#( he loved him fiercely and feels an immense guilt over his death that i could not stop thinking about )

[cherryjuiceblues]

𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 | 𝟐

➯ HARRY IS A LITTLE OBSESSED WITH Y/N AND Y/N JUST WANTS TO KNOW WHEN HE’LL HAVE SEX WITH HER AGAIN. ✰ dom!harry sexual content. dominant and submissive dynamics. minors dni. 𝑤𝑐 14k ッ mutually beneficial masterlist

Harry doesn’t love his job.

He doesn’t hate it either. But he certainly doesn’t love what he does.

It’s not the hardest of occupations; since becoming CEO (and after getting over the guilt of surpassing his colleagues in status), having the option of assigning others to complete otherwise arduous tasks for him has eased some of his tension.

However—inevitably—those smoothed over stress bumps are quickly replaced by bigger, more stubborn protrusions that take more than a gentle palm to flatten out.

But Harry is comfortable—he’s financially secure, surrounded by a loving family and loyal friends, and treated with respect, revered even, by some. So despite being true, what Harry had told Y/N—that You think I was wishing to own a finance company when I was a little boy? indicating that it has hardly been a dream come true—he is grateful for his position in life. Aware of his privilege but also immensely proud of how much his hard work had paid off.

However right now, as he sits behind his desk with his phone burning a hole in his pocket, Harry hates his job.

Hates the schedule that’s pulled up on his monitor, hates the squeak of his chair as he rolls over to the filing cabinet, hates the way the clock is ticking louder than he’s ever heard it before. And the seconds are taking twice as long as they should.

With each passing minute, the presence of his phone in his trouser pocket becomes heavier and heavier; its lack of buzzing and dinging feeling abnormally disheartening. And everytime his work phone—that’s lying face up on his desk—lights up with an email or a phone call and creates its shrill cacophony that pushes the line of Harry’s brow deeper and deeper into his already default frown, he becomes less and less of the easy-going boss he presents to everyone.

It’s enough to drive anyone mad; this torturous waiting. Harry feels as though he’s being dangled over the edge of a cliff but never dropped, never given the sweet release of death which he would gladly take over the pain of not knowing when he was going to fall.

One week. It had been one week since Harry first met Y/N. One week since they’d had maybe the best first experience he’d ever had with someone, and one week since he’d heard a single thing from her. And the memory of that night is enough to have Harry distracted. Enough to have him on the edge of his seat.

ㅤㅤ

“Please.” She whines—to Harry’s teasingly obvious question.

“More what?” He wants to ask. Wants to make her spell it out for him. 

But he doesn’t. He’s nice. 

Nice as he stretches her open with his fingers—intrusion more than easy with the copious amount of slick between her thighs—whilst his tongue plays with her masterfully. She pants and whines, bucks and wiggles. Loses the ability to say coherent words without stuttering over them.

He takes his time—relishing in the fierce, squeezing heat around his fingers—in the way her excitement makes his palm shine the longer he goes at it.

And he’s thorough in the treatment he gives her. Behaves as if he’s a professional that’s been paid to change her life. He imagines Niall as his agent who had come to him earlier in the day with a ‘great opportunity’ and demanded Harry give his absolute best. 

Pretends that his entire career rides on Y/N’s enjoyment of this night.

Harry thinks, really, that Y/N’s lack of experience means he could do a subpar job in actuality—but the thought just makes him go harder. Makes every flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers feel like the best thing she’s ever known.

She’s soaking into his skin and it’s filthy; the way Harry’s throat rumbles out a groan at the thought of his stubble bathing in her—the resentment he’ll have in washing his face later.

Little does he know that Y/N is thinking the same thing—or rather, imagining the irritation of her thighs his facial hair will leave behind. The soreness that can only come from pure satiation, that she’s sure she’ll admire with great joy. Her first marks, her first memory-jolting piece of evidence of the night she was finally touched. The day she’s been waiting for—for far too long, in her opinion.

Especially now, as it’s happening, and Y/N doesn't know if she’ll ever be able to stop chasing this feeling. Her limbs fight between stretching out in tight, desperate attempts to grasp for her orgasm—and melting into the mattress in a mangled mess of flesh and bone. Harry’s mouth struggles to compete with the smile that overtakes his expression, watching Y/N’s body writhe in response to his ministrations.

This is his favourite thing to do.

She tightens, and squeaks, and drips—Harry’s fingers working her just right and tongue curling in fast, pointed flitters—as she propels further towards the edge. Close, so close; lips moulding around a string of garbled sounds and hips pushing up into the large span of his hand. She’s trying to beg but she doesn’t get the chance because Harry is feeling her spasm in contracting waves and she’s slicking down his fingers, crying out—

ㅤㅤ

Harry’s debauched daydream fizzles away when his work phone chimes insolently. The screen lights up, forcing his eyes towards it.

A reminder.

Team meeting | in 15m

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry runs his hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair as the leather stretches. His trousers are tighter than he would consider comfortable, but he’s safe—no recognisable evidence of unprofessional thoughts in his professional environment.

Harry considers himself to be a focused man—often finds solace in working to provide distraction—but this constant replay that has been leading his mind astray whenever he even attempts to shift his concentration is proving to be a hurdle too high for Harry to jump over. He thinks if he makes himself come then the unavoidable meeting that’s starting in thirteen minutes might be less torturous to sit through.

But just as he smooths a palm over his thigh, there’s a telltale knock on his door. The rapping a pattern that only his assistant uses.

Harry clears his throat, shifting himself higher to appear more orthodox in his chair.

“Come in, Mr Rowland.”

The door makes way as it’s opened, rattling the blinds that preserve Harry’s modesty—matching that of the ones on the full-length windows that look out into the building.

The man moves to stand stiffly in front of his boss’ desk, suit free of creases and long hair tied back to maintain formality. Harry used to have long hair once.

Mitch Rowland is a quiet man; stoic, but not unfeeling. Harry believes him to be the thoughtful type, and he chips away more and more of his exterior everyday, he’s sure. Cracking a joke that makes Mitch laugh feels like a reward—an acknowledgment of all the hard work he puts in to becoming closer to his reserved assistant.

“Time for a briefing, Mr Styles?”

Harry nods, gesturing to one of the armchairs facing his desk. “Yes, go ahead.”

He’s respectful enough to look intently at the man sitting across from him. As he speaks, Harry doesn’t drift off into his fantasy land full of strawberry embroidered dresses and passion fruit martinis—no, he converses with Mitch like the approachable boss he takes care to be, discussing the best way to go about conducting the team meeting and how to amicably pull up the areas that his employees are lacking in.

Truth be told, it’s life changing having someone like Mitch as his assistant. He demonstrates capability—enough so that Harry can often sit back and let him take the reins—it’s satisfying when their brains match up like they're connected via bluetooth. It’s an easy relationship to maintain, and Harry often ponders about how grateful he is.

But never has Harry been more grateful for Mitch as he is right now. (Which is cruel really, for a situation that would probably lose in a battle of importance if voted on by a large audience.)

The meeting is going fine, most likely—Harry wouldn’t know because his mind is elsewhere once again.

ㅤㅤ

“That’s it, take a deep breath for me, darlin’.” He’s good at maintaining composure, but God if Y/N isn’t testing Harry right now. She’s still fluttering—more than ready to let him start pushing into her—as her arousal coats copious miles of skin. He leans over her, pressing a soft kiss to the dip above her chin as he rolls a condom over his neglected cock. The throbbing gets harder to ignore now that she’s laid out for him; all stretched and wet.

“Are you sure it’s gonna… fit?” Y/N looks down, pupils expanding at the sight. Long, and thick, and hard.

“I’m sure,” Harry drags his nose against her throat, lifting back up to catch her blown-out eyes. He smiles.

“I… I want you to feel good too, Harry. Please?”

His heart thumps and his eyebrows pinch. She’s special. He wants to take such good care of her.

“I feel so good, love. I promise.” Harry drops his hips to prove it, sliding through her folds and nudging her sensitive clit as Y/N’s breath shudders. “Are you ready?”

“Can I—can I hold your hand?”

She’s a doll. (Maybe in more ways than one permitting she’d like to be pliable for him, but right now Harry knows she’s cuter than even the sweetest of puppies). He wants to coo right in her face, obnoxious and embarrassing, before his voice takes on a squeaky pitch and he expresses Of course, you can hold my hand—you’re just adorable, aren’t you?

Instead, he wordlessly transfers his weight to the now singular arm holding him up as he reaches for the girl’s empty palm and tugs it up beside her head. Their fingers entwine as the mattress creates a mould of their knuckles—and Y/N’s eyes clear themselves of the fear of rejection, gazing up at Harry with such appreciation that he doesn’t even receive from his employees. Not that he’d expect them to but the way Y/N is looking at him makes Harry feel as though he’s done something far more significant than hold her hand or coax a few orgasms out of her.

It’s almost sad.

“Ready now,” she whispers, and Harry’s forgotten everything else.

He reaches down to stroke over her hip bone in soothing circles. “Keep looking at me, okay?” She nods, eyes never wavering even as Harry guides himself into her drippy hole.

The first feel of intrusion is new—different to his fingers—exciting and tight as the mushroom tip of Harry’s cock presses in gently. Y/N gasps but it doesn’t hurt; it’s a filling sensation, one that makes her question why she’s not always been doing this. It feels right, like it’s meant to be.

And when she breaks eye contact to look down, she sees that he’s hardly an inch in and exhales heavily into Harry’s face. He squeezes her hand, green surveying her expression. It takes all of his composure to ignore how tight she is around him. It’s euphoria.

“H-Harry,” Y/N whines, shiny mouth falling further with each centimetre discovered inside of her.

“So good, baby, you’re so good. Keep looking at me…there you go.” His voice is taut, even Y/N can tell, and she blinks at him because it’s all she can do—hoping she is communicating well enough with her eyes.

As he gets deeper, she suddenly expels a great breath, jumbled words tumbling out. “Thank you, oh—that’s so—oh my god.”

And Harry is bottoming out, balls resting against her bum, as he lets out some air of his own. “Look at that, darlin’,” he smiles, “took all of me, first try.”

Y/N’s face suddenly splits into a grin. She chances a lift of her leg, to open herself up more as she stretches it to the side, bent knee pressing into the sheets.

“I didn’t know I had that much space in there.”

Harry laughs (it’s quite literally forced out of his lungs) and Y/N starts to let out endless strings of giggles—delirious with overwhelming happiness—as her stomach starts to contract. She can’t stop laughing. And every one has her core tightening around Harry’s cock in pulsing flutters.

If he wasn’t searching deep in his mind for the stability not to build up too quickly, then Harry’s heart would be bounding at the sweet sound of Y/N’s giggles. Pure elation in the form of prancing lilts. Bouncing off the walls and racing past their ears; slicing through any of the nerves she had left.

To see her face bunched up in laughter is to witness beauty in its rawest form, Harry is certain. All whilst she lays bare with himself inside of her—connected as far as he can possibly reach—this feeling doesn’t compel him very often. If ever at all.

ㅤㅤ

Sitting at the head of the table with absent eyes, Harry’s nodding his head in faux-interest whilst his mind is full of filth. Not many eyes are on him anyhow, as Mitch talks through the monthly rates but—understandably—when his personal phone starts ringing disturbingly loudly, the heads of everyone turn to watch their boss answer it alarmingly quickly. The same boss who most employees have never seen handle a personal phone in their entire career at his company; might have believed he lived permanently in his office, in fact.

It’s a shock when he holds the phone up to his ear, shoots his assistant a glance and says, “You’ve got this, haven’t y’Mitch?” before exiting the room with a curt nod and a rushed shuffle to squeeze around the chairs.

Harry knows it’s unprofessional of him, but he’s been waiting for his phone to ring all week. So he’ll be damned if he misses an important call just to maintain formality. He can’t fire himself.

The voice on the other end of the line doesn’t quite contain the lilt he was hoping for, however.

“Heyyy, Harry.” He can’t help but sigh as he closes his office door and slouches unceremoniously into his chair. “You’re at work, aren’t you? Surprised you answered.”

“The luxury of being your own boss, Niall,” Harry watches the seconds hand spin around the clock on his wall. Each tick is echoed by nails tapping wood. “You okay?”

“Oh yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I was ringing to ask about you, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“You heard from Y/N at all?”

Harry looks away from his clock. “I haven’t. Is she alright?”

“Oh, she’s more than alright. She had a great time with you.”

He smiles a little, “That’s nice. She’s very sweet, Niall.”

“Mhm she is… I think you should see her again.”

Harry thinks so too. “I’d like that. But I haven’t heard from her, which is fine—I didn’t want to overwhelm her.”

“That’s the thing though—she’s so nervous, even though she’s been proper gushing about ya. She’d love to see you again, I’m sure. But she’s too scared to call you.”

Harry rolls his eyes at his friend’s dramatics. “Alright… what are you saying, Niall?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N is shy. 

Chronically shy.

She always has been and that certainly isn’t going to change overnight. Especially not if she were to meet the most attractive man she’s ever seen, have him take her home and then alter the very definition of pleasure itself. Especially not then.

But she so very wishes that was the case.

The post-it note hasn’t moved from the position Harry left it in when he penned his number. He’d been so sweet when asking if he could give it to her—like making her come multiple times wasn’t enough of an indication that she might want to see him again.

And she really does. God, she wants it more than anything.

But she’s an overthinker. She’s a worrywart, a nervous Nellie, a wet blanket—whatever. In every version of the phone call they have in her mind, she says the wrong thing, or Harry lets her down gently, or someone else picks up the phone. And if she texts him, her responses are awkward, or he leaves her messages on delivered—or worse read—or even worse he asks to see her again and then Y/N has to panic over fifty completely different hypothetical scenarios.

She decides that it’s just not meant for her—relationships, or human interaction, happiness—she’s not sure what specifically, but she knows it’s too much to handle. Harry would only be disappointed in the long run anyway; Y/N is simply saving his time—doing him a favour.

Niall isn’t inclined to agree—because of course the topic came up in conversation. Her friend had never been so eager to talk about anything in his entire life, and he loves talking.

The morning after Y/N met Harry, she was greeted by a dozen text messages, followed by multiple missed calls. (If Niall was ever in danger, Y/N thinks she’d be inclined to ignore him—never phased by the multitudes of spam she receives on a daily basis.) And at the first opportunity he had, Niall was knocking—no, pounding—on her door, sing-songing her name from outside her flat.

There was a reluctance in letting him in. This was all new territory for Y/N and Niall knew that. However in fairness to her—rather oversized golden retriever of a—friend, he attempted with all his heart to pretend he wasn’t bursting at the seams for as long as he could. Grinning in a somewhat subdued manner as she opened the door—elated beam withstanding his journey to her sofa—until he sat down and just couldn’t help himself, springing back up.

“You didn’t fuck on the couch, did you?” Half teasing, half deadly serious as his eyes widen and he shuffles away in an attempt to evacuate quicker if Y/N were to confirm his fear.

Y/N cowered behind her hands, cheeks burning, “No! Don’t say it like that, Niall.”

“Oh right, I’m sorry, hang on,” he cleared his throat obnoxiously, “You didn’t make sweet, sweet love on the couch, did you?”

She squawked and Niall cackled, holding his arms in front of his face when Y/N started to batter him with a sofa cushion.

“Okay! Okay, I’ll stop, I’ll be nice.”

He was nice. A relief to have someone to talk to, and never before has Niall been happier about anything, Y/N is convinced. She didn’t realise the status of her sex life was something to be so thrilled about, but his smile threatened to blind her.

And once the initial embarrassment had somewhat passed, Y/N was honest.

“He was so lovely, Niall. Far too good for me, I mean—God,” she smiled but it’s a little sad.

“Hey,” Niall’s eyebrows pinched, “don’t go there with me, young lady.” He flicked her arm. “Harry wouldn’t have initiated a thing if he didn’t want to. And he left his number, come on.”

And that’s how they’d ended up in a tizzy over calling him. Y/N just couldn’t make herself do it. No matter how sweet, and pretty, and kind he’d been to her. Niall had even offered to do it for her but that had sent humiliating shivers down her spine, imagining it play out. My friend has a crush on you—absolutely not.

The days pass and Y/N works. She eats poorly, often asleep standing by the time she arrives home—and if it is proper food she’s ingesting, it’s something she’s woken up at two a.m. to bake because she’d had a sudden itch to do it. The rest of her time at home is spent cleaning the mess she made whilst baking—which turns into moping with a feather duster in hand. Moping about the best night of her life and how she’ll never get a part two.

Nighttime comes and her fingers don’t feel the same. It feels fruitless to even try. She’s hardly got hands big enough and none of the curling does her any good. It only makes her angry, and that’s the one thing she was always told not to be when going to bed.

She asked Niall not to bring Harry up in conversation again; that it would only make her sad and she’ll just have to get over it. Over him—or over whatever he could’ve become.

So the last person Y/N assumes is at her door when she hears knocking, is the very man she’s trying to pretend doesn’t exist. She’s exhausted—been home for no longer than an hour after a long day of answering the phone to far more people than usual, trying to maintain equanimity as she booked meetings in the rapidly filling calendar. Her lunch break had been undeniably cut short—some may argue it was cut out completely—when the computer she was entering sensitive data into decided to crash (without saving) and Y/N had to compose herself in the toilet so she didn’t stain inky droplets all over her desk.

She was hungry, and tired, and sad, and—above all else—overwhelmed. Y/N’s not sure the last time in her life when she wasn’t, and it really builds up in a person. It’s near impressive that she’s even still running. If Y/N were a computer, much like the one at work, she would have crashed years ago. And point blank refused to turn back on again.

It’s unsettling, to say the least, when she hears that knocking. Because who could possibly be at her door right now? It’s too late for it to be the postman, Niall is still working—and that is literally all the people she knows.

In a panicked rush, Y/N scrambles to answer it, too startled to check her appearance or wipe the panda circles from around her eyes. It feels like everything happens in slow motion, from the door opening to reveal the man standing behind it—to the unveiling of his gentle smile and kind eyes. Y/N is half-inclined to slam it shut in his face with an affronted squeal.

She doesn’t quite squeal, but a noise is certainly made. One of terror, Harry might believe, as her eyes widen and flit around his face in a frenzy. The flowers in his hand are only just noticed, and she pauses on them for a moment, an expression of disbelief passing over her features before they become chaotic once again.

“Harry! I—” Y/N pastes a hand to her cheek in bewilderment, heart sinking at the sight of the man’s eyebrows kinking, migrating towards the centre. Then she trails further down, sees him still clad in his suit—crisp navy pressed to perfection. It’s jarring the way her brain switches from awkward to lewd for a split second, until she looks away with shame.

“Darlin’, are you alright?” He steps forward, hand reaching out. “You’re not going to faint, are you?” His voice is light and Y/N wants to laugh because what a ridiculous suggestion, of course she’s not going to faint! but she’s not so sure she believes it.

“No, no, I’m okay,” she lies.

“Let’s sit you down. Can I come in?”

Y/N swallows, exhaling as she looks up at him, before nodding slightly and stepping to the side to allow him room. Harry barely stops to assess his surroundings—only guides her to where he’s been before—her sofa feeling like the softest of clouds in this moment, while her heart is racing and her skin is tingling. He stays remarkably calm and light on his feet, whisking himself away to do God knows what but Y/N is hardly concerned. All she can think about is the fact that he’s here, and she’s a catastrophe, and she has not prepared for this. She has NOT prepared for this.

Harry finds the kitchen, near tripping over his feet to turn down the boiling pot of water that’s about to overflow. He throws some pasta in the saucepan—something quick he can fill her tummy with—and digs around for another that he fills with a jar of sauce. Then he’s rifling through cabinets to find a vase for the bouquet in his hand—which is something she apparently does not own, so a jug will do—before filling both that and a glass with water to take back to Y/N.

She looks timid and small—hands fiddling with themselves in her lap as she disassociates whilst staring at her coffee table. Harry places the jug down right where she’s looking and she blinks some. Her lips upturn just a little at the sight of the buttery petals.

“Drink.” Y/N accepts the glass easily, swallowing multitudes. Her face is dewy, a slight sheen of anxiety, and her knees bounce. “Better?” Harry softens his gaze, aware of the tension between his eyes—he knows he can sometimes appear cross without realising.

Y/N nods, rubbing at her nose like a little rabbit, he thinks.

“I’m sorry,” her voice is small, “you’ve been at work, and now you’re here and I’m… I’m a mess,” she tries to laugh but it falls flat.

“Don’t be silly. I’m a big boy, Y/N, you don’t need to apologise.” He’s encouraging as he smiles, rubbing over her knee soothingly. She’s still in her pencil skirt and white shirt—but she looks less like a sexy secretary and more like a sweaty schoolgirl. It’s hardly self-respecting.

Y/N grips the glass like it’s an anchor, altering her train of thought. “Uh… no one has ever… bought me flowers before.”

The smile he gives her is compassionate. A small curve of his lips and the widening of his eyes as if to implore his feelings to display correctly on his face. The way he disagrees with the fact of it—why could that be true? It shouldn’t be true. Everyone deserves flowers.

“There’s sunshine in your smile… yellow tulips, that’s what they mean.” He offers the information with zero insecurity.

Y/N’s face starts to burn, heart fighting to burst through her ribcage. She opens her mouth, and then she closes it. Harry’s watching her so, very intently, eyes crinkling when her hands press into her cheeks as if to will the heat away.

“I don’t know what your favourites are, but I thought you might like those.”

“No…” Y/N shakes her head, “yellow tulips are my favourite flower… definitely.” She chews on her lip to detain the smile threatening to break free.

“Yeah?” His eyes are shining, light reflecting off the sea glass of his irises and unlocking the depths of his spirit. “You gonna let me see your sunshine smile, darlin’?”

She laughs, a bright, bubbly giggle as her palms smother her face. “No!”

“What?” Harry grins. “What’s so funny?”

“Stop talking like that… it’s— I’m… flustered.”

“‘M just talkin’!” He insists, hands holding themself in a surrender.

“You’re being… a lot.”

“Too much?”

“No. It’s just— people don’t talk to me like you do. It’s nice… but I don’t know how to react.”

“Just show me your pretty smile, I think that’s a good place to start.”

She giggles again, eyes full of mirth—trying so desperately to embrace the fire in her cheeks. “Thank you for the flowers, Harry.”

They hold each other’s gaze.

“You’re welcome, Y/N,” his voice is soft.

“Can I— Can I make you dinner?” She starts, desperate to repay him in any way that she can. And then her eyes widen and she springs from the sofa. “Oh shit—”

“It’s okay, I did it, love.”

“What?” 

“I turned the water down and put some pasta in. I’ve got it all sorted.” He touches her elbow, conveying his wish for her to sit back down.

She doesn’t.

“You— Really?”

Harry nods.

“I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t be doing that! I can’t even boil a pan of water properly.”

“Listen to me, Y/N.” His voice hardens a little. Not enough to be scary, or rude, or suggest he has ill intentions. His voice hardens and suddenly Y/N wants to listen to him, just like he said. It’s relieving, almost, the way his words cut through the thick fog inside her skull.

“Sit down, okay?”

She does, eyes wide and nervous.

“You remember what we spoke about last week?”

The look on his face prompts Y/N to answer—to brush past the sex despite it being the first thing she thinks of. “About you being a— a dominant? Or… uh… taking care of… people?”

“Mhm. How would you feel about letting me take care of you?”

And Y/N is shy—it’s been discussed—but she knows she really has to be honest right now. Even if that means embarrassing herself.

“Guilty,” she murmurs.

Harry straightens up some. “Guilty? Now why would you feel like that?”

“Because! You’ve turned up today with—with flowers and you’ve put dinner on and I already want to pay you back. I don’t deserve it, I’ve done nothing to warrant all of this.”

“All of this?” Harry parrots. His eyebrows furrow but he maintains a gentle tone, shifting closer to Y/N and holding his hand out, palm facing up. She places her own on top with the hesitance of a newborn lamb, eyes meeting his. “Darling, I don’t mean to be blunt but… this is not a lot. Flowers are really the bare minimum, and putting pasta in a pot is hardly a back-breaking task. Lovely… relationships, friendships—they’re not transactional, okay?” His thumb drags across the back of her hand.

She’s going to cry.

“You don’t need to pay me back for anything. I’m here because I want to be. And I want to show you that you deserve to be taken care of. Because you do, Y/N. You do deserve it.”

A tear brims over her rapidly filling waterline. “I’m sorry,” she laughs wetly. “I’m just tired.”

Harry nods, “I know,” wiping her cheek. “You just need a little help. And that’s okay.”

“You wanna do all this… and you barely know me… why?” He’s cloudy in front of her eyes, tears obstructing his handsome face.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week. You know that?”

“Okay, sure.” Y/N rubs at her lashes, smearing more mascara around. But she’s smiling a little, at the absurdity of Harry’s words.

He replaces her hands, the soft pads of his thumbs doing an adequate job of preserving her dignity whilst he wipes the smudges away. 

“Mean it. Been distracted at work remembering it all.”

She’s not laughing anymore. No, her skin is tingling now. And her throat squeezes around a swallow.

“But it’s not just about sex. I like you, Y/N. And I want to like you more—get to know you, spend time with you. Is that convincing enough?”

Y/N shakes her head. But Harry sees the glint in her eye. He narrows his own at her.

“No? Are you playing with me? I thought you were a sweet, good girl.”

The skin of her cheeks has never been subjected to so much heat in such little time. It spreads out to her chest, and down her arms. She must be praying to some sort of God to ensure her hands haven’t become sodden yet.

“That’s not fair,” she squirms. “I just… like hearing you talk.”

“Hm, you like hearing me say that I like you, is that it?”

“Maybe,” she looks down. “Never really heard it before.”

“Well, get used to it, love. I want you to become sick of those three words.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Harry just smiles. “Will you let me?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N is confused. 

Or rather, she is tentative. Anxious, uncertain, disbelieving—waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Harry sits across from her in the café they’ve frequented quite a few times in the last two weeks. His eyes are closed, taking in the first gulp of his coffee as it slinks down his throat and warms his chest, leaving a pleasant trail of heat in its place.

She admires him; something she wishes she could do more without his beady eyes on her and making her feel all embarrassed. He’s pretty—she likes to look at him. Especially when he’s not in his usual suit and slack attire. (Not that her brain doesn’t start to malfunction when he’s embraced by the flattering lines of fabric clutching to the muscles Y/N has had the pleasure of being crowded by but…) The contrast of seeing him comfortable and unfiltered is enough to make her relax too.

Or attempt to relax.

The first time Y/N and Harry came to The Little Snail Café, the former of the two had been nervous. (That is hardly information anyone would pay for.) It was a date as far she had been aware; Harry had explicitly labelled it so. And Y/N hadn’t been on a date since she was with her ex… but their time out was hardly ever impressive enough to warrant any kind of excitement.

Even remembering that she’d had a boyfriend renders every moment spent with him as less and less meaningful. As time spent wasted. He’d never told her her smile was that of sunshine. He’d barely ever told her he liked her.

But Y/N wasn’t thinking about him. Not on that day.

Harry had forced her to let him serve her dinner that evening he’d brought her flowers. Had implored that she change into something comfortable and sternly ordered glue your pretty arse to that sofa, little miss. That had been hard to argue with. Then he’d proceeded to plate up perhaps her first proper meal she’d consumed in a week and ask her about her day.

Y/N had been a little hesitant to admit the extent of her misery but Harry cottoned onto her pause quicker than most would. He was earnest in his sympathy, eyes void of ridicule as she detailed all her misfortunes.

“No wonder you nearly stacked it when I turned up,” he’d joked. “I’m sorry you had a rough day, love.”

It had been nice to have company. A pleasant silence whilst the two filled their stomachs. Y/N had missed it irrevocably—someone to breathe the same air with. 

That had been when Harry asked about taking her somewhere the following day during her lunch break. A quaint place I think you’ll like. It wasn’t far and he’d have her back at work just in time. Y/N found that she trusted his word.

And although she had been worrying about it, as soon as Harry walked through the front doors and into the reception—wearing a chestnut suit that once again clung to him, like thick globules of honey, with his slicked hair that begged to curl onto his forehead in ringlets like that of a piglet’s tail—she had tunnel vision.

Her boss could have come in and fired her on the spot and Y/N wouldn’t have heard a thing. Only the rush of blood in her ears as her pupils expanded to the size of ten pence pieces and her stomach became the home to a dozen butterflies.

Harry had watched her reaction as she’d read the sign above the café—smiled at her bright eyes when she’d told him how cute it was. Had smiled even larger when he took her inside and let her discover the tiny snails etched into the edges of the tables.

“No one else has ever shared my passion for these little guys,” he’d emphasised as they sat down in the corner, sunlight flooding in through the windows and brightening up their irises, making Y/N giggle easily. Harry could tell she wasn’t laughing to make him feel better—or just to flirt—and that only made him try even harder to elicit those sounds from her pretty mouth.

He’d insisted he wanted to get to know her better. So that’s what he did.

Harry learned that Y/N eats far too much sugar, doesn’t sleep enough, and wishes she could have a pet cow. Or that is how he heard the words that exited her mouth. Y/N had only said she usually baked goodies in the dead of night and that videos of little fluffy calves make her cry.

The two never glanced away from one another. It was the kind of chemistry that drew eyes. Subtle glimpses from other customers sipping their warm drinks and cherishing that collective sense of human connection just from witnessing two people so innately into each other. Old couples nudging the other to reminisce on their younger days—workers wiping down tables and feeling a sense of respite during their long day at the unmistakable widening of the woman’s eyes in an attempt to see all of the man before her—to hang onto his every last word.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“Pink.”

“Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs.”

Y/N had asked him lots of those questions. And had seemed very content with every answer he gave her. Perhaps apart from that last one. Y/N might have preferred cats but it wasn’t a dealbreaker.

It didn’t last long enough, in her opinion; their date. She had to return to work far too soon for her liking. But Harry paid for her toastie and hot chocolate, much to Y/N’s disarray, and dropped her off with a stroke of his thumb to the back of her hand and a kiss to her cheek.

She’d smiled so much she’d had to bite her lip to tone it down. Receptionists were never that happy.

ㅤㅤ

Their second date had been impromptu. And not really a date. Harry had knocked on her door once again—however this time, Y/N hadn’t jumped out of her skin. In fact, she’d just finished decorating a cake she’d hoped to surprise him with and the shock of his presence was replaced with elation at the coincidence.

The door opened, and before Harry stood a smiling girl with youthful glee painted all over her face. A pleasant difference from the last time. She giggled to herself and instructed he close his eyes as she guided him to her kitchen where the sweet smells were surely giving away any element of surprise. Still, Harry played up to it—feigning shock—(it’s not that he’s a cruel man but Harry remembered things about people and Y/N wasn’t so hard to read).

“Oh! It’s beautiful, darlin’… you made this f’me?”

Y/N nodded, grinning. A proper smile, unabashed and without premeditation. Harry felt its warmth; lucky to receive such a display from someone he’d previously seen so reserved.

The cake was cute; rusticly smothered in vanilla buttercream and decorated with halved strawberries circling the edges (Y/N was not so hard to read) and it tasted heavenly. Harry never believed he was much of a cake person—he’d always much preferred ice cream—but devouring a slice with the knowledge it had been made with care, especially for him, had his taste buds in a sugarcoated frenzy.

Y/N had been so elated to watch Harry enjoy her baking that she’d failed to realise that he had come to her home for a reason. And so had Harry, apparently—a look of epiphany crossing his face as he was placing his plate in the dishwasher. (Y/N had tried to do it for him but Harry had smoothed a large palm over the top of her head and all thoughts just melted away.)

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Mhm?”

“Weather’s supposed to be nice this weekend. Picnic?”

And Y/N still got flustered, sure, but…

“You came all the way here to ask me that? You have… you have my number, don’t you?”

Harry couldn’t help his smile, tongue stuffing his cheek to attempt to control it. “Yeah, I do. I do. Just wanted to see you. Good job I did too.” He nodded to the cake.

But Y/N was all twinkles. In her eyes, over her face, all the way to her toes. She had half the mind to believe Harry visited her just to garner this reaction; to inflate his ego.

“I won’t be able to take you for lunch tomorrow though, ‘m sorry.”

“Oh… that’s okay,” she smiled. It wasn’t okay. It was world-ending news. What was she supposed to look forward to now?

“Been offloading a lot onto m’assisstant lately—should really give him a break.”

Y/N frowned, “I’m sorry.”

Harry barely let her finish the word. “No. No, I don’t want to hear that.” He moved forward, nudging the back of his index finger under her chin. “Not your fault, is it?” His eyes bored into Y/N’s, stern but imploring her to not worry herself like that. To take the blame for something that was not her fault.

“I’m— I…” Words failed to form, eyelashes brushing her cheeks in repeated blinks.

Harry swept it under the rug. It’s not something he wanted her to get het up about. Another time—he’d thought—another time he’d make sure she understood never to apologise unnecessarily. To feel guilty about him causing an inconvenience just to see her; because God forbid she accepted that she was good enough to be treated with such consideration. Another time. “I’ll come see you the day after though, yeah? I still want you to try the beetroot soup.”

“Idon’tlikebeetroot,” the girl mumbled, lips downturning with the admission.

“What was that, love?”

“I don’t think I like beetroot, Harry.” Her eyes lifted…and there was that guilt once again. Fear that disliking something may cause offence or trouble.

“Have you ever tried it?”

Y/N’s silence was deafening. She smiled shyly up at him, skin tingling with the beginnings of heat—whilst Harry simply shook his head with a playful eye roll before stroking his thumb over her chin. The plush pad met with a soft indentation.

“Have an early night tonight, okay? Get some rest.” The syllables rolled off his tongue like a gentle caress; told her she looked tired in quite possibly the kindest way.

Y/N nodded, focusing all her energy on the feeling of his thumb on her skin.

And when Harry had gone, leaving her heart an overexerted mess of muscle and blood turned flower petals and bubbles, she’d simply looked to the ceiling with a shit-eating grin as she tried to swallow a giggle. There was nothing inside her that was not touched by Harry—and everything transformed from rickety and paint-chipped to sturdy and ornate—embellished down to the finest details.

ㅤㅤ

It had been a joy to wake up on Sunday.

Y/N felt the rays of sun through her curtains warming her sleepy face as her alarm blared—an alarm worth setting despite it being the weekend—and as her consciousness came rushing back to her, the memory of Harry promising to pick her up at eleven had her residual tiredness dancing away like it was performing the quickstep.

Dress weather made Y/N happy. Made her feel pretty and confident and giddy; something quite contradicting considering her skittish personality. And that’s exactly how she felt when she admired her sundress in the mirror of her wardrobe—square neck framing her chest, white fabric bunching around her shoulders in sheer puffs and cinching at her waist to flow into a floaty skirt. She looked sweet; the picturesque vision of a girl about to perch on a blanket under the sun and consume saccharine confections. Y/N pulled the hem between her finger and thumb, exposing the skin of her upper thigh, deep in thought at the fantasy of Harry taking her all in. His own confection.

And he did of course.

Though it didn’t unfold in perhaps the way Y/N had hoped. Which is why they’re called fantasies, she supposed. Because she was still her—despite feeling like a whole new person, she certainly wasn’t.

Harry had knocked on her door at two minutes to eleven, which may have been a problem had Y/N not been ready over an hour earlier than she needed to be. (With another bunch of flowers—white gardenias—“They mean I have a crush on you,” Harry leaned over and whispered as though it was some big secret. Y/N took them with a stifled titter and scurried off to place them in water, dress swishing around her thighs.) His gaze had dripped down her, as respectfully as he could manage when all he wanted was to glide his palms all over. The sight of soft skin contrasted by the sanctity of white cotton—her silky hands carrying a wicker basket (the true vision of a picnic) which Harry had plucked out of her grasp with little hesitation.

As a true gentleman would, he offered Y/N his arm to place her hand; the crook of his elbow providing a safe seat to rest from the weary necessity of holding the weight of her own limbs.

Y/N, however, would only be so lucky to mirror Harry’s formalities—to uphold the stereotype of womanly elegance—as her toe catches on a step down towards his car. Emulating their first night outside of her house, only this time it felt worse. It’s far more embarrassing, Y/N decided, to fall when holding onto the person you’re so enamoured by.

It was hardly a fall—moreso a drag of the foot, a buckle of the knee. But it was still enough to have her gasping and untangling herself from Harry. Harry who had kept her secure without any chuckling or patronising. Had his brows furrowed in concern and his hand to her elbow to steady her. Y/N still ripped herself away, turning so he couldn’t see her.

“Oh my god! Don’t look at me.” She was mortified; as the pair stood halfway down the steps, suspended in a moment.

“Darlin’—” Admittedly, Harry did have to try his hardest not to laugh. Not at her trip but her reaction; the drama! “Darling,” he tried again, “you’re alright.” His hand ghosted over Y/N’s shoulder blades, where fabric met flesh.

“That was—I’m mortified—that was so unattractive!” She barely meant it; was just humiliated as she’d said, but Harry shook his head behind her.

“You’re still very pretty, Y/N. Just a little clumsy. But that’s okay,” he turned her around, “you’ll just have to hold on tighter.” Harry admired the kinks in her brows, expressive in her shame, as he guided her hand back to his arm. “Very pretty.” He’d almost whispered it—not out of a wish that she had not heard but as an attempt to reseal their bubble—their intimate world.

The sun stayed magnificently bright for them.

As though it was watching its light bounce between their eyes; wanted the moment to last as long as it could maintain the warmth; the incandescence.

Harry followed the motions of her hands, fingernails painted in alternating shades of soft green and pastel pink, as Y/N devoured a punnet of strawberries. (She’d brought two.) She was a head-bobber, munching away with the occasional hum as her eyes transfixed onto his knees. 

He was wearing corduroy shorts and a big floaty shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a white top poking out from underneath. Y/N admired his golden skin, the delicate tattoos bracketing his kneecaps, and the dusting of hair covering his lean limbs. It was still a joy to see him so underdressed, the true image of a boy she would take home to her parents.

The two looked symbiotic—two sides of the same coin, or heart, or strawberry—as Y/N offered one to Harry, who took it graciously with a smile and a scrunch of his nose. (Mild hayfever, he’d described it as.) From an outside perspective, they looked established. A relationship that surely began as highschool sweethearts. Enough so to have strangers whispering I’ll bet you a tenner he’s about to propose to her.

But neither registered any sort of outside perspective, they were the only two people that mattered, after all.

“You ought to be careful, love, you’ll get a bad tummy if you eat so much fruit,” Harry prodded, as Y/N opened up the second punnet of strawberries.

“Oh,” she frowned down at them. “My stomach sorta always hurts anyway.” He perturbed her none, eyelashes fluttering as she bit into a picture perfect fruit. Harry hardened his gaze—registering her unbothered tone with concern.

“That’s not… ideal, Y/N.” He was slow, cautious. “Y’shouldn’t be hurting all the time.”

Her eyes rounded out as she looked at him, lips plush as she took another bite. But she just shrugged her shoulders, tastebuds too preoccupied by the blossoming on her tongue. The wind picked up a little, blowing her hair across her face in soft streaks—as though the Earth was wielding a paintbrush, and using her strands as the medium. She whined a little, trying to avoid getting hair in her mouth as she finished the rest of the strawberry. Harry watched with starry eyes—zoned in on her shining skin—as a drop seeped out of the edge of her lips and dribbled down the side of her chin.

He reached over without hesitation, thumb swiping the liquid away, and Harry basked in the subtle widening of Y/N’s eyes as he brought that very thumb to his mouth to coat his tongue. Her fingers scrambled at her face messily, brushing all hair out of her eyes. It felt incredibly humid all of a sudden.

“Hey,” she pouted, refusing to be swept away under Harry’s ruse, “that was my juice.”

And Harry couldn’t help himself. Not when she was setting the scene just perfectly. “Mm, sorry,” he hummed, “d’you want it back?”

Y/N nodded, tongue darting out to wetten her lips.

“Hm?” He prompted.

“Yeah—yes, I do, please.” She swallowed; Harry’s eyes followed the contraction of her throat.

“Come here then,” he tempted. He was already in a very alluring position, elbows bracing his weight as he sprawled across the blanket, knee propped up and easily manoeuvrable. Y/N shuffled on her knees, the short space towards him, setting herself down with her hands placed on her thighs as though he’d instructed her to.

Harry pushed up, hand ghosting along the side of Y/N’s cheek. “What am I going to do with you?” Their breaths mingled, swirling across one another’s face and sinking into their skin. Y/N’s eyelids dropped closed, patiently asking, waiting. He took his time to admire her anticipating face, leaning closer to drape a sigh over her bottom lip.

“Kiss—kiss me,” she exhaled, eyelids twitching—wanting to open. But they didn’t. They stayed shut, stayed waiting, stayed hiding her from the world around them.

Harry smiled and Y/N swore she could feel it. Feel as he leant forward and brushed the tip of his nose down the front of hers. His hand stroked through the hair behind her ear, large digits coaxing her to melt and mollify into his hands, which she did so easily. She parted her lips wider, blindly tilting to try to meet his. Harry let them touch for a second—a press of flesh—before he leant back, nose nudging hers once again.

Y/N expelled a shaky breath, a little whine falling out of her neglected mouth. Her eyebrows kinked and her pretty nails dug into her thighs.

She chose to stay in the dark—from fear that it would be over if she opened her eyes. But that was something she needn’t have worried about. Harry leant back, enough to see out of the corner of his eye and reach for a strawberry.

He resisted the urge to indulge himself, mouth watering at the thought, and instead brought the pointed tip towards Y/N’s eagerly awaiting lips. Harry grazed his nose along her cheekbone, words finding her sensitive ears as he pushed the fruit to touch.

“Bite,” he whispered.

A noise of complaint lodged itself in Y/N’s throat, but she complied regardless, teeth sinking into the strawberry. Its juice coated her tongue and lacquered over her lips, the gooey pulp going down smoothly as she dared to open her mouth for another offering.

But as she did, suddenly the air around her face shifted, and the heat of Harry’s breath ghosted across her once more. Pointed and heavy exhales from his nostrils as she felt his tongue dart out to swipe across her bottom lip. It felt exploratory, leisurely—like he had all the time in the world to get to know her mouth. And it’s not like they hadn’t done this before—kissed—but it felt new, all the same. It had her breath hitching and her body leaning unconsciously into his touch.

Once her bottom lip stopped being enough, Harry pulled it down with the pad of his thumb and unlatched Y/N’s jaw in the process. He opened her up, and she let him completely, sat still on her knees as he played with her. She didn’t feel toyed with really—was still processing being touched in such a way and wondering if it would ever stop feeling so intoxicating. Harry took one final moment to bask in her blind trust; to watch the stillness of her face and feel the gentle (but rapid) breaths fan against his mouth.

And then he kissed her.

He really kissed her.

Y/N’s hmph quickly turned into a muffled mewl, open mouth accepting Harry’s tongue rubbing over hers as though it was her resuscitative medication. The only thing to stabilise her bloodstream, to soothe her fighting heart. He tasted like strawberries. And so did she. Sweet, and wet, and promising. It felt filthy but it felt clean at the same time—renewing and resetting, like running across soft sands to plunge into bracing sea water—Y/N would let him drip juice anywhere he liked, she’d let him feed fruit from his own mouth into hers. She’d let Harry spread her out and do with her as he pleased. Right there. Right then.

And it caught up to her all too quickly, the overwhelming heat of her thoughts. They were in public. But yet she couldn’t possibly entertain pulling away—not when Harry’s mouth engulfed her entirely. It wasn’t a cute kiss, a sweet reminder of affection or endearment. It was a kiss you shielded your child’s eyes away from, or grimaced at from nearby. It was sloppy, and sticky, and mind-numbingly dizzying.

Harry’s lips left syrupy residue wherever they landed—her top lip, her bottom lip, her tongue, her cupid’s bow. Y/N felt poisoned. Drip fed for weeks until Harry deemed the time right as he went in for the kill. She wasn’t sure she was even doing much of the kissing; perhaps she was simply being kissed. She tried to keep up, returned his tongue with her own and let her mouth encase his bottom lip in a frenzied attempt at reciprocation.

But his hands were holding her face, and then they were sliding into her hair, and all Y/N could do was feel.

Feel, and be felt, and—and—

ㅤㅤ

And Y/N is still confused!

She’s drifted away from their cosy table at The Little Snail Café—well physically, she’s right there but mentally… Her eyes are glossed over and she’s still very much contemplating the state of their relationship. Because… that kiss had been nearly a week ago and… well, Y/N doesn’t want to be thought of as some sex pest (she loses her virginity and now she’s clawing at the walls for orgasms) but she always thought—completely aware of her ignorance and unrealistic education—that the role of a dominant was to… fuck the living shit out of someone on the regular.

And even as she’s thinking that, with Harry right in front of her, she feels crude and disrespectful. But he hasn’t so much as hinted that he was going to have sex with her again, and that moment with the strawberries has been going round, and round, and round inside her head for days and nights and it’s driving her insane. Because, as previously established, nothing she can do matches what Harry made her feel, so any attempt at quelling the ache leaves her worse off than before.

“Don’t much like hearing how I feel about squirting, huh?”

Y/N blinks, and physically shakes her head as if to wake herself up. “Sorry?”

Harry sips from his mug, smiling. “Joke, love.”

“How uh—” she clears her throat, “How do you feel?”

“Hm… messy, but hot.”

She nods—perhaps a confusing reaction to such a sentence. Most people would probably quip back something flirtatious or coy. But Y/N just nods.

“What’re you thinking about in there?”

“Um… I was just wondering when— when you were gonna kiss me… again…”

“Y’are, are you? How uncouth.”

“Well— I just… When you said you were,” she leans forward, volume dropping considerably, “a dominant… I just thought… something different would be happening.” And then she starts to spiral. “Not in a— not because this is… this is great. I mean—”

“Settle down, darlin’, it’s okay.” Harry sighs, scratching the top of his head with a thoughtful expression on his lovely face. “‘s my fault, really. I haven’t explained much to you. And I have no doubt you are basing all of your facts on poor media portrayal.” Y/N scrunches her nose in a silent show of guilt. “It’s not just about sex,” he starts. “It is for some people, but for you I don’t think it is. And I’ve been slow, and cautious in fear of overwhelming you, and it’s resulted in probably a couple confusing weeks for you. So, I’m sorry.

“The whole point is for you not to worry, and you’re still doing that because I’m not doing my job properly, but I was worried you might change your mind so I held off. You can still change your mind, by the way.” Y/N shakes her head. Harry continues. “I’ll take you home now, if you like, give you the whoooole run through. Does that sound good?” Y/N nods. “And you’ll tell me if it’s too much, won’t you?”

“Yes, Harry. I will.”

“Can I take you to my home? Cook you dinner?” He asks, staring at the way Y/N’s head lays heavy against the headrest and her limbs are leaden, as she relaxes into his car.

She nods, lips quirking upwards with intrigue. At the blanks in her mind that will be filled. What to imagine when he’s in bed, when he’s watching TV, or eating… or… showering. “Can I help?”

Harry pretends to consider it. “We’ll see.”

ㅤㅤ

Harry’s house is… not what Y/N expects it to be.

Well, it is in some ways.

It’s large, and it’s expensive, and it’s astronomically grand. But it’s… it’s characterless. It lacks personality—and Harry Styles does not lack personality. Harry Styles is charming, and intelligent, and beautiful. But his house is stark white. There is no indication that his house is not a show home. It’s untouched, unlived in, unloved. And Y/N wasn’t expecting that.

“It’s too big, I know,” Harry gestures to the air around them as he watches Y/N take it all in.

“Not at all! No… it’s so beautiful, Harry.” And it is, it really is. She’s not lying. How can she lie when she’s staring at such a grand staircase? When the windows are so large, and bright that the space is nearly sparkling. And the garden she sees through the other side is blooming trees and unkempt flowers and just begging to be loved.

But as beautiful as it is, it’s still just… white.

He guides her through to the kitchen which…

“Woah,” Y/N admires, “you could make so many cakes in here.” She laughs and Harry grins just at the sight.

It’s true, there’s enough counter space to house at least ten separate mixing bowls. Impressively clean considering the observed shades of white. But there are signs of life in here—photos on the fridge, (one that catches her eye of two women that absolutely have to share his genes) post-it notes huddled around a pot of pens, a basket of cleaning products, a vase of flowers in the middle of the island. A comforting sight to see a little bit of the inside of Harry’s brain.

“They’re very pretty,” Y/N points at the photo on his fridge with a hesitancy that suggests she’s expecting him to berate her for being nosy.

“Mum’ll love that,” he laughs. “That’s her,” Harry points to the woman on the left, adorning sunglasses and a bright smile, and then to the right, “and m’sister, Gemma.”

“You look like each other.”

“Yeah? Y’think so?”

Harry shines when he speaks about his loved ones. Is so happy to talk about the photo of his father, his step-dad, his mum’s cat, the younger Harry surrounded by other young boys (“My mate Jonny, he was stoned as fuck in this picture. Had no idea.” His eyes crinkle around the edges and Y/N can only think about how beautiful those lines look).

Then he moves over to the island and tugs out a stool. “Come sit,” he pats.

He doesn’t let her help him cook—insists that she stay right where she is and carry on looking at him like that.

“Like what?” Y/N pretends she’s not shy about being caught.

“With those gooey eyes.”

“Gooey?”

“Mhm. You look one moment away from melting into the counter.”

“I do not,” she scoffs.

“It’s okay, I like it.”

ㅤㅤ

Harry owns the fluffiest rug in the history of the universe, Y/N is sure.

Obnoxiously cream in comparison to the rest of the colour palette. And in defence of Harry, the walls of his living room are painted a warm beige and his vast, velvet sofa is a deep forest green. The main attraction remains the rug, however. Long and shaggy and absolutely imperative to lie upon.

Y/N withholds the urge, but she stares pointedly and longingly towards it for too long to be considered a passing gaze.

“You can touch it if you want.”

“Hm?” 

“The rug… that you’re eyefucking.”

“I—” she blanches, “It looks so soft.”

Harry makes the first move, blue jeans creasing at the knees as he crouches down. He pushes his palms into the strands and watches as they’re swallowed up into the depths of the faux-fur. Y/N hesitates, looking down at him on his hands and knees and wondering if it would be inappropriate to join him. But when he leans back, hands bracing himself behind him so he can lounge—mirroring the position of the day they had their picnic far too much—Y/N caves and drops to her own knees.

It’s sensory heaven—quite frankly—and Y/N knows immediately that she could get lost stroking this sole rug for hours. Harry watches her with an informed smile as she drags her fingers back and forth through the threads, already lost in a little world of her own.

“G’na have a mature and adult conversion now, alright, love?”

Y/N nods.

“Are you going to be able to listen and finger my rug at the same time?”

She narrows her eyes at him, adjusting from kneeling to crossing her legs. “I’m not finger—” she swallows. “Yes, I believe so.”

ㅤㅤ

“—I would encourage you to eat, go to bed at a certain time, turn your phone off. And I would want you to listen to me—not to argue, to trust that I know best.” That sounds easy, Y/N thinks. “I would want you to raise concerns in a polite manner—I don’t think it’s ever necessary to shout. And it would be important to me that you are always honest about the way you are feeling. No trying to make me feel better or pushing it down, okay?”

Y/N had feared it may be complicated, from the way Harry had suggested—had put off having this conversation for so long. But his commanding voice, and intense eyes make her feel so safe, and incredibly mellow. New feelings for Y/N. She nods.

“And when it comes to sex… trust is the most important thing. I don’t want to be doing anything we haven’t discussed, and I certainly don’t want you to make yourself uncomfortable in an attempt to please me. Now I know you may not be experienced with a lot of the things that are involved in these kinds of relationships but would you be interested in learning… with me? What you like and dislike?”

“Yes.”

“How are you feeling now? Good?” When Y/N nods once more, Harry gets to his feet. His voice slicks down her spine when he drawls, “Come here then. And kneel.”

Whilst Harry had been speaking, Y/N can’t deny the fact that her insides had started stirring around in anticipation. But now, as he commands her to station herself so far below him in stature, the silly little brain inside her skull begins to melt into mush. She crawls the short distance towards him until her eyes are level with the tops of his knees, and she just waits, sneaking a glance up to see Harry towering above her with a subtle quirk of his lip.

He brings a hand up slowly, warm palm ghosting the heat of her cheek and smoothing over her head in a comforting stroke. “I want you to call me Sir. T’help you slip quicker. You wanna be all nice ‘n’ mellow? Forget about all your stress?”

“Yes… Sir.” It comes out as little more than a squeak.

Harry chuckles, “You’re so good.” Y/N quite nearly beams up at him, insides swarming. “You like that? You like when I praise you?”

“Mhm,” she nods.

“Well it’s just so easy for me, darlin’. Because you’re so lovely.”

She closes her eyes, bottom lip nibbled to hide the giddy smile that overtakes her. Harry’s hand in her hair, scratching and smoothing, is already doing enough to make her eyelids heavy. But she supposes sleep is not the end goal.

“Your first time,” Harry starts. “Did you enjoy it?”

What? “Yes—yes Sir, of course.”

“What would you change about it?”

“N-nothing! It was perfect.”

He hums, nails dragging soothing lines into her scalp. “Which part?” Y/N opens her mouth but Harry keeps speaking. “When I fucked you open with my fingers? Got you nice and stretched for me—had your little pussy just quivering and begging me to fill her up?” He fists a more substantial amount of her hair. “Or maybe when I finally got my cock inside of you, and you were so happy. Squirming underneath me like a wet dream.”

Y/N can’t help but grab for his thighs, nails trying to dig in.

“Hands in your lap, darlin’.”

She pulls away regretfully.

“Was it when I fucked up into you, hard enough to force all those pretty sounds out? Or when I stretched over you and held your hands above your head? Had your body arching for me.”

Y/N is on fire. She must be. Her body is aflame and her insides have melted.

“I think…” Harry bends over some, trying to catch the eyes of the girl who is fighting every feeling. Her eyelids are shut, concealing the windows to her soul, and her brows are knitted together so tightly that she might induce a migraine. He smooths them out with a thumb before stroking over the delicate skin of her lids. “I think—look at me, darling—I think… it was when I had your stomach pressed into the mattress and a hand around your throat,” thick fingers squeeze her cheeks together with care, “and all you could do was lie there and take it. As I fucked you for the first time, just like you deserve. 

“And after you came around me for the third time, I flipped you over so I could see your pretty face, and I came between your soft thighs, didn’t I, love? Did you want it inside of you? Warm, and sticky, and all because of you? Is that what you’d change?”

Y/N doesn’t actually think he would have come inside of her—he’d worn a condom, after all—but if the thought doesn’t have her thighs squeezing… “Wouldn't change,” she shakes her head. “Liked having you— liked it on…”

“Mm, I think you’d say that about everything. What do you know, after all?”

He’s right, and she hates the way his condescension has her wilting even further into the palm of his hand. 

Y/N leans her face into Harry’s hand as he begins tracing over her features with a curious thumb, dedicating every line and mark to his memory. Then he’s crouching down with a little exhale and securing his hands under her armpits to pull her up with miniscule preamble. Y/N gasps, and her hands shoot out instinctively whilst Harry is lifting her up to his height. She grabs his shoulders and wraps her legs around his waist using muscle memory she didn’t realise she had.

Her knees sink into the rich green of his sofa as Harry sits down, gently encouraging her hands down from his shoulders and behind her back. A buzz zips through her chest from the feel of his warm body underneath her. Warm, and strong, and solid.

“Wanna hold these here, okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Harry’s tongue darts out to wet his rose-tinted lips. “Gonna be a little rough with you. If you want to stop, you say Red. If you want to slow down—take a break—you say Yellow. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” he says, eyes trailing down her neck, deciding what to do, “good,” repeated solely to himself.

Y/N feels the frustration of choosing to put on jeans this morning, mind spiralling at the thought of being on top of Harry with just a skirt to hide her modesty. Just a skirt that would so easily be slipped underneath by his hands, and then her underwear…

But Harry seems less concerned. His gaze is transfixed to her chest; to the intricate lace of her camisole, that—in contrast to her jeans—provides very easy access. Y/N’s breathing picks up at the very thought, ribs expanding and only drawing his eyes further. She’s tugged forward by a hand on her hip, searing through the fabric, and the other holding her hands. Tugged until Harry is resting his forehead on her sternum and inhaling deeply.

Her lungs are working at an extreme rate, and more of his nose presses into her with every breath. Y/N is so close to his hair in this position—just has to bend her face down a little and his musky scent fills her nostrils. It seems they both have similar ideas—breathing one another in—but Harry seems far more relaxed than the near shaking girl on top of him.

It only gets worse for her when he pushes his lips against the valley of her breasts—small, tender kisses that have Y/N’s breath hitching. The straps of her camisole want to fall down her shoulders in angelic swoops but her cardigan prohibits all movement. Suddenly it’s the heaviest and warmest piece of clothing she’s ever worn.

“Har—Sir,” she breathes, head tilting back on her shoulders. The caress of his breath on her body is immobilising, and he seems content in moving at a snail’s pace for his own enjoyment. Whether he gets the message or not is unclear, but regardless, Harry lets go of her hands just long enough to shuck the chunky cardigan down her arms and discard it beside them.

As soon as he tightens his grip around her wrists once again, the strain of her arms has her camisole straps slipping down the curves of her shoulders, like a waterfall of silk. The fabric is so light and thin that it pools underneath her breasts—the crooks of her elbows the only things keeping the straps suspended. And Harry’s immediate response suggests he’s somewhat of a starved individual, teeth digging into the top of the left cup of her bra and tugging it down with haste.

He takes her nipple into his mouth and Y/N is all gasps and bucks. The sensitivity of her skin and the rough suction of his lips, the flicking of his tongue and the grazing of his teeth. It’s deafening; the blood rushing in Y/N’s head, it’s near predisposing. The spit, and the hot exhales from his nose against her chest, the indentations his teeth leave behind when he pulls away to admire the wetness of her breast. But he goes back in—bites at her flesh—chews, and laves, and consumes her entirely.

Y/N’s cunt is pulsating. She is wet, and fervently hot, and the subtle rocking of her hips is ceased by a large palm over hip, which has her whining into the air.

“Stay still f’me,” he slurs into her skin, desperate fingers pulling her bra down further and watching to make sure it stays, before he starts on the other side of her chest. Her wrists are encircled behind her back, and Harry pushes her forward—into his mouth, as if he’s not already practically eating her. And maybe she can try her hardest not to squirm but all that energy has to go somewhere, and she’s panting now—whimpering all these sounds that she’s never heard herself make before—and Harry can surely feel the vigorous inflation and deflation of her lungs.

“Oh—oh, H—Sir, please.”

Please what? Stop? No. Keep torturing her breasts? Also no.

Harry hums against her, long and unwilling as his mouth leaves her with a wet smack. He admires her skin, eyes flitting up to see the dazed girl atop him.

