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bush-viper-cutie · 3 years

Text

New Student, New Friend

Pairing: Young Snape x french!reader

Word Count: 2,751

Request: #1 “Hi! Can I request a young!Snape x french!reader where the reader's transferred from beauxbatons and isn't fluent in english/has a thick accent? Love your work!!”

#2 “Hi hi! Love your work! Can I request Young Snape x French reader? Sorry if I dont speak well, english is not my first language <3”

Warnings: none

A/N: Hello everyone again! :D I combined both requests because they are pretty similar so enjoy!

Posted: 9/10/21

Masterlist

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~*~*~ = time skip

(Y/n) = first name

(L/n) = last name

~*~*~

~*~*~ = POV change

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~*~*~*~*~ *~

There was a strange static in the air this morning, one Severus couldn't quite place. He brushed his long hair back behind his ear and listened in to the hushed whispers of passing classmates.

"...Beauxbaton, can you believe it?"

"Nice to not know someone for a change - "

Beauxbaton? Severus gathered they were talking about a new teacher perhaps? Although it wasn't that odd to get new professors in the middle of the school year. Just last year the Dark Arts professor was promptly replaced when he went mad after a spell backfired on him; In fact, every year there was a new one.

It was strange that the new teacher should be a transfer from another school such as Beauxbaton... Maybe they were fired and no one else wanted them, must be down on their luck. And if that is the case, how very fitting for Hogwarts, home of inadequacy.

Severus, still deep in his bitter thoughts, almost tripped over the shoe that had extended out in front of him. He caught himself and whirled around angrily. "Watch it!" he growled, straightening.

James Potter smirked. "Oh, Snivellus. Didn't see you there.” His Gryffindor friends snickered behind him, bolstering his ego. "I'd get along to class if I were you. Wouldn't want to be late on your first day back."

Severus grit his teeth and did everything he could to not growl his displeasure of being in so close proximity to the pinnacle of mediocrity that was Potter. It had been a week after winter holidays had ended but after another nearly fatal encounter with Black, he’d been forced to stay in the Hospital Wing un-zippering his mouth and a couple of fingers before being allowed back.

The memory of the experience made his knees weak, making keeping his riled demeanor that much harder. He was lucky he'd had the foresight to cover his nose before Black unleashed his hex. It wasn’t a quick run from the lake to the nurse, and he certainly wouldn't have made it with his nostrils zippered together as well.

"Mind your own business, Potter." Severus spat out his name like rotten apples, furrowing his brows in an attempt to seem more threatening however he could not help but notice the hallways getting emptier by the second. He knew better than to get caught alone with Potter.

He laughed and turned to catch up with his friends. Severus watched him go, only relaxing his shoulders after Potter had rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight. The hall was empty.

He turned and continued down the corridor when his hearing perked at the scuff of loud footsteps. He whirled around, hand plunging into his robes, but it was too late.

"Levipeds!"

Severus' head snapped back as his feet whipped out from under him. He hung limp in the air, watching his wand roll away on the stone floor. His hair nearly touched the dirty ground.

James laughed. "Welcome back, Snivellus!"

He closed his eyes as his boiling blood rushed to his head. He was hanging upside down in the air, alone in the empty corridor. He couldn't scream for help, he'd just get yelled at for disturbing lessons, and he couldn't reach his wand - as long as his limbs might be, his wand might as well have rolled down into the dungeons. He'd have to hang there until classes were over or one of the portraits decided to help him out for once.

"Eh... Excuse moi?" A quiet voice wrapped in a thick French accent broke the silence.

His eyes flew open and stared straight into the face of a beautiful but completely unfamiliar student. She bent down low to meet his eyes. She must be the mystery person from Beauxbaton, the new student as it turned out.

This was worse, so much worse than being caught by anyone else in the school - except for a very select few. Severus looked around in search of anything that might make this all less embarrassing.

"You need help, no?" Her voice was more confident this time, laced with a hint of friendly amusement.

"Uhh..." He met her eyes and hoped this new student would excuse his red face to be due to all his blood rushing down.

She straightened and pointed behind him. "This is your wand? I'll give to you?" His wand was in his hand with one quick flick of her own.

His eyebrows automatically shot up at her use of nonverbal spells. "Thanks," he tried swallowing but ended up coughing. He covered his mouth and performed the counter-hex, dropping to the floor with a grunt.

She rushed forward, looping her arm through his and helping him up to his feet. She laughed and dusted the dirt off his back while he stood paralyzed.

"Better, no?" she smiled, facing him a foot from his stiff figure. "I'm new seventh-year transfer... And you?"

For a moment his mouth opened but no words flew out, and then all at once words poured out as fast as if under a curse. "I'm - oh - yes you're from Beauxbaton, right? Yeah - er - yes, seventh-year as well."

