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jomamaofficial · 1 year

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An Empty Vessel pt.1 (Dabi x Preganant!Reader Dark Angst)

A/N: Hehe, hello my lovely toes. MY FANFIC WENT THROUGH THE LAST ROUND OF BETA READING SO HAHA, I CAN PUBLISH IT NOW. I urge you all to read the TWs and CWs because I may have gone a bit overboard hehe. As always, my Ask Box is open for any requests or just a conversation. I would love to give back to our little community here. Please remember to take care of yourselves, and enjoy. As always, I would love to see your thoughts in the comments :). TW: Pregnancy, vague desire for a forced Abortion, Domestic Abuse, Strangulation, Burning, mentions of Bleeding from a finger cut (from cooking probably). CW's: Heavy SFW, SPOILER: Season 6, Dabi’s backstory, Swearing, Mentions of Sexual acts (Birth Control, Pull-out method; nothing graphic has been described), Intimate acts (kissing, making out), Mentions of Bleeding from a finger cut (reader was cooking). Masterlist Edit: Part 2 😩😩. Word Count: 3537 Summary: You were Dabi’s stress release; he would long for the night to come, but refused to take things ‘too far’. He’d wait for you in secret, but he wouldn’t dare show you any affection outside of the designated odd hours. How you longed to change it. How you longed to confess your love for a man who never used your name. So when you found out you were 3 months pregnant, you hoped your unborn baby would bring you closer to your unrequited love.

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Averting your eyes from the scarred man sat across the table from you, you took a deep breath, clenching your jaw. You sat there, alone with your thoughts, loud enough to drown your boss’ voice.

Your thumb rubbed circles on your wrist, comforting the sting that was lingering underneath. Your hand craved the warmth of another; so when it received a burn instead, the hand mistook that pain for love. Because he gave you so much warmth that your weak skin gave way until it blistered, glowing a pretty red. All you wanted was a hand to hold, a hand that would grasp yours and caress the skin atop; so when he groped your supple skin, digging his nails inside your thigh, leaving tiny crescents that decorated the soft surface, your body mistook the pain for love. Because he held you so tightly. Because he didn’t want to let go.

Those were the tender moments where he gave you more than you asked for.

And you hated that they were enough to make you clutch onto a thin rope of hope. A hope that you hated because it was destined for disappointment.

Even though his eyes held spite and his mouth a snarl as he slapped your hand away, stalking ahead, you only clutched harder onto that decaying rope.

His simple acts led to a thousand thoughts, which led to a thousand headaches, which left you wondering why you felt so deeply for a man who wouldn’t even hold your hand in public.

It was just heated gazes; his eyes, half-lidded, boring into yours, finding that special spot deep in your core which always sent hot, velvety haze onto the surface.

He was the only person in this shithole that made you feel alive.

When you first walked into the hideout, you never expected to feel so strongly towards a stranger sprawled in the corner, hands in his pockets with a cigarette lazily placed in his mouth, shoulders hunched and eyes lifeless.

At first, you rolled your eyes and scrunched your nose at the wisps of smoke that loitered around his presence.

Just another faceless person in the crowd, you told yourself; his sole purpose was to dip in and out of your life without a second thought.

And then as the days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, you added a second purpose for him: to always have a cigarette when you needed it.

And you began craving cigarettes all the time.

You convinced yourself you felt nothing towards the scarred man who waltzed into your life. He was just your nicotine supplier and that was the only thing that drew you to him. It was always the cigarettes, never the person.

But after you found yourself on the roof, puffing your stress away with his body pressed against yours, his corruption seeping into your pure bloodstream, it was clear that you were addicted to him. Not the nicotine that he filtered through his sinful body.

Your entire life shaped itself to lead that of a villain. A villain who worked mindlessly. A villain that had no goals or dreams of their own. Just an underling that satisfied their boss.

It was a methodical and vapid life and it left a bitter taste in your mouth. A bitter taste that sweetened when you felt his lips on yours.

Your personal life and your work life were blending with each other, mixing until you had no sense of which was which.

He was disgusting. He had no respect.

With his poorly box-dyed black hair framing his hollow cheeks, and his stupid piercings which completed his empty face. They glistened around his leering eyes, which followed you in the comfort of your own thoughts; he should be disgusting. Because his grafts were also disgusting– a deep shade of purple which creased around the corners of his eyes when he flashed you a subtle smirk. They had darker lesions, with staples pressed against them holding him together. And sometimes, they wept in blood, slipping down his pale skin– his disgusting dead skin– so thickly.

Everything about him was disgusting. But his sore grafts enhanced his winter skin, cold like a gentle snowflake, a delicate crystal. And his hair was an abyss, sucking you in, coaxing you to find beauty in his pretty eyes that held stories you wished to find out as you lay your head in his lap, his scarred hands brushing through your hair.

So when his knee was grinding against you, you helplessly rutted back against it to feel closer to the man who nipped your lips, the taste of ash draining into your mouth. There was a certain hunger behind his touch that threatened to burst.

And you just wanted to feed him.

His hands slid down to your thighs, groping the bare flesh. He pinched them and kneaded them within his own hands, picking at the flesh to press and bruise them.

Your mouth opened in a silent cry and he trailed down to your neck, peppering messy kisses on your skin. Your chest heaved up and down as you lowered your eyes to desperately find his. But they were hidden, grounded to your neck, inspecting the marks he left on you.

But something was wrong.

There wasn’t any love, or compassion, or care. There was only possessiveness.

Possessiveness that made you shiver and shrink. Possessiveness that stripped you bare and vulnerable to his prying cerulean eyes. His clouded gaze scanned every piece of untouched flesh your body had to offer. He ignored your loving eyes. He just wanted to see the marks you would conceal the next morning.

A long deliberate finger made its way down your neck, grazing past the suckled bruises.

One finger turned into a full grasp, a grasp that lingered on your chest. A visceral shiver tore through your delusion, and suddenly that grasp lingered for too long.

Something was wrong.

“Stop it!”, you screamed, arm quivering over the place he touched you. His blue eyes remained frozen, devoid of any expression.

You pushed his hovering body away from yourself, watching his glare settle on you.

It was the first time he looked at you today.

Your head leaned against the cold wall, pressing on it in a failed attempt to stop the dull throb spreading within. The coolness soothed the ghostly thoughts that stung your body with an icy warning.

Dabi turned his head towards the sliver of twilight peeking out from behind the curtains. His tongue pressed against his cheek, plucking his cigarette he tucked behind his pierced ears. He placed it in between his pierced lips, inhaling as he lit the cigarette with his flames.

His eyes relaxed, closing as he exhaled a stream of smoke into your face.

He tapped the shaft of the cigarette, embers of tobacco burning through the thin white sheets you lazily spread.

“You want me to stop”.

It was the first time he directly spoke to you today.

“I’m so sorry Dabi, I-”

“You think I’m so fucking disgusting, don’t ya?” he spat, his eyes burning through his hooded lids.

“Dabi just listen to me, that’s not what it is, I just-”

He put his cigarette out on your thigh, the heat pricking through the layers of your skin until it incinerated your nerves, leaving a phantom itch on the burn.

He branded a perfect circular shape near your hip.

“Ya hate it that I’m tainting your perfect little skin? Your fucking perfect little skin that ya spend hours scrubbin’ and oilin’ like a dumb bimbo?”

“Dabi, please-”

“No, you fuckin’ listen to me”, he stressed, grabbing your cheeks with his bony fingers. “Lil’ preppy bitches like you, with pretty doe eyes, have somethin’ for big bad guys like me, right? That’s why you joined this league, didn’t ya, dollface? To find some broken fucks like me to fix?”

He tightened his grip on you, leaning closer to your face.

“I did a background check on ya, dollface. Quirkless lil’ smart bitch. Up to your ‘Masters’? So why the fuck did you join this league? You had a good life, dollface. So why’d you drag your naive lil’ face into my world? Because you don’t have a single. Bad. Bone. In. Your. Body”.

He punctuated each of those last words with a squeeze, your teeth clenching to prevent him from ripping through your cheeks.

“You wanted to fix me, didn’t ya? Prance around me looking sweet as honey until I dropped my shitty habits and licked the ground that you walked on”.

Your eyes began to water at the pressure and the truthful accusations.

“Yeah, don’t think that I didn’t catch on to ya’ hand sneaking up on me late at night, like some creep. You think I didn’t realise ya’ stupid lovey dovey eyes staring at me across the room? ‘Cause I did dollface, and it fuckin’ disgusted me”.

He let go of your face with a push.

“You want me to be your boyfriend, don’t ya?”, he asked, closing the distance between you two, holding your waist taut against his disfigured chest. “Hold ya’ hand and peck ya on those pouty lil’ lips?”

His voice lowered an octave as he looked down into your glistening wide eyes. You could smell the fresh smoke ensnaring your mind.

“But why would you wanna date someone as disgusting as me, dollface? I make you scream, don't I? Dabi, the big bad wolf?”

His flaming eyes dimmed, like fire without oxygen.

“So tell me, doll. What made you scream like that? Was it my fucked up face? Or was it my slimy hands dirtying your pretty lil’ skin?”

To the untrained ear, he almost sounded sincere. With his deep voice rumbling from his warm chest, your eyes flickered down to his lips.

“I love you, Dabi”.

His eyebrows raised for a split second before his hands pinched the top of his nose bridge.

“I fuckin’ knew it”.

You could feel his chest heave as he let out a deep sigh.

“Doll…”

“I love you so much, Dabi”, you breathed out, closing the distance between your lips by another inch.

He felt a sharp ache in the middle of his brows.

“You’re so beautiful to me”, you whispered, noses touching as you traced the deep shades of the graft on his abdomen. You felt his muscles tensing underneath your distinct touch, your eyes subtly smiling at his reaction.

His reaction towards your touch.

“Every part of you is so delicate and pretty”, you admired, looking up at the man with twinkling eyes, pupils dilated and full.

“Don’t want to change it, Dabi. Don’t want to change you”.

Your voice was so soft. Airy and sweet. A tone so unfamiliar for the raven man who was observing the way the moonlight shyly casted a glow on your face.

“Don’t lie to me doll…”

“I’m not lying”.

You tore away from his eyes, choosing to focus on the inconspicuous indents scratched into your walls. Your hands, frail, shook as your heart and gut imposed on you to finally tell him. Your deepest thoughts that plagued your mind for the longest week.

“I pushed you away because I’m tired of just being a warm body for those cold winter nights… I’m tired of being a dirty secret, Dabi. I love you, but I’m so tired of breaking myself just to give you pieces that you’ll deny the next morning”.

His faint press against your stomach made you breathe a heavy gust of air in.

“I can’t keep on breaking myself. Or else I’ll have nothing to give her”.

You guided his hand over your stomach, tears dropping on his forearm.

Dabi felt his heart spike, shallow breaths escaping his tightening chest.

“You told me you were on birth control,” he said, cutting through the silence, clenching his fist.

“I wasn’t, Dabi”, your breath hitched as you choked on your fear.

“I wasn’t. I told you so many times, asked you so many times to pull out, but you didn’t”.

He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

He was silent.

“I found out a week ago. And I’ve been trying to tell you, Dabi… I tried to tell you so many times, but you’d ignore me, Dabi”, you trailed off, body seeking comfort.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling yourself towards him to rest your face in the nook of his neck.

“Toga was playing around with my blood the day I cut my fingers. And she told me… she told me that she could detect a new taste in my blood. At first I thought it was the cigarettes but when she told me she couldn’t transform into my body because there was something blocking her… I asked Kurogiri, and he took me to Ujiko Sensei, and- um”, you gulped, your throat feeling drier. “And I’m three months pregnant, Dabi”.

Your drumming heart settled as you felt his hands close around your waist.

“I was so wrong about ya doll”, he mumbled as he nuzzled his face in the nook of your neck, mimicking your position.

Your heart basked in his grasp, your nails gently scraping down his back.

“I love you, Dabi…”

“I was so fucking wrong about ya…” he said, pulling back from your tight embrace.

He pushed a loose strand of hair behind your ears, his tilted head scanning your face. His right hand travelled up your shoulder, to your cheek. You basked in his touch, cool drops gliding his slender thumb across the plane of your cheek.

“You’re not naive, Y/N”.

That was the first time he said your name.

“You know exactly what you’re doing”.

Your mind was lost in the bare contact you finally received, his words slurred for you.

The war was over. He finally understood you.

“I shoulda known doll… a smart girl like you would wanna fix me in other ways. By turning me into your brat’s daddy”.

Your eyes opened suddenly, your brows ruffling as they met his gaze.

“Dabi-”

“Shut your mouth, doll. It’s only for your benefit”.

You expected his piercing grip. You expected his piercing voice.

“What d’ya think woulda happened, doll? What d’ya want to happen?”

You cowered under his view; your heart was walking on eggshells, unable to bear the constant change.

“I asked you a fuckin’ question, didn’t I? Now use that mouth to answer me before I burn it off”.

You sniffled, your stomach trembling as you tried to speak in full sentences.

“Dabi, we couldn’t continue this if we had her-”

“Couldn't continue what? Use your words,” he interjected, cold as steel.

You felt your head spinning, empty stomach feeling heavy.

“Dabi. We can’t expose our child to this-”

He pulled on your hair, the pressure on your scalp forcing you to pull on his wrists, struggling to pry his hands away.

“Did you not fucking hear me? Use your words”.

“Dabi, please, stop- please”, you pleaded, pulling his wrist with greater force, “please Dabi. I- we can’t expose our baby to the league and these operations, where we go out, half expecting to be killed by the end of it. We can’t tell her we’re villains, we can never let her know, and we can’t be villains anymore Dabi! Just please, I told you- just please let me go”.

He let your hair go when you struggled the most, causing you to stumble back into the wall behind you, intensifying the dull thud into something far more painful.

“And that’s how ya thought you’d fix me, am I right dollface? Get ya’self knocked up with my brat, and drag me outta this?”

He pushed his face into yours, grabbing your hair to pull you closer.

“Becoming a daddy didn’t stop my old man from being a villain, dollface”.

He turned you around, twisting your limbs to his liking until you succumbed, on your knees with your back against his chest. He lifted himself up to his knees, pulling you up by your aching hair, which was twisted in his left hand.

His right hand rose from your waist to your chest. He attached his lips to your cold neck, leaving heated kisses all across the skin.

“Dabi…” you mewled, your body temperature increasing as it battled between two conflicting emotions: you wanted to pull away. Your arm was tensed, longing to strike as his hands claimed your body. You curled into your torso, hiding as much as you can before the man behind you pulled you again, arching your back to his liking. Your hands clutched the thin fabric, your mind too tired to make up its mind. Because his pushing and pulling, his kissing and biting, just the feeling of his skin on your skin ignited such an urge to submit to his ownership. Your hips pushed out to feel his body, your sweaty skin brushing against his rough jeans to feel the electric connection. Your neck exposed itself to his messy kisses, your subconsciousness praying and begging for them to brush past your collarbone.

His right hand rose. As his hand reached your neck to press the side, his lips reached your ear lobe, nibbling on the flesh.

“You know my daddy don’t ya? Pro Hero Endevour? Enji Todoroki, Japan’s number one hero", he drawled out his syllables, spite laced in every inch.

He was a hero to the world but you know what he was to me dollface? A fuckin’ villain to me. Ruined my fuckin’ life so much that it was better when he ignored me. When he ignored his oldest son. When he threw me away for his newest prized possession,” he growled, a low vibration tearing through the chest he rested you on.

“I coulda been one of those heroes dollface…” his voice cracked.

“I wanted to be a hero so fuckin’ bad. If he asked my scrawny ass to do a hundred pushups, I did a hundred fifty. If he asked me to run five miles everyday, I’d run ten. What didn’t I do, doll? You name it. I did everything in the book because all I wanted was to be his first brat to surpass him. He told me I’d surpass him. Told me my flames were stronger than his.”

He was quiet.

“Of course they were. But you know what happened one day, doll?” You felt something warm creep down your shoulder.

“One day, at the doctor’s, I found out that my mommy’s quirk manifested in my regulation system.” He let out a breathy, broken sound.

“You’re smart. You know what that means, don't ya, doll?”

You felt another thick drop slide down the valley of your chest. It was red.

“My mommy's quirk was ice, doll. And you know what you need to tolerate an icy quirk? A hotter body. And you know what that bitch gave me, doll? A hotter body so no heat could ever escape it”. His left hand grabbed yours, lifting it up to his jaw, his graft leathery and sticky.

“You know why I have these, doll? It’s because that woman didn’t let my daddy’s quirk work properly. Her useless quirk took over my ol' man's regulation system. So the doctor told me, if I tried to surpass him, I’d burn myself alive”.

He rejoiced in the sobs he ripped from your throat, his hands shaking as they bled in between the fine lesions.

“He told me I couldn’t train anymore. That I couldn’t be a hero. So he knocked her up again and again because I was so disposable to him. As soon as his second brat was born, he didn’t give a flyin’ fuck about me. He knew he could get rid of me whenever he wanted. And you know what the saddest part is, dollface? I knew that too. I knew from the age of eight that I was gonna get replaced by my lil’ baby brother when he popped outta that useless bitch. He kept us away from that brat, because we were failures. And we could never taint the perfect, youngest Todoroki with our digusting failure”.

Your lips quivered with his, your hearts beating together.

“I was so disposable that he didn’t even bother looking for his eldest son’s dead body after he burned himself to death. So you know what this tells me? It tells me that you’re a fucking idiot. Every woman I’ve known has been a fucking idiot. Because if my old man abused me and ripped me apart until I destroyed myself to prove myself worthy as his son”, he licked the shell of your ear, pressing harder on your throat until he heard your ugly, shallow gasps for air, “and he's still the world’s greatest hero? What makes ya think that I’d become a righteous hero for your fucking brat?”

Your feeble attempt to breathe was music to his ears, a sonorous sound that twirled around in the empty room.

“I love how no one’s here. I love how empty this room is, dollface”.

The undertone of your lips matched his vibrant flames, your eyes feeling heavier and heavier.

“I want you to be like this room, doll”.

Empty.

“I want to turn you into an empty vessel”.

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Keep a look out for Part 2, my angst-loving toes. If you would like me to add you to the taglist, please comment or message me :).

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mayullla · 1 year

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Can I ask for 🌹🦋 platonic yandere with Venti?

Title: Neverland

Character(s): Venti (Genshin Impact) Summary: You always wanted to go to neverland, and you did. But when you wanted to return back home the flying boy did not want to let you go. Warnings/tags: Platonic yandere, fem!reader, kidnapping, slight manipulation

Note: This has been written with platonic yandere in mind but it is rather open-ended actually and up to the reader on what happened to Venti when you were gone and on what happened to you after. Venti is depicted to be a similar age as the reader (so if the reader is 7 years old Venti is like 2 or 3 years older.)

[ - A little present~! Event - Closed - ]

You adored fairytales... You were young, after all, curious about the world inside the books. Magic that belongs only to books and not here. You were interested in fairytales like when the princess was captured and taken away to a tower only for a knight and shining armor to save her or a puppet that could not lie because if he does his nose would grow long or a story about a girl who once walked into a home that belonged to a family of 3 bears.

You loved those books but your favorite book, in particular, was about an immortal boy who could fly. It was obvious when you would jump on your bed hoping to fly up to the sky at one point or how you would watch your window for shadows or a boy that would one day show up and take you to neverland.

So when it finally happened, when you saw a young boy maybe similar to your age flying around your room with a small wisp by his side you didn't hesitate to accept his offer when he asked you to join him in Neverland. You didn't think about the people you were leaving, your parents or friends too caught up in the magic. Taking his hand when he promised you a world of mermaids, pirates, and a place you will never "grow up."

"Haha, how about it? Wanna join me to neverland? The place full of songs and laughter!"

You went to neverland and it was all you ever dreamed of as you played with the boy and his friends. Flying wherever you want, sleeping under the trees with other kids just like you, and seeing the prettiest mermaids that wave at you as you waved back. It was just so much fun.

"Yaa-hoo! Isn't this fun?"

But you were a child and in the end, you would miss your parents. Their hug and comfort, you just miss them and wish nothing but to go back.

"Ehhh, homesickness? What is that? You should instead help me make a tune! We are almost finished making that beautiful song, you know!"

"No, I took you to Neverland because I thought you would be with us, Me forever!" Venti, your friend, the boy who could fly and brought you here, refused to let you go, holding your hand tight.

His eyes were teary, lost as he looked straight at you. You didn't understand the madness in his eyes when the small boy looked at you but one thing is for certain was that you understood his words which only means that you could not see your parents and could only pout at the situation.

"We can go apple picking if you want! We can make apple cider, don't you love that drink? I have a secret that will make it extra yummy!"

You were stubborn, maybe too stubborn but all you want is to see your parents so when you find that first opportunity to finally leave neverland you took it. Leaving the place where you would never age back in the arms of your distraught parents who thought that they had forever lost you.

"Friend?.... Hey? Where are you?.... Why did you go back... You were supposed to be with me forever..."

You moved houses you parents could no longer live in that place where they have lost you... when you told them about your story and why you were gone. They didn't believe that you went to Neverland and thought that you somehow wore colored glasses that express a world that wasn't there when, in reality, you were only just kidnapped. Fear that this might happen again, they took you away.

Away from him.

You did not understand why they were so scared back then, yet later as you grew up you could only thank them for wanting to keep you safe.

You were an adult now, you got a new job and the pay was alright. It was a little far from your parent's home, but it was fine because you finally could move out and make a living for yourself.

Years have passed since that incident when you were young, and the memories have become foggy and a blur. You fell in love with someone and decided to marry. You have your own family and something to look forward to in your own reality.

"Found you."

Yet it seems that is not the case for everyone. A pair of eyes watching you as you grow older and older, wishing to give you what you want yet at the same time trying to hold himself back to drag you to his world again. He too, has aged as he continued to look for you in your world. His eyes, which were once clear glass-like innocence, now dark obsessive anger.

When you hear a knock on the window, do not open it. Your family may do so, but they would not find anything there. You yourself, tho mustn't for the moment you open the windows and let the wind it. You will leave nothing behind, but only your house slippers dragged back to Wonderland held by a boy whispering songs in your peaceful, tired sleep.

"My friend, you are finally in my arm! I am so glad that I finally caught you. Let's go back to Neverland alright?"

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burnwater13 · 3 months

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Grogu sitting on a stone meditating on Ossus, from The Book of Boba Fett, Season 1, Episode 6, From the Desert Comes a Stranger. Calendar page by DataWorks.

Grogu had tried to meditate. He tried. But every little sound. Every little wisp of air that blew by him. Every little bug that crawled onto his coverall, was a distraction that he couldn’t ignore. The frogs were the worst, for obvious reasons. They made sounds. They hopped in an amazing way. They smelled… well… to Grogu, they smelled delicious.

Luke didn’t see it that way. He thought meditation was the only way to improve his connection with the Force and remember the things Grogu refused to tell him. Yup. Grogu refused to tell him what had happened at the Jedi Temple and all the time since then.

Why should he tell the human about it? Grogu knew Luke was accomplished in using the tools of the Jedi. He’d even talked about knowing Master Yoda. Grogu had supposed it was possible. No one knew where Master Yoda had gone after the Temple fell. It was possible that Luke had found him and that Master Yoda had set about training him. Anything was possible with the Force, technically speaking.

Now here he was. On Ossus. Sitting on his butt, trying to meditate but for what reason? He could use the Force. He’d always been able to. For as long as he could remember.

It was actually his first memory. Sitting on the floor one minute and floating a meter above it, the next. He had liked how that felt. Just floating. Someone opened a door and he was back on the floor. It had taken just a split second to do that. He was certain that the person who entered the room hadn’t seen him. But then considering it had been Master Yoda, he still knew.

“Strong with the Force, you are, young Grogu.”

Grogu recalled giggling and floating above the floor again. Master Yoda had smiled and told him not to tire himself out. Grogu had floated there the whole time the Master was in the room and only floated back down when he decided that he needed a nap.

That would happen many times over the years he was at the temple. He would go to lessons and do his training sessions and then sit some place quiet and float. It was very peaceful and it allowed him to deal with how many things tugged and pulled at him in and out each day.

It was hard being so open to the Force. He heard everything. He felt everything. He knew things that he shouldn’t know and worse, he didn’t know what to do about any of it. Then he discovered the floating thing. It brought him peace and some much needed quiet.

Master Yoda had suggested that he learn to meditate, but Grogu was pretty sure that what he’d been doing was meditating. It was just that he was light enough for the Force to lift him up when he did it. He didn’t even have to try. He thought that would have made Master Yoda happy. He was the one who was always telling the youngling to “Do or do not. There is no try.”

Now he was on Ossus, being asked to try things he already knew how to do. Had Luke forgotten the first part of his master’s saying? Do or do not. Grogu was not doing things that he didn’t want to do. It was pretty simple.

He supposed the problem Luke was having was that he saw himself in Grogu, not Master Yoda. After all, Grogu looked like a child. Most people thought he was a baby. He was small. They had never seen anyone like him. Heck, most of the galaxy was wrapped around humans and people who looked more like humans than they looked like Grogu.

So Luke thought about what happened when he was a youngling. He hadn’t even known about his ability to use the Force until he was twenty, according to the story he had told Grogu. Then he’d had to learn everything fast and the risks he’d taken were high to the point of recklessness. Uff.

Grogu couldn’t imagine how stressful that must have been. Luke probably really needed mediation to help him reach out to the Force. And because he didn’t learn his skills or do his training with a whole roomful of other younglings and padawans, he had no idea that most of them had never really needed to do that. It was something Master Yoda had taught him because that was what he needed to do. A personalized plan.

Grogu didn’t need that because they weren’t the same person. He wondered why Luke didn’t realize that and then sighed. Luke was very young. At least twenty years younger. It showed. Grogu opened one eye and checked on his ‘Master’. He seemed fine. Grogu was happy about that.