“Don’t like it?” He puffs, inhaling deeply, beginning to dance a hand around her ribs.

“I do, I do,” Y/N breathes, eyes still closed. “Too h-hot.”

Harry frowns though she can’t see, before he’s unclasping her bra and pulling her camisole over her head—standing her up on jelly legs and pulling her jeans down. Sat on his lap once again, he tightens his grip around her wrists and curls his fingers around her throat.

“Can feel your heat, baby,” he looks down to where her clothed cunt rests just before his bulge. His still very clothed bulge. “Give me a kiss.” And she still feels exceptionally inexperienced in the whole department but her body surges forward, urged by the pressure against her pulse, as her lips meet his shiny ones. 

This time, when Y/N’s hips start moving on their own accord, Harry doesn’t stop her—tugs her closer in fact. Right on top of where he’s warm, and hard. Their mouths part a centimetre, just enough to pant into one another at the feeling. Of his hand squeezing her throat, and pushing her arms into her back. Y/N doesn’t even notice when he lets go of her wrists—never daring to move them—as his palm comes down in an experimental slap to her arse. 

It’s light; enough to not hurt but suggest his intentions. And when Y/N gasps and twitches on top of him, he gets the idea. “Is that nice?”

“Yes.”

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Sir, yes Sir,” she whimpers into his mouth, lips pasting to his cupid’s bow and falling away when he does it again. Hard enough to leave a tingle that spreads out to her centre and up her stomach.

“Unzip my trousers.” 

There’s no hesitation, both his palms are holding her ass now, desperate to spread them apart but damned by the confines of her underwear. Y/N shakes a little but does what he says, exposing the hot pink of his boxers underneath—and the thick outline of his cock.

“Take me out, go on.” She meets his eyes—blown out and transfixed, mirroring her very own. “Take me out, Y/N,” he whispers, leaning closer to lick a stripe up the column of her throat, and then an open-mouthed kiss to her chin, and her mouth.

He’s heavy in her hand, and intimidatingly big. How did she ever fit this inside of her? But she feels the instinct to make him feel good. This was the one area she had experience in, afterall. The skin is so soft and all she has to do is spit down and watch as it drips from his head along his shaft. But Harry takes her hand instead and laves his tongue along her palm before guiding her down to wrap around him.

His breath hitches; their eyes don’t stray from one another’s. He holds her hand over him and starts to drag it up and down, his blinking lagging a little from the feel of her delicate fingers wriggling underneath his palm. It’s intense, and paralysingly slow—every second spent watching his face feels like sixty—and when she looks down, she feels herself clench around nothing at the sight of her smaller hand wrapped in his, and the way his cock looks between them. Red, and thick, and wet.

It must show on her face because Harry’s unwrapping her hand and reaching forward to press his fingers into the front of her underwear. “Put me in.”

“What? B-but I’m not… and you’re so…”

He nods, “I know. You can do it,” as he awkwardly fumbles for his wallet from his back pocket. Y/N’s heart jumps when he rips the condom open with his teeth—a true teenage fantasy—and slides it on with a swallowed grunt.

He tugs her gusset to the side, breaking strings of arousal and basking in the twitch of Y/N’s hips. She clumsily hovers over him, embarrassed as she holds onto his base. As she lowers down, Harry’s thumb finds her clit—swollen and hypersensitive—and she squeezes him reflexively. He groans, low and vibrating, content to roll her under his digit cruelly—distracting her from the attempt at swallowing him with composure.

Y/N whines as the thick head squeezes inside her tight hole, mouth ajar and eyes half-focused on the man who brings his shining thumb to his mouth and makes a show of relishing in the taste of her arousal.

“F-fuck,” the words force their way out of her shining mouth.

Harry rears a hand back and slaps her ass, harder than the other times, fingers staying on the skin to dig in and pull. “Don’t swear.” And Y/N doesn’t think he’s usually adverse to it but she’ll do whatever he asks of her right now.

“S-sorry, Sir,” she moans out as Harry sinks deeper and deeper inside. Maybe he should’ve stretched her out first but God if it isn’t the most blissful discomfort. That initial entrance—knowing what her body is accommodating for and how far he reaches inside of her most private place.

As soon as she’s seated on him, completely and utterly full, Harry confines her wrists once again as he sits up and encourages Y/N to lean into him. Her breasts squish into his shirt. His shirt. That he is still wearing. “Come on, baby. Tire yourself out.”

Exhaustion is already seeping into her bones but Harry’s voice croons into her ears so tenderly—it coats her skin in a sheen of glitter and pumps sparkling wine through her veins. She makes every effort in lifting up and sinking back down—in, albeit, slow and wobbly movements—but the concentration on her face is like a drug to Harry. It has him thumbing over her nipple and taking it into his mouth again, which only has Y/N stuttering and inevitably stopping. She pants, and wiggles, and whines, enough so to have Harry placing both palms underneath the seam of her underwear and gripping her bum like he’d wanted.

He squeezes and stretches to his heart’s desire, mouth still firmly attached to her breast, but his strong hold aiding Y/N in moving once more. She’s lifted up and down, and up and down—slow enough to feel every ridge of him opening her walls.

“M-my legs hurt. Sir.” Y/N wishes she were a gym fiend as she admits it.

“Do they, love?” He pulls back from her chest, discontent to stop nibbling her skin raw but her voice is oh, so fragile. He’ll take care of her like he promises all the time. “Lean your head on my shoulder—keep your arms where they are.”

When she doesn’t immediately listen, and looks up to his eyes with a silently begging expression, he cocks his eyebrow. “Can I f-feel you? Your skin, please, Sir.” He’d left his clothes on, somewhat intentionally, but he doesn’t feel so mean in this moment. A nod is all the encouragement she needs, as Y/N unbuttons his shirt with clumsy fingers, and pushes it off his shoulder to rest her cheek upon. Her arms go back behind her and her nose moves forward to press into his neck deliciously. He smells of allure.

Harry can’t help himself when he tears her underwear from her body. She’s too soft, and warm, and wet to simply entertain the idea of pulling out of her. And from the noise she makes—a surprised squeak but no beratement—and the clench around his cock, he can only assume she likes it. Likes the desperation, or the display of strength, or his pure animal brain—it doesn’t matter. Because Harry’s kneading her ass in heavy handfuls, and moving her faster and faster, and Y/N is flooding his neck in her warm, tight pants—sweet whines falling out of her mouth.

“Beg me to come,” he grunts, granting Y/N no kind of warning before his fingers dig in harder and his hips slam into her at a speed that has her lungs forcing out high-pitched squeals. The sounds are nasty, unmistakable and unexplainable. The slap of skin, the wetness between her thighs, the noises that leave both their lips. It’s raw, and scaldingly hot, and— and… she needs to rub her clit.

“I— Sir, I can’t—”

“No?” His thrusts don’t falter, not even once. She’s on her back in a second, and her wrists are trapped underneath her. He makes no move to readjust them, only stretches her knee to the side so it pushes into the back of the sofa before grabbing a throw pillow and stuffing it under her hips. “Come on, beg me, little doll,” his hand spans across her mound, thumb meeting her clit in a back-arching press. This, has her cunt tightening—pulsating, contracting, strangling his cock. And with the pillow angling her just right, Harry can feel himself underneath his palm; it drives him batty.

He fucks her into the sofa, hard and unrelenting, leaning over her to chew on her tits once more. It’s sweaty, and messy, and that only makes it hotter. “Beg, Y/N.” His thumb rubs faster, expelling the choked up cry from her throat. She’s so close, is writhing underneath him—fighting the rolling of her eyes into the back of her skull.

“Please! S-sir, I—”

“That’s it. Good girl letting me fuck you—your sopping cunt, baby. Beg better than that, come on.”

His words send her spiralling, orgasm racing up on her and she panics that she won’t be given permission before it happens. “Oh my god! Oh, pleasepleaseplease, Harry!— Sir, please l-let me, please.” It’s adorable, Harry finds, her minimisation of the English dictionary when she’s so bent out of shape. Her pleading is less begging and more repetition, but he’ll let it slide.

He’ll let it slide as he presses his thumb harder and leans back to watch as he murmurs something akin to the value of diamond. “Come. Fucking come f’me, darlin’. Look at you.”

Y/N can’t hear anything. Not now. All she needed was that first word of permission and she’s seeing stars. Spasming around him so tight that Harry’s own moans started flowing out, pace increasing as he rolls her clit under his thumb. “Fuuuck, there you are. Keep squeezing like that, there’s a good girl.”

It takes her a while to come down from, no surprise considering Harry is still pounding into her, and her whimpers echo his moans—desperate and unabashed, his lips red and brows tight. He looks so handsome. So beautiful above her with his flushed skin and his flexing muscles, unbuttoned shirt floating around him. Y/N’s not sure she’s ever felt so peaceful, in a dreamlike state in all her vulnerability. And she keeps contracting around him, like he asks—because when he groans like that, she’d have to be a sadist not to—and as his moans build up in pitch, and his eyes meet hers in frenzied pleasure, she’s sure she wants him to come more than she’s ever wanted her own orgasm in her life.

Harry surges forward, smearing his lips all over Y/N’s mouth. It’s messy, and uncoordinated, and his tongue is slicking her skin. But it’s the hottest kiss she’s ever had. And it feels so good when his groans hit a crescendo, and his hips stutter, and Y/N can feel the warmth of his spurts inside the condom. She whimpers against his open mouth, arms losing all feeling behind her back, but she doesn’t care because his eyelashes are brushing against her cheek and it’s the most intimate thing she’s ever felt.

They’re lethargic, Harry’s movements, and he’d like to be much more alert but his body is tingling and Y/N is looking up at him so trustingly—he wonders if she’s fallen into a stupor.

“Th-thank you, Sir.”

He strokes her hip bones, pulling out with a soft hiss. Y/N whines a little at the sensitivity.

“You can call me Harry again now, if you like, darlin’.” He leans down to kiss her forehead, consuming palms holding her cheeks.

She’s not really listening. “Mm, feels… feel kinda drunk.” She smiles, nose turning into his thumb. Harry gives her another kiss and pulls away, to knot the condom and collect her clothes. Minus the pair of panties that are no longer wearable. He doesn’t feel even an ounce of guilt.

He’ll make her some food, watch as she eats it with her eyes begging to close, and then let her sleep in his bed—hoping she’ll want him to stay.

Little does he know that Y/N will wake up in the middle of the night to raid his kitchen in a matter of ways that Harry will reprimand her for. 

But for right now, he’ll keep her as happy as he possibly can.

#harry styles #harry styles one shots #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles imagines #mutually beneficial #writing #domrry #dom!harry #fanfiction

[ellrond]

"i wanna see them fight together at rooks rest so bad" I doubt we'll be getting this, more likely Aegon and Aemond will be fighting one another as well because the show dislikes the greens

idk, i see people say that the show dislikes the greens, but they have softened them quite a lot as far as i'm concerned:

jace is described as a fine prince and skilled fighter, but we don't really see this. instead, we see aemond especially as the skilled warrior

they made Jace, Luke, and Joff obvious bastards by not giving Rhaenys brown/black hair. This is obviously a problem in a feudal-lord type society - if her bastard sons have a valid claim without formal acknowledgement of their bastard status and then legitimisation, then lords up and down the land will have a bunch of bastard siblings suddenly to compete with. It's stupid, but it's the way the society is built, and so it makes Aegon's claim way more appealing as his kids are secretly Aemond's trueborn

they aged alicent down and rhaenyra up and gave them a tender friendship, rather than having alicent as the abusive, antagonising step mother (although the abuse of power she exerts over Rhaenyra is highlighted pretty well, admittedly) and a lot of her behaviours come from a place of love (a toxic, yearning love for Rhaenyra, and a fierce love for her children, dysfunctional though it is)

linked with that is alicent being the victim of manipulation by her father far more than in F&B - it dulls down her cunning, her plotting and scheming, and her frankly evil streak

The 'green dress' moment was supposed to be a 'green dress' AND 'black dress' moment, as Rhaenyra wore a red and black dress at the same event Alicent wore her green (I can't remember which event off the top of my head). But no, they gave that moment to Alicent alone. She had that moment of surety and power, and Rhaenyra didn't (however, some watchers will interpret this as Alicent being the aggressor so this can be taken either way)

aegon, aemond, and daeron are described as having bitter hatred for jace and luke, bullying them throughout their youth. this was drastically changed for the show, to make aemond more of the victim

they made the age gap between Rhaenyra and Cole much smaller, so all of a sudden it's less about a sworn protector, almost 30 years older than her, taking advantage

In the book, Viserys confirms Rhaenyra as his heir multiple times. In the show, it only happens formally once

They make Viserys a way worse father to his Targtower children. His last night was spent with Helaena and her children, telling them made up stories of Jaehaerys (or Aegon I? I forget off the top of my head) because he loved Helaena and his grandchildren by her

They also made Daemon a worse father. For some reason, they say that Daemon practically ignores Rhaena for not having a dragon, even though he himself was well into his teens when he claimed Caraxes

they make aegon a more sympathetic character to a certain extent. in F&B, he's a rapist (just like the show) and has paramours as young as 12. we know he rapes servants, but the only real example we have is Dyana who looks young, but that could mean anything from 16-23ish. still a horrific act, but less shocking than the example in F&B. a lot of his motivation is trying to find love and approval from anyone he can, and potentially that is why he commits these violent acts against women - he's just trying to make someone love him, idk (I'm not saying this is GOOD, or that I agree, I am just trying to explain his potential point of view)

Rhaenys - she essentially let off a bomb in the dragonpit, and made her the enemy of the city after killing dozens, if not hundreds. In the eyes of the smallfolk, Rhaenys is now the aggressor, and her death will be celebrated

death of Luke - the show made it out to be an accident. Aemond antagonised him, thinking that he could control Vhagar, and when he lost control, he clearly feels immense guilt about it. They filmed multiple reaction shots with Aemond, some where he clearly feels awful (as used in the show) and some where he looks cold and determined like he's glad. The show runners used the more symapthetic reaction

I understand why some Team Green stans think that the show is anti, but I think there's a lot more to it than that. They've made Team Green a lot less evil, and they've made the conflict more balanced in the show.

Personally, I'm neither Team Black or Team Green. Rhaenyra's claim is obviously the valid one, and the Dance can really be summed up as 'this is happening because she is a woman'.

I just find the individuals of Team Green way more interesting. Their cause is stupid, but they compel me. It's more Team Green people that I wanna see fuck nasty at the end of the day, so with this show im letting my pussy pick :)

#anon #ask #house of the dragon #discourse cw

[shxwmaster]

[AO3]

The Stormwind Guard knows the SI:7, and they know Master Mathias Shaw.

     Or rather, they know of him.

Understandably so, details on those agents and said spymaster are hard to come by. Witnessing any one of them at work is a rare sight, and though the SI:7 are, by the end of the day, normal people, to see one agent in uniform and in plain sight is a bad omen for the Guard.

     Like seeing an owl in the daytime. 

So when Mathias Shaw is spotted in the Stormwind park without entourage, or at the very least the king he often stuck to like a tumor, it puts the guards on edge. None dare approach or question him; some even fear looking directly at him. The SI:7 are not meant to be seen, not a force to be trifled with.

So they stand rigid as he walks past down the cobblestone path, stony gaze fixed forward towards the setting sun, the lingering rays of light pouring from behind the stone memorials that framed Lion’s Rest.

He stops at the top of the steps, looking over the empty tomb and the vibrant blue carpet draped decoratively over it. The air is still, the shade cast from the memorial with the names of every life lost in the Legion’s assault leaving him cold in the absence of the sun.

Shaw takes a breath, and drops to a knee.

The statue atop the tomb could never compare to the real man, and the tomb itself is empty, but still, it’s the closest thing he has to pay his respects. It has to do.

But he can feel its emptiness.

He rests his hands atop his knee and hangs his head — Anduin may be king now, and he holds respect for the young man no doubt, but Varian... Oh, Varian...

By the time the sun had long set and the bell tolls at midnight, it will have been exactly two years since he passed away.

     Since the Broken Shore.

     Since he failed his king.

“ Your majesty, ” He says quietly, feeling the strain in his voice as emotion in his throat threatens to garrote him. “ Forgive me for intruding on your rest. But I bring you only good news this time, I promise. 

“ Anduin has grown well. On his good days, you wouldn’t even notice his limp anymore, and when he laughs, he’s quite nearly the spitting image of Tiffin, ” His lip curves upward for a moment, but he keeps his gaze fixed to the ground. “ King Greymane has helped him along in his training. He’s still... sloppy with a sword, but effective. Enough that he’s kept himself alive — he reminds me of you in battle. ”

He’d witnessed enough, seen the battle for Lordaeron, how the armies had charged forth, how they persevered, how the young king summoned such brilliant forces of Light; Shaw was a stranger to most things magical, and though he held a strong distaste for the Light and all those who foolishly swore faith in it, even he knew what significance it bore.

But the king’s youth, remembering it wipes whatever traces of a smile Shaw wore, teeth grit as the weight crushes him again.

“ I’m sorry that he has to fight. I know you wanted a warrior, wanted him to be a fighter, to stand strong, but he should not have to. His youth was wasted, your majesty. All that lies ahead of him now is the next war after the next war. 

“ We won this one, though. You would probably at least be pleased to hear that much. The warfronts are finished and an armistice signed — Sylvanas is... unaccounted for, but no longer an immediate threat. We won, Varian. ”

He forces himself to bring his gaze up, to look onto the still statue of him lying in rest. It’s not him, of course, and it doesn’t capture him, but it feels so, so wrong to see even the image of him so still.

“ I know we all knew it would come to this some day, that your son’s innocence would be shattered with the revelation that Azeroth is forever doomed. Even without the sword, even without the Old Gods and the Legion — so long as there is life, there is war. No one should have to face it. Not him. Not... Not you. ”

Shaw knows it intimately well; Pathonia ensured that he witnessed only the brutal honesty of the world. No fairytales, no false hopes, no comforting words — only a dagger in his small hands and a throne to serve and protect. Face all challenges, overcome all wars in the hopes that the Kingdom will survive and still remain standing by the end. Not everyone will survive, but at the very least, he could ensure House Wrynn did.

“ I’m sorry I failed you, Varian. I’m sorry I keep apologizing for it every time I visit, but I... ” He stares off, searching for his words, searching for his strength. “ I should have done more. I would have given everything to protect you, I would have endured a thousand deaths if it meant I could have saved you and the others. It should have been me. ”

The fact that Detheroc kept him alive was no mercy. It served only to crush him, to make him feel the effects of his failure. He takes a deep breath, the sting of his eyes and throat threatening to overwhelm him, tides lapping at the rocks with increasing violence, waves soon to sweep him into the deep.

“ I’m doing everything I can to protect your son. He holds... so much promise, and so much of your energy — I will see to it that we preserve it. That we preserve Stormwind. I’ve already sworn my life to it, you know this, but I will continue to remind you, and I will continue to give you these reports. ”

Red swallows the sky, a fiery visage painted behind the pale stone and blue banners. The last lights of day wane, and he can feel the cold breeze now against what skin he had exposed.

“ Perhaps a happy ending exists. I’ve yet to see evidence anyone can ever experience it, but I wonder sometimes if there is one. Anduin still, despite everything, holds hope — the world is bleak, Varian. The world is dying, but somehow, there’s still hope. Somehow, I can almost trick myself into believing it. ”

He rises now, steadying his breath and holding his head high. “ If there is one, I will find it for you. For Stormwind. For the Alliance. ”

He hesitates for a moment, wanting to approach the tomb, to press his hand to it, to offer something more, but even with the empty tomb and an unliving statue, it still feels wrong, too close — he clasps his hands behind his back, and offers him that same graceful bow worthy of any king.

“ I will not fail you again. ”

As he turns to leave, the last light dies out, and he melts into the shadows, not a trace of his presence left at Lion’s Rest.

#backlog: writing #declassified: bfa #file: v. wrynn #( In which Mathias pays his respects to Varian and mourns him ) #( he loved him fiercely and feels an immense guilt over his death that i could not stop thinking about ) #( queuing this cause i wrote this super late at night ) #preemptive strike ; queue

[papers4me]

Fruits Basket, Se3, ep11 (part 1)

Breaking toxic bonds & accepting healthy ones isn’t a miracle. A bond that started with love could end up chained & toxic, another that started wrong could’ve become the joy of a life time. You can do it. Break the cycle of abuse & stand up for yourself, it is easy yet so difficult, you aren’t alone, tho, loved ones stand nearby cheering. Be kind on yourself, otherwise you’ll throw your life away. Life isn’t just happiness & joy, it’s also sadness & loneliness. Break free from the shackles that held you down. Embrace life & Live.

-Tohru’s “ I’m okay” mask is finally shattered! (the Importance of kyo’s rejection for her development):

This is the last part of tohru’s character development! The last few eps were abt her role in Akito’s redemption & their similarities. she staood up for herself & choose a path away from her mom while keeping her mom’s memory in a healthy manner. No more planning my life according to mom’s wishes, no more talking to mom ‘s picture 24/7. Now, I’ll plan my life & move forward even if it is with the guy mom said she cant forgive. even If it is without him, I’ll move forward. I love him so much, yet I won’t force our bond & let go. So easy yet so difficult!. tohru doesnt know anything abt kyo after her fall. All she remembers is his heart-broken face as he wept beside her. Those tears on his face, she caused them. He cried cuz it is too painful to see her hurt. She was a burden to him! tohru restored to her old coping mechanism of pretending “ i’m Okay” & smiling. She did so numerous times before. Always worked. No one noticed. Except him. Se02, ep7. he urged her to show her true fears. Now, she’s faced with a pain so big she can’t pretend no more. the pain of loosing him. She cried in front of yuki! The smile & chatting abt chores couldn’t conceal the running tears! Yuki’s first time seeing her like that. Se01, ep14, yuki wondered how could tohru smile after her mom’s death. She can’t pretend no more! She’ll have to wear her feelings on her sleeve! cuz it IS ok to do so! She tells kyo to give her a moment to compose herself. She couldn’t lie & pretend like she did with yuki. Here she either run away or just try to compose myself! I LOVE THAT! This way, whenever kyo/tohru fight or have any misunderstanding in the future as a couple, you’ll know tohru won’t just bear it & pretend, “ i;m okay” No! she’ll talk to kyo & express herself! I LOVE THIS SO MUCH! It gives her so much strength as a human & I’m happy all the obstacles & set backs in kyo/tohru’s romantic journey has led them to be better ppl little by little to build healthier & more realistic love! 

-The mechanics of writing a compelling slow-burn romance:

1. Igniting the romantic feelings slowly: Slow burns don’t work with love at 1st sight. It must first sparkle naturally, slowly & subtly. Both kyo & tohru repeatedly stated they don’t know exactly when they first fell in love. The author’s decision to create an environment where the two live together is a genius way to start & nurture their romance quietly & subtly. Kyo was tricked to stay in shigure’s house while tohru had to stay cuz she had no home, Natural reasons that force the two to spend days together & get to know each other gradually.

2. Dynamics of their personalities: For slow burns to work, the two characters need to be similar yet opposites! Kyo & tohru are both kind, endearing, innocent, good at chores, independent & hardworking. They both have history with their mothers that is filled with love yet traumas. However, tohru is calm yet prefer maneuvering around subjects, can’t stand up for herself, reads ppl easily, tends to trust ppl easily & disregard herself. Kyo is fierce, strong, tends to distrust ppl, despite ppl loving his spontaneous character, he has hard time figuring out if they’re mocking him or teasing him, very straightforward with his words & actions. The similarities helps them understand each other, however, the differences creates chances to clash & come even closer thro various situation. Ex, se01, ep2, kyo apologizing for hitting her head with the table which created the situation where she needed to confess she always loved the cat zodiac! It is HER gush of emotions that struck kyo. ppl really want my friendship? the cat is loved? Thro those difference they learned to better themselves so they won’t hurt the other, kyo toning down his anger for her, tohru desiring to know him even more as he becomes even more awkward.

3. Creating natural, realistic  & convincing obstacles that prevents them from being together:  This is the most important part! Slow-burn is two characters in love & cant be together despite everyone wanting them to be! if the reason that stops them from uniting is trivial, stupid, one-sided, can easily be solved, then the slow-burn would be a fillery & no one would cheer for it! Takaya-san is a genius!

Kyo can’t be with tohru cuz he thinks (a) he killed her mom! we saw thr flashback, he could’ve saved her & couldn’t save her. It was a split of a second difference & he hates himsef for NOT trying! that split of a second also prevented from thinking of better ways to save her than holding her! it happened to fast, he couldn't think of a better alternative cuz this was his 2nd time loosing someone (b) his mom’s sucide being pinned as his fault created this immense guilt & defeated feeling that “ no matter what, I just cause death & misery! There’s (c) too!, he knew tohru! thinks she deserves the world & cuz he didnt save her mom, he watched tohru talk to a freaking picture for two years! heck! he is the only one who can see thro tohru’s “ i;m okay” mask, so in se01, ep 14 in the grave yard! kyo wasnt the only one who is sad! tohru was too! & kyo could tell! (d) her mom’s death is the reason tohru is accepting shigure’s offer to stay with them rent-free in exchange of doing housework! (e)? he saw her confess crying her heart out abt missing her mom so much that she imitated her dad! so tragicly sad! (f) he saw her die in his nightmare!! how can he accept her love,now? Perfectly orchestrated obstacles! 

Tohru, unfortunately, in the anime it wasn't that clear due to shortening her backstories & trauma in se03, ep6. But she too couldn’t see herself confessing love to kyo. Tohru is has low self-esteem, always thinks she’s a burden to others, an orphan who just wants her mom, so scared, lonely & sad! we the audience believed the mask! we saw her work her motherly charm yuki, isusuz, kisa & believe her issues are not that deep.  tohru wont cry for herself but shed rivers for others! grief is so ugly it broke her! I cant let go of mom, must keep her always in my heart, such a hard emotions to write & I believe 100% the director couldn’t understand her grief & decided to split ep6 between her, kyo, isuzu & shigure. But Tohru struggling to confess to kyo is no laughing matter. ppl who are grieving find it the hardest to live after the loved ones die. they wont mostly commit suicide, they are alive, but they arent living. they just go thro the motions & live for the sake of those around them but not themselves. Tohru deciding to confess to kyo is her deciding to live for herself.

4. Writing a perfect psychologically & emotionally packed climax: I dont need to explain how perfect kyo’s rejection of tohru in se03 ep9 was. How much we felt for him yet were mad at him. He we were “ ugh! kyo no!!!! I mean I get why you do that , but you idiot no! come back! poor kyo! He was just so sad & broken! OMG he’ll kill himself after finding tohru’s injured body!! he totally would! his nightmare came true! But Tohru reached him! she wanted him to be okay! he wont kill himself but still feels hella guilty! but so utterly in love with her that his instinct upon seeing her come to life after near death is kiss her! Perfect display of psychology & emotions! filled with right, wrong, sad, happy, guilty, innocent! basically so human~ As the audience you MUST have this mixture of feelings of wanting to hug him so bad cuz this boy has been killing himself for years now yet want him to stop & just see that he was a good boy afterall. Tohru is THE best girl & if the audience are cheering for kyo to be with her, kyo really deserves her! The only problem is for kyo to see that now.

5. The Perfect wrap up of all romance: If you make your audience suffer the slow-burn this long, you gotta reward them good! & Takaya-san delivered! Just like how the entire romantic story is realistic, the reunion must be as realistic too! Tohru is hurt by kyo;s words. Facts remain his words were hurtful to her. I love that was addressed! tohru gets to tell her side, too! If you love someone, you are bound to be hurt by them as much as be happy with them. Simply cuz they matter so much to you! you arent one person, but two ppl coming together. Kyo must work hard for this confession. Must run & chase her. Must earn her proper! He gets on his knees, I cant express how important that is! he is way taller than her, Imagine apologizing while she looks way up & he looks down? He gets on his knees & apologize like a man, for every mistake, all while not loathing himself. He aint going back to that deep abyss again. He did wrong by her & he is owning up to his mistakes. Give me one chance. I’m not gonna force you with persistence or guilt you into taking me. Give me ONE chance cuz i deserve it & no more. The choice is yours. She asks to confirm, he shows her, they kiss, they hug, they are rewarded with a blessing from the heavens! One of the most simple yet emotionally fulfilling confessions in anime!

- Hugs over kisses: (And her kiss hugs her & the curse was lifted):

Prince charming kisses the princess & she wakes up~ they live ever after~ except furuba is all abt “ eternal ever after is not true, real life is where the real love is”

Kyo kissed tohru once, she didnt wake up, she didnt even think he loved her back. didnt even remember the kiss.

Kyo hugged tohru once. se01, e024, He initiated it, tohru was all in tears, surprised, happy & so utterly in love. he called her name for the first time ever, for a brief moment, they both connected, they both comforted each other. The rain stopped, he became a man not a monster, she got him back. She got her kyo that she fought for with none other than kyo himself.

kyo hugged her again, se03, ep6. They both initiated it. He made the first move, pulling her just a little closer, she made the second move & hugged him hard, he transformed, it was a moment were they both connected, both so sad & broken, both feeling needy for the other, both desperate for the other, both just living the moment. the result is them coming closer, her wanting him more, him realizing her love, there is no escape. Admit it. she loves you. You can tell.

Kyo hugs her again today. He asks permission. No spur of the moment feeling. But a long lasting permission to be together. To hug. He wants to hear her acceptance of his cursed body. “ is ok to hug you? this body will cause you pain as it wont be able to fulfill your wishes of constant hugs & intimacy”. She responds, permission granted, for love, for hugs, for a life long acceptance of you as a whole. weakness & strength, sadness & happiness. I accept you all in better & worse! we’re invincible. Why? cuz we understand love isnt magic. It is a path for us to walk together~~~ reward curse break!

