#who is a bell ringing like an echo through the past halls of her life

[madamescarlette]

OK SO. this is an album about love, and that means so much to me!!!

[queenshelby]

Auctioned (P. 2)

Pairing: Dark!Thomas Shelby x Virgin!Reader/OC

Warning: Darkish Themes, Prostitution, Smut, Eventual Loss of Virginity, Dubious Consent, Corruption, Destructive Behavior, Massive Age Gap

Notes: Damn, I had this in my drafts for a while but could not publish it as I was a little afraid about how it would be perceived. Also this is the first time I used an OC, so be gentle with me.

You arrived at Arrow House, Thomas Shelby's imposing mansion in Birmingham. The grandeur of the estate was incomparable, but it did little to quell the knot of unease in your stomach. As you stepped out of the car, your heart thudded in your chest, and you couldn't help but wonder what awaited you inside.

At the entrance, you were met by Frances, Thomas Shelby's trusted maid. Clad in a crisp uniform, she greeted you with a polite smile and led you through the ornate halls. Her footsteps echoed on the marble floors, heightening your sense of apprehension.

Frances paused before a lavish door and turned to face you.

"This will be your room," she informed you, her voice gentle.

"Mr. Shelby insists on providing for his...acquisitions. You'll find everything you need inside” she told you quietly as she opened the door, revealing a room that was both opulent and suffocatingly extravagant. Velvet drapes adorned the windows, and a massive four-poster bed dominated the space, its dark wood glinting in the soft lamplight. You couldn't help but feel like it was a gilded cage.

“Acquisitions?” you asked. “Is there more than one of us?” you queried, causing Frances to nod.

“Yes, ma’am. A woman named Alison was acquired by Mr Shelby several months ago, and after her contract was finished, she decided to stay at her own volition. I believe that she receives a generous salary for her services and, no doubt, come tomorrow, you will meet her,” Frances explained, and you mumbled out a polite “thank you” in response.

Despite Frances’s reassurances, you still struggled to shake off the gnawing worry that had settled in your mind. What did Thomas Shelby have planned for you?

"If you need anything, anything at all, Mr. Shelby has instructed me to assist you. Just ring the bell, and I'll be with you,” Frances said, her eyes filled with silent sympathy, and, with that, she left you to your own devices, closing the door behind her. You were finally alone in this unfamiliar territory, surrounded by the ghosts of the past and the uncertainty of the future.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you stared down at your hands, fidgeting nervously. You had become Thomas Shelby's possession, a mere object to satisfy his desires. It wasn't fair, but then again, when had life ever been fair? You had agreed to this and needed the money.

***

Minutes turned into hours, and you tried to distract yourself from the ominous silence of the room. You wandered to the window, peering out at the moonlit grounds and the distant city lights. The world outside seemed to be carrying on as if nothing had changed, oblivious to the turmoil within you.

Just as you were about to resign yourself to the loneliness of the night, there was a knock on the door, startling you. The sound shattered the silence, and you couldn't help but feel a mix of relief and trepidation.

You made your way to the door, your palms clammy and your heart pounding in your chest. You took a deep breath and mustered up the courage to turn the handle.

To your surprise, it was Frances again, her eyes searching your face for any hint of distress. "Mr. Shelby wishes to see you in his study," she said, her voice almost a whisper.

You nodded, your voice failing you once again. As you followed Alison through the sprawling halls of Arrow House, you couldn't help but feel like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Every step brought you closer to this dangerous man, Thomas Shelby who, until now, had barely spoken a word to you.

Finally, you arrived at a massive oak door. Frances knocked and, without waiting for an invitation, pushed it open. The scent of whiskey and cigars wafted out, mingling with the faint glow of a roaring fire.

"Come in,” a commanding voice beckoned from within. Taking a deep breath, you stepped inside, your apprehension reaching new heights.

Thomas Shelby sat behind a grand mahogany desk, his piercing blue eyes capturing your gaze as you entered. He was every bit as intimidating as the rumours suggested, his presence filling the room with an air of danger and authority.

"Close the door, Love," Thomas Shelby ordered, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. You did as you were told, desperately trying to remain composed under his intense scrutiny.

"Come, sit," he directed, pointing to an intricately carved armchair opposite his desk. You complied, taking a seat, your hands trembling ever so slightly.

"I trust you're settling in well," Thomas said, his voice smooth yet laced with a hint of danger. It sent shivers down your spine as if he could read the thoughts racing through your mind.

You nodded, your voice barely audible. It was almost impossible to look away from him, his eyes captivating you like a predator eyeing its prey.

"Good," Thomas replied, leaning back in his chair, his gaze intensifying. "Now,” he paused, inhaling the smoke from his cigarette. “I will allow you to become accustomed to your new surroundings tonight, and your services won’t be needed as yet. However, I do consider it timely to lay out some ground rules for you.” Thomas told you sternly before continuing on.

“You are my possession, and as such, I expect no other man to touch you while you are here, living in my house,” Thomas said, and your heart quickened at his words, the weight of his dominance bearing down on you. The realisation of what you had gotten yourself into finally started to sink in.

"I don't expect you to love me, and I will never be able to love you," Thomas continued, his voice steady. "Your sole purpose here is to provide me with pleasure, nothing more. Do you understand?" he asked, and you nodded once again, a knot forming in your throat. It was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that this was only a transactional exchange of desire.

“I also expect you not to touch yourself intimately unless I permit you to do so. Understood?” Thomas asked as a smug smile tugged at the corner of Thomas Shelby's lips.

“Yes Mr Shelby” you responded obediently

"Good. We understand each other, then. Now, Love, tell me, why did you agree to this fucking auction, eh?” Thomas asked, causing you to swallow harshly.

Stumbling over your words, you told him about the poverty you experienced ever since you were a child. The sound of your voice was barely audible in the tense atmosphere. Thomas Shelby's eyes traced your face as if committing it to memory.

“The things we do for money, eh?” Tommy chuckled before telling you again that you were his now.

“Your my fucking property now, Love and poverty is not something you have to worry about again,” Thomas then stated, his voice low and possessive.

You gulped, your throat dry and your mind racing. The weight of his dominance bore down on you, leaving you little room to escape the clutches of his desires.

"Y-yes, Mr Shelby," you stammered, your voice trembling. Thomas Shelby's smirk widened, no doubt pleased with your acquiescence.

"Very well then," he said, rising from his chair and moving closer to you. "If you remember your place and serve me well, I will ensure that you are looked after, eh,” he told you, caressing your face possessively.

His words hung in the air, heavy with the promise of things to come. You couldn't help but shiver, a mix of anticipation and apprehension coursing through your veins.

"Do you have any questions?" Thomas finally asked, his voice lowering to a seductive whisper. You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you should speak your mind, but the curiosity got the better of you.

"Will, will you...hurt me?" you managed to say, your voice barely audible. The vulnerability in your question laid bare the fear that had been gnawing at your insides.

“Will I hurt you?” Thomas chuckled, repeating your question. His eyes softened for a moment, and in that fleeting instant, you caught a glimpse of something buried beneath his rough exterior. "I will never hurt you, Love," he replied, his voice surprisingly gentle. "You are mine to protect, not to hurt, unless, of course, you give me a reason to," Thomas confirmed and immediately, a wave of relief washed over you, a glimmer of trust forming where there had only been fear. Perhaps there was more to Thomas Shelby than met the eye.

Thomas Shelby took a step closer, the air thick with tension. "That will be all for tonight Y/N," he said, his voice reverberating through your core. "There are other matters I must attend to” he then said, and the finality in his words left you with no choice but to obey. You were in his world now, stripped of your innocence and thrust into a world of raw desire. And Thomas Shelby was the man who held all the power.

"Alison," Thomas called before you had a chance to leave. There was a hint of impatience in his voice as he noticed someone outside his office, spying. Within moments, another woman appeared at the door, her eyes avoiding any lingering eye contact with you at first. She must have been outside his office all along, listening to your conversation.

"Yes, Mr Shelby?" she replied, her voice respectful yet tinged with apprehension.

“Spying, are we?” Thomas smirked before changing the subject. “Come and meet our new acquaintance. Her name is Y/N, and I trust you will show her the ropes, eh?” Thomas said as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving you.

“So, may I assume she is not a maid then?” Alison ought to clarify, and Thomas nodded.

“She is not a maid, Alison. In fact, she is not a whore either. She is a virgin… for now at least,” Thomas smirked, and the knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach as he spoke.

“Really?” Allison asked, surprised, and you nodded nervously.

“Really,’ Thomas confirmed, both looking at you as if you were nothing but a piece of meat.

“Now, Alison here is quite experienced herself. She worked at one of the local brothels for a while, and I offered her an opportunity to work for me here at Arrow House. Just like I offered your sister this very same opportunity, but unfortunately for her, she declined. It was a lucrative offer, but she decided she could not and would not satisfy my needs. Alison, on the other hand, did well in my possession, and I believe in her ability to ensure that you will do equally well for me” Thomas explained, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and dominance as he spoke these words.

“When do you anticipate her to be ready for the main event, sir…” Allison began to say and before she could even finish her sentence, Thomas spoke.

“By weeks’ end. Although, I am hoping to have a little fun with her tomorrow,” Thomas smirked and again, the weight of his words hung in the air, and an internal struggle ensued within you.

“Fun? What kind of fun?” you asked worryingly before, in a daring move, letting your eyes roam freely over Thomas's muscular form, his sharp jawline, and the dangerous allure he emanated. The silence stretched between you, charged with a mix of apprehension and intrigue.

“Perhaps actions speak louder than words, wouldn’t you agree, Alison?” Thomas asked as a self-assured smugness played at the corner of his lips.

“Yes, Mr Shelby. Perhaps I should demonstrate what you may expect her to do,” Alison agreed, knowing exactly what Thomas was referring to as you sat there still, frozen to the spot.

You let out an audible gulp, torn between the fear of what this new role entailed and the forbidden allure that Thomas presented.

“Perhaps you should,” Thomas smirked as he leaned forward, his intense gaze searing into your soul before, eventually, he turned towards Allison.

The mixture of arousal and apprehension coursed through your veins as, without warning, he drew Allison in for a kiss before pulling her back gently, making her moan in discomfort.

 As Allison's lips met his, you couldn't tear your eyes away. The sight of them locked in a passionate embrace sent a wave of heat through your body, mingled with a hint of jealousy.

Thomas pulled away, his eyes never leaving yours. “On your knees, Love,” he ordered his voice a dangerous undertone as he looked over at you with determination.

"Observe," he commanded, his voice dripping with arrogance.

Your face reddened as you tried to mentally prepare yourself for what was to come. This was a whole new world to you, and your inexperience made you feel even more vulnerable.

Allison stepped back, her eyes still locked with yours, as she gracefully lowered herself to her knees in front of Thomas.

Your eyes widened, and uncertainty filled your mind. You couldn't tear your gaze away as Allison's nimble fingers began to undo Thomas's belt.

“Oh god,” were the words that escaped you, as eventually, Alison freed Thomas’s now hardening length and Thomas looked down at her, a certain arrogance in his gaze.

"Take note Love," Thomas said, his voice carrying a hint of danger, "this is what I expect from you," he told you before glancing at Alison again.

“Use your mouth, Allison," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Your cheeks flushed as Allison obeyed, taking Thomas into her mouth. The moan that escaped his lips made an electric jolt shoot through your body.

You couldn't help but feel a mix of delight and intimidation. This was what Thomas expected, what he desired. And now, it was your turn to learn.

Your breath hitched as you watched Allison's lips trail down Thomas's length, her tongue exploring every inch.

The room grew hotter with unspoken desires as Thomas's fingers threaded through Allison's hair, guiding her movements, forcing her to take him in all the way to the back of her throat.

A mixture of embarrassment, arousal, and fear washed over you as you imagined yourself in Allison's place. Could you ever live up to Thomas's expectations?

Thomas's gaze never wavered from yours, his piercing eyes delving deep into your soul. He knew the effect he had on you, the power he held over your every thought.

"Do you understand Love?" he asked, his voice laced with a mixture of authority and satisfaction.

You nodded, unable to form coherent words as your own desires swirled within you.

Allison continued her intimate ministrations, her eyes meeting yours as if giving you a silent challenge. A challenge to surpass her, to prove your worth to Thomas.

But then, suddenly, Thomas withdrew, leaving Allison momentarily bewildered.

“Come,” he ordered, clearly wanting you to take Alison’s place and, immediately, wild thoughts raced through your mind, a battle between fear and desire.

“You said tomorrow…do you want me…” you stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"I changed my mind Love, and I do not take no for an answer," he said, his voice a low warning. “Now come,” he said again and you complied and walked over towards where he was standing, with Alison still stroking his length, causing a clear fluid to pool on his tip.

Thomas watched you intently, his eyes searching for any sign of weakness. He wanted to see if you had the strength to meet his demands. He was testing you and then, you took up all the courage you had and leaned in, your lips capturing Thomas's in a hesitant kiss while Alison continued to stroke him.

It was unlike anything you had ever experienced before. Thomas's kiss was demanding, his lips moulding against yours with an intensity that left you breathless. There was an undeniable chemistry between you. As your lips parted, Thomas's eyes bore into yours, searching for any hint of uncertainty.

"On your knees," he commanded, his voice demanding and assertive and, immediately, panic surged through your veins as you realised what he was asking of you. You hesitated, unsure if you could comply.

Thomas's patience wore thin. "Now," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Slowly, you dropped to your knees, heart pounding in your chest. You had never been so exposed, vulnerable to his every desire.

Allison moved aside, allowing you to take her place entirely. The intensity of his gaze made your breath catch in your throat.

He reached down, his fingers gently lifting your chin to meet his gaze. His touch sent an electric jolt through your body.

"You see, Love," he whispered, his breath grazing against your lips, "I enjoy pushing boundaries, testing limits."

His words hung in the air, the weight of his expectations heavy upon your shoulders. You couldn't deny the allure, the thrill that coursed through your veins.

Bracing yourself, you tentatively leaned forward, your lips hovering just inches from Thomas's length.

“Now prove to me that you can satisfy my needs," he said, his voice a commanding whisper.

Your heart raced as you met Thomas's gaze head-on. Without uttering a word, you nodded and wrapped your hand around Thomas's hardness, your touch tentative but loaded with promise. You were determined to give him everything he desired.

A low groan escaped Thomas's lips as you began to stroke him, your movements growing bolder with each passing second. You were finding your rhythm.

The dominance that radiated from Thomas only fueled your desire to please him. With every whimper and gasp that fell from his mouth, your confidence grew.

Thomas's fingers entangled themselves in your hair, gently guiding your head closer to him. He wanted to feel your mouth, your tongue, worshipping him.

Taking the hint, you parted your lips and eagerly took Thomas into your mouth. The taste of him, the way he filled you, sent bolts of pleasure through your senses.

“That’s it, Love,” Thomas groaned as your head bobbed up and down, steadily building a rhythm that mirrored the waves of desire coursing through both of you. You were entirely focused on his pleasure.

The sounds of your shared passion filled the air, mingling with Thomas's ragged breaths and the wet, lewd noises of your mouth on him.

Thomas's grip on your hair tightened, his hips moving in time with your ministrations. He was close, a tight coil of pleasure building within him.

You gagged several times. It was unavoidable, and even with drool and make-up covering your face disproportionately, Thomas clearly enjoyed watching what you as he forced your head down his shaft.

“I am close, Love,” he eventually announced, but you had no idea what this meant. He was close? To what?

“I expect you to swallow. So, don’t make a fucking mess, eh” Thomas then growled, confusing you even more as his release was imminent.

All you knew by this point was that he felt pleasure, and the knowledge that you were the one driving him to this edge sent a surge of pride through you.

As Thomas's climax finally washed over him, you felt his shaft pulsating. His movements stilled, and he pushed his length into the back of your throat.

A warm, thick and somewhat sweet liquid then filled your mouth, hitting the back of your throat like a violent torrent, spurt after spurt, and you remembered what he said so you instinctively swallowed. You had set out to satisfy him, and you had succeeded.

Panting heavily, Thomas slowly released his hold on your hair. His gaze, filled with a mixture of satisfaction and admiration, locked onto yours.

"You have exceeded my expectations, Love, but you still have much to learn," he said, his voice laden with awe, and it was at that moment that you realised Thomas Shelby was more than just dominant and dangerous; he was flawed, vulnerable, and seeking solace in the very depths of your touch.

[illyaoakheart]

There is a stir in the flower-scented walls of Highgarden. The morning air is crisp, and dewy.  But there is a boy who disturbs the tranquil peace — his face is flush as a red rose, a smile dimpling his cheeks and sparkling his eyes. His breath comes in fast pants as he tears through the gilded halls, feet slapping against marble. His heart races, and joy bursts from his lungs. “Ring the bells,” he cries, his voice elated, “ring the bells!” 

Servants, pages, guards, and nobles alike lean out of rooms and parlors, eyebrows raising. They stop their breakfasts, their work to ponder the scene. Whispers begin — what has stirred him to such excitement? Such exhilaration? The halls fill with more and more as he races by, arms waving back and forth. “Ring the bells!” 

“What is it, boy?” A lord asks, stepping into his path to stop his celebratory laps through the castle. The boy’s grin is wide, but he darts around him, still shouting. 

The boy turns around, running backwards, to call back to the perplexed crowd that gathers. “Ring the bells! Her Grace is expecting,” he turns away, and his shout is laughter filled as it echoes behind him. “King Cedric’s heir is on his way!”

It does not take long for the ringing to start — from Highgarden to Oldtown, from Oldoak to Brightwater Keep, bells and heralds begin to repeat the boy’s cries of joy. By the time the sun peaks in the noon sky, a Royal Proclamation has been read to a crowd amassed in the main courtyard of the castle: 

The Royal House Tyrell is pleased to announce that Her Majesty, Queen Illya and His Majesty Cedric Tyrell, King of the Reach, are expecting their first child. Like the blooming of a rare and wondrous flower, this pregnancy is a gift of joy and anticipation for The Reach. The union between His and Her Majesty — whose happiness was sealed just a short time ago — has now been blessed with the promise of new life. Just as the Reach is renowned for nurturing the most splendid gardens and flourishing fields, let the realm pray to The Mother that the pregnancy of Her Grace be blessed with health, happiness, and an abundance of love.

THE ROSES OF HOUSE TYRELL CONTINUE TO BLOOM, GROWING STRONG.