Now if Luke would just learn to eat something other than ration packs, they’d be fine. He’d tried to explain to the younger man that this one another time when it was best to apply the ‘Do or do not. There is no try’ doctrine. It was best to just eat the frog and not to try and eat it. Any Jedi could tell you that.

#calendar prompt a day #din djarin #grogu #the book of boba fett #luke skywalker

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scully-xo · 1 year

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Beautiful Collision

aka they finally talk about what happened in Mulder’s hallway over peppermint tea

My fic for the @xfilesfanficexchange Secret Santa!

Read on AO3 - Rated T - 2183 words - @today-in-fic

Prompt: What does the rest of the night look like after “How The Ghosts Stole Christmas” by @arrowgirll13

“You got somewhere to be, Scully,” he whispered. “Mmm, here. I gotta be here, Mulder.”

***

What a change. Only about an hour ago, he’d been sitting in front of his TV, Maurice’s words sinking further into his mind. Taking root. Making him believe them, as much as he denied it in the house. He was just as stubborn as Scully, refusing to see what was in front of him—he was alone. On Christmas.

But then she’d shown up.

Not just the one person who put up with him. She was Scully. She was everything. The only one that mattered. The one person he wanted to be with on the holidays. And after last year, well, he was hoping she wanted to avoid family. But everything bad that happened in her life was his fault, wasn’t it? Why would she choose him?

But she was here.

Their empty mugs of peppermint tea sat on their new coasters on the coffee table in front of them, funny messages scrawled on their surfaces. A joke gift, but from her it meant everything. The way she blushed when he ripped open the package and laughed would sink in his mind forever. He was trying not to think too hard about the one she’d chosen for her mug: ‘Naughty is such a strong word, how about we go with Nice-ish’. He’d had plenty of dangerous thoughts about naughty Scully, especially since he’d almost kissed her. Who was he kidding? Since their first goddamned case.

His gift to her was his usual schtick. Something cheesy that reminded him of her, a sparkly ornament she could hang on the tree, though it didn’t fit in with all of the other decorations. She misinterpreted its meaning, because he didn’t tell her. But that was part of the gift. He wanted to know what it meant to her. That was the important part. It was selfish, but that’s who he was, wasn’t he?

The gurgling of the fishtank and ticking of the clock on the wall filled the comfortable silence as she dozed next to him. He thought she’d have left already, with dawn and presents and her family waiting for her. This time together, as short as it had been, would make the rest of his Christmas bearable, at least.

He still couldn’t believe she came over. And stayed.

She was facing him now, eyes closed and face soft in sleep. Her head had rolled over in sleep from where it had rested on the back of the couch, wisps of her hair barely touching his shoulder. Selfishness reared its ugly head. He could let her sleep. He could keep her here. He wanted to—but he wouldn’t.

Touching the tip of her nose with the side of his thumb, she let out a little yawn-moan and stretched next to him. He couldn’t help the smile that drifted on his face, and tried not to think about hearing her sleep-sounds in another context. Too late. Blood rushed to his groin and his eyes fell, catching the patch of skin between her button holes of her shirt and across her stomach as she raised her arms.

“You got somewhere to be, Scully,” he whispered.

“Mmm, here. I gotta be here, Mulder.” The words were rough and slurry and with her eyes nearly closed he wondered if she was still half-asleep. Still, it made his heart constrict, thinking that at least to him, this is where she belonged.

“Want me to drive you?” he asked. “You look like you could sleep for a week.”

“Mmm, thanks for that. But no.” She yawned again, and shook her head, blinking away the remnants of sleep. She didn’t get up, though, and he’s a weak man. He didn’t remind her of where she was supposed to be again.

“All of that… it happened, didn’t it?” she asked, as she chewed on her lower lip. “I felt the gunshot. The blood on my skin. But then it was gone, and…”

“It happened, but it didn’t.”

He can tell she doesn’t like the feeling of their night being a Schrödinger's kind of experience. She likes neat lines, things she can explain and file away. Things she can put in a box.

“Well, you’re real. And I’m real. We’re here. That’s something,” he conceded.

“Yeah.” She paused. “Mulder?”

“Yeah?”

“A few months ago. In your hallway. Before… before I got stung. I remember things, but I’m not sure if they happened or if it was a strange dream…”

“It happened, Scully,” he said, voice low and gravelly. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. His mouth went dry just thinking about how close they’d gotten. And now… were they actually going to talk about it?

He heard her wet her lips and the sound of her throat as she swallowed. He could picture what she looked like in his mind but he didn’t look. Instead, he stared straight ahead at the television, the blurry apparitions of their own faces barely visible in the dark screen. He remembered what he’d been watching before she came over. The smile on Ebeneezer’s face. The words he’d just said flashing through his mind. I don’t deserve to be so happy.

“Did you mean it?” Her voice was so soft and quiet, like he’d imagined the words. And there was something else. The fear that oozed from her pores in the haunted house tonight had returned, though there was a subtle quality to it now. A vulnerability.

He turned to her then, watching her profile, her eyes glued to the same blank TV. “Of course I meant it, Scully.”

She took a shaky breath. “I thought, maybe… if it was real, that you only said it to make me stay.” Her voice was so small, and he really saw her then. How everything that night had been seemed to her. She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. “So we could continue your work.”

“Our work, Scully.”

Her eyes filled with familiar skepticism, though tinged with something else now. Sorrow? Regret?

Mulder laid his arm across the back of the couch, facing her fully. “There is no work without you, Scully. Of course I wanted you to stay. Of course I need you for all of that.”

She nodded. She looked so damned small right now. It always took him aback when he was confronted with that fact. He always forgot because she loomed so large in his mind.

“Is that why you were going to kiss me?” she asked.

He sighed, closing his eyes at her words. At the memory he tried so hard to remember and yet at the same time to put it out of his mind. It tormented him—thinking that he’d come so close to something he could never have. He was such a fucking idiot. All this time he’d thought, perhaps, she wanted to forget that moment between them happened. That she was scared away, and moved back to the comfortable place of poking holes in every damned theory he came up with. It had been infuriating, after all they’d seen, that she’d backslid into the woman who pretended that the fantastical things they saw together never happened.

He never even considered she wasn’t sure any of it had happened. That she didn’t know his reasons for it. He was crazy about her. Not just as a partner or a friend. As the only person in his damned life. His other half. She was… she was Scully.

“I didn’t want you to leave. I—”

“I wasn’t going to leave, Mulder.” She touched him then, laying a small hand on his knee. That tiny bit of contact, innocuous and light, sent a lightning bolt through his leg, straight up his spine. He wouldn’t be surprised if his hair was standing on end. Scully as his very own Van de Graff generator.

“Uhh, what?” he asked.

“I was leaving the bureau, not you.”

I am such an idiot. He wanted to smack his forehead, but that would mean moving his hand from behind her, or from its place a few inches from her own. There was no way he was moving away from her right now. So, he closed his eyes and cursed at himself silently instead.

When he opened them again, things had shifted. Gone was the vulnerable, small woman who’d made a rare appearance only a few seconds ago. She was back to herself. The Scully he knew, but somehow more.

And she was looking at his lips with curiosity in her eyes. Hunger, maybe. He hoped it was hunger.

He swallowed.

“Is that the only reason you wanted to kiss me, Mulder? You wanted me to stay so we could work together?”

It sounded shitty. Egotistical and narcissistic, just like Maurice had told him. But it wasn’t just about the work. Of course it wasn’t. He’d dreamed of those lips: of pressing his own into their plushness, learning how she felt, how she tasted. It haunted his dreams. After the bee interrupted things, and she’d gone back to her old self, he thought it was a sign. That it wasn’t meant to be. He was destined for loneliness. For unhappiness.

He couldn’t lie to her, though. “It wasn’t the only reason.”

She tilted her head, her eyes sliding up to meet his. Definitely hunger. He swallowed again, and his hand shifted next to hers, his thumb grazing the side of her pinkie. He was suddenly very aware of how close their hands were to his lap. To his crotch. These damned jeans were growing tighter by the second.

Shifting slightly to adjust himself, he leaned in a bit closer. “I’ve wanted to kiss that pretty mouth for a long, long time, Scully.”

Her pupils blew open, and her mouth dropped. He smelled peppermint on her breath. Not for long though. He crossed the rest of the distance and finally let his mouth land on hers, and he tasted it instead.

She stiffened for just a moment, then reacted: meeting him with matched fervor, as he always knew she would. Her hands wound around his neck, scratching through his hair and sending little shocks trembling over his skin, straight to his groin. Their tongues met, their teeth and noses clashing together until they found a rhythm. Like they always did, right from their very first meeting.

As he tasted her—memorizing the ridges of her mouth, the sharpness of her teeth, the sounds she made—he couldn’t help comparing this kiss to the images of binary stars he’d seen in a recent report from NASA. They’d crashed together by some yet unknowable force, making something bigger and more wondrous than what they’d had separately. And while this magnificent collision had now taken physical form, he knew it originated years ago, back when she’d first walked into his office. Wearing her prim suit, wide eyes and a smile, she took every strange thing they encountered in stride even though he knew it shook her to her core. And he knew—knew—he couldn't have done it without her. He’d be stuck in that basement, chasing leads that led nowhere.

He fisted her hair, maybe a bit too tightly, but she moaned into his mouth when he did it. She was above him, now, sitting in his lap, grinding herself onto the growing stiffness in his jeans.

Was exhaustion another kind of intoxication? He didn’t want her to regret this once she had her head on straight. With every ounce of willpower, he leaned back, pulling their mouths apart.

She made a cute little whine in protest, and his cock jumped.

“Jesus, Scully.”

“Taking the Lord’s name in vain on his birthday?” Her mouth tilted upwards. He stared at those gorgeous swollen lips, even more plush and kissable after he’d sucked on them for who the fuck knows how long. Too long. Never long enough.

“You need to go to your family’s.” He rubbed her back. It was something he’d done before, dozens of times. But every touch felt different now. Electric. Monumental. A prelude.

“Come with me,” she said, peppering kisses over his face.

Mulder sighed, feeling his protests melt away with every graze of her mouth on his skin. “I don’t want to intrude—” he said meekly.

“My mom invited you.” She pulled back, a guilty look on her face. “I didn't know you didn’t have plans. You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’ll be okay, Scully. Just me and Scrooge. He’s like a kindred spirit.”

She looked at him for a few long seconds, her fingers doing something delightful along the muscles of his shoulders and neck. Then she nodded, her mouth set in a line. “You’re coming.”

He waggled his eyebrows at her.

She giggled, then pressed her mouth against his in a soft kiss. He liked this, too. He wanted to discover every kind of kiss, every touch. Every sound and sigh. What he could do to make them.

As she stood and pulled him up with her, he thought, perhaps, he’d get what he wanted this year. Or maybe he already had.

End.

#xf fanfic #msr #xfiles #pining #ust to rst #they finally talk imagine that #and maybe a bit more than talk #😏😏😏#how the ghosts stole christmas #secret santa #xfiles fanfic exchange

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waitingforwinterwinds · 1 year

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Game of Thrones - 68 DAENERYS IX (pages 726-736)

Dany finds her footing in the aftermath of her demonically induced miscarriage.

Over his shoulder, she saw her three handmaids, Jhogo with his little wisp of a mustache, and the broad face of Mirri Maz Duur. "I must," she tried to tell them, "I have to..." "... sleep, princess," Ser Jorah said. "No," Dany said. "Please. Please." "Yes," he covered her with silk, though she was burning. "Sleep and grow strong again, Khaleesi. Come back to us." And then Mirri Maz Duur was there, the maegi, tipping a cup against her lips.

huh. well that's interesting. Assuming this isn't part of a fever dream, the fact that not only is Mirri not imprisoned, but also allowed to tend to Dany. Either the herbwomen are still refusing to tend Dany and her inner circle are very desperate, or Dany's inner circle don't think Mirri should be arrested right now.

"My son was alive and strong when Ser Jorah carried me into this tent," She said. "I could feel him kicking, fighting to be born." "That may be as it may be," answered Mirri Maz Duur, "yet the creature that came forth from your womb was as I said. Death was in that tent, Khaleesi." "Only shadows," Ser Jorah husked, but Dany could hear the doubt in his voice. "I saw, maegi. I saw you, alone, dancing with shadows." "The grave casts long shadows, Iron Lord." Mirri Said. "Long and dark, and in the end no light can hold them back." Ser Jorah had killed her son, Dany knew. He had done what he did for love and loyalty, yet he had carried her into a place no living man should go and fed her baby to the darkness.

So it's confirmed, Rhaego died specifically because Dany was taken into the death magic tent?

"You warned me that only death could pay for life. I thought you meant the horse." "No," Mirri Maz Duur said. "That was a lie you told yourself. You knew the price." Had she? Had she? If I look back I am lost. "The price was paid," Dany said. "The horse, my child, Quaro and Qotho, Haggo and Cohollo. The price was paid and paid and paid." She rose from her cushions. "Where is Khal Drogo? Show him to me, godswife, maegi, bloodmage, whatever you are. Show me Khal Drogo. Show me what I bought with my son's life."

Hold up a sec.

Now Dany says "The shadows have touched you too, Ser Jorah," because Jorah looks visibly wrecked. Dany not only had a demonically caused miscarriage, she was also in that tent, but she's bouncing back pretty well. Her baby was alive and kicking before she went into the tent.

I think I'm about to say something controversial, but hear me out?

What if Rhaego's death wasn't paying for Drogo's life, what if it was paid to protect Dany's from the shadows? (Or to pay for the eggs, it is a little interesting in terms of timing that it went '"don't want to wake the dragon" Vision of Rhaego as an adult spewing fire then dying "want to wake the dragon"' in Dany's vision/fever dream)

... that's probably going to be definitively jossed in a paragraph...

A count might show a hundred people, no more. Where the forty thousand had made their camp, only the wind and dust lived now.

Ah, so more likely Mirri's not arrested because they were very desperate.

"Saved me?" The Lhazareen woman spat. "Three riders had taken me, not as a man takes a woman but from behind, as a dog takes a bitch. The fourth was in me when you rode past. How then did you save me? I saw my god's house burn, where I had healed good men beyond counting. My home they burned as well, and in the street I saw piles of heads. I saw the head of a baker who made my bread. I saw the head of a boy I had saved from deadeye fever, only three moons past. I heard children crying as the riders drove them off with their whips. Tell me again what you saved." "Your life." Mirri Maz Duur laughed cruelly. "Look to your khal and see what life is worth, when all the rest is gone."

You know, I know I'm supposed to be umbridged on Dany's behalf right now, but Mirri isn't wrong, and Khal Drogo was a piece of garbage, I am not sorry for his loss.

I'm sorry for Dany's loss, I'm sorry she tricked herself into thinking she was in a healthy relationship, and that she's just had her entire world torn apart yet again, lost all the powers and attachments that protect her, I'm sorry that every time she finds a place she can be happy that it's torn away from her, but her husband lead a band of murdering rapists on an eternal pilgrimage of rape and slaughter and slaving. He was Not the good guy here.

Also, other things I want to talk about:

Mirri technically didn't confess to killing Rhaego. She talked around the point and said things which could easily suggest she did it on purpose, even her 'cruelty' didn't reveal itself until she was giving Dany the bad news, given the mental state Dany was in, I'm not 100% convinced we have a fully unbiased account right here.

No one in this series is a reliable narrator without bias, we know, we know, this chapter really was two women's righteous anger and thirst for retribution hitting boiling point in a way that brought them into conflict, with the narrative voice pushing us to side with our POV character.

We also don't actually know that the ritual was completed properly, given that Jorah barged into the tent with Dany, this might not have been the intended out come or the ritual might not be capable of repairing brain damage, and either way, it could be that since Mirri already knows she's going to die she taking the chance while she can to express her own anger and injuries.

Also, also:

If I look back, I am lost. x 4 (should I add it to the drinking game do you think?)

Her initial fever dream was about running from shadows, the idea that if she looked back at them, they would catch her was there like an undercurrent through the dream.

I feel, like this chapter is supposed to be IT. The turning point in Dany's character, it is very much driving home the idea that she has no turning back anymore, whatever she decides from here she has to see it through or die trying. The young girl she was before, the one who dreamed of a quiet peaceful life, in the house with the red door, as the wife of a powerful khal seeing the peace of the Dothraki Sea (before the khalasar destroyed it beneath their hooves), that's gone now, the Dany that's beyond her reach forever.

(I mean, obviously it is, she just killed Drogo properly, so that's off the table.)

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #game of thrones #daenerys targeryan #a chapter a day reading #rape #rape mentions #miscarriage #miscarriage mentions #got

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soopsiesdaisies · 2 years

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i mean, technically, (y)our marriage is saved

Fic summary:

Rhys is a little drunk when he graciously saves Feyre from her wedding to idiot and all-round tool Tamlin. Well, ‘gracious’ from his perspective, obviously.

Read on AO3 + Tumblr Chapters overview.

General warnings: use of alcohol, this is 8k, author's first (published) feysand fic, Tamlin and Rhys

~*~

I was going to fall apart, right there, right then–and they’d see precisely how ruined I was.

Help me, help me, help me, I begged someone, anyone. Begged Lucien, standing in the front row, his metal eye fixed on me. Begged Ianthe, face serene and patient and lovely within that hood. Save me– please, save me. Get me out. End this.

Tamlin took a step towards me—concern shading those eyes.

I retreated a step. No.

Tamlin’s mouth tightened. The crowd murmured. Silk streamers laden with globes of gold faelight twinkled into life above and around us.

Ianthe said smoothly, “Come, Bride, and be joined with your true love. Come, Bride, and let good triumph at last.”

Good. I was not good. I was nothing, and my soul, my eternal soul, was damned–

I tried to get my traitorous lungs to draw air so I could voice the word. No– no.

But I didn’t have to say it.

Thunder cracked behind me, as if two boulders had been hurled against each other. People screamed, falling back, a few vanishing outright as darkness erupted.

~*~

I whirled around.

Curling wisps of night dissipated, blown away by the slight spring breeze—and there Rhysand stood, the High Lord of the Night Court, smoothing out the lapels of his jacket. He was the picture of suave confidence, didn’t seem to notice the tenseness of fearful sentries, swords half-drawn; or perhaps he did, and he simply did not care. Even Tamlin he did not pay any mind, despite the low, warning rumble of Tamlin’s growl having started up behind me.

No, his eyes were only on me.

Typical. Typical of him to arrive now of all times, after having spent three months keeping us in nervous anticipation. It shouldn’t have surprised me: he obviously had a flair for the dramatics, and even under— even then he was more than happy to piss Tamlin off.

I couldn’t help recalling the glint in his eyes as he touched me when Tamlin couldn’t. Couldn’t help blame the goosebumps that erupted all over me at the blurry memory of his thumb stroking my hip on disgust.

Rhys grinned at me, boyishly handsome, and took a step closer. There was a sway to his step, as if he was on the verge of losing his balance.

My feet refused to increase the distance between us.

“Hi, Feyre darling,” he purred, words slurring together until I had difficulty deciphering where my name ended and ‘darling’ began. He stepped even closer, close enough to touch me if he so wished, and nearly tripped on what seemed nothing.

Now that he had gotten so close, the smell of him – citrus and sea salt and a hint of an alcoholic spice – washed over me like a breath of fresh air. Darkness leaked from his every pore, leaching into the daylight around him like ink in water: he was angry, there was no doubt about it, and wasn’t wholly successful at masking it.

It felt as though my heart had ceased to beat.

With an almost bored expression his violet gaze drifted over the near-abandoned venue, taking in the terrified guests, scrambling over each other to get away, and then they fixed upon Tamlin. Tamlin who, by all accounts, looked ready to morph into his beast, to tear Rhysand to pieces—

I saw Ianthe back away slowly, her face drained of colour.

The grin on Rhys’s face grew razor-sharp.

“What a pretty little wedding,” he drawled, stuffing his hands into his pockets with less grace than he usually possessed. His eyes turned to me, and for a split second, they unfocused, glazing over; but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and he clicked his tongue. “You look like a cupcake, love.”

His breath reeked of alcohol, of a spiced liquor I couldn’t name, but the words felt mind-numbingly honest. My blood went cold, then excruciatingly hot, and to my horror I could feel myself flushing.

Rhys smirked at me, like he knew that I knew he was right.

And then, finally, finally, Tamlin moved, steps large and angry. His eyes were already blazing; claws ripped from his knuckles, glinting in the sunlight.

“Get the hell out.”

Rhys frowned and pouted. He was so obviously taking the piss I couldn’t help but hope Tamlin could at least get one punch in.

“But I just got here,” Rhys said. His pout melted away for another dazzlingly sharp grin and he inclined his head to the side, ink-black hair shifting with the movement. “Can’t I at least get a drink? There’s enough.”

He motioned at the abandoned flutes with sparkling wine at the refreshments table with a limp hand, swaying slightly as he went. I had a feeling he’d had enough to drink already.

“Leave,” Tamlin growled, voice having raised in volume. “Do not make me ask you again.”

“You’re not even asking,” Rhys replied, rolling his eyes. “And besides—I can’t leave now. Not when I need to call in my bargain with Feyre darling.”

My stomach hollowed out.

“You can’t break a bargain, Tam-Tam,” he continued. “You know what will happen if you even try.”

Tamlin had grown red with anger.

Rhys then looked at me again, raking his eyes over my form and my frozen face, and his bored expression shattered.

“I gave you three months of freedom,” he slurred. For a brief moment, he looked wholly devastated. Like I’d just ripped his heart out. “You could at least look happy to see me.”

I stared at him, vaguely aware that my hands were shaking, but said nothing. I wasn’t scared of him – Rhys was terrifying, yes, terrifyingly powerful, but even back there he hadn’t tried to break me like she had, like he could have done – but it was his Court that I was frightened of, where I did not want to go. I couldn’t—I would be a prisoner again, stuck, held against my will, and I couldn’t—

The devastation in his eyes did not fade, and he scowled. “I’ll be taking her now,” he told Tamlin, not looking away from me. There was a dismissal to his tone, as if Tamlin was far below him, nothing more than a servant.

“Don’t you dare,” Tamlin snarled. Behind him, the dais was empty; Ianthe had left, or run away, as had the remainder of the guests. Only Lucien and the sentries remained.

Rhys flicked his gaze from me back to Tamlin. The expression on his face changed quicker than I could properly detect: the sharp, mocking smile returned, and judging by Tamlin’s trembling fists, it had quite the effect.

“Oh,” Rhys crooned. “Was I interrupting? I though it was over. At least,” he said, looking back at me again, smile dripping with venom, “Feyre seemed to think so.”

He knew. He knew that—that I’d been about to say no, through that Cauldron-damned bond, through whatever magic was linking us together. He’d known and I wondered what else he knew, what else he’d seen, if he’d been able to hear—

Tamlin roared, a terrifying sound of pure rage.

I couldn’t help it. I flinched back, arms already in front of my face.

Before I could blink, Rhys‘s hip was pressing against mine, one hand on my shoulder and the other around my elbow, pulling me into his side. I blinked down at the hand curled around my arm, vaguely noted how tan he’d gotten, like he’d spent ages in the sun after having been freed; the difference between the black fabric of his sleeve and the back of his hand was less shocking now.

Then my empty stomach rolled as it registered that he was touching me to take me away, and my breathing became shorter. Panicked. His hand was warm through the fabric of my gloves; it felt like his touch was burning me from the inside out, and I wanted to rip away from him, wanted to be free—

Rhys tutted, then barked out a bitter laugh. “I forgot how utterly incapable you are of controlling yourself,” he sneered, leaning forward to get into Tamlin’s face. He nearly toppled over in the process. “Perhaps she wouldn’t have called for my help if you’d waited until you’d both healed—but obviously you had to snatch her up as soon as possible to satiate the monster that controls you. Too bad for you, it’s not happening now.”

Tamlin’s face had started to change, canines lengthening. “You know nothing—”

“I know enough.” Rhys pulled me even closer and my throat was closing up, body frozen as my thoughts warred over what decision to make. “Even your High Priestess appears to think it is over.”

Tamlin whirled around, snarling when he saw the altar void of Ianthe. When he faced us again he was shaking all over, though his claws had begun to slowly retreat back into his hands. “You—”

“I’m in no mood to bargain,” Rhys slurred, a sneer on his face, “even though I could easily work it to my advantage, I’m sure.” He took a step to the side, pulling me with him. “Let’s go.”

I didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

“I—” I started, looking at Tamlin, urging him to do something, anything. “I—”

Tamlin’s fists clenched and unclenched. His arm twitched in my direction, as if he wished to grab me but thought better of it.

An ice-cold feeling spread through my chest.

“Name your price,” Tamlin then said, voice quivering and hoarse.

Rhys looked wholly unimpressed. “Don’t bother,” he crooned, pulling more insistently at my frozen figure now. “Feyre, darling, come on—”

I still refused to move.

I was waiting. For Tamlin to tear me out of Rhysand’s grasp, for a sentry or for Lucien to pull Rhys away from me, for anything that showed that they’d at least attempt to save me from Rhysand’s Court. They couldn’t let me go through that again—they knew I still had nightmares, that I awoke before dawn bathing in sweat and hurling my guts out from terror.

But nobody was moving except for Rhysand, who continued his gentle tugs at my shoulders and elbow. Tamlin just stood there, looking at Rhys like he didn’t know what to do, like he was out of options, like his only option had been intimidating Rhysand into giving up the bargain.

In another life, perhaps I would have scoffed at Tamlin’s idiocy—Tamlin was powerful, but not as powerful as Rhys, and a couple of snarls couldn’t possibly intimidate the High Lord of the Night Court. I could’ve found it ridiculous that Tamlin’d had three months to come up with a strategy and his strategy was no more than acting like an angry toddler, snarling something about not taking what was his.

Now, however, I was devastated.

“Tamlin,” I whispered, voice shaking. My eyes burnt, but I refused to cry. This was a last resort, a final plea to please, please don’t let him take me—

Rhys ducked his head towards my ear. The tip of his nose bumped against my cheekbone as he swayed in place, hands tightening around me.