Her hands flew up and she waved them in front of herself with a laugh. "Slow please!" she laughed again. "One more time?"

Severus gave an awkward laugh that matched hers and nodded. "I'm also a seventh-year."

"Oh!" she held out a paper and pointed down to the class he was late for. "I am so lost! You help me now? Oui?"

She smiled up at him and his heart nearly leaped out of his mouth. He nodded quickly, "Yes - er - oui, I'll help you... Actually, that's my class too..."

"Oh!" Her smile widened, "I need partner for the class! You have one?"

For once Severus thanked his unlucky past self. His time in the hospital wing all week meant everyone would be already partnered up. "No, I don't..." his face flushed red again and he cleared his throat, looking away. "We could be partners?"

"Bon! Lead the way, partner," she motioned for him to lead, keeping a very close pace next to him as they walked. "I am lucky to find you, did not know anyone yet. You are only third person met!"

He gave her a small smile as they walked together, but he knew it wouldn't take long for her to find out his status at the school. Being a new student, he was sure she’d make all the friends she could ever want by the end of the day. Then she'd reconsider her luck after everyone tells her all about her lab partner, 'Snivellus'.

~*~*~

They made it to class late. The professor looked up and frowned, ready to tell them off when Severus' new ‘friend’ spoke up.

"Excuse us, Professor, I am new and got lost."

The professor sighed and waved his hand, giving her a pass. "And I see you're back Mr. Snape. Get to your seats, you'll both be working together - get moving."

The two back seats were empty and Severus was glad to be away from the front for once. His new partner set down her things, and as she bent to pick up her books Severus caught a glimpse of Sirius Black glaring at him from the front, a seat behind where Severus had been sitting the last term. Black had anticipated his return and was obviously annoyed with the change in seating.

"What may I call you, Mr. Snape?" The new student whispered, giving him her full attention despite the lesson continuing.

"S-Severus." He looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to him. He'd die of embarrassment if they started teasing him in front of her for daring to open his mouth. "And you?"

She smiled. "Severus Snape? That's a beautiful name." She looked back up to make sure their conversation was still private and turned back. She reached up and gripped his tie, pulling him towards her. She leaned and held a hand to his ear, moving her lips inches from his ear. "(Y/n) (L/n)."

Severus’ heart beat faster than it ever had before. The immense drumming in his ears almost made it impossible to hear her whispers. When she released him, he turned to look at her, feeling his face heat up either from proximity or from her warm breath flowing over his face. "(Y/n)... Good to know." He swallowed and realized he had not moved since she had pulled him towards her. He would have felt like an idiot if she wasn’t looking at him so playfully.

"You gonna kiss her, Snivellus?"

Severus pulled back quickly and clenched his jaw at Black.

The professor smacked Sirius' head with a roll of parchment. "Mr. Black, disturb my class again and I'll assign you an essay for every night this week." Severus smirked. "And you, Mr. Snape," the Professor smacked the board, creating a puff of chalk, "- will hand me your notes tomorrow before class - legible notes, might I add."

Severus nodded as the class snickered and turned away from (Y/n). The rest of the lesson went by agonizingly slow. Severus counted the seconds until he could run away to the library, away from taunting eyes. He hated himself for turning so red, but he hated Black even more for making him the fool.

~*~*~

You could tell the boy, 'Mr. Black', had embarrassed Severus greatly. He was hunched over his parchment, focused completely on the professor's words, and never once looking back up at you.

You read the words on the board but soon your eyes ventured down to look at the tall lanky boy currently trying to visibly shrink in his seat. The moment shared between you both still played on your mind. He had beautiful long lashes and deep dark eyes to match. It had been fun to see him so flustered over you, but the guilt of what you'd caused sat heavily on your chest. That boy had noted Severus had been in the perfect position to kiss her, which... did she kind of wish he had?... Just to see - for just a curious taste.

You didn't know what specifically was so alluring about Severus, but you could imagine yourself wrapped in his arms, pulling on his long hair, biting his lips, and hearing that deep voice of his purring for more. Something about him - or maybe everything about him - made you wonder how gentle those hands of his could be.

The bells rang in the distance, marking the end of the lesson. You packed your things and sat waiting for Severus to do the same. He was slow at first and then after a quick flick of his eyes up to you hurried along.

You stood at the same time and motioned for the door, scrambling to translate your thoughts into English. "Lunch now? We can sit together?"

People filed out of the class, which Severus watched closely before turning back to her and answering. "Look, this isn't the only time… I'm not someone to hang out with unless you like hexes and spells to be thrown in your direction."

You could see the hurt in his eyes, the way his brows furrowed, and his down-turned eyes filled with tears that wouldn't fall. Before you could bring yourself to respond, he sighed shakily, giving you pause.