@visxionaries

( ooc: Illya has been pregnant for some time now, having conceived with Cedric in the first few weeks of their marriage. Lucrezia was the first to know. After, Illya kept the news from Cedric until she was absolutely sure — until she knew she could no longer hide the beginnings of the changes in her body from him. Illya finally shared the news with her husband during one of their nightly dinners. After, the Queen and King kept the pregnancy between themselves and those closest to them until Illya was past the time for concern, and the swell of her stomach can no longer be concealed. Illya’s quickness in becoming pregnant has been said to be a blessing, the gods rewarding the Thorn King’s victory in a bloody civil war. IC, Illya will give birth only a few months after Lucrezia and Omer’s first, and OOC baby Tyrell goes live in November! )

[iironwreath]

Danger [Orla]

[cw: runs concurrent with cadiana's 'wounded', so wow can you believe it, more war and gore]

At first, the silverware rattled. Then, a series of crunches. The windows shattered in a hailstorm of glass and the ceiling burst inward like a puncture wound. There was another wrench as the dining table caved in the middle; a draconic figure rose from a crouch amid the splinters and broken ceramics. A dozen more flooded in through the damage and poured down the stairs. They wore masks that resembled stars, pointed in five directions, but each a different colour. They belonged to Tiamat.

Krusk’s blade was longer than Orla was tall. It started carving through the cultists like they were soft fruit. Pulpy gouts of blood—not just red, but black and green and blue—painted the furniture, stained the artwork, and spattered their breakfast. 

It was nothing like when Krusk trained Ragnar. There was a fury in his eyes that could’ve stopped the heart of a dragon. The cultists flung themselves at him with reckless abandon, having no regard for their lives.

Bryn threw punches and kicks that caved in skulls and broke bones so hard they split skin, his knuckles coming away coated in blood. They both struck to kill, and they did it with ease.

Ada grabbed Orla by her arms—she was on the floor, dazed, her ears ringing, but the touch snapped her back to reality. Her skin stung with thin cuts, she had a skid mark on her elbow, and she might have had a burn somewhere, but her scales had absorbed the worst of it. Ada hauled her to her feet and sprinted with her towards the stairs by her hand. Shrieks echoed down from the floor above. Bryn covered their backs, shouting at the staff to move.

They funnelled into the basement. Two of them were unaccounted for and nobody was unmarked, all of them bearing a unique constellation of nicks and burns. The fight reached the top of the stairwell, but it was a choke point; in less than a minute the cultists inside the house were dropped bodies. The sounds of a bigger battle bled in from beyond the manor, bells and horns and the war cries of combat. 

The folks at Brambleview had taught Orla about the tunnel connecting them to the Underwalk Ward early on in case of emergencies. Despite knowing who the Gilded Thorns were, she never expected to use it. Ada and Bryn shepherded them onto the path that cut past the bathing pools. Krusk took up the rear, sword still drawn, dripping blood like a red pebble trail in their wake. Ada led Orla along by the hand and Ragnar held Ada’s ahead of her, creating a short chain—she hadn’t let go since they’d escaped the dining hall.

Normally the basement was pleasantly cool and damp, filled with the comforting steam of the springs. Today it was dry, with heat emanating from above. The steam resembled smoke and the torches fit into the walls were like baleful eyes staring out of the darkness. Orla had never been this far or properly explored Westruun’s nether world before, and part of her regretted that; now her introduction was tinted by a life or death scenario. 

They passed the wine cellar beneath Palebloom Hall. Ahead of them, the voices of the Maallinen’s drifted down the passage. Bryn called to them, and they joined up, creating a small herd. 

“Strength in numbers,” Orla said to no-one, but more like a prayer than a statement.  

“Krusk, Bryn, and Kishore count for more than three,” Ada replied. Orla squeezed her hand.

The Maallinen’s explained that the attack went beyond Brambleview. The cultists had young dragons and drakes and experimental monsters—a whole army. Orla chewed on a knuckle.

What sounded like thunder rumbled above, occasionally snowing dirt down on their heads. Sucking in shallow, pinched breaths, she strained her ears, competing with the rush of blood. Her imagination went wild with the muted sounds: were those screams? A stampede of dragons or civilians? Fire devouring the buildings? Fire was loud.

The cultists and dragons had scales like hers, like Elspeth's, like any dragonborn. Her magic couldn’t do anything more than nettle them. She didn’t need proof of that to know that she didn’t belong on the surface. 

The tunnel joined the Underwalk Ward proper. Orla stumbled against the current of people; they frothed with fear and alarm, knocking into her back and side to side as they searched for friends and relatives—but Ada had a grip like steel and stopped her from being carried away. She was probably used to holding onto Ragnar. Orla refused to believe all of his strength came from Krusk.

People were dragging in bodies—some dead, others badly injured. Healers were clearing space for cots and gurneys to ferry them to the Temple District. Orla averted her eyes. Before today, she’d never seen the dead before.  

Kishore mentioned the Thorns arriving—Krusk added needing to go to the center of the city. Word of the Gilded Thorns spread among the crowd, and with it, cries of hope and relief.

Orla held a hand to her chest, equal parts terrified for them, herself, and everyone around her. The Thorns were back, but that meant they were in danger. The Thorns couldn't take on an entire army, could they?

Ada tugged her back into the Brambleview tunnel, out of the immediate crowd, and sat her down on a curb. Krusk kissed his wife, pat Ragnar on the head, and left with Bryn and Kishore. Without Ada’s hand, Orla hugged her knees to her chest and caught her breath.

When Orla had been undergoing treatment, Iona would sit on the bed with Orla’s head in her lap, run her nails through her scalp, and hum. Her mother had washed and braided her hair, played cards with her when she could sit up. Eireann had even stopped by, adding flowers to the room and tickling her until she cried with laughter. She desperately wanted them there, even if Eireann and Iona also would’ve thrown themselves into the fray. Iona would’ve been with the Thorns, loosing arrows into the skyborn beasts while Eireann tended the wounded with her magic. 

Orla had been in danger when she was ill, had been on and off her whole life, but this was new. Her magical entropy had come from within, something she’d passively absorbed from the environment. The Cult of Tiamat came from outside. It was out of her hands, out of her control. 

She had never wanted to die by her sickness, but she had always understood that it was a possibility, and in that, she had accepted it. She’d forgotten that she could die any other way up until then, that the stories of the Gilded Thorns weren’t just stories, but their lives.  

Her fear made her ashamed, but she tried to stifle it. She never would have shamed anyone in the Thorns for being afraid, and she had to extend that courtesy to herself. She was a civilian, not a hero. 

She focused on breathing and settled into her magic, reaching for it just to make sure it was there.

[blackestnight]

17: pensée

Prompt: Novel

Word count: 1295

Took the excuse to write the last half of a fic that had been languishing in my drafts for a while; borrows from The Martian Chronicles, because I have a lot of thoughts and opinions about Eorzean novelists creating a ‘classic sci-fi’ genre after Stormblood. (Also, I’d like to take this opportunity to mention that Blake Ritson, Aymeric’s English VA, does radio plays, including a production of War of the Worlds.)

The quiet that suffused the sitting room was the comfortable sort, well-settled as an old house’s foundations and warmed by the gentle crackling of the logs in the fireplace. Occasionally a board creaked or the wind blowing past the windowpanes produced a faint whistling sound, and the bell atop the Athenaeum tolled each hour, but otherwise the only sound came from the hearth and the odd rustling of paper when Aymeric turned a page.

The floors groaned a gentle herald from the hall, and the door’s hinges echoed their greeting. He found himself pleasantly startled when Hanami stepped in, her shoulder braced against the doorjamb. The light from the windows painted long squares of misty gold over her sweater and he realized with a faint elation that despite the bells announcing the time, he had been too at ease with his novel and the lazy afternoon to pay attention, and he had no idea what the time was.

“Welcome home,” he said, his voice unexpectedly rusty from disuse. He allowed the book to fall shut with his thumb tucked against the spine in place of a bookmark. “How was your adventure?”

Maybe a generous term for one of her more routine trips—or as routine as her life ever was—but it elicited an amused huff, so he counted it as a victory. “Fine,” she said, a low enough murmur not to disturb the peace drawn over the room. “Long. ‘M tired.”

She looked it, as she picked her cautious way around the furniture to reach him where he was sprawled on the chaise: there were thin lines of tension at the corners of her eyes, a certain ashen look to her skin, but she walked easily and reached for him without hesitation; he held his arms out in kind and she clambered down to claim the narrow space between himself and the cushioned back of the chaise, hooking one knee between his and pressing her temple to his collarbone. It was an easy thing to drape his arm over her and rest his hands at the base of her spine; while the book yet occupied one, the other remained free to rub a line up the muscles of her back. “Is there aught I can do for you?” he asked: best not to dance around a subject with her, when she was so obviously tired.

At first he thought she meant to shake her head no, but she only shifted to turn sideways and rest her horn on his chest. He couldn’t feel the metal of her prosthesis through the thick wool of his clothes, for which he was grateful; he could only imagine that it was freezing. “What are you reading?” she asked. Her eyes were barely open, little trickles of light from her limbal rings seeming to pool on the fabric of his shirt.

He tipped the book to bring the cover into her sightline: a thin paperback sporting black-and-silver humanoids on the cover, who appeared to be doing battle with a ragtag group of hyurs and brandishing weapons made of condensed light. It was a loan from Lucia, whom Aymeric was nearly sure had borrowed it from Lord Stephanivien initially; the story was a ‘war novel’ featuring mechanical invaders obviously based on secondhand retellings of Omega’s appearance over Gyr Abania—and a thinly-veiled critique of the conquest of the beast tribes’ lands by the Eorzean city-states. At least it was interesting, even as a vehicle for political metaphor.

“I have yet to decide if you would enjoy it or despise it,” he told her, because in the end that was what she meant.

He still remembered the sharp, breathless panic that had overtaken the city when Hraesvelgr had taken wing, screaming a path along Abalathia’s Spine headed for Gyr Abania—the phrase like a dragon from the seventh hell had yet to fall out of common use as a euphemism for unseemly haste, but Aymeric had truly never seen such a massive creature move so swiftly, and the sight of the great wyrm flying with such single-minded purpose had awakened no small number of unsettling memories. Even once Hraesvelgr had returned to his roost at Zenith, winding back across Coerthas at a much more sedate pace, Aymeric’s fear had only been inflamed by the news trickling back into Ishgard, first through Vidofnir and then the Ironworks: that Hraesvelgr had been summoned in a last-ditch effort to rescue Hanami from the machinations of Omega, plucking her and Cid from the jaws of oblivion. That she had prevailed, only to come so close to being lost regardless, was a terrifying enough thought. And whatever else had happened in that rift beyond worlds had left her melancholy and quiet whenever she was reminded of it.

Hanami shifted, her arms slipping under his in a cramped embrace until she could hook her fingers in the hem of his sweater. “Read it to me?” she asked.

With her laying on his chest it would be too awkward of a stretch to press a kiss to her hair, as he wished to; he settled for running his fingers through the longer strands at the back of her neck and then massaging the stiff muscles along her spine. She sighed and relaxed minutely, her eyes falling completely shut.

He did have an actual bookmark, and had to use both hands to pull it from its place between the back cover and the endpaper to take the place of his thumb, but with that done it was easy enough to let the pages fall back to the beginning and return his hand to Hanami’s neck.

“They had a house of crystal pillars by the edge of an empty sea,” he read, “and every morning you could see a woman eating the golden fruits that grew from the crystal walls, or cleaning the house with handfuls of magnetic dust which, taking all the dirt with it, blew away on the hot wind. Afternoons, when the fossil sea was warm and motionless and the wine trees stood stiff in the yard, you could see a man in his room, reading from a metal book with raised glyphs over which he brushed his hand, as one might play a harp…”

Under his hand and over his ribs he could feel Hanami relaxing by degrees, tilting her head to press her horn more firmly against him even while her breaths slowed. He doubted that she’d last long enough even to hear the end of the chapter, but that was alright; he had a second bookmark folded alongside the first which would mark the place where she had dozed off, so it would be easy to find his place the next time she wished to listen.

She had told him once, a very long time ago, that the Echo—that wondrous curse of hers—could not translate written words; it was why she struggled with all but the most elementary level of Eorzean or Ishgardian reading despite seeming perfectly fluent otherwise. The selfsame gift that allowed her to speak freely made it nearly impossible to receive instruction on reading or writing, and it didn’t help that neither language shared a writing system with her mother tongue. But when she could hear something—have it read to her—she understood clearly.

This simple service of filtering stories through his own voice was one he was happy to perform; he did not consider the time spent in recitation a cost, as he enjoyed it too much, but even if it was the bounty he received in return was well worth it: seeing her relaxed and focused in equal measure (when she was less exhausted), lounging on the sofa or on their bed and occupied with a book that they could be lost in together.

[commander-krios]

idk if you're still taking these prompts from the emotionally charged sentence starters, but if you are, I'd like to see this one with Joker and Aurora ? I really love them !!

"you love me too much. I know how that sounds but—  fucking hell. you shouldn’t care that much about someone like me."

I'm always taking prompts! If you find something you like and want to see for them, let me know. I always enjoy these prompts. <3 As usual, the prompt went a bit in the angst department before ending fluffy. Enjoy and thank you for the prompt. I'm so happy you love Aurora and Joker. They have taken over my life.

The door to Shepard’s cabin stood closed in front of him, his hand hovering near the bell that he couldn’t bring himself to ring. It was too quiet on the Normandy, the crew kidnapped to some Collector base where they would be lucky if their deaths were quick. Joker almost wished that he’d been taken too. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with the guilt of being the only person left.

Something Shepard knew as well as he did.

“Jeff.” EDI’s synthetic voice echoed in the hall, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. She was always watching and it was fucking creepy. “Shepard is waiting for you.”

Sighing, he lifted the hat off of his head and brushed a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

Letting out a breath, Joker hit the intercom button, and the door unlocked almost immediately. 

Dammit. He couldn’t turn back now.

Taking another breath to calm the sudden erratic beating of his heart, Joker took a few steps past the doors and into Shepard’s quarters. The lights were dim, even the ones in that bright as hell aquarium that the Illusive Man thought was a good idea. The man really didn’t know anything about Aurora Shepard if he thought a fish tank was going to seduce her into being a Cerberus stooge. He didn’t even think she’d put a single fish in the damned thing.

He took a moment to glimpse into the private world of Aurora Shepard. While the aquarium might’ve been empty, she had filled up the glass display case with ship models. Huh, he hadn’t even known she was into that stuff.

Maybe he didn’t know her as well as he thought.

He found Shepard sitting on the couch opposite of the fish tank, staring blankly at her hands as they hung between her knees. She didn’t glance up when he approached, each step slow as he tried to figure out what to say. What could he possibly say that would make up for what happened? The crew was captured, an AI unshackled, the ship nearly lost… and Joker was the only one left.

“Hey, Commander.”

She didn’t acknowledge him as he sat beside her on the soft couch. Aurora Shepard was the type of person who easily denied what she was feeling to make sure her soldiers and crew never had to worry more than necessary. The entire galaxy, stars and all, could be falling on them and she would put herself between the fire and her people. To hell with her own safety. It was one of things that Joker had always loved about her.

And one of the things he hated as well. 

“Shepard.”

The sound of her name on his tongue had a strength he hadn’t expected. Her eyes swung to his face, searching his expression briefly as they sat next to each other in the silence. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot, almost as if she’d been crying before he showed up. Her blonde hair was hanging around her shoulders, brushing gently against the collar of the uniform she wore. Despite no longer being Alliance, she still wore fatigues as close to what she used to have on the SR-1.

She was still as beautiful as the day he’d met her. 

Unable to stop himself, Joker reached forward and covered her hand with his own, his touch the only comfort he could give. He could easily claim that it was to help ground his commander, but he craved that skin to skin contact as well. Especially after the events of the last few years.

“Aurora.”

Her facade slipped, fear in her eyes when she glanced at their entwined hands. Before he could react, she threw her arms around his shoulders, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. Joker stiffened briefly, unsure of what to do. When he felt the first tears against his skin, however, he pulled her as close as he comfortably could. The warmth of her body against his wasn’t a new feeling, they’d even hugged in the past, but this was different. 

Joker wasn’t used to being the one doing the comforting with those he cared for. With Aurora, however, it was so much easier than he expected it to be. He wasn’t sure how long they sat on that couch, holding each other with a desperation that neither wanted to admit meant more than friendship.

Especially when so much was on the line.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He managed to say despite feeling as if he was being crushed beneath her. Even if he ended up with broken ribs, Joker didn’t want to risk losing the feel of her against him. 

Sniffling, she glanced at him, wiping tears from her flushed cheeks. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like talking about emotional crap. I shouldn’t have put that on you.”

“I came here, Shepard. I’m not leaving until I know you’re alright.”

She snorted and despite the tears still trailing down her cheeks, he found it adorable. “Me? You’re the one who almost got killed.”

“It’s part of the job.” 

Aurora frowned at him and he shifted, uncomfortable at how easily she could read him. “Jeff.”

“Fucking hell, Shepard. My life isn’t more important than all of those people that were on this ship. Chakwas, Daniels, Donnelly. Hell, even Chambers. Those are our crew. And here you are, trying to save me again, even though I’m the reason you died and had to work with Cerberus in the first place.” 

By the end of the rant, he was breathing hard, his face probably nearly as red as hers.

“Are you still worried about that?” She shook her head and turned away, eyes back on her shaking hands. He resisted the urge to take them again. “I don’t blame you.”

“That makes one of us.” Taking a breath to try to calm his nerves and then giving up when it did nothing, he continued, knowing that he probably couldn't do more damage to their friendship than he already had up to this moment. “Look, I don’t know what our deal here is, but you need to stop treating me differently than everyone else. Even Garrus can tell that something’s up. You…” He almost choked as he tried to get the words out. “You love me too much.”

Aurora closed her eyes, bringing her hands up to cover her face. He could hear the deep inhale of breath she took as they sat beside each other.

“I know that sounds bad, but it’s true. Our friendship can’t mean more than people’s lives. Even if that means I die.”

He hated how his voice shook as he spoke, but he meant every word he said. He wouldn’t be the cause of anyone’s death again, especially hers.

“You don’t get to make that decision, Jeff.” Her voice was so quiet that he almost didn’t hear her. When she dropped her hands onto her lap, her face was back to the earlier blank expression she had. He hated it when she did that. “I do and I’ve decided that you’re worth saving.”

“I’m not, believe me.” Joker snapped at her, not understanding why she just didn’t get it. “Not someone like me.”

Aurora finally met his gaze once more and what he saw staring back at him made him shiver. She’d never looked at him so intensely before in all of the years they’d known each other. “That’s bullshit and you know it, Jeff Moreau. You can sacrifice yourself for me, but I can’t do the same for you? Well, that’s too bad since it’s already happened. And I won’t let you get yourself killed because you feel guilty over something you had no control over.”

The lump in his throat made it impossible to respond.

“You say I love you too much. I say you don’t love yourself enough.” She rested her hand on his elbow, the touch burning his skin as he warred with the desire to close the distance that had opened up between them and pull away at the same time. “You’ve been a support for me since Cerberus brought me back. Let me be here for you. You’re not alone. I won’t let you be.”

If it was physically possible, his heart would’ve burst out of his chest. The moment Aurora went to move away, Jeff reached out and grabbed her hand, entwining their fingers, the heat of her skin calming him in some ways and exciting him in others. 

Joker cleared his throat, hoping the blush on his cheeks wasn’t so obvious in the dark room. “We’ll get them back, Aurora. All of them.”