“Does it look like he’s going to help you?” he hissed, disgusted. His mouth brushed the shell of my ear; goosebumps erupted yet again, and I nearly shivered. “He can’t, you see, because he knows there’s nothing he can do.”

He’s a brute, Rhys’s voice continued in my head, seething, who sees you as his possession, as a toy. But he’s not the strongest youngling in the sandbox, Feyre, and someone stronger and bigger than him wanted to play with you instead. He knows that he can throw a tantrum, that he can rage and cry and hit all he wants, but there’s no going against a magical bargain.

I closed my eyes to keep the tears of frustration from falling.

Rhys raised his head, his plump bottom lip skimming the very tip of my ear as he straightened to look Tamlin in the eye.

“I’ll return her in a week, safe and sound. No harm will come to her.” And when I opened my eyes I saw Tamlin simply staring, face sallow, as Rhys purred from behind me, “I promise.”

Tamlin didn’t move. Didn’t do anything to rip me from Rhys’s grasp, didn’t even look at me—merely stared at Rhysand with an expression that told me he’d resigned himself — and me — to this, that he was allowing Rhys to take me. The sentries behind him were quiet, faces slack with shock, and Lucien looked pale, panicked, like he couldn’t believe what he was witnessing.

Tamlin wasn’t going to do anything. He really wasn’t going to do anything, hadn’t thought of anything else to help me, and was going to stand aside as Rhysand whisked me off to the Court of Nightmares.

Anger and betrayal ripped through me like a tidal wave. It felt foreign after having spent so many months frozen in fear and apathy; as red and orange bled into my vision and my hands grew hot, it felt as if I was looking through someone else’s eyes.

I’d done everything for Tamlin. I’d bled for him, endured torture for him, died for him… and for what? For him to stand aside, allowing the High Lord of the Night Court to have his turn with me?

Was I really no more than his favourite toy?

Rhys released me and stepped behind me, only to slip his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against his front. “This has been delightful,” he said cheerily, thumb rubbing against the bodice of my dress. “Truly. Shame I couldn’t even get a drink.” Then he leaned down again, tip of his nose against my temple and bottom lip brushing the tip of my ear, and whispered, “Hold on.”

And suddenly we were falling through pure, utter darkness. The wind tore at me and my heart was in my throat and I could feel Rhys pressed against me, only him, as I clung to his arms with all my might and hated him with all my heart—

My feet found solid ground, and as my senses returned to me, I smelled jasmine.

It wafted around me, heady yet light, and when I blinked all I saw were stars; a sea of them, pinpricks of diamonds thrown across dark velvet, twinkling behind pillars of moonstone and rows and rows of snow-capped mountains.

“Welcome,” Rhys sighed, tightening his arms around me, “to the Night Court.”

I stared, looked, breathed.

The hall we were standing in was entirely open to the elements. No windows to be found, just towering pillars and gossamer curtains swaying in that jasmine-scented breeze. I inhaled, eased Rhys’s hands off me, took a couple of hesitant steps forwards.

The building appeared to have been built on top of a mountain—if I squinted, stepped a little closer to the pillars, I could see glistening snow pooled in the corners of the veranda, and a significant drop after that. Despite it, the air did not feel thin, nor excruciatingly cold; though I couldn’t feel it, I knew the building must thrum with magic. How else could the air have been kept warm in the dead of winter, and at this altitude?

I turned, swept my gaze over the interior. The hall was open plan, dotted with tiny seating, dining, and work areas, each sectioned off with the curtains or large, lush plants. Thick rugs were laid out strategically along the moonstone floor and everywhere balls of faelight bobbed on the breeze, whilst beautiful lanterns hung from the arches of the ceiling.

And it was quiet.

No screaming. No shouting. No pleas from desperate innocents, praying to be saved.

“This is my private residence,” Rhys said. He walked closer to me, hands in his pockets, gait unstable. Once he deemed he was close enough – which was, excruciatingly enough, close enough that I could feel his body heat – he grinned at me like he’d grinned at me before, unrestrained and boyish. “We’re all alone.”

I stared at him. His skin had indeed gotten a lot darker since—since her, since he’d made the bargain with me all those months ago. It made him, infuriatingly, even more handsome, even as he swayed in place and reeked of liquor, even as he’d stolen me away from my wedding. And his wings—

I let my gaze lower to his shoulders, to his arms, but they weren’t there. Without them, without his power leaking from him as some stupid intimidation tactic, he looked almost normal—like any high fae male, his perfection aside.

It was infuriating.

In a fit of anger, or confidence, or whatever it was, I bared my teeth and pushed at his chest. He stumbled backwards, fell on his arse, and then gaped at me stupidly.

“How dare you,” I snarled, resisting the urge to stomp my foot like a spoiled child. “How dare you take me away like that! You could’ve chosen any possible moment in the previous three months and you chose my wedding! I can’t believe you—Rhysand!”

He blinked and his eyes, that had gotten glazed as he stared at me, refocused. “Yeah?”

“Are you even listening to me?”

Rhys blinked again, frowning a little. “You—you’re angry with me.”

I crossed my arms. “And why?”

“You’re always angry with me,” he answered, voice a bit quiet. “I’m the type of person lots of people get angry with.”

I didn’t know what to reply to that. He seemed very, very small for a brief moment, far from the imposing and dangerous figure he usually made. It was unsettling.

“Well, you… you did something shitty,” I said finally. “So I’m angry.”

He nodded, stood up carefully, and immediately lost his balance again, nearly tumbling to the floor before he grabbed onto the nearest pillar.

“‘S not that simple,” he slurred, frowning as he pushed himself away. “’S not—I’m a prick, but not that much of a prick.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Rhys sighed, lolling his head back like it was too heavy to hold up. “It means, you’re welcome,” he muttered, stalking off to a nearby seating area.

“For what?” I hissed, following him.

The fabric of my dress rustled as I walked, grating against my ears, and I set my jaw. It was bad enough that he’d taken me with him against my will, but it felt like it would be significantly worse if I admitted I hated the dress. That it’d been chosen without my judgement, that I’d been hauled into it like a doll.

He started rummaging through a cupboard, emerging with a round glass and a dark bottle. The cork popped as it was pulled out, and the liquid’s spiced, alcoholic scent flooded my nostrils; he threw the cork away from him, poured the liquor into the glass, and threw all of it back.

“Rhysand,” I hissed, as he poured another. “What am I supposed to be thankful for?”

He turned, glass in hand, and grinned tightly at me. The liquor was vaguely dark, like stained wood.

“For saving you when you asked,” he replied, taking a long, lingering sip of his drink. Then he stared at the glass for a couple of seconds, as if contemplating something, and downed the remainder as well.

I’d gone stiff. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

“Didn’t you?” he asked, eyes flicking from my face to my left hand. “C’mon, Feyre, you might as well have shouted it in my ear. We’re m—I heard you.”

“That’s impossible,” I snapped.

The air grew cold around us as tendrils of darkness started swirling out from behind him, mouth contorted in something akin to rage—or desperation. Rhys snarled, put the glass down, and reached for my arm; he yanked the glove off, threw it on the floor, and pointed at the tattoo, at the eye. He swayed towards me on unstable feet.

“I heard you,” he said, and despite the harsh way he spat the words out, he was still slurring. “You—you said no, and you asked for help and you screamed it down the bond and I heard you, so I came. Because you were so upset I felt it and I couldn’t ignore it, not that, so I came for you—”

I looked down at my arm, at his hand around my wrist and at his finger jabbing at my palm, at the pupil of the tattoo. Then I looked at him, at the snarl on his face and his darkened eyes, and I narrowed my own. “You shouldn’t have stolen me away. Take me back.”

Rhys’s face flitted through a series of expressions, all too swift for me to catch, before it settled on something dark and ugly. “You have no idea,” he hissed, “how loud you are. How clear your feelings are. You didn’t want to get married that uncontrolled, violent tool of a male—maybe later you would,” he spat, scowling, “but not now. Is he even aware why you hurl your guts up every night, or why you can’t go into certain rooms or see certain colours?”

I froze, chest heaving. Tamlin—Tamlin needs time, needs to heal as well. It wouldn’t be fair to put that on him. “Get the hell out of my head.”

“Do you not wish to burden him,” Rhys continued, sneering, “or did he never even care to ask? You shout every big emotion of yours down the bond, Feyre. Every intense feeling, whether it’s fear or nausea. I’ve never felt you be comforted by anyone, let alone someone you’re supposed to marry.”

I felt a grimace pulling at my mouth, eyes burning. This was too much—too much to think about, too much to hear after a day like this.

“Bastard,” I hissed.

Rhys’s fiery gaze shuttered. “Not a new insult, darling,” he said, cold grin all teeth. “Try again.”

“I want to get rid of the bargain,” I said. “Now. I don’t care whatever I need to give you in return. I want to go home, and I want the bargain gone. I’m done with you hanging out in my head.”

Rhys scoffed. “First of all, I cannot simply remove the bargain; the magic is older than that of all the High Lords in Prythian. And second,” he leaned closer to me, violet gaze locked onto mine, “it’s not the fucking bargain that’s keeping me in your head and you in mine, Feyre darling.”

I swallowed drily, hating how his eyes held galaxies and I couldn’t even force myself to look away. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he murmured, liquor-laced breath fanning over my face, “that for me, the mating bond has snapped into place already. And unless you learn how to block any daemati from entering that pretty little head of yours, I will have a front row seat to your thoughts regardless of whether I want it or not.”

I wouldn’t limit the feeling that spread through me, the feeling that took hold of my limbs and seized my chest and twisted my stomach, to just shock.

Whatever the mating bond was, whatever it meant, I knew it was sacred—something the fae wished to wait for, for millennia if necessary. I knew it was type of bond that paled all others, the type that could dissolve unions; the type that that connected two immortal beings for the rest of their eternal lives.

And here Rhys stood, sneering in my face, with liquor on his breath and galaxies in his eyes, claiming that the link between us did not come from the bargain, and instead from that very mating bond.

Tamlin was of the belief I was his mate. That the bond would snap into place eventually, even if we were married already. Inevitable, because I had saved him and the High Lords from Amarantha. We’re fated, he’d said before.

“Impossible,” I breathed.

Rhys reared back, stumbling until he hit the cupboard, and he held onto it so tightly his knuckles grew pale, as if he wouldn’t be able to stand without its help. His face twisted up into hurt and devastation and longing as if I’d just rejected him and by the Mother, no, no—

“When?” I asked, choking on nothing. “When did you—When did you realise?”

He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing up and down, and he looked away. Indignation and hurt swelled up inside of me and I didn’t know where it came from, what caused it, as if him not meeting my gaze was enough for me to shatter.

“I—I felt it at Calanmai,” he murmured, jaw ticking. “But I wasn’t sure until that morning on the balcony, when I was about to say goodbye.”

He’d reared back then, too, as if I’d hit him in the face, and then he’d vanished into thin air, taking all traces of night with him. And he hadn’t called in the bargain earlier, not until I was about to be wed and the rose petals sent me into a panic, and he was drunk and whisked me away—

Oh.

“Oh,” I said, mouth going slack. “Oh.”

“It doesn’t need to mean anything,” he said, gaze still trained on the floor. “It’s… a suggestion, of sorts. The two mated individuals are evenly matched. Not all mating bonds end with eternal love, and there are couples who thrive for millennia without a bond to urge them along. You love him,” he spat, squeezing his eyes shut, “and you’re allowed to without… without giving me a second thought.”

“Then why did you take me away?” I asked, voice scarcely a whisper.

Rhys looked up. The expression in his face was still pained, tinged with something else. He looked younger, suddenly, a bit naïve, and it was making my fingers itch with the urge to touch him, to run them through his hair and simply soothe.

I curled my hands into fists.

“You asked for help,” he replied quietly. “If you hadn’t panicked, I never would’ve appeared. I never would’ve told you and I would’ve left you alone to be happy.” He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “But I’m—I’m a selfish person, and I’m not exactly the picture of self-control at the moment.”

His mouth quirked into a self-deprecating little smile as he gestured at himself, and I had no idea what to say.

I was angry, of course, at his audacity: whisking me away from my own wedding like some harbinger of death was one thing, but keeping the mating bond a secret, no matter his reasoning, felt infinitely worse. It was like my chance to have a choice had been squandered — yet again, I thought sardonically; it appeared that all I was for the fae was a doll to dress up and play with — by him planning on keeping it a secret, and having kept it a secret until now.

I was tired of others making my choices for me.

“And I must stay here for a week,” I said, “because of the bargain.”

Rhys nodded.

If Rhys was right — which was likely, considering Tamlin had backed down at the mention of the old magic — then I did not have a choice here either. I’d agreed in a moment of desperation and it was time to face the consequences.

I inhaled deeply.

“Am I to be locked up?”

Rhys’s eyes widened slightly and he blurted, “No,” as he swiftly pushed himself away from the cupboard and stumbled forward. “You’re not my prisoner. You are free to roam where you wish, as long as it’s within my territory.”

“I do not wish to roam through the Court Amarantha based hers upon.”

Rhys flinched at the mention of her name. “The Court of Nightmares is… only one part of my territory,” he said. “They are separate from most of the Night Court and wish to remain so. I can assure you that you can explore for a century without ever having to set foot in there.”

Free to roam his territory, without ever setting foot in the Court of Nightmares. Not a prisoner. I could go my own way, explore what I wanted, and return to Spring when the week was over. It was more than I expected to receive, and yet, it did not feel like enough.

“If I were to ask for a house here,” I said quietly, “would that be too much to ask?”

Rhys offered me a small, if sardonic, smile. “No, even if I’d rather you stay here. Just say the word and I’ll give you anything you want.”

I stared at him. “I want to go home.”

“Ask me anything else.” Rhys straightened, attempting to put his hands in his pockets. It took quite a while for an action as simple as that, and I resisted the urge to wiggle myself into the space under his arm as he swayed in place. “Jewels, clothes, a house, liquid starlight… I’ll give you that, and more to boot, but that is the one thing I cannot give you.”

Not now, rung his voice in my head, and I bit down on my lip.

He was looking at me with wide, open eyes, as if willing me to believe him; still, his eyes had gone slightly hazy, glazed over like his focus had faded.

“Where is my cell?” I then asked. I cast another glance around the hall, finding it hard to believe that a place like this would even have cells; but Rhys was the High Lord of the Court of Nightmares, and anything could be true.

Rhysand’s expression soured. “It is not a cell. I told you that you aren’t being locked up.”

Deep inside me, wherever my stomach began, anger flared again. “And yet, you refuse to bring me home.”

“I cannot bring you back,” he bit out. “I can’t go against the magic. You won’t stay in a cell, you’ll stay in a room. You’re not a prisoner of mine—if anything, we’re both prisoners of the bargain. If you wish to retire, your room is on the level below. Take the staircase on the right; you’ll find your room behind the first door.”

I turned immediately, walking towards the stairs, trembling. I was inclined to believe him, inasmuch I could believe someone who was revered with the same kind of fear one revered death, but it still didn’t sit right with me. The bargain, him whisking me away, telling me that Tamlin saw me as a toy but insinuating he did too… I didn’t like it, not one bit.

“And take that hideous dress off,” he called from behind me, sneering. “I wasn’t lying when I said you look like a cupcake. It makes you appear every bit of that fearful, trembling maiden your beloved Tamlin and that simpering priestess wish for you to be.”

Before I knew what I was doing I whirled around, inched off my slipper, and lunged it at him.

He hadn’t been prepared. The shoe hit him in the face, right next to his nose, and he looked so shocked and appalled that satisfaction ran through my veins like a victory.

But then his slack mouth morphed into a wide, excited grin, and his eyes sparkled like stars, and he crossed the distance between us with large strides.

“There you are,” he crooned as I fumbled for the other slipper, holding it up like a threat. “There’s the fire—is it just me, or are your eyes blazing?”

I narrowed them, tightening my hold on the shoe.

“Autumn Court, I bet,” he mused, eyes wide in awe and amazement. His hand drifted closer to my face, as if he wished to caress my cheek, before it halted. Something in me felt disappointed.

“Beron would be right peeved if he heard,” Rhys continued, stuffing his hand back into his pocket with difficulty. His grin grew wider, more genuine, more sappy, and he leaned towards me. “I wonder what else you’ve received.”

He was being ridiculous. He was lying. All the High Lords had done was give me life—and nothing else. I knew, Tamlin knew it, Lucien and Ianthe knew it. Even Rhys had to be aware that I’d received no magic; he had to know that I was little else but a basic fae female.

“There’s no magic in me,” I replied, cursing the way my voice trembled. “There can’t be.”

“Your ridiculous satin slipper is smoking.”

I dropped said slipper. Stared at it as it laid on the floor, my handprint a smouldering, burnt black, and felt my entire body go cold.

“Mates are equally matched,” Rhys said, “and I’m the most powerful High Lord in Prythian’s history.” He stepped even closer, close enough that if I shifted an inch, my face would be pressed against his throat. “Cauldron, Feyre,” he murmured, “what power could you wield?”

I slapped him.

The sound of my palm hitting his cheek echoed through the hall, Rhys’s face snapping to the side. His perfect mouth was open in shock and he was blinking as if he’d gotten a lash in his eye; I’d managed to surprise him yet again, and thoroughly at that.

I was breathing heavily, shaking with ire, panic, and my shock at my own actions. My palm stung, skin tingling with vague numbness. For a moment that lasted far too long, I felt like I was seconds away from bursting into hysterical sobs.

Rhys rolled his jaw as he slowly turned his head to face me. “Well,” he said, sounding resigned, “I suppose I deserved that.”

He didn’t. I hadn’t slapped him for his actions today. Tears – frustrated, near-uncontrollable tears – prickled my eyes.

“I think,” he continued, oblivious, “it might be a good idea if we both retired for the night. I’m—I think I’m a bit too intoxicated to continue having riveting conversations with you, and I’m sure you’re… tired and overwhelmed.”

My bottom lip trembled.

He noticed that. Of course he did. And suddenly, before I could pull back, Rhys took my face between his hands with a distraught expression.

His hands were rough; I could feel the callouses on his palms scraping the sensitive skin of my cheeks. And yet, no matter the mild discomfort, I could feel something settle in what appeared to be my very soul, as if I’d sunk into a hot bath after a long day. The whole notion was distressing enough for tears to properly well up, and to my horror, one breached the containment of my lashes.

Rhys wiped it away with his thumb, expression nothing if not pure anguish. It was such a jarring difference from the last time he’d soothed me—when he’d licked the tears away.

“I barely felt it,” he said quietly. “My whole face is quite numb, actually. I wasn’t lying when I said I’m not sober.”

“It’s very noticeable you’re not,” I said, though it came out more like a sob. “And I’m not crying about slapping you.”

His eyebrows shot up, and understanding bled into his violet irises. Then he tensed his jaw and looked away. “You miss the Spring Court.”

I did. I also didn’t. It was too confusing to think about, and homesickness had never been something I cried about.

“It’s not the Spring Court,” I said.

“Tamlin, then,” he offered, mouth twisting into a scowl. “It’s just a week. You’ll be reunited with your beloved before you know it.”

“I’m not crying about missing him,” I admitted, before I could swallow it down. Rhys’s eyes met mine again, hesitant, and I looked right back, resisting the urge to fold my bare hand around his. “It’s a week. I can deal. It’s just… I’m tired,” I said, blinking when tears threatened to fall again. “I’m so tired, and we’re mates, and I burned my slipper—”

Rhys’s face went pale with horror and then his eyes shuttered. He stepped back, wobbly on his feet, hands back in his pockets. I instantly felt cold.

“I didn’t realise the notion of us being mates is so upsetting to you.”

“Rhys,” I whispered, pained for no reason whatsoever.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” he sneered, though it felt more aimed at himself than at me. “It’s so fucking—I should’ve kept it to myself. I would’ve been fine just assuming and not knowing—”

“Rhys, I—”

“—but I should’ve known you’d be appalled, because why wouldn’t you be? I haven’t exactly been on my best behaviour—”

“Rhys.”

“—and have simply been setting myself up for destruction, and now you know and I’ll never… there’s no ignoring it and hoping it goes away and you’ll never think I’m genuine, now, and I—"

“Rhysand.”

“What?” he snapped, darkness leaking from slitted pupils, canines elongated. I didn’t dare flinch, not even when he got close enough to tear my face off, and met his gaze instead. The flecks of silver in his eyes where so much brighter from up close.

“I’m upset,” I said, trembling all over, “because I’m tired, and my entire world view has just been upended. Not because you’re my mate. Get over yourself.”

Rhys’s entire body froze, and it was as if I saw his brain whirring, calculating, processing. I watched his pupils morph back into circles, saw the canines retreat, witnessed the scaly slivers of his leaking power melt away like snow under sunlight. Small smears of a vague, blotchy red appeared high on his cheekbones; it seemed he shrunk a little bit, body language changing from furious self-loathing to a kind that was tiny, more demure.

He swallowed, eyes darting from my own to somewhere around my shoulder, and then he said quietly: “Oh.”

I wanted to roll my eyes. I wanted to push at his chest. I wanted to wrap my hands around his shoulders and shake him, because apparently this infuriating male was so self-centred even his loathing was mainly aimed at himself.

“I want to go to bed,” I continued, watching for every little change in Rhysand’s expression. He still looked as though he despised himself. “And I want you to bring me to my cell.”

A muscle in Rhys’s jaw ticked. “It’s not a cell,” he gritted out, but he inclined his head in the direction of the stairs anyway. “Ladies first.”

I walked. The marble should’ve been cold against my feet, but it wasn’t somehow; again, likely the result of the magic. Rhys stayed a surprisingly appropriate distance behind me, close enough to still guide me with a hand on the small of my back if he so wished, but far enough that his presence wasn’t obstructive.

It was, though. Disregarding the liquor, he smelled like citrus, salt, and petrichor, strong enough to make my head feel hazy. His footsteps – loud on the marble, and distinctly uneven – were almost all I could hear, and when we arrived at the door of the room Rhysand had told me was mine, he leaned over me.

Up close, his scent got even stronger. My eyes swept over his face, inadvertently committing every detail to memory; his stubble was coming back in, a peppering of black along his strong jaw, and a muscle pulled visibly near his temple. His eyebrows were lowered, pulled together, creasing the smooth space between them in a frown, and his lashes cast shadows over the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.

I breathed in through my mouth, as quietly as I could, and mortification spread through my entire body when I had to hold myself back from pressing my forehead against his neck. He didn’t seem to notice, violet eyes stubbornly trained on the wood grain, before he pushed the door open.

He nodded, leaned back to allow me entry, and then slumped against the doorframe.

I spared him another glance. He still looked miserable, quiet and embarrassed, and I pushed my sympathy for him down and down and away; he did this to himself, and he could deal with it on his own.

But the room was gorgeous.

Much like the hall we arrived in, there were no windows—simply that comforting thrum of magic, pushing warmed air and a soft breeze inside; sheer amethyst curtains hung from the ceiling, fluttering, encasing the view of the mountain range. The bed was large and inviting, made up with creamy, ivory sheets and decorated with blankets and pillows and throws. Twin golden lamps stood beside it, a casual, thoughtless display of riches. An armoire and dressing table each occupied a wall.

Across the room, a chamber with porcelain sink and toilet lay behind an arched wooden door, but the bath…

Occupying the other half of the bedroom, the bathtub was much less of a tub and much more of a pool, hanging right off the mountain itself; its far edge appeared to stretch on into infinity, the water flowing silently off the side and into the night beyond. A narrow ledge on the adjacent wall was lined with fat, guttering candles, glow gilding the dark, glassy surface and illuminating tendrils of steam.

It took everything in me to stay still, to not heave a breath and sink to the floor and fall apart with relief, into a pathetic puddle of tulle, silk, and beading. The room was everything I could wish for, comfort and open air, space. A painfully stark difference from my bedroom back home, where I had so much difficulty breathing.

This room was fit for an empress. The marble floors, the silks and velvets, the elegant, subtle details… only a royal could have afforded it. I tried not to think what Rhys’s chamber was like, if this is how he treated his guests.

Yes. Guest, not prisoner. Unless Rhys was a creative kind of torturer, this was far, far removed from a prison cell.

I crossed my arms in front of my chest, and slowly turned. Rhys’s eyes were still trained on the floor.

“It’s nice,” I said, walking a bit closer to him.

His gaze shot up to meet mine and he swallowed, lips quirking up in a smirk that did not look convincing. He probably knew it, too, because half a second later it dropped.

“I’m glad you think so,” he replied, a bit hoarsely. He cleared his throat, gaze dancing away from mine yet again. “If there’s anything missing, anything at all, you can ask and I’ll provide.”

I probably wouldn’t. It looked like this room had everything I could possibly wish for and more. But I still nodded at him.

“Goodnight, Rhys,” I said, in lieu of thanking him.

Rhys nodded at me once more and carefully pushed himself away from the doorframe, stepping out into the hallway. Then he paused, conflicted. “Feyre, I—”

“Yes?”

He seemed to war with himself for a moment, grimacing, before he closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. “I’m sorry,” he said, “for getting you at such an inopportune time. I didn’t want to call in the bargain at all, but—”

He cut himself off, falling silent.

I bit my lip, gazing up at him, and I despised and liked him all at once.

“Maybe you should’ve called it in sooner,” I said, not changing my expression when he stared at me with wide eyes. “Goodnight, Rhys.”

I closed the door, shuffled closer to one of the arched openings to the outside, and simply stared at the view. The bodice of my dress made it difficult to breathe the way I wanted, and I closed my eyes, willing the unwelcome tears back.

Perhaps, if he had called the bargain in sooner, this wouldn’t have happened.

I took a stuttering breath and stumbled towards the dressing table, lifting my hands to my hair and pulling the pins and baubles from the updo. I allowed them to drop onto the dressing table, carelessly, and when I yanked the last of the pins out, the curls all tumbling free, and threw the pin onto the little pile with such force that over half of them fell onto the floor, scattering over the marble like knives.

