god.”

“I tried—” Miller’s voice breaks. “I tried to stop it, put myself between them, but she just went after me instead. She wouldn’t stop. And Kane—” Something in Miller’s eyes hardens, goes cold and angry and betrayed. “Kane hardly said anything. Bellamy said it was okay, so he just stood there and watched. And yeah, I know that Bellamy aided in the grounder attack, and I disagreed with him every step of the way, but those people weren’t innocent and he thought they were going to hurt us. He was scared and trying to protect us. The very second Pike sentenced Kane, Lincoln and Sinclair to die, Bellamy turned on him. He wanted to save them, but Octavia didn’t let him. She drugged him and chained him up and then beat him when Lincoln died, and Kane just let it fucking happen. He even had the nerve to call him the enemy and then allow Octavia to use him as a fucking bargaining chip for Monty. I shouldn’t be telling you this, and I shouldn’t have snapped at Kane yesterday. That wasn’t fair to Bellamy, but everyone feeling sorry for her isn’t either. She treated him like shit and she deserved everything she got. Bellamy didn’t.”

By the time Miller is done, he’s fuming, but Clarke has just been reduced to tears. She knew that Octavia blamed him, that Kane did too, but she didn’t know all of that—how Bellamy’s own sister beat him for something he had no control over and how the man he saw as a father figure just didn’t give a shit.

And all Clarke can think is how shitty of a friend she’d been. If she hadn’t still been running away, she could have been there. She could have helped Miller stop it.

Clarke shakes her head, huffing out a watery breath of air. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

…

That evening, Bellamy doesn’t come back from work, and Clarke knows exactly where he’ll be.

She finds him there, on the roof of the cabin he’s been building for the two of them, feet dangling off the edge from where he sits as he watches the sun go down for the day.

Clarke starts up the ladder and joins him at his side. She doesn’t say anything and neither does he, but he won’t look at her either. Clarke studies his side profile, and her bottom lip trembles when she sees a faded scar just beneath his right eye. She only hesitates a moment before reaching out to him, slowly, but still, he flinches, and Clarke’s eyes widen as she instantly retracts her hand.

Bellamy looks at her now, but her gaze is averted, trained on her hands, and she’s fidgeting with them as if she’d burned him. A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Someone told you.”

Clarke nods. She’s not looking at him, but she can feel his gaze on her. “Miller.” Bellamy breathes out sharply from his nose, conflicted. At last, Clarke looks at him once again, but he looks away when she tries to meet his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It wasn’t about you.”

“That’s not—” Clarke swallows. “Bellamy, I could have done something.”

Bellamy finds her eyes, eyebrow raised as he shrugs weakly. “And what would you have done?”

“Tell her to stay the hell away from you.”

“Clarke.”

“I mean it, Bell. What she did to you is fucked up. You didn’t deserve it.” She falters. “But that’s...that’s why you didn’t tell me. You thought you deserved it and you knew I’d try to convince you otherwise.” He looks away, tear slipping down his cheek. “Bellamy…” She reaches out to him instinctively, without thinking, and he flinches away again. Clarke’s eyes widen. “Shit, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” he says, reaching for her hand as he takes in a shaky breath. “It’s not you.”

Clarke’s lips part as he takes it in her own, and she can’t look away from their hands as tears start to slip down her cheeks and her face crumbles. “I should have been there for you.”

“Clarke…”

“None of this would have happened if I had just been there, Bellamy.”

He shakes his head. “Everything that’s gone wrong is because of me,” he says, gaze faraway. “That’s what she said to me when we first got to the ground, and she was right.” His voice cracks. “I ruin everything I touch.”

“No,” Clarke says instantly, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “Bellamy, you carry people. You carry me.” He shuts his eyes. “When I said I didn’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here, I meant it.” Clarke pauses a moment, squeezes his hand. “Look at me. Please.” He does, lips pursed to keep them from trembling. “You matter,” she says. “You matter to so many people, and nothing that she said or did to you changes that. I know you don’t believe me, not now, and that’s okay, but the people who have treated you terribly and the people who have allowed that to happen do not get to decide who you are.” Bellamy sniffles. “You do. You have people who love you so much, Bell, and that’s what matters.”

“You through?” he manages after a moment, weak amusement in his voice despite everything.

Clarke almost smiles. Of course he would find a way to make a joke about this. “Yeah,” she says, rubbing her thumb across the back of his hand. “For now at least.” He huffs out a tired breath and looks away. “I’m not going anywhere, Bellamy. As long as you’ll have me.”

That draws his eyes back to hers. He sighs. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He nods.

Clarke’s heart swells with hope. “Okay.”

…

Madi isn’t like Octavia at all, Clarke realizes one day. She was raised in isolation, raised in a world of violence, but since staying with them, she has calmed down.

Even though meeting her hadn’t been a walk in the park, Madi hadn’t known Clarke and Bellamy, and now that she does, she hasn’t attacked anyone since. She’s lost so many people—everyone she ever knew—but that didn’t stop her from finding a new home with the Sky People. She doesn’t push people away who care about her; she welcomes the attention.

At first, she’d been shy, only hanging around Clarke and Bellamy and not saying much, but one day she just began talking. Before Clarke knew it, she was having relatively long conversations with her, considering her young age and how english clearly isn’t her first language. Bellamy noticed the change too. A few days later, they saw her with Luna, and now they have regular sessions where she teaches her the more peaceful ways of grounder life and how to protect herself. Emori has become a steady part of Madi’s life too.

The entire camp, really, just loves her—especially Bellamy, and Clarke’s heart melts every time she sees them together. Part of her aches too. Because he’s just so good with her, and he doesn’t see it.

But maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to, Clarke hopes. Maybe this young girl and his growing relationship with her can be what heals him.

“And then what happened?” Madi asks Bellamy then, drawing Clarke out of her thoughts.

Her gaze drifts across the fire, where the two of them are sitting. Madi is staring at him, eyes wide with curiosity and anticipation, and Bellamy just looks so happy. There’s only one thing that makes him so. Clarke’s lips twitch with a smile when she realizes he’s telling Madi one of his favorite greek mythology myths. A surge of affection for him rushes through her. Nerd.

Bellamy goes on with the story, and Clarke just watches them, not wanting to intrude in on the moment, but at one point, he catches Clarke’s gaze and gives her a soft, closed-lip smile.

She gives him one back. I love you, she mouths to him.

Adoration for her glints in his eyes. I love you too, he mouths back, and in that moment, Clarke knows without a doubt that he’ll make it through this. That they will. The three of them.

Together.