"It's not your fault... I'll show you down and then I suggest you forget about being friends." He pulled open the door and held it open for you without meeting your eyes.

What could you say to him? You stepped out into the corridor, contemplating how to phrase what you were thinking when laughter pulled your focus.

"I see you've met our Snivellus." The stupid boy, Black, came forward talking to you but keeping his attention on Severus. He had long curly hair nearly as long as Severus' and was taller, with proud shoulders held in a loose demeanor that still made him seem important in some way. His eyes shifted to you, "Hope he didn't drip any snot on you while he tried for a kiss."

You scoffed, “You do not understand what you saw. Please leave us alone.”

“Love, maybe you’re not understanding me. For your own safety I insist YOU leave this sniffling slime alone.” Black took a step closer.

Severus pulled out his wand but held it low, at the ready in an instant. "I’m done with your games. Unlike you, you nitwitted tower troll, I have places to be." He finally glanced your way, "Excuse me," and made to leave.

Black blocked his way, laughing at the now pointed wand in Severus’ hand. "Go ahead, I’ll be glad if you finally get expelled for using wands in the corridors. Mine's not even on me."

You eyed the smirk on his face and the tiny shift of his hand towards his trousers pocket. Was that a lie then? Whatever the case, you had enough of this game too. "My friend, Severus, is showing me to lunch. We are going now." You stepped between Severus and Black, giving the taller boy an annoyed look.

"I’m telling you, be careful," Black chuckled. "He might try to kiss you again if you’re too nice."

You paused and stepped back, looking up at Severus, whose eyes were fixed on Black, staring daggers into him. You bit your lip and chuckled the same way Black had, finding a different kind of amusement than him in this situation. "I hope he will."

Severus' head snapped to you, his cheeks slowly going a light shade of pink all over.

Black made a disgusted sound and a show of his fake nausea. “Darling, I don’t think I understood you correctly. Check your dictionary and if that’s not the problem maybe your eyes.”

This boy was really getting on your nerves now. If you’d been back at Beauxbaton you’d’ve already hexed him into a soggy pile of starter yeast, baked him into the perfect Pain au Levain, and chucked him out the tallest tower window. “Move it,” you made sure your French accent coated the word heavily.

Severus’ hand wrapped around your arm, pulling you back. He kept his wand and eyes trained on Black but spoke to you. “Go down to lunch. I’ll stay here to have the chat Black so desperately wants to have with me.” He looked up again, “Let her leave.”

Black smiled, “That’s fine. Been meaning to ask how your winter holiday was after I last saw you.”

You turned to Severus, ready to protest when the door to the classroom opened, cutting Black off. You all stood very still and awkward, hoping to hide the atmospheric hostility that had been created.

The Professor locked the door with a flick of his wand and looked at everyone with concern. "Off to lunch, no need wandering the corridors. Now." He ushered everyone down the stairs, walking close behind in equal silence.

You reached the floor second to last, after Black and then Severus, and pulled on Severus' arm the second your Professor had turned towards the staff room. You kept your hand on him to make sure he didn’t decide to leave before you could talk to him. Before Black could step towards you to continue the ‘conversation’, other Gryffindor students pulled him towards a small crowd gathering across the floor. Whatever it was seemed to be of higher interest and he left with only single backwards glance.

You both watched him go dissolve into the rowdy group and suddenly the air around you shifted. Severus turned instantly, searching your eyes with an intensity you could almost feel. You blushed and slid your hand down his sleeve and lingered on his bare hand. Neither of you said a word but the electricity connecting your eyes and the comfortable silence that enveloped you both spoke volumes. "We could eat together, no?"

His eyes settled on your hand still on his until you let go. "Oui," he whispered with a smile pulling at his lips. “Lunch then.”

As you both walked on, he slowly crept closer with every step, making your shoulders brush against his arm. His pinky tickled the skin on your wrist, making you cough to hide a giggle as you entered the Great Hall. Your eyes flickered up at his and you smiled, seeing a gentle blush and an even gentler smile on his face.

~*~*~*~*~ *~

Masterlist

—-

General taglist:

@setsuna-meiou31

@severuslovebot

@bionic-otp

—–

629 notes · View notes

munamania · 2 years

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so like. i'm super curious. how do YOU think the friendship between robin and nancy is gonna start in s4?

ahaha hey i appreciate you wanting my thoughts on this. so keep in mind i really haven't explored the st4 story/theories beyond watching the trailers like once and sorta skimming thru what people say on here. so there's quite a bit of context i could be missing.

very short answer in case you dont actually want my whole rambly thought process about their characters and whatnot (sorry idk how this happened.) i generally agree with the fandom's understanding of them being somewhat bitchy/standoffish at first, but i do think some ppl take it to... an absurd extent... like it comes across like 'women can't interact without fighting/having a rivalry!’ like. they’ve now been described as a ‘dream team,’ there have been enough little moments (mostly from robin) that planted the seeds for them to interact later on, as well as their mutual friendship with barb. so like, this idea that they’re gonna entirely fail to mesh doesn’t work for me lol.