My scalp ached as I raked my fingers through my hair, nails scratching along the particularly sensitive areas of skin where the curls and pins had tugged too much. When my hair was being done this afternoon, all I’d imagined was Tamlin carefully removing them later that day, mouth pressing against every sore spot, but now…

I inhaled again, ignoring the burn in my eyes, and sunk my teeth into my lower lip to keep it from trembling.

Tamlin had seen me hesitate. Everyone had seen me hesitate. It had been obvious enough for Rhys to come running to my aid like some loyal hellhound, whisking me away like I was a damsel in need of rescue. But had they known, like Rhys, that I’d been about to say no? That I wanted to wait for things in me to settle, for me to feel happy again, before we could try another wedding?

Perhaps I could explain. Perhaps Tamlin would understand, with the nightmares that haunted him, too, with his warring emotions and fear that caused his near feral need to protect me, to keep me alive…

But so many people had seen me hesitate. And the mating bond, the one that Tamlin believed in so fervently, didn’t even exist between us; and it was exponentially worse that Rhys and I were bonded instead. I was quite certain that if Tamlin knew, if I told him, he’d tear the manor apart and get himself killed trying to storm the Night Court.

With shaking hands, I began to unbutton my gown, tugging it off my shoulders.

It fell to the ground, a massive, embarrassing explosion of too much fabric and shiny beads, an absurd puddle of embellished custard. Even my undergarments were ridiculous; frilly, shiny lace, wholly for Tamlin to look at and then unwrap me like a birthday present.

Heat and ire welled up inside of me, and through a haze of angry tears I yanked the underwear off and threw it on top of the gown. Then I snatched it all from the marble, a voluptuous pile of white silk and lace in my arms, pooling over the black lines of my tattoo.

It looked so obvious, so out there, that I shook with it.

I gracelessly piled the dress and undergarments inside the armoire, at the bottom. Beads burst from their delicate encasing of thread and pinged onto the floor.

I didn’t realise tears had started to roll down my cheeks until I’d shoved myself in the first bit of fabric within the armoire that I could find. It was a short-sleeved, turquoise nightgown, the material soft and buttery and suddenly a bit damp.

Choking on a hysterical sob, I whirled around, looked at my reflection in the mirror above the dressing table. The fabric of the nightgown was darker around the neckline, a mixture of my tears and my makeup. I looked half-crazed, with the kohl running down my cheeks and my stiffened, curled hair wild and poofy.

It took me a couple of long, agonising seconds, but I finally willed myself to stop sobbing, even if my eyes continued to leak, and quietly took a seat on the massive bed. The mattress wasn’t too soft, more on the firmer side, and I stroked my hand over the velvety sheets.

The pillows would be too much, I thought. They’d swallow me up. Even if the mattress would keep me afloat.

It was the remnant of hysteria that made me gather the fluffy duvet and some blankets in my arms, dragging them away from the bed and towards the large, open, glass-less windows. It was the leftover grief and loneliness that made me wrap the duvet around me entirely, tucking my feet in but keeping my face exposed.

I sat, breathed in the unnaturally warm night air of the mountains, looked up at the stars, and wished.

For what, I did not know.

#feysand #feyre x rhysand #feysand fanfiction #feysand fanfic #feyre x rhys #rhys x feyre #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction

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nothingofvaluewaslost · 2 years

Text

STORY: The Hooked Sword

A short fantasy story, written in second person. No objectionable content.

Similar concept to my game Sword’s Story, though it does not follow the same plot.

The Hooked Sword, by Christina Nordlander

Between the fields and the woodlands lies a little hill with a ruined chapel. It is outlined against the sky. You were aware of it from childhood, but you were fourteen years old before you were allowed to go so far from home without supervision. One day, when you had an errand to the neighbouring village, you decided to go up the hill on your way home.

It was empty inside, just a shell of masonry and an earth floor covered in stone shards. The light was draining from the sky, the pale glow only sufficed to see a couple of steps in from the broken door. You walked away, your shoulders slumped from exhaustion, and didn’t know what you had hoped for.

You begin to realise that you have nothing more to look forward to than sowing and ploughing, a bent spine and recurring pains, like your own parents. Or your fellow villagers refuse to see you as the one you are. Or your parents pressure you to marry someone you barely know. I don’t know which, and it does not matter greatly to me.

When you cannot find another way, you head up the hill. It is a roof over your head if you will leave tomorrow. You sense that you will not have the courage.

The stars are already lit outside, but this time you have matches. You strike one and step inside the chapel. It looks the way you imagined: animal dung in one corner, cloudy shadows under the ceiling, everything valuable gone long since. It smells smoky of cold-damp stone. You realise that you don’t know how old the building is, or whether it is hallowed to any faith you know.

A square shape at the other end of the room is an altar. You touch the pitted stone slab and feel something so foreign, your body at first interprets it as pain: a thin, vibrating note through the stone. Nothing keeps the slab down other than its weight, and you are young, your muscles springy.

Underneath is only darkness. Even if you hold the lit match as deep as you can reach, you cannot see the bottom. Crampons are fitted into the rock wall.

You climb down, the match in your mouth to have your hands free, the flame flickering close to wisps of your hair with every gust of draught.

The ladder ends so abruptly, the impact jolts through the soles of your feet. You are standing in a shaft. The walls are clodded, root-threaded soil, but stable. You can no longer see the hole above the ladder. You light a new match.

In a dead-end alcove you see pale objects. There is a skeleton, the white skull eaten clean, a breastplate and greaves in waxed leather. An earthen jug still stands upright next to the skeleton, hinting at a horrific background.

Aside from the jug, I am the only thing whole.

You see a sword, the kind you have only seen in your imagination. The scabbard hangs from a sword-belt around the skeleton’s hips. It is plain, but the leather has kept its red colour, here where no sun has been able to fade it. The pommel is a red jewel, too large to be real. Your flame reflects in it, resembling a spark deep inside. The belt is still whole, all ready to use.

You crouch a little under the ceiling of earth to get closer. You put out your hand towards the hilt. Curiosity takes you, the way it takes every living thing. I can ring with my steel against the scabbard again – your steps create the vibrations I require –, but you will take me up regardless. You want to see whether my blade is equally untouched. You want to put your hand around a warrior’s weapon at least once. You want to sell me, or wear me for protection.

You are not going to sell me. I am still sharp, sharp enough to split a breath. You have never been trained in swordsmanship, but those you meet will not guess it. I will drag your arm behind me, in all the cleaves and strokes I have learnt during my many wars. I will be light in your hand as a warm breeze, one bringing a summer of red flowers wherever it flies.

You will become a mercenary and a hero. You will become whatever you wish to be. Sometimes when you sleep, you will dream that a friend walks next to you, slim and straight, clad all in steel.

I feel the warmth of your fingers, hardening around my leather grip. Now it is done. Now you can hear me, the way you can feel the thin vibration in your hand and up your lower arm. If you let go of me now, you will have lost something.

Buckle the belt, pull it tight so that it will sit secure while you climb.

Remember: I don’t have a choice, either. I too am a prisoner, in a worse imprisonment than yours.

I have lain here for so long.

THE END

#fantasy #villainprotagonist #second person pov #short #sword #animate object

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multi-fandom-imagine · 2 years

Text

We don’t talk about Bruno ! || Bruno Madrigal ||Pt2

A/n: Annd here is part 2, I really loved writing this fic.

And as it turns out this is going to be in three parts which will consist of a tearful reunion and the final events of the movie....so part 3 will be coming out soon.

Part 1 Here

The italics are past memories.

The dinner had to be perfect, that’s what Alma told you.

“You need to make sure Oscar keeps his gift…quiet tonight.”

Biting your tongue you had to keep your thoughts to yourself. You wanted to scream and yell. He was only seven, he couldn’t understand. Swallowing your thoughts you forced a smile on your face. “Of course…now if you excuse me I need to tell my son not to be a burden.”

Refusing to look at the woman you quickened your walk, you didn’t want to see the woman’s reaction. Making it to your sons room you placed your hand on the door. You always hated his door, it felt to grim for you. You couldn’t understand why it had to depict him holding a skull. “Sweetie…It’s mama! It’s time to get ready.”

“Coming mama!”

Seeing the door open, you sighed with relief you glanced in his room. At least his room was bright and colorful. Chuckling you quickly caught your son as he leapt at you. Brown curls bouncing he waved in his room. “Goodnight

Abuelo.”

Taking a deep breath you made your way to the diner table, Oscar scrambling out of your arms as he moved to his spot though the little boys went wide seeing Mariano about to sit where he’d leave a plate for his father, Oscar clutching the plate he had his for his father close to his chest. “You can’t sit there! Mama! Tell him! Tell him he can’t sit there! It’s for Papa!”

“Oscar please…it’s just one nigh-.”

“No! Abuelo says its papas spot! He can’t sit there! If he sits there then papa will have no where to sit! He’ll be alone!” He cried out.

“Oscar! Stop please just come and sit!” Placing your hands on your sons shoulders.

Shifting his body Mariano cleared out his throat attempting to make the situation better. “I can move I don’t”

“You will not move. You are our guest…Oscar listen to your mother and give me the plate.”

Tears streaming down his cheeks as he cling to the plate to his chest. Alma stepped closer to the boy, her hands stretched out. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could watch the boy, he looked to much like his father, it was killing her. “Oscar please.”

“No”

“Oscar…just give her the plate please…your father is not coming back…he’s gone. This needs to stop! That’s not him you’re seeing.”

“You’re a liar! I see papa every night! Papa talks to me! I hate you ! I hate you!”

Tears streaming down his face you watched as the plate slip from his fingers cracking in hand once it hit the floor, the little boy taking off up the stairs. Though when your tried to follow your son the steps turned flat preventing you from moving further only changing when his room door slammed shut. Leaving the shattered plate behind you quickly rushed up placing your hand on the carving of your son, the doorknob turning into a wisp of smoke preventing you from entering.

“Oscar please open the door.”

You regretted saying that to your son, you wished you could have taken it back though you didn’t even notice Alma standing behind. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done.”

Stepping away from the doorway you gasped then let out a bitter laugh. “What I’ve done! You couldn’t even entertain the thought of him just taking that seat.”

“He should have known better!”

“He’s seven!” You shot back. “He misses his father! But he’ll never have him because of you.” Standing tall, you did your best not to break. You didn’t like seeing the look on the woman’s face, it killed you. She took you in after you lost your parents, she was your mother more ways than one.

“What did you say." Alma never expected to hear it and deep down part of her knew it was true.

“Bruno left because of you, everyone always thought he was a screw up. He worked so hard for this family but it was never good enough. You were his mother, you were supposed to protect him. But he wasn’t perfect. He didn’t fit your perfect mold. Mirabel would never be good enough and Oscar will never be good enough. Which is why I’m leaving. I am not letting my child walk the same path as his father.”

“You…y/n please.”

“Just stop Alma. I’m done.” Quickly wiping your eyes you walked to your room closing and locking the door before the woman could reach you.

Leaning against the wall Alma squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t believe she let this happen. She never meant to snap at Oscar, to snap at you, to snap at Mirabel. She hated seeing the tears in the little boys eyes. He looked so much like Bruno, it was getting harder for her.

Placing her hand on Oscar’s door though pulling back she turned away looking up at the picture of her husband. “I don’t know what to do Pedro. I feel like everything is falling part.”

Glancing at the picture one last time the woman slipped down the stairs missing Delores walking past her. The young woman walking to her cousins door. “Conejito…it’s me…can you open the door.” Stepping back, Dolores watched the door slowly open. The once bright and colorful room was dull. Biting her lip she walked through the dead flowers sitting down next to the boy on the bed she carefully placed the broken plate next to her.

“Don’t cry Oscar.” Giving him a smile she brushed his tears away. “You’re always so cute when you smile.” Dolores pulled her cousin to her side, the little boy sniffling.

“Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”

“I believe you.”

Sniffling, Oscar glanced up at his cousin. Dolores giving him a smile tugging him close. “You do?”

“I do. I can hear him and I know how much your papa loves you.” Hugging her cousin, Dolores rubbed his back gently. “He’s just scared, he’ll come around. I promise.” Tapping his nose she started to tickle his sides. “Now where is that smile.”

While she may not know how to help her aunt, she’d do anything to make sure her little cousin would always keep smiling.

“Oh...look what I got for you.” Shifting her body, Dolores grabbed the broken plate. “Close your eyes.”

Nodding his head, Oscar squeezed his eyes shut. His hands clutching the little stuff animal to his chest. Suppressing her laugh, Dolores applied some glue to one of the broken side. Squeezing her eyes shut she pressed the two pieces together. “Please give me a miracle and stay together." Slowly removing her hand from one of the sides she breathed a sigh of relief seeing it was still holding. “Okay you can open your eyes now.”

Opening his eyes, Oscar gasped. A smiling forming on his face as he carefully grasped the plate. “Papa’s plate! you fixed it.”

Oscar let out a laugh, his eyes were glued to the plate as his room shifting to the once dull colors to everything now being bright and colorful. Smiling, Dolores hugged her cousin close. “You can come to me anytime Oscar.”

Closing her eyes she smiled watching the boy cradle the plate, she knew how much it meant to him. She even remembered the boy carrying a plate of food too a picture hanging on the wall.

“Where are you going Oscar?”

It was easy for her to figure out who it was, Oscar always has such quiet foot steps.

“I was bringing a plate of food for papa.”

Blinking in surprise, Dolores smiled ruffling her nephew’s hair. “Oh! I know he’ll love it Oscar.”

Beaming up at his cousin, the little boy quickly took off running.

Pepa nervously stepped to your door, her fingers hesitating. She could feel the cloud above her head forming. You two were always so close. Taking a deep breath she knocked on the door, the woman immediately pulling you in for a hug when you opened the door.

“I’m sorry.” Pepa whispered into your ear, the woman could feel tears forming and she knew what that meant.

“Why…why are you apologizing?”

“For not being here for you, for making Bruno leave….I know what I said is horrible…I didn’t meant it y/n. I miss him. I miss Bruno.”

Swallowing back your own tears you slowly patted the woman’s back. “I know Pepa. I miss him too and I know that he loves everyone. Please don’t blame yourself for him leaving. Bruno wouldn’t want that...you don’t have to hold you emotions back from me Pepa...you can let it out. I don’t mind a little rain.”

Blinking back some tears, Pepa let out laugh as you felt some rain drops hit you. Soon the rain started to fall, but that didn’t matter to you. You finally got your friend back.

Pulling back, Pepa gave you a sad smile once she spotted the bag on your bed. “You’re leaving.”

“I...was thinking about it.” You sighed turning away from the woman pushing a strand of wet hair out of your eyes. “But that’s selfish of me isn’t it.”

Pepa shook her head as she sat down next to you, her hand grasping yours giving it a squeeze. “It’s not selfish for you to want your son to be happy Y/n.” Closing her eyes she rested her head against yours. “I will support you, know matter what you decide.”

“Thank you Pepa.”

Dolores sighed leaving the room, she wasn’t expecting to see her siblings and cousin’s standing by the doorway.

“How…how is he?” Isabela tried to peer in the room before the doorway closed, she was worried for her little cousin.

“He’s sleeping…so please be quiet…but…he’s bette now….but we should leave before he wakes up.”

Camilo frowned ruffling his hair. “I feel guilty now…I didn’t even think what I’d say would be effecting Tía.”

Luisa frowned, she felt like this whole family was falling apart. “I used to find her sleeping by his door….I’d always carry her back to her room.” She didn’t want to tell them how often it was, you’d always being curled by the large door holding onto what she suspected was her Tío ‘s poncho.

“You know I saw a picture of Tío Bruno when I was younger. I thought it might help her so I change into him. She started to crying, but she didn’t get mad. She just hugged me.” Camilo glanced towards your door, he felt even guiltier for what he said about Bruno.

Isabel bit her tongue, though while you’ve seen to have taken a shine to Mirabel you were always so kind to her, encouraging her to not be so perfect. “I like to give her flowers, they’re the ones that Tío Bruno….would give to her.”

Glancing at the door, Dolores sighed adverting her gaze drifting to your door. She wanted to tell them how you wanted to leave but she couldn’t make this night worse. Shaking her head she started to walk off, the other children walking off to their own rooms.

Waiting. Bruno hated that he had to wait just to see you. Missing the conversation his sister had with you, the man watched Pepa leave the room. Slowly slipping into the room he was grateful that you were sleeping.

Carefully sitting on the edge of the bed, the man let his fingers brush a strand of your hair away. “Mi vida…I’m sorry I couldn’t have been a better man for you.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he didn’t want to cry but he missed you. He remembered when you were pregnant. God he want to see you, to be by your side but how could he?

Kneeling by your side, Bruno was grateful that you were sleeping. He didn’t know if he could handle you waking up and seeing him. Quickly wiping his eyes the man nervously placed his hand on your stomach. A bitter smile forming on his lips. You’d be better off without him, his child would be better off.

Leaning he closed his eyes feeling a kick, though he couldn’t stop the tears from falling now. “Please know that papi loves you both.” Tensing Bruno felt your body shift, jumping up his eyes went wide. Stepping away from you he quickly made it to the door as you sat up.

Still groggy from sleep, you glanced in the doorway seeing a hooded figure. “Bruno?” Peering into the darkness, you must have been seeing things due to the figure vanishing. Blaming the lack of sleep you laid back down on the bed figuring it must have been a strange dream.

Quickly wiping his eyes, the last thing Bruno had wanted was to wake you. Leaning in he placed a soft kiss to your head. Just as he was pulling away the man tensed feeling a hand on his wrist.

He was mentally kicking himself now, he didn’t even have to turn around to hear you soft voice. He didn’t need to look to see the hurt and confusion on your face.

“Bruno?”

#encanto bruno #bruno madrigal #bruno x reader #bruno madrigal x reader #bruno #encanto #encanto x reader #bruno encanto #Disney #disney x reader #oneshot #oneshots

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caitimetravels · 3 years

Text

she’s insignificant

chapter 3: the dangers inside

the umbrella academy x reader

disclaimer: i do not own the plot/storyline of the netflix tv series and i do not own the umbrella academy characters.

warnings: swearing, mentions of death

masterlist

y/n stared at the blue energy in the courtyard before deciding to join her siblings as they rushed to see what it was. as she ran down the stairs she caught sight of klaus holding a fire extinguisher.

"what are you doing?" she caught up with him.

"something" he shrugged, bursting out the door first. "out of the way!"

"thats not going to- klaus what the hell?" y/n went to stop him only to watch as he tried to extinguish the mass of energy. she shook her head in disbelief, stepping beside vanya.

klaus chucked the extinguisher when he realised it wouldn't work.

"what is that gonna do?" allison shouted over the loud noise. klaus threw his hands up.

"i don't know. do you have a better idea?" he stepped back in surprise as another flash came from the portal. luther pulled klaus back.

"everyone get behind me!" and in true sibling rivalry diego nodded, shielding vanya and y/n.

"yeah, get behind us!"

they watched, brows furrowing at the familiar figure that dropped to the ground. as they stepped closer the vortex disappeared.

"is that-?" y/n looked up at vanya, peeking around diego to see.

there, in a too large sized suit, stood their missing brother. he pushed himself to his feet taking in their appearance.

"does anyone else see little number five is that just me?" klaus questioned as they walked closer. the said boy stared down at himself in confusion before looking back at them.

"shit" he cursed.

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

they all moved back into the kitchen, letting five do as he pleased while he explained what he needed to.

he placed a chopping board and knife on the table while the others stood at the other end. y/n stood off to the corner, not entirely comfortable with them after being accused of murder. "what's the date? the exact date"

five walked around, grabbing bread to make himself a sandwich. vanya answered, "the 24th"

"of what?" five pushed walking back over.

"march"

"good" he pulled out two pieces of bread, laying them on the chopping board.

"so, are we going to talk about what just happened?" luther raised an eyebrow, expectantly but five stayed silent. "its been 17 years!" luther stood, frustrated but five wasn't taking any of his bullshit.

"it's been a lot longer than that" the shorter boy walked towards him before blinking behind him to grab the marshmallows. luther sighed,

"i haven't missed that"

"where'd you go?" diego piped up, unfazed.

"the future" five sighed, "and it's shit by the way" he opened up the bag of marshmallows.

"called it!" klaus raised his finger.

"do you want one?" five looked up at y/n, referring to the sandwich, a soft gleam in his eyes. the others shared a look, of course he had only missed her. she gently shook her head with a small smile. "i should have listened to the old man" five walked to the fridge, pulling out a jar. "he knew. travelling through space is one thing, travelling through time is a toss of the dice"

he paused as he opened the peanut butter, looking up at them again before noticing klaus' attire. "nice dress"

"oh, danke" klaus twirled loose material around. allison rolled her eyes.

"how did you get back?"

"in the end i had to project my consciousness forward into a suspended quantum state version of myself that exists across every possible instance of time" he continued making his sandwich like he hadn't just shocked them.

"that makes no sense" diego scoffed,

"well, it would if you were smarter" five shrugged, ignoring the way diego stood up to fight him. luther held him back.

"did you put a decimal point in the wrong spot?" y/n asked, surprising the others. she crossed her arms, thinking "it was probably a miscalculation in your proof of the existence of a bound for the number of limit cycles of planar polynomial vector fields of fixed degree."

five paused, thinking it over before realising she was right. "it should have been 0.57" he mumbled.

"how long were you there?" luther changed the subject, obviously confused.

"45 years" five went back to his sandwich making. "give or take"

everyone sat back down in shock.

"so what are you saying? that you're 58?!" luther narrowed his eyes in disbelief. there was no way.

"no" five looked up, speaking through gritted teeth. "my consciousness is 58. apparently my body is now 16 again"

"how does that even work?" vanya croaked out, still shocked at the situation.

"delores kept saying the equations were off" five shrugged, stepping away and looking off into the distance as he took a bite of his sandwich. "bet she's laughing now"

"delores?" vanya asked. y/n froze, he had kept her? at the girl's movement, or lack thereof, allison looked over at her, raising her eyebrows.

y/n shook her head, waving it off.

five picked up the newspaper on the table, staring at the picture of their father.

"hm.. guess i missed the funeral"

"how'd you know about that?" luther questioned, defensive.

"what part of the future do you not understand?" five narrowed his eyes, slightly amused by his brothers incompetence. "heart failure, huh?"

"yeah-" diego started only to be cut off by luther.

"no" there was silence for a moment before a kitchen knife stabbed into the table beside luther's hand.

"if i had murderous intent, luther, you'd be the first on my list" y/n scoffed, walking out.

they all stared after her in shock.

"nice to see nothing's changed" five sighed before following her out.

"thats it?" allison asked, turning towards him as he walked. "thats all you have to say?"

"what else is there to say? circle of life" he called back.

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

vanya walked up to five in the parlour where he stood staring at his painting.

"nice to know dad didn't forget me" five turned to her, "read your book by the way.. found it in the library that was still standing"

he started to walk around, noticing y/n sitting on the balcony above. she had her legs dangling through the bars, calmly reading a book. he turned back to vanya.

"thought it was pretty good, all things considered" he stared her down, "definitely ballsy, giving up the family secrets. sure that went over well"

"they hate me" vanya frowned,

"well there are worse things that can happen" five was obviously trying to cheer her up, in his own way.

"you mean like what happened to ben?" there was a pause, both thinking it over.

"was it bad?" five asked softly, he knew y/n was still listening. he heard the faint sound of a book shutting. he looked away as vanya nodded.

"y/n had a hard time dealing with it.. the worst of all of us. dad forbid her from going on missions after her reaction.."

"her reaction?" five turned back, eyebrows furrowing, this wasn't in vanya's book.

"she nearly tore our souls out.. she was devastated and couldn't control her emotions. dad said it helped her though, something about a new ability. he trained her alone from then, forcing her to find you" vanya shrugged, sighing, going silent.

"find me?" five pushed, "what do you mean find me?"

"she said she did.. did she not?" vanya looked surprised now.

"no, no she did.. just didn't stay long is all" five shook his head, frowning.

"yeah well, they stopped trying when she lied to dad"

"she lied?" five looked back up at where she was previously sitting but now she was gone, the only thing left behind was her book and a wisp of smoke.

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

"ben.. i'm- i'm scared" eight sat cross legged in front of his statue. "my powers are getting stronger and i'm scared to hurt the others. i wish you were still here" she refused to cry no matter how much she wanted to. she couldn't let the same thing happen.

"i'm scared ben. what if i can't control it? what if hurt somebody? you're not here to help me and i-.. it hurts sometimes. dad doesn't understand, he never did but it hurts to suppress my emotions like he wants me to. we try so hard and he still never thinks we're enough.." she paused, pulling her knees up to her chest. "what if i am weak? what if he's right?"

unbeknownst to her ben's ghost sat beside her. "you're not weak" he shook his head, moving to look at her face. "you'll never be weak, you're so strong. please keep being strong for me" he pleaded with her as she continued to blame herself. he hated this. he hated not being there for her. he just wanted her to be okay.

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

y/n walked beside five, standing under his umbrella with him. they didn't speak as they walked back out into the courtyard. the siblings all stood in line with luther in front of them, carrying their dad's ashes.

"did something happen?" grace looked at them all, smiling despite the occasion. they all looked up at her.

"dad died.." allison answered, confused. "remember?"

"oh, yes of course" grace nodded, expression turning more somber.

"is mom okay?" allison asked, now worried about how grace was acting.

"yeah, yeah she's fine" diego quickly defended, "she just needs to rest, you know, recharge" allison looked incredulous but dropped it nonetheless.

pogo stepped forwards, looking up at luther. "whenever you're ready, dear boy"

luther breathed out, opening the lid and dropping the ashes in a pitiful pile. they all frowned.

"probably would have been better with some wind" luther griped,

"does anyone wish to speak?" pogo ignored it, looking at the rest of them. everyone stayed silent, looking away. "very well.. in all regards, sir reginald hargreeves made me what i am today, for that alone i shall forever be in his debt. he was my master and my friend and i shall miss him very much.." he paused, "he leaves behind a complicated legacy-"

"he was a monster" diego cut off, still staring down at the ashes. klaus laughed. "he was bad person and a worse father. the world's better off without him-"

"diego" allison scolded, glaring at him in surprise.