Aurora smiled at him and it was like nothing in the galaxy could touch them. He would give anything to see her smile like that at him every day. Even if he didn’t deserve it.

She squeezed his hand gently, resting her head on his shoulder and tucking her legs beneath her as she got comfortable. It was at that moment it hit him like a punch to the solar plexus and it drew the air from his lungs. He couldn’t deny it anymore, no matter how much he wanted to.

He was in love with his best friend.

[lillianawayne99]

Fireborn Chapter Fourteen

Pairing: Jon Snow & Oberyn Martell X OC

Genre: NSFW AU

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: smut, violence, fluff, blood, mixes the books and show, spoilers for seasons 6-8

Synopsis: Valaena Fireborn of House Targaryen has reached Westeros after spending her life in exile. While learning about her homeland and preparing for the war ahead, she meets two men who would change her life forever and learns of a threat to all humanity.

Previous Chapter // Fireborn // Masterlist

“I am no ordinary woman. My dreams come true.”

A gentle breeze and soft fingertips brushed through my hair. My hands slipped from a warm chest onto the mattress as the man beside me rolled onto his side. He pushed my hair behind my shoulder, caressing my cheek with his knuckles. My eyes slowly opened, blinking through the sunlight creating a ring around a tanned figure.

Oberyn’s lips pulled back into a lopsided smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he cupped the side of my face in his hand. The pad of his thumb absentmindedly caressed my cheekbone. His other hand rested on my waist, sliding down my back to pull me closer.

“I should go.” The words were but a whisper, though the hesitation in my tone set Oberyn’s gaze afire.

He effortlessly rolled me onto my back, tucking his knees between my thighs. Lowering himself onto his forearm, his lips against my ear, Oberyn let his erection rest against my folds. “It’s past dawn, Valaena.”

“People are already talking.” I finished his thought with a gasp as he moved his hips, languidly rubbing his length along my entrance.

“Most likely.” His lips curled into a smirk as he pushed against my folds.

“We shouldn’t,” I groaned into his ear as my legs parted for him. “Someone will hear.”

“You weren’t exactly quiet last night.” Oberyn pressed his lips to my cheek. He rubbed his length along my entrance once more before pulling away from me. “But if you’re sure.”

“Oberyn.” His name fell from my lips as a plea, though for what I couldn’t say.

“Yes, Your Grace?” The inflection in Oberyn’s tone contrasted the few times Jon called me by my proper title. There was a tease in his tone, yes, but a different kind.

The sunlight streaming in through the porthole caught in his warm eyes. His irises shone with the heat of fresh coffee. The corners of his lips lifted, forming creases in his skin beside the glimmer in his gaze.

Despite the aching need between my thighs, I gently pushed against Oberyn’s chest as whispers echoed through my mind. Ignoring my racing thoughts, I slipped into my nightdress and crossed the hall to my cabin. I dug through the expensive, Westerosi dresses in my trunk until I found what I was looking for.

It had been several years since I wore my leathers, but they pulled on as easily as when I lived on the Great Grass Sea. The well worn material clung to my form like a second skin. Enveloped by the smell of horses, sweat, and blood, I sat down at the small table against the wall of the cabin.

Though I’d been braiding my own hair since I left for Westeros, my fingers refused to cooperate this morning. Resisting the urge to slam my hand against the wood, I took out the fifth failed braid and stood. Thankfully, I opened my cabin door as Kovarro was walking towards his.

“Can you help?” I gestured at my loose hair as he crossed to stand before me.

His lips pulled back into a grin. With a nod, he stepped into my cabin and gestured at the chair.

I closed the door and moved to sit down, picking up a bell as hands calloused from years of holding a weapon brushed through my hair. The room was quiet apart from the soft chimes of bells moving. The first braid was halfway done when I finally spoke.

“I had another dream last night.” Our eyes met in the small mirror sitting on the table as I handed him another bell. “But there’s something else I need to tell you first.”

Kovarro was silent as I explained the Northern war. The enemy coming south for all of us. Jon and I’s agreement to aid each other in our endeavors and why he was travelling to Dragonstone with us. Why we were going south now rather than meeting with other prominent Lords and Ladies first. The alliance with Highgarden and Dorne.

“You were right, about Oberyn. I still think Varys should have told me his plans first, but I understand why he made the arrangement.” I rolled a blood stained bell between my fingers with Kovarro’s hands on my shoulders as he waited for me to pass it to him.

“I made my decision. In the dream ... ” Focusing on the reflection in the mirror, I handed over the metal as images of Kovarro in blue flames with blue eyes crossed my vision. “I’m going to marry both of them.”

Kovarro’s fingers stilled in my hair. He met my eyes in our reflection. “Oberyn and Jon?”

I couldn’t nod with him holding my hair, but the look in my eyes answered his question.

“There was more. I saw my parents. I think ...” The door was closed, but I spoke in Dothraki on the chance someone was listening. “I might be a bastard. I always suspected because I don’t look like my family. I saw a man with my hair and eyes standing behind Aerys. My mother was with them.

“Do you remember what I was told at the House of the Undying?” I didn’t have to look into the mirror to know Kovarro was tense.

“Three fires you must light, one for life and one for death and one to love. Three mounts you must ride, one to bed and one to dread and one to love. Three treasons you will know, once for blood and once for gold and once for love.” He repeated the words I had been contemplating since the day I left Qarth.

“I know who they are now. Daario and Jon will betray me. Oberyn ... Oberyn was the mount to dread. Something is coming.” I turned around in the chair to face my dothrakhoyi as he tied the end of my hair with a strip of leather. “I saw you lying on a pyre. The flames were blue. The same shade of blue as your eyes.”

“I’m going to die.” Kovarro’s tone was steady, but his brown eyes glistened with the knowledge neither of us wanted to possess.

The chair scraped against the floor of the cabin as I stood. Moving around it, I wrapped my arms around his waist for the first time. He held me back reverently, as if he was afraid I would disappear. His chin rested atop of my head.

“I don’t know when or how.” My eyes closed as I inhaled his scent. I’d never been close enough to notice he still carried the smell of the Great Grass Sea on his skin.

“You love me.” The words made me stiffen in Kovarro’s arms. He stated it as a fact, like he only now realized it. “One to love. The other fires were for the dragons and khalasar.”

My only answer for him was to tighten my hold on his waist. Kovarro gently grasped my arms and pulled me back. His brows were furrowed as he held my cheek. With a shaky breath, he placed a kiss on the top of my head.

Kovarro let go of me and stepped away. He glanced at the cloak hanging on the back of the chair before forcing the corners of his mouth into a taut smile. With a hand on my waist, he grabbed my belt and fastened it around me as the weapons clanked against each other.

“One more sparring match?” He did well in his attempt to hide his emotions, but I could hear the tremble in his tone.

“And hopefully many more.” My grim smile reflected his own as we left the cabin, our hands brushing against each other.

“I miss your Qartheen dresses, Khaleesi.” Kovarro admitted in his mother tongue as we stepped out into the cold, winter sunlight with the sea breeze in our hair.

Rather than answer him, I crossed the deck of the ship to an open area and turned to face my dothrakhoyi with my arakhs in my hands. As Kovarro took his place before me, I could feel multiple pairs of eyes on me. Glancing across the ship, I saw Jon and Oberyn standing together at the railing.

Oberyn looked smug, a smirk dancing across his lips as his eyes raked across my form. He nodded in my direction with a brow raised. Jon, however had a glimmer of envy and lust in his gaze. He looked as if he wanted no other man to know the form under my dresses.

The sound of Kovarro pulling his arakhs from his belt pulled my attention back to him. Our movements mirrored each other as we twirled the weapons in our hands into a more comfortable position. Ignoring the growing audience on the deck, I took my stance.

Kovarro moved first. I dodged the swipe to my neck while deflecting the blow to my abdomen. Pushing his blade to the side, I straightened my posture and struck at his side. The clang of metal on metal resounded as he blocked my attack.

Undeterred, I stepped back with my weapons held loosely at my side and let my dothrakhoyi make the next move. He lazily slashed at my front, waiting until I deflected the blow to strike at my head. Effortlessly bending backwards, I felt a breeze against my face as the metal passed above.

Our movements were slower than normal, neither of us wanted to hurt the other now we knew we had limited time together. Seconds after I straightened my back, Kovarro swept at my feet. Jumping backwards, I deflected his attack at my legs and caught his arakh in mine.

As both of us pulled, our weapons were forced out of our hands and fell to the deck of the ship with a clatter. Rather than take out one of my swords, I turned my body to the side and adjusted my grip on my remaining arakh.

Kovarro’s blade swung down at my shoulder, forcing me to loosen my grip to block his attack. His weapon twisted around mine and pulled, tossing it to the ground. As I reached for my swords, he ran at me. Dropping his arakh, Kovarro’s arms wrapped around my waist as his shoulder rammed into my chest.

I fell to the deck with a grunt as the breath was forced from my lungs. Before I could reach one of my knives, a sharp blade was pressed to my throat. Kovarro’s braid hung over his shoulder as he gazed down at me in frustration.

“You’re distracted,” He pointed out in Dothraki as he put the blade away, though he made to move to get off me.

“So are you,” I responded, using my arms to push myself up slightly.

He didn’t stand like I expected him to. He simply sat up with his legs straddling my torso, narrowed brown eyes focused on mine.

It seemed the past five years I spent across the Narrow Sea had affected me more than the years before I married Khal Drogo. Before I became a Khaleesi, I would have been consumed with embarrassment from being in this position with a man in front of others. But now, I barely noticed the men surrounding us, watching us and wondering what we were saying to each other.

“You let me win,” Kovarro stated, his voice gruffer than usual.

I pursed my lips and glanced to the railing of the ship, noticing the way Oberyn hid his jealousy with a smirk. “Not on purpose.”

“But you weren’t trying to win.” The man still straddling me stated while sitting back, pushing more of his weight into me.

“Were you?” I accidentally snapped at him, my brows pulling together as I looked up into the face of the man I trusted the most.

He tried to glare down at me, but I could see unease behind his false resentment. Kovarro huffed at me then stood, his feet on either side of my hips, and outstretched a hand toward me. His fingers wrapped around mine as I took the offer, using his help to pull myself up. Our chests nearly touched before he turned and retrieved his weapons from where they fell.

I instinctively bit the inside of my cheek for a moment, internally cursing myself for letting my emotions get the better of me. Stewing in guilt for reacting harshly for no fault of my own, I picked up my arakhs and hung them on my belt.

The wind was harsh on the sea, especially during the early days of winter. Fighting the chill seeping through my leathers, I went back to my cabin and slid into Jon’s cloak.

Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

© LillianaWayne - all rights reserved. Do not copy, modify, repost, or share on other platforms without my express, written permission.

[livingalifeofasimp]

🥀Xiao X Reader🥀

[ Modern Era ]

Warning : Some angst, if you are sensitive please don't read, arts are not mine only the content is.

I always wanted to write some angst, please tell me how this is!

Songs recommended : Stereo hearts.

I promise I don't write sad imagine (^^)

✨Xiao woke up from his slump with no motivation and looked up to check the time 7:00am he has to reach school at 8:00am. After getting ready he looked at the mirror infront of him. How long has it been since then? Everyone went ahead but he....... couldn't. Everyday is a maze for him trying to find a reason to live. He entered his classroom, it's starting of a new semester, everyone is so excited, all his peers wished him morning and Xiao greeted them back. Being famous senpai is difficult, he had to respond to them with a smile even tho he is so broken inside. He just wanted to run away and forget about everything to live a life that's..........normal.

✨ After successful answering all the questions asked by teachers it's finally lunch time, he went to music room which is always empty. His fingers pressed all the keys of keyboard lightly. A soft instrumental music echoed through the hall way, sometimes students stop passing by wondering who is play such a sad rhythm. Tears escaped Xiao's eyes as he remembered about his lover, he doesn't have her picture but her face, personality is still printed in his mind and all the emotions he felt for her is locked in his heart. He is her prisoner, she left him alone in this world.

✨He closed his eyes and remembered all those beautiful moments he spent with her, holding hands for the first time, how cute she was shying away and their first kiss when they both bumped their nose. Suddenly an image flashed infront of him of the same girl he loved so much and wanted to asked her to be his offical girlfriend getting hit by a truck. Who's fault was it? His, traffic lights, or their? Doesn't matter if he wasn't in her life, if he never wanted to confess to her in the first place this won't have happened. He still remembered how those flowers withered and spread all over her blooded body, the fear when he slowly walked towards her with his shaking legs.

✨Purely melody was disrupted by when his fingers pressed wrong kegs as he stopped and hugged his legs closer to his chest. He could not do anything more than drowned in pain. Sudden ringing of bell told him to get back to his classroom, he wiped his tears and washed his face, no one should know he cried, everyone thinks he moved on but his hearts couldn't. Xiao walked through corridors, it's too crowded a sudden impact caused Xiao to jerk ahead, a girl ran through the crowd and she turned back because of guilt to apologize to Xiao her silky hair flowed around her being and scattered away from her eyes which made eye contact with Xiao's lifeless ones.

✨Those eyes freezed Xiao he watched her going towards a guy and hold his arms. The girl he loved the most got amnesia due to an accident, doctors told them to not remind her about her past which can be dangerous for her state of brain. Xiao sat along side her for a whole year till she regain her conscious back, he brought beautiful flowers for her everyday and whispered in her ears how everyone is waiting for her, how much they miss her and most importantly he, himself what he wanted you to hear which he wasn't able to tell you on that unfortunate day.

✨ His heart pierced when she regained her conscious, she had forgot all about him, those flowers he had in his hands fall down as he ran to washroom and covered his mouth from preventing others to hear his cries. It's all his fault, he doesn't know what he should do now. Xiao would always look towards you but you never noticed him maybe he was meant to be your distant memory which you have long forgotten. In his way to home it was raining, he laughed which was empty as usual, now he can cry as much as he wants, he just hopes to overcome his past. He walked through the rain since he didn't have umbrella, his uniform soaked in rain. Xiao stopped when he saw a kitten shaking near the gates of the school what is it doing here? He bend and took it in his hands to keep it warm, he can't leave it here suddenly an umbrella blocked the rain he looked up and saw that girl Y/N.

✨"What are you doing? You will get sick? Come one lets go." Her beautiful voice made him remind that he is nothing to her. She dropped him to his house forcefully while he insisted not to. Xiao was scared and glanced towards you he doesn't wanted you to suffer because of him, "why are you looking at me famous senpai?", You looked at him with your flirty smile which made him want to cry, he couldn't believe you talked to him, everything feels like a dream he doesn't want to wake up now, he would die. Xiao turned his head away, you laughed thinking it was his shyness. Next day when Xiao was entering the school building, he was stopped by a girl "How are you? Feeling good? My name is Y/N but I already know your name can we walk together?", Xiao smiled which left you blushing and mesmerized, he never smiled at anyone you are glad that he did.

✨ He reminded you of a guy who looked like him, a certain one who appears in your dream, you always feel your heart skipping beats whenever you see him. Xiao smiled first time in all these years which wasn't empty finally maybe you can remember him again......he wished to stars. Xiao looked at you finally and gave you, your favorite snack which you took happily and invited him to amusement park. At last a person can be forgotten but the feeling can never be.

Months after..........

Let him be more than your distant memory~

[liloelsagranger]

Night shift - finally a new Rocketshipping-fanfiction

My dear friends,

it’s been a while since I last posted an entry. Let me tell you why and what, besides Covid-19, made me pause from publishing fanfictions over the last couple of months. Of course, Switzerland was very affected by the pandemic and still is today. We had numerous lock-downs or as Swiss people call it “slow downs”. My mother got very sick last year, I almost lost her. The doctors said she would only live two or three more days, but my mom is a fighter. She had to stay at the hospital for months, she endured countless medical examinations, had to take meds and slowly learned to live again. I’m so proud of my mother that she was strong and determined to get better. When she turned back home, I started to take care of her and I hate to leave her on her own, even if we’re talking about half an hour or less. Right now, she’s doing quite good, actually, we’re on vacation and she makes a great effort to participate in life in Italy. She’s my role-model! She will never be the same as before, but she won’t give up, she wakes up every morning to make progress. I prayed for her and her well-being, I prayed every single night she might get another chance and now we’re here at the beach and dining in fancy restaurants. It’s been a horrible year for everyone, a year full of sorrow, tears and desperation, a year where I was constantly afraid, the hospital would call me with some bad news, but she did it! She survived and she fights for her life! So proud! Good news is: I passed my doctoral exams and I’m officially allowed to call myself Dr. phil. des. Melanie C. but that won’t ever stop me from loving Team Rocket so here it is - a brand new Rocketshipping-fanfiction for you guys. LOVE YOU! Night shift

Chapter 1:

It was past ten o’clock when that miserable looking guy entered the diner. He inconspicuously sat down in the farthest corner of the café and immediately hid his face behind the menu card. Nevertheless, Jessie the waitress could make out the pathetic expression on his face, how he was cowering like a whipped dog. She had seen quite a bit in this diner. Drunks, thugs, addicts and other needy people who asked for a sympathetic ear, compassion and understanding, but that guy was different. He suffered terribly, but did not dare to communicate, instead he hid from the world so as not to attract attention and quietly endure his fate. Jessie had to do something about it. Of course, she didn’t want to play the Good Samaritan. She knew the tricks of the men who entered this diner. Most of the time, they told the waitress tall tales, hoping to be comforted, whatever they meant by that. But this young man did not make a shady impressionHe was well dressed, looked well-groomed, and Jessie was especially struck by his bright emerald green eyes, the only thing in his face that had not yet been veiled by grief and sorrow. She decided to do something about his displeasure.

“Did you have a rough day?” she asked while disinfecting the table.

He looked briefly into her eyes and nodded. “That’s one way to put it,” he answered, the gaze immediately lowered again.

This would be a taciturn conversation, but Jessie didn’t give up easily, she was a natural at making even rocks talk.

“Listen! No matter what happened, I’ve seen or heard some things. If I can help you in any way, my name is Jessie and I’m in charge of this table today. Let me just get the gum out from under your seat and get you a cold drink. What would you like?” She pulled a spatula from her apron and rubbed away the remains of the spoiled brats that marred her diner.

‘Wow,’ the young man thought to himself. ‘A strong, self-confident woman who lends a hand herself and who’s not above cleaning up dirt.’ Their eyes met briefly, and he forced a wry smile.

“You know, kid. You can’t rely on anyone. If you want to get everything done, do it yourself and don’t trust anyone. This world doesn’t give you anything for granted!” She briefly wiped the back of his chair before disappearing behind the counter and pouring the young man an ice-cold Coke.