ok i realized i didnt fully answer your actual question till later in this rant so tldr: i think theres a good chance nancy realizes she doesn’t have anyone her age in hawkins that really gets her/what she’s been through once jonathan leaves and kinda awkwardly reaches out to steve and robin in some way. or, she gets pulled into the investigation of the creel house/asylum and she and robin just kinda. pair up. whether by choice or not, really idk which to expect.

generally what i gather from them is they're both leaders. they're very intelligent. we've seen how bright and clever robin is, and nancy is dedicated and similarly smart. a lot of people think they might butt heads, and i think that's possible, but i think it could absolutely be in a way that motivates each other? like i think they could challenge each other’s thoughts and push each other. which would be really advantageous in investigations and whatnot.

i mean, something people overlook in considering them is how theyre...... i don't want to say foils, but like right we have these lines of robin assuming nancy's a priss. she's not like your other friends, and not like nancy wheeler. i think there's a more vulnerable side to robin that we see in that coming out scene, and she might feel insecure in how she relates to other girls/her peers in general? particularly in the 80s. and especially seeing nancy as this pinnacle of a high school cliche, i could see it being a point of discomfort.

meanwhile nancy. well, nancy kinda wants to reject traditional suburban ideals and all, while still absolutely living in the comfort of it (hence the whole jancy fight in s3). i think she needs someone that challenges her and makes her sort of uncomfortable in this. LIKE. im not explaining this well. i don't think robin's throwaway 'priss' line is totally accurate and it'll be really interesting to see that explored outside of the mall battle; at the same time, i think if robin brings that witty/sarcastic humor she had at the beginning with steve to the table, even a little bit, nancy would be thrown off by someone not immediately agreeing and going along with her plans/thoughts.

and that's a good thing imo! for the type of person she is, it obviously is good to have someone willing to collaborate and listen, since she cares so much about what she's doing and does the work to deserve to be heard. but i think a lot of growth could come from her being challenged by robin not always bending to her will. and i also think, given the time to collaborate, they’d both learn to appreciate and respect the others’ intelligence and perspective. that’s just my take.

so. the vibe i have in mind ignoring the plot for a sec. like. i think it'll be very awkward at first. what's interesting is they have a lot of assumptions about each other to break down. like, robin went from the whole priss line to witnessing nancy in the mall fight in one night. and while we don't have a huge indication of where robin is on nancy's radar, im willing to go with the popular fandom belief that she'd be a little confused about her relationship with steve at first. but wouldn't want to ask right away. or maybe she would. idk. point being, she's probably at least sort of on her mind. particularly with jonathan leaving. she seemed to only really be close to barb, and then steve (tho she had some walls up). she hung around tommy h and carol, and ig there's a throwaway line abt a girl named ally, but she doesn't really seem to have a lot of close friends. so like. it could be that she approaches robin at school, or even at her and steve at family video, bc she doesn't really have anyone else in hawkins that gets what she's been through. if not that, and she just floats along with acquaintances, then whenever they're introduced i think it'll be like something ive already mentioned.

rq im gonna dig into something i think a lot of ppl overlook which is what we got from rebel robin. i think she's supposed to be like 15 in it, so obviously she's matured a bit in current canon, but she's this very inquisitive and excitable and passionate kid. she seems to want a lot of answers that she can't always get. naturally likes a challenge. we know who else is like this. ANYWAY nancy also pops up in rebel robin! it sorta throws a wrench in the 'who are you?' line, bc as far as i remember, they acknowledge each other.

and a big one. barb was robin's best friend up until like 6th grade!!!!!!! robin absolutely remembers the girl who replaced her as a best friend (maybe that’s where some of the resentment lies? though it was a long time ago), and nancy was likely aware of robin as well, as unless they had some big falling out, im sure barb and robin were still friendly. there's a good chance they played together as young kids - it's a small town. anyway, they’re connected through barb. in theory at least, it’ll probably be nice for both of them to have someone who understands the grief of losing her.

um another thing about barb. im pretty sure she was gay. right. first of all, queer kids flock together somehow far before that realization, and like, the sulking after the fight with nancy? the fashion? idk. anyway, i really don't think nancy would've been totally thrown by barb if she ever had the chance to come out. it might've been something she had to learn about and sit with, but i personally think ultimately it would've been fine. i know some people even ship them or at least suspect a one-sided crush. so, this idea that she'd be a total dick to robin abt it just doesn't line up with me. also, like, if it's a popular fandom belief that mike is bi/gay, and it's essentially canon that will is, we've seen how much she loves them! im not saying a equals b, im just saying dont rush to say she couldn't ever get it. but also i think some of the thoughts of her being very clumsily supportive/taking time to get used to gay people could be very accurate lol. part of my reading of her does come from noticing some repression, as is natural with the wheelers in general.