Every time kyoru are closer it is a hug. The one thing the zodiacs cant do. A hug. They can kiss. But cant hug. comes this Zodiac Ruler girl so lonely, away from ppl, so sad, meets a cat boy who comes to the house she’s living in, a house away from ppl, the boy is drawn to the girl, However, when the boy needed to leave, the girl was able to let go despite loving him, the boy comes again, this time wanting to stay, the girl accepts the boy. They both accept the realistic reality of life. Embrace the obstacles & the achievements, celebrates the weakness above the strength. Both so imperfect. Both so endearingly dumb! that’s why the girl’s hug broke the boy’s curse. The girl’s acceptance of the cat broke all curses.

Side Note:

Kyo’s confession is so kyo! so straightforward, so direct, & so physical. He’s on his knees, holding her hands, looking at her eyes. “ i want to be WITH you. If I’m gona live, I want to to do it with you & no one else! cuz I love you” that’s it. That’s all.  So sincere & so romantic!

it is crazy how different tohru & kyo are now after the confession! she stood confidently & happily & said “dont you know, I love you!” all while teasing him, her giggle is so girlish & cute! my girl is a happy woman in love! long buried the angelic mother image of se02! YES! also, kyo’s happy face is love! Dude! when was the last time he smiled so freely? Did he ever do that? He smiled in se01, ep4 with kazmua, but not like this! T_T. my son is healing~

Kyo’s “ i wont ever feel afraid if you’re with me” is a huge growth from his “ I want to protect her” mindset. Now he realizes it is two-sided mutual desire. She gives him strength as much as he does! <3

I dont like open eye while kissing, but here it is so perfect for tohru in this moment! cuz she spent days thinking kyo rejected her & even ran away as soon as she saw him, now he’s not only confessing, apologizing, admitting she is his life, but also kissing her signaling they’re romantic couple. kissing on lips is so personal, what more evidence she needs? still, her thoughts? “ it’s like a dream?” aww~~~ tohru~~~ my precious girl! she just cant believe all her suffering is over, now? She was just practicing “ i’m okay” smile & now she’s an official girlfriend to the man of her dreams? He just bent da kneeee~ go for it queen!

yuki’s face when tohru cried is exactly what I meant of “ allowing yuki to have strong facial expressions”! XD these types of faces humanize yuki so much into the teenage boy he is! Unfortunately the anime team only sees him as the pretty prince in most times. That’s why fave yuki is when he’s with kakeru. He becomes so un-princly as he should be.

Speaking of yuki, I see you anime team~ postponing his moment into next ep so him & machi wont be overshadowed by the long awaited kyoru!! While this defies the perfection of all cursed zodiacs breaking on the same ep making akito’s breakdown less perfect & poetic, I take it as the anime team admitting they underdeveloped yuchi & decided let’s give them more screen time & not putting them in close distance from any couple. A week later ep is enough with lots of time. I dont mind at all, I’m just saying more time after/while confession is not what i was hoping for~~ sigh~ At least I hope yuki would say sth along the lines” all this time I was looking at you, i realized i love you” to imply he was thinking of her as a lover not his kindness for someone he helped. I just dont want their love to be sudden simply cuz yuki needs happy ending. oh well~ I’m sure whatever it will be, the anime will give it utmost attention.

That sad moment when kagura wasnt allowed a moving image. lol. girl was given a still image that didnt even move with the breeze! T_T

Not gonna lie... the scene with kazuma & kyo was underwhelming. Why the wide shot? I mean you dont need budget for that. Just give me a closeup from the waist up with kyo head buried in kazuma’s chest. Dont need to waste budget on kazuma’s face, either.... do the old trick of hair covering eyes & show me glittery tears~  why the awkward shot of kazma towering in his own house! how tall is this man & why cant he he fix his roof?...lol

Also, shigure, you got scars man... who can hurt shigure? akito? gotta be her. I dont think hatori scratches...lol.. Aya? nah~ too busy with Mine! yup, akito... another steamy night? could be, she’s changed as he wish now. But scratching a face is weird while..um..kissing? a quarrel? but why? I bet she wants him now & we know he wants her....

More on part 2! especially abt the curse’s lore~

#Fruits Basket #Anime Only #happy paper #final season #part 1

[broadwaybandito]

✨More Ramblings About Daredevil S3E8 Because There’s So Much To Unpack✨

Today I’m going to be focusing on two scenes that go hand in hand: Karen’s confrontation with Fisk and Foggy’s debate with Blake. Because both scenes are truly incredible and one of these days I’m just gonna analyze the heck out of every single line of dialogue from them.

Karen goes to confront Fisk as a way of showing the world what kind of horrible person he is. He’d recently taken up a public position as sort of a hero, giving up criminals to the FBI and getting them arrested. Sure, the public still hates him- but the FBI is being played by him, and the government is where the power lies for Fisk. If he can sway the government, he can sway the public. And in the events that ensue as the season progresses we see how easily Fisk can twist the public’s perception- for example, how he managed to frame both Karen and Matt by the end of the season.

Karen’s intentions going in are simple: expose Fisk to the FBI by getting him to confess to killing his father. A simple enough plan- until Fisk throws a wrench in it by taking the upper hand and inquiring about Matt’s identity as Daredevil. So Karen’s plans shift to a more reckless approach: provoke Fisk, get him to attack her, and ultimately get him back in prison where he belongs. Her goal is to keep people safe, because Karen always prioritizes the safety of others over her own safety- it’s one of the focal points of her character.

Karen’s priority lying within the preservation of other lives has been a core value of hers ever since season one- she just got a lot better at executing it. You’ll recall that Fisk killed Ben for speaking to his mother- a situation that Karen got him into. It’s not Karen’s fault that Fisk broke into Ben’s house and murdered him. As Ben’s wife reminded her- it’s impossible to drag Ben into a story he doesn’t want to write. She doesn’t blame Karen, and I’m sure Ben wouldn’t want Karen to blame herself either. But whether or not the blame is on Karen, the fact still remains that it was Karen’s idea to speak to Fisk’s mother, and that Fisk killed Ben for it. And Karen? She’s someone that carries an immense amount of guilt.

This, like her desire to protect people, is something that has always been true of Karen’s character. Both things go hand in hand. From the very first episode we see Karen experience survivor’s guilt as a result of Daniel Fisher’s death. This event was in no way her fault- it was Union-Allied’s- and yet Karen blames herself for it. Everytime something goes wrong, Karen blames herself for it. So naturally when Ben dies she’s going to feel the same way.

But what does this say about Karen in season three? It shows that her methods of protecting others have changed. She got Ben involved in taking down Fisk, and he was killed for it- something that Karen will likely never forgive herself for. After this event, Karen is more careful. She doesn’t want to lose anybody else like she lost Ben. So, though she still works with Matt and Foggy, she’s more prone to go through with her more reckless plans alone. Because she’s afraid that if she gets either one of them involved in her plans like she did with Ben, they could die too.

Karen, in a way, begins following a path that mirrors Matt’s- working in the shadows, even engaging in illegal activities to get to the truth. Though she doesn’t isolate others at the same extent that Matt does, she’s stopped getting other people involved when she can avoid it for fear of losing them. Karen’s focus has consistently been keeping other people safe, and so she’s adapted her methods of doing so to reflect that. The whole reason Karen risks her own life taking down threats is because she wants to stop innocent people from being harmed, and if she gets others involved she fears they may be hurt anyway. She’s a hero- she doesn’t have superpowers, yet she’s constantly putting herself in danger to help others. It’s just the kind of person she is.

The scene where she confronts Fisk is fantastic for a lot of reasons- hence why I keep talking about it- but I love it particularly because it shows just how much Karen has grown while still maintaining the properties that make her Karen.

Karen’s still reckless. Her recklessness and bravery are what make her herself. That never changes throughout the entirety of the show. Her guilt is something else that never changes. She consistently blames herself anytime people get hurt, so she has stopped getting others involved in her plans. In the past she’s let her own foolish recklessness trickle out onto the people that she cares about, and has paid the price for it. This is something that has changed about her. She, by season three, though still reckless, isn’t willing to make the same mistakes as before.

Karen didn’t tell Foggy what she was doing because she knew he’d stop her. Karen, for reasons previously mentioned, doesn’t want Foggy to get involved. And even though Foggy likely wouldn’t be harmed by that specific situation, Karen was afraid that his desire to protect her would prevent her from stopping Fisk, which would overall result in people continuing to be hurt. Karen is more than willing to put her own life on the line to stop Fisk from hurting more people, because she’s sick of innocent people suffering.

That scene is not only the perfect display of Karen’s core values and motivations whilst also showing how she’s changed over the course of the show, but Foggy’s reactions to her actions are equally important.

Foggy cares about Karen. That’s a no-brainer. They’re best friends. So when Karen puts herself in danger, of course he’s going to try to do something about it.

Once Foggy realizes what Karen’s doing- which was some fantastic deductive reasoning on his part as it didn’t take him very long to realize where Karen was- he does not even hesitate to leave the debate to go find her, even though he was winning. He stops mid sentence, swears a bit for good measure, and leaves to find Karen. This is not only embarrassing for him, but he is prioritizing Karen’s safety over being elected, which is yet another measure that could help stop Fisk. He is jeopardizing both he and Karen’s chances at stopping Fisk to keep Karen safe.

This really solidifies his place in the Daredevil trio, as well as show what kind of friend, and person, he is.

His priority lies within protecting Matt and Karen above protecting Hell’s Kitchen. Matt and Karen, though fiercely loyal to each other and Foggy, have been known to put themselves at risk for the greater good. They have a tendency to isolate themselves to protect their others, or even subconsciously guard their own emotions. Foggy’s not like this, and it’s what makes him such a great friend. His priorities always lie within his friends.

Sure, he gets pissed at them sometimes for being so headstrong and reckless, but he never gives up on them. He never stops seeing the good in them even when they’ve given up on themselves. He never hesitates to put them first when they need him, even when they claim they don’t need any help. During this scene, Foggy abandons his shot at taking a position of power to rival Fisk without hesitation, because in that moment he realizes that Karen is in danger and that’s all that matters. The people of Hell’s Kitchen can wait- Karen is the priority. Not only would taking down Fisk be easier with Karen, y’know, alive, but Karen is one of the most important people to Foggy and he’s not just going to let her put herself at risk. He knows she’ll be pissed at her for ruining her change at exposing Fisk, but a pissed Karen is far superior to a Karen with her head busted open. He knows that Karen is more than capable of taking care of herself, but he’s not willing to take a chance at losing her. So he leaves his post, contacts the necessary officials to apprehend Fisk, and retrieves his misguided bestie before there is no misguided bestie to retrieve.

Foggy is always going to prioritize protecting his friends before stopping the bad guys because, even though stopping criminals is the moral thing to do and will stop more deaths in the long run, his friends are his priority. Said friends are very lucky to have him.

And all of that is without diving into the contents of Foggy’s debate and Karen’s witty dialogue- which is both good at getting under the skin of certain assholes and providing insight into Karen’s own feelings- which I would love to ramble on about for eternity but for now I’ll just settle for this revision of an analysis I wrote a long time ago.

#marvel #mcu #marvel cinematic universe #daredevil #marvel’s daredevil #netflix daredevil #karen page #deborah ann woll #matt murdock #Matthew murdock #Charlie cox #Franklin nelson #foggy nelson #elden henson

[missfangirll]

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

Fandom: The Untamed Rating: General Relationship: Song Lan / Xiao Xingchen Tags: Canonical Character Death, Fix-it, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a happy ending, Pining          Chapters: 3 Summary: Song Lan has lost Xingchen twice. How will he endure after losing him a third time?

Read on AO3

This has lived in my head for a while and finally demanded attention. I am still not over Yi City and this is my attempt at a fix-it.

My eternal gratitute for @stormy-seasons who is a fantastic beta reader, and has helped and encouraged me immensely. Any remaining mistakes are mine. :)

- - - - -

Chapter 1: A road too wide

The road goes ever on and on Out from the door where it began. Now far ahead the road has gone, Let others follow it who can! Let them a journey new begin, But I at last with weary feet Will turn towards the lighted inn, My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

When Wei Wuxian had asked him, all that time ago, what he wanted to do now that he had gained his life back, he didn't have to think much to answer.

“Roam the world with Shuanghua, fight evil alongside Xingchen.”

It was what he had always done, a comfortable routine, not that different from before. No use in dwelling on the past, he had thought then. He was used to wandering the world alone, had done so for years and years in search of Xingchen, for a chance to apologize, to make things right again. Even if the road had felt too wide at times when he walked it alone, he had been content to do what once had been their shared goal: eliminate the evil that lingered in the world. In doing that he had felt close to Xingchen, and it had given him a focus other than his grief, his guilt.

He had never been one for expressing his feelings verbally, his words at the temple a festering proof of that, but he had still clung to that fraying hope of if only: if only he found Xingchen, if only he would listen, if only he could find the words, if only.

But it was idle foolishness to ponder on things lost and words unsaid.

He had lost everything that fateful day in Yi City, had lost his life, had lost Xingchen, had watched Xue Yang succeed. Even if it had been Xingchen’s hand and blade in the end, Song Lan refused to place any blame on him. It had been Xue Yang’s devious tongue that had poisoned Xingchen’s heart, Xue Yang’s twisted mind that had driven him to such hopeless despair that he had seen no other way out than the sword that had failed him.

When the Yiling Patriarch and Hanguang-Jun had severed Xue Yang‘s hold on him, he had been grateful, of course he had, but not particularly for the existence he had been granted. It had felt daunting, to face the world again, after years of living-not-living as a puppet. But he had accepted the spirit-trapping pouch Wei Wuxian had given him with shaking hands and a quivering heart. There was no one else left to care for Xingchen, and even when Wei Wuxian had told him that the soul inside the bag was shattered, broken, he had never once wavered in his decision. Xingchen and him, they belonged to each other, no matter the form, and so, caring for him was his responsibility. He wouldn't leave him, no matter how much it hurt.

For a short while he really had thought, had hoped, that with Shuanghua and Xingchen’s soul as his companions, the world would feel less empty, less silent, but ever since he had left Yi City behind, he had felt wrong, uneasy, in the way perception shifted when thunderstorms shadowed everything in an amber hue. He felt hollowed, a part of himself left behind in a black coffin adorned with talismans.

The road seemed wider than ever before, the silence even more unbearable now. Each room was too large, each bed too empty, each meal bland. Colours lost their vibrancy, any music was reduced to dull rhythms. He felt as if the veil of Xue Yang‘s influence hadn‘t fully lifted, but since Wei Wuxian had assured him he was free, he blamed being a living corpse for his dimmed senses.

Only in a fight did he feel almost as balanced as before, Fuxue still a trusted companion. He moved with the same deadly precision he always had, his senses sharpened by adrenaline and his energy flow. (It had been a surprise that his golden core seemed almost unaffected by the whole living-dead business, but for everything else he had lost, it was a relief that this at least seemed largely intact.)

Sometimes, very rarely, he even used Shuanghua on a night hunt. Not so much for his own sake, because the image of that blade at Xingchen's throat haunted him still, but for the sword's, which seemed restless without its master. After those hunts he would tell Xingchen about it in his mind, how his sword missed him, how the world missed him. (He felt he had not earned the right to miss Xingchen, and so said nothing of himself.)

When he talked to Xingchen, wordlessly, soundlessly, every time, every conversation began the same.

I am sorry.

-☾-•-❅-

The inn wasn't that different from any other he had taken shelter in, the wooden floors dark with age, but it was clean and inexpensive. He didn't really have to sleep as much as he’d had to when he had been human, but old habits were hard to break. Food wasn't a necessity anymore either, and most days it was a strenuous task, given the state of his tongue, but he still could enjoy the texture, the smell and temperature of meals. Losing his tongue had been as horrifying as losing his eyes so long ago, but he found that, with time, he had started to adapt. Communication was difficult at times, especially when the other party couldn’t read, but he had found most people understood his combination of facial expressions and humming sounds. It wasn't perfect and sometimes led to misunderstandings, but all in all it wasn't as arduous as he had thought.

After he had secured a room for the night – with a glance at the inn-keeper, followed by a nod towards the stairs, which she understood immediately – he sat in a corner of the small dining room, staring at the bowl of rice and steamed vegetables in front of him. The air smelled heavy, of food and unwashed people, and it made his skin prickle. He stirred halfheartedly in his rice, wishing it gone so he could escape to the temporary safety of his room.

When Song Lan finds him again, Xingchen is perched atop a wobbly wooden fence, one arm looped around the post next to him. In one hand he holds a few small peaches, the other, dripping with fruit juice, he holds out to Song Lan, offering him a piece. His smile is blinding, and Song Lan feels an urge to kiss away the sticky remnants of peach juice on his lips. He mock-frowns at the offered peach, then at Xingchen. Xingchen’s smile widens and he shakes his hand a little for emphasis. “You don't even need to touch it, Zichen,” he offers, playful and lighthearted, “just try it. It’s really good!” Song Lan has to hide his smile, glaring at the other for good measure, then carefully leans down, taking the offered piece between his lips. It is really good.

The sound of a cup being slammed on a table startled Song Lan out of his reverie. The mood of the company at the next table had grown noticeably more inebriated and, with a disappointed look at his bowl, Song Lan got up to retreat to his own room. He hated to waste food, but the thought of eating in company – in this company – made his stomach turn.

Alone in his room, the door closed firmly behind him, he finally felt able to breathe again. Setting Shuanghua and Fuxue on the table, he began his evening rituals. Eventually, with his hair down and only in a thin under robe, he sat on the bed, Xingchen's spirit pouch in front of him. It was not that the pouch ever left his side during the day, but these moments, alone, vulnerable, were special to Song Lan in a way he couldn‘t describe.

Softly caressing the silky cloth, he calmed his breathing, trying to convey his thoughts to Xingchen‘s soul.

I am sorry.

That was what he had wanted to say, when he had first lost him, but by now that wasn't the only important thing anymore.

I love you.

Come back.

He wasn't sure if he wanted Xingchen to come back, like Xue Yang had intended, as a fierce corpse like Song Lan was. Xingchen was warmth, life, sunlight – Song Lan had never understood why anyone would compare him to the moon, he had never met anyone as bright and warm – and being trapped in this lifeless existence wasn't something Song Lan wished for him.

And yet.

Even if Xingchen wouldn't return to him, he could mend his soul and enter the cycle of reincarnation, could eventually be born again. (Song Lan very deliberately didn't think about what that meant for him, since he wouldn't die of old age in the foreseeable future.)

Sighing, he laid down next to the pouch, cradling it to his chest, extinguishing the candle with a flick of his wrist. He couldn‘t speak, but had made a habit of pressing the pouch softly to his throat or chest and humming softly, hoping that the vibrations would travel and that Xingchen would somehow sense them. Sometimes, he hummed a childrens‘ song or a lullaby, a faint echo from another life, other times it was just a tuneless melody, anything to make Xingchen feel less alone. Closing his eyes, he let himself drift off.

It is deep in the night when Song Lan wakes with a start. Immediately he knows what startled him: Xingchen isn't by his side anymore, but before Song Lan can begin to worry, he sees him, standing by the open window. The moonlight cascades around him in silver waves, making him look ethereal, like a spirit from another world. He is, in a way, Song Lan muses as he watches him. Xingchen has his eyes raised to the moon, the light caressing his elegant cheekbones, his fine nose, the graceful bow of his lips. With a slight movement, a stray strand of hair falls over his face and he pushes it behind his ear with an almost impatient gesture. Then, seeing Song Lan from the corner of his eye, he turns, his lips turning upwards into a soft smile. Wordlessly, he abandons his place at the windowsill and returns to the bed, lying down next to Song Lan, facing him. Still smiling, he closes his eyes, and Song Lan breathes him in.

Song Lan didn't dream. He stopped dreaming the day Shuanghua had ended his life, his nights filled with something akin to deep meditation, but not real sleep. Thus, he woke deeply disoriented, instantly missing Xingchen‘s sleepy warmth at his side, blindly reaching for him under the covers. Reality slowly dripped into his consciousness, the realisation that Xingchen wouldn't be there striking him so forcefully he gasped for air.

The pain of missing Xingchen never went away, always lingered in the back of his mind, but this was immeasurably worse: The memory had been so real, he still could smell Xingchen‘s hair oil, feel his warm touch, hear his soft sleepy breaths. Closing his eyes with a groan, Song Lan forced himself up and out of bed. He wouldn't find any more rest anyway and the only thing that could soothe his aching heart, he knew that from experience, was distraction, movement, so he went on to begin his day.

After donning his robes and putting his few belongings back into his qiankun pouch, he silently slipped down the stairs and out of the house, both swords strapped to his back. Only a pale grey shimmer at the horizon promised the coming sunrise, but the small village still lay in deep silence. Song Lan followed the unpaved road out of town.

“Maybe I should hold onto you, so you don't get lost,” Xingchen grins at him, full of mirth, and swiftly, gracefully, takes Song Lan‘s hand in his. Song Lan almost trips over his own feet, but Xingchen’s smile is so radiant, his eyes sparkling with so much joy, that every excuse why they shouldn’t be holding hands in broad daylight on a road dies on his tongue. Wordlessly, he can only stare at the man beside him and hold on.

Song Lan‘s hand clenched around the spirit bag on his belt. Squinting at the sun above him, he took a moment to orient himself. The next village was his intended destination, the rumors of the vile energy and vengeful spirits troubling it had accompanied him for days. Not much time left before sundown, he realised, and quickened his pace.

-☾-•-❅-

The village was as unassuming as he had expected: a single road, no vendors, not even an inn. When he spotted an elderly woman in a doorway, he hastened to greet her with a polite bow, tapping three fingers to his mouth to indicate he couldn’t speak. Curious, she eyed the two swords on his back.

“Are you a cultivator, Daozhang? Did you come for the ghost?“

Song Lan nodded and raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

The woman gestured to the setting sun. “It is good that you arrived in time, Daozhang.” She sighed. “We have been plagued by that one for a while, and are afraid she will find another victim tonight.“

Song Lan gestured for her to continue.

“Well, you see, on a clear night like this, her lover left her,“ the woman said bluntly, and Song Lan began to understand. It always went like this: lovers lost, friends betrayed, brothers deceived. Greed, anger, hatred, but most of all, love - turned and twisted. He sighed inwardly: those were not easily put to rest. The woman went on.

“It… She was a girl from the village. Her name was Xiao An, they were betrothed. But then he… Well, after she hanged herself in his bedroom, he left the village, but she remained in that house. We hear her crying, every night.“ She shuddered. 

“Then, last week, a young man didn't return home to his family one night. We found him the next morning, he was…“ She trailed off, a haunted expression in her eyes. Shaking her head, she said, “Forgive me, Daozhang, I cannot tell you. He was my granddaughter's beloved, and what she did to him…“ 

She turned towards Song Lan, pleading. “We beg you, Daozhang, release her spirit. We cannot give you much, but-“ 

Song Lan interrupted her with a grunt and a headshake. Then, with another raised eyebrow, he half-turned into the direction the woman had pointed to earlier, silently asking the way. 

She nodded. “It is the last house on the left side, you cannot miss it. It has been unoccupied since… Well, since then.“ With a deep inhale, she bowed to Song Lan. “Thank you, Daozhang. Your help is much appreciated.“ With a nod, the cultivator left into the direction she had indicated.

Since it had already been almost sunset when he arrived in the village, he wasted no time. As he walked towards the abandoned house, he prepared some talismans for the fight ahead.

He notices the fierce corpse behind him a heartbeat too late, too late to turn around and block its fury with Fuxue, too late to dodge the attack. Half-turned, he watches a hand descend towards his neck, unnaturally slow, as if through mud, before silver lightning strikes, cutting the offending arm off. Stunned, he watches as the white-clad figure gracefully follows the motion of the blade, using the momentum to behead the remaining corpse behind Song Lan.

“My thanks,” he pants, only to be grabbed by his sleeve and turned around with more force than strictly necessary. “Did it get you?”, Xingchen demands. “Are you hurt?” Song Lan shakes his head and Xingchen’s shoulders slump a little. Silently he steps closer and embraces Song Lan in a one-armed hug, hiding his face in the crook of the other’s neck.

Song Lan shook himself out of his thoughts. It wouldn't do to get distracted on a night hunt, he scolded himself. Shaking his head to clear it a bit, he mustered the talismans he had prepared, meticulously adjusting a few strokes. Perhaps because he was so focused on that, he realised too late that the trees around him had grown eerily quiet: no wind moved the branches, no bird sang to its mate, no insect buzzed evening songs. Instead, he heard a ghostly whisper that seemed to come from all around him. Unsheathing Fuxue, Song Lan carefully approached the deserted hut, only to stop abruptly when he heard his name.

Song Daozhang.

He couldn‘t answer, even if he had wanted to, so he cautiously stepped closer, eyes darting around to find the spirit that undoubtedly was responsible for this. His steps faltered and he stumbled, as the spirit's next words rustled in his ears.

You left him too, didn't you?

He fought to focus past the heartache and tear-blurred vision.

I didn't want to. I didn't want to. I didn't…

You left him. You left him. You left him and he died. He died, Daozhang.

He had to close his eyes for a moment. He knew this was a vengeful spirit, using his own thoughts against him, and still he was helpless against the guilt that threatened to weigh him down. Determined not to be bested, he turned around in search for the ghost, but all he could make out was that eerie whisper.

He died. He died. He died. HE DIED!

Suddenly, with a gust of energy that even smelled evil, foul and nauseating, the spirit materialised directly behind him, so close he could feel Shuanghua vibrate in warning. He whirled around and struck, only for the spirit to duck away and claw at him. He grunted with shock at a searing pain in his chest, then hurled Fuxue at the ghost‘s neck. The blade connected, and with a loud screech the figure dissolved, leaving only a cloud of dark, coiling energy behind.

Panting heavily, Song Lan dropped Fuxue – with a silent apology to the blade for such undignified treatment – and fumbled for a talisman. In its light, the black mist cleared and left only some sticky black residue in the tall grass.

With a groan, Song Lan dropped unceremoniously down into the grass next to his blade. His breathing slowly calming, he carefully took stock of himself. His robes were torn open, his chest drenched in blood from three large, ragged cuts, leading from his left shoulder down to the opposite hip. He winced and reached for the qiankun bag at his belt to find something to staunch the bleeding, and froze.    

The spirit pouch was gone.

Frantically, he scrambled to his knees, all pain forgotten in his rising panic. Sifting through the tall grass where he had stood mere minutes before, he paid no mind to the sharp blades of grass against his hands, his only focus to find it again.

There. With a wave of unmeasurable relief, he spotted the well-worn fabric and came closer to retrieve it, already silently apologising to Xingchen that he had let them be parted so easily.

But all words died when he saw the state of the pouch.

The silk was torn, gashed open like his chest, black and gaping where embroidered flowers should have been.

No. Please, no.

When Xingchen had died, Song Lan had been under the puppet master’s control, but seen all of it unfold, the heartbreak, Xue Yang‘s gleeful explanations, the agony in Xingchen‘s face when he finally put Shuanghua to his own throat. It had etched itself in his memory, and when he finally was free of the needles, he had relived this moment over and over, every time a helpless spectator. The heartbreak he had felt then, the horror, the helplessness, had almost swallowed him, and only Xingchen‘s presence in the spirit pouch had been a thin ray of hope in the darkness. 

But nothing, nothing he had felt then could be compared to the terror that now squeezed his heart with an iron fist.

The pouch was empty.

#the untamed #chen qing ling #cql #modao zushi #mdzs #the untamed fic #song lan #song zichen #xiao xingchen #songxiao #angst with a happy ending #fix-it #my writing

[deerixiie]

Hi! For the event, can I request “Golden Butterflies” with Akaashi?

golden butterflies - akaashi k.

—royalty au, major character death, soft angst, unrequited love, pining, f!reader, injuries and blood

—welcome to dexii going overboard on requests part 282837!! i know this should’ve been gen!reader but i really just ran with this whoops,, this was actually supposed to be longer but i held myself back <3 and ty @hajiimes for betaing ily

Akaashi stared into your tired, hopeless eyes, and he felt guilt. You were searching for a king, a king to take your side and bring the country into peace.

You were looking for Bokuto.

Bokuto was the picture of a ruler. Fierce in battle, stubbornly loyal, compassionate, strong, just. Yes, he was impulsive and moody and a bit immature, but those blemishes paled in comparison to his heart. Bokuto was the golden boy, perfect and shiny and genuine.

He was golden in even in death; crimson pouring from the wound in his neck and eyes clouded in immense pain. He had smiled, eyes flickering between you and Akaashi. It was such a pure, beautiful smile that Akaashi found himself believing everything was alright; that Bokuto wouldn’t die and the rebellion would be over and that maybe, just maybe, you’d show signs of loving him the same way he did you.

The moment the life trailed out of Bokuto’s body Akaashi realized hope was gone. The king—the golden boy, the heart of the nation, your fiancé, his best friend—was dead.

And here you stood today, tired and hopeless but determined to save your country, to replace the monochrome haze the nation was drowning in with a golden sheen. A golden sheen Bokuto brought.

You were looking for Bokuto in Akaashi, but Bokuto was dead and Akaashi could never be as gold and as genuine as Bokuto once was.

Akaashi was more of a bruised bronze, rough at the edges and littered with imperfections. He could never take the place as your husband and therefore the king, because that was the place of golden genuine perfection; that was the place of Bokuto.