“I have rarely seen you so concerned about a customer. Normally you show yourself aloof and only take the order, so as not to get involved in embarrassing conversations. Must be a really great pike, this pathetic creature in the far corner. Could it be that you’ve got a tiny crush on this guy?” For Eddy, teasing his best friend was the greatest pleasure. He didn’t know her like that. Jessie usually resisted any kind of small talk. This was due to her dark past, when she had repeatedly fallen for advances from men who were never looking for a steady relationship, but for a quick fix. Eddy had witnessed this bad time of his friend, how her heart was broken, how she was badly played with, and how she was simply dropped like a hot potato. Jack was the worst example of them all. While Jessie was already hearing the wedding bells ringing, he was making love to the women of the Strip and deceiving Jessie night after night with other broads. Jessie was devastated when she found out Jack was cheating on her. She was furious, not even at her lying boyfriend, but at herself for having been so stupid as to trust a man.

Jessie gave Eddy a light pat on the head. “Don’t be silly! That time is over. I can take care of myself, I don’t need male support for that. I’m a big girl, I make my own dough, and I keep my head above water pretty well. No, not a chance, I’ve sworn off flirting.” Nevertheless, she caught herself as her gaze wandered to the young man in the corner. “Oh yes, this time is definitely over,” Eddy smirked.

“Jessie, could you bring us a side of fries, please?” Misty’s order echoed throughout the hall. The twenty-year old waved her hands. She was used to speaking loudly, almost shouting, to attract guests to her daily water Pokémon show. Sometimes she walked up and down the streets of the Strip all day in the blazing hot sun, trying to win people for her underwater attraction. As an excellent student, she could have taught at any college, but she had decided early on to get into show business and make her living doing what she really loved, joined by Dewgong and Starmie. Her parents had not agreed with this decision at all, it was wasted talent, they had claimed, and had summarily turned Misty out the door. Since then, she had been struggling through life on her own, but could always count on Jess, the diner and her two best friends, Ash and Brock, young people who were also not favoured by fate.

“Temper your voice, twerp!” Jessie couldn’t help but grin. She spread the ketchup bottles around the table, hoping Ash wouldn’t spill on himself and the diner again. His constant companion Pikachu immediately hopped on his shoulder, grabbed a fry and popped it in his mouth. Ash and his Pokémon were carnies. He had trained his friend well and attracted many spectators with his performance. Most of them felt sorry for the guy and tipped generously. That’s why Ash was able to invite his friends to the diner every night, a place that gave them hope where they could experience security. They were convinced that nothing would ever disturb this idyll and that fate, for better or worse, had taken its course.

“Who’s that guy over there?” Brock wanted to know. He had barely sold chocolate and roses tonight. The others held back, but they were certain that their friend was just too pushy with women and that’s why he only collected rejections instead of green bills.

“I’ve never seen him here before. Must be from another area. I can’t tell you for the life of me why he’s wearing a suit at theses temperatures, he looks pretty pathetic to me anyways,” Jessie replied.

“Maybe his car has stalled,” Ash suggested, “and now he was forced to wander through the desert until the tasty aromas from your diner brought him back from his delirium.”

“Or,” Brock interfered, “he had to flee his own wedding because his wife is a real pain in the ass, unlike our sweet Misty,” Brock oohed at his friend. “Forget it, Brock! You and me, this will never happen!” She gave him a gentle poke.

“Enough now with your naïve speculations! Just let him enjoy his drink. We’re closing soon, so get going,” Jessie dismissed their absurd ideas with a wave of her hand, but at this point no one knew how right Brock was.

Dark thoughts hunted the young man. He knew what he would face at home if he was late. Beatings, torture, rebuke, harassment, were just a few words to describe his failed relationship. Unconsciously, he stroked his scarred arms.

“Can I get you something to eat?” Jessie pulled him out of the maelstrom of bad thoughts, of course she had noticed the wounds, but maybe he had gotten those injuries at work. The young man rummaged some coins out of his pants and let them jingle on the table. “Is that enough for a cheese sandwich?” Jessie hated small change, but she would make an exception for him. A friendly smile, a quick nod, and she passed on the order.

“Something’s wrong with this guy,” she whispered to Eddy. “He’s scarred, bruised and pays with penny coins. Possibly a vagrant.” Eddy couldn’t help but grin. “That guy’s been keeping you busy all night, Jess. What’s the matter with you? Are you getting weak?”

The young man could not overhear the conversation between the waiters, but he was sure they were talking about him. He sure made a rather frightening impression, but that was a private matter and not something you shared with a waitress in a diner.

His gaze drifted to the daily paper, which had two faces emblazoned on it: Butch and Cassidy. He had never heard of this odd couple, but according to the news, theses two were causing quite a stir and were terrifying the Strip.

“Oh, so you’ve already spotted them, those two knuckleheads! They keep the Strip in suspense, and heads roll when the taxes don’t add up,” Jessie served him the cheese sandwich and gave him a slight smile.

“Can I get you anything else?” He thanked her and took a hearty bite of his dinner.

The last half hour flew by and the remaining guests left the diner to spend the night on the Strip, as very few had a roof over their heads. Jessie set about cleaning up and Eddy checked the register.

The young man stood up and made his way towards the door. But before he left the diner, he glanced back at Jessie for a moment. A sigh escaped him. What if…?

Jessie returned his gaze and watched him go until the young man disappeared. She walked right up to his table and found a little note on the receipt.

“Thanks for treating me like a human being, James.” 

[terminallydepraved]

Beyond the Pale (JayTim Vampire au)

Yo! My contribution to the @batsandbeasts Batman zine is now up on ao3 for your reading pleasure.

Read on ao3 here.

The sharp silhouette of Drake Manor against the pale, full moon cut a suitably somber visage against the autumn sky. A pervasive wind was blowing through the trees surrounding the overgrown ground, whispering like a poorly kept secret. Jason Todd lifted the collar of his coat out of habit, shielding the vulnerable flesh of his neck from its bite. He stared at the once-grand home while he let the wind claw and tug at his clothing as if in hope of beckoning him through the battered doors.

 In that regard, the wind seemed to be the most welcoming thing about the place. The windows had long been boarded up, the brick facade a patchwork of lichen and ivy so dried and desiccated that it looked black in the light of the moon. A once-impressive turret rose up to spear the bloated clouds overhead, appearing desperate in its struggle to stand straight while it slanted dangerously askew. Brittle, dead grass crunched beneath his heavy boots. No flowers grew in the planters by the wrapping porch. Only weeds that whispered alongside the breeze.

 If anything had lived here, it would have been decades ago. To an observant eye, that supposition would be the end of it. Drake Manor had been abandoned for years, the place left to rot and molder alongside the family that had owned it up until tragedy took them from splendor to the sepulchre nestled just behind the building’s sprawling expanse.

 “The whole family passed one by one,” echoed the memory of that old woman’s voice in the lilting chill on the wind. “It was… sudden. First the mother. Next, the father.”

 “And the son?” Jason had asked as he sharpened the stake by the hearth, staring at the small woman from across the tavern floor. She had kept her distance from him, like a rabbit smelling blood in the air. Everyone had. They might not have known they had a dead man walking among them, but something within them warned them of the danger of lingering too close to a Hunter seeking fresh prey.

 Wizened hands wound themselves with rosary beads. Jason’s eyes tracked them like pearls, reciting the words of her prayer silently out of a habit that hadn’t managed to die even after he had. Her eyes turned towards the rough wooden beams above their head. “We do not speak of it,” she said, talking to God more than the one that used to preach his word. “It is not the boy it once was.”

 No one would say what the boy was now, but that was fine. Jason had spent the bulk of his life—      both    lives—exterminating things better left unsaid. His hands roved over the holsters on his hips and the belt that held his stakes. Vials of holy water—freshly consecrated earlier that evening—studded the inside of his leather jacket. His shotgun was a reassuring weight between his shoulder blades. The small blade tucked inside his right boot pressed against his calve, more soothing than rumors could ever be.

 That woman had warned him to be careful; Jason had to think that the creature skulking away inside those dilapidated walls could use that warning more.

 The grass crunched beneath his boots as he moved towards the front door. In the dead of night the sound seemed deafening. Still, Jason didn’t try to muffle his approach. It already knew he was coming— in fact, it likely already knew he was here. A vampire couldn’t hope to steal six villagers from their beds and remain unnoticed in its lair. Humans were fragile, weak, and easily made victims to the shadows beyond the firelight— but that was where Hunters came in, evening out the playing field.

 Jason, for one, had long outgrown his fear of the dark.

 Pulling his shotgun over his head, Jason held it at the ready as he made his way up creaking, splintering steps, eyes narrowed for any sign of movement. He took care to keep his finger off the trigger; any other time he would prime himself to fire first and ask questions later, but the bodies of the stolen villagers hadn’t been found yet. Slim as it was, they could still be alive. He’d been trained too well to write off the possibility entirely, so his finger stayed flattened against the stock as he kicked down the front door with a resounding      bang!  

 The sound reverberated through the entry hall like a crack of thunder. Motes of dust rose in the air, stirring the spider webs hanging from the eaves and edges of practically every available surface. Jason resisted the urge to close his eyes as powdery flecks settled in his hair. It was quiet in the dead space, stagnant air heavy with the silence. Every step Jason took cut tracks into the layer of filth blanketing the wooden floor. If something had been in here, it hadn’t left a trail for him to follow. The dust was undisturbed as far as the eye could see.

 First course of business was to locate the missing villagers. They had been gone for at least a week, some of them closer to three. Vampires that took to creating larders tended to store their human pantry staples somewhere secure, contained, and without many options for escape. A place this big... no doubt it had a basement, maybe even a few cellars. He would need to find it before he went hunting for the vampire. Once the captives were out of the picture he’d be able to fight without holding back.

 Of course, that was all easier said than done. This place was enormous. Cavernous even, and Jason had spent a large part of his youth in a manor not that dissimilar from it. Maybe it was the lack of life in the place that made it seem so empty. The portraits on the walls had eyes, but their dead smiles were fixed in place, like spectral guides that escorted him through the halls. He paused outside a dark, rusted kitchen. Memories of his childhood flickered among the shadows.

 A board creaked behind him. Jason swiveled smoothly, body moving independent of thought. He pointed the barrel of his gun in the direction of a set of descending stairs just visible through a nearby doorway. His heart beat a little faster. That door had been closed a moment ago, hadn’t it?

 “Show yourself,” he called out. An old house like this would creak and groan naturally, but the timing was too perfect, too planned. Jason bared his teeth as he looked down the line of his gun. “I know you’re here. Stop hiding and let’s get this over with.”

 Another creak, this time further down the hall. Jason shifted without thinking, but this time he caught sight of movement just as it evaded his peripherals. A cold sweat began to bead on his forehead, the tiny hairs on his body rising in the wake of instinct telling him that he was sharing breathing space with a predator. It was in the area with him; of that there was no doubt. Hiding in the shadows and among the eaves above his head… Jason fought the urge to look up, knowing through experience that keeping his eyes forward gave him the best chance of reacting quickly when it inevitably came for his throat.

 Jason slowly backed into the kitchen, preferring a wider space for the fight that was soon to follow.

 “I’ve never met a hunter before,” a quiet, lilting voice remarked just as the silence began to weigh on Jason like lead. Again, he moved to face the direction of it, his shotgun slicing through the air with whisper. He found himself moving yet again though when that same voice spoke again from a different direction, “Are you truly as strong as the stories say?”

 “Stronger,” Jason grunted, knowing this game after playing it so many times. It would try to get close next, and he readied his finger on the trigger. “Even death didn’t stop me from killing your kind.”

 The words had barely left his mouth before the vampire made its move. Jason reacted with practiced grace, giving himself to his instincts as he twisted at the waist and fired at the pale blur rushing towards him through the kitchen doorway. The gunshot went off like a thunderclap, deafening in such a dead space. A spray of lead burst through a section of the door frame, ruining an enormous family portrait mounted in the hallway behind it.

 “Close,” an icy voice whispered in Jason’s ear. A pale hand wrapped around the smoking barrel. “But no cigar.”

 Jason recoiled, warning bells ringing like a cacophony of the damned inside his head as the gun was snatched free from his hands. He let it go without a fight—the creature could overpower him easily, so there was no point in wrestling for it—and darted back, hand reaching for a vial of holy water and lobbing it in the direction of the figure now standing in the middle of the manor’s kitchen.

 Jason’s eyes closed as the glass shattered; when he opened them again, the figure was gone, its voice still echoing around his head.

 The eaves. It’d gone for the eaves again, or maybe to the tops of the large shelves and cabinets scattered around the room’s upper edges. Jason scanned the ground for his gun, spotting it towards the door he had come through.

 “I know who you are, hunter,” the vampire crooned, smooth and melodic, the only warning Jason had before a pale hand descended from the dark to grab him from behind. Those lips met his ear once more as it hissed, “I know      every    trick in your arsenal.”

 White hot anger tore through Jason, overpowering the fear throbbing in his veins. “Oh yeah?” he spat, tearing free two more vials and crushing them in his bare hands. The glass tore through his palms, but that hardly mattered. Blood and holy water both sailed over his shoulders as he cast his hands back. The vampire let out a pained shriek, and the pressure on Jason’s back abated.

 The creature didn’t retreat far this time, giving him a chance to look, if only briefly, at his quarry. Even crumpled on the ground he could tell that the vampire was young and far more intelligent than the majority of the blood-starved prey he’d hunted in the past. Jason couldn’t look at him dead on for fear of being caught by that gaze, but what he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye was enough to tell him that the refined beauty spoken about in most vampire stories wasn’t a lie this time around, even with holy water burning black spots into his perfect, blood-flecked skin.

 That must be the boy. The woman from the tavern hadn’t spoken his name, but Jason had done his research, had seen that face staring back at him from the portrait sporting buckshot behind him. Timothy Jackson Drake, last of his line. He had been on the cusp of adulthood when he went missing, and it was clear now that he’d stayed there for decades after.

 Jason dove for his gun. Dust rose in the scramble, the vampire darting forward to cut him off. Inertia carried Jason forward as he committed to the move, his shoulder bearing the brunt of the impact as he slammed into the vampire and sent them both tumbling through the doorway and back into the hall. Sweat stung Jason’s eyes but he didn’t dare close them, not this close, not as he fought with every ounce of strength he had to pin the slighter body to the floor.

 “What did you do with them?!” Jason grunted, forcing his forearm against the vampire’s throat until there was no way for Drake to bite back. “Where the fuck did you put the villagers, Drake?!”

 Cold fingers wrapped around his arm, holding tight but not as tight as Jason knew he could. “You can call me Tim,” whispered the vampire through a smile. His eye teeth curved over his bottom lip, ruining whatever charm the expression might’ve held once upon a time. “Can I call you Jason?”

 Jason couldn’t smother his reaction, his shock. It widened his eyes, slackened his grip. Drake— Tim—      the vampire    took the chance it was, pushing hard and rolling them over, pinning Jason to the floor like a butterfly to tack board.

 He had to look at Tim now, and God, the stories had never been so true. Pale skin, startling blue eyes, and lips like roses, blood red and temptation incarnate. Those shy lips curled back into a revealing smile, but even that barely shattered the illusion. Jason shut his eyes as quickly as he could, scrambling for one of the stakes at his waist. He shoved upwards with every ounce of strength he had and barely,      barely    managed to roll them over.

 His elbow clipped a door frame, warning him too late that he should have aimed better. Jason lost hold of the vampire as they both tumbled ass-over-tea-kettle down a flight of rickety steps. The stake in his hand was lost along the way. Jason felt a few more splinter by the time he reached the floor.

 It wasn’t a graceful landing, and he knew without looking which of them would recover from it first. Jason hit the ground hard, his breathing rushing out of him upon impact. He forced himself to keep moving, rolling onto his knees as his hand reached for the knife he kept in his boot. The air was heavy and dank, his surroundings as black as pitch once the sound of a door slamming shut cut off the sliver of light just above his head. The dirt beneath his feet told him well enough that he had fallen into the manor’s lowest level, but without moonlight or a torch his options on finding his way back upstairs were worse than limited.

 “I waited for you, you know,” came that voice again. “Did you think it was strange how loudly that village called for you? I knew you would come, Jason. I know everything about you.”

 “You don’t know shit,” Jason snapped, swiping his knife into the empty air. The vampire was pitching his voice somehow, projecting the sound so it echoed all around him. Without light there was no way to tell where he actually was. A burst of paranoia had Jason twist on his heel, slicing wildly at the space behind his back. He met nothing but nothingness, and it pissed him off even more.

 “Jason Peter Todd,” recited Timothy Jackson Drake, last of his line. “Street rat turned hunter. Made apprentice to the best and fell victim to the worst.”

 Jesus Christ. “What the fuck do you want?” Jason snarled. He couldn’t smell any rot or blood, and this had to be the basement. Where were the villagers?

 “You said it yourself; death makes things stronger.” Something cold brushed Jason’s neck. Jason tried to lift his knife but a slender hand wrapped around his wrist, squeezing like a vice until he was forced to drop it. “I waited for you,” Tim whispered, soft hair and cold breath ghosting across Jason’s cheek. “I used to watch you, before. I watched you, and then you disappeared.”

 Right. Jason had died, slaughtered by that monster just to come back as one thanks to elements far beyond even his ken. The struggle had left his body, telling the logical part of his brain that Tim must be staring into his eyes right now, mesmerizing him through the darkness. He never should had let the vampire get close to him. He never should have come here alone.

 “The… villagers…” Jason forced himself to ask, even as his knees gave out beneath him. “What did… Where…?”

 When Tim laughed, it sounded like bells. “Back in their beds. I only needed a story to get you here. But that’s okay, isn’t it? You’re here, and you’re tired, aren’t you?” Jason felt an unnatural exhaustion begin to seep into his limbs in time with the lilting words. His eyelashes fluttered; he couldn’t seem to make his arms move. “Don’t you want to sleep now, Jason? You can sleep. I’ll watch after you.”

 That voice was just a whisper. Icy fingers ran through Jason’s hair. Lips as cold as death brushed his cheek tenderly as his body settled on the floor.

 “And don’t worry,” Tim breathed, those lips ghosting over his throat. “Even death didn’t stop me from wanting you.”

[tonystarkissist]

Presumed Dead - Villainous July

Part 1 of "Oh Sweet Child, The Thing’s I’d Do for You...”

Summary: Tony Stark is dead. Has been for years. His actions destroyed Peter’s life, as well as any hope, exuberance, or trust he had in the past, and Peter is nowhere near ready to forgive.

Rating: Teen (For language and Thematic Material)

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: The relationship between Peter and Tony is purely platonic. St*rkers dni!

~ Masterlist ~ Read on Ao3  ~ Next Chapter

The release bell rang loud enough to continue echoing in Peter’s ears for a good few minutes. He was sure to have a blinding migraine by the end of the day thanks to the annoying ring adding onto the headache that had already established earlier in the week as a result of his recent insomnia. So, already, the beginning of his dreaded weekend was off to a rocky start, and he had to shuffle through the crowd with his shoulders pulled up to his ears to avoid being shoulder checked by another student. His patience and sanity were both teetering on thin ice and he felt that any other minute inconvenience will make him fucking explode… God, he hated Fridays. 