"my name is number two. you know why?" he looked over at her. "because our father couldn't be bothered to give us actual names, he had mom do it"

"would anyone like something to eat?" grace asked, smiling again, unaware of what was happening.

"no, its okay mom" vanya denied, albeit confused.

"oh, okay"

"look, you wanna pay your respects" diego stepped out in front of them, "go head, but at least be honest about the kind of man he was" he looked at pogo now.

"you should stop talking now" luther warned, anger growing. diego glared at him for a moment before fully turning to face him.

"you know, you of all people should be on my side here, number one"

"i am warning you-" diego ignored him,

"after everything he did to you" y/n sighed, crossing her arms to her chest, fighting wasn't going to fix any of them. klaus and five shared a look. "he had to ship you a million miles away"

"diego stop talking-" luther tried again. diego was definitely hitting a nerve. he jabbed a finger into luther's chest.

"that's how much he couldn't stand the sight of you!" luther grabbed his arm and swung at his head. diego ducked. they begun fighting while everyone else backed away.

"boys! stop this at once!" pogo attempted to stop them, moving back despite this.

klaus held an arm out to shield five and y/n. the former slapped it away. they continued to fight, diego egging him on and landing several punches. klaus began to chant while vanya yelled at them to stop.

"klaus" y/n warned, gaining both his and five's attention. her eyes were turning black, she was struggling.

"y/n? are you okay?" five hadn't been there, he didn't know what she would do if she lost control. pogo walked away, not wanting to stay. klaus nervously watched y/n while the others watched luther and diego fight.

"i don't have time for this" five sighed, beginning to walk away, leaving y/n with klaus under his small pink umbrella.

that was when it happened. y/n froze as they knocked ben's statue.

"aw" klaus complained while allison glared at them.

"and there goes ben's statue"

"klaus?" y/n's voice scared them all. she sounded weak. she gripped his jacket, tightly. "klaus"

"what's wrong?" he looked down at her, watching as she fought her emotions. her eyes were turning black but she kept fighting it.

diego pulled out his knife and vanya's shouting at him to stop made it harder for y/n to calm herself. he threw it at luther, cutting his arm.

"klaus" she called again and he held her arm unsure of what to do. "i-i can't.. i can't-" she let out a pained whine as her eyes darkened, she was letting go. suddenly diego and luther let out shouts of pain.

"what's going on?!" allison watched them, confused and distraught. vanya quickly left their mother's side, pulling y/n into her.

"its okay, you're okay" vanya whispered to her, trying to calm her. "it can be fixed, you're okay, just relax. try to relax" listening to vanya's heartbeat she slowly calmed down, the blackness of her eyes seeping away and diego and luther straightened, no longer in pain.

y/n stared at them in shock and guilt before shaking her head and running inside. she locked herself in her room again. she was truly a demon.

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

one by one the siblings left, y/n watched sadly as they all abandoned her again. she was always left alone, the family problems only got bigger when they got together. she sighed, maybe she was better off alone.

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

y/n looked up from her book as she heard frantic footsteps around the mansion. peeking out her door she noticed vanya slowing down in front of five's room.

"oh thank god" she disappeared through his doorway but y/n could still hear her voice. "i was worried sick about you"

five had talked to vanya? why hadn't he come to her?

"sorry i left without saying goodbye" five's voice answered softly. what had he been doing? y/n quietly left her room to hear better. she wanted to be apart of her brother's plans too. she didn't want to be left out anymore.

"no, i'm the one that should be sorry. i was dismissive and i guess i didn't know how to process what you were saying.." vanya paused, "i still can't to be honest"

"maybe you were right to be dismissive" five huffed, that didn't sound like him at all? what was he really doing? "maybe it wasn't real after all.. it felt real. but well, like you said the old man did say time travel could contaminate the mind"

well vanya referred him to a therapist y/n tried to sense the room. something else was going on. carefully using her power she felt another person.. klaus. when vanya walked out y/n quickly turned to smoke, gliding along the floor, past five who watched vanya leave. klaus pulled himself out of the closet.

"that's so touching, all that stuff about family and dad and time"

"will you shut up? she'll hear you" five warned him, walking back over.

"you're lying to vanya?" y/n appeared next to klaus, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow.

"it's nothing you should worry about" five dismissed before looking klaus over again. "i thought i told you to put on something professional"

"what? this my nicest outfit" klaus gestured to it. y/n snorted when five scoffed.

"we'll raid the old man's closet"

"whatever, as long as i get paid" klaus shrugged, beginning to walk behind five.

"when the job is done" they stopped just above the stairs.

"so, where are we going?" she followed along, smiling innocently at five who raised an eyebrow at her.

"not we, just klaus and i" five shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"five" she frowned,

"y/n" he mocked.

"just let me come, please don't leave me in the dark. i just want to help you" she pleaded, she had missed him.

he thought it over before sighing, "fine" he turned to walk again but klaus stopped him.

"but just so we're clear on the finer details" he waved his hand around, talking over the plan. "i just got to go into this place and pretend to be your dear old dad, correct?"

"yeah, something like that" five agreed, exasperated.

"what's our cover story?" klaus continued, ignoring five's look of annoyance.

"what? what are you talking about?" five shared a confused look with y/n who shrugged.

"i mean was i young when i had you, like 16.. like young and terribly misguided" five agreed just to get him to stop but he didn't. "your mother, that slut, whoever she was, we met at.. the disco and you can be his sister"

"i am his sister?" y/n raised an eyebrow, but klaus only smiled, clicking his fingers.

"okay, remember that. oh my god the sex was amazing"

y/n scoffed, walking away first, five following. "what a disturbing glimpse into that thing you call a brain"

"don't make me put you in time out" klaus waved a finger at him.

as they walked out the door onto the street y/n paused.

"what's wrong, baby sis?" klaus asked, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "you're not backing out already?"

"no!" she quickly denied, looking up at him as she snapped out of her starstruck daze. "it's just.. i haven't left the house in 16 years.."

klaus and five shared a sorrowful look. what had happened to her?

tags: @rxses-and-reverie

#tua #the umbrella academy #tua x reader #the umbrella academy x reader #tua x sibling reader #the umbrella academy x sibling reader #five hargreeves #klaus hargreeves #allison hargreeves #diego hargreeves #vanya hargreeves #luther hargreeves #five hargreeves x reader #klaus hargreeves x reader #allison hargreeves x reader #diego hargreeves x reader #vanya hargreeves x reader #luther hargreeves x reader

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bokettochild · 3 years

Text

Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones

Angst! My Beloved!

Not a lot of whump here, but I put Wild through the wringer!!! Lots of BotW2 ideas and concepts here, but nothing really cannon.

Also, disclaimer: I think Flora is a wonderful person, a bit harsh and sometimes unkind, but I feel for her a lot. The prompt submitted to me however asked for her as an ass, so that's what's here, for angst reasons. THIS IS NOT HOW I PLAN ON WRITING HER NORMALLY!!!

When Wild left the Chain behind in the woods, it was with a soft smile and a hesitant wave of his right hand. It was with a gentle ‘See y’all later’ that made Warriors shake his head with a sigh while Twilight offered a wobbly grin.

He would join them again, he knew that. After all, Hylia wouldn’t have chosen him to go with them in the first place if he was only supposed to leave before they’d even really started to know what it was that they were meant to be doing.

He’d see them again, and he’d fall back into a routine with all of them, sparring with Warriors and teaching Hyrule to cook and shield surfing with Wind and learning to carve from Sky. He’d go back to sewing with Legend, to exploring with Hyrule, to learning the Ocarina with Time and teasing Twilight about his terrible singing. He could work with Four on the Sheikah Slate and experimenting with different plants he’d gathered. He would see them again, and he’d go back to being busy and smiling nearly every day.

For the time being however, he had to square his shoulders and harden his jaw as he stepped through the swirl of black that had repulsed all the others every time they tried to enter. He had to tame his mind and wild spirit and come to stand before the Princess of Hyrule in all of her stern glory and receive the scolding he was due for wandering off without permission.

He never had time to question what she meant by being gone for ‘two whole weeks’ before she was marching off towards the labs and explaining that there was a new task for them to complete.

Such a task was one that left in his mind no time for thoughts of his brothers save on the lonely nights in the sky when the islands above the clouds were silent save for the birds about him that reminded him of Sky, or when he ran across the forests and was reminded of the wolf that once ran at his side. And, alright, the tiny people in the grass and the fountains reminded him of Four and Hyrule. When the wind sang strong in his ears as he dove towards the earth from the highest places in the sky, he couldn’t help but envision a small hero whose laughter danced like the sea and who’s fingers mastered the currents of wind and sea both.

It was a lonely quest, just like his last before it, but somehow it was more painfully so, now that he knew what it was to have brothers at his side to catch a monster’s blade when he was too slow or to help him patch himself up afterwards. It was quiet when the Princess and he sat around the fires as night, she studying him as he sat still and stonelike as she worked.

The hand that had waved goodbye to his brothers now flickered green and ethereal in the night shades, iron bands clinging to the wisping appendage and acting as a bond to hold its form together. It was nothing like what he’d known or studied in the Sheikah technology, or even what he’d seen from the many worlds he’d traveled with the other, and it earned many a stare and twist of the lips from those he met and traded with during his journey.

The arm was only the first of many changes, it’s power seeping through his body and altering him before he even knew what was happening. He’d hated it at first, disliking how it changed him, made his eyes glow and his hair touch with the same ethereal shades, red bleeding through at the roots and earning him even more wary looks.

Ganon, in all his terrifying power, had been a surprising comfort during the quest, an aid to discovering his new abilities and training them to bend to his own will. The Princess had been wary of their relationship, but had accepted it when she saw what he learned to do, and every evening she would require a report of his newfound skills, as well as the occasional demonstration or examination.

It all came to an end both too soon and not soon enough.

Ganon was gone, as if he’d never been there at all, and the Princess was as cold as ever even after their second adventure at each other's sides. And now there was no use for the abilities that had fused to his soul like the arm had to his flesh. He’d asked Purah if there was something that could be done to restore his body to its normal Hylian state, without the glowing limb that earned his only stares and insults from the village people, but the Princess had overheard it and declared that such a thing should not even be attempted.

“You don’t understand, Link. Don’t be foolish! We have here a scientific marvel ready for our investigation and exploration and you want to get rid of it just because it looks odd?”

He’s shuffled his feet slowly, resisting the impulse to rub at his chest where the Hylian part of him ended and the eldritch horror began. “I can’t live like Hylian anymore.”

“Because you aren’t one!” Her Highness rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Sir Knight, after everything I certainly doubt that Hylian even applies to you anymore! Hylians do not possess the qualities that you now do, and they most certainly do not travel through stone or time or any other such thing at will. Think would you! You’re something else entirely, and I intend to find out what that is!”

Purah had frowned at that, eyes full of sorrow as they met his own with an apologetic sigh. But there was nothing the de-aged scientist could really say against the royal Sovreign of Hyrule, not as a Sheikah sworn to the service of the royal family. The woman/girl had offered him a sympathetic pat on the head later after climbing up to reach high enough to do so, as well as a few dumplings that Paya had sent on her grandmother’s behalf the day before. It was a welcome gesture, but amounted to so little on the grand scale of life. Not when so many others he had once called his friends had so blatantly rejected the mere sight of him.

Bolson and the other carpenters shied away from him with harsh whispers as they spat insults across the distance.

‘Half-blood’.

‘Gerudo Bastard’.

‘Freak’.

‘Demon’.

There were favorite insults spread from stable to stable and up and coming village to up and coming town and slowly all of Hyrule knew of the monster that had once been the hero. Gossip abounded, and he couldn’t even turn to shield his face with his hood without drawing attention to his arm.

It was only the koroks that welcomed him, themselves all too accustomed to the strange and ethereal. Them and the blupees.

Maybe it was the knowledge of how it felt to be shot at for his oddness that allowed him to ease into the graces of the flighty animals. And maybe it was his lonely heart crying for comfort, but when nestled in their midst, it almost reminded him of how it felt to be hugged by the salty veteran, on the rare occasional that the pink-haired hero had let down his guard.

The fairy’s tangled themselves in his hair and the blupees gathered at his feet, koroks dancing around him and flying to his side as if he was some sort of forest god, but the strange rise of his spirits in their presence shattered the instant a traveler caught sight of him.

Arrows and fire, once his favorite of weapons, were turned against him as words in every language of the New Hyrule had burst from the mouths of its people, and like his namesake, he ran before them, darting through the forest and fading in amidst the trees, hiding, incorporeal and translucent within the halls of the forest as those he’d once seen as allies pushed him away.

He’d begged the new Queen for aid, for relief or even just a word to the people that he wasn’t the evil they had come to think he was, but she only waved him aside with a purse of her lips. “You are not meant to be here without first asking.” The Child of Hylia declared, eyes as cold as the Shrine’s waters themself. “And why should I make a declaration on behalf of a man who refuses to even speak to me properly? You come groveling like a worm, yet for years it was I who you ignored. See how it feels, Sir Hero, to be the one left helpless at the hands of the country. Know what it is to be scorned by those who you thought would love you.”

He’d barely made it out of the window before the trainee guards of the newly repaired Hyrule Castle had caught him and Queen Zelda Diana Hyrule had stared after him with eyes colder than Hebra’s tallest peaks.

It was the Father Tree -the Deku Tree as the Queen had called it, but the koroks laughed at him for using the name, so he’d adjusted in kind- who suggested that he hide the changes, and he’d begun to wander Hyrule as much as possible to find the materials he would have needed.

The Queen still required his presence regularly so she could inspect him; her love of science no ways tainted as to stop her from ordering him to appear regularly, as there was now no need or safety in his acting as her guard. The Queen sought her people’s respect, and to employ such a being as himself, not Hylian and not quite mortal, would be to spark fear in the people. Indeed, when he skirted villages, he would wince at word of ‘the queen’s monster’ as gossip was traded. Those who didn’t see him themselves knew him as a beast of feral nature who lived amid the lost woods and destroyed any who came close.

“A specter that glows with the light of the shrines.” They would tell each other over campfires. “It has eyes like a ghost, empty and lost, with no care for humanity or Hylia’s chosen. They say it was once the Hero of this world, but he died ages ago.”

“I heard it’s the body, possessed by a being beyond this realm, a monster escaped from the edges of reality that tried to hide in our midst but corrupted it’s host so that it only scares away others, leaving it roam the earth in a shattered body. If you get too close to it though, it’ll take your instead.”

He’d stayed away from towns after that.

The blupees and koroks had been happy to help him to find what he needed to hide among the Hylians should he wish though, and two in particular guided him; the korok swinging little twigs like they were batons and humming swinging little shanties as it hopped along the path, the blupee snorting softly and nipping at his heels when he wandered too far, unnatural purple eyes staring up at him with something that was fondness and a reprimand all at once, and in their care he’d made his way across the land of Hyrule to find what would be needed to return to his once life.

The fairies and their Great cousins had been welcome help, and in time, he’d been able to walk amid the populace of Hyrule like any other, as long as he kept a long cloak about him and his hair pulled back to hide where the roots would begin showing again in gold and ethereal blue.

Once Hyrule had talked about needing to hide in his world, about the curse that followed him and made the Hylian people afraid. He’d thought it bizarre and ridiculous of the people at the time, but now he understood what it was to live it.

When the portal opened beneath his feet the day that the Queen had reprimanded him for concealing and potentially damaging the strange limb, startling the Skeikah scientists and Queen both, he’d nearly cried tears of relief.

He was going away, somewhere where he wasn’t a science project and where, unless they traveled to his world’s future, no one would know how much he had changed. His copy of the slate had enough hair dye to last him a few months, and he was certain he could make more over time, and as long as he continued wearing the tunics and gloves the fairies had helped him to adjust to hide the glow the others would probably never catch on. Or well, he could extend it anyway.

His brothers greeted him with open arms and teary eyes, and in a strange parallel to his adventure, he found himself thinking of blupees when Legend had curled against him, stiff and cold on the outside, but with fingers that clutched his tunic just a bit too tight to really be reluctant. And Four, Hyrule and Wind’s exuberant hugs and chatter brought to mind tiny forest people and koroks with twigs for batons.

It was good to be home.

It was good to cook for other people again, and they were glad to have him cook for them, even if his fondness for both Gerudo spiced dishes and fae like sweet things had increased exponentially during his newest adventure. It was good to fight at their sides, even if it was strange to once again have to take others into account before he could select a weapon. It was good to sit around a fire and talk with the others too, but that was perhaps the hardest one; it had been ages since he’d had a proper two-way conversation with anything other than a tree or a korok, and neither of those was good at either staying awake or staying focused for very long.

There were some harder things to adjust to though. Fire, for one. Unlike before when he’d have been happy to burn an enemy camp to the ground, now he was wary of using faming weapons or spreading heat further than necessary. The same went for hunting; he couldn’t bring himself to shoot an animal unless it attacked first or they needed the meat it would provide, and even then, he felt a bit bad for doing so. Is this what Twilight had felt like? Is this why the rancher never liked hunting? Because he too knew what it was like to be on the other end of the bow?

But the hardest thing by far to readjust to was his name.

‘Wild’ they had called him again, and after months of ‘the wild one’, ‘wild beast’, ‘monster’ and every other insult, slur or title that had been used on him, it made him flinch ever so slightly at the words. And unlike the other things where his brothers dismissed it as a change caused by his adventure or an increase of maturity, it was something that the others seemed to either not notice or to excuse as situational.

He had adapted though, learned to keep a smile on his face where blankness had once been required in his knightly duties, and the more he wore the mask the easier it was to put on again.

He’d reveled in traveling across time again, in dancing through battles and exploring the world without the Queen reprimanding him in her cold tones to stop wandering off. He’d pushed himself to learn more music in the last adventure, and even if his experience was more with what few instruments Ganon had had time to help him learn, he’d enjoyed sitting down with the others and borrowing one or another instrument to play a tune and sometimes he even got to sing.

He fell to comfortably into his role though, even with the changes, and he hadn’t even noticed when they’d come back to his world. To be fair, it was different in the daytime, and Hyrule had changed so much in the absence of her hero as he hid himself away from the eyes of civilization. Towns and roads had sprung up where there had only been fields before, and the Guardians that had littered the land had all been dug up and hauled to the castle to be either restored or destroyed by the Sheikah, depending on what Queen Zelda decided after she looked at them herself. The world was so different to him, so unlike that which he knew, that he’d failed to keep as alert as he ought to have been when he wandered about an open market with the others, laughing and chattering away with the other younger ones as Time and Legend herded them towards the needed stalls.

It was a traveler that was his downfall, a man who’d seen the Monster Hero and had been among the first to discover the disguise he wore.

No questions were asked when the word spread, and Wild hadn’t caught on to the whispers until a stone had struck his cheek and he was stumbling forwards on the path.

“Wild!” Twilight was at his side in a minute, Time right after him as Legend launched a barrage of insults at the guilty party who’d thrown the thing.

“’m fine.” He was careful to wipe the blood away with his cloak, holding the fabric to the wound to prevent bluish blood seeping down his face and exposing him to his brothers. He wanted to keep them as long as possible and proving himself to be a monster, not even Hylian, would surely have them turning their backs on him.

“Get away from him!” A woman scolded, grabbing ahold of two of the younger heroes while several other shoppers had like ways grabbed Legend and Sky. “Are you dears alright? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Freaking what?” Legend shrieked. “Who’s the injured party here?”

“I’d avoid that thing, son.” A man huffed through a frankly walrus like mustache, eyes hard as they trailed to where Wild stood, cloak still pressed to his cheek as he attempted to wave off a fussing Twilight and Time. “It’s not natural. Sure, it looks like a normal Hylian, but that’s just an effective ruse.”

Another villager nodded. “It’s one of the Calamity’s puppets, a Gerudo-Bastard set on destroying the kingdom!”

“He’s the freaking hero!” Legend shrieked, barely being held back by a steely eyed Sky. “He saved all your freaking asses and all you can do is insult his flipping guts? Who’s the-”

“Enough.” There were few times that Sky’s voice reached levels worse than Twilight’s growls, but the stern command, regal and firm, froze all present as the man stiffened with a cold nod towards the villagers. “I see we are unwelcome here, and with that being the case it would be wise to spend our rupees elsewhere. Legend,” A tug to the boy’s shoulders. “Let’s join the others and be out of their hair. If they cannot be welcoming and kind to our brother than they will not receive our patronage.” And like a swan gathering it’s cygnets, Sky swept down the street, cape fluttering as he ushered the rest of them out of the town and back to the safety of the wilds. The village stared after them with wide eyes, as if they’d just been judged by a breathing god.

The stiffness in Sky’s shoulders faded as they neared the edge of the forest, and instantly the Chosen Hero been tutting over Wild, gently but firmly prying his hand away from his face with a kind smile that almost set Wild at ease. Almost.

“It’s fine, it’s just a scrape.”

“Still.” Sky crooned softly. “I’d rather we clean it up now and make sure it’s nothing worse than let it sit and get infected later.”

And though he’d tried to fight, his single Hylian hand was no match for the firm grip of the Skyloftian, and within minutes his face was exposed to the shocked faces and flickering eyes of his brothers.

“It’s blue...” Wind breathed as Hyrule darted forwards, hands already glowing softly only for them to stutter to a stop over Wild’s skin.

“It’s... Wild, why is your blood- why is-” The healer’s eyes had flickered golden for a moment, wide as they stared up at him. “What happened to you-”

“What the freak!” Legend had startled, blinking in surprise as he stared. “Your eyes are glowing!”

Shit! The healing properties of the arm had already taken affect and it was making everything act up all weird! He shot a glance down at his arm, one hand raising to tangle in the long hair he couldn’t even see at the moment, praying silently beneath his breath that nothing was showing through. It wasn’t, but that didn’t change how Hyrule had come to fixate on his right arm, or how the healer's fingers hovered over it sparking and eyes twinkling as he whispered softly under his breath.

“Wild.” Time had sighed. “I think this one is going to need an explanation.”

All the breath left his lung in instants.

He’d panicked to say the least and Time had eventually shooed the others away to make camp as the eldest hero had sat at his side, waiting silently for him to regulate his breathing. Touch was too much right now, and any attempts from the others to ease him down or help him level out his breathes had only made him panic more. But when at last his blue eyes blinked back to clarity it was to see Time sitting at his side, a gentle tune wafting from the Ocarina at his lips.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, trying his hardest not to startle Time or otherwise make the situation worse. “I should have said something, I know. I just- missed being Wild and I wanted to come back and be normal and I didn’t want to-”

“It’s alright.” Time’s voice rumbled softly, a single blue eye turning to him with a pained look, even as the man offered him a hint of a smile. “None of us talk about our adventures either.”

“Yes, but you’re people.” He sighed, rubbing the fingers of his glove together. “You’re allowed to choose things.”

There was pain in Time’s voice when their leader answered. “And you’re not?”

“I’m not Hylia anymore.” He whispered. “I don’t count.”

“You count to us.”

“That’s because you don’t know.”

Time shifted, turning to face him fully as the ocarina was set firmly in the grass. “That’s because you’re family and we care. Wild, I don’t care if Demise himself named you the king of the dead, you’re still my kid and Nayru knows I’m not going to let you go without a fight. If that means fighting you, alright, but you’d best better believe that no amount of physical or mental changes will break the bonds we all have with you.”

Something, something damaged and crushed and stitched up and torn open again clenched inside of him, tears pricking at his eyes as he stared up at Time’s royal blue gaze. “W-what?”

“You could be granted godhood, made a monster, I don’t care. You’re ours and you’ll have to deal with that.” Time smiled, warm even with the pain in his eyes as he looked down at him. “So how about you start again, maybe with the facts rather than the insults. Or,” Time softened, brows furrowing lightly. “If you want, we can just sit here and you can choose to talk about this later. We do need to know, so we can help you and keep you safe, but you don’t have to tell us right now. You can take some time to figure out what you want to say if you need.”

And, well, shoot him, but Time’s arms had always been a safe place and there was one thing he’d wanted more than anything since he had come back. Wild threw himself into his grand-mentor's arms with a soft sob, clutching tightly to the other, ignoring the armor and its sharp points and awkward shapes as he tried to hold back all the emotions swirling in his chest.

Time’s arms folding around him broke the floodgates though, and when the man’s hand had stroked through his shortened hair, he’d had to bury his face in Tim’s neck to muffle his sobs.

“There, there,” Time hummed softly, rocking slowly as he held the broken wild hero. “Let it out, little one. I have you, I’ve got you and I’m not letting anyone hurt you.”

#whumptober 2021 #linkeduniverse #linked universe #idiot writes angst #idiot writes whump #lu wild #lu time #lu sky #lu legend #sky is scary when he's mad #wild whump #botw2 #botw2 theories #mean flora #flora bashing #zelda botw bashing #I ACUALLY LOVE FLORE PLS DON'T HATE ME!!!!#father time

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dourpeep · 3 years

Note

you asked for albedo stuff yesterday and i forgot to give you some 🥲 here

-Albedo bites the ends of his pencil/pen while in deep thought

-He covers his mouth while laughing

-His hair is a huge problem to becoming messy so he usually keeps it in one style bc he sucks at styling hair

-I believe he would hyperfocus on a meal until he starts to hate it and goes onto another

-Probably sleeps on his back or stomach

-Quietly sings to himself when he's alone doing experiments

-his hands are probably soft as hell

-he probably bounces his leg when stressed

-I cant decide whether or not he's always cold or always hot (wearing his jacket everywhere but seems fine at dragonspine??)

-would break klee out of jail

-he always tries to have at least one meal with klee

WAIT SHIT I FORGOT ABOUT THIS--

definitely a pleasant surprise nodnod always a treat to have more Albedo, thank you for the food, Chi OTL

I'll write a little about each one b/c I have no self control and I'm feeling inspired by ur headcanons so lets goooooo ehehehe

They'll be a mix between imagines and drabbles!