Akaashi had seen the loving passion Bokuto had for you, he had seen it mirrored in your eyes. The princess and the spirited young king. Taking that position felt like a crime. It was an insult to his late best friend and an insult to the love shared between you.

The only thing gold about him was the love he had for you, and he hated it. He hated the way his heart sang for you and his body ached for you. He hated the way his mind entertained the thought of replacing Bokuto and marrying you, making him king and you his queen.

The butterflies in his chest were the only golden thing about him, and he was selfish. Saving the country wasn’t the driving purpose behind taking your hand in marriage and becoming king, it was to be with you as long as he could, to be able to call you his even if his feelings were unrequited.

And when you placed a crown of golden butterflies on his head and called him king, Akaashi smiled.

#akaashi x reader #akaashi angst #akaashi drabble #akaashi x y/n #bokuto x reader #bokuto x y/n #akaashi scenarios #akaashi keji x reader #haikyuu x female reader #haikyuu royalty au #haikyuu royal au #akaashi keiji #akaashi oneshot #dexii 1k event!! #tw major character death #tw death #tw blood #tw violence

[seventhstrife]

SubScorp Week 2021 Day 3: AU Part 1

I love AUs. *points at AUs* That’s my house. I live there. LOLOLOL

A bit violent, but chances are if you’re an MK fan that warning literally won’t even be worth mentioning lol

Read it on AO3.

Part 2

Hanzo heard the sounds of battle long before he saw it.

It was abominably cold in the mountains and icy wind and the first flakes of snow cut through the air in a punishing gale. He could not imagine what would drive anyone from shelter to fight in such conditions, and it was this thought that compelled him closer rather than away, as he normally would. Avoiding detection had become rote for him, but a fight in such a storm spoke of desperation, and Hanzo could not ignore that.

Through thick clusters of black, snow-capped trees and frozen bracken, Hanzo quickly traversed the forest, brows furrowing as the sounds of combat grew louder. There were shouts, angry and excited, but they were barely heard over the incensed, furious din of unholy roars that threatened to drown them out completely. As Hanzo drew closer, he noticed that the air grew impossibly colder, enough that his throat stung as shards of ice tried to crowd his mouth as he breathed. He pulled the fabric of his scarf higher, over his nose, and it only slightly helped.

He tracked the incredible noise, deep, deeper, until finally he saw light, fire from torches, and saw the black silhouettes of many men in a clearing.

But, he realized, it was not a natural clearing. As he drew closer, the beast he heard revealed itself not to be a bear or large boar, but something much bigger and far, far deadlier.

It bore a coat of resplendent white scales that shined in the moonlight like crystal and each angry slash of its long, trailing tail and claws felled men and trees alike. It opened its wide snout, glistening with fresh-spilled blood, and spat great columns of ice at its attackers. The men, while far weaker, had the advantage of numbers. While the beast had incredible power, it could only focus on so many at once, and each time it had to give its back or flanks to deal with a threat, it received a score of spears in its side that bled profusely as the blades dug deep. Its incensed, agonized cries shook the forest and rattled Hanzo's very bones.

Shock kept Hanzo frozen where he stood underneath the shadowed cover of the forest, just outside the edge of the clearing, shadowed in darkness.

A dragon. He'd heard tales, of course, but that was all they had been: legends, myths, a story told to caution children from straying too far from home. He hadn't truly believed in them until now.

It was none of his business. These men were mercenaries, he could tell by their garb, their demeanor, and revealing himself risked his capture. There was nothing Hanzo wanted more than his freedom and stepping forward now put that at risk.

The dragon cried out once more, a fierce growl of anger and pain and Hanzo's heart lurched in his chest.

The sheer number of men spoke to this being a hunt, and Hanzo empathized, more than he wanted to. Such a magnificent creature, hunted like mere game. So that these men could harvest pieces of its corpse for trophies and sell its head to hang in some wealthy, stupid lord's hall.

Hanzo clenched his hand into the bark of the tree he had pressed himself behind.

The beast spat another stream of ice, but another spear in its side cut off the attack. There was another teeth-rattling, heart-rending cry, and it took a few unsteady steps back—quite near Hanzo's hiding place.

The long neck wavered as a final, warbling cry issued, and then it stumbled, dropped, and the large head fell to the ground with a deafening crash.

It panted there, still, as ice flakes billowed from its mouth in thin, reedy huffs. Dark blood, nearly black, steamed in the snow, and the men raised gleaming, bloody weapons in the moonlight, shouting in exultant victory.

Hanzo could not tear his gaze away when the dragon opened its large, hazy white eyes, like iridescent pearls, and looked straight at him.

Hanzo sucked in a sharp breath. A great scar ran straight down across one side of its face, over one huge, milky white eye, and as he stared into them, those eyes...they were not the eyes of a mindless beast. They were the eyes of another living thing, that could feel pain, that knew death was coming and knew it would not be merciful. The intelligence Hanzo witnessed in its gaze made the decision for him.

Perhaps he was a fool. But if he survived, he would be a fool that would sleep well tonight.

The shouts of victory turned to ones of shock and fear when a ring of fire encircled the clearing.

Hanzo stepped out, hands ablaze, and unsheathed his daggers.

"You will not leave this place."

His appearance only whipped their bloodlust into a fever pitch. The thought of bagging two rare prizes in one night was an opportunity gleefully seized, but in their excitement, they were uncoordinated, and Hanzo's blades ended the lives of four men before they fully realized he was upon them.

The dragon had culled their numbers significantly, and that was perhaps the only reason he survived. He was not unscathed—it was impossible to fight nearly a dozen men without incurring a few injuries—but it was nothing time and rest would not heal. Seconds, or hours, might have passed before Hanzo slid the last body from his sword, and when his ears only rang with echoing silence, his trembling legs collapsed and he fell to the snow-covered ground, weary, and panted in exhaustion.

He had not fully caught his breath when another plaintive, rumbling cry reached him.

Blinking, Hanzo wearily rolled over, braced an elbow in the cold ground so that he could see.

The dragon had not moved but for its head, which had weakly risen to better see Hanzo. Thankfully, it did not seem aggressive, and there was something almost curious about its gaze as they stared at one another.

A part of Hanzo still couldn't believe he was a mere few feet away from such a creature, but he forced himself past the awe and tiredly pushed himself to his feet.

When he drew near, taking wary, cautious steps should the beast lash out, what he saw made him grimace.

Broken off spears and arrows had made their homes in the dragon's flesh. The dragon was so large he did not fear that removing them would cause it to bleed out, but the pain would be incredible.

Hanzo darted another glance at the dragon, found those large, pearly eyes fixed unwaveringly on him.

"I need to remove these," he explained quietly, voice rough. He did not have much cause to speak these days and it was a struggle to raise his voice enough to be heard.

Slowly, telegraphing his movements as plainly as possible, Hanzo seized a spear near the flesh it pierced.

Hanzo met the dragon's eyes one last time. "Please do not kill me." And he quickly pulled the spear free.

The dragon roared, and it was as jarring as before—worse, because Hanzo was so near. But it did not lash out, and aside from the cry, it held itself still and tense, as if it had been prepared for Hanzo's actions.

Even so, Hanzo did not move until the beast had quieted, and even then, he waited just a bit longer, heart racing. When he looked back to the wound, he was surprised to see that it was already healing, slow and creeping, but its flesh was indeed stitching itself together before his eyes.

"Incredible," he murmured. It made a strange sort of sense, that the dragon was magic, but it was still an amazing thing to behold.

He tried to find the perfect marriage between speed and carefulness as he went through the arduous task of freeing the dragon from the numerous arrows and spears that were stuck in its flesh, but it still took a great deal of time. Once, he had to remove a spear whose end was forked, and when finally he eased it from the flesh, the dragon mustered the strength to lift its great head.

It leveled Hanzo with such a look of approach, he felt his lips twitch despite himself.

"Apologies," he murmured, and the dragon huffed.

When he finally finished, a great deal of time had passed and Hanzo was not sure which of them was more exhausted by the end. His work was not quite done, however, as he eyed a wound that was deeper than the rest—a lucky sword swipe, he thought, and it bled faster and greater than all the other wounds.

His ears were still ringing from the dragon's pained roars, and he did not look forward to what he had to do next.

"You are not healing as quickly, here." He touched near the large gash with a frown. "I must cauterize your wound, or you will bleed out."

Those large, pale eyes just stared. There was no way to tell if it understood him and Hanzo hoped that it could; otherwise, what he was about to do would not go over well.

He put a soothing hand on the beast's flank and his other glowed, white-hot as he focused on bringing his flames to a fine point of concentrated heat.

"Brace yourself," he murmured, and then he pressed his palm, fingers curled, against the largest gash on the dragon's side.

To his immense relief, while the beast roared loud enough that his heart nearly gave out, it did not lash out and crush Hanzo with a swipe of a claw or freeze him right there where he knelt.

Hanzo apologized again in a quiet mutter, wincing. In order to make sure the wound was fully covered and that he did the job as thoroughly as possible so he would not have to perform a second pass, he was forced to go slowly. The scent of cooked flesh and singed scales grew strong enough to make his eyes water and his nose burn.

But aside from that initial roar, the dragon was silent. The great, muscular body was drawn tight and a sheen soon covered its body as it began to sweat. It trembled, very faintly, whether from the pain, the effort of holding itself back, or from fear, Hanzo was not sure, and guilt swamped him for inflicting more pain on a creature that had already borne more than its fair share. When he finally finished, it was a toss-up between which of them who was more relieved.

Hanzo fell back and sat in the snow, hands bracing him up behind his back and head hanging as he panted from the exertion of drawing forth such a precise flame of incredible heat. The dragon's head flopped down similarly and its sigh made the night air even cooler. If Hanzo hadn't been a pyromancer, he could not imagine how he would endure this.

Eventually, the sound of movement pried Hanzo's eyes open and he wearily raised his head, squinting.

The dragon's overlarge head loomed close and its large, milky eyes seemed to stare right through him.

Hanzo froze and he dared not even breathe. Even as he tended to its wounds, he had never quite beaten back his awe and humbled reverence of such a large, fearsome creature, one that could kill him with laughable ease, and in this moment, despite nearly a lifetime of fighting mercenaries and bounty-hunters alike, he had never been more aware of his own mortality.  

And just when Hanzo thought it might open that wide jaw and take a bite of him after all, instead, it closed its eyes and nudged his chest.

But a nudge from a beast of that size was substantial enough that it sent him flat on his back with a surprised grunt.

The sensation of icy snow chilling his skin through his cloak was unpleasant, but he could not dwell on it for longer than a single instant before that great head was back, pressing into Hanzo's chest. It rubbed its face there for several long moments and, after a beat of hesitance, where his arms hovered—torn between pushing the dragon away and fearing for his limbs should he try it—Hanzo realized the beast was—showing affection, in a way.

Tentatively, Hanzo laid his hands on either side of the dragon's head. When it didn't immediately rear back and maul him, Hanzo slowly rubbed the smooth scales, marveling at the texture, like river rocks, utterly without edge after centuries of withstanding the current, yet his hands were completely dry.

A sound left the beast, a low rumble of contentment, and Hanzo only recognized it as such because he'd already heard what it sounded like angry and this did not match those earlier, defiant roars.

Crushed and seemingly trapped in the snow as he pet a dragon, Hanzo sighed.

"...You are welcome," he said softly.

#@subscorp-week #@maagspies #@summertrapped #subscorpweek #subscorp week #subscorpweek2021 #subscorp #my fics #my stuff

[dadsnape]

Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle

@potterlet​ made a post about how they wanted more content about Vincent and Gregory that wasn’t just based on Draco/ negative. I have some headcanons about them so decided to write them down and show them here. Draco is mentioned, Snape is mentioned. I’ll probably include some of this in Snape’s Snakes if I ever get round to writing properly again. Also I accidentally made it gay. 

- In 1983 there was still Death Eater activity going on. Death Eaters were still gathering to find ways to keep going after the disappearance of their lord. One of these such gatherings happened at the Crabbe house.

- Crabbe Sr was a coward. He knew it was risky to gather at his house, and to continue being a Death Eater at all, but he feared what his peers would do to him and his family if he backed down, he lacked the vast amount of wealth that afforded the Malfoys some protection. His own family’s wealth was slowly running out, so it was with little peer pressure that a Death Eater gathering was held at his house.

- The gathering was mostly talk. Vincent, aged three, not liking that he had been told he was not allowed at the gathering, sneaked inside and hid behind a curtain to listen to what the adults were saying. It was a game to him to see how long he could go unnoticed for.

- The Death Eaters began drinking and eventually one announced they had prepared "entertainment" for this dull gathering. The "entertainment" turned out to be a bound muggle family.

- Crabbe Sr gave only weak protest, saying they should take this elsewhere as his wife and son were home, but within a few minutes the room was filled with the screams of the tortured muggles.

- Vincent watched from his hiding place as gruesome things were done to the muggles. He flinched back as one muggle screamed, knocking the curtain which caught the eye of Nott Sr who whipped the curtain back and dragged him out by the ear.

- The drunk Nott Sr scolded him for hiding, and asked him if he’d like to see more before crucioing the muggles in front of the now crying boy’s eyes. Vincent’s game wasn’t fun anymore.

- Crabbe Sr pushed through the crowd and in a rare display of bravery, told Nott Sr to let go of his son and stop what he was doing. Crabbe Sr then gathered Vincent in his arms and took him outside.

- He didn’t want to think of the things Vincent had seen at such a young age, and decided it would be kinder to obliviate him. However, Crabbe Sr was never the best at Charms, and he’d been drinking. Vincent was so young, his mind still developing so the spell went wrong, and although Vincent forgot the events of that evening, it also gave him difficulties in remembering things.

- Crabbe Sr never told his wife what had happened, instead letting her believe their son was just naturally slow. He felt a strong sense of guilt whenever he looked at Vincent, so he distanced himself from him as much as possible. As such, Vincent became very close to his mother.

- As Crabbe Sr was close friends with Goyle Sr, Gregory was often around the Crabbe’s house and quickly became friends with Vincent.

- Goyle Sr, first name Garrison, was a pureblood whose family wasn’t particularly wealthy and he saw his friendship with the Crabbe’s to be a way of gaining some status for himself and his family.

- At school Garrison Goyle’s name was often shortened to Gar, giving him the nickname of the Gargoyle. This means Garrison despises any attempt to shorten his name and he instilled this into Gregory.

- Goyle Sr taught Gregory many things, the two having a very close relationship. He taught his son to observe the room, keep his mouth shut until he knew what to say, and to never let on to how much he knew.

- Around this time Lucius Malfoy was looking for playmates for his son Draco, and Garrison jumped at the chance to integrate his son with the Malfoy family. He convinced Crabbe Sr to volunteer his own son as well in an attempt to gain the Malfoy’s favour, and therefore some way of gaining back some of the Crabbe’s lost wealth, and so the three boys ended up spending many days at Malfoy Manor.

- Draco didn’t think much of either boy at first; it was clear they were already friends and Vincent seemed slow and dim-witted to him, whilst Gregory was unnervingly quiet. Even so the three ended up becoming friends to the delight of their fathers.

- It turned out Gregory had a sharp memory, but he struggled to read and write due to being dyslexic. This, coupled with his quiet nature made Draco believe him to be stupid like he had with Vincent.

- As Draco was very much into Quidditch the three would often fly together and throw a quaffle around or take turns in trying to catch Draco’s practice snitch. Eventually Gregory suggested that since Draco wanted to be a seeker, he should practice evading bludgers. Vincent agreed that this was a great idea and Draco, not wanting to back down, allowed the other boys to hit bludgers at him.

- Of course, the fun was cut short (to the relief of Draco) when a bludger smashed through one of the windows in Malfoy Manor and lands them all in trouble.

- The three boys do develop a friendship; Gregory helps Vincent by reminding him of things as many times as he needs. Draco does as well to a certain extent but not as much, finding Vincent’s memory problems more annoying to deal with than the far more patient Gregory. Draco helps Gregory by reading out passages from books to him and sometimes writing things for him. Draco refuses to write everything for Gregory though, and Vincent isn’t as good at forging Gregory’s handwriting.

- When they reach Hogwarts age, both Vincent and Gregory struggle immensely. Vincent is suddenly expected to remember a lot more than he had before, and Gregory is forced to write out notes and essays for his homework which obviously doesn’t go down well.

- The teachers complain to Snape as he is their head of house. Snape agrees with the other teachers having also taught he boys. They both only managed to brew their potion in a way that didn’t mean it blew up because Draco was whispering in Gregory’s ear the whole time.

- It’s Snape who works out Gregory is dyslexic and Vincent has memory problems. He works to get them both accommodations. Gregory gets a dicto-quill that helps him write and during exams, he is given extra time and sits in an extra room where he gets a reader.

- Gregory used the fact everyone assumed he was stupid to his advantage. No one thought he was much threat if they thought him unable to think very fast and he used this to weasel his way into groups the way his father used his charm.

-Vincent’s problems were harder to help than Gregory’s.

- Snape took him to Pomfrey of course, she worked out he was obliviated at a young age but she could not undo the damage of the obliviate and due to the fact that the spell was covering up trauma it would be very difficult to unpick it all.

- Snape did manage to brew a potion that helped a little and he also found a way to give Vincent accommodations, like extra time in exams. He also gave him a little book where he encouraged him to write to remind himself of things.

- Gregory is fiercely protective over Vincent, when they are older, he called Draco out when he said things to Vincent that are below the belt.

- As the Crabbe’s had to sell their house elf, Mrs Crabbe has had to do much of the cooking and since Vincent was very small, he used to help around the kitchen and is actually a really good chef. Draco used to make fun of him for this until they were about thirteen, and the three of them were home alone at the Crabbe house and Vincent cooked them a delicious meal.

- Gregory gave Vincent the nickname Crab Apple because of the delicious apple pie he made. Draco scoffed every time he heard it but Vincent would grin at the name, especially if reminded of why Gregory gave it to him.

- The two went to the Yule Ball together as “friends”, and the Slytherins teased them for being boyfriends even though the two adamantly denied anything more than friendship.

- When Gregory is an adult and thinking back, he feels he may have been in love with Vincent. He never did get over his death and he never married.

#Vincent Crabbe #Gregory Goyle #pro snape #crabbe and goyle #pro Crabbe #pro Goyle #@potterlet

[oneiropoietria]

Rant about Jason Grace

(I know nobody’s going to read this or any of my posts since I have 0 followers, but here it is.)

It’s been years since I read Percy Jackson and the Olympians and The Heroes of Olympus. However, something got into me half a year ago and I re-read some of the HoO installments. I know about the existence of The Trials of Apollo, but I certainly don’t intend to read that series, ever. I just really needed to get a few things off my chest regarding Jason.

First of all, I adore the idealized thing that Jason is. He is a great guy and reading about him as well as his POVs was always a pleasure. So don’t get me wrong.

However, I feel like Jason is the one character Rick completely fucked up. He is such an underdeveloped character it hurts. Often times, he merely appears to be a vehicle for Rick to express his message about what it means to act heroically, about what it means to be a decent guy, about tolerance or what have you. But some things are just too much to take.

Jason was abandoned by his mother as a toddler and spent a while with Lupa and her wolves. Since we’re in the realm of Greek mythology, we may as well accept that a demigod can (1) survive this and still be able to (2) learn human language and (3) socialize. But for said demigod to appear perfectly normal and well-mannered to others? No strange quirks, no terseness of speech, no fierceness of behavior? One would expect at least something to show now and then and to set him apart from the others. It would have made him a bit more authentic. Instead, Jason has perfect diplomatic skills, better than anyone else’s (possibly even Annabeth’s, since she has a tendency to be incendiary sometimes).

Also, he has zero attachment issues despite having been abandoned and having grown up without a family among kids in a military camp (known for its ruthless measures against transgressions of any kind)? Absolutely no avoidant tendencies in his relationship with Piper whatsoever? While Nico, who at least has some latent memories of his mother’s tenderness and vivid ones of his sister, is shown to act in classic avoidant fashion towards Will. Simply because, I don’t know, he’s the Hades child and has been designated by Rick as the default traumatized character? Cf.:

Will turned to me. “I apologize for my boyfriend."

Nico rolled his eyes. "Could you not―"

"Would you prefer special guy?" Will asked. "Or significant other?"

"Significant annoyance, in your case," Nico grumbled.

To put this somewhat more coherently, other demigods show some signs of trauma and/or coping strategies according to their background and personality. Leo, for instance, tends to hide his pain and longing behind a jovial and lighthearted facade. Nico, as already mentioned, is painted by Rick as the most suffering and overtly traumatized character, who is unwilling to let anyone in and especially unable and unwilling to accept himself. I understand that Nico has the additional challenges of dealing with guilt over Bianca’s death as well as having to come to terms with his sexuality. But it does seem somewhat unlikely that Jason, who for some time in his infancy was completely deprived of any human affection and went on to grow up without knowing what being loved must feel like, would find it easy to navigate a relationship, show affection in a way that is easily understood and make himself emotionally vulnerable the way he sometimes does in the books. Again, I feel for Jason immensely, I only want the best for him, and I know Rick’s scope has its limits, but if Rick finds space to show Annabeth’s and Calypso’s derisive treatment of Percy and Leo respectively (”seaweed brain”; “I still hate you”), both of which moreover was mostly for the laugh factor and no deeper reason, I do feel like he could have tried to portray a slightly more realistic Jason.

But even more importantly, I hate how Rick repeatedly paints Leo and Piper as Jason’s best friends. During their first freaking quest which literally lasts only a couple of days and then obstinately after their trip to Camp Jupiter. Jason grew up in that camp. He is bound to have actual (and much, much closer) friends there. And don’t give me that crap about him seeing some of his friends in a dream only to have it be a means to mention a few names that will become relevant later. Such as Gwen, Dakota and Hazel. Hazel came to camp a mere few months before Jason’s disappearance and she herself stresses that she doesn’t know him too well. And flat out says in The House of Hades that she does not trust him and does not know what to think of him. Jason’s friends outside of the crew of the Argo II are never even touched upon. A huge part of Jason is missing. You may go ahead and argue that it was because he may not have gotten all his memories back, but to me that’s not convincing. It was shown that the closer he got to Camp Jupiter, the more his memories returned.

I might be taking this too seriously. I understand that Rick writes novels for middle graders and that his main goals are to get kids into reading and acquaint them with Greek mythology, so I don’t expect top-notch characterization by any means. But I do expect things to make sense and I wish Rick had done more justice to wonderful Jason.

Considering how little effort he put into Jason, is it really any wonder that Rick decided to dispose of him? To me, it isn’t, and that’s what’s tragic.

#pjo #hoo #heroes of olympus #jason grace #nico di angelo #annabeth chase #leo valdez #piper mclean #percy jackson and the olympians

[marmolady]

Broken Chains: End of Paradise

Book/Series: Endless Summer

Main Pairings: Estela x MC/Taylor (f)

Summary: Post-ending (Endless ending). The weight of the world on one person’s shoulders... a burden like that can only be held for so long. 

Word Count: 5815

The first part of a longer fic (I’m expecting five chapters). No warnings here, I think, just mild language. Kinda sad and angsty.

Next chapter: Broken Chains: A Year and a Day

The rising sun washed out the death-glow on the horizon, and La Huerta became what it was in the daytime; a paradise.

In the months since the rooftop confrontation with Rourke; the final showdown that had seen the would-be Emperor dead and the Catalysts sealed in their safe haven of a time bubble, life had begun to move on. It had not been long at all before it became clear that it simply wouldn’t be sustainable to continue living in The Celestial. With well over one thousand suites, the scale of the place was immense, and maintaining it to a liveable standard increasingly difficult. In its enormity, it often felt like a ghost town, with entire floors eerily empty. There had, of course, been differences of opinion, with some wanting to remain in the luxurious surrounds, however difficult it might be to manage, while others were ready to move on, put their own stamp on La Huerta. In the end, the foundations for Catalyst Village were built upon the edge of the grassy plain beside Elyys’tel. It was a significant trek, but the proximity to Varyyn, to a thriving community, all of which would help them find their feet, made it a no-brainer.  It was slow progress, even with the help of many strong and grateful Vaanti, but the beginnings of a new home gave everyone a sense of moving forward, of making a life on La Huerta their own.

Taylor threw herself into the work with abandon. It was her fault, and her fault alone, that her friends had no homes to return to, and she saw it as her responsibility to make this new life a good one. Nothing she ever did felt like enough. All the love she had could not bring back what was taken from them. She didn’t know how much longer she could live with herself… not while knowing that it was within her power to heal their every hurt. Her wife, her courageous, indomitable Estela would hold her in her arms, tell her that she’d learn to find peace with what had happened, that she’d done the right thing, but Taylor no longer believed it. The burning on the horizon each night seared into her soul, a festering wound that refused to heal. Taylor realised she didn’t want it to. She deserved every painful reminder of the choice she’d made.

Putting in the vast wooden floor for a central community space-- a place for the Catalysts to gather together-- was the major task for the week. It was hot work under the blazing sun. Taylor worked alongside Sean, Jake, Craig and Estela, determined to make some good progress. She’d noticed that Sean, usually one to overwork himself until he dropped out of sheer willpower to provide for his friends, was flagging.

“Hey, you wanna take a break?” Taylor asked, handing Sean his water bottle. “You look like you’ve been working yourself too hard. There’s no big rush to pull this place up, you know.” It’s not like we’re going anywhere.

Sean wiped the sweat from his brow. “All right, we’ll take ten.” He gratefully accepted his water and wandered towards the ocean, his eyes glazed as if her were lost, so far away.

Taylor quietly followed after him, waiting for him to speak. It looked to her as though he was on the verge of tears. “Sean…”

“It would have been her birthday today,” he said a heavy sigh. “Momma’s fiftieth.” Instinctively, he looked out to sea, where he knew that so many miles away, the home they’d shared continued to burn.

“Oh,” Was all Taylor could say. All of a sudden, it felt like her chest was in a vice. She put her hand on Sean’s arm, hoping that he could feel how much she cared. It’s all your fault. His mother is dead because of you! You good as killed her—killed them all. If anyone deserves to burn it’s…

“I’d been planning for two years. Putting money away for a Hawaiian cruise. Just to give her some time out, to enjoy some luxury for a change. I would have given her the world if I could.”

“Sean, I’m… I’m so sorry.”

Sean put his hands to his face, breathing through his emotions, unable to tear his wistful gaze from the horizon. “We got it all wrong, Taylor. We should have gone home; she’d be alive now if we’d just…” His shoulders heaved. “I should have stopped you.”

The clench on Taylor’s heart tightened. He was right. Of course, he was right. A sick feeling rose up in her, hot and fierce. Maybe I could… maybe I could fix it. Would you hate me if I left? You should fucking hate me now….

“Argh… I’m sorry. It’s not fair to heap it on you.” Sean clapped Taylor on the shoulder. “You’ve been nothing but heroic through all of this. You were always the glue that held us together. I just… I sometimes wish I’d never got on that damn plane. No one would be saved, but… I’d have been there. I’d have been able to hold her when the end came… I owed her that much.”

Taylor pulled him into a tight hug. It was how she dealt with everything these days. Just keep hugging and maybe everyone would stop hurting. It didn’t work. It didn’t fucking work. She’d been in denial. There was only one way to heal the hurt that had been done. It had been a long time coming, but it was finally sinking in. She swayed on the spot, violently nauseous.

“I might sit this one out…” Sean was saying, “you don’t mind? I hate to let you guys down…”

Somehow managing not to wince, Taylor pulled herself together enough to be the support she had to be. “Are you serious? You’re not made of stone. You need to let yourself feel this, to work through it.” She rubbed Sean’s arm, and looked up to him with a small, kind smile. “Talk to someone… someone who gets it. You know you can’t look after anyone else if you don’t care for yourself first.”

Sean gave Taylor’s arm a loving little punch. “For someone who’s only a few months old, it’s amazing the wisdom you come out with.”

“I try.”

Taylor looked up at the sound of splashing, and saw Jake and Craig crashing into the water. “Huh, guess everyone’s taking a break anyway.”

Estela approached, pulling her shirt over her head.

“Hey, gorgeous.” Taylor gave her a peck on the cheek. Don’t cry. Don’t freak her out; not yet.

“Hey. Do you want to come cool off? Muscles over there had the bright idea for us to show him how to fight. You look like you need a laugh.”

Taylor shook her head apologetically. She couldn’t. Not while the guilt, the shame, choked her. But she had to think it through…. if she was going to throw away everything, throw away the future she’d promised Estela, she needed space to get her head straight. Even the thought made her want to be sick.

How could you even think of doing this to her?

Because it’s right. Because you know it’s the only right thing. Her uncle is dead because if you-- how do you even look her in the eye?

“I think I’m gonna call it a day. Not feeling so great.”

Estela studied her wife’s face with concern, a finger stroking to Taylor’s chin. “You look pale. Do you want me to get you anything?”

“Nah-- just gonna sleep until I don’t feel so shitty.” She didn’t think she could handle having Estela around her… not when what she was contemplating amounted to betrayal. “I think some quiet time on my own would do me good. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay.” Estela kissed her temple, slowly, tenderly. Something… something didn’t feel right. Honestly, it had been a few days coming. Or was it weeks? Every now and then, Taylor would get so distant… not like Taylor at all. Had she been feeling ill, or…? Right now, it looked as though she might burst into tears. “Taylor… if you need me… even just to hold you, we don’t have to talk if it’s too much… I’m right here. Always.”