Everyone was always so excited, which just seemed to sour his mood even more. Listening all day to the weekend plans his peers would discuss in whispered undertones during class, or amongst the chaotic chatter of the lunchroom-- about spending time with their families, and friends, maybe going on a short little vacation-- it got to him sometimes. It made his eye twitch, and it made him scowl. He had never used to be a person prone to envy, but lately, he’s found himself grinding his teeth when he overhears the fantastical tales his classmates would speak about during school. Whether it was about the new phone they got for their birthday, or simple complaints about their sibling trashing their room… Peter always found something to be jealous of.

“Peter!” Ned pushes through the crowd when he spots him, “Have you started the English project yet?” Ned grasps the straps of his backpack with both hands, grinning in anticipation as they walk towards Peter’s locker at the end of the hall. “Who did you decide to write about?”

Peter frowns… the stupid English project. It’s like the teacher couldn’t find a better way to torture an abused orphan. 

“No, I haven’t started yet,” Peter grunts. Usually he’d apologize for his salty mood, but Ned’s known him long enough to remember that Friday’s were not as joyous an occasion as most students found it to be. Plus, his stomach was killing him. It’s only been a few hours since lunch and it already felt like his insides were clawing a hole through his abdomen. That didn’t help his mood. “It’s not due for another, like, four months. I’ve got time.”

“Yeah, but you gotta do a whole powerpoint, and a whole philosophical analysis… you did see the rubric right? This project is going to take forever!” Ned groans dramatically, following Peter through the slowly emptying hall now that he’d finished at his locker. “I think I’m gonna get MJ’s help. She’s a sucker for this sorta thing.”

“--Sucker for what sorta thing?”

Speak of the devil.

“The English project. Peter hasn’t even started on his yet.”

“You might wanna get on that Parker,” MJ points out, “you may be a genius, but you can’t write a 7 page analytically comprehensive essay in a night. Also, I’d advise studying up on Plato’s philosophies on morality. He has some interesting ideas that go along with the whole ‘defining a hero’ concept Mrs. Morris likes. I’m actually surprised she didn’t recommend his book before assigning the project.”

MJ zones out in thought and Peter stares at her. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard her speak for that long in a single period of time.

“Yeah, but I don’t even know who to write about, and that’s the backbone for the whole project.” Peter eventually says, shoulders slumping in defeat. He rubs his head while he’s at it. The ringing had at least finally stopped, but now the lights were a bit bright and he was only dreading the walk home beneath the bright afternoon sun… Maybe he could stop by Delmar’s for an hour or two. He could probably scrounge up enough change along the sidewalk for a sandwich too. Or maybe offer to work for it. Mr. Delmar’s let him wash the dishes in payment for a sandwich before.

“What about your Uncle,” Ned offered, “he was a police officer right? And he went head to head with Iron Man when he was tearing up the city! You could write about that.”

Peter laughs with a humorless undertone. “Sure, because he definitely stood a chance before the first repulsor blast tore a hole through his chest.” Peter grimaced at his own words, wincing at the disrespect in his tone like he was expecting Ben to rise from the grave to exhibit his disapproval. It’s been three years, yet he still reacts like his Uncle was still around to enact a punishment. 

Weak, Parker… weak. 

“Wow,” MJ scoffed. “Morbid, much?”

“Sorry,” Peter sneered, “I’m just kinda grumpy today.” 

Ned’s mouth fell into a frown. “Oh yeah. I’m sorry Peter. I forgot.”

“What’s wrong?” MJ asked, and if Peter wasn’t mistaken, he’d say there was a smidgen of genuine worry in her tone.

“Peter hates Fridays,” Ned answers for him, “he has to do chores all weekend.”

Yeah… the chores weren't really the problem. 

“Well, sucks to suck,” MJ chuckled, “have fun cleaning Parker.” And with that she waves, breaking away from the pair when her mother honks the horn from the car-pickup line.

Ned grabs his shoulder. “I’m really sorry Peter. Hopefully he’s a little more bearable this weekend. You’re always welcome to come over if you’re able to get away. My Mom’s making the Poi you like.”

Peter shakes his head. “You know I can’t, Ned. I wish I could.”

“Alright then,” Ned sighs, “I’ll see you Monday, and I’ll make sure to bring you some leftovers!” Peter smiles. He didn’t deserve a friend like Ned. No one did. “Maybe you could use the project as an excuse to stay in your room this weekend.” Ned smiles, hoping to lift Peter’s spirits, and Peter’s too afraid to tell him it wasn’t worth the effort, so he just kept smiling and bid his best friend goodbye before tugging his hood over his head to block out the sun and heading back to the apartment, keeping his pace slow and allowing himself to absorb the last hour of peace before the weekend truly began.

He was in for a long couple of days...

He steps through the door, closing it behind himself as quietly as he could manage, but it was no use.

“Peter!” The joyous shout made him wince scornfully. “How was school?”

The man steps into the room, wiping flour from his hands with a dish cloth and grinning like there was nothing wrong with the world. 

“Good, sir,” Peter answers with a numb frown and dull tone, “I have a lot of homework this weekend, though.”

“Sorry to hear that pal,” the man frowned. “Why don’t you get a head start on that so you still have time to do your chores this weekend?”

Aaaand that's exactly the plan. Peter offered him a tight smile and escaped to his room. He shuffled around for a while, deciding whether he should power through his procrastination and get started on that project, or just lay face down on his mattress and wallow in his own misery, hoping his migraine would magically go away.

He decided the former would be better, just in case an impromptu visit from his foster father was in his near future. So he powers through the dull throb in his head and sits at his desk, grabs a pencil and a clean sheet of paper and begins to brainstorm… he thinks of every person he knows who may be qualified to star in the project worth half his grade. He’d probably choose Mr. Delmar if he knew more about him… he didn’t think he could write an entire 7 page, in-depth, essay about the sandwich shop owner without at least conducting an interview first, and he’d rather not go through that awkward exchange. 

Ned was the closest second, but he knows Mrs. Morris wouldn’t approve of him using a peer as his self-proclaimed hero. And, god, Ned would go all mushy on him and he really didn’t want that either.

He toys with the idea of using Uncle Ben, just to have something to throw on the page, but his conscience wouldn’t let him do it… not when he knew the man for who he was outside of the uniform.

So, he makes a list-- A checklist to be more precise-- to help him make an informed decision 

What makes a hero?

Brave

Honest

Selfless

Good

Caring

Strong…

The list went on, and at the rate he was able to scribble down the words, the faster he came to realize that by these standards there was no one in his life qualified to don the title of his hero. 

He pouts… staring down at the first sheet of paper he’d neatly laid over his desk. It was blank, besides his name scrawled in the top right corner. Out of all the essays he’s written, he thinks this might be the hardest of them all. Give him a prompt, and a research topic and he can write all day long, but using his own opinion and discretion? On a matter inherently personal and subjective? Most people would find it easy, but it was going to be a struggle for him.

He had no hero to write of… but maybe that in itself was something to write about. Mrs. Morris might appreciate the unique twist. So, he begins to write. He lets his pen scrawl across the paper, jotting down any thought that comes to him in hopes it will spark some sort of creativity...and he doesn’t stop until his hand is cramping and he forces himself to look back through his messy scrawl of his rough draft to correct any mistakes he might have made.

Peter B. Parker

Mrs. Morris

English 101

With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility

“With great power comes great responsibility,” a wise man once told me. At the time I wasn’t sure what it meant, or the implications behind the words, but now I think I understand it better. This is why I’ve come to the conclusion that I do not have a hero. Most students would probably choose their parents, or one of the Avengers, but for me both of those would be used in the past tense. To be a hero is so much more than just helping people. It takes determination, courage, morality, and strength, because the load any hero must carry is heavy, and most can’t handle the weight. Heroes are a thing of the past, and I theorize that they may not have ever even existed at all. A man or woman may appear heroic, but that does not make them a hero at heart. In this thesis I will discuss examples of heroes of the past, the struggle they had faced, the criteria I believe makes a true hero, and the string of elements that have brought me to the conclusion I’ve drawn.

First, I would like to bring out a prime example of my theory: Tony Stark, aka. Iron Man. He was once known as a great hero, possibly one of the greatest of all time. Had he not done what he did, Tony Stark would be the theme of this essay, but instead his transgressions have inspired doubt and bitterness. In another life he would still be considered a great man, and I would have continued to look up to him, but the pressure he faced crushed whatever goodness he had before. The pressure of such a strong responsibility can easily become overwhelming, and a debilitating mental disorder is not uncommon in his line of work. “A career dedicated to protecting and serving others may leave minimal time for self-care in addition to being frequently exposed to trauma. The unique pressures experienced by these first responders lead to a high occurrence of substance use and mental health disorders” (Hull 2020)...

Peter frowns as he reads through what he just wrote. He was in no way trying to excuse the actions of Tony Stark, yet that’s what it was sounding like. What the man had done was despicable and unforgivable, and Peter couldn’t think of a better example to prove his point. Tony Stark was no hero… there was no such thing as heroes anymore. But, as per the rules of essay writing, he couldn’t be entirely subjective. So he must prove his point through facts and logic, and Tony Stark was a prime candidate to do just that.

... There is plenty of speculation regarding Tony Stark’s breakdown, though most of the theories can be trailed back to a long line of undiagnosed mental health disorders. This fact in no way excuses the actions Tony Stark committed, just as a person suffering from psychopathy is not excused for any violent actions they may commit…

There, that makes him feel better.

...This account is simply to help better understand why Tony Stark may have chosen the path he did when he held so much promise in the future of his career. 

Before Tony Stark ever donned the title of Iron Man, he had suffered from many mental illnesses. Ranging from alcoholism, to severe depression and dissociative tendencies (Everheart 2009). After becoming Iron Man, he did amazing work that would have properly designated him as a hero according to the criteria I have put together. He put the people first, he created several charities dedicated to helping people in need, and he helped form the avengers to save the world from the extraterrestrial attack of 2012. He was selfless in many ways, but selfish in so many more, and this alone disqualifies him from his heroic position. His position in this particular tile of my rubric, had gone unnoticed for many years, forgotten after his former years of malicious and careless actions. One day, it culminated, as most already know, after he lost his longtime partner and friend Pepper Potts in an accident. This, as most believe, is the driving force behind the mass murder that followed. There are still many missing details in regards to this complete turnaround in his character. Even before the Avengers were betrayed and killed by one of their trusted leaders, there had been many testimonies coming forth of the sudden animosity between them and Stark. The people turned against him as soon as word spread, and government officials even attempted to detain him. There is plenty of video feed of the occurrence, most capturing Stark’s attempt to explain the reason for his actions of killing his former teammates, but the disregard and the hatred people rightfully spewed led to a devastation of New York far worse than what the city had seen a year prior. These were the acts of a troubled man. A man who was once considered a hero; one of the best the world has ever seen, yet the natural mental disposition of man led to his downfall. That is why no man can be considered a true hero.

Tony Stark killed his family. Tony Stark was responsible for his suffering. The man deserved a death far more tortuous than the one he enacted on himself. Peter’s glad he’s dead… because if he was alive, he might just consider doing the deed himself. He can only hope the man was rotting away in hell.

Peter stares down at the page, scowling at his own words. Just because he couldn’t be a true hero like he aspired to be, didn’t mean he couldn’t try. He could-- no he would be better than Tony Stark. 

He turned in his desk chair to stare at his ratty backpack which held his most prized possession, then he glanced back towards his bedroom door. It was too risky to go out now; he’d have to wait until Beck drank himself into a drunken stupor before he could sneak out the window. He was exhausted… and his bones felt heavy, but he couldn’t use that as an excuse. Maybe he’d take a short nap after dinner to replenish his energy before going out, but for now, he decided to put the essay aside and begin on his Calc work. After all, the hardest part of an essay was starting.

~ Next Chapter ~

Ending A/N: Thanks for reading everyone! I hope you enjoyed! I am very excited to begin this journey with you all. The formatting is a little off thanks to tumblr, but oh well, you got the gist of it anyways. If anyone is interested in me starting a tag list for this fic, just let me know, or you could just subscribe to the fic on ao3 so you will be notified by any updates.

Besides that, just a minor point to avoid getting myself in trouble for plagiarizing or something... the first quote of Peter’s essay was a real quote taken from a real article (to give it that true essay writing feel). The in-text citation should really be (Hull, 2020), but this fic doesn’t take place in 2020, so lets juts pretend that it had said 2013 instead. Also here’s the link to the article just in case lol. “https://www.floridarehab.com/resources/first-responders/”

@multiverse-irondad-july​

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Somebody I Used To Know

Summary: Months into the end of the world, the reader helps out a mysterious man she’s never seen before. He asks her to meet up with him where she learns she used to know him better than anyone...

Pairing: Endverse!Dean x reader

Square: Endverse!Dean

Word Count: 2,800ish

Warnings: language, slight danger, angst, eventual fluff

A/N: Written for @spndeanbingo​​

_______

The Croat hit the pavement hard, the guy on the ground looking back at you as he got to his feet. You turned your gun on him, the man staring as you both heard the echoes of running in the distance.

“Either shoot me and get it over with or let’s go,” he said. You lowered your gun and took off running, the man catching up quickly. He went with you down the street before he started to veer off to the left.

“You won’t make it,” you said, going to the other side of the street and opening your jeep door. You spotted the truck in the distance that was probably his. He looked at it and then you and you sighed. You drove over and he hopped on the step up, grabbing onto the top rack. You drove over to the truck and he climbed off, quickly getting in as you both saw a swarm of Croats fill the street.

“Highway 12. Mile marker 108. One hour,” he called out through his window before he took off the other direction. You headed West and drove out of town, finding a quiet parking lot to sit and think in.

Going to meet a stranger by yourself was fifteen kinds of stupid. Even if you were packing. It could have been a trap for your gear or your jeep. Or you. You reached into your glovebox and took out a map, finding the spot the guy had wanted to meet. It wasn’t a very good ambush point, not much cover around on an open stretch of highway.

He was the first person you’d seen in months that didn’t want to actively kill you though which was something. At the very least, if it went bad, you could take his belongings. There was bound to be something useful in there.

One Hour Later

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” said the man as you stepped out of your jeep. You were the only two vehicles around and the swampy fields on either side didn’t make for a good hiding spot. 

“Wasn’t so sure myself,” you said, your hand resting on your thigh holster, his matching you as he straightened up from where he leaned on his truck.

“You had my back,” he said.

“You looked like you were in trouble,” you said.

“I was. Still am,” he said with a shrug. He moved his hand away from his gun and crossed his arms. “Judging by your ride and the gear I saw in there, you’re on your own too.”

“Who says I’m on my own?”

He looked around and smirked, kicking at the ground.

“I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.”

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you said, giving him a nod. “What do you want Dean Winchester?”

“A blueberry pie with a dollop of whip cream on top,” he said, chuckling to himself. “Shit, I miss pie.”

“I’m going now,” you said, a hand on your door already before he started to walk over. He was slow when he approached your jeep, holding up his hands. “I saved you. It’s no big deal.”

“Do you...do you want to come with me?” he asked. 

“Where?”

“It’s kinda far,” he said. You undid the clip on the top of your holster, Dean taking a step back. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’d be a bit hypocritical of me considering you saved my life an hour ago.”

“You don’t trust strangers. Didn’t you learn that in apocalypse 101?” you said.

“You are as sarcastic as ever,” he said, a dry laugh escaping him. Your gun was out and by your side now. “There was a time when you would have died for me.”

“You going Croat on me?” you asked, cocking your gun and raising it up. He shook his head but dropped his hands down. “Up if you don’t want a hole in your shoulder.”

“Y/N…” he sighed but he did hold his hands up again.

“Turn around.”

“January 30th you woke up in Phoenix, Arizona in hospital room 45A at Mercy General with a burn on your lower right back, selective memory loss of the previous ten years and a tattoo on your hip of a star in a ring of fire.”

You swallowed and reached around your back, feeling the scar there. He slowly moved his right hand down and grabbed the back of his jacket and shirt, yanking them up to show his back.

“I got one too, sweetheart,” he said, dropping the clothes over his scar.

“Who the fuck are you?” you said as turned back to face you.

“I was your husband. Soulmate too. It’s not a burn scar. Our bond was literally physically there once after something happened and it left a lasting impression. It’s a long story,” he said as you raised your eyebrows. “Yeah. I know I sound nuts. But how else would I know that crap?”

“Prove that-” you said before he tugged his shirt collar aside and revealed a tattoo just like your own. “Who are you?”

“Dean Winchester. You’re Y/N Winchester. It’s been a while since you’ve been called that is all,” he said.

“I’m not married. I work at Starbucks and I tend bar. I-”

“Your father died when you were thirteen. Everyone told you it was a burglary gone wrong but that never sat right with you. When you were eighteen, you confronted your mom about it. She walked out and called you to meet later on that night. She never showed. Three days later, you got a story she was attacked by a rogue grizzly while hiking. Any of this ringing a bell?”

“I never told anyone I thought my dad didn’t die in that house,” you said. 

“You told me about five years ago.”

“What’s something else I’ve never told anyone?”

“You know your mom killed your dad but you don’t remember why.”

“It’s creepy that you know that,” you said, looking him up and down.

“Your amnesia was related to something...specific. It’s more like memories were wiped clean of certain things. You can remember the past few years. They feel bland is all, right?”

“Are you like this too?” you asked.

“No. I’m the one that had your memory wiped,” he said. Your eyes narrowed and he tilted his head back. “I’m not going to answer why and I’m not telling you what’s gone. If shit weren’t bad, I’d never have come back.”

“What do you mean come back?” you asked.

“Well, when the shit hit the fan and the literal end of the world started, I went looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Cause I’m your husband, dumbass,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

“Well if I’m not insane and what you said is true, I think the relationship ended when you wiped my memory, don’t you think?” you said. “I was out screwing a guy two months after I got out of the hospital.”

He dropped his gaze down, taking a deep breath before he forced his head up.

“Shit. You really do love me,” you said.

“Yeah. I do,” he said.

“I was kinda lying about the screwing thing. I wanted to see your reaction,” you said.

“Don’t do that again,” he said but you saw the flash of relief on his face. “I know it sounds crazier than Croat crazy.”

“Yeah. All evidence points to you telling the truth though,” you said.

“Will you come with me? We can go someplace safe. Take your own ride if it makes you feel more comfortable,” he said.

“Fine. But I don’t care if you do love me. You do something shady, I’m gonna shoot you,” you said.

“Funny. You shot me the night we met. Just like old times,” he said. You blinked a few times and he shrugged. “Good on gas?”

“Half a tank,” you said.

“Top off,” he said, walking over to the back of his truck. He opened the trunk and grabbed a gas can. He set it down on the road and walked back to his driver’s side door. “If we head out now we can get there by night.”

“Alright. Lead the way.”

Eight Hours Later

“Where the fuck am I…” you said to yourself as you drove up a dirt road. You saw Dean stop ahead of you and get out of his truck. He opened up a garage door and hopped back in before he pulled inside. He stepped out and waved you to park behind him. You were hesitant to but part of you trusted him somewhere deep down. You took a breath and pulled in. He locked up the garage as you got out and looked around. “What is this place?”