Enjoy the food :3c

Contains: Albedo x gn!Reader, some standalone Albedo, Klee, fluff

- Breaking Habits -

"Albedo? You're doing it again-"

He blinks, shifting to remove the tip of his pencil from his lips, frowning when little indents come into view.

"Hm...it appears to be so."

Really, the Chief Alchemist has tried to wean himself off the habit, taking to coating the butt ends of his writing utensils with a horrid concoction of qingxin and jueyun chili, but the moment he slips into his usual daily tasks, it arises once more. The bitter spiciness is a taste that he still has not forgotten.

When his brows crease and his gaze seems to burn into the pencil, you offer a smile. With a kiss pressed to his temple, you take it from his loose grasp, setting it down on the table's surface.

A few weeks later, it dawns on him that the touch of wood to his lips evokes the memory of your gentle reminder. Without fail, he sets his pencil down in search of a sweet to busy himself with instead.

- His Laugh -

I can just imagine him with his hand lifted to cover his mouth, a smile tugging at his lips and his eyes slightly squinted. It's something that'd happen almost instantaneously--he doesn't intend to hide his smile but for some reason he can't help but do it.

An endearing habit that you've come to look for.

Regardless-

If you lower his hand and pepper him with a few little kisses, you'll get another giggle out of him before a kiss.

- Hairstyles -

Albedo only knows two ways to do hair: Klee's twin pigtails and his own half-up braid.

Over the past three years of his residency in Mond, it's become a sort of trademark. The assumption that it's just how he likes to style his hair has long since been accepted as truth--and really, he does prefer the style.

Though...

"Mr Albedo? Perhaps you should try to tie it all up instead...?"

The stray wisps of bangs that escape from the securely tied braid fall into his face and distract him from the task at hand. There's also the ever-present tickle right where the blond locks fall around his jaw. Surely, this shouldn't prove to be a problem considering he always has this style...right?

Needless to say, the smell of singed hair makes him choke and the Alchemist finds himself pulling away to tie his hair properly.

It's simple.

Or at least that's what he has been stuck repeating like a mantra as he stares at his reflection, unhappy with the way there's a strange bit of hair that refuses to stay tied. Sighing, he undoes his pony tail and tries again.

Hm.

No, now it's lopsided...certainly can't have that.

- Mealtime -

First, two little ears peek up above the surface of the counter besides him. Then, two little eyes belonging to a stuff rabbit toy followed by a red hat--

"Klee?"

The little girl stares at the fish steaks sizzling away on the pan, displeasure on her features despite the incredibly enticing smell. With unmatched resolve, she huffs.

"Big brother, Klee doesn't want fish again-"

Ah, right.

He's been in another of those moods, the particular taste and texture of the fish mingling with the salted butter, simple sauce, and lightly seasoned veggies sounding so much more appealing compared to nearly any other dish he's tried to enjoy in the past two weeks. It's without a doubt Albedo's all-time favorite dish. Perfect for someone with a small appetite and a need for something quick, filling, and nutritious.

"What would you like then?"

Ultimately (and truly, Albedo wasn't surprise), the little knight requested a serving of 'Fishy Toast'. Cutting up one of the fillets he'd fried, he laughs and shakes his head.

- Sleep Time -

When you come home, it's already dark, the streetlamps lining the cobbled road illuminating the front door as you fish out your key.

"Albedo? I'm back-"

Soft snoring punctuates the silence.

With a fond smile, you remove your shoes and make your way to the make-shift 'sleep station' set up on the couch. Sure enough, with his face shoved at an awkward angle against a pillow, Albedo lays on his stomach holding a second pillow to his chest.

As much as you'd rather not wake him (after all, he's barely gotten sleep over the past few days with how busy it's been), you kneel besides the couch to gently shake him awake.

"Bedo? Bedo, lets go to bed-"

He shoves his face further into his pillow, muttering something about waiting for results. But the silence that follows only lasts so long until he sighs and opens his bleary eyes.

"Welcome home," he mumbles, carefully shuffling best he can closer to meet your lips.

With a stretch and sigh, he sits up. Blond hair sticks up from the top of his head and to his cheek, some parts tangled despite his attempts to prevent it--your hair shouldn't tangle if you sleep on your stomach, right?

Holding back your laugh, you help him up so that the two of you can get ready to sleep.

- Singing -

Most often if not nearly each day, if you pass by the Favonius HQ's workshop, you might catch the soft sound of singing. A light sound that drifts from the partly-cracked door echoes into the empty hallway. Regardless of the traffic outside, it shows no sign of stopping, so you easily can sit right outside and listen.

It's not shy, though, even as the man's dulcet tone comes out gently, and there are days that the lyrics that slip from his tongue are of other regions.

Perhaps if you ever approach the Chief Alchemist, you might be able to convince him to sing just a short little tune. He'll oblige, though a soft dusting of pink will cover his cheeks as he does.

- Hands -

"My hands?"

Albedo watches as you tug off his gloves, head cocked to the side curiously. The moment his hands are free from their confines, you press a kiss to his palm and intertwine your fingers.

"Do you use lotion or something?"

He laughs.

"...Not that I am aware of...?"

When you squeeze his hand once, he squeezes yours back three times before bringing your joined hand to his cheek. Resting against them, his eyes close.

"Why do you ask?"

He feels you take his other hand as well, turning it over palm-side up, your fingertips tracing over the lines that adorn it's surface.

The tenderness of your touch is enough to make his heart stutter in his chest.

"Mmm...no reason."

- Leg Bouncing -

Whenever Albedo bounces his leg sitting at the Dragonspine workshop, a curse or two will slip out the moment his knee bangs against the wood.

Even being considered short, the table has decided to lay just low enough for him to cause minor injury to himself.

Shaking his head, he rubs at his knee to rid himself of the dull ache before continuing his observations at hand.

- His Jacket -

Wait okay but like...what if he actually has different versions of the same jacket? They look virtually the same but there's some of lighter material for warmer days, 'standard' ones for day-to-day use, and heavier ones lined with warm, soft fabric to insulate heat when he's on Dragonspine.

Same with his tights. I do know for a fact that there are tights lined with fleece that are incredibly warm and comfortable!!

- Escapees -

"You need to be very quiet, alright?"

Once more in the dark of the night, Albedo finds himself awake within the walls of the Favonius Headquarters.

Now...Klee technically wasn't grounded, so technically escorting her out of the so called 'solitary confinement' wasn't against any rule. To be fair, the room itself also wasn't really that either, judging by the child-themed decor, soft bed, books littering the floor, and the little table that sits just off to the opposite side of the room.

So! Albedo was certain that there wasn't any harm in what he was doing.

Not that he wasn't still sneaking around on his little improvised rescue mission.

He looks back to Klee, the little girl now wide awake and hanging on to his hand tightly.

When the morning comes, he sighs, crouched sitting on one of the child-sized chairs in the solitary confinement room, Klee peacefully snoozing in bed.

If only Jean wasn't pulling an all-nighter last night as well.

- Very Early Breakfasts -

Klee wakes up to the smell of sweet berry jam and chocolate in the air.

Clumsily, she slips out from under the covers with Dodoco cradled in her arms, padding along the wooden floors on her way to the kitchen.

"Big brother...?" She rubs the sleep from her eyes waiting for him to turn around.

"Oh, good morning Klee-"

"What time is it?"

That, Albedo decided, was a very good question. Especially considering that he hadn't yet gone to sleep and instead shuffled through the kitchen in the early hours of the day to make pancakes. If he had to guess--and he took a quick peek out the window despite the darkness of the early morning lending no clue--he'd say it was nearing 4am.

"Early. Go ahead and sit down, breakfast is almost ready."

The plate is presented to her with a brilliant smile, the Chief Alchemist satisfied to be able to keep his promise with her to always share a meal. But...the fluffy pancakes and freshly made whipped cream were also a source of his brightened mood.

Even though he knew he'd have no time to sleep and pack for his next Dragonspine expedition, the lack of sleep was worth seeing the sudden widening of eyes and delighted giggle from his younger sibling.

He could always take a quick nap at the base camp, anyway.

#anon asks #chifema #albedo #genshin impact albedo #genshin impact headcanons #albedo headcanons #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact drabbles #albedo my beloved #klee #albedo x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact fluff

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ddarker-dreams · 3 years

Text

Out With the Old. Yan Childe x Reader [COMM]

Warnings: Brief mentions of injury and blood, typical yandere undertones. Word count: 3.2k. Notes: i absolutely loved writing this!! i never realized how badly i needed a yandere childe that’s so obviously whipped for his darling. :’))

“Dearest [First],

I can only imagine the look that must be on your face as you read this. Don’t be too harsh on me for saying so, but I promise not a day goes by where I haven’t thought of you. Now stop scowling at the letter, it won’t do any good, after all; it’s just a piece of paper. I’d hate to come back home to see that you’ve aged from all that frowning at parchment.

Somedays I wake and fail to notice I’m in Inazuma instead of Snezhnaya. The scenery has its differences, of course, but it’s only when I realize I can’t see you that it truly sinks in. Writing this, I realize your judgment about my honesty only appearing in written form rather than in person is true. You’ve always had a penchant for keeping me in line, haven’t you?

Not that I can blame you.

You’ll be relieved to hear that the reason for my being here turned out to be a simple misunderstanding. There’s no grand coup d'état waiting to unfold amongst the lower ranks, so, unfortunately for me, it turned out to be a waste of time. On the bright side, that means I’ll get to come back home all the faster.

Tonia tells me that you’re doing well and I’m glad to hear it. I know your parents aren’t that fond of me, which is a smart call all things considered, but I hope they’re both in good health. Let me know if they need any help with their shop and I’ll see what I can do. Just don’t let them know it was from me, or they might blow a gasket.

When I come home, I wonder if I’ll see your face among the crowd on the pier this time.

At the very least… consider not discarding this letter like the others. Really, I can’t tell who is more stubborn, me or you.

-Yours eternally, Tartaglia”

This is the first letter of his that you’ve bothered reading in some time, as he made a point of mentioning. It’s difficult to identify the exact feelings his handwriting and characteristic word choice inflicts upon you, ranging from relief to exasperation. He has some audacity, refusing to see you in person for months on end, only to carry on as if nothing happened between you.

With the letter in hand, your mind wanders back, hoping to find some hints of where it all went wrong.

You remember the words said to you on that late, fateful winter evening. The confident timbre of his voice then still resonates in your head at random, never muffling despite the years that have passed, ringing as clearly as a bell. Does he ever think about it? It’s hard to say.

“One day,” Ajax, or Tartaglia as he claimed his new identity to be, had told you, “I’m going to conquer this world.”

His breath materialized in front of him as white, vaporous wisps. There’s something about that particularly frigid season that felt like magic, more so than the Cryo Vision wrapped snug around your neck. You bit back a scathing remark and instead focused your energy elsewhere. Your gloved hand raised and hovered just above his split lip, a prominent frown etched onto your face at the fresh wound. Likely the first of many to come, you lamented.

Your Vision pulsated with life and light blue shone through at your command. The tender, bruised flesh on his lip began to close, before it faded away altogether. Tartaglia raised his hand to gently touch where it had been, now nothing but a faint memory.

With that out of the way, you placed your hands onto your hips and gave him a stern look. “I wish you’d stop saying things like that. It’s going to get you into trouble one day.”

He laughed and waved off your concern.

“If only. Things have been so dull lately, I wouldn’t mind stirring up a little trouble.” Tartaglia hummed, much to your displeasure. It was no secret in your quaint hometown of Morepesok that this boy had been spiraling down a dangerous path. Your parents said as much and even encouraged you to break off ties with him. This just won’t do, you thought.

“Ouch!”

You flicked his forehead and offered up your most intimidating glare. “So you are capable of feeling pain, huh? Good. If it keeps you out of fights, then I won’t heal you anymore.”

Tartaglia rubbed the spot and smiled sheepishly.

“You say that, but I’m sure you’d change your mind if I came to you all bloodied and battered. You’re just that kind of person.” When he paused to reflect, you raised an eyebrow and challenged him.

“Now what’s this? I’m what kind of person, Ajax?” You pinched his cheek, much to his vocal displeasure, mischief gleaming in your eyes. “Say it loud and clear this time.”

“The kind that always looks out for others, even those who don’t deserve it.”

Your arms fell limp by your side. At that moment, your heart twisted in a way it never had before. It could only compare to how it felt when Ajax had stumbled back home after missing for three, long days. You weren’t sure if you had heard him right — his eyes widened as did yours like he felt equally surprised — and he rushed to save himself. The flush that dusted over his face was most certainly not from the cold weather.

Tartaglia shot up and made way for the door at a record speed. “I told my old man that I’d be home before dark. He already worries about me enough as is, so... I’ll be on my way. See ya around.”

Your rebuttal was slow as your tongue felt frozen. Tartaglia waved to you over his shoulder and took off, leaving you to wallow in your muddled thoughts. What exactly had he meant by that? Why did his gaze soften and his usually boisterous voice drop in volume?

Questions flooded your mind, questions that wouldn’t be answered for years to come.

ii.

You’ve always found this area of Morepesok to be serene. There’s no buzz of the community gathering, chattering about the latest gossip and notable news, no vendors vying for people passing by to purchase their fresh early morning catch. The surroundings are nothing but peaceful, and most importantly, silent. In the summer, there’d only have been the sound of the rushing rivers that are now frozen over and humming insects.

Twigs and dry leaves crunch behind the tree stump you’re hanging out at, signaling an approaching figure.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Tartaglia sits down next to you, blades of grass rustling against him as he did so. You don’t bother to look up, instead feigning interest in your fingernails, staring at them intently. Anywhere other than his face, which most likely than not would be boasting his trademark grin. Seeing the fake expression that he plasters on daily would only add fuel to the fire that rages inside.

Your lips part after an uncomfortable silence settles in, the atmosphere growing tenser by the second. “So you’re a Harbinger now, huh?”

“You don’t look impressed like everyone else,” He notes, his language notably more tentative than usual. It strikes through your heart, piercing flesh and blood, your fingers curling painfully tight. If he notices, he decides not to comment. Tartaglia gives you the time to process your overwhelming thoughts as if it’d make any of this easier on you.

“How could I possibly be happy about that?” You snap your head, catching how he’s momentarily caught off guard before it’s covered up just as fast. “This… this is going to be the death of you, Ajax. And Archons, the worst part is, I know me saying that won’t matter in the slightest. That death would just be the result of a fulfilling fight to you.”

Your breathing grows erratic, to the point you’re forced to stop speaking to regain yourself. He doesn’t dare utter a single word — uncharacteristically silent — watching your every movement with calculating precision. It’s taking all your strength to keep yourself together, not wanting to come undone in front of him, feeling weak just for showing this much. This is why you were hoping to avoid him, but figures he’d go out of to seek you out.

“And if I don’t die? Would that make a difference in how you feel?” He challenges, tilting his head, voice dipping in volume. “You can be honest with me, [First]. It’s not just that you’re upset about. No, there’s something else.”

He knows you too well and it’s beyond frustrating. Your body language might be difficult for others to read, but not Tartaglia, who picks up on every little nuance with ease.

Your lower lip trembles. “I hate that this is what you’ve become.”

“So that’s it then,” Tartaglia nods his head, once, coming to terms with it as soon as the words left your lips; like he already knew it all along. “I figured as much, but to hear you say it… haven’t you heard of mincing your words before?”

Hugging your knees to your chest, you internally plead with yourself not to let the nonchalant words get to you. It’s his way of dealing with strife to act unbothered, you know this, and still, it strikes deep. What if this isn’t a façade, but who he really is now? That boy you knew and grew up with — Ajax, your dearest friend — he may be physically sitting next to you, but his soul is gone. Whatever happened in those hellish three days changed him forever. Now his flesh and bones are nothing but a vessel urged on by bloodlust.

How ironic, you think. That your Vision lets you heal physical wounds, but not the unseen kind, which runs deeper than any gash could hope to. Maybe you were a fool for thinking you could fix him, revert him to how he used to be like nothing ever happened. Or maybe he let you try just to earn more time together for whatever twisted reason. Knowing that once reality settles in, you’ll go someplace far out of his reach, where he can never get you back. Sitting here, you realize that it won’t just be you losing him. He’ll also be losing you.

Is that why he is sticking around? To prolong the inevitable?

“When I look into your eyes,” you clear your tightening throat, not willing to let yourself cry. “There’s… there’s no light, no humanity, and you know it. That has to be why you chase all those stupid fights, all so that you can feel alive again.”

Tartaglia allows you the room to ramble without interruption, your venomous feelings that have long festered gushing out. When you work up the courage to look up, you find Tartaglia frowning, staring far off but at nothing in particular. So even he can sometimes be rendered to a loss for words, huh?

He sucks in a deep breath through his nose, the chilly air invading his lungs. “You’re wrong about one thing.”

Another cautious pause. He’s giving this a lot of thought.

“My fighting is not for the sole sake of the adrenaline rush, as enjoyable as that is,” he scratches the back of his neck and forces a laugh. “It’s so that I can get stronger. I told you, didn’t I? That I intend on conquering the world. To do that, I need to be the strongest, or else I can’t fulfill my promise.”

Your lips part, eyebrows furrowing together in irritation, but he places a finger to your lips before you can tear into him. The leather feels cool against your skin, and it’s just now that you realize how close he is to you. Having been so absorbed in your emotions, you failed to notice his stealthy movements, the two of you now shoulder to shoulder. Your heart thrums, reminiscent of that day ages ago.

“When the entire world lays defeated at my feet, what I want is to have you by my side. Until that dream of mine comes true, I’m afraid I’ll have to continue making you sad, but know that it’s for a reason.”

Tartaglia pulls his hand back, his finger lingering just a second over your bottom lip, finally allowing you to speak your piece.

You’re drawn like a moth to a flame to his lifeless eyes, which have seen more bloodshed in the past few months than you could ever fathom. Murmuring, you find it within yourself to respond, albeit so quietly he has to cant forward to hear. “If you accomplish just that… who’s to say I’d want to be by your side? The side of a killer?”

“Hm? Did I ever say you had a choice in the matter?” Tartaglia returns your inquiry with a bold one of his own, one that sends you recoiling in astonishment. He lets the words settle like fresh snow on the ground before laughing them off. You cross your arms over your chest, making your displeasure over his comment evident.

“Please, I’m kidding! Don’t look at me like that,” he puts his hands up in mock defense. “Ah, it’s suddenly feeling colder than usual. You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you? I never thought that humble [First], the child of the town’s apothecary at that, would be so bold as to freeze me to death.”

Your nose wrinkles up and you hold back a laugh, swatting at his shoulder. “Yeah, right. Like I could ever stand a chance against you in battle.”

“You might be surprised! I could make a warrior out of you yet. Think about it, Her Royal Highness the Tsaritsa saw fit to bestow a Vision upon you, didn’t she?” He accents his words by pointing to your neck, where you prefer to keep your Vision. Subconsciously, your hand raises, delicately touching the icy gem.

“I’m not like you,” you shake your head at his jest. “Hurting others is the last thing I’d ever want to do, trust me.”

He hums, your words taking him back, memories flashing in his mind. “I know, that’s why I’ve always done it in your stead.”

“Whoever would’ve thought fending off bored kids with a wooden sword would escalate into you climbing the ranks of the Fatui.” Had it not been for the final part of the sentence, you would’ve found it endearing to reminiscence back to your early childhood together. Still, the frost around your heart melts at the sweet memory, despite your attempts to keep it hardened. This goes to show how much I cherished it, you muse.

Lips curling into a smile, you take him by surprise and lay your head onto his shoulder. His muscles go tense, body unresponsive to the affection you used to bestow upon him in heaps. It’d been so long that he forgot the warmth you radiate like you were the sun incarnate. He had once commented that he expected a Cryo user to be cold, only to be delightfully surprised by how warm you were.

“Maybe I was always terrible, and you just didn’t notice?” He proposes, to which you snort.

“That most certainly is not the case. I’m a better judge of character than that.” You scoff at the mere idea. No, little Ajax had been nothing but a darling, there’s no doubting it. Wherever you’d go, he’d follow as if his life depended on it. There was hardly ever a time where the two of you wouldn’t be seen paired together.

“You’ll get no argument out of me there,” Tartaglia rests his head on top of yours like he used to. The circumstances have undoubtedly changed, but it’s nice to feign ignorance for a few minutes. “Say, you remember when we used to sneak off and meet here, right?”

“How could I forget?”

Tartaglia nods his head in agreement. “I was always dragging you into trouble, even then. I’m not one to dwell on the past, but I guess it’s hard not to when we’re here.”

Now that he mentions it, it wasn’t an immediate shift into his now unhinged personality; like all things, it began as a gradual descent. You should’ve noticed something was awry with how frequently he’d come to you, boasting injuries of all sorts. Each was accompanied by a rehearsed explanation as not to alarm you. Unfortunately for him, in a small town such as this, word travels quickly. It was inevitable that you’d find out the bitter truth behind his wounds.

Maybe you always knew but didn’t want to face reality.

“There was this one time in particular that always stuck out to me,” he closes his eyes, reflecting. “When I said I intended to marry you when we got older, or whenever you’d have me.”

You’re amazed at how Tartaglia recounts it without so much as stuttering, the humiliating memory sending your head spinning. There were so many memories he could’ve mentioned and that’s the one he decides to go with? You’re certain he’s messing with you at this point.

“I-I thought we swore never to mention that again!” You exclaim, blood rushing to your cheeks.

He blinks when you abruptly lift your head and shrugs off your concern. “I don’t remember ever agreeing to that. It was you who kept insisting to take a vow of silence on it, for whatever reason. Personally, I find it cute, you were so eager to accept my proposal then.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. This irksome teasing quality had reared its head alongside his other new shortcomings. The best way to deal with it, you’ve learned, is to keep the conversation going. Dwelling on it for too long never ends well.

“So, Liyue, huh?” You recall the gossip from the marketplace earlier. Some locals were fussing over the news that the Fatui’s latest Harbinger, Tartaglia, would be sent abroad for more work. There were murmurs of excitement over how a child from this seaside town managed to make it so far up the ranks. And to think they used to bemoan Ajax’s violent streak, you remember. Now that it’s beneficial to them, they sure have changed their tune.

“I wonder what it’ll be like,” he muses. “Anthon seems to think the people there eat rocks, for whatever reason.”

“Kids always say the craziest things unprompted.”

He seems agreeable to that statement. Neither of you utters another word for some time, instead thinking of both the past and the future. It’s not a comfortable position to remain seated in, yet neither you nor he complains about it. For a few brief, glorious seconds, everything almost seems normal again.

“Hey, [First].”

You hum in response. Tartaglia’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, his eyebrows knitting together in contemplation. In the silence that follows, you swear you hear a sound akin to electricity crackling, the hairs on the back of your neck standing from the drastic shift in atmosphere.

“I meant what I said. Someday, you will be by my side. I don’t care what it takes, I’ll make it happen; even if you come to hate me.”

“Because once you make a promise… you keep it.”

And he intended to do just that.

#childe #yandere childe x reader #childe x reader #tartaglia #yandere tartaglia x reader #tartaglia x reader #genshin impact #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact imagine #yandere #yandere x reader #my stuff #commissions

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orionwhispers · 3 years

Text

Bravado // Tommy Shelby Imagine

(A/N - its been a long ass time and i wanted to ease myself back into writing but this ended up being long and also super super angsty. sorry that this illness imagine came during covid idk whats going on with my imagination lol. love you guys SO much thank you for always being there. reblogs, comments and likes mean everything to me.)

trigger warnings - LOTS of angst. fluff. implied smut. my hc that tommy has a fear of illness, bad descriptions of hospitals.

He knew something wasn’t right the minute his car pulled into the driveway and you weren’t waiting for him under the great concrete arch, with that smile on your face that made his knees buckle and heart race like he was a love struck teenager.

You were always there as soon as he came home. Barefoot in a broderie dress in the summer with tousled hair and baby pink toenails. Wrapped in a hand knit blanket with fire flushed cheeks and woollen socks in the winter - even running across the gravel and into his arms in the middle of a storm, the ice cold rain whipping across both of your faces as you kissed under the light of the moon.

No matter how shit his day or week or month was, no matter what stained his hands or darkened his heart, no matter what lay heavy and hard deep in his gut, seeing you made everything vanish in the night air like wisps of smoke. You made everything worth it.

He refused to give into fear, he wasn’t that kind of man, so he swallowed all of the nagging thoughts and apprehensions as he came up to the dark foggy windows and the iron cast door. It felt strange turning his key in the lock without the weight of you in his arms or the sticky peach kisses you left down his jaw and neck, the smell of the vanilla in your hair and lavender on your skin.

The second thing that sent a jolt of white hot electricity down his spine was Mary, watching him anxiously and wringing her hands in the hallway. Usually, she was calm and collected, taking his jacket and leather travel bag with her signature placid smile and gentle fingers. Usually she would return to the kitchen and finish up whatever she was making - a hearty roast lamb with rosemary and garlic and glazed potatoes or a pheasant pie with honeyed carrots, always followed by a three layer chocolate ganache cake that was so thick and rich you practically had to saw through the sponge. She would always have dinner piping hot and dripping with gravy by the time the two of you returned downstairs, no matter how many hours it took for you to get... reacquainted.

Now she looked sheepish and pale, her skin almost translucent under the syrupy yellow lights. There was something about the way she stood, as still as a wraith, that made his blood run cold.

“Mary. Where is she?”

“Mr Shelby, I - ” Her voice was strained and hesitant, like a slowly fraying rope.

“Where is my wife?”

She moved forward, creases forming around her eyes. “We tried ringing you in Liverpool but the hotel said that you had already left, so we...”

“You rang me? Why? What’s happened?” He couldn’t hold back the desperation in his voice, and it lingered and festered around them both like a poisonous gas.

“Mrs Shelby came down with something a few days ago, we thought that it was just a common cold but unfortunately she seems to be getting worse.”