we know one way or another they wind up exploring the asylum together. idk if this comes before or after the group goes to the creel house, but. at some point they must either realize they both have the same questions and team up, or are forced together after the group starts investigating. i think this will follow some sort of flow of what ive said before.

this is my understanding of the show and characters and dynamics and all, obviously some people read the characters in very different ways. im just doing my best with my perspective. can’t wait to see how right or wrong i am lol <3 thanks for asking if u read this far

#asks #anon #stranger things #ronance #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #im procrastinating can you tell #anyway. i very much love the like theyre besties theyre rivals theyre lovers theyre enemies etc etc dynamics #i just rlly went off the rails talking abt them. yall were bound to get my thoughts at some point ig

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coreychick · 3 years

Text

CHAPTER 15: The Scars

Part of the In the Dark Series: 18+ Smut & Story /Romance and Adventure

Din X Fem Reader Insert

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter / All Chapters

Just a reminder, I do not post warnings, so if you have triggers, this may not be a story for you.

A/N: I know it's been a while, but guess what, I'm posting two chapters this week! Woot woot! Also, we are reaching the pinnacle of our mysterious backstory in the next few chapters (all will be revealed), so the next few chapters are going to be slow coming as I work hard to get them just right. But please rest assured, I have this story plotted out all the way to the end- and we will get there! Thanks for reading.

A Long Time Ago

Mopping floors wasn’t the worst chore. Doing the laundry wasn’t the worst chore. Even scrubbing the dishes after dinner service for nearly eighty orphans wasn’t the worst chore. But having to sit through another one of Biala Den’s lectures on why running away was foolish and dangerous- well that was nearly impossible to withstand. Not because she’d drone on and on while you had to sit quietly and listen- though Maker knows that wasn’t fun- but because she was such a nice lady and she genuinely seemed worried over you. You hated the idea of feeling like a burden- to anyone, or that it might get her in trouble too. Knowing that she had fretted over your well being for even a short while, put a nasty lump in your gut. Honestly, you had thought you were doing her a favor this last time you had left. Just one less kid to worry about.

Sitting quietly through the lecture though, was a necessary evil. She prattled on and on about the trouble you’d caused and you found yourself staring out the window, trying to remember why it was that you came back in the first place. Biala Den thought you came back each time when you’d run out of food or could no longer withstand the elements, but that’s not really true at all. Sure, there were a few times when sourcing food was more difficult and your supplies were low, but you’d never been starving- always able to find edible vegetation in between bouts of protein. And, Bestine had one of the best climates in the galaxy. Though there was occasional bad weather, you had grown pretty adept at constructing fortified shelters in the wild.

You’d never admitted as much, content to let her think she had you all figured out, but the truth was, you’d come back when the loneliness became too much. Sometimes it would only take a few weeks and other times you could go for months on end, telling yourself that you didn’t need anything from anybody to survive, but eventually, a yearning for contact with other people would drag you back into civilization.

You’d continued to stare out the window, wondering if perhaps the connection you’d been craving couldn’t possibly be worth enduring that lecture for much longer.

Maybe I should get a dog. That’s it! A dog will be my friend, probably more loyal than any kid here anyway.

“ Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

“Huh, what?!” you said, as she snapped a finger near your ear, pulling you from your thoughts.

“You’re not a bad kid, I wish I could understand what you’re thinking.” she sighed, frustrated.

“Extra chores for the next two weeks, think you can handle that?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” you said.

She usually made you swear to never ever run away again, but this time, she seemed defeated, like she already knew it was temporary, and it wouldn’t be long before you ran again. It panged your heart a little to hear the defeat in her voice. It’s nice to have someone believe in you, especially when you can’t believe in yourself; and it’s not like you didn't try- try to make it work, try to look past the insecurities and overwhelming feelings that you just didn’t belong. There’s got to be something else out there, somewhere everything will make sense.

“I’ll try to make an effort this time, I promise.”

She nodded her head, though it was clear your words provided little reassurance for her.

“You know where your bunk is, we didn’t even clear it away this time.” she said, rising from behind her desk. “You may take a few moments to get settled, then head to dinner. You’ll be on dishes tonight, after.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” you repeat, before heading out the door and down to the hall to the girl’s ward.

There was the familiar clunking sound of your heels echoing off of the hallway walls as you entered the girl’s dormitory. You headed back to your old bunk, cringing when you saw that your former bunkmate was sitting on your bed. Folly Langra. She’d been about your height, same age too. She had fiery red hair that perfectly reflected her scorching temper- a temper you often found yourself on the receiving end of.