“It’s where I live. You used to live here too,” he said. You turned your head around and spotted a nice muscle car parked in the corner. “Baby’s not much for an all terrain vehicle unfortunately.”

“I like it,” you said.

“You always did,” he said. “I haven’t been here in a while so hopeful it’s not too much of a mess.”

“Lead the way,” you said. 

“You want me to get your bag for you?” he asked. You shook your head and crossed your arms.

“Let’s see how this goes first,” you said. He nodded and went down a short flight of stairs, opening a door. You followed after, finding yourself in a set of hallways.

“Y/N?” said a voice behind you. You spun around with your gun out, aiming straight at a giant of a man, his hands up. “Shit, it’s Sam. Don’t shoot me.”

“She doesn’t know who you are,” said Dean. “Y/N, this is Sam. He’s my little brother.”

“Anybody else live here I should know about?” you said, lowering your gun, not yet returning it to it’s holster.

“Our friends, Cas and Jack, do sometimes but they’re not in. They’re out working on something,” said Dean. “Just us here.”

“Fine,” you said. You put your gun away, Sam dropping his hands to his sides. 

“I’ll uh, show you around,” said Dean. “Sammy, maybe you can get my stuff from my truck for me?”

“Sure. Y/N, good to see you,” said Sam as he headed up into the garage. 

“Y/N,” said Dean when you stared after him. “Let’s check out where you can keep your stuff, okay?”

“After you.”

“How you doing?” you heard Sam ask Dean later on in the night as you roamed the halls. You paused around a corner and heard a sigh from the other side. 

“Surprised you’re not telling me I told you so,” said Dean. “You told me how wiping her memories was one of the lowest things I’ve ever done.”

“It wasn’t your choice to make. But I understand why you did it. I should never have said that,” said Sam.

“You were right. I’m lucky she’s even alive. If I hadn’t done that, she would have been so much safer when the world went to shit.”

“You can’t predict the future, Dean,” said Sam. “You were trying to protect her.”

“It all still went bad,” said Dean. “All I did was make her more vulnerable. I don’t know what to do.”

“You could tell her the truth.”

“She’ll think I’m nuts.”

“She seems to believe the you wiping her memories part. If she can believe that, she can probably handle the rest. Think about it. Croats are real. A year ago people would have thought this was insane. The way I see it, you’ve been out there a long, long time looking for her. If you want her to stay, you have got to tell her everything,” said Sam.

“What if she wants to leave then? It’s safe here,” said Dean.

“You have to respect her right to choose. You took that from her last time. Let her have it now,” said Sam.

“I know,” said Dean quietly. “It’s just...I know I hurt her when I did that. I could live with it though because she didn’t know. She was starting to have a good normal life. Then this happened and I hurt her for nothing. I made it worse. When I tell her, all I’m going to end up doing is hurt her again. She doesn’t deserve that. She never did.”

“Dean. The only problem you ever had when it came to Y/N was you loved her. It’s fine to want to protect her. But sometimes, you have to let people you love get hurt. You can’t protect them from everything. When that happens, they want you there to help them heal. You owe her the truth, De...and to cut yourself a break. You wanted better for her. There’s nothing wrong with that. Let her pick what better is though. It’s her life, not yours.”

“I’ll talk to her in the morning. We had a long day,” said Dean. “Thanks.”

“Night,” said Sam. You quickly headed back towards the room you were staying in. You heard Dean go past in the hall outside and round the corner, a door shutting in the distance. A few minutes later you wandered over to his room and knocked on the wood.

“Yeah?” he said. You pushed it open and saw him sitting on the edge of the bed in a shirt and pair of boxers. “Do you need something, Y/N?”

“I sort of heard you and Sam just now,” you said. He nodded and looked down to his lap. “I don’t know you anymore. I don’t know what we used to talk about or how we used to. I don’t know why you did what you did. But I do know I felt something the second I saw you. I know that you made a mistake and I know you did it to protect me. I know I’ll forgive you for it too.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you tried to help me. I won’t be mad at you for that,” you said.

“I took away your memories and I don’t think I can get them back,” he said.

“I guess you’re just gonna have to get me to fall in love with you a second time then,” you said. He stared at you and you stepped inside, sitting beside him. “You did it once. It shouldn’t be too hard the second.”

“You don’t even know me and you’re still...you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I think it’s my choice, Dean.”

“But why? I thought you didn’t trust me.”

“You love me. You went looking all that way for me to make sure I was safe, in the middle of the end of the world. You don’t do that for people you don’t care about,” you said.

“If you change your mind, it’s okay. I understand,” he said.

“Okay,” you said. You took one of the hands in his lap and held it, Dean turning his head. “Don’t count on it though.”

“Alright,” he said as he ran his thumb over your skin. “It’s late. You should head to bed. I’m sure you haven’t slept on a mattress in a long time.”

“I haven’t,” you said. You leaned back and shut your eyes. “Feels good.”

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” he said. “I know I’m a stranger.”

“I know. I want to if that’s alright,” you said. He hummed and lay back himself. “I like that picture over there. On your dresser.”

He was quiet and you opened your eyelids, glancing over at him as he looked at you.

“We look happy,” you said.

“We were,” he said.

“Maybe someday we can get back to that,” you said. You smiled and he returned it. “Thanks for coming to make sure I was okay.”

“Always, sweetheart. Always.”

_______

[whitherliliesbloom]

eyes fixed upon a shiny ray

[ ffxivwrite2021 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #24 - illustrious ]

[ alphinaud/wol ] ★ [ 2,858 words ]  ★ [ aetherweave au ]

witch / wizard academy au i’ve never written for. features mintdrop’s totomi and windupdragoon’s kirishimi. mentions heirsofdiscord’s moth’ir, ancientecho’s laurelis, peachteaoni’s lily and windupnamazu’s lunya.

illustrious-  famous, well respected, and admired

asking the star student of the most prestigious magic academy in eorzea out to the end of year prom is as daunting as it sounds

“Gods, sulk all you want, but can you at least stop pacing? You’re making me dizzy.” Alisaie sighs heavily, resisting the urge to yell only because she knew full well that her voice would echo through the halls at lightning speed, and she’s already been reprimanded for noise disruptions one too many times in the past now. 

Where she sat atop the wooden desk, she glared down at her twin, who has been walking laps around the back of the classroom with his hands plastered upon his chin for the past 10 minutes now. Alisaie had hoped to spend her free period practicing Blitz Ball, but it would seem that her brother and practically the rest of the academy was far more hung up about the upcoming end of year promenade dance, and she’s close to getting sick of all the endless chatter about who everyone was going to ask out as their dance partner.

The young witch in training had about just the same amount of interest in her brother’s love life as she did history of the arcane arts, which is to say none at all. But family is family... and if Alphinaud failed in his endeavor to ask out the girl he’s had his eyes set on for the past year now, she will never hear the end of his relentless mutters.

“Just ask her directly. It’s not that hard is it?” Thancred thinks to chime in from two desks away, fiddling with his jet black wand. 

And though Alisaie wholeheartedly agrees with Thancred’s assessment, she cannot bring herself to pass up the opportunity to call him out either.

“Hah, like you’re one to talk. How long again did it take for you to ask out Moth’ir? And you’ve known for what, almost your entire life now?” 

Light banter and friendly, healthy amounts of spite is normal among their group, and Thancred seems to be unaffected by Alisaie’s words as he throws his hand up and shrugs with an unapologetic smile. 

Alphinaud doesn’t stop pacing - not until he feels a light zap of lightning strike his bare hand and jolt him out of his focus, his head turned up to look at the wide chesire grin of the transfer student who twirled his leopard patterned wand between his index and middle finger playfully. Internally, Alisaie thanks the high heavens.

“Hien!” Alphinaud’s voice is a mixture of accusatory, confused and startled, and the raven haired student could only let out a hearty laugh before leaning himself back against the wall.

“Relax! A little jolt won’t kill you.” Hien begins waving his wand recklessly in the air, no doubt asking for reprimand if a teacher were present. “Anyways.. Who’s the lucky girl who’s caught the eye of our Alphinaud here? Must be someone quite special for him to be so nervous.”

Everyone’s eyes collectively widen, now fixed upon Hien as Thancred opts to answer on behalf of his friend.

“You don’t know? It’s Illya. It’s always been Illya.”

“Mm... Sorry, the name doesn’t ring any bells.”

The silence lingers a little longer now, as the other three exchange wide eyed glances of shock between them. 

“Y-you.. you don’t know Illya?” Alphinaud sounds utterly taken aback, and Alisaie almost speaks up to remind him that not everyone would be as enamored with the star student of Aetherweave as he is. 

“The little witch of a thousand miracles? Lady of the endless garden? The viola nebula? The star blossom? The tamer of the beasts? The one who pulls down the stars and wears them under her hat?” As he listed off the top of his head some of the most famous titles that had belonged to the object of his infatuations, Hien could only hum softly in thought as a response.

“I’ve heard of a few of those titles... I didn’t think they were all referring to the same person, however. Just how many names does she go by?”

Had it been anybody else, Alisaie would have probably accuse them for living under a rock - because anyone who has studied at Aetherweave academy would certainly not go long without hearing of Illya’s name. She didn’t know a single person in the academy who has not heard of at least one of the girl’s heroic exploits with her friends. 

Hien however was a transfer student, one who came from a sister academy back in the Far East only a few months ago, and despite having settled into his new surroundings comfortably, is still not entirely aware of all the gossip and rumors that run rampant in the magical halls of Aetherweave. 

“More like.. what name doesn’t she go by.” Alisaie’s shoulder rises and falls. “Have you heard of what happened just three months ago? About the Guardian Tree at Everschade?”

“That rings a bell. It was in the process of dying but somehow magically got rejuvenated and started to bloom purple flowers, didn’t it?”

“That was her doing.”

Now, Hien’s eyes are wide in surprise, letting out an elongated whistle as he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“By the kami...”

“She was also one of the few students in the academy to have not only met but also tamed a wild wyrm. They say her new dragon friend, Midgardsormr is sitting right in her backyard.” Alphinaud adds, “Her friends and her were also the ones who were at the front of the charge in the winter of last year, defending the school when there was a surge of Sineaters coming from Lakeland.” His hand rises up to hold his chin. “Not to mention, she’s a top student. She’s consistently been in the top 5 of our year when it comes to grades. And her command over magic is praised even by grandfather himself.” 

Praise coming from Archon Louisoix himself? That certainly is something worth prestige and recognition. Rightfully impressed now, Hien’s lips turn upwards into smirk as he turns to look back at the boy. 

“Well, I can see why you’d like her. What’s the problem then, friend? Is she not easy to get along with?”

At Hien’s suggestion, Alphinaud quickly shakes his head.

“Oh, no, she’s not like that. She’s very approachable. Perhaps a bit...shy, and not very good at speaking to strangers at all, but she’s a wonderful person. Perhaps... a bit too nice, is all.”

With his response, Alphianud drops his head with a heavy sigh and casts his glance downwards onto the floor in exasperation, and it prompts Hien to hold back any further questions. He merely turns to look at Alisaie and Thancred, who can only frown and shrug respectively in silence.

It wasn’t that Alphinaud hasn’t tried to ask the girl out - he’s been trying to for months now, well before even the details of the promenade dance had been released and he saw it as a good opportunity to finally ask the girl out to be his dance partner. 

He’s tried many times, and failed spectacularly an equal amount. 

Perhaps as a result of her kindness, Illya has found herself surrounded by a group of other equally individualistic and unique friends who, in one way or another, has interrupted Alphinaud’s attempts to ask her out at least once. 

He remembers Illya’s best friend, Laurelis, a joyful miqo’te girl who was well aware of his affections for her friend and is even the most enthused out of all of Illya’s circle about helping them get together... but has also unknowingly sabotaged his attempt to ask the girl out to movie date when she’d pulled Illya to town right after school for an impromptu shopping trip.

Lunya, a sharp-tongued girl who had been in a different class from Illya had been ecstatic to find that her friend, who she would not normally get much time to study with, had opted to take the same astrology and fortune telling electives as her. And for the three months that they had been together, she would always swiftly pull Illya away from him with a protective glare. 

And Lily, who studied in the year above them and was close and dating Illya’s pseudo big-brother figure, had busied Illya with the task of tutoring her after class on how to become better at healing magicks, an endeavor that took up almost all of Illya’s spare time and he could not in good conscious ask her to abandon her close friend’s heartfelt request - especially after learning that her wish to become better at healing stemmed from an accident that Kaye had almost sustained a fatal wound for during last year’s battle against the Sineaters. 

He can no longer keep track of the number of times he’d failed in his attempts, let alone take into account his own confidence beginning to waver... but the two golden foil tickets and a pressed lily in his pocket weighs heavy, and as Tataru and Krile had so eloquently egged him on and warned him, he might not get another chance ever again if he missed this one. 

“OI! HIEN!” A loud, boisterous voice calls out, and a loud thud and an ‘oof’ from Hien sounds out, followed by a breathless chuckle as he shakes the woman who had tackled him against the wall off himself. 

“Kiri, your greetings are enthusiastic as ever, but we’re in the middle of something now.” 

“Huh?” Mismatched eyes finally turn to look at the twins and Thancred, and she lets out a nonchalant shrug. “Oh. Uh, sorry I guess. I can leave ya guys to it then.”

“No, it’s quite alright, Kirishimi.” Alphinaud smiles warmly at his senior, the tone of his voice amiable as ever. “We weren’t talking about anything important.” 

“I didn’t know you considered you not being able to ask Illya out to prom as being unimportant.” His twin sister snickers, and Alphinaud bites back an aggrieved huff. 

“Alisaie-”

“Illya?” Kirishimi’s expression lights up, ears perking as she places her hands upon her hips and gestures towards the direction of the front entrance of the school. “Speakin’ of her, I think she’s leavin’ to go on a date with someone. I saw them going down the stairs after I passed by her classroom and they were talking about uh... ‘desserts’ or something.”

“W-What? A date?” There’s panic evident in her voice, normally already fair complexion on the elezen boy rapidly paling now as he takes a step towards the taller woman. “Is...Isn’t it still in the middle of the school period?? They can’t possibly-”

“Town’s only a few minutes walk away though?” Kiri retorts with a shrug, “They’ll have plenty of time before the next module an hour later... and maybe they’ll even have time enough to work in a kiss or somethin’-”

“I-I... I have to-” Before even hearing the rest of Kirishimi’s sentence, Alphinaud finds himself bolting out of the classroom door and down the hallway towards winding flights of stairs and talking paintings, who chime out in surprise and ask a collective series of ‘where are you going?’ which goes unanswered.

Thancred turns to look at Kiri, a suspicious glint in his eye as he quirks an eyebrow out. 

“She’s not really going on a date, is she?”

Kiri merely shrugs, a mischievious smirk plastered on her face as Hien wraps a proud arm around her shoulder, an equally triumphant grin upon his face.

----------------------

By the time Alphinaud’s found himself past a few feet in front of the building, and sees a familiar curtain of swaying white hair and a tall witch hat crowned upon it walking towards the fountain in the middle of the academy square and towards the front gates of Aetherweave, he’s already rapidly short of breath and found his legs aching, his lungs gasping and burning desperately for air. 

But he doesn’t allow himself to stop- cannot allow himself to stop as he swallows back the lump in his throat and continues sprinting forwards, his voice calling out to her loudly from across the pathway.

“Illya! Illya wait!” 

He thanks the twelve when he sees the lalafellin girl stop in her tracks and turn around with a bewildered expression, her companion beside her equally startled and stopping  next to her as well - though he pays no mind to them... cannot bring himself to exert enough energy to focus on anyone other than Illya. 

It isn’t until he gets closer to the pair, sweat trickling down his brow, his chest heaving as he pants for air heavily and his hands gripping onto his knees as he lurches forward does he finally recognize just who the mysterious student that Illya has decided to go on a ‘date’ with.

“W-wait.... wait a minute..” Alphinaud mutters in between huffs and sharp inhales, navy blue eyes staring down at a lalafellin with familiar straight cut bangs and ruby red eyes. “M-m.... Mint?!” 

Mint.... is Illya’s date? The genki self-proclaimed witch idol peppermint?? Who also happens to be dating his friend Estinien??? She’s who Kirishimi tricked him into thinking was Illya’s date?!

“Whaddya want Alphinaud??” Peppermint lets out a huff and a pout, seemingly unconcerned at his haggard state as she crosses her arms over her chests. “Illya promised to get cream puffs with me during our break time. If you wanna have some, you’ll have to get in line!”

“W-what...? That’s not...”

Twelve forfend... He’s been deceived utterly and completely... He’d like to think he would be a bit more perceptive and intuitive enough to know when he’s being lied to or played but... it would seem like all sense of rationality of his flies out the window when it comes to Illya.

The girl in question merely gazes up at him with concern swirling in her lustrous violet eyes as she tightens her hold on the book she had been holding close to her chest. 

“A-are you okay, Alphinaud?”

The worry in Illya’s voice urges Alphinaud to quickly swallow and give her a nod, a reassuring smile gracing his features despite his drained complexion.

“I’m... I’m quite alright. Thank you, Illya.” 

His heart skips a beat when his smile is mirrored by her, and the radiance of her presence is almost enough to leave him dumb and speechless until she speaks up once more to question him.

“Did you need something from me? You seemed like you were in a hurry-”

Oh seven hells... how is he going to explain his way out of this now? He could make perfectly reasonable and well timed excuses for his other failed attempts... and he could just as easily lie to her and say that it was nothing now... 

But he knows not only would that arouse suspicion, especially with someone as perceptive to people’s lies and intentions as Illya was... but it’d perhaps put her on edge around him in the future. 

And though he’d have liked to invite Illya to prom in private and free of an audience member consisting of someone from her circle of friends, he’s already made a right fool of himself and caused a scene between them.... So to hide away or run from the situation would be...

With a defeated sigh, Alphinaud fishes out one of the tickets from his uniform pocket and holds it out to the girl with trembling fingers, watching in anticipation as her own starspangled eyes widen in shock. 

“I-I.... I just wanted to ask... If you would perhaps like to go to prom with me?”

The normally talkative Mint is now completely silent, holding back impish cheers and laughter as she merely steps back to pump her fist in the air, leaving Illya on her lonesome as a heat quickly spreads across the girl’s fair cheeks and reddens the bridge of her nose. 

It doesn’t take much thought at all for Illya to raise a hand up to take the ticket from him, gazing down thoughtfully at the reflective golden foil and the silver letterings etched into the shimmering surface until she finally remembers to nod in answer.

“Um... Y-yes... I would love to-”

---------

Illya is grateful that nobody else other than Mint had been around to bear witness to what happened, or she’d be certain that the whole school would be privvy to the gossip before sundown. 

Mint’s teasing and chattering is enough on it’s own to deal with, as the girl cheerily munches into her cream puff and speaks in a hushed tone to the violet eyed girl on the other side of the table. 