He tore upstairs before he could even think, his shoes leaving perfect muddy footprints on the cream carpet. He almost slipped at the top, and he lurched forward, his hands reaching out and holding onto the portrait hanging above the stairs for stability.

It was the oil of the two of you. A soft, personal picture that revealed more than he ever possibly could. The love in your gazes, the hint of a soft, drunk smile on the dangerous gangsters face as you leaned into him, melting into him like butter, him holding onto you as though he couldn’t bear to let you go. It was his favourite photo, one that always washed a sense of calmness over him, a reminder of the woman that he loved and the way he felt around you. But now he felt as if was riding out a terrible storm.

He lived his life with no fear, he was capable and practical and used to the sound of bullets and the copper sweet smell of blood. There was really only one thing, one terrible thing that he couldn’t control, and that was what drove him crazy.

Sickness.

It gnawed at his insides like a rabid dog, clawed under his skin and settled behind his ribs. Losing someone he loved was like ripping out a piece of his heart straight from his chest, and he knew better than anyone what it was like to lose somebody to a violent, quick death - the pull of a trigger or the smack of a fist. At least in those moments he could lock them away in his mind, he could leap in front of a bullet or crack the neck of any man who dared to get too close to you, but there was almost nothing he could do to stop sickness, and the devastation it caused.

When you first met him it had been a surprise, almost amusing, that this powerful God of a man had these small little quirks. His house was always sparkling clean and smelling of Lysol, his fruit bowls were filled with citrus fruits and round, plump blueberries. He always made sure you were wrapped up warm in the winter, always placing his coat around your shoulders and bringing an extra pair of gloves in case you forgot yours. It was adorable, the way he took care of you,

It wasn’t till a little bit later when you learnt of those he had lost. His mother and his childhood sweetheart taken away from him much too soon. It broke your heart when he told you late one night of the sallow tint of their skin and the way he could almost see them vanishing from earth, the way that illness had moulded and changed those he loved the most.

You understood.

Your best friends older sister had died of tuberculosis when you were young. The elderly woman across the street from your first flat had passed away from a bout of horrendous smallpox. Your brother lost his first child to pneumonia. Times were changing but the fear of disease was ever present. Medicine was improving and so was knowledge, but still there remained a huge, dark cloud of what could happen, one that always hung around your husbands head.

——————————————-

All Tommy could think was the worst as he ran through the landing. His heart was in his ears and his bones felt loose, like the sweet liquorice the two of you would share at the pictures. He came to a stop by the bedroom door, tentatively pressing his palm onto the wood and ever so slightly pushing it open, listening to the gentle creak it made.

The room was warm. The lace curtains were pulled shut, and your favourite lavender candles were flickering on your vanity, casting syrupy shadows against the wall. He exhaled loudly as he saw you, bundled up under a mountain of satin sheets and hand crocheted blankets, your hair splayed across the pillows.

He moved to your bedside, pretending not to notice the large, untouched jug of water and the tissue box next to you, hoping and silently praying that you weren’t sick - just asleep and waiting for him, ready to wrap your arms around his neck.

You were silent, your lips parting every so often as you breathed, your chest rising and falling. He reached out gently, as though he was picking up shards of glass, and brushed his fingers against your cheek. Your forehead was beading with sweat, your cheeks flushed, and yet your skin was ice cold to the touch. He recoiled quickly, his heart dropping like a weight into his gut, and he inhaled a shaky, deep breath.

He saw something curled up beside your hands, a fluffy white cloud with sparkling emerald green eyes trained on him. Despite everything, he smiled. He thought of your birthday - of strawberry cheesecake and champagne, and surprising you with a ribbon wrapped little kitten as you woke up. He thought of that day often. How you smiled and leapt onto him with tears in your eyes, his whole world blissfully quiet as he spent the day in bed with you and your new best friend.

He would have preferred a big dog, one with sharp teeth and a menacing gaze to ward of visitors whilst he was away. But you were drawn to the tiny, malnourished runt of the litter who was scared of his own shadow. A kitten no bigger than the size of his clenched fist. A little white hairball who only ate and drank from fine pink saucers. A cat that had a very frustrating habit of crawling in the bedroom right as Tommy’s hand was up your skirt and his lips on the sweet spot of your neck, the tiny thing mewling and crying until you picked him up and nuzzled him into your chest.

He was a horse lover through and through, and never saw himself having time for any other pets. But in the summer when you saw the litter from one of John’s barn cats and fell in love with the sweet baby who mewled and cried and crawled right into your lap - he knew that he would give you anything and everything you wanted.

Including a cat who refused to accept that Tommy was the man of the house.

“Hello, boy.” He said, leaning over to scratch Comet under the chin, using a voice he only reserved for the two of you. “Have you been looking after my girl whilst I’ve been gone?”The cat meowed loudly in reply, pressing his head into Tommy’s palm but not moving from his spot beside you.

Tommy suddenly felt you shift under him and his heart lurched into his throat. He turned to face you, cupping the side of your clammy face as your eyelids fluttered open, blinking under the candlelight. A rush of red hot heat built up in his belly as you registered him, that angelic smile growing on your face, your tired eyes glimmering with recognition of the man you loved.

“Tommy?”

“Hi, Princess.”

You smiled sadly. “You’ve been gone for weeks - I missed you.”

He felt his brows crease as he rubbed along your jawline softly, trying to stop you from falling back asleep. He felt panic in his throat as sour as vomit, and he tried to bite back the nagging feeling that something was very wrong.

“No, sweetheart, I’m early. It’s only Thursday. I left on Monday.”

“Oh.” You said softly, your voice as gentle as the breeze rustling through the trees outside. “Well let me welcome you back properly - let me make you a lemon drizzle or a...” You lifted your head from the pillow and shuffled under your blanket, but he pressed his hands against your shoulder and held you down.

“No. You’re staying right here.”

“But - ”

“No.”

“Hmm. Don’t leave me, Tommy.”

“Never.” He said, his tone firm and cast like stone. He stroked your hair softly as your breathing slowed, but it didn’t nothing to quell the hard thump of his heart in his chest.

——————————-

Tommy left the room as quietly as he could after you had fallen asleep in his arms. He hadn’t wanted to move, not when you were pressed against his chest, looking ethereal but vacant, sweat beading under your brow and your face lacking colour. He wanted to stay with you, curled up by his side, his fingers laced through yours, the sound of your heart thumping in his ears.

But he was a man of action, and seeing you there - your lips cracked and dry, shudders passing through your body and goosebumps raised over your skin - he couldn’t fight the fiery urge to do everything in his power to make you feel alright again.

He found Mary waiting outside the door, chewing on the skin of her lips and swaying on the balls of her feet in anticipation. He grabbed her by the arm, harder than he meant to and something he would apologise for later, and pulled her downstairs, determined to let you rest whilst he got some answers. As soon as they reached the drawing room he spun her around, clenching his jaw and pointing a finger at the anxious maid.

“Where the fuck is the doctor? Why isn’t he here?”

“Mr Shelby.” She said, stepping forward calmly. “We phoned Doctor Moore and he came on Tuesday to see her.”

“Tuesday?” He seethed. “My wife has been ill since Tuesday and no one called me?”

Mary raised her hands in defeat, making it clear that the decision wasn’t hers to make. “He said it was nothing of concern . He gave her some antibiotics and told her to rest. She asked us herself not to call you, she knows how you.. worry.”

He ignored her sugar coated attempt to quell his anger, but if anything it made his vision darken. “When it’s my wife, It is always my concern.”

“Mr Shelby, we were just doing what we were told. As soon as we noticed she wasn’t getting better we phoned the surgery again, but Doctor Thomas was out for the day and said he didn’t think it was necessary to come round again, so we -”

“I don’t give a fuck. My wife is the number one priority. Ring every doctor in England if you have to, get somebody out here now to see my wife.”

He stormed away, anger pulsating through his veins, but he stopped suddenly, and threw out over his shoulder:

“And call Doctor Moore’s ’office. Tell him to expect a visit from the blinders soon.”

———————————————————

Once, when you were first dating, you found Tommy at the door to your flat at midnight, with scraped knuckles and blood dripping from his nose. You let him in, cleaned him up and sat with him in the bath until his skin was clear and his breathing was even. He knew that night, as you were pressed against his chest and his lips were pressed to your scalp that he was truly, madly and completely in love with you.

He remembered waking up the next morning, love drunk and blissful, and finding the bed beside him empty. He found you in the kitchen, wincing slightly and pressing a hot water bottle to your belly as you buttered a few pieces of toast. He rushed to your side with eyes as wide as saucers, concern lacing the features that were usually ice cold and hard as stone. You were completely baffled as he held you at arms length, his bright cerulean eyes trailing up and down your body for any signs of injury he might have missed. You were bewildered at the sight of the powerful man practically on his knees as he made sure you were alright, and you bit back a giggle as his warm palms spread over your abdomen.

“What is it? Whats wrong?”

“Tommy. Sweetheart.” You said softly, bringing his gaze level to yours. “It’s just - you know - that time of the month.”

He brushed off your embarrassment and ran his fingers through your hair, pressing a uncharacteristically gentle kiss to your forehead, sending a swarm of butterflies around the pain in your stomach.

“Do you need anything?” He asked, half ready to run down to the corner shop and buy any amount of painkillers or chocolate bars or your favourite lavender tea that you might need; not caring who saw the seemingly terrifying gang leader in the street with an armful of strawberry laces and salt water fudges.

You smiled like the summer sun and he melted, pulling you close as you whispered in the shell of his ear that you only needed him, and that was all you ever needed.

That was the first time you fully saw the extent of Tommy’s fear, but it definitely wasn’t the last. He knew he wanted you forever and always, and it took only six months of neck kisses and pillow talk, red hot jealousy and possessive hands across your skin and dancing in the rain and falling asleep under the pale yellow moon for him to put a ring on your finger. You were both consumed by your love, as though it was the only thing that mattered, it was insatiable and powerful - the wonderful mix of the devil and his sweet little angel.

And with that, came the good and the bad.

Like when you got food poisoning after Arthur cooked you a Sunday lunch to cheer you up whilst Tommy was gone. He came home to you retching over the toilet bowl with Mary holding back your hair, and swore that he would kill his brother with his own hands. Or when you slipped on ice and broke your arm while out with friends in London, and Tommy went ballistic and tried to ban you from ever leaving the house. It was just in his nature, how he always made sure you walked on the side furthest from the road, kept an arm slung around you whenever you were together, kept his eyes alert and vigilant no matter where you were - always looking out for his girl.

But he had never been like this.

———————————————————-

You were falling in and out of sleep. Waking up drowsy and heavy headed, squinting under bright lights, an ache in your skull and a burning in your throat. Every so often you felt a pinch in your upper arm, a squeeze on your palm, a kiss on your forehead - but you always drifted back into unconsciousness.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you woke up. The room was dark and you could hear the wind howling and whipping rain across the windows. You felt all too hot and all too cold at the same time, and the bed was damp with sweat. You struggled and tried to sit up, your head swaying and feeling as heavy as one of Tommy’s marble statues; as if you had been carved up and moulded. You could hear voices out in the hall, and unsteadily got to your feet, moving towards the noises.

“Pneumonia?” You heard through the thick wooden door, instantly recognising your husbands voice. “That’s impossible.”

“Sir...”

“Fucking. Impossible.” You knew his teeth were clenched.

The other man cleared his throat.“I know that it’s hard to hear, Mr Shelby, but your wife is very sick.”

“Just...” You felt your heart flutter and clench in your chest as the sound of his broken words, could practically feel his desperation and you wanted nothing more than to hold him. “Just tell me how to make her better.”

The second man spoke again, his voice softening and lowering, something you knew Tommy would hate. “Mr Shelby, the first round of antibiotics didn’t work and that means that it’s time for something stronger. Usually I would suggest the Birmingham hospital but I don’t think it’s equipped for...” He paused, trying to think over his words carefully. He wanted to convey the severity of the situation but also didn’t want to risk getting a bullet in his head from your very protective husband. “...This kind of reaction. I recommend we send her down to London for extra testing.”

“London? That’ll take two fucking hours. How the fuck can you recommend letting my wife travel that far? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“I’m my opinion this is the wisest choice to make, but unfortunately that could mean your wife might get worse before she gets better.”

“Worse than she already is? That’s not an option.”

The man you assumed was the doctor was insistent, trying his best to portray the severity of the situation but failing as your hardheaded husband had already come to a decision.

“I’ll look after her here. She’s safest with me.”

Once Tommy had spoken that was the final result, and the doctor slinked away into the darkness and shook his head. You remained peering from behind the door, your tongue between your teeth and your heart hammering.

Tommy took one look at you and frowned, scooping you in his arms like a baby despite your protests. He ignored you, acting playfully and cheerful but you could feel his heated skin and the see flare of his nostrils. You wanted to help him but didn’t know how, and let him tuck you under the covers once again. He kissed your crown and stroked your hair and you wanted to speak but no words would leave your mouth.

“You stay there this time. You know I have no problem with tying you to the bed.”

You rolled your eyes as he left, and his clenched fists and tightened shoulders told you all you needed to know.

————————————————-

Comet watched from his spot beside you as Tommy wrestled with the fire. He had noticed you shivering despite your high temperature, and bundled you up in blankets whilst sparking matches beside the fireplace. There were raindrops across his shoulders, evidence that he had been outside and to the log store right at the end of the property - a job that had always been for the Groundskeeper. Your precious cat nudged the tips of your fingers as you sighed and watched your husband throw kindling onto the coal, a deep unease settling over your gut.

“Tommy, my love, I’m fine.” It wasn’t exactly true but you felt he needed to hear it. But you could practically see your words wash over him and evaporate like ocean spray.

He was shaking a metal tin in his palm as he worked, and you groaned and let your head hit the pillow as he pulled out two round chalky tablets. You winced as he placed them beside your glass, your mouth already tasting like the sour talc medicine you had come to loathe. He raised his eyebrows and shot you a look that told you he wasn’t far off plugging your nose with his fingers to force you to swallow, and you childishly stuck up two fingers as you took them.

Your stomach rumbled with nausea and you bit back the bile in your throat as you settled into the pillows. You watched your husband as he pulled off his crisp white shirt, revealing his taut tan stomach and the deep ink tattoos that you loved to trace with your fingertips and your lips. There was something about him standing there, with those damn cerulean eyes and hidden muscles, that boyish hair and slender fingers that you wanted desperately around your throat, that made a million tiny fireworks spark inside of you.

But instead you pushed him away from you despite your body wanting nothing but him wrapped all around you. “Don’t get too close. I might have something contagious. I can’t have you getting sick.”

He ignored you, smiling inwardly at the way you always put others before yourself. It was one of the million reasons he had fallen for you. You were sweating out a high fever and shivering in pain, and yet you always thought of him first. He pressed his lips to your temple and pulled you closer, knowing that skin to skin was a way to bring down a fever - even if it meant he had to restrain himself from tugging off your pretty little white nightgown and whatever frilly things you had on underneath.

“I’m not going anywhere. Fuck it if I catch anything.”

“That’s easy for you to say. I’m the one who will have to dote on you hand and foot, you big baby.” You teased, pressing yourself into him playfully, finally giving in.

He held you like a child, trying to hard to soften despite the way you felt underneath him. Everything on him was running a mile a minute, and he couldn’t help but want to try everything and everything to make you feel better. His hand was pressed against your temple to always try and measure your fever, his other palm across your chest to try and count your heart rate.

He could hear Mary treading across the landing carpet but he ignored his anxious maid, instead letting himself be completely consumed by the only thing that mattered - you.

This was something he had to do by himself. He was the only one who could care for you he reminded himself. And he let the words tumble over and over in his skull until they were all he could hear.

—————————————————————-

You had been asleep for a long time.

Every hour, after pacing the length of the hall and sanitising his hands and wiping the beads of sweat above your brow and above your breasts he woke you up and held a cool glass to your lips. You mumbled and moaned and pushed him away but he kept his fingers across your wrist - harsher than he ever had before - and kept you as close to him as possible.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had cooked. Perhaps it was last valentines when the two of you had camped out under the stars, drinking icy white wine and sharing stolen, day drunk kisses. That night he had roasted a chicken over the fire and it had burnt to a crisp as the two of you rolled around the grass, his head buried in your neck as you giggled at the poultry going up in flames.

He was trying now though, easy, plain substantial meals that wouldn’t upset your stomach. Boiled egg and dippy soldiers. Crackers with smooth cheese. Bubbly water and ginger biscuits. Each time he went upstairs you pushed him away, your whole body shuddering and almost retching, and he felt like smashing the plates against the wall at his defeat.

It had been almost thirty six hours since he had come home and it had been almost as long since you had eaten something, and his heart thundered and shattered in his chest when he found you gasping and wheezing over the toilet bowl when you had taken a bite of toast to calm him. He rarely left you alone, only for a few minutes to put the still full dishes in the sink, to ring Lizzie and tell her that he wouldn’t be coming for reasons that he refused to disclose, to smoke a cigarette under the grey stone archway, his shaking hands and bitten fingernails barely visible through the sleepy rolling fog.

He had grabbed handfuls of papers and the brass ink pen you had got him for your anniversary and broke his own rule - bringing work into your bedroom. It had always been a sacred space. For candlelight and soft laughter, aching hands and heart shaped bruises, a sanctuary for him to breathe and to love and to be loved fully in return. But he was afraid if he didn’t have a distraction, he might just completely lose it, and he had to be there for you.

So he sat squinting in his glasses, the room almost completely dark save for a few candles because of the migraines that had started to spread throughout your skull, and let himself be drawn into the mess of squiggly lines and numbers that suddenly didn’t add up, with you still centre stage in his peripheral.

After about forty minutes of rereading the same sentence a dozen times to try and make some sense of it, he heard your voice, like a small crack spreading across a sheet of ice, coming from the bed.

“Tom?” You sounded so weak, he practically flipped your cream vanity as he got to his feet and darted towards you. “I don’t feel well.”

He lifted you as you reached your arms up at him like a child. He almost gasped at the sweat pouring from your body but didn’t want to scare you, and instead held your shaking, shivering body against his own. How could you be so hot, yet so cold at the same time? Your skin was prickled with goosebumps yet you were burning with a fever, and for the first time in a long time, he had no fucking idea what to do.

He left you propped up against the headboard and he entered the bathroom. He ran over to the claw foot tub you loved, twisting the faucet and trying to find the perfect medium between boiling hot and freezing cold. He didn’t want to overwhelm you, just try and soothe your raging fever, and he ignored the shelves of expensive bath oils and scented soaps that you coveted, instead opting for a handful of something meant to ease tension - praying to whoever was listening that it would help you somehow.

There was a brutal, awful moment as he lifted you from the bed, limp as a rag doll, where he imagined what would happen if your heart were to stop. He couldn’t comprehend what it would be like to miss the weight of you in his arms, the smell of your skin, the feeling of your lips against him, the shovels stopping and fading into nothing. It hit him square in the chest, as merciless as a bullet, and he had to lean against the doorframe to stop the two of you from plummeting to the ground.

He undressed himself first. Tugging his white shirt off, sliding off his slacks and his underwear, keeping you as close to his chest as he could. Then he pulled your nightgown up and over your head. He gathered your hair and secured it up with a claw clip so that it was away from your face, the heat radiating off your neck as fierce as the fire now burnt down to ash in the bedroom.

He lowered the two of you into the bath, sinking down beneath the eucalyptus smelling lukewarm water, letting it wash over you both. Your teeth were chattering and you were barely awake. He gathered handfuls of water, letting it drip over your shoulders and pulse points, grabbing a washcloth and running it over your raised skin, hating how you barely registered his touch. As he scrubbed over your collarbones and up to your face he saw your lips had turned to an awful, silvery blue, as vibrant as a fresh bruise. He hissed and tugged on the plug, now determined to get you wrapped up in a fresh towel and tucked back into bed.

You were soft and placid and he helped you out, lacking the usual fire that he adored. Your eyes were glassy and missing their vibrance, like the vanishing spark of a lighter - and he felt miles and miles of invisible distance between the two of you. You were unsteady on your feet and he used his body to prop you up as he warmed your arms with a fluffy white towel. You suddenly stopped, lifting your hand to your mouth as you started to cough - a horrible, dry, gasping cough.

He noticed it almost immediately. His eyes darting to the splatter of red against the white, a smudge of crimson that was as loud and commanding as a siren, a warning signal that something was definitely not right. A bead of scarlet that would linger long behind his closed eyelids.

He managed to get you back into bed, remaining calm as he stroked your hair and kissed your temple. He tucked you under the duvet and waited for your breathing to even before he ran downstairs, his heart thumping in his ears as he practically ripped the phone off of the wall.

“Pol? Fuck. I think - I think I need help.”

—————————————————————-

The room smelt like bleach and metal. Unfamiliar and clinical. There was something hard on your chest and covering your mouth, it tasted like wet pennies and was as heavy as a hand over your throat, but for the first time in days you could finally breathe. You tried to sit up, but there was a needle in your chest, a gown you didn’t recognise cut straight down the middle to accommodate it. You struggled and lifted the thin bedsheet above your shivering torso, trying to look around the cold room.

“Careful!”

It was Polly, dressed immaculately despite her surroundings. She reached out and placed a manicured hand across yours, and you smiled at the woman who had always been a calming influence when you had joined the circus of a family. There was concern in her eyes, rimmed with black eyeliner and lifted lashes but still swimming deep around her pupils. That made you frown, and you moved as much as you could to face her.

“What happened?”

She ran her tongue over her teeth, choosing her words. “You gave us quite a fright, love.”

“I did?” Your memories of the past few days were much like a fever dream, blurry and distorted snapshots were all you could really remember.

“Your pneumonia got worse. A lot worse.” She paused, looking over to the door and you followed her gaze. “They found fluid in your lungs.”

“So...” You started, gesturing to the needle in your abdomen and the breathing apparatus around your head.

She nodded. “Yes. You were in surgery. It was touch and go for a little bit.”

“Really?” You were bewildered. You couldn’t remember anything, let alone having major surgery. You looked her straight in the eye, asking her the questions that had been on the tip of your tongue since you had woken up. “Where is he? Where’s Tommy?”

“He’s outside.” She clicked her tongue, reaching deep into her purse and pulling out some hand cream, gently rubbing your dry hands like she was your mother. You leant into her touch despite all of your questions.

“What? Why?”

“I think he blames himself. God knows what goes on in that mans head. All I really know is he was bloody terrified.” She paused, looking over in the distance. “I’ve never seen him so scared, not even on his wedding day.” She smiled sadly, trying to lighten the mood, but it soon faded. “He didn’t leave your side the whole time you were asleep.”

Your heart thumped in your chest, a soft aching that you knew all too well. “I want to see him.”

“I know you do. But right now...” She stopped right as a handful of nurses entered, clad in long blue dresses with white aprons, hair tied back and smelling of strong soap and disinfectant. You lost Polly in the bustle as one spoke softly to you before tugging on the needle right beside your ribs, your eyes just catching hers as she left, a promise to see you soon on her lips.

It wasn’t her you saw next, but Tommy.

The nurses had cleaned you up with wet flannels and bowls of warm soapy water. Your hair had been braided and your face washed, and walked you arm in arm over to the bathroom so you could relieve yourself. A skittish doctor followed after, his eyes darting across you and his touch gentle as he changed your dressings and took your blood - obviously under strict instructions from your husband, and despite everything, you smiled.

You were sat listening to the clock tick. A romance novel you had been given was dangling dangerously close to the end of the bed, but you were too tired to focus on it. You heard the door squeal softly, and the sound of familiar footsteps across the tiling, each small thud sending shockwaves across your spine.

“Tommy.”

He looked tired. Exhausted rather, as though he had been awake all the hours that you had been asleep. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was sallow and bruised. His clean shaven face was dark with stubble and his hair was ruffled and unwashed. You longed to reach out to him and cradle him against you, but he stood in the doorway, lingering like a ghost.

“Tommy?” You repeated, your voice almost a whisper, breaking his already shattered heart once again.

“How are you feeling, my love?”

You smiled softly, like spun sugar and sweet honey. No hospital bed or itchy gown could dull your infectious light. “Better now.”

He approached you almost cautiously. He settled down on the hard chair beside your bed and stroked a line down from your temple to your lips, his touch setting you alight like an electrical storm. There was a sadness in his eyes that reminded you of how he got when things were bad, and you willed him to come back to you. His touch was tentative and he inhaled shakily as you cupped his hand with yours, pressing a tender kiss to the inside of his palm.

“Don’t scare me like that. Ever.” He was stern, as though hoping his words would make it true. “I mean it.” He kept his gaze on your pretty face, trying his best not to stare at the harsh bruising on your delicate flesh or the sickly tone of your skin.

“Tommy I’m going to get sick, even you can’t stop that.” You teased gently.

“I can bloody well try.” His hands cradled your face, pulling you into him and kissing you fiercely, still mindful of the wires and tubes taped to your body. There was something about the tenderness and deep longing in the kiss that when mixed with your total exhaustion and love for your husband prompted tears to start falling from your eyes. You sniffled as he pulled away, concern dripping from his beautiful features, his powerful mind wanting to do everything and anything to stop your hurting.

“Hey, hey.” He said, running his calloused fingertips under your eyes and wiping your tears away. You leant into his touch and he kissed your temple, squeezing you even tighter into him. “You know I hate it when you cry.” He toyed with your hair and winked playfully. “Besides, all you need to focus on is getting better. You’re going to have to take care of me when we get home, this week has given me a fucking stroke.”

You rolled your eyes, kissing the inside of his wrist. “You’re a idiot, Thomas Shelby.” You blinked at the clock looming above you both, wanting to stay in your blissful bubble but also knowing that Aunt Pol would probably be in the vicinity harassing a poor nurse over your results. “You should go and find Polly, let her know that everything’s alright.”

He shook his head and nuzzled his nose across yours, an act so innocent that your heart dipped and swooped in your chest. “Later.” He said, breathless and consumed by you. Everything had been too much. Almost losing you had been harrowing, it had punctured him completely and he just needed to feel his girl safe and warm around him. He needed to know that you weren’t found anywhere.