Taylor nuzzled in against Estela’s neck, taking in the comfort of her scent. If she could just hide from the world, snuggled up away from all the pain she’d caused, just the two of them, she’d do it. The shadows had simply crept too far in; there was no more hiding. “You old softy,” she mumbled. “Go on; go kick Craig’s ass. For me.”

  Pulling the curtains closed, Taylor was relieved to be alone, hidden from all the people she’d let down. She fumbled, and realised she was shaking. The guilt was suffocating… she couldn’t fight it any longer. Before she knew what was happening, she was curled up in bed, crying piteously. The thought came to her, strong and certain; she couldn’t keep doing this any longer, couldn’t pretend that she was capable of living through the guilt. She had to go… she had to go. How could she ever have been so foolish to think she could escape what she truly was? She’d never been the same as her friends --her family-- and she never could be. How dare she say that she loved them, when she’d stripped them of everything their lives had been and ever could be? Naïve, they looked at her as a hero, someone who’d move heaven and earth for them. It was all a sick, twisted lie. Taylor had been so caught up in her need for them, the eleven people who’d made her the person she was, that she’d almost believed it.

She’d tried to find a way out. La Huerta had been one challenge after another; she’d met each one head-on. Desperately, she’d briefly seen her destiny as just something else that could be overcome-- she simply needed to work out how. But when faced with the possibility of implementing a modified version of Project Janus with Iris’ assistance, most of the Catalysts had baulked. Long hours of discussion saw the reaching of an agreed-upon conclusion; time was not theirs to manipulate, and even the slightest foray in that direction would only happen if the decision to do so was unanimous. Taylor had understood. They wouldn’t become imitations of Rourke, and that was for the best. But then she was trapped.

The swooping feeling in her stomach became violent, and Taylor had to rush to the bathroom to vomit. Fear clenched at her gut. What she faced was losing everything; everything that made her the person she was, every single person she loved, everything familiar. She sat, trembling, on the bathroom floor, her breaths becoming frantic. She thought of her friends. They were her whole world. But they had so much more. She’d seen their futures, felt their hope, and she couldn’t deny them that any longer. Craig deserved to see his little brother grow up, to be the role model she knew he was, even if he didn’t believe it himself. Michelle deserved to reach her far horizon, to reap the rewards of her sheer dedication, to be the heroine Taylor knew she was. Quinn… Diego… their families splintered… it should not have ended like that; she should never have let that happen. Raj and Sean had their own stars to reach, and they’d do it, make their loved ones so proud. Tears streaming down her face, Taylor lurched over the toilet bowl, sick once more.

I’ve gotta… I’ve gotta do it. Leave.

Then she thought of Estela, and the ache in her heart increased tenfold. Estela had lost too damn much. On a knife’s edge from losing her own humanity, she’d found a new truth in Taylor’s arms. Taylor had promised her a life of love and devotion, a life of peace that she’d never known, a future she’d never need face alone. Vaanu had made a liar out of her. A liar to the person whose heart she swore she’d never break. Repulsed, Taylor lost all control, hyperventilating, sobbing, feeling as though she’d drown in the hatred she felt for herself.

It was an hour or so later when the door opened, a beam of light entering the dark room. Estela was struck by the gloom, and the fact that Taylor was not, as she’d expected, asleep in bed.

“…Taylor…? Cariña, are you alright?” She crept into the bathroom, her heart thundering, and found Taylor slumped over the toilet. “Have you been sick?” No response. “I can get Michelle for you.”

Taylor shook her head and messily wiped her bloodshot eyes. “I don’t wanna see anyone right now.” She felt a pair of strong arms around her and the guilt intensified. Then Estela was rubbing her back, murmuring soft words of comfort that were too faint to make out.

A gentle whisper against her ear. “I’ve got you, mi amor…” Estela placed a kiss between Taylor’s shoulders. She was so tense, her eyes looked glazed over, she was almost… almost unrecognisable. “Taylor…do you feel sick? Do you wanna go back to bed?”

Without saying anything, Taylor wobbled to her feet, and let Estela lead her to the bed and tuck her in. The deep concern in her scarred face was difficult to look at. If she only knew….

After a while and some half hour of Taylor’s pleading, Estela reluctantly left her, joining the others for dinner. Taylor assured her that she needn’t bring back food for her, she’d only be sick again, anyhow. There had been no pushing to get at what the problem was, which was appreciated. To actually say the words… even the thought was enough to send Taylor spiralling once again.

There was, though, only really one thing that could have sent Taylor into such despair, and Estela knew it. So many times she’d held Taylor as she’d cried into her chest, wracked with guilt and self-doubt. On occasion, she’d even voiced that horrifying thought… “maybe I need to accept what I am and leave… maybe I’ve gotta let you all go.” Eating dinner surrounded by friends, Estela had little appetite. She could tell herself that the reason she didn’t pry too far into what was wrong was simply that she didn’t want her wife to feel pressured, but it was more than that. The cold dread in the pit of her stomach told her exactly what was causing Taylor such distress. Estela didn’t want to hear her say it, to give confirmation that their life together, the happiness she once thought she’d never have, would soon be shattered. To have just a few more hours of sweet denial… to almost believe that she might have a future with the woman she loved… she couldn’t let it go.

Estela returned to the pitch-black room and placed down a small plate on the table. There was only silence; Taylor lay beneath the covers, not stirring. She undressed and climbed in beside her, lying close, but refraining from putting an arm around her as she usually would, not wanting to wake her when she was feeling so unwell.

“I love you, Taylor,” she whispered.

Her eyes closed, Taylor pretended to sleep. She heard a sniff and realised that Estela was crying. Every instinct told her to hold her, to kiss away her tears, but any amount of comfort offered would be dishonest. I’m so sorry, my love. I’m just so sorry.

   The new day dawned, and the certainty of what Taylor had to do redoubled. She curled up, fighting in vain to loosen the iron first that clenched around her heart. The tears kept coming. Realisation… it hurt so much. Estela put her arm around her, but she shrugged it away. Knowing what she had to do, the distance would be kinder. She didn’t know how she could even look her wife in the eye. Her wife… if Taylor had known, how could she have ever made that promise?

“You need space… okay.” Estela respectfully edged away and sat up in bed. She looked over Taylor, eyebrows knitted with worry. The slow dawning left an ache creeping into her soul. The lie they’d told themselves… the future, the family they’d have together, the happiness they’d share; it was crumbling. Totally lost, Estela could only stare into space. She couldn’t accept it… this couldn’t be happening… it couldn’t….

The morning passed slowly, not a word said. There was so much that couldn’t be put into words. Words would never be enough, would never make it bearable. Taylor felt like a monster. Trapped between enabling a world that was no world at all and shattering the life of the person who was her whole world, she couldn’t move for causing agony to the people she cared about. A knock on the door echoed through the heavy silence. Neither woman responded.

“Hey, Taylor,” came Diego’s voice, “everything all right?”

Taylor rubbed her eyes dry, sat up, and tried to collect herself. “Yeah, fine. Just wiped out after yesterday’s hike, that’s all.” Another lie.

“Sorry, guess I finally broke her,” Estela said, playing along. “I’ll make sure she gets some rest, okay?”

“Can I come in?”

Taylor snapped before she could help herself. “I told you-- I’m exhausted! Just leave me alone and let me get some sleep. When are you gonna grow up and stop following me around like some lovesick puppy?”

Immediately, she felt utterly sick. There was silence on the other side of the door. “Diego-- I…” But he’d already backed away. Estela was staring at her, thunderstruck. “Maybe… maybe you should go too. I’m not exactly pleasant to be around right now. I need to be on my own.”

Estela got up slowly, never taking her eyes off Taylor, who’d curled back into a ball. It was like looking at a stranger, and it scared her half to death. “If that’s what you need, I’ll go. But I won’t be far, okay? If you need anything, I’m here.” She paused at the door. “I love you. No matter what; I love you.”

Taylor had to bite back sobs. She waited until the door was closed once more before whispering, “I love you too…” and then broke down in tears.

Leaning against the other side of the door, Estela wept.

Taylor lay in bed, despondent, unable to do a thing save for stare into space, lost in heartache. The sky darkened, and it occurred to her that she hadn’t moved for an entire day. Surely, by now, people would be asking after her. She wasn’t ready to face anyone, to answer questions, and hoped that Diego had put out a warning that she needed space. God, poor Diego. Every now and then, she’d think she heard movements in the hall outside, but she remained undisturbed. In spite of her intention to remain disconnected, she ached to be near to Estela. Unable to take it any longer, she walked unsteadily towards the door, hoping that she’d stayed close. Taylor pushed the door ajar, and Estela was right there, leaning against the wall, her knees tucked up against her chest.

Taylor’s voice wobbled, grief and guilt getting the better of her. “Have… have you been there all day?”

“I’m worried about you, Taylor. How the hell could I not be? This… isn’t you.”

“I know… it’s just…” Taylor sighed heavily. She couldn’t hide anymore. It was pointless; Estela was no fool, she knew exactly what was wrong. Pushing her away… it wasn’t making it easier, if anything it was worse. “You know what it is. And I wish I could tell you it’s not what you think…”

“Don’t. Don’t go. Please.” Estela’s voice shook with quiet desperation, with anguish.

Taylor’s breath caught in her throat. Estela’s pleas hit her like a knife twisting in her chest. No words could make this better… make it hurt any less. Words weren’t needed anyway. She slumped to the floor and pulled Estela into her arms. The tears came easily, and they cried together, bodies convulsing in agony. When they could cry no more, they sat in silence, hand in hand, taking strength from one another.

“Estela, I…”

“Don’t apologize.” Estela’s lip trembled. “I wish you wouldn’t do this, but… I’m gonna be behind you, taking you wherever you need to go…” She gave a small, dry sob. “…even if it means the end.”

Taylor looked into that face; those intense eyes… her Estela. A stronger force of nature she’d never encounter. The woman who’d once told her that she’d burn the whole world for her… and yet she couldn’t offer the same. For Taylor, Estela had been willing to choose a different path, to abandon her quest for vengeance. She came through for her without question. “I love you. I love you… I love you. I don’t want it to be like this… I don’t wanna go. I wanna be with you… I just… I love you so much.”

“I know. And I know you wouldn’t if you thought there was another way… but our life, Taylor… we were gonna be so happy… you and me…” Estela exhaled slowly. The pain was almost unbearable, but she was well-practiced in channelling her emotion into achieving what needed to be done. It was how she survived. Right now, Taylor was in pieces; she needed her. “I love you too,” she said quietly, lacing her fingers with Taylor’s, giving a reassuring squeeze. “I know you know that. Come on; you should eat something. I’ll go raid the kitchen and then I’ll be right back, okay?”

A gentle kiss to her fingers made Taylor’s eyes sting once more. She watched Estela walk away and took a deep breath. In a horrible way, it felt as though a weight had been lifted from her chest, one that had been growing heavier and heavier. The price to be paid was… everything. In her heart of hearts, she knew that it had to happen. Sooner or later, she’d have to accept the responsibility she had to everyone she loved, even those who’d rather she wouldn’t. Her mind was made up now, and she needed to make the time count. First thing the next day, she’d have to tell Diego how truly sorry she was, how she’d been lashing out at the world, not at him.

Taylor crept back into the room, greeted by the cat-- herself a gift from Estela, a promise of a family together-- with a deep ‘mow’. She crawled under the covers, squeezing her eyes shut while the kitten rubbed faces with her. “Ugh, thanks, girl. Not really in the mood, but thanks.” Despairing, she focused her mind, reaching out.

“Vaanu… I can make you whole. You can leave.”

She felt the voice that returned to her throughout her body. It was as though Vaanu had been impatiently waiting, knowing that her conscience would win out in spite of everything. In spite of Estela, and the future that had been promised. “Everything in its own time. You will return to your source and all will be healed. I have missed your presence in me.”

Taylor felt ill. She was a human being. A. Human. Being. Did Vaanu have no comprehension of who she truly was? How could she belong with Vaanu now, after everything she’d become? They might have given her the spark of life, but as far as she was concerned, it was her friends who’d made her who and what she was.

Tentatively, she voiced her last, frail hope. For a loophole-- anything that might save her and Estela. “Is there a way… I- I’m not the same being I was when you created me. I’m not all you. I’m also… I’m also them. Can’t you just, just take the part of me that’s you? The human in me… what good is it to you anyway?”

Silence for a long while, then Vaanu spoke to her again. “Your life force is not of this world. What you have become… is neither truly of one world or the other. I had not imagined your tie to humanity would be so strong. But that which keeps you living, is the piece of my soul.”

“So… if you tried to separate your being from me, I would… die?”

“It is impossible to say for certain… the future cannot be known. You have grown rooted in human form, built from your experiences, your bonds. It is a significant part of your being, but, I believe, not enough to sustain your life. Should I leave you, death would be the likely outcome.”

Likely. Taylor’s heart skipped a beat. She held onto the word, feeling a glimmer of hope. A way out. A gamble. A chance that might be immeasurably small, but a chance all the same. “But it might be… possible?”

The voice that Taylor felt vibrate through her was sad. “There is a chance you could survive as a human, free from my spirit. It is your choice. Only you can force the separation. I would not wish to see you perish, child of mine. Not when I can bring you safely home.”

Death did not feel a great risk. Being taken away, an infinity away from everything she was, that was no different to death in her eyes. If she was to die, she would die as a human, as she saw herself.

“I will return what is yours,” she said, resolutely. “In time. You have my word, and I won’t break it. I’ve just gotta be ready. I’ve got promises I’ve made to people-- I won’t break my word to them either.”

Vaanu’s presence slowly vanished, and Taylor tuned back in to her surroundings. Estela was still not back. Even after a few minutes, she missed her. It was amazing how precious each second felt when one knew their lifespan was limited. Quickly, the longing became intense, and it was only the dread of running into anyone else that stopped her from following. Taylor took the cat, Madam, in her arms and stared expectantly at the door.

Finally, it creaked open. “Hey…” Estela tried to smile, but the effect was rather lopsided. It wasn’t as if she was fooling anyone anyway.

“Hey…” Taylor reached out her hand, desperate to feel her close by, to touch her.

Estela took Taylor’s hand in her own and sat beside her on the bed with a kiss to her forehead. “I managed to find some spiced meats. That way if you need to cry, you can blame it on the food-- it’s hot.”

“Or you’re getting revenge on me by melting my poor face off?”

“You got me.” Estela laughed, though how she could not be sure-- delirium probably. She hadn’t felt so desperately sad since… since her mother… and yet Taylor could still make her smile. But even the fleeting light-heartedness was painful, for it was a reminder of all that would soon be lost. With the heaviest of sighs, Estela lay back in the bed, her head against Taylor’s lap. “You eat it. I’m not so hungry right now.”

“You haven’t eaten all day…”

“I haven’t been hungry all day.”

Madam padded across the bed and sniffed at the meat. As the scent hit her nose, she gave an angry hiss.

Taylor looked at the plate with trepidation before cautiously digging in. “Holy fu—” She spat a mouthful onto the floor. “Hot! Hot!”

“Oh, you wimp! Here, I’ll help you.” Estela picked up a darker piece. “Try this; these don’t have as much bite.”

“And you couldn’t have just told me that?” Taylor felt her mouth burn as she chewed, but at least it wasn’t inedible. She breathed heavily. It wasn’t as though she had much appetite anyhow. Having eaten a small fill, she draped herself over Estela’s chest, her fingers tracing the tattoo she’d had there. The Andromeda sigil. The chain… a chain that tied Taylor to another world, one that was not theirs. The rise and fall of her chest, the steady heartbeat; it was all so calming, as were the kisses that peppered her face. More than anything, Taylor wished they could remain like this forever. She could dream… she could hope… that maybe that chain represented something else; something holding her to earth, to her friends, to who she truly was. That she was tethered to Estela with a bond even her destiny couldn’t sever. Her eyelids were so heavy they had become painful; she couldn’t think about it any longer. “…Estela-baby… I know it’s early, but you don’t mind if I get some sleep. I’m just… wrecked.”

“You’re not the only one…” Estela sighed, playing with a strand of her love’s hair. She didn’t know how she’d ever sleep, not with her worst fear being realised before her… but by god was she tired.

Taylor sat up and undressed herself, her movements ungainly in her weariness. She felt an affectionate gaze upon her naked form, and it made her blush. Without saying a word, Estela could always make her feel beautiful, and so, so loved.

Having switched off the light, Estela slipped out of her clothes and crawled into bed beside Taylor. The feel of her bare skin was soothing in its intimacy. She nestled in close, spooning her, arms wrapped possessively around her chest. Her sweet Taylor… there was nobody on the face of the earth stronger of heart, nor anyone braver. She could hold onto her Taylor for ever. She cursed Vaanu, who’d created her soulmate only to cruelly rip her away. To put the world on one person’s shoulders… it had been torture, and the thought filled Estela with fury. Taylor had never deserved that kind of burden. Vaanu did not care for her; they certainly did not love her. There was not a damn thing Estela could do… not a thing, except to surround her wife, her partner, her sunshine, with all the love she needed to keep her putting one foot in front of the other. She stroked Taylor’s side, her arm, her face, kissing the soft skin on her neck and shoulder, watching as emotional exhaustion finally got the better of her. Then, with no one awake to hear her, Estela cried herself to sleep.

   Taylor woke late that night to a wet shoulder and hands clenched around her chest in an iron grip. She put her arms around Estela’s and gave her a gentle squeeze. “I love you,” she whispered, silently cursing the words for being so woefully inadequate.

“I love you,” Estela murmured into Taylor’s hair. “If I could go with you…”

“I know… I know.” A tear trickled down Taylor’s cheek as she turned to face her wife. She looked so small, so vulnerable, so unlike herself. It just wasn’t fair. Every bone in her body told her that this was what she was here for… to be Estela’s person, her soulmate. Their love could not be undone by two thousand twists of time, and yet they were to be forced a world apart. Taylor couldn’t accept it. She’d die, drained of Vaanu’s spirit before she’d let herself leave. Her heart belonged to her friends. Her heart belonged to Estela. There was no doubt in her mind now… she had to try and stay, even if it cost her life.

She whispered, her eyes locked with Estela’s, wishing she could offer some reassurance. “I’m gonna fight it, okay? Vaanu can take what they need but… I would rather die as me than go on as something else, somewhere else. I’ve seen Vaanu’s world… I don’t belong there.”

Estela’s stomach turned to ice. “Taylor… Taylor, you can’t just let yourself die.”

Taylor touched her forehead against her love’s, and felt the tears come faster. “What’s the difference? I wouldn’t be me anymore. At least there might be a chance… maybe I’d be totally broken, but maybe I’d be alive. If there was the smallest chance in the world…”

Estela’s hand wrapped around Taylor’s head, cradling her, stroking her damp hair. She didn’t dare feel hope. “You always stood by me, whatever path I chose. I know you were scared for me.” She closed her eyes, feeling Taylor’s breath against her face, ragged with emotion. “I promise, I will never, never leave you. But be sure… You’re the brightest light in this world… something like that, it shouldn’t be destroyed.”

Pressing a kiss, soft, full of feeling, against Estela’s lips, Taylor had no doubt in her mind. “Then I’m gonna have to be strong to survive this.”

Estela returned the kiss, and hoped that the fear that raged through her didn’t show in her eyes as they flickered open. The most important question, the one she couldn’t bear to speak, finally forced its way to the surface. “How long…?”

“I, um, I want to wait a little while. I dunno if it’s gonna make it harder or easier… I just… I don’t think I’m ready. I don’t think we’re ready. I promised you a year and a day… and I would never, ever go back on that word to you. So, I guess… after that…” Taylor winced. How strange it was to be so matter-of-fact, planning a date as if it was just any other event. Again, Estela had closed her eyes tight, distress was radiating off her. It was agonising, and Taylor couldn’t imagine it was possible to loathe herself more. “It’s never gonna be enough. I’m so sorry.”

“Every day with you is more than I ever thought possible.” Estela’s voice wavered. “I should be grateful. I am, but… how the hell do I face the days that come after?”

Taylor bit her lip as a lump rose in her throat. “We’ve gotta believe that it won’t be the end. You made a fighter out of me, and I will fight to stay. They say that after a year and a day after handfasting, our spirits will be joined forever. I don’t care if it’s clutching at straws-- I’ve gotta believe it makes a difference. I believe in us, ‘Stel.”

Estela kissed her deeply, hanging onto the feeling as if it was all that was keeping her going. Life had shattered her belief in so much… but in Taylor… in the love they shared… her faith would never waver.

They held one another through the night, but a breath apart. Sleep did not come easily, with each drifting off in fits and starts. It was the beginning of a new way of living, one with a deadline hanging over them, ominously, a dark cloud that could not be escaped. In the arms of one another, though, they had just enough sunlight, enough hope, to stay alive.

#estela montoya #estela x mc #mc x estela #endless summer #choices es #playchoices #choices fanfiction

[starfaring-princelotor]

Fifth Taste

Summary: The good doctor has to make a choice.

★ Disclaimer: I do not ship Lotura and I respectfully ask that this story to not be tagged as Lotura. This is a Lotor x Reader/Self-Insert OC story which is in no way related to Allura at all. Please be respectful of my chosen pairing.  ★

Warnings: Needle talk, little bit of blood

A/N: So anyways, fuck S8. Now and forever. 

Touch Series: Part One___Part Two___Part Three___Part Four___Part Five

Taste Series: Part One___Part Two___Part Three___Part Four___Part Five

Sight Series: Part One___Part Two___Part Three___Part Four

Music: Sky is a Neighborhood by Foo Fighters

When it comes to the horrors you experienced in life, experienced on the battlefield and off of it, there was always one common factor in every occurrence: desperation. The captain who cut off her own leg to save her crew. The soldier who graced a quick, painless death to his dying brother in arms. The doctor who willfully injected drugs to stay alive for one more day, just one more, despite knowing the grave consequences of repeated use.

Desperation drove innocent souls to face the harshest ultimatum: what will you do to survive?

And you hated it. You hated making that decision when there were no other options left besides death. When you would rather lose a piece of yourself every time you took that needle to live. When you would deliver a mercy killing for the soldier you knew wouldn’t make it. And you hated lying, hated keeping it all together just to survive because, fuck, if you didn’t, then who would? Who would take up the mantle that no poor unfortunate bastard would dare touch?

You did. And you gave yourself the right to do so. You decided who lived and who died, who you felt guilt for and who you knew earned it. No one else bore these sins in God’s eye, but God was not here. God abandoned you long ago and left you to your own devices. And you took them in your hands, changed your wrongs so you could see the light of day once more, made your own code to follow. Your own code to break and reform over and over again.

And you swore on your very life, your very fucked up life, that you would follow it and no one else’s. For your own damn survival.

“That’s...horrifying.”

Alteans being painfully drained of quintessence against their knowledge? Against their will? No, that wasn’t just horrifying. That was evil. Pure, raw evil. The kind of evil that Hell itself would crown king of the most sadistic atrocities ever committed in history. And while you had your share of following decisions condemning acts of violence for the sake of justice or out of pure revenge, Romelle’s story, the way she told it, the dripping hated coating her every word, left you on high alert.

But it wasn't because whether you believed her, but because you recalled several times where acts of desperation tugged on vulnerable heart strings to commit murder, commit barbarism that led to irreparable damage on people. Left damage on people like you. Don't panic. Don't think about it. Don't think about how they had the best intentions in mind for you, for your father, for their war, for their lies -

“He’s a monster.”

Something didn’t add up and you were ashamed to say it took the death of your father for you to recognize missing information early on in any situation.

“Shiro,” you gained his attention, brows knitted and eyes unable to leave Romelle’s vengeful face, “This doesn’t feel right.”

Nothing added up, nothing from Lotor’s lectures about quintessence and restoring the Empire and healing the universe led you to objectively accept her story. You knew that to see both sides of the coin before making an action, you needed to step into both people’s shoes. That is how to be fair. That is how justice has failed you in the past. Back then, it wasn't about who was right or who was wrong, only that someone paid the price.

Was her story true? You would say she needed to believe it with all her shattered, broken heart. Death does that to people. It clouds, it puts them in a mind where any answer would be the right answer, it spreads lies that revenge will bring a lost loved one at peace. Bring closure. And grieving for death? Never before have you met someone who didn’t cry at a funeral.

“I know. I know, doc,” he agreed, keeping his stern gaze on the group, “Now isn’t the time, though. We have to make sure the Princess is safe first.”

And that was exactly your concern. It wasn't her you were worried about. It was Lotor.

It doesn't take much for a story to be heard, even less to be felt, and right now everyone felt Romelle’s story. Having Keith corroborating only led the group to trust her more. All of them did, because they were young, because Coran was Altean, because every single person here had some sort of history with the Galra. However, only two had history with Lotor. You and Shiro.

The both of you could sense trouble. You could especially see a tragedy unfold before your very eyes faster than any other could. It wasn't something you were proud of, but you'd be damned if you said thinking ten steps ahead didn't save your life more than once. And right now, when the pieces don't fit, people would do anything, say anything, to make it work in their favor. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

The second your monitor beeped back to life, indicating Allura and Lotor were successful on their journey, was the second you knew Romelle wasn't here for justice. She was here for revenge, and one of the worst kinds of all.

“What are you waiting for? Open fire!” she ordered without a smidgen of remorse.

“Absolutely not! The Emperor and Allura are in there,” you countered, facing Coran who was the only one who could command the console, “Open the hangar, let them in. I need to check their vitals, see if they were affected by quintessence exposure first before anything else.”

“No, all of us stay together,” Shiro’s brows lowered in determination, but even you could see the conflict stirring in them, “Once the Princess is secure, we will take down Lotor.”

“Shiro, you know I don’t approve of this,” you voiced, Romelle’s eyes widening with disbelief, “I can’t let this happen. We shouldn’t let this happen.”

We. Shiro knew this was wrong, no matter how all the signs pointed in one direction. He knew why you were adamant about being fair, he just wasn’t sure if it was because of your connection with Lotor or because of your personal history saying otherwise. Shiro can not turn his back on the innocent, but he can not deny what is right.

“You would side with him?!” Romelle pleaded, gobsmacked that after sharing her pain, she was not being supported, “He killed my brother and many of my people! Murdered them!”

“I don’t deny your story - “ “It isn’t a story! I saw them dying with my own two eyes!”

You clenched your jaw shut, gritting your teeth and narrowing your eyes at her. At everyone, at Pidge who seethed at you while remembering the history between you and her father. At Shiro, who was always the one that at least listened to your reasoning. Your logic that saved him, saved others, many more times than he can remember. Both of them knew what you were going to say. You were going to abuse your power again.

“They are my patients and no one is to lay a hand on them when they return,” you announced with a cold, frigid tone of finality, “No one.”

If you respect me, if you thank me for saving you, if you trust me with your life, then trust me with other people’s lives as well.

The door opened and everyone froze, everyone sent death glares at Lotor. Now, tension was rising with each passing second, and it only took one little reaction to make a solution explode. The Emperor’s body instantly felt it, making his hackles rise in defense. He stepped behind Allura, behind the only other body that could protect him from Lance’s gun should he decide to shoot first and ask questions later.

Allura’s eyes widened at the mere sight of Romelle.

“Lotor is a monster and has been harvesting Altean quintessence for generations!”

“He’s a murderer!” Pidge spat at Lotor, “He’s been lying to us all this time!”

“Pidge, Romelle, don’t - “ you orders fell on deaf ears before you could even get it all out.

“No! You’re part of his Empire, the Galra Empire!” she let her rage take over again, let it seek refuge in Romelle’s tragedy, “His Empire! Lotor’s just like his father!”

Add heat to a solution -

“You know NOTHING about what you speak!’ Lotor yelled back, louder, to be heard by anyone, “Allura, listen to me.”

- to induce a reaction.

“I’ve dedicated my life to preserving Altean culture.”

You focused your attention on the both of them. They always said that eyes are the window to the soul. You saw dark clouds of uncertainty storming in hers. Fear, disbelief, broken trust. Hesitation. She avoided looking at him, avoided listening to his words he so desperately needed her to hear. Then, you saw it, you saw the switch flick in her eyes. You saw her stare at Romelle.

“Shiro…” you took a step forward to Allura, your heart starting to beat faster in your chest, “Shiro, I - you have to stop this.”

“Allura, do not let this ruin everything we have worked for,” Lotor begged, his hand cupping her clenched ones at her hip, “Think about what we experienced in the quintessence field.”

You prepared for many unforeseen circumstances in your life. It was a necessity at this point, but you never thought in the span of your existence that you would experience injustice on a monumental level twice. They always say if you blink, you’ll miss it. If you aren’t paying attention, you’ll miss important information. Part of you wish you did, yet another knew that if you did not bear witness to the scene before your eyes, you would have been unprepared. Ignorant.

Allura clutched her hand around Lotor’s arm in a fierce grip, anger and rage guiding her actions, then hurled him over her shoulder with an immense amount of power.

The power of the misguided, the power of the heart, the power of a judge.

“ALLURA!” you screamed at her, feeling your own temper rising at the abhorrent scene in front of you, “What the FUCK are you doing?!”

You thought she was good. You thought she was improving, honestly changing for the better. You thought...you thought wrong. After all this time, it wasn’t Lotor fooling everyone. It was Allura. Your legs automatically rushed past her cringing form, either ashamed of herself or of him, you didn’t know. You didn’t care. Lotor was unconscious when you kneeled down and turned him over.

Fuck. Fuck! This was all wrong! This wasn’t justice, this was...it was worse. It was forced silence.

“Doc, step away from Lotor-” Lance cautiously warned, oblivious to the fact that he was already knocked out.