“I’m so glad for you, Illya! Now you don’t have to worry at all!”

“Y-yeah... I-I suppose so..” The heat from Illya’s cheeks hasn’t dissipated, and she stares into the reflection of the warm milk tea in her hands. “B-but.. what am I supposed to do with the love letter? I’ve been working on it for weeks and now-”

Mint pauses for a moment, cheeks puffed up and full of food as she continues to chew and darts her eyes up to the white ceiling in thought.

“Hm... Well you can still give it to him! Maybe during the prom or something? I’m sure he’ll appreciate it very much!”

[lucithenerd]

[[Allen! <2p!America> PRISON AU > Visit to the clinic <]]

The sun peaked high above the clouds for this afternoon as the loud ringing of a bell signaled lunchtime. Every day remains the same throughout these suffocating stone-cold walls, the dining hall is nothing but a windowless stone box with a grim atmosphere. The place is cold, each breath a visible frost as the air thickens with the stench of breath, and everyone here came from a background, whether it was a good one or a bad one. Everyone came from somewhere.

Allen, leaning his back against the cold rough surface texture of the wall the male crossed his arms and surveyed the room. Prior to lunch this man seemed to have gotten himself in a brawl between one of the prison guards and with an inmate. Punches to the face, stomach and kicks on his arms made him lay low during the afternoon, watching and observing the others. Allen wanted to slip past the guards and get out of here for he wasn't much hungry and did not like the food served here, however a diversion w needed; a distraction to keep all the attention off of him. He lightly tapped his feet against the cold floor, creating small echoes within the large space that, as if the world was giving an opening to escape... that is when a food fight started to erupt in the dining hall and captured all the guards attention to try and stop from things escalating further, but unfortunately it only made things worse.

Taking his chance, Allen slips past through one of the open doors and decided to head for the clinic. Nothing special about it, but perhaps he wanted to meet a special someone there. Someone who.. shows him the kind of touch that doesn't harm him, but rather a feeling of gentleness and love that he never had or experienced yet. Being a criminal sure isn't easy, especially one with a life sentence for all the crimes he did. Or maybe he was on death row? Either way he didn't remember but he wanted to make the time he had left to spend it with her. At this point in time, Allen made himself quite the regular visitor at the clinic. The guy wasn't complaining though, the more visits he had the more times he could use to flirt with one of the ladies. He always had to look forward to that, of course.

"Sup," Allen walked in before knocking on the door, leaning against the doorframe and winked over at the nurse, grinning. "Miss me, doll?" He chuckled with an amusing tone to his voice. Allen took a step into the room with his smirk only growing more as he casually whistles to himself.

"Well you know the deal. Patch me up," A soft grumble escapes his lips once he sat down in one of the chairs in the room, slouched over. How fast his mood certainly changed, that doesn't stop him however from hitting on her.

[batarella]

The Commander - Part 11 (Arkham Knight x Reader)

This part has the most character development for our Commander here. the good stuff is about to begin. BUCKLE UP.

WORDS: 3356 WARNINGS: DEATH. AND JASON FLUFF BECAUSE WE ALL NEED THAT

Masterlist

THE COMMANDER - MASTERLIST

-----

The sun never shined this brightly into her room before.

Beauty. Perfection.  Bewitching, captivating beauty.

Y/N couldn’t help but run a finger across his stubble. Jason was still asleep, facing her. He never looked so peaceful with his mouth slightly parted and the muscles on his face relaxed. It was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes.

It was like waking up in a lone bed by a lake. A clear, turquoise lake with a silent waterfall at the far back. With so much green around her, she couldn’t breathe any speck of corrupted air. There would be no one else but her, and she’d jumped into the cool waters. Nothing else in her mind, but the feel of it calming her skin.

She didn’t want to get up. Not even if she needed to.

And today, she really needed to.

Today, the wretched, horrible day.

October 31st.

Their last day at the barracks in Venezuela. By noon, they’d have cleared the building. By sundown, all units should have boarded the jets.

By 19:00 tonight, they arrive at Gotham.

But Jason. Jason. Jason. Jason. He was still asleep. She didn’t want to just wake him up. The last time he spent the night, she woke up alone in a wrecked bed.

Jason’s eyes slowly parted open, and immediately, he smiled at the sight of her like she was the sun.

God, he had her heart in such a twist.

Y/N inched nearer to him and placed the softest kiss on his lips. He groaned, with the same sexy voice he always had after waking up.

And it was like the waterfall fell harder into the lake, the sounds becoming more eminent and the water so much colder, sinking into her flesh.

He reached for her hair, letting her locks tangle into his fingers. Y/N closed her eyes with her nose touching his lips. Jason kissed her again, and very slightly pulled away.

“I’d love stay in, but we have to go,” she reluctantly said.

It was over too soon. The five minutes she had, an escape from who she was, what she had to do to live. This was all it was. He nodded and sat up. Jason swung his legs over the bed and grabbed his pants on the floor.

Y/N did the same, walking over to her closet and picking out a fresh set of clothes. “I’ll go out first. Wait a few minutes until everyone else had cleared the quarters then you walk out.”

Jason laughed, like what she said was just adorable. After placing both arms through the holes on her jacket, she walked up to Jason, still sitting on the bed, and he craned his head to look up at her. Y/N held his face.

“Tonight, I’m just the commander.”

He slowly stood up, “You’re never just the commander.” His lips met her forehead and he walked over to pick up his shirt and hoodie, putting them on. Y/N walked to the door, barely opening it just to squeeze herself up.

She took one last look at Jason.

“Ten minutes.”

He gave her the best smile she’s seen in her life, with his teeth showing and his eyes all crinkled up at the corners.

Jason was the best thing that ever happened to her.

Y/N smiled back and closed the door.

Xxxxxx

Five hundred, seventy-two soldiers.

Five hundred, seventy-two rifles strapped to their upper bodies.

The Knight’s insignia, painted over their arms, and their uniforms the same red as the sirens. And on their faces, a gas mask covering the whole of their faces.

Five hundred, seventy-two units, in ten straight columns, all facing the platform where the woman in command, the Militia Commander, was standing.

She waited for the siren to come to a halt. This was their last assembly, a little past noon. A short while after this, they board the jets.

“PORT ARMS.”

The rifles were brought to the front of their bodies. The Commander’s arms were behind her back. She watched for any movement out of place. So far, there weren’t any.

“RIGHT SHOULDER ARMS.”

All arms parallel to the floor, the rifles were brought to rest on their shoulders.

“PORT ARMS.”

“ORDER. ARMS.”

The rifles were brought to the floor, with their one hand holding it up.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

This was her biggest task to date.

Fifteen thousand dollars a day. For twelve weeks. That was what Jason promised her, to be given at the end of the night.

The Militia Commander’s face never faltered when her voice echoed throughout the halls.

“SIXTEEN COUNT. MANUAL ARMS.”

Five hundred seventy-two men. And not a hair out of sync.

At the front lines were the soldiers, including the checkpoint commanders. More than three hundred of them. Behind them, the brutes. Then the combat experts armed with swords. Finally, the medics stood at the far back.

Everything they’ve done, the build-up from the weeks of training. It all boils down to this night.

It started with Scarecrow releasing his first dose of the toxin in Pauli’s Diner, where a police officer shot five people and the rest dead from being mauled by their own friends and family. Then Crane sent out his warning. ‘Tomorrow, this will seem like child’s play.’

By now, the whole of Gotham will have been evacuated, save for the criminals, the thugs, the people with no other places to be.

They had the whole night. And with the five hundred soldiers in front of her, Gotham City will be theirs.

Jason stepped beside her. By the time the rifles came at a halt, the commander smiled. He turned his head to her, nodding.

“SQUAD ALPHA, AT EASE. ALL UNITS REPORT TO THE JETS AT 15:00 HOURS.”

“SIR, YES SIR!”

Like a final battle cry, her soldiers moved in orderly lines to the gates. They only had two hours and they leave the barracks for good. This morning they boarded all the drones and weapons caches left until the building looked nothing short of abandoned.

She stepped out the platform and grabbed her duffel bag sitting on the floor. There was a slight buzzing, coming from inside the biggest pocket. Placing it back on the floor, she opened it and dug out her clothes.

A sudden tightness came from her chest when she pulled out her phone. It was vibrating.

No.

Fucking no.

Before she flew to South America, she’d blocked her location, any tracking that could possibly affect her or the militia. She blocked every number possible. No one would be able to reach her no matter how much hacking had to take place.

All except one contact.

And she told that person never to call unless she absolutely had to.

Her fingers were shaking when she pressed the button to answer it.

“Susan?”

Jason went up to her, and she kept her eyes on him as she spoke. He pushed his visor open. He could tell something was wrong.

Susan, her uncle’s ex-wife. Y/N could hear her breathing on the other end, and she heard sobs. She knew her aunt could hear her.

“Susan, what’s going on?”

She heard her cry her name, in the softest voice. Like it would break if it were any louder. She heard Susan take a deep breath, and for a while, she was silent.

“Floyd is dead….”

She couldn’t see her own face.

And every word her aunt said after that, she couldn’t hear.

The marching of five hundred men, she couldn’t hear.

Her own breath, she couldn’t feel.

Like the clouds had stopped moving, and the air sucked into a vacuum. It was a messy blur, and the noise that just kept blowing into her ear. An empty, horrible noise. Like an inaudible screaming that sounded much like her own voice.

Susan was bawling at the other end of the phone. Eventually, Y/N heard a dead ringing. She dropped her phone to the ground.

Jason must’ve heard, because he looked just as distraught as she did.

“Y/N-“

“I have to go…”

To the empty rooms. To the abandoned training grounds. Anywhere. She just needed to move. Anything else and the ground would shake beneath her feet and pull her to the mantles. The floor wouldn’t stop spinning, and she had to keep herself up with her hand against the wall. Move. Move. Move. Where the noises wouldn’t reach her and the colors weren’t so loud.

She should have known. Floyd’s thinning hair, his boney physic, the slightest limp when he was escorted into the visiting area in Belle Reeves. And even before that, how he narrowly missed a shot, he wouldn’t stop beating himself over it. How he talked to her like it was the last time, how she never visited him again.

It was all there. How did she not see it.

‘A tumor. Right in the temple. There was no way he could have been saved. Not even if he wasn’t in prison.’

Her feet wouldn’t stop moving, not even when the walls looked crooked, moving closer together like it was to trap herself within them.

Y/N found herself in the combat grounds.

And by the doorway, her body sank. She took the rifle from her back and slammed it against the steel grounds.

And she released the same wordless cry that was inside her head, but much louder. Her cracked voice bounced off to the walls, louder and louder in search for any release of the painful tightness in the pit of her chest.

There was so much noise, yet so much silence. It was all at the same time. Like the wind was blowing right into her but she couldn’t find any air to breathe.

Her hands gripped on the rifle, her tears landing on the muzzle as her screams faded into echoes. She screamed again, and again, so much the twisting reached her throat. Her voice gave out and no longer could she cry. She fell to the floor, silent.

‘Breathe in. Breathe out.’

Her uncle’s voice, the same one she hears every time she fired a shot.

‘Breathe in. Breathe out, Y/N’ Floyd said. ‘Fire.’

She did as he would have told her. She slowed her heartbeat. She counted her breaths. She focused on the wall opposite of her. Farther. Focus. Focus.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Two arms wrapped around her, pulling her head onto his shoulder. Jason buried his head into her neck. She laid there, close to lifelessness, and stared at the ground. Jason pulled her even tighter.

“I’m here…”

Y/N let the tears fall, even on his armor. But she didn’t move. Even for a long while, none of them moved.

“You two kids done?”

Deathstroke. He was behind her.

“Slade-.”

“Squads Alpha through Foxtrot have boarded the jets. We need to go. Commander-“

Jason unwillingly pulled away. “Lawton. He’s dead.”

Her eyes stayed on the floor. She couldn’t see Deathstroke’s reaction.

“Deadshot?”

Jason nodded. He took both Y/N’s hands and slowly pulled her to stand up. “Come on, Y/N, we have to go.”

“Get over it, kid,” Slade said. “Your mentor had it coming.”

And her next move, no one even predicted. Jason didn’t move fast enough when the Commander charged for Deathstroke – fucking Deathstroke- holding his neck with her arm against the cement wall.

“Y/N!”

“He was my uncle, you son of a bitch.”

“I thought you hated him,” Slade said, pushing her away. Jason stood between her and Deathstroke, but even he wasn’t so sure if he was protecting her from Slade, or the other way around.

“Enough-“

“He raised me.”

Slade didn’t have an ounce of empathy. “Did he raise you? Or train you? There’s a difference. You barely have a life outside your firearms.”

“I kill only when I have to-“

“How many lives have you taken, huh?” Deathstroke was provoking her. “The same as I have.”

“That’s because a third of the people you’ve killed are innocent!”

“Commander! Slade!” Jason pushed her from stepping too close to the old man.

“Get your head back into the field, Commander,” Slade said. “We’re not about to drop everything because of you.”

She threw Jason’s hand away, then stormed out of the combat grounds.

“Where are you going?”

The Commander walked to the dark meeting room. The floor stopped spinning, and the walls stopped moving. Everything was silent now. Even Jason’s footsteps trailing just behind her. She walked into the room and Jason caught the door before she’d slammed it behind her. She sat on the chair, her head in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m so sorry…”

Jason kneeled in front of her and took her hands away from gripping her own hair too much. She was shaking, and her flesh felt dead cold. He took her face in his hands. “I’m here. Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry.”

“He was dying. The last time I saw him- God, I can't get his voice out of my head.”

“I know. I know,” he pulled her close and she had it in her to hug him back. “Don’t worry about the militia. Don’t worry about Slade. Just look at me. Look at me.”

She did, and she felt his lips against her forehead, so soft she could break from it.

“You can stay behind if you want. You don’t have to force yourself. We can handle this. You’ve done more than enough, Commander Y/N.”

She pulled him closer and sobbed into his shoulder. “I’m sorry-“

He shushed her, then let her cry in his arms.

He was dead. Floyd Lawton was dead. Her phone blocked any of his calls. He could have called her days ago. Yesterday. Calling to say goodbye. And she didn’t let him.

Her mentor. Her Father. The one she wasn’t born with. The man who took her in after his sister, her mother, didn’t want her. The man who raised her and loved her in his own way.

Jason didn’t let her go. Her tears had soaked his shoulder. Never, not even by herself, has she cried so much. She’s never experienced death, not when she never had many people close to her to begin with.

Is this how people feel? The friends and families of the hundreds of people she’s killed. Is this how they cope? After she’d fired the shot?

Has she caused hundreds, maybe thousands, so much pain? The same she felt right now?

His hand stroked her back. “Here,” Jason slightly pulled away. He handed her phone with a slightly cracked screen. “Call her.”

Her.

Of course.

Her. She grabbed her phone, and Jason nodded. He sat beside her while she found the contact and called.

The light of her life. The only good, most precious thing in the world before she met Jason. The one thing she always fought for. The one person she will never let darkness touch. Her.

She’d have heard the news by now. Every ring on her phone made her heart beat a little faster. Then she heard her sweet voice.

“Y/N?”

“Zoe…” Y/N cried, and she felt Jason’s hand wrap tighter around hers. He kept his eyes on her, and whenever he did, she calmed. “Zoe, I’m here…”

Her little cousin, who should be twelve years old by now. Who wasn’t much of a cousin as she was her sister. Zoe looked up to her like she was the best, most perfect woman in the world.

It was the other way around. Zoe was her happiness.

“Zoe…”

“Dad is gone,” she heard her say. Her voice was deeper, no longer the child she’d endlessly play with.

Y/N closed her eyes, the tears never-endingly dropping down her cheeks.

“Zoe, I’ll be there soon, okay?”

“You never visit anymore…”

“I know, monkey.” That was what she called her. Monkey. “But I’ll be there. And I’ll visit every week from now on.”

“You said that last time.”

She felt Jason’s thumb rub against the back of her hand, and she held it even tighter. His lips found her temple.

“I know. But I mean it this time. I promise.”

Floyd would want that. He loved his daughter more than anything. He’d want Y/N to take care of her.

“Promise…”

“Yes,” she said. “I promise. And I’ll buy you any toy you want. Every single week. You name it.”

“I’m twelve, Y/N. I don’t want toys anymore.”

“Of course,” she coughed a laugh. “Of course. Anything you want then. Books. Clothes. I’m rich now,” she glanced at Jason, who also managed a smile.

“You are?”

“Yes,” she wiped the tears away. Just the sound of her voice, everything felt better. “I have to go now, monkey. Can you give your phone to your mom, please?”

“Okay.”

“I love you, Zoe.”

“I love you, too, Y/N.”

There was ruffling, then she heard her aunt’s voice.

“Susan. Where are you?”

“We’ve evacuated the city. We’re in Bludhaven.”

Jason just watched her, and she went on telling her aunt what was about to happen. It was difficult to ask that from them. Especially right now.

But they had to go.

Y/N hang up on the phone. And instantly, she went back into Jason’s arms.

“Wait for me at the jet. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Jason cupped her cheek. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll be okay.”

He kissed her forehead, then her lips. Just one sweet kiss. He held both her hands and squeezed them tight.

“Don’t take long.”

She nodded, then Jason left the room, closing the door behind him.

And there was silence, save for a voice whispering into her ear.

It was what he’d want. What he always wanted for her.

Y/N breathed in, then her eyes darted over to the duffel bag.

He was preparing for this moment. That’s why he gave it to her. He knew he was dying.

With the slightest hesitation, she pried the pockets open until she reached the deepest compartment, one she hadn’t touched unless she absolutely needed to.

Floyd never gave her an alter ego. He taught her everything he knew, and made her do it exactly as he would.

He always called her his heir.

She opened the pocket, and a deep red peered out.

Y/N emptied the contents, took everything with her and went for the locker rooms. He gave these to her before he was arrested. She told him she didn’t want it, but her uncle was persistent.

It was the least she could do.

Dull red leather, a suit specially made for her, and silver plates for her shoulders, chest, arms, and lower body. Tight black boots, strapped up to her leg. A gun wrapped around her wrist, this time big enough to fire the same bullets as an M99 sniper. Another gun on her other hand, her rifle.

She faced the mirror.

Then she pulled the white mask over her head.

And staring at her reflection was the bright red light, glowing from the gun optics attached to her right eye.

Floyd Lawton never wanted her to be a sidekick. He wanted Y/N to be HIM after he was gone.

She stormed out the building, out into the hangar where the final jet was about to take off. The aircraft’s exit gate was wide open, leading up to the back where thirty of her men were strapped to the seats.

The Arkham Knight and Deathstroke awaited her at the entrance. The moment she stepped in, the gate folded back up and the jet prepared for take off.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Three hours, and she could feel the jet descending. The Arkham Knight, Deathstroke, and the Commander stood at the front lines where the gate at the back of the jet slowly descended.

She was the woman who led an army of five hundred seventy-two units, mercenaries recruited from all places around the world.