“I just want to stay here for a while. Just me and you.”

You grinned. “Always.”

#tommy shelby oneshot #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinders oneshot #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby oneshot

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totally-original-artist · 2 years

Text

Candle

Day 8: Candle

Warning: Horror (no gore, just unsettling)

Characters: Beelzebub, Luke

Word count: 613

Luke stayed awake, sleep refusing to engulf him. The purgatory hall crew had decided to have a sleepover at the house of Lamentation. What made it worse was he had to share a bed with the twins of all people. They both slept on each side of him, claiming they didn’t want him falling off the bed. As if! The boy squeezes himself free from their grasp and gingerly climbs off the bed. I need fresh air. Immediately Lucifer’s words filled his head. ‘No matter what you do, stay in your room until morning.’ Luke didn’t think much of it, after all he only planned on going a short distance to relax, he told himself he’d be back in just a few minutes.

Grabbing a candle from the desk, he makes his way to the halls. The wooden flooring creaked with every step, paired with the dim light of the candle it created an eerie atmosphere. Luke could feel himself getting uncertain at this but shook his head and turned to look in front of him. I’ll just get to that corner then take a right, that’s all, nothing too difficult. He told himself. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, slow but hard, breathing slowing down, he continued. Just a few more meters.

But it wasn’t just a few, I should be at the corner by now. Luke pondered. He took another step, then another, never actually getting any closer to his destination. Ten minutes pass and his breathing becomes a little staggered, a shiver goes down his spine as he turns around. Shining some of the candle light down the hallway he stares in horror at what he sees, or rather what he doesn’t.

Gone. Everything. The shelf he had just crossed? Gone. Paintings hung right outside the room? Gone. The hallway stretched on and on seemingly into an endless void. Quickly turning around he tries to see the corner again, Gone.

Panic settles in as he breaks out in cold sweat, eyes wide he scans for anything familiar. I shouldn’t be here. Stuck in the middle he wonders where he should head. Both ends were equally unwelcoming. He turns, desperately searching for something, someone! At that point he didn’t care if it was one of the demons or not, anything was better than this place. Just as he could feel himself about to break he spots a silhouette on one end, relief spreads through. I’m free!

“Hello?” He calls out, and instantly freezes, fear snuffing out whatever little hope he had in him. The figure was definitely not anything humanoid. Just black wisps of something floating in the hall, it turned to look at him, or tried to. It had no eyes but he could feel its stare on him. Luke gulps and slowly moves back, alarm bells going off in his head, telling him to just run. When the thing starts showing signs of moving that’s just what he does. A scream rips through his throat, abandoning the candle he runs the opposite direction. Eyes shut tight, refuses to even take a peek at whatever might be behind him.

CRACK

Something broke to his left as Beel emerged. He wraps Luke up in his arms, picks him up and holds him close. “Don’t worry, it’s not real.” He whispered. Luke could barely hear him over the sound of his heart thumping and his sobbing. Hands clutching onto Beel like his life depended on it. Who would’ve thought that he’d be clutching onto a demon for protection one day? Needless to say, the angel refused to even step foot into The House of Lamentation for a good while.

Note: Expanding more on this, Luke basically never moved, he just stayed outside the door hallucinating. Beel broke the door down as soon as he heard the scream.

#obey me #obey me luke #obey me beelzebub #obey me horror #obey me fanfic #December Flashfic #unsettling #omswd beel #omswd luke

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auty-ren · 3 years

Text

Tainted Heart: Chapter 2

The Agreement (Western AU)

Pairings: The Mandalorian x Reader. Din Djarin x Reader. Outlaw!Din x Reader. (Reader is female/fab)

Rating: Mature

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Mentions of blood/injury. Cursing. The kid being adorable. The reader is his babysitter. Pet names. Teasing. Soft-core Smut (kissing, heavy making out, groping, dry humping, mentions of virginity/inexperience, a few touches, unintentional edging.)

A/n: Thank you guys for being so patient, I hope it was worth the wait! We’re finally seeing a little action. Enjoy babes. (gif by @javier-pena)

Tainted Heart Masterlist | My Masterlist

The wool was rough under your fingertips, a heavy dull gray that almost burned under the harsh tint of the midday sun. They were heavy, soaking with water and suds as you lifted them from the wash pan, squeezing what excess you could out of the fibers. A coo broke through the static that had filled your mind, numb with the monotonous action of wet, wash, rinse, repeat. The child stayed strapped in the high chair, peeking at you through white sheets you hung to dry, his inquisitive hands stretching out when the breeze blew white cotton out close, but just barely grazing the reach of his fingers. He babbled again at the sight of you, squealing when you threw the curtains of laundry away and broke the makeshift barrier between you.

He repeated the snarl you had given him, playful and disappearing between fits of smiles and giggles.

“Are you a monster, little one?”

He was meant to scare you, giving a growl that was far cuter than it was fearsome in his pretend game of monster.

“You’re too sweet to be a monster.”

He kicked his feet in excitement, gnawing at the bread you tore into pieces on the plate attached to his chair. He offered you a piece of it, forming unrecognizable syllables as he prompted you to take it from him.

You wanted to be selfish, to hide away with your newfound companion and keep him perched on your hip permanently. None of it should be temporary.

It had been years since your home felt so warm; since the fogged windows were lit with a bright, new life that fumbled over every surface. It was sticky, the feeling you had laying on your chest when you were woken to the sound of shrill cries; the ache in your tired bones all but faded at the tear-soaked smile that greeted you in the dim mornings.

Maybe you were just lonely, growing tired of the same life you lived each day when it was just you and Papa.

Maybe you had mistaken content for boredom.

And now it was unpredictable, a welcomed unpredictability.

You learned the hard way not to leave the little one unattended, even for a moment; not for a few measly seconds. The broken porcelain of an old vase had been enough of a warning, luckily it wouldn’t be missed and after you had cleaned up the mess, you could hardly notice any wrong had happened.

At least, your father didn’t notice.

But the child was just curious and his cries as he sat horrified at the pieces of glass surrounding his feet had been enough of punishment for the both of you.

This arrangement took too much convincing on your father's part.

He only wanted to protect you, but at this point, you doubt he was thinking straight. Your father had sacrificed too much to keep you safe; to carve out a simple life for you on the edges of the real world, to keep it from crushing your spirit the way it did his.

You assumed your father’s anxiousness about the situation stemmed from something you didn't think you could understand; loved ones lost long ago to the evil that had spread to your quiet town.

But there were some things that only time could heal and it seemed for him there was never enough.

He wanted to send ‘Mando’ packing as soon as the wounds stopped bleeding, and the sun lit up the morning sky.

But you convinced him otherwise.

There was no way he would've made it twenty minutes without hurting himself, more so since he had to care for a child. A child who you found very difficult to say no to, especially since he became such good company.

Mando could stay until he was healed. But there was work to be done.

Mando’s right arm had been wrapped in a makeshift sling, leaving his less dominant hand available to carry out whatever your father asked of him. Although you argued he shouldn't be working at all, both of the men disagreed with you. Papa decided it was only fair for him to work, to repay the debt he owed you.

You wouldn't call it a debt, but you kept that to yourself and let your father negotiate the terms of Mando’s stay.

There wasn't much argument, Mando would work odd jobs around your homestead, things that Papa was unable to do anymore, and things he hated to ask you to do; in return, he and his child would be allowed to stay until Mando healed. But there were conditions, terms that your father had laid out and would be considered law as he saw fit.

Mando would not be allowed to sleep in your home.

Your father made sure to bolt the doors once Mando had left after dinner, checking each of them before he could settle enough to try and sleep. A place was made for him in the barn, blankets and an extra pillow for him to sleep with, the least you could do for someone about to work your entire harvest for practically nothing.

The child would be allowed to stay inside.

Papa had gone into the attic in the early morning after he agreed to let Mando stay, and pulled down the old crib that had been yours once upon a time. You aired and cleaned all of the blankets and toys you had sorted inside of it, hoping that maybe they could get one final use before they crumbled from age. He slept in your room, just down the hall from where you and your father stayed.

You didn't like the idea of separating someone from their child, but your father insisted and Mando made no objection otherwise.

Your attention for the past week was wrapped completely around the fingers of a grinning child, smiling and keeping his curiosity at bay when he grabbed at anything within reach. He used unsteady legs, you being his shadow for the entire day; picking up the small toys that were left in his wake of discovery.

He was a healthy little boy, just barely big enough to explore some on his own, and he had the energy to prove it. There were only a few times he slowed enough to nap, sleep that weighed heavy on his eyelids as he crawled into your arms, puffing small breaths into the crook of your neck while he rested.

He refused to fall asleep alone, if his fingers weren't gripping yours with an unusual force he didn't allow himself to sleep; he just cried, wailed until you picked him up again, and finally settled when the sound of your heartbeat was within reach.

You couldn't imagine what this child has been through.

There were a few things only you and Papa had spoken about, conversations and theories about your guests, the stranger who slept in the loft of your barn, and his precious companion. Papa wasn't very sentimental towards them, he was gentle with the child and polite to Mando; but the sooner both of them had left, the easier he would sleep at night.

He repeated the same thing before bed, his voice shaking and eyes worrisome in ways you had never thought would come from him. You didn't protest, just nodding your head and trying to soothe the lines seemingly etched into his brow. You drifted off as he squeezed your fingers in his, tighter than he ever had before, and pressed a worried kiss to your hand.

“Do not trust him.”

You hadn't told Papa about what happened between you and Mando once he had gone to bed, and you'd keep it from him so long as you stay sane. He would never know about how much you thought about it, how part of you wanted something like that to happen again, how you wanted to feel that blossom of heat in your chest ten times over.

Papa was under the impression the two of you had never spoken and it was best it stayed that way.

He couldn't be a good man.

He had the scars to prove he was a fighter, most of the wounds old and standing out sharply against his skin.

You remember how they looked, how tender and soft the damaged flesh felt when you ran your fingers over it.

That doesn't just happen.

He carried a gun, and two more sat on the saddle of his horse. One fell from the pockets of his rucksack when you lifted it off the horse's back, the other a long rifle that was heavy and awkward in your arms.

You didn't tell Papa about that, you just hid them in the haystack of the barn and hoped he wouldn't find them.

But he was kind.

He hadn't spoken much, not to you. Maybe to your father but, he hardly looked you in the eye; his face was mostly hidden behind the brow of his hat and sometimes by the cloth he wore over his face when he worked.

Or he was cunning.

Maybe Papa was right, maybe the sooner they left the better.

You didn't want them to leave.

Mando wasn't like other men, he had an attachment; something you doubt most low-lives ever considered having.

And you wanted to know why.

The baby was squealing for your attention again, and he giggled loudly when you shifted him in your arms. Papa looked in your direction, watching the two of you sitting on the porch. You gave him a small smile, one he returned in genuine, with promise that reached the crinkles in the corner of his eyes. You busied yourself with taming wisps of the baby’s hair, for the hundredth time that day, soft curls that gently framed his face sticking out in every direction. He giggled again, his hands reaching out in curiosity as he curled his fingers into his palm and babbling away as you sat him on the porch floor. He took a few unsure steps, then taking the lead as if he knew exactly where he was going and you kneeled behind him ready to reach out when he lost his balance.

He made his way to the railing, stopping above the steps that led down to where Papa sat working.

He had bushels of food sitting at his feet; vegetables that had been growing in the fields you kept behind the house. It wasn't too impressive, just enough to suffice with a little leftover that was sold at the end of the season; but it took far too long to pick any of it when the time came.

After years of practicing medicine, your father had fumbled his way through becoming a farmer. Papa had already been working for a few days, and at dinner last night he gave Mando the task of starting the harvesting of the far-garden in the morning while he’d work what had already been picked.

Mando wasn’t much of a talker; he was polite, sometimes even kind when he spoke to you, but it was few and far between. He did everything asked of him, sometimes even more.

You had mentioned at dinner last night you were planning to wash laundry in the morning, gathering clothes and sheets and rags Papa unintentionally littered about the house. It was tiresome and took most of the day, the clothesline filled with garments that took hours to dry even on a summer day. The chill in the air wasn’t the problem at all this time, the heat was.

It was tedious to fill and heat the washpans, sometimes you’d think it better to ignore that step, but the constant cold on your raw fingertips told a different story.

You hurried to eat this morning, making sure the baby was fed and occupied, so you could begin filling the tubs for laundry.

But someone beat you to it.

You found both of the tubs were sitting out by the clothesline, filled to the brim with steaming water and the laundry stacked beside them.

Papa had been with you all morning, he couldn’t have done it.

You wanted to thank him, but it felt silly to do so, your cheeks getting warm with the thought like some smitten schoolgirl.

You had seen him one other time today, when he came in for some lunch, his boots kicking up dust that tracked from the back door into the kitchen. His pants were just as filthy from digging in the gardens all day, but his sleeves had been pushed up his arms, and his hands were still damp from when he had washed them.

At least he's not a slob.

You don't think he notices you, standing on the far side of the kitchen, quietly watching as he removes his hat, pulls down the covering on his face, and sits next to the kid. He checks on him with a ruffle of his hair, the baby babbling away with a grin on his face as he watches Mando stuff his mouth with some of the bread and meat you sat out for him on the kitchen table.

He ate in silence, quick and rushed as if someone would take it from him before he could get enough to be satisfied. You stood at the other end of the kitchen, watching him eat and interacting with his kid. He said something to him, something so quiet you barely heard it but you saw the way his hand brushed over the curls on his boy's head; just like you had been doing almost every day you watched him. He finished as he drank glass fulls of water, over and over until the pitcher was nearly empty.

His eyes are like saucers when he turns around to see you standing there, and his mouth opens and closes as if he was thinking of some defense.

Definitely didn't see you standing there.

You try your best to smile at him and move to ask him if he'd like more to eat, but he's gone. He grabs his hat from the table and mutters a thank you before slamming the door closed behind him.

It couldn't be easy with just one arm, nothing your father had given him was gentle and no matter how much he dismissed it, you could tell he was still in pain. Even with the medication given to him regularly, he winced at the slightest movement and was slow compared to your father.

You could barely see his silhouette, still moving out in the gardens and shadowed by the sun setting behind him. He takes a moment, sitting on his ass and looking up at the painted colors of the sky. Delicate pink and orange hues fill a blue sky, mixing until there is a symphony dancing above your heads, dusk settling over the land as everyone prepares for sleep. He stretches his neck from side to side, wiping his face with his sleeve with a huff and pulling himself back to his feet.

“He's a very sweet kid.”

Papa’s voice interrupted your watching, your eyes snapping over to him taking a seat in his chair, patting his lap, and asking for the child to join him. He waddled over, reaching up with grubby hands and squealing as he was lifted in your father’s lap.

“Why don't you take some time and wash up for dinner.” Papa insisted, nodding towards the door as he settled the child on his lap. “I’ll call for you when it's ready.”

“Nonsense,” you sigh, standing up with a smile and turning towards the door. “Someone has to help you.”

“And that someone has to be you?” He’s grinning, nothing evil or malicious; mostly playful, with just a hint of mischief sparkling in his eyes.

Your earlier intentions of dinner are forgotten as you lean against a wooden doorframe, the aged wood scratching at your arm when the sleeve of your dress is pushed up. You watch Papa coo at the child, patting his head with careful hands as the toddler yawned and laid against his chest. Your feet ache as you look down at the worn boots you wear, the leather cracked and crumbling from age at the soles of your feet; they throb as you roll your ankles, switching your weight from one foot to the next until some of the pain subsided.

It’s just your breathing for a moment, the simple, rhythm rise and fall of your chest; occasionally dueted with the squeak of Papa’s old rocking chair.

“Looks like I'll need help taking this into town,” you gestured to the bushels sitting at the edge of your porch steps, cutting through the silence with a huff of your breath. “Kuill will be excited to see everything we've got for him.”

“Has he said anything to you?”

He took you by surprise, the change in subject hitting you with a force that had your chest seizing up. How pitiful you felt, your heart racing at the mention of a man who probably didn’t remember your name.

“No,” you offer meekly, hoping your father didn’t notice the change in your pitch. “Why?”

“He’s hardly spoken a word since he's been here.”

He rocks his seat back and forth in a steady motion, gentle as the baby in his arms drifts into slumber.

“Maybe he likes to keep to himself.” You shrug, moving to lean against the porch railing and face him.

Your father considered your reasoning, his brows knit with heavy thought and a frown set on his lips.

“Or he's guilty of something.”

There’s something you barely catch in Papa’s words, something like malice but with less bite as the words hit your ears.

“It's only for a few more days,” you pick at the splintered wood under your hand, the edges rough and pointed as they press deeper into your palm. “We'll manage.”

Papa nods his head, patting the baby’s back as he sleeps on his chest; his limbs stretching for just a moment before he settles back to sleep. You run your hands along the child’s back, soothing the tired grumbles that fell from his lips. Leaning forward, you pressed a kiss to your father’s temple, squeezing the free hand he had perched on the arm of his chair.

“You know they would've died if we hadn't helped.” You whisper it into his hairline with another kiss, turning to head back inside before anything else is said.

You keep quiet, somehow afraid of speaking nightmares into existence. They were safe for now, healing and resting what little they could on your farm. A stranger and his baby that dug tiny holes in your chest that you doubt were closing anytime soon. Part of you feared when the time came, you wouldn’t want to let your precious companion or his father go.

“I know.”

An intake of breath is all he allows.

He says nothing, and his face is blank, staring in front of him with discipline as your father digs into his shoulder again. His wounds are still tender, pink, and fresh against his tan skin but he doesn’t even wince; there's barely a twitch in his eye, and the shaking push and pull of his breath is the only indication he felt any of it.

He does groan when your father pours alcohol over it, remnants of blood washing away from the openings in his shoulder, thrown away stitches sitting on the cloth with your father’s tools.

You didn’t ask how his stitches had broken, you could only assume it happened today while he was working, and it was almost dinner before you noticed the tint that had stained his shirt red.

You hold the child a little closer in your arms, turning his head and busying him when he reaches out for Mando.

The painting hung mounted on the wall, just low enough it was about eye level with you and the child. You pointed to flowers caked in oil paints, their colors faded from years of the sun that breached the windowsill. He cooed as he followed your lead, tracing the petals with his fingers until he gave a big yawn.

You placed a kiss on the top of his head, the soap you used to wash him earlier still lingering on your lips as he laid on your chest. His blanket wrapped around him, the wool warm and green as you kept him snug in your arms.

“It’s time to say goodnight.”

You stayed at the threshold of the kitchen, Mando’s back turned to you as your father put new stitches into his shoulder. Papa paused for a moment, nodding his head in your direction until Mando turned his profile murmuring a ‘goodnight’ to the baby in your arms. He looked at you as he said it, something pulling deep in your belly as his eyes bore into yours; almost black in the darkness and twinkling from the light of your father’s lamp.

Papa cleared his throat, pulling your eyes towards him as you felt heat rush to your face.

You hoped he couldn’t tell, that you didn’t look as flustered as you felt. When didn’t bring it up later, once the two of you were alone and everyone had gone to bed, you felt the pressure that built up in your chest dissipate. He went right to sleep, snoring loudly beside you while you laid wide-eyed and staring at the ceiling.

You're not sure what time it is, or how long you have been ‘asleep’ but everything blurs; your mind racing too fast for your drooping eyes to catch any sort of rest.

You laid warm beneath woolen covers as you watched the windows tint with fog, the barest hints of a cold breeze slipping between the cracks and leaving a chill in the air.

It must be very cold out in the barn.

You wouldn’t entertain the idea. Mando was a grown man, he didn’t need you to care for him or coddle him like he was a child.

Staying in bed was the right decision, but decision making was never your strong suit.

The doors to the barn looked wicked under the dim moonlight, tall and intimidating as you reached a shaking hand out to them. They groaned as you pulled open, the track they rested on squeaking and shrill in the quiet night.

You just hoped he was a heavy sleeper.

You carried the two blankets you had been washing just this morning, something Papa kept around for emergencies; thick, wooly blankets that were itchy and coarse on your skin.

They were better than nothing.

There was only one lamp lit, everything mostly covered in shadow save for the few feet of orange glow coming from the middle of the room. Hardly any sound in the air, nighttime completely dead save the occasional grunt and snort of the horses sleeping in their stalls. His belongings sat stacked in one corner, next to the makeshift bedding you had left in here just over a week ago. They were in a neat pile, a shirt and coat, his hat, the cloth he used on his face, and his holster.

He was nowhere to be found.

You put the blankets on his bedroll, hoping he would connect the dots whenever he came back. The hay crunch underneath your feet, even with your attempt at tiptoeing through the barn. You pulled the knitted shawl you wore tighter around you, shivering from the chill that seeped from cracked insulation in the walls.

You hadn’t even stood up before you jumped under the sudden baritone of his voice.

“Where are my guns?”

The chill that ran down your spine wasn’t from the cold, but rather from accusation; deep, rich words that dripped from his words and held no real malice.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” You offered over your shoulder, slowly turning to face him head-on.

His arm was still in a sling, fresh bandaging that stood stark white against his worn clothes. He looked almost handsome in the orange hue of an oil lamp; his eyes bright even with the exhaustion pulling at his cheeks, his lips pouting and curls sticking out at his neck as if you had woken him in the embers of early morning.

“I know you didn't take them,”

He walked towards you, each step he took followed by your retreat until your back landed against the wall with a thud. Your eyes never leave him, never daring to break your stare even as your hand scrambled for purchase on the smooth wood at your back.

“So where are they?”

You counter him, thinking you're clever with a smile and a half-concocted comeback, batting your eyes when his lips quirk in response.

“How do you know I didn't keep them?”

He laughed, amusement hiding behind the rich color of his eyes and biting with the sparkle of his teeth.

“I doubt you've ever held a gun in your life, sweet girl.” His voice lowered at your pet name, sinful words that swirled at the base of your spine until you squirmed.

“I know you didn't take them.”

You take a deep breath, your cheeks burning when his hand comes to rest beside your head, his body coming just a hair closer until you feel pinned beneath him.

“I hid them.”

His eyebrow arches, questions stuck in the back of his throat that filter into one word.

“Why?”

You fiddled with the loose thread of your gown, wrapping the line excess around your finger until it pinched at the tip. Your ears thumped with the sound of your heartbeat, loud and racing as Mando drug his hand from your shoulder, across your neck. He cupped your jaw, squeezing your face in his hand for just a moment.

“You afraid of me, sweet girl?”

His voice rumbled, deep from his chest as he drags every word from smirking lips.

“Don't call me that.”

Any bite you had laced in your words was betrayed by the way you leaned into his touch, sighing when his fingers scratched at the hairs on the back of your neck.

“Yeah?”

His lips were gentle, chapped, and sweet against yours with a tender kiss.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

You kissed him this time, testing the waters with a playful nip to his bottom lip; earning you a chuckle before he consumes you. Your lips slot lazily together in a clash of tongue as you taste one another, slow and sensual until your fingers thread his hair, tugging until he growls into your kiss.

“Thank you,” His breath puffed on your cheek, warm and wet on your skin as he trailed kisses over your face and neck. “For taking good care of my kid.”

“He's a sweetheart.” You huff out the words around a smile, your fingers tugging on Mando’s curls.

You almost moan when nips at your throat, his teeth leaving a mark on the juncture of your neck until he groans at the salty-sweet taste of soap on your skin.

“And you're beautiful.”

He steals the breath right from your lungs, gasping in between the short moments when his mouth wasn’t molded against yours. His hand on the back of your neck kept you pressed to his chest, your fingers ghosting over the stitches you could feel through the thin material of his shirt.

His leg was firmly pushed in between yours, his body supporting most of you as he hitched your leg to rest over his hip. The muscle of his thigh flexing when you barely rocked your hips against him. The cotton material of your nightgown did nothing to hide the feeling of rough denim on the softness of your thighs, scraping and molding red indents from the back and forth motion your hips made.

You nearly shout when he snakes his hand in between your bodies, cupping your mound while his fingers work against the bundle throbbing in between your legs; sparks of electricity shoot down to your toes and into the tips of your fingers with the slightest of touches. You ache against him, your body moving with him and seeking an unfamiliar end, a delicious coil in your belly that wound tighter and tighter with every swipe of his two fingers.

You’re panting, muffling pathetic whimpers against his ear while he mouths at the deliciously tender spot on your neck. You can hardly hold your head up, your mind swimming in a thick, intoxicating fog until the world blurred around the edges. You feel the build-up at the base of your spine boiling over, almost all-consuming to the point it tingles every nerve in your body with anticipation.

You grip his forearm until your nails leave pale, pink marks in your wake, and push him away to finally breathe again.

He is about the only thing keeping you upright, slowly he dropped your leg until you stood alone; his touches stopped, leaving a dull, unsatisfied ache that seeped into your bones. The sweat gathered at your hairline was annoying, tickling you to the point of discomfort until you swiped it away with the back of your hand.

“I don’t want Papa...”

You can’t think, nothing on the forefront of your mind coherent enough; like you were hopelessly lagging while your thoughts raged and laid stuck on the tip of your tongue. You squeeze your eyes shut, rubbing your temple with your eyes opened, and find Mando looking right back at you.

If your father woke up to you gone, you’re not sure what he would do, other than assuming the worst.

And you certainly didn’t want him to catch you in the barn, not like this.

“I-I don’t…”

His eyes were almost gentle, sharp and consuming as always, but kind behind the harsh set of his brow.

He brushes pieces of your hair behind your ear, his touch still burning as it did before but with half the intensity felt a few moments ago.

“Go get some sleep.”

You collect yourself, pulling the shawl on your shoulders tight as you tuck your hands underneath your arms. He steps back once you regained composure and watches you even as you walk away.

You only make it a few steps before he calls after you.

“Tomorrow?”

There’s a hint of something in his voice.

Tease? Promise? Flirt?

Something that pulls harsh at your little heartstrings he had wrapped around his finger.

“How'd you like to go hunting?”

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Tainted Heart

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