“NO!” you faced him, face the entire group with a turmoil of disappointment and barely contained wrath, “Shiro, restrain Allura. Now! She isn’t stable!”

You checked Lotor’s scalp for any serious indentations that would otherwise indicate his skull might’ve cracked or caved in. Nothing but blood from a split cut. A quick check to his pulse, weak but there, did little to temper the bitter taste on your tongue. What happened? What happened to the world, to the universe, for it to end with such violence? And for what? For what?

Shiro did as you commanded, or at least, tried to. He witnessed an atrocity today, one he thought was reserved only on the confines of Earth. But war is war and we are but simple souls with feelings. If anything, the Black Paladin realizes this would make the team doubt him, but when has that ever affected him before? With firm determination, he approached Allura, who was still grieving with the reality of the situation.

“Shiro, she isn’t going to hurt anyone, you know that!” Keith butted in, but the only response he got was a loud, painful scream coming from deep within Shiro’s chest, “S...Shiro?”

You heard punching, you heard grunting and pain and shrieks of a mechanized arm landing blow upon blow against weak flesh. The second you turned to face the commotion, you were met eye to eye with the barrel of a gun. Your friend, your old friend that suffered with you, was the one pressing death against your forehead. Heart beating faster, nearly dropping to your stomach, you kept your stare fixated with his cold, soldier worn face.

The face of a killer who has seen too much.

“Takashi, don’t do this,” there was a quiver in your voice, a faint one, one you didn’t even know you still had after all these years, “I’m here to help you. I’m here to help...him.”

Everyone else was knocked unconscious, there was a deafening explosion coming from the hangar, but all you could focus on was the very close possibility that death was literally staring you in the face. Shiro wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t. Birds of a feather, he said once. War brought you two together and forged a bond of pain and suffering in your hardened spirits. We survived.

He lowered the gun and in a gravelly voice ordered, “Come with me.”

You nodded yes, agreeing only out of the desperation to stay alive. Shiro hauled up Lotor’s body and slung him over his shoulder before rushing to one of the Altean pods. Following suit, thinking about what was wrong with Shiro, what was wrong with Lotor, and what was wrong with Allura, you felt your stomach twisting in uneasy knots. You weren’t sure if it was the sickening anxiety or something else, but your mind was on overload.

A hand grabbed at your ankle and you quickly looked down, only to scowl at the Princess of diplomacy. She was bleeding down the side of her temple. She was silently begging, hoping against all odds, that you would stay. The Paladins need you, she once said. We could use your expertise. We could end this war with your help. Right now, Allura was the one who needed help, laying at your feet like a wounded noble she was.

You glared at her, yanked your foot out of her already weak grasp, then insulted in the most truthful tone you could muster.

“Don’t fucking touch me, you wretched liar.”

“Shiro, come in! It’s Keith! Look, I don’t know - “

He ended the transmission before Keith could finish his sentence. Your attention was on Lotor, but you were also well aware that you were dancing on edge. Tense. As you checked the unconscious man’s neck, making sure nothing was snapped out of place, you took a few seconds to warily glance at your old friend. Shiro was stoic, back to the captain in command, and it left you reminiscing on the good old days.

Oh, fuck. Lotor’s shoulder has popped out of place. Dislocated, most likely from the throw. The brace protected his back, but not all of him. Taking a deep breath, you gripped onto his shoulder and felt around with your thumb, locating the socket. Staying disjointed for too long would have side-effects, some permanent if not taken care of early on -

You stopped your mind from rambling and pushed his shoulder back into place, the pain making him jolt awake with an agonizing yelp. Immediately, his face contorted into a snarl, his hand coming up to grip at his sore joints. For a few seconds, he sat there, gritting his teeth as he took in his surroundings. Then, they landed on you, on your own calculating expression taking him in.

“What happened?” he asked, moving to fully sit up, “Where are you taking me?”

“You’re being detained for…” for what? “For questioning. Allura - “

Lotor’s eyes widened as everything came rushing back. That Altean girl. The accusations. All of them intimidating him, leaving him little to no way to defend himself aside from using his words. And then Allura. The woman he trusted, the woman he shared his work with, believed in. She betrayed him. She hurt him. She abandoned him. And that bile in his stomach began rising when everything he felt began clawing to the surface.

The hatred of being used, discarded for his actions, rejected as a child and now as a man. Allura was just like -

“No, we must return,” he shook his head, pushing aside your hand and interrupting your examination, “I must talk to her.”

“After that, I don’t think it’s a good idea to be anywhere near danger,” you tried to reason, “You can't go back there now. Both of you are under arrest until this problem gets sorted out.”

Hopefully. Hopefully it could get sorted out.

Lotor saw your dedication waiver the longer you two kept eye contact. He listened, but he knew Allura was the one he needed to see right now. He could explain himself. He needed her help. It was a mistake and it did not even occur to him that he was going through the five stages of grief upon seeing all his hard work crumble to pieces. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Lotor knew he felt something for the Princess. He knew she did reciprocate those feelings.

He knew with all his heart. It was just...a misunderstanding. He had to vindicate himself to her. The fate of the universe relied on it.

“Shiro, the cuffs.”

The pod landed and Lotor willingly complied to you handling him. He was wasting time, but with you and Shiro guarding him from escaping, he knew he didn't have a chance. However, if he was stuck in a cell for holding, then who knows what would happen to the colony. Who knows what would happen to the ones he saved, the ones he preserved? If only he could talk to Allura now, try to reason with her.

With the two of you escorting him, he kept his mind busy with finding a way out of this. He spotted the Sincline ships in the hangar, which could only mean that...who could possibly have known about his work? And who were piloting them to reach the Galra fleet? Lotor’s mind was putting the pieces together and, right when the door opened, there was Ezor and Zethrid standing guard.

“Zethrid. Ezor.”

“Who’s the tag-along?”

A loud bang and the hull of the ship was breached, air whooshing in the new hole, and you looked to see who could have caused the damage. The black lion’s maw was peering in, facing you three, as you held onto Lotor’s elbow so you did not get sucked out into space. The doors shut behind you, securing the airlock and now, now you were fully able to stand to take in the Galras before you. His generals. His ex generals.

“We’ll take it from here,” Zethrid ordered, holding a hand out to stop Shiro and you.

“Emperor Lotor just woke from consciousness, he may need medical attention before being confined in a cell.”

“I am fine, doctor,” Lotor spoke up, much to your disagreeing look, “I will not be needing your assistance as of now.” “I suggest you rethink this - “

“Enough. Ezor, let’s go!” Zethrid interrupted, pulling Lotor away.

He didn’t bother sparing you a second glance. It was Shiro’s arm gripping on your wrist that stopped you from following him. His hold was strong, firm, more firmer than you ever recall how he handled you in the past. His thumb was in the right position to snap your wrist in half and that knowledge made you stare at him in question. You didn’t resist. You knew resistance would be worthless.

“Let go of me, Shiro.”

He matched your gaze with his own hardened one, then released you. Something was...off with Shiro. He should have been able to detain Allura easily, but he instead attacked the entire group. His family. You have heard of leaders going rogue, but this? This isn't something he would do. There were no signs indicating a cracking mentality. Not your friend, not Shiro. Was he...

“Captain, are you relapsing?”

And yet, before you could observe him longer to pick out anything, anything that he was going to be okay, Shiro turned and left you standing there alone. You called out to him once. Twice. But no reply. Was he muttering to himself? You tried again. One more time, just one more, Shiro, please, give me a sign. We were in this together, captain. My captain.

“Where are you going? Shiro!” you called out, “We still have to handle this. Emperor Lotor and Allura, Voltron - we can’t let this fall.”

No response, no recognition when the pilot barrier covered him. His ship took off and that was the last you saw of him. All you could do now was stand there and watch the ship leave a trail of light in its dust. Too fast, he was gone too fast, and you had no idea why he didn’t listen to you. He did before, even with a gun to your head. He heard you, so why now?

Nothing was adding up. Something was...missing. Too many missing pieces. You had no control on the situation.

The Galra ship jolted, engines whirring with power, and jumped to hyperspace. You braced yourself against the wall, finding that there wasn't anything else which could help stabilize you. There wasn’t...anyone else. No one except Lotor was here, but with him being locked up, your options were dwindling down to solely relying on you. But this is what you wanted, right? You wanted to rely on no one but yourself.

“-if you are with me, we need to get to the Sincline ships now.”

Lotor’s footsteps echoed the hallway, rushed, and followed by his generals. The ones who willfully tried to kill him at the exchange. You recognize them. The Emperor halted at seeing your form holding onto the wall then ordered his crew to continue on without him. When he stood before you, uncuffed and pulling you up to steady your feet, he was just about to speak to you. Explain some vital information you needed to hear.

That is, until saw what he was searching for since the day he laid eyes upon you.

Confliction. Not of him, but of yourself. You were well aware of the circumstances now dawning upon you, and the predator and prey were facing off. No. No, you were no prey. If anything, Lotor saw you as his equal in some ways. In a lot of ways, before any of this catastrophe in his life happened. But now that he was here, he was Emperor, he was on the brink of letting the universe down, letting people he cared for down, he realized that breaking you to this point was pivotal.

You were a partner within his Empire, but Allura was more than that.

Lotor should have asked if you were still by his side. Still with the Empire. Still with him. But no words came out. His own mind was overclocking with plans that needed to be done, words that needed to be said, and how he could tell Allura that he needs her. He needs her by his side more than you. Allura had something special with him. They were made for each other. They worked well together.

“I need you to remain here,” he gently gripped your elbows, ordering you to stay but knowing damn well you can leave if you wanted to, “I must get Allura back.”

“You can’t go, Lo-Emperor Lotor. You were unconscious for a long time, it isn’t safe for you.”

He saw something then, something small in your eyes.

“Allura is dangerous. We barely got you out of there before she could’ve done something worse to you. I've seen it happen before.”

Was it fear? Fear of...him or for him? Or fear of something else?

“Listen to me. Shiro and I brought you here to face a trial. If you leave, if you go, then there is nothing I can do to help you.”

Fear of history repeating itself.

“I need to find him, we need to find him. It’s your only chance at proving your innocence. One witness can not - will not be enough.”

But you knew one was enough to prove him guilty.

Lotor did it. He finally broke you. He made you choose. He no longer gave you the option to be neutral. And that itch? That one which nagged and teased him for so long? Now that he scratched it, scratched you, he found it wasn't...good. It wasn't satisfying. If anything, deep within his chest, it actually hurt. His hands dropped down your arm, gently skimming over your wrist before threading your fingers with his.

One of the rarest shows of affection since that kiss. A simple joining of hands.

“Don’t do this, my Emperor.”

His face already told you he made a decision. You didn't understand why. You gave him every logical explanation why this was a bad idea. This was not going to turn out how he expects it, but without proof, why would he possibly listen to you? You needed hard evidence, not experience. That was the cold truth of justice. The rules didn't apply here. This was the Emperor of the Galra Empire. Whatever morals you nitpicked from Earth don’t work here.

When he let your hand go, you reacted. You refused to let him do this. Not again. You can't lose someone again. You turned him around and forced him against the wall, but not as a way to subdue him. No, you were hugging him. Arms wound tightly around his chest and your face buried in the crook of his neck, Lotor found himself immobilized. Willfully immobilized.

“Tell me,” you whispered, voice quiet and composure failing, “Tell me right fucking now. Is it true?”

Lotor’s strong arms returned the embrace, thoughts quieting down significantly with you pressed against him like so. This felt...calming. You were panicking, nails digging into his suit as if to tether him here, yet he felt his tense muscles and unyielding determination wither. He wasn’t quite aware of what you were asking, either. Was it true? Was this true? Was his leaving truly the only way to clear his name from those horrendous accusations? “No. No, my dear, it is not true.”

He felt you slump your arms down slowly. A sign trust. You were letting him go. You shouldn’t, you know justice isn’t going to be fair to him. But what was fair? Who are you to judge the universe? Lotor slipped out of your grasp then headed for the door, headed away and into the inevitable battle without neither you or Shiro aiding him this time. It took all your willpower not to chase after him, not to pull him back and beg again and again, despite the answer always being the same.

You hated it. You hated making that decision. You hated that war has yet again yanked someone you care deeply about from your life.

#lotor x reader #spacestories #inhales #exhales

[waywardnerd67]

From the Inside

Summary: (Y/N) struggles to handle her life and ends up falling down a dark path. The only person who can help her is thousands of miles away. Characters: Jensen Ackles, Reader Pairing: Jensen x Reader Warnings: Angst/Mental Illness/Depression/Suicidal Thoughts/Thoughts Self-Harm Word Count: 1872 Prompt: Solitude - a state of seclusion or isolation. A/N #1: This is for @thing-you-do-with-that-thing Beautiful Words Challenge A/N #2: As always this is unbeta so all mistakes are mine. Likes, comments and reblogs are splendid and I will love you doubly for them! Enjoy!

“Let me ask you something. If you cared about someone but didn’t feel the same for them as they felt for you then what would you say?” (Y/N)’s boyfriend for the last two years asked her one night on the phone.

She chuckled, “I don’t know. I might say we need to go our separate ways.” He had been acting weird the last six months ever since she moved to Austin, Texas to be closer to her family and friends. He was an executive at a financial firm in New York.

“(Y/N)…” she hummed her response as the next words hit her like a ton of bricks, “I think we need to go our separate ways. The whole long-distance thing is not really working, and I have met someone…”

The rest of his words fell on deaf ears as her heart pounding was louder than anything. When there was a brief moment of silence she spoke, “O-Oh okay.”

That was the last time they spoke. He had shipped anything of hers to Austin with a note simply saying sorry. She spent weeks in a fog barely making it through the day without bursting into tears. Her boss was sympathetic to a point until it was obvious that this was not going to end until soon.

She was sitting in the break room staring at her phone. She had chosen this time since it was after lunch and no one would be in there to stare at her or look at her like she was a pathetic loss dog.

“(Y/N), how are you?” her manager asked as she shrugged. “I’ve noticed your numbers are down for the last month and your performance surveys have been low as well.”

She sighed heavily, “I’m sorry. I will try harder.” She looked up to see her manager’s face and a feeling of dread spread throughout her body.

“Sadly, there won’t be a chance for you to make up the deficit. We’re going to have to let you go.” (Y/N)’s heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. She felt like she should be crying but her eyes could no long produce tears to match the level of sadness sitting in her chest.

She simply nodded getting up and grabbing a nearby empty paper box to collect her things. It was just the next thing in her life to kick her while she was down the final straw was losing her apartment and having to move in with her parents again in Dallas.

That was where she was now. The bottom of the barrel, surrounded by soul crashing darkness and silence. Her brain urged her to pick up her phone and dial the one person who instantly made her feel better. The thought of his olive eyes and charming smile almost gave her the strength to press his name on her phone.

Yet, she never did. The silence and darkness consuming her slowly with each passing day. Not remembering if she had eaten, drank or the last time she had spoken to someone. Her parents would knock and call out for her. The anguish that started off so small a couple of months ago after her break-up had now completely shut her down.

Just as she had finally come to peace with the sadness taking her away there was a piercing light that shined into her room. Her eyes squeezed shut at being able to stand the brightness. (Y/N) pulled the cover over her head praying whoever opened her door would simple leave her to rot in the pit she had built for herself.

“Hey pretty girl.” His deep draw and special nickname stirred something within her that she had not felt in what seemed to be forever.

She peeked her head out from the covers, “Jensen? W-What are you doing here?” she asked her voice cracking and throat burning from not speaking in god knows how long.

She listened as he closed the door slightly the burning light being pointed in another direction. Her eyes adjusted watching as his tall, dark shadow moved about her room. The sound of his boots being kicked off near the door seem unbelievably loud. His silence spoke volumes though as she could make out him taking off his jacket or over shirt.

“Jay, what are you doing?” she asked a slight panic settling in her stomach.

He stood beside her bed, “Scooch.” He instructed.

She moved over to one side, her body stiffening as Jensen climbing into her bed next to her. “C’mere.” He said softly holding his arm out holding up the blanket he was slipping under with her.

(Y/N) hesitantly slid down the bed further, her head resting on his chest as he gently laid his arm across her waist. His other arm wrapped around her back as his hand slowly caressed it. Her body refused to relax against his. That meant trusting and letting someone in again. The thought terrified her to the point of trying to push Jensen away.

They had been best friends since childhood. Even after he became a celebrity they were still as close as ever. Though she had been harboring feelings for him since the seventh grade, she never once thought about acting on them. She was a screw up and constantly going from one dark moment to the next. Jensen deserved someone who was amazing, talented, smart and beautiful. Not someone who fell down the darkest pit of despair after some douchebag dumps her for someone else.

“Stop pushing me away, (Y/N). I’m not going anywhere until either we starve to death or you walk out of this room with me.” He held her firmly against his lean body as she struggled against him.

“Jensen Ackles, let me go… please… I can’t…” she begged trying to sound angry.

He shook his head stubbornly fully wrapping his arms around her and pulling her body on top of his. Shock numbed her mind as her hands pressed against his broad chest. “I’m not letting you go, (Y/N). I’m not letting you go until we have talked, cried and agree that we are going to walk out of this room to get ice cream from our favorite place.”

His words were slashing at her causing immense pain to burrow in her chest. She felt as if she could not breath and wanted nothing more than the darkness to take her away from this world. A world that gave her a man who cared about her deeply, but she could never be with. A cruel world that would give her a best friend to fall in love with that would never see her in that way.

“Jay… I can’t. I just can’t. I have felt too much, and I-I’m scared to feel anything again.” Tears slipped down her cheeks for the first time since losing her job.

He pressed his lips against the top of her head whispered, “Scared to feel what?”

(Y/N)’s hands clenched his soft t-shirt as she fought to keep her emotions from erupting all over him, “To feel this. Hope, love, uncertainty. It’s taken every bit of strength and energy to keep myself only in isolation. I’ve… I’ve wanted to go so bad. Just let go and be free of all of this. I don’t want to feel anything again.”

She felt his body tense up for a moment as she spoke the realization of what she admitted hitting him, “Did you?” he asked his voice filled with anxiety.

She shook her head, “No but I wanted too. The only feeling I ever wanted to feel was the pain. It makes my skin tingle just thinking of the pain slicing through me. I can’t though. I promised you I would never do that again and I’ve kept that promise.”

Jensen’s body relaxed immediately hearing she had not given in to the deepest desire to hurt herself. He let out a long breath, “I’m proud of you for resisting the urge. I know that is incredibly difficult.”

“I still want too. I want to end it. My heart is beyond repair. I’m damaged goods and always have been. Just a waste of space taking up air that should be for someone worthy to breathe it.” Her brain screamed for her to shut up and to revert back into herself.

Jensen always had a power over her to get her to speak. That was probably why her parents called him. Knowing that it was all because of her that he had flown from Vancouver to Dallas for her filled her body with guilt on top of her self-hatred.

He pulled back slight bringing his hands on either side of her face. His dark eyes staring deeply into his (Y/C/E) eyes. The small amount of light shining in her room revealed the glistening tears welling up beneath his eyelids.

“Listen to me, (Y/N) (Y/L/N). You are not a waste of space nor are you unworthy of the air you breathe.” He paused for a moment his eyes moving rapidly from side to side then he pressed his full lips against hers.

She did not move or blink in fear of it all being a hallucination. Jensen pulled back biting his lip nervously, “(Y/N), I love you.”

The three words she had always dreamed of hearing filled her with seer panic. “No.”

“No?” Jensen asked in disbelief scoffing.

“No. No. NO! You can’t love me. I’m no good and horrible for you. Everything about you is perfect and hopeful and wonderful. You can’t love someone like me… you just can’t!” She said watching his face fall slightly as he closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the fierce determination shining in them intimidated her. “(Y/N), you’re perfect and hopeful and wonderful. How anyone could not fall in love with you after being around you is either dumb or oblivious to how amazing you are.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks and he quickly wiped them away, “Jensen, I…”

He pressed his finger to her lips shaking his head, “No more words.” He whispered leaning down kissing her again.

This time she gave in to every feeling she had built up inside of her for him. Allowing him in to show her how love was supposed to feel. He hovered over her his body pressing against hers his lips brushing against her as he whispered, “(Y/N), I…”

(Y/N) woke up her heart beating rapidly. She looked around for Jensen the feeling of his body against her still as her skin was set ablaze. Her lips tingling still from his pressed against them. “Jensen?” she whispered, and the looming truth settle onto her.

She was still along in her room. She curled up tight under her blanket the weight of the darkness surrounding her crushing her spirit. Her self-imposed seclusion from the world bringing out her deepest desire urging her to take the first leap of faith into the unknown.

Sitting up, she grabbed her phone and dialed the familiar number. After the first few rings she almost hung up until the soothing voice said her name, “(Y/N)? About time you called me. I was getting worried about you.”

She took a deep breath before speaking, “Jensen, I…”

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#spn beautiful words challenge #one shot #from the inside #jensen ackles fanfic #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles fluff #jensen ackles angst #jensen ackles #fluff #angst

[norsenightingale]

Little Hands ▾ Ivar R.

*Originally posted at cherrytrinkets. Edited and reposted on my new blog, here. 

Pairing: Ivar x Female Reader 

Rating: Teen (13+)

Words: 2,000+

Tags & Warnings: Childbirth, Clean, Domestic, Fluff, Pregnancy

If Ivar could walk, he would be pacing to wear a hole in the floor; you were sure of it. He sat next to you on your shared bed, one hand on the top of your swollen stomach and the other clasped firmly around your own. You watched the worry etch into his pale features, his fingers grasping yours so tightly they were beginning to go numb. You brought your free hand to his face, gently soothing the wrinkles that had settled in above his brow with your thumb.

“Ivar, my dear husband, will you please relax?” 

He scoffed but loosened his death grip on your fingers to allow you some relief. You sighed as he possessively rubbed over your stomach as if trying to calm the small child inside with just his touch. You had been feeling the tightening of your womb for several days but early this morning your waters had broken, throwing Ivar into a fit of worry and anguish.

He kissed your knuckles tenderly as he searched your eyes for any signs of distress. Upon finding none, he allowed himself to calm a bit and attempted to settle into some sort of normality while you waited for the healer to arrive.

“Are you feeling alright? Can you feel the baby?” 

He asked. You nodded, a smile on your face with the excitement of what was to come.

“I am perfect. The pains are not strong yet and the baby has settled down.” 

You placed a hand on his cheek and pulled his face to meet yours in a sweet kiss, bumping his nose playfully. He rested his forehead against yours, looking into your eyes with sheer adoration. 

“Are excited for him to be here?”  

Ivar snorted, rubbing soothing circles across the expanse of your stomach once more. 

“Him? Why are you so sure it is a him?”

“I just have a feeling,” you shrugged your shoulders. “Though I certainly wouldn’t mind a little girl with big blue eyes to match her father’s.” 

He smiled at the thought, imagining a daughter that looked just look you but with his eyes. The daydream was quickly ended as you winced and adjusted yourself to relieve some of the pressure in your womb. Ivar rushed his hands to your hips, grabbing them firmly to help you change positions.

“What is it, Y/N? Is it the baby? What can I-“

“Shh…” you cut him off, “there is nothing you can do, and nothing is wrong.” 

He was fidgeting now, restless as he sensed your labor beginning to progress. 

“Please do not worry yourself,” you cooed. “Women have done this for hundreds of years before me, and will continue for hundreds after.”

Ivar tried to calm himself at your request, but couldn’t shake the tightening in his chest as he watched you breathe through the pain. You had heard countless horror stories from women in the village, and you assumed Ivar had too. They spoke of the immense pain, the amount of blood and, of course, the danger that was involved. Despite all of that, you were feeling relaxed and completely prepared for what was to come. An older woman interrupted your conversation, knocking only once before welcoming herself into the room.

“Ulla, what is the name of the Gods took you so long?”

Ivar snapped. Ulla had been a trusted healer in the village for years, and was very familiar with how the youngest son of Ragnar could behave. She waved off his comment, wasting no time to begin checking your progress.

“How are you feeling, Sweetling?” She asked, “Is the baby pressing down?”

 She placed a hand on your lower stomach, pushing gently to check the position of the child.

“I am feeling a bit uncomfortable now and yes, he is beginning to move down,”

 you confirmed. She hummed in thought and began digging through the pouch on her side, oblivious to how Ivar was eyeing her. Ulla busied herself preparing the tools she would need, not bothering to look at Ivar to tell him Ubbe was waiting in the center of the village.

“She is becoming close, so it is the father’s time to leave.” 

It was plain to see that Ivar was less than pleased with her command, but he knew that this was no time to argue. He approached you cautiously, threading his fingers through yours and pecking you smoothly on the lips.

“Will you be fine without me?”

“I am stronger than you give me credit for, Husband.”

 He leaned down to give you another kiss, his lips working slowly to try and show you all of the love and admiration he had for you. You smiled once he broke away and gave his hands a tight squeeze in reassurance, the message well received.

 “I love you, Ivar. Now go.”

Several hours had now come and gone with Ivar becoming a growing mess,  each passing with no news on your progress. He clenched his hand around a brass chess piece, slamming it down on the playing board as you cried out from another contraction.

“I can hear her crying from a mile away! What is happening? Why is no one telling me what is happening?”

Ubbe attempted to comfort the younger man, laying a strong hand on his shoulder with a shake. 

“She is bringing your child into the world, Brother, don’t you think it is her right to cry?”

Ivar slumped down in his seat and placed his head in his heads, defeated. He looked up slowly at his brother, the weakness he was feeling glaringly obvious.

“I want to be there. I want to take away her pain and I cannot.” 

Ubbe knew how he was feeling. He had experienced similar guilt when Margrethe had their first child. He approached the subject cautiously, knowing that Ivar was quick to anger in times of stress.

“She is being watched over by many good people, and Y/N is a fierce woman. You have done all that you can, and now you need to leave it to the Gods.”

Several more hours pass before Ivar is startled awake by a shrill cry. He perks his ears, listening carefully to the sharp wail from a few cabins down.

“I hear the baby!” 

Ivar cheered, dropping his crutches in favor of crawling as it was much faster. He was just about to enter the front door of his home when he was stopped by Ulla, a large grin stretched across her face.

“Hello, Ivar. Ears of a hawk I see.” 

He didn’t have time for the games she was playing, attempting to push past the old woman to check on you.

“She is finished, then? When can I see her? How is she?” 

Ulla quieted down the new father, chuckling at his excitement.

“Patience, Prince. There is much you don’t know about bringing life into the world, give her some time.”

Ivar let out a growl from the back of his throat, his patience running dangerously low.

“It has been ten hours, I want to see my wife!” 

Ulla was just about to quiet him again when her apprentice stepped outside, whispering something to her and walking off. Ulla sighed, taking Ivar’s hands and squeezing them tightly.

“She is finished, you may go see her. Congratulations, Prince.” 

Ivar thanked her once, watching as she disappeared down the dirt path back towards town.

He had never before felt so nervous to enter his own home. His hands were shaking, the idea of what was waiting for him behind the door causing his heart to pound like a war drum. He steadied his breathing and pushed the door open just a crack to reveal you sitting up in bed. You were cooing to a small bundle pressed tightly to your chest, exhaustion but joy lighting your features. You smiled as you caught sight of your terrified husband and urged him closer with a tilt of your head.

“Hello there, Father,” you greeted, “would you like to meet your son?” 

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. You had been correct all along and now - he had a son. He crawled to the bed, lifting himself to sit next to you in the middle of it. Ivar pulled you carefully into his arms, studying the wiggling infant wrapped in blankets.

The little thing was a spitting image of himself, brown hair and blue eyes identical to his own. He swallowed hard around the lump rising in his throat, the thought of his twisted legs making him nervous all over again. He looked at you questioningly, fearing the worst scenario.  You knew what he was thinking, and decided to unwrap the child so Ivar could see for himself. A wave of relief washed over him as he watched the little boy kick and twist his legs around freely.

“He is perfect. Two strong legs that will serve him well the rest of his life.” 

If Vikings allowed themselves such emotions, Ivar would have wept at the happiness he felt to know that his son would not struggle as he had. He brushed a fingertip over his son's tiny hands, laughing when he grabbed on tightly to the digit.

“His hands are so small, but he is strong. What name is fitting for a little warrior?” 

You cleared your throat, leaning on your husband's shoulder as you watched him become aquatinted with his child.

“I’ve been thinking about Mathias - our gift from the Gods,” you spoke softly, “and Ragnar, for his grandfather.” 

Ivar was amazed at the suggestion, running his fingers gently over the little one.

“Mathias Ragnar Lothbrok. I like it, it’s fitting for a Viking Prince.” 

Just as you had decided on his name, Mathias began to cry. His wail startled his father and caused his eyes to widen in distress. You took him from his father and began rocking slowly in your arms, cooing to shush his cries.

“It’s alright, little one. You must be hungry, hmm?” 

Ivar blushed beet red at that, moving to excuse himself from the room.

“I will give you some privacy.” 

He was almost off the bed when you caught him with your free hand, pleading with him to stay.

“It is not like you to be bashful around me, do not start now.” 

You shifted the baby in your arms, trying to pull down the top of your nightdress but struggling. 

“Besides, it appears I could use your help.”

Ivar was hesitant to touch you, but slowly tugged down the neckline of your gown with your encouragement. You tilted to allow your son to latch on to your newly exposed breast, scrunching your eyes at the initial strange sensation. As soon as the infant picked up a steady suckling, however, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Ivar couldn’t take his eyes from the amazing sight before him. He realized that you had never looked more beautiful than you did right now.  He beamed at the peaceful scene, his little boy happily filling his tummy with the warm milk that you provided for him.  It was almost - surreal.