You gritted your teeth and took the last few steps toward the bunk. She was casually propped up on the bottom bunk- your bunk- with one knee resting over the other, bouncing her foot up and down as she flipped through a book. She didn’t bother to face you, but greeted you with her usual callousness.

“I’d really hoped you wouldn’t be back this time.”

That makes two of us.

You didn’t bother acknowledging her snide remark- never did in fact, and sometimes you think that made her hate you even more. She made no move to vacate the bottom bunk, and you didn’t make a fuss, because it only seemed fair that you forfeited your claim on it the last time you walked out the door- so instead, you just tossed your fresh set of clothes up on the top bunk and climbed up onto the thin mattress. The second you laid your head back, you felt a kick that radiated up from the underside of the mattress.

“Oops” she said, “foot slipped.”

You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to recall why exactly it was that you came back. There wasn't a lot that could be worth enduring Folly’s wrath for. In fact, she was the driving force on your most recent departure. She’d always been nasty to you, quick to jump on any opportunity to humiliate you in front of others or spew venomous words, but this last time, she became downright volatile.

A year ago, you had unknowingly started your period. Folly had caught sight of the small stain on the back of your pants and happily announced it to the entire orphanage at meal time. She relished every giggle and finger that pointed in your direction. You hadn’t given her the satisfaction of a reaction, choosing instead to silently excuse yourself from the table without eating and retreat back to your bunk. You were quite proud that you never let a tear slip in front of her, though inside, the mortification was deep. Thankfully, the snickers and teasing had died off pretty quickly. The older kids are so quick to move on to the next victim- always seeking the next distraction from their hopeless lives, the reality of their situation, the people they’d loved and lost, or whatever it was that they’d rather forget about.

It hadn’t been more than a week later, when you were down in the laundry, doing chores. You had spied Folly sneaking in with a white bundle in her arms. You stayed tucked around a corner and out of sight, happy to avoid any interaction with her. That’s when you noticed she seemed to be trying to conceal something. Curiosity got the best of you. You quietly stepped out and behind her as she began to fill a wash basin with piping hot water. A squeaky floorboard gave away your presence, causing her to spin around in surprise. She was frozen in place, speechless for maybe the first time since you’d known her. You looked down at the crumpled bundle of sheets in her arms and spotted a large blood stain. So she had bled through onto her own sheets and was trying to hide the evidence? Of course she was. As a bully herself, she knew well what others might say. You looked from the blood stain and back up to meet her eyes with your own. She looked at you and then squeezed them shut, her face clenched in preparation for you to rain down some verbal onslaught in revenge- after all, she had embarrassed you in front of the whole orphanage for the very same thing. But that wasn’t your way.

“Don’t use hot water- it’ll set the stain. Soak it in cold water first, then wash.” is all you said, before leaving the room.

It was your hope, that after extending that olive branch, Folly would see fit to leave you be from then on. But your hope was in vain. Folly seemed almost more angry after that day. Angry that she was reduced to your level. Angry that you didn't retaliate. Angry that you had something to hold over her head? Who knows. Maybe she wasn’t really angry with you at all. More likely, she was just angry at the world, angry at her Mother for leaving her in this situation. Most kids here who had emotional problems were just trying to deal. You were just an outlet for those frustrations for her- which is why you rarely fought back. That girl was hurting inside.

Now, in another attempt to find a companion, you had returned to the orphanage knowing full well that you’d have to deal with her once again.

Later that day at lunch, the cutest boy in the orphanage, Tuck Holdkerr had plopped his tray of food down right across from you. Tuck was a year older and had come to the orphanage after his Grandfather, who had raised him, passed away. He mostly stuck to himself, though you’d say he was one of the most popular kids at the orphanage. Everybody seemed to like him- including Folly. Most of the older girls could be heard giggling and whispering his name into each other's ears. But they were smart enough not to interfere. Nobody got in Folly’s way if there was something she wanted- and she wanted Tuck. If he knew it, he either pretended not to, or didn’t care. Maybe he was just that cool, but he really didn’t pay attention to any of the girls and the way they fawned over him. He was like that. Liked by everybody and either oblivious to it, or just indifferent.

It was a surprise then, when he sat down across from you - a kid who wasn’t liked by anybody. Honestly, you’d be surprised if he even knew your name. You’d looked around to see if maybe the other tables were all full- but no, there were empty spaces and other places he could have sat.

“Hey,” he’d said, with a broad smile on his face. He had beautiful clean white teeth and soulful eyes. You couldn't blame all the other girls for pining over him.

“Hey.” you’d said back, cautiously.

He’d picked up his fork and had started with his vegetables first- an interesting choice since every other kid always went for the protein first- you included. He’d caught your curious gaze.