She was the woman about to take control over the City of Gotham, to take Batman head on.

She was the Commander to the Arkham Knight’s Militia.

The red on her optics burned bright at the first taste of Gotham’s darkness.

She was Deadshot.

-----

THE COMMANDER - MASTERLIST

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[kelyon]

Golden Rings 15: A Home

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Mrs. Gold puts herself to bed

Read on AO3

Mrs. Gold rested her forehead against the passenger window of the squad car. The cold glass gave her something to focus on. Something real and solid in this swirling haze of booze and impossible facts.

Sheriff Swan was driving her home. Graham had done this, more times than she could remember. Whenever she was out making too much trouble to ignore, Graham would take her back to Mr. Gold. 

Emma Swan was taking her away from him.

Graham had always been quiet, but Emma kept trying to talk. Mrs. Gold kept her face to the window and let the words wash over her. 

“I know it’s hard to get out of a bad relationship. I can’t imagine what it’s like to get out of a bad marriage. But it’s really important that you learn to put yourself first. Put your own safety first. And if that means walking away--then you just gotta do the brave thing.”

Do the brave thing and bravery will follow. 

The words felt weird in her head, foreign and familiar at the same time. Like something she had known once, but forgotten. What was she remembering it from? A movie? Some hokey book she’d read as a kid?

Mrs. Gold had never cared much about being brave. It didn’t take courage to do what Mr. Gold ordered her to. If she was being honest with herself, she did tend to obey him out of fear--fear of disappointing him, fear of his disdain. Fear of losing everything he gave her, especially those scant, precious fragments of himself.

“And I will help you! I just need you to tell me you need help.” Emma Swan was still talking. “Just give me a reason. I’m not afraid to use excessive force.”

She looked up. “On Mr. Gold?”

Emma pulled into the driveway of Mr. Gold’s house and parked the car. “Why not give a wife beater a taste of his own medicine?”

“He’s is not--”

“Yeah, but he’s not a responsible dominant either,” Emma cut her off. “The kinky stuff is based around trust, so you gotta find someone who’s trustworthy. Good for you if you like pain play, but for the love of God, don’t give that kind of power to someone who isn’t going to care about you.”

“I told you in the station, the problem isn’t how Mr. Gold uses me. The problem is that he hasn’t done anything with me in months!” Fighting off tears, Mrs. Gold unbuckled her seat belt and tried to bolt out of the car.

She got two steps toward the house before everything got all spinny again and she had to slow down. Before she knew it, Sheriff Swan was beside her, holding her up by the elbow.

“Okay, lightweight, whatever you say.”

Mrs. Gold jerked her arm away. “I’m alright on my own.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” She was still walking beside her. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna tuck you into bed. Unless you invite me in or I have reason to believe a crime in progress, my jurisdiction ends at the front door.”   

“Whatever,” Mrs. Gold muttered. She had Mr. Gold’s keys in her coat pocket. The weight of them was like ballast on a sailboat. They steadied her. 

Emma followed behind her as she went up the porch steps. She waited by the door while Mrs. Gold fumbled with the keys. There were so many of them. Months ago, Mr. Gold had sent her out to have copies of the house and shop keys made for herself. That was one of the first strange things he’d done. Those keys were in her purse in the front hall. She still wasn’t used to letting herself come and go. Mr. Gold’s key was original to the house, a brass skeleton key from the 1890s. It wasn’t any trouble to open the door and walk in. 

“You gonna get the lights?” Emma asked.

“No,” Mrs. Gold held her head high. “I like the dark.”

Emma raised her eyebrows. “Guess that’s your choice. But before I go, I gotta say it again: Call me, if you need help. Or if you have questions about how other people do BDSM. Or if you just wanna talk. Okay?”

Safe in the darkness, Mrs. Gold gave a condescending smile and a nod. “Sounds great.” 

“Take care of yourself.”

“Sure,” she said. And shut the door. 

****

She didn’t turn the lights on as she made her way to the kitchen. Mr. Gold’s house was big enough and clean enough that she never worried about bumping into things or stumbling over a pile of clutter. Nothing like the place where she’d grown up--cramped and filthy, piled high with junk. They never wanted to throw anything away. You never knew when you might need something that you hadn’t used in ten years, but you knew it was wrong to waste money on getting a new one when there was a perfectly good one around here somewhere. 

Mr. Gold’s house was a better home than her father’s house had ever been.

She didn’t stop moving until she got the refrigerator. Wincing against the blinding light, she searched for a bottle of sparkling water. She put the cool glass against her swollen eyes and sighed. She kicked away her heels and leaned against the refrigerator door. When she drank, the bubbles popped sharply against the inside of her mouth. It was a needle-sharp pain, soothing in its way.

She’d never drunk sparkling water before she met Mr. Gold. They always used the tap, and if it tasted like dirt or sand, well that was just extra minerals. Not like they could do anything about it. If it tasted like chlorine or carcinogenic runoff from some factory upstream, they couldn’t do anything about that either. People like them just had to keep drinking what life gave them because they couldn’t afford anything better.

She’d have to go back to that--if anything happened between her and Mr. Gold. If he decided he didn’t want to be married to her anymore. Their pre-nuptial contract was very clear: If the marriage ended for any reason, Mr. Gold kept everything. Even her clothes and jewelry. Even her wedding ring.

And her father would have to start paying rent again. She’d never hear the end of that. Of course, she never heard the end of it when Mr. Gold told him he didn’t have to pay rent anymore. Or, more specifically, that whether or not he had to pay rent was entirely up to Mrs. Gold.

The idiot florist had hated hearing that. Mr. Gold had given his daughter financial control of his shop and his house. She could waive the rent or charge him double or kick him on the curb and burn the buildings to the ground as she saw fit. Her father had sputtered and raged and sworn a blue streak when he’d found out. But marrying Mr. Gold meant she didn’t have to listen to his tantrums anymore.

Would he take her back? If Mr. Gold kicked her out, would she even have the option of living with her father again? 

He’d told her she could, on the day that she left. Her father had said that she could always come back. But she knew that he meant she could leave Mr. Gold and apologize for the unforgivable crime of liking sex. She could live with her father if she was willing to put herself on his idea of good behavior. If she never told him what she really thought about anything. If she was willing to cook and clean and slave away in the flower shop just so the two of them could have enough money to scrape by. Like she was a fucking teenager again.

Shitty as it would be to be back in that house, it was probably better than being homeless.

She finished the bottle and threw it in the trash. She still hadn’t turned on any of the lights. She could walk around Mr. Gold’s house blindfolded. In fact she had, many times. And on her hands and knees. And on a leash. And with a ten-inch dildo in every hole she had. That was how Mrs. Gold paid rent. 

Do you have somebody you can stay with tonight?   

Emma Swan’s words had been ringing through her head since she’d first heard them outside of Granny’s. She’d told the Sheriff that she didn’t have anyone. That was probably true. No one who would pick her up at the police station, at least. No one who would want to deal with her while she was drunk and emotional. No one wanted Mrs. Gold when she was at her worst.

Not even Mr. Gold. 

****

The door to the bedroom was open. The bedroom, where all this trouble had begun. She’d had a dream that her husband loved her, and when she’d woken up, she’d tried to make it real.

But he had been dreaming about Belle. 

Belle.

The name had a weird echo in her mind. The other woman. Her husband’s lover. The only other person she could blame for her unhappiness. Was Mr. Gold thinking about Belle now? Would he tell Belle that he had spent a night in jail?

Would he tell her he had done it so Mrs. Gold wouldn’t have to?

In the bathroom, she ran a washcloth under hot water and pressed it against her face. Most of her makeup had been cried off earlier, so the wash was more for warmth. When Mrs. Gold looked at herself in the mirror, all she saw was her own exhaustion. Red eyes, flushed cheeks, quivering lips. Even cleaned up, she was still a mess.

But Mr. Gold had put himself in jail for her.

She looked closer at her reflection, so close that she pressed her forehead to the glass. So close that she couldn’t see the whole of her face. She was just an abstraction, broken apart into pieces. What about her was worth that kind of sacrifice? What about her was worth anything? In the mirror, she was nothing but pink skin, dark lashes, sky blue eyes.

Mama’s eyes.

Mrs. Gold jerked away from the mirror like it had electrocuted her. Maybe it had. Something had to happen to make her hear a voice in her head.

It was her own voice. Only sadder, more gentle. That was how her thoughts had been in the squad car too. And she’d heard it before then. Off and on, in little flashes just like this. She’d been hearing it for weeks. 

If there was anything creepier than hearing a voice in your head, it had to be agreeing with that voice. It was right, she did have Mom’s eyes. Sky-blue, just like Uncle Peter and  Andrew used to have. Just like Janine and Chloe still did.

But she had never thought of her mother as mama. That sounded like something from some historical drama where everyone wore ball gowns and corsets. Maybe she was being possessed by the spirit of a Regency aristocrat. Maybe one of her past lives was trying to communicate with her from beyond the grave.

Or maybe she was very, very drunk.

She turned the light off in the bathroom and peeled off her dress, then looked around her armoire for something she could sleep in. Mr. Gold had never bought her any comfortable pajamas, only negligees and skimpy short sets. In the past--which Mrs. Gold was about two weeks away from thinking of as “the good old days”--she’d rarely worn anything to bed. Once they got home, the only reason she wore clothes was so Mr. Gold could take them off. Especially her lingerie. Mr. Gold liked nothing more than to rip her underwear off her body and leave her in tattered rags before he fucked her 

Mara Trudine probably couldn’t have kept Sugar ‘n’ Spice in business if Mrs. Gold hadn’t needed to restock on panties every week. Well, that was one way to help out an old friend. 

There was one long sleeved tee-shirt in her wardrobe. It was mostly see-through, with a pattern of red velvet roses dotting the thin red mesh. In the magazine, the model had worn this shirt with a camisole underneath. Mrs. Gold was lucky if Mr. Gold let her wear a bra when she went out in this shirt. 

But it was the closest thing to comfortable that she had. A pair of leggings would keep her legs warm. Mrs. Gold didn’t own any sweatpants or yoga pants--or any pants at all for that matter. Mr. Gold had always treasured the ability to grab her whenever he wanted her. Skirts and dresses provided the best access, so that was all he let her buy. 

She sighed. Of course, that was in the past. The way Mr. Gold was acting now, he might as well have bought her a space suit to wear around town, helmet and all.

This was the first night she’d ever spent alone in this house. This was the first time she’d ever gotten into this bed and not expected Mr. Gold to join her. As she pulled back the quilt, Mrs. Gold was struck with a memory from last night: Her husband, trembling with rage, throwing this same blanket over her body before he left. She had tried to make love to him. She had tried to pretend to be Belle, just to get him to touch her. And he had seen it as a betrayal, a violation.

He was right.                    

Mrs. Gold knew that she had done wrong. Her actions were not just immoral, but incorrect. In trying to force her husband to be near her, she had only made him want to be further away. He had run away from her to the guest bedroom. Run and hid, like she was a monster.

Emma Swan kept trying to protect Mrs. Gold, but she didn’t understand. Mrs. Gold hadn’t just done wrong, she was wrong. She was the wrong person. It felt like she always had been. Wrong as a daughter, wrong as a friend, wrong as a student, wrong as a girlfriend. 

Wrong as a wife. 

For as long as she’d been married, she had told herself that the feeling of wrongness didn’t matter. No one’s opinion of her mattered except for Mr. Gold’s. She didn’t have to be good at anything else, as long as she was the slutwife he wanted. But over the past several months, he had made it clear how little he wanted anything to do with her. Maybe he hated her as much as everyone else in Storybrooke did. 

She couldn’t sleep in this bed. This was their marriage bed. If their marriage was broken she’d be better off sleeping on the floor. At the very least, she would follow in Mr. Gold’s footsteps and run away to the guest room. There, she knew, she wouldn’t have the memory of Mr. Gold hating her. If he thought of Belle while he had waited for sleep last night, she didn’t know it for certain. She wouldn’t have to think about it. 

With the lights still out, Mrs. Gold went across the hall to the other bedroom. Mr. Gold’s dressing gown hung from a hook behind the door. She buried her face in the silk and breathed in his scent. Before she could think about what she was doing, Mrs. Gold had wrapped the dressing gown around her body. She pulled it tightly over her shoulders, hugging herself, pretending Mr. Gold was holding her. Pretending that Mr. Gold would ever hold her again.

This bed was smaller than the one in their room. It felt less empty with only one person in it. The pillow smelled like Mr. Gold’s hair.

I love you.

The voice in her head again, saying what she wanted to say. She had never told Mr. Gold that she loved him. Until recently, she didn’t know that she had. Now the knowledge was a burden. It was an ache in her heart, a hole that would never be filled. 

Everything was over.

****

He leaves her in a swirl of wine-red smoke, at exactly the stroke of midnight. He goes, to walk into a trap the two of them have all but set themselves. He goes, to keep her safe from his enemies. He goes, to lay down the final pieces of the plan that will--someday--lead to their complete happiness. 

As he leaves, he keeps his face turned away from her. She understands. When he gets to where he is going, he will have to wear the mask of a devious trickster. Tears would spoil the effect.  

Her eyes are moist as she watches him disappear. 

Candlelight reflects the golden sparkles in the skin of his hands, the glinting crinkles of his hair. His leather-clad back has a dark gleam to it. He keeps his shoulders straight, his arms poised--ready to put on a show.

She cannot look away from him. She would say that she is memorizing him, but she already knows him by heart.

They will be together again.

She must believe that, even when he is gone from their home. She trusts her husband. She trusts the plan they have made together. She trusts herself. She will ensure that they are together again. She can do the brave thing and know that bravery will follow. Though the power she has is small and meager, there is enough determination in her to move the world if she needs to.

If Rumple needs her to. 

She cannot stay staring at the place where he was. There is work to be done. Her husband is doing his part of the plan, now she must do hers. 

Since she is already in the dining room of their castle, her first task is to fetch the chipped cup. It sits in a place of honor on top of the magical cupboard that creates their meals. 

The sight of this cup never fails to make her smile. She had dropped it, on the first of many times one of her master’s orders had shocked her. For a time, it was a shameful thing for her, a sign of failure. Over time, she had decided that she liked his orders, and that she wanted him to give her more. She had offered him the imperfect cup, and he had understood what she had wanted--and he had given it to her.  

When she had left, her lover had destroyed this room. He had smashed all the plates and cups, except for this. Later, he told her that he had wanted to throw it against the wall, but instead he had broken down in tears. He had it clutched to his chest when she found him in the dungeons.

Since the wedding, the meaning of the cup changed again. Now they serve each other, whenever they wish to play. The cup is imperfect, but it is beautiful because of what it means to them. It was the first object they shared together, even before their wedding rings.

She holds it delicately, as she walks to the next room. The night is dark, but torches light at her approach. Even if they didn’t, she knows the way. The castle is her home, and she walks without fear through every hallway. 

The small room at the end of the corridor holds everything Rumple has of his son. There are clothes and toys and even a few battered schoolbooks. This is the boy that he lost a lifetime ago. This is the boy that he will destroy the world to get back. She has never met Baelfire, but she loves him. She will do anything she can to reunite her husband with his son.

If she could, she would take everything in this room. The memories are so precious. She would give them to the boy, once they find him. But her husband has given her specific instructions, and she trusts him enough to follow them. Magic can be fickle, especially when there are too many variables. If they ask it for too much, there is a greater chance that something might go wrong, and an even higher price to pay. They will only need one object of Bae’s to be able to find him in the new world. She can only take the shawl.

It is yellow wool, a little ragged and dirty from belonging to a young boy. Her husband knitted it himself. She feels the love that was woven into every fiber of it. 

She cushions the chipped cup against the shawl and holds both objects in one hand. With her other hand, she draws out a single glove from the pocket of her gown. It is a magic glove, made of black velvet and her husband’s golden thread. As soon as it is on her hand, she is transported to the next room.

This is a room with no door. It can only be entered by using her husband’s magic. This is where he keeps things safe, including his secrets. This is where he stores the remains of his life before he had magic. 

There is a wide bed, stuffed with straw. A rough-hewn farm table with a bench and pair of stools at either end. A spinning wheel wound with simple yarn instead of the gold her husband is famous for spinning. She looks over these furnishings with familiarity and with fondness. She has been in this room many times before.

Often enough to know where to find what she seeks. 

A small table serves the function of a desk. It is piled high with papers, mostly drawings. Rumple’s first wife drew pictures of their son when he was a baby. And when the boy had grown older, he had developed the same talent. 

Her mental image of Baelfire comes from a sketch he made of himself: Wavy dark hair and steady dark eyes, a boy who has already suffered and struggled more than he ought to have, a boy who smiles rarely, but is rarely afraid. She would rather take that drawing than handle what lies on top of it.

The dagger that controls her husband is an evil thing, but he has made her the mistress of it. When he proposed, he gave her the dagger, and submitted to her all the power of the Dark One. Together, they have studied its magic, tested its limits. While she does enjoy having some authority over her beloved, the thought of anyone else using the dagger on him--or hurting him with it--is enough to make her blood boil.

She cannot allow that to happen. She cannot allow the dagger to fall into any hands but her own or Rumple’s. This is the only weapon that can hurt him. She will never allow him to be hurt. She holds the dagger to her chest, just like the shawl and the cup.

She takes off the magic glove and finds herself in the tower room where her husband does most of his work. He knew that he was leaving, so he has put away most of his potions and equipment. 

He may never see these things again.

Tears burn in her eyes. Stumbling to his work table, she lets their things slip from her arms. Her satchel is up here, Rumple must have placed it in this room. He gave her this satchel, the last time they were separated. The last time she had to leave her home. It is brown leather, with a design of a red rose blooming among the thorns.

She sets the cup and the shawl inside the satchel. Then she takes the dagger and slashes the glove to shreds. Golden sparks and wine-red smoke emanate from the glove as magic destroys magic. Now she will never be able to enter the safest room again. But neither will anyone else.

Everything she needs to carry fits inside the satchel. She could probably fit the entire potions cabinet and her husband’s spinning wheel inside and never feel the weight of it on her shoulders. 

Her mission is done, but she has no will to rest. Their bedroom is at the bottom of the stairs below this tower, but she cannot bring herself to go there now. She has never slept a full night in this castle without her husband, without at least expecting him to join her. Their marriage bed is large and luxurious. It will feel so empty without him. She cannot sleep there.

 She wanders over to the window. A waning moon and hundreds of stars cast a soft glow over her husband’s spinning wheel. When he needs to think, he will spin straw into gold, working continuously from dawn until darkness. A day’s work fills up a bobbin of thread, and he has more bobbins than she could ever count. They mark centuries of pensive isolation. He starts every spinning day with one empty, and the work isn’t over until it’s full. 

 But when she looks at the flyer, a bobbin is already waiting there, half-filled up with gold thread. 

For a moment, she is perplexed. It is unlike Rumple to leave a loose end. But then she smiles. She understands. Her husband has left her with a message. An unfilled bobbin means the day is not done. There is still more work to do.

They are not finished yet.