“Does it hurt?” 

He tentatively asked, stroking the small boy’s cheeks as he drank.

“A bit, but I will adjust. Besides, at least this Lothbrok does not have teeth.” 

You smirked at your own joke and your husband chuckled at the innuendo. You relaxed for a moment, letting your son nurse in silence before Ivar spoke up again.

“Was it,” he measured his words, “terribly painful? The birth, I mean?” 

You barked out a laugh at the ridiculous question, quieting yourself when the baby started to fuss at your chest.

“Oh my dear, your son was stubborn as his father, but it does not matter now. He is here, and I will recover in time.” 

Ivar nodded and kissed the top of your hair, pulling you closer in his strong arms.  He smiled down at his wife and newborn son, his entire world held tightly to his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispered into the strands on your head. You tilted a bit to look up at him, an eyebrow raised at the strange expression of gratitude.

“For what?”

He sighed, closing his eyes and simply enjoying the feeling of finally being part of a perfect, normal family.

“For giving me everything I do not deserve.”

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#Ivar Ragnarsson fanfiction #Ivar oneshot #Ivar's Heathen Army #Vikings fanfiction #Ivar fanfiction #Ivar Ragnarsson #Ivar the Boneless #Ivar x Reader #Ivar fluff #Vikings fluff #Vikings #Ivar x Female Reader #Reader Insert #Pregnancy #Childbirth #Clean #Domestic #norsenightingale #previously cherrytrinkets #my writing #oneshot #ratedt

[ts-hvv4]

EPISODE SIX: “HOW HAVE THESE PEOPLE NOT VOTED ME OUT YET DO THEY KNOW WHO I AM??” - SHARIFA

Well. Olivia was just voted out. NED and MALIK being real sneaky bitches. Though I guess I can’t complain too much considering that OLIVIA and I did try to blindside MALIK. I knew this wasn’t a good idea. I told her it was crazy. And now I’m on the bottom and probably next to go if we lose the immunity challenge. Of all the people to be stuck with now, this is not how I wanted the game to go.

Never has my opinion of someone changed so rapidly as seeing MALIK’s reactions to OLIVIA’s goodbye messages. The only thing I want to do in this game now is make sure MALIK does not win.

CHRIS told me that him, DENNIS and NED voted for OLIVIA. Which means MALIK and ANDREAS voted for me. All five of them need to leave this game ASAP. Tinky Winky for life. Currently trying to work my hardest at getting back in the good graces of CHRIS and DENNIS at the very least. I’m hoping I can work with them and dump MALIK next tribal if we go to it.

I really did like Keegan, and I was feeling guilty about trying to go for Olivia, and then they made it easier by targeting me LMAO so now I’m just whatever with him. Maybe we can talk about it if he comes to me but he got cold towards me since the plan to get me out started, so imma just keep my distance from him. Sucks though, I didn’t think he was a cool guy. But in better news: IM SO HAPPY SHE IS GONE!! She kept coming for me for god knows what. She was supposed to be my ally but kept trying to get me sent home and tried to say no hard feelings..girl no. I also heard from Ned that Jake was curious at Olivia leaving, so I feel like he doesn’t really care for my well being like I thought so at this point I’m starting to look at all of my previous allies sideways because they could all feel this way, mainly sharifa because she confided with me about how Olivia was one of the ones talking about me and olivias been trying to get me out but she wanted her to stay?? I’m sticking to teen titans for now and imma try to feel Kurt out if I ever get back to him because no ones said how he really feels.

Okay so i have grown such an immense bond with Sharifa, that’s obvious, but now jake too. It’s tricky because it’s hard to let someone else into our relationship however Sharifa and I play it in a way where we have jake believe that both of us are closer to him than we are to each other. Ideally he believes that he is a potential final 2 with both Sharifa or myself, if it comes down to that. In reality, as much as I’m growing to love my fellow f@g Jake, Sharifa is my ride our die. Final 3 on the other hand, it’s us 3 villain winners all the way.

So... after tribal Keegan came to me and was kind of salty about the whole thing ... which makes sense considering 2 hours before tribal Olivia called me and she wanted to vote Malik and I went with it and told her how I couldn’t wait to play with her. Obviously all lies but I had to do that. She ate it up which kind of sucked but whatever. Keegan expresses he wants to be a free agent but quite frankly I’d rather he just leave. Him being on this tribe has not helped me at all, he rarely speaks to me and it seems like he isn’t interested in working with me so .... I guess bye ??

Yall how did i not get sandra'd...HOW HAVE THESE PEOPLE NOT VOTED ME OUT YET DO THEY KNOW WHO I AM?????? Basically, Nicklas and friends wanted Kage out BAD and thought they could take the shot because I kept telling them how badly I wanted to vote out Trent. What they don’t know is I still have Trent on my side KNOWING that, because I told him I was getting the target on him SOOOO I could play the idol on him. I’m securing Trents loyalty because I’m dangling a treat over his head AFLKDSA. BASICALLY I BLEW UP HIS GAME TO THE OTHER SIDE AND HE’S SO GRATEFUL TO ME….IM A HORRIBLE PERSON. Who runs the world? Villains. But let’s be clear, Armonia Villians got fucking lucky. Nicklas steered the vote onto Kage because he’s a smart mother fucker truly. I’m hoping I can outwit them through my relationship with Trent and telling him about the idol. I know everyone would be scared to have so many people know about a idol, but i think that’s because most people look at idol’s for self preservation, when I think they’re better served as tools for longevity. Look at Yul, he never had to use his idol at tribal, because he used it to secure loyalty and instil fear, and that’s how I’m going to use this one.

So Olivia got voted out and I was really fearful of that happening...mostly I feel a lot of guilt because I'm partly to blame. I was the one who blew up her game to Ned, because I wanted him to trust me the most in the game, but that was before Olivia and I got close. So Ned’s been on a warpath out for her blood because he’s vengeful as fuck, and I kept placating him because she was becoming a closer ally to me. AND I TOLD HIM THAT. But one thing I’ve learned about Ned, is if he feels you crossed him, he will hunt you down and put your head on a spike for the whole village to see. The second I saw how the swap broke down, I knew the chances of Ned and Malik flipping on Olivia were HIGH, and I think that’s exactly what happened, especially because I know Ned played a game with Andreas before. With Olivia leaving, my game takes a huge hit (AND SO DOES NED’S BUT HE DOESN'T THINK LONG TERM). But my greatest skill in these games is my ability to adapt to whatever situation. So I went on a 2.5 hour call with Sarah and bonded with her...she’s fucking crackdt and I’m actually a stan KLFJA I LOVE HER. I’ll be honest I did it for game reasons, with Olivia voted out I lost a number and I need another one, but what was surprising is I didn’t realize Sarah could be an important person for my game?? She’s crazy don’t get me wrong KLFAD, but she’s very transparent and blunt, and I can use that. I had a gut feeling to tell her about my idol and I did, and she then revealed to me she had the swap idol. We formed an f2 called “The Idol Sisters” and swore each other to secrecy...I then IMMEDIATELY went and told Jake and Kurt adfkajs. I think I’ve done a good job of integrating myself into the Sarah/Matt/Nicklas faction, and I think that’s where I need to invest my energy right now. I know Sarah and Jake are close (closer than either one will admit) so I’m trying to get something set up with Jake/Sarah/Matt/Me. Kurt and I talked about leaving him out of it, so he can pursue something with Lukas. The difference between the games I’ve won, and the games I’ve lost, is knowing all the relevant information in the game. Having the relationships I have is going to give me access to the intel I need to make the moves that are best for MY game, but it’s a *Baylor voice* sticky situation because I’m weaving so many relationships over each other. I’m trying to implement a trust tier system so I can cover my basis; Kurt is at the top and knows everything, then Jake knows everything but my relationship with Kurt, then Trent knows everything but The Cock Destroyers (I CAN'T BELIEVE I LET THESE GAYS NAME OUR ALLIANCE THAT GODDDD IM HOMOPHOBIC NOW), and then Sarah, then Nicklas, then Matt and so on and so forth. And I'm securing all these loyalties by owning up to the fact that I'm a villain to people I don’t trust, but in the same breath touting the fact that I'm fiercely loyal, as seen by my final 2's with L'Shei and Jakey in Tonga and Generations. These people should know better than to trust me and I’m going to exploit the fuck out of it because I'M A VILLAIN HELLO. But it means at the merge I’m going to have to be very methodical about how I take people out, because any wire I cut can set the bomb off. This whole premerge has been about storing away the resources I’ll need to run the merge, so when I hit the merge beach...call me the grim reaper cause my scythe is hungry for blood and mother death needs to be fed. 

It's been a while since I've sent one of these and a ton has happened. I am still working super close with the OG Ammonia Villains. We share all idol searches and clues and I think we really do trust each other. When we lost the first immunity after swap it was chaos. I was the target for a long time, until people realized how sketchy Kage was acting. According to Sharifa, I was the target due to being super close with Olivia.  They figured I would flip to her if I got the chance, and wanted to take me out before it was too late. But Kage was being sketchy and throwing out names like crazy and leaking things to everyone, that people realized he was a much more dangerous wild card.  Sharifa is convincing the other villains (not including the OG Ammonia 4) that she does not like me and wants me out soon. This is to make sure they tell her when they are voting me, so we can have a plan. Olivia going actually helped me a ton though. I no longer have a "duo" or anyone i have a connection with so i am no longer dangerous. I can play a Natalie Anderson type game now where I pretend to be with everyone, and then take them out one by one. According to Sharifa again, who is basically my informant when it comes to Matt Summers, who will barely talk with me, he no longer wants me out. And wants to go into merge villain strong. Which I'm fine with for a bit. The good thing about this merge (if it's next) is I don't think I'm going to be a huge target. There are 4 former winners going into merge and i'm working with 3 of them. Which means i'm practically surrounded by shields. I'd be very surprised if anyone comes after little ole me this early on in the merge. Hopefully I can get close to some of these heroes and be like IDK why I'm a villain i dont fit in with these people, and work them socially to trust me. It'll be tough but I think it's possible. 

So I took immunity L pretty badly! I mean I get it was a given that we might lose but its just sucky. I can handle letting myself down but letting other people down is quite upsetting because I don't like to make other people unhappy.

I did tell Keegan everything about the vote so he didnt feel too left out but also so he is less likely to vote me and sure enough today he has a plan to target Dennis/Andreas supposedly. I want gain any traction but yeah. So at least I am safe!

I feel like I’m in a great spot! I have a lot of bridges built and a lot of insight on other people’s relationships. I’ll admit that a lot of these bridges aren’t super sturdy (as a result of my shitty response time to people messaging me), but if there was a vote tonight I think I’d be very well-connected. I’m in an alliance with Matt and Sarah which I totally love! They make me happy. That being said, there isn’t an ounce of me that would want Matt to go far into this game, so that alliance is nothing more than a pleasantry. I used Olivia’s boot (so sad) as a tool to get closer to Sharifa and Kurt. I love Kurt. Sharifa is going to be a major juror, so I want her to like me. As for other people- I see Trent as an outsider. I think he has a few scattered connections here and there but I’ve been throwing his name out a lot so people think I’m open to game talk. Nicklas is either super disconnected or weirdly confident in some secret bonds I don’t know about. Jake seems a little disconnected as well, but I think he could be here for awhile if he plays his cards right. In the event of a merge, I want to play it safe and really pound the same few names over and over to make my game appear one-dimensional (those names being Trent and Malik). I’ll try to stick to the villain tribe lines until they crumble, in which case I think I’ve positioned myself in a way where I won’t be a causality of that collapse. I’m having fun!

You know that feeling of “I’m Doomed” and there’s nothing you can do to change it? Yeah that’s me right now.

Jeopardy queen has entered the chat So we been getting lots of tea thanks to my girl Sharifa... First off I found out from her that Sarah has the idol that was on this tribe.  INCH RESTING. Then at thera ned tells me about the messy vote and tells me that he’s working with andreas and likes Sarah and then it hits me... in my last game with Sarah I was told that andreas is her best friend. So bitch. We keeping an eye out for that. But I think I’m better connected now than I was before... Sarah wants to work w me sharifa and kurt and I think it’s because she knows ned was working with us. I’m also really close with Nicklas but I worry if I disclose too much info to him and it gets out then I’m fucked LOL. But Sharifa wants to work with him too so I hope we can incorporate him in a group because I’m not trying to fuck him over in this game. We love how I already made too many connections and am gonna be a messy bitch. Alsoooo I won an exile safety thing from thera because I’m THAT bitch. let’s hope I keep on popping offff

Immunity STREAK baby. Fuck the heroes they can suck a rock and have fun voting Keegan out. Ned is kind of a crackhead since it looks like he went for Olivia the previous tribal. It’s concerning because it knocks down our original tribe numbers and I just hope they don’t actually send Keegan home. That weakens us entirely going into merge because it is a huge vulnerability for Hydra (Ned, Sharifa, Jake, and myself’s final 4) seeing as people could take advantage of that and begin pagonging us. If anything and ANYONE had to go from my original tribe please god could it be Malik? He’s gotten very clingy and I don’t want to have to deal with a leech anymore.

So I’m growing tighter and tighter with Lukas which is good because I think I genuinely have him believing I’m on the outs and he is my closest ally. I do really love him and will try to keep him in as long as I can, however when its time to cut him he’s got to go. I have a feeling he’d do the exact same thing to me.

Idk man. This is such a weird round. We lost (duh) and keegan is apparently not talking to anyone. So either something is up and I am not involved, or he has an Idol (which he hopefully won't use on me) OR he has given up?? Like what the heck is happening here. I want to believe in Chris and Andreas not turning on me. Ned has given everyone too much info from their side (he also might have their OG idol) and we literally just saved Malik. So.. Idk? stay tuned to see if the 14th curse stays with me, or if I will be able to break it...

I am WERKING to make sure I survive this tribal. DENNIS says he’s open. CHRIS says he’s open. NED is down since we have a thing going on. I’m trying to get ANDREAS involved. Again to hopefully vote out MALIK. Since that seems to be the safest option for the three OG MOLLY tribe members. Please god let this work.

This vote seems very... easy? I think everyone is tossing their votes on Keegan. I think we will some wonky stuff like 4-1-1 because someone will toss their vote on someone incase of an idol... and tbh i think it will be on me because I think people have enjoyed putting my name in their mouth lately. Anyways, Keegan is scrambling and has thrown out everyone's name left and right in order to stay. I am trying to find the fine line between not ignoring him but not leading him on, because that's just cruel TBH.

ANDREAS, DENNIS and CHRIS have all said they’re open and willing to voting MALIK over me. Whether or not they’re lying to me I can’t say for sure. However I do know that I’m putting in a hell of a lot of work to make this all happen. And honestly, I’ve never worked this hard in an ORG to try to flip the votes. I never realized before that it was even possible to go from being the unanimous vote off to possibly saving myself. I’m so glad I worked to make actual bonds with these guys during the swap. If I can pull this off, this might end up being an incredible move.

I am not a hero.

ANDREAS just told me that it’s going to be MALIK voted out tonight and if this is true I’ll actually start sobbing tears of joy. Thank god NICOLE decided to not have a tribal on call.

It's gotten weirdly quiet ... am i about to be blindsided? Stay tuned

[numinousmysteries]

Vanquish by Wisdom Hellish Wiles (3/9)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 On AO3 @fictober @today-in-fic

Chapter 3

Mulder's first instinct was that William must be nearby. Back when he was exposed to the rubbing from the artifact that washed up on the Ivory Coast, he’d experienced the same sensation Scully had described—that someone was speaking to him from within his own head--but it had only been people in a close vicinity.

There were images from those days right before his impromptu brain surgery that had stuck with him nearly two decades later. When Scully had come to see him in the hospital he'd felt the immense force of her love for him and her fierce desire to protect him. It felt different from the emotion emanating from Diana, which was tainted by an instinct for self-preservation.

He'd felt the same way about her for years but always feared that the feeling wasn't mutual. As he lay on an operating table unable to speak or move, her warm tears fell on his face and any doubt he had about her affection toward him vanished. It's what gave him the courage to tell her she was his touchstone and, although it took a few more months, to finally kiss her.

Achieving the high school fantasy of being able to read your crush's mind was one of the very few perks of being at the center of a global conspiracy. If his sister had never disappeared, he never would have joined the bureau nor met and fell in love with Scully. If his abnormal brain activity hadn't allowed him to read her thoughts he'd probably never have worked up the balls to do something about it. He asked Scully once why she'd named their son for his father and not her own. She said it was because if his father hadn't done the things he'd done, no matter how morally questionable those actions were, they wouldn't be together and William would never have been born. He understood the sentiment but he didn't know if he could ever forgive him father for the cowardly choices that had torn their family apart.

It was also then when he saw the boy building sand castles on the beach. At first he thought the boy was the manifestation of his inner child’s frustration of never being able to save his sister. But the boy didn’t look exactly like he did at that age. His features were softer and his eyes were a bright blue he’d only seen on one other person before. It wasn’t until Mulder held his son for the first time that he realized the boy on the beach was William. More than a year before he was born, months before he was conceived, back when the very idea of a son of his and Scully’s was an impossibility, he’d seen his son and felt his thoughts in his head.

During the years since he’d last seen his son, he’d tried to conjure the memory of being able to connect with him psychically, if only to know that he was safe and still alive. He tried techniques to induce lucid dreaming and even dabbled with self-hypnosis, but he was never able to make the connection again. But now Scully could, and although he couldn’t explain why, he knew that William was in trouble and they had to find him.

If what Scully felt was right, he had to believe that their son would make the right choice and not be tempted by whatever beautiful lies the other side was offering him.

******************************************

After Scully assured him she was alright in the hospital, Mulder headed back to their office. On the drive over he knew who he’d have to call. He hadn't been in contact with the Gunmen for more than a decade since their deaths were staged. It was their plan all along. In a series of heavily encoded emails before their disappearance, they'd reached out to him about the attempts made on William's life. They'd figured out a way to monitor certain channels where the existing members of the syndicate still communicated, but to ensure their access wouldn't be detected, they had to go deep underground. Beforehand, they had showed Mulder how to navigate a messaging service on the deep web through which he could reach them through a series of encrypted IP addresses, but it was only for life-or-death, the-planet-is-at-stake emergencies. He figured this qualified.

Back at the office he followed the instructions he'd memorized and typed, in the code they’d crafted years ago: NEED HELP. ASAP.

He didn’t know what to expect after sending the message. Would they see it right away? Was it being sent from server to server getting further encoded and secured? Would they even be able to help him?

He sat dumbfounded with his head in his hands. The worst part of all of this was feeling helpless. He was better at handling disasters when there was some piece of evidence to be found or someone to point a gun at and demand answers from. He'd be willing to do anything to find William, but he didn’t even know where to start. In one way or another, Mulder had felt helpless for the past 15 years. He couldn't keep William safe nor could he erase the pain and guilt Scully felt for giving him away. Instead he retreated inward and, when Scully finally walked out, he knew there was nothing he could do to stop her.

Suddenly a notification popped up on his computer. In the reply to his message was simply a link, written in nonsense characters. As soon as he clicked the link, his phone began to vibrate on the table. A FaceTime request from a hidden number. He accepted and saw Langley on the other end. If the end of the world wasn’t imminent he’d tease his old friend for still managing to look so young while his own visage was marked with wrinkles and hair graying on his temples.

“Long time no see, old friend,” Langley greeted him. But he wasn’t smiling either. “I’m assuming you know it’s starting?”

“Colonization? The alien virus? Is that what’s starting?”

“We’re hearing chatter on certain channels. Byers and Frohike are furiously digging in right now trying to get more info. But all we know right now is that something big is afoot.”

“And William?”

“Mulder, I’m sorry—“

“What? What happened to him?” He shouted at the phone.

“We have every reason to believe he’s alive. They seem to think he’s more valuable to them that way. But he was taken from his adopted home early yesterday. We would have reached out to you if we could, but we’re doing all we can to find out where they took him.”

“Who took him?”

“The same bastards who are trying to save themselves at the expense of all of us. I wish I had more to tell you," said a familiar voice just out of view.

The image on Mulder’s cell phone screen shifted suddenly and he found himself looking at Frohike’s disgruntled face.

“We started gathering information as soon as we could," Frohike started. “I don’t know how helpful this is, but we found an address.” He recited a South Carolina address that Mulder hastily jotted down.

“Is that where William is?”

“I don’t know. But it seems like there’s some sort of meeting about to go down there. And if what we’re hearing is true, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone who knew what happened to him is there. Shit, man. You know we were doing everything we could to keep an eye on him. But something happened this yesterday and all of our lines of communication were jammed. When we got back online today we realized he’d been reported missing. Supposedly never showed up at school yesterday and didn't come back home all night."

“I understand,” Mulder said. He knew it wasn’t their fault. If anything, the blame laid with himself for leaving his fledgling family nearly nearly sixteen years ago. Now he ached, too, for the other set of parents who were missing their son because of him. “I’m going to head down there now. You’ll be able to reach me if you get any news?”

“Yeah, Mulder, we got your info when you reached out to us. How did you know, anyway?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “Scully felt he was in trouble.”

“She felt it? Like mother’s intuition?”

“I’m scared it’s something a little more powerful than that. Call me as soon as you hear anything.”

“Of course. Be safe out there, man.”

He was already out of the elevator on the ground floor when his cell phone rang again.

“Mulder.”

“Mulder, it’s me. Where are you?”

“I’m following what’s either a very promising lead or going on a wild goose chase to somewhere in Spartanburg, South Carolina.”

“South Carolina?”

“I got an address from the gunmen. I don’t know if William will be there but if there’s any chance, I have to go now. I’m headed to the airport now to get the next flight down there.”

“Come pick me up on the way.”

“Are you being discharged? Did they say you’re alright to leave?”

“I’m checking myself out, Mulder. We have to find our son.”

******************************************

She was waiting for him when he pulls up in front of the hospital. She looked nearly back to normal in her black pantsuit but on closer inspection he saw blood splattered on her white blouse and a sizable bump under the bruise on her forehead.

“How’s the noggin, doc?” he said as she slowly eased herself into the passenger seat. She cringed and he realized she must’ve gotten more banged up in the crash than she'd thought.

“I’m fine. It’s so strange though, I remember getting in my car to go to work, and then having that vision, and then nothing until waking up in the emergency room. I don’t even know if there was another car involved or what happened.”

“That is strange, Scully. But if William is somehow reaching out to you through psychic ability, it wouldn’t be unusual for you to experience missing time or lapses in memory. I don’t know how any of it works, but when I was experiencing it I remember time seemed to bend and contract in ways that didn’t make sense. And there were stretches of time I can’t account for.”

“None of this makes sense, Mulder.”

“I know. But if he did reach out to you, we have to go on every lead we have to try to find him.”

“We'll find him,” she said. “I know we will.”

He felt her small, warm hand on his thigh and he looked down at in surprise as she gave him a reassuring squeeze. He covered her hand with his and they interlocked fingers. He didn't know if it was just meant to comfort him, or comfort her, or if she was trying to tell him she forgave him for acting like an asshole for the better part of the past year. He didn't question it, just held her hand tightly all the way to the airport.

Their hands found each other’s again during the flight and she leaned her head on his shoulder. He turned and gently kissed the crown of her head right above the bruise and she didn't pull away. They had spent hundreds of flights like this before, her dozing on his shoulder, but this time neither of them could sleep. They just clung to each other and counted down the minutes until landing.

They followed the directions of the rental car's GPS away from the airport and down narrower and narrower roads until they were driving on a gravelly path with long stretches of nothingness between driveways.

"You're sure this is right?" Scully asked. It was such a familiar question, one that he'd heard dozens of time whenever they were on the back roads of Anytown, USA, chasing down a lizard monster or a demonic high schooler. They used to rely on AAA maps that Scully opened up from their origami folds and spread across the dashboard trying to find their location on the veins and capillaries crisscrossing the map. Now they had the calm if robotic female voice of the navigation system leading the way. He preferred the spectacle of Scully trying to navigate on a map that was longer than she was tall.

"Well, it's certainly taking us to this address, wherever it is," he said. They squeezed hands on the console as they followed the electronic map.

Your destination is on the left

Mulder stopped the car the left side of the road but there didn't see to be any house or driveway.

"Look," Scully pointed, "Up there, it looks like there's a turn-off."

He drove slowly forward and sure enough there was a clearing farther down between the thick elm trees framing the road. The driveway, if it could be considered one, was narrow and branches scraped up against the side of the car. After about a quarter mile the path opened up to a clearing with an inconspicuous white clapboard house. Tires were tossed in a pile of weeds in front of the house and clothing were draped over the railing of the small deck.

"I guess this is it," he said. If he were to imagine a location for the most powerful men in the world to meet and discuss the fate of humankind, this small rundown home wouldn't top the list. But the address matched the one he'd been given by the gunmen so it was all they had to go on.

"Let's check it out," he said.

"Right behind you, partner." He glanced back and smiled at her wishing they were just going to interview a citizen who witnessed strange lights in the sky, and not possibly about to see their son for the first time in sixteen years.

"Oh, Mulder!"

Mulder spun around and saw Scully crouching over the car in pain with her hands on the sides of her head.

"Scully! What's wrong? Is it your head, from the accident?"

"Ah," she gasped and he came to wrap himself around her. "Yes. No. I don't know. I think I can hear him again. And I hear--oh god--that noise!"

It must be the same high-pitched, ear splitting sound that he had heard in the presence of the imprint from the African ship.

"Let's get you back in the car."

He opened the passenger side door and helped her back into the seat.

"Shut the door!" she shouted and he did, running over to enter again on the driver's side.

"This is better," she said. "He's close, Mulder, I can feel it. But I can't go in there, you have to go alone."

"I can't leave you here."

"You have to--you saw what happened to me outside."

"You seem better now, do you want to try again?"

"No, it'll be worse the closer I get. Just go."

He didn't want to leave her alone in the car but from what he remembered about the same crushing head pain and excruciating noise, he knew she wouldn't be able to go in with him.

"Be safe," she said before he stepped out of the car and shut the door.

The front door was unlocked so he entered slowly with his gun drawn. The interior of the house felt more spacious than it looked from the outside. He stepped slowly through the entrance way and into what looks like a study, with hardwood floors and bookshelves lining the walls. The sound of a deep exhalation startled him and he spun around to aim his gun at an older, heavy-set man sitting in a leather chair.

"Mr. Mulder," the man said. "I've been expecting you."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Someone you can trust."

"I've heard that before," Mulder said with his gun still directed straight at the man's head.

"Please, put that down," the man said. "You must trust me. I'm on your side. I want the same thing you and your partner do."

"I doubt that. We want to save humanity, you want to see blood on the streets, the extermination of 7 billion people."

"No, you've got it all wrong. There's only one man left who wants to carry out that plot. The rest of us, the few who remain, we want to stop him before he puts the plan in motion leaving only himself and his cronies to rule over a zombie race of people infected with the alien virus."

"Who? Who is this man?" Mulder shouted.

"The only man vile enough to sacrifice the entire human species for a taste of ultimate power. It's your father, Mr. Mulder."

"CGB Spender? The smoking man? That's impossible, he was killed sixteen years ago in the desert of New Mexico."

"Men like him don't die, Mr. Mulder. He's sold his humanity years ago in exchange for alien technology that gives him capability beyond what you and I could dream of. You're the only one who can stop him. Kill him before he kills us all."

"Why me? How can I stop him?" Mulder asked more gently but didn't lower his gun.

"Because you can find the one thing he needs to set his plan in motion."

"My son."

"He needs the boy, Mr. Mulder"

"My son is none of your business," Mulder shouted again, feeling his anger at this man and for the injustice of it all.

"He's a very special child"

"He's a child. That's all he is. He doesn't deserve to be dragged into this."

"A child with exceptional abnormalities in his DNA. He can thank you and your partner for that. He has the power to save humanity or, if your father gets to him first, to destroy it."

Mulder shook his head. "My son was taken from his home earlier today and I have reason to believe you're behind this."

"We tried to take him, Mulder, we tried to take him to protect him but he escaped. I don't know where he is, but it's imperative that you find him before Spender does. Your father will promise his grandson eternal life and a seat alongside him as omnipotent ruler of what's left of this planet in exchange for the genetic material within him that can protect them while the world burns."

"William wouldn't agree to that. He wouldn't take that deal."

"Are you sure about that? When was the last time you saw your son, Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder tried not to think about that day, so many years ago when he was forced to leave the two people he loved most, the only two people he'd take a bullet for without a second thought.

"You're wrong," Mulder said. "He's my son and I know he wouldn't do that. Now where the hell is he?"

"I told you, I don't know. I had my men sent to Wyoming to get him and bring him here, but they were unable to find him. They're out looking for him now but I suspect you and his mother will have a better chance of finding him."

"I swear, if anything happens to him, anything at all, I will personally put a bullet through your brain and find every last one of your henchmen and kill them myself."

"Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that, Mr. Mulder."

Mulder shook his head and turned away from the man. When he walked out of the house he saw Scully was motionless in the passenger seat with her eyes closed. He ran to her side and opened the door.

"Scully," he gently shook her shoulders. "What's wrong?"

She didn't flinch or open her eyes. He could see she was still breathing but when he squeezed her hands she showed no response.

"Shit. Scully." Mulder ran around to the driver's side and got into the car. He found the address for the nearest hospital and keyed it into the GPS.

He kept trying to rouse her during the short drive over but she remained slumped over in her seat.

He pulled up directly in front of the emergency room exit and carried her in his arms through the sliding door.

#xf #xfiles #xf fanfic #xfiles fan fic #msr