“I figure it’s better to save the best for last, you know? I’d rather have the best food be the last thing I taste.”

Not sure what to say, you stayed quiet and poked your fork around your plate. It was weird. Normally you’d pick an empty spot, eat your meal in peace and move on. Occasionally, other kids would sit near you, but they rarely ever engaged in conversation with the ‘weirdo’.

“You’re the runaway, right?”

His question made you uncomfortable. For all intents, The Bestine Orphanage wasn't a bad place. The caretakers were kind, they actually educated the kids, and you could always count on three hots and a cot. Yeah, you’d come to be known as "the runaway"- something the other kids didn’t quite understand. Folly would often use it as evidence for determining that you were a ‘freak’.

“She lives out in the woods, no better than a rabid animal.” she’d say.

You sighed a little, hoping Tuck wasn’t about to deliver a similar barb.

“Yeah, I guess that’s me.”

“Is it true you live out in the forest?”

You shrugged your shoulders in response.

“That’s so cool!” he said, surprising you.

“You hunt for your food too?”

You looked around one more time, to see if anybody else was listening, to see if this was a trick of some kind, but everybody else seemed to be lost in their own conversations.

Is this really happening? Is he talking to me? He’s not weirded out by me?

“Gotta eat.” you’d said in response.

He’d swallowed down his last bite of vegetable mash as his fork speared it’s first piece of meat- fish. There was always fish to eat on Bestine.

“That’s so cool, what kind of animals?”

Wow, so this is what it’s like to have an actual conversation- with someone other than the caretakers that is- or Folly, if you could even consider those conversations.

“Fish- of course, squirrels, rabbits.... fowl. I haven't managed any big game yet. Need weapons for that.”

“Do you think you could teach me?”

“Teach you what?”

“How to hunt small game.”

“Why?” you’d asked, surprised.

“Because, you seem….free.” he said, catching you off guard.

Free? You supposed freedom was one of the best parts of living off of the land, but with that freedom, came loneliness. A steep price to pay.

“You think I’m free? ”

“Yeah, you come and go as you please, don’t have to answer to anybody- when you’re not here, I mean. What happened this time? Did they catch you again?”

“Something like that.” Not exactly.

“Man, I can’t wait to get out of here. One more birthday and I’m gone.”

This intrigued you.

“Where will you go?”

“I used to work on my Grandfather’s fishing boat, was his right hand up until he died. I could have kept it going on my own, but the authorities came in and said I was too young- took my boat away. But I’m nearly old enough now, nobody will mess with me once I get my boat back. I can’t wait to be out on the water again, doing my thing, won’t have to answer to anybody but myself, you know?”

You’d nodded your head, understanding. How nice it must be to know where you want to go, who you are and what you want to be.

“Yeah, I get it.”

“So, will you teach me? How to hunt small game, I mean? I know how to fish- better than anybody maybe- but I don’t know jack shit about hunting outside of the water.”

“Mr. Holdkerr! Mind your language, young man.” Ms. Biala Den said, having just walked by and overheard his last few words. He cringed and said, “yes ma’am, apologies.” She had a disapproving look on her face that quickly melted into a smile. He was like that, just had a way of charming people. Unfortunately, Ms. Biala Den had scolded him loud enough to catch the attention of a few onlookers. A foreboding prickle ran down your spine and you felt the heat of glaring eyes from across the room. Sure enough, you had caught the attention of one Folly Langra. If she’d had laser beam eyes, she’d have been drilling a hole right through your skull at that very moment, for talking to the object of her desire.

“So? Whattaya say? It’ll be fun.”

“Fun?” He wanted to hang out? To have fun?

You hesitated, knowing full well the type of misery Folly would put you through if you actually went through with this. But this was why you had come back, In hopes of making a connection.

He must have sensed your apprehension, because that’s when he hit you with the real clencher.

“Yeah, the kind of stuff friends do.”

Friends . You silently mouthed the word friends . How badly you wanted a friend.

You looked back at Folly, she sat at a table across the room, her arms folded across her chest as she tapped her fingers in wait.

A friend would be worth it.

You turned back to Tuck, his handsome face waiting to see what you’d say.

“Ok, I’ll show you how to hunt.”

“Yes!” he exclaimed, pounding his fist onto the table excitedly. You couldn’t help but smile at his reaction, maybe the first smile you could remember having there in a long, long time. A small blossom of hope took root in your gut then, nourished by the thrilling prospect of actually having a friend.

Folly had abruptly stood up from her table, turned to leave, dumping her food in the trash- tray and all.

Here we go. I’ll pay for this later.

You woke up fresh and recharged from a good night’s rest the next morning, despite sleeping above Folly’s bunk. You had anticipated dealing with her sharp tongue or repetitive kicks under your bunk all night- some type of retaliation for talking to Tuck- but she had been surprisingly quiet. Offputtingly so.

You had stayed up late the night before, running scenarios through your head, of what it might be like to spend time with Tuck. You imagined what things you might talk about, the things you’d teach him about hunting and the fun you’d have. You’d also thought about Folly and what hell she might put you through if she found out. Perhaps you could explain to her that the two of you were nothing more than friends? Yeah, like that will work.

You hopped down from the top bunk, your bare feet hitting the wood floor and noticed that her bunk was empty. You grabbed your toiletries from the bottom drawer of the shared dresser and made your way down the hall towards the freshers. When you passed by May, a girl four bunks down from yours, she let out a loud gasp- her steepled hands flying up to shield her face in shock. The expression she wore was both jarring and tinged with pity- for you.

“What!? What is it?” you’d said, patting around your face.

“Your hair.” is all she could muster.

You reached up and immediately felt a massive clump of solidified goo on the side of your head. You began tugging on it only to find that it had anchored itself into your hair, not far from the roots. You began to pull at it, the rubbery substance stretched out into sticky strings. When you looked at your hand, you could see fragments of bright pink suggam- a type of sweet treat, sort of like a cross between taffy and gum- notorious for it’s difficult to chew texture. It also had a reputation of getting stuck in the hair of younglings, to the point where the hair would have to be cut.

You rushed to the fresher, collecting stares and mumblings as you ran by. When you got to the sink and looked into the sole mirror hanging on the wall, you could see that it was much worse than you had even anticipated. There was a large wad of suggam, fully encapsulating a mass of your hair. The amount of it was large- it would have to be several mouthfuls of the substance. What’s worse is that it had hardened in several areas as you slept, cementing itself into the hair. You began in vain, to run your hair under the faucet, dousing it with warm water, hoping it would reconstitute the substance enough to loosen and break away. The water did nothing. You used soap and tried pulling, but it was like rubber concrete, fully embedded. Tears began to fall as hair began to break and fall away at your attempts.

Finally, after some time trying and failing to make any progress, your hands fell to your sides. You gathered all the composure you could muster. The tears receded as your emotions ran numb, resigning yourself to what you knew had to be done. You turned to the small cabinet against the wall, where various toiletries and medical supplies were stored. You opened the third drawer and pulled out a large set of shears. As you exited the fresher, you could see a group of kids had gathered in wait to witness your reaction. Folly stood nearby smiling as she leaned against the wall, her arms crossed as she blew out a large bright pink bubble.

You halted in your tracks and looked deep into her eyes as the bubble popped. Pure venom stared back at you.

“Yikes” she said, “Looks like somebody wasn’t very careful.”

Silently, you approached her, turning your palm to reveal the shears in your hand. Folly straightened her stance upon sighting the potential weapon you yielded- a brief moment of fear passed over her face. You came to a stop directly in front of her, her nervousness beginning to show through her confident façade. You harshly grabbed her wrist, facing her palm upward. She nearly jumped out of her skin when you slammed the handle of the shears into her palm and pushed her fingers closed around it.

“Do it.” you commanded- and you weren’t really sure if you were commanding her to cut your hair or end it all right then and there- didn’t matter.

“What?!”

“Do it.” you repeated.

“Eww, no. I’m not touching that greasy head of yours.”

Again, you snatched her wrist, this time removing the shears from her hand. You stared directly into her eyes as you pulled an entangled length of your hair taut, and began to cut the hair away, an inch from the scalp. You heard gasps in the background and Folly’s face appeared disgusted. When the handful of hair came loose in your grip, you smiled and held it out in front of her face like a trophy. You even smiled a little, like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. The feeling was exhilarating, to not care, to not bow down and give her the reaction you knew she had wanted. You let the strand fall to the floor, Folly taking a step back, not wanting it to touch her precious foot. You began sawing away at another length, and another, dropping them all in front of her. Frustrated that her little prank didn’t have the desired effect, she ground her teeth.

“You’re such a freak, you know that?! Maker, I can’t wait until I get out of here. It won’t be long and then I’ll be sitting on a throne while you're stuck rotting away here, or in the dirt where you belong.”

It was pretty common for orphaned kids to have extraordinary imaginations. Many had invented previous lives of grandeur, dreams of better lives or exotic existences. Bradley Dex had always claimed that his father was a rebel spy infiltrating the Empire. Zanda Fox said that her mother was a great scientist who identified the process of refining liquid metal fuel. Hera Lee said that she was orphaned after her parents died fighting in the Clone Wars- though you thought that one might actually be true. And Folly Langra, well she had long ago conjured up a story that she was actually a Princess from a forgotten system, placed here in hiding, until she was old enough to reclaim her rightful throne. The details of her story would morph over the years, changing, depending on who was asking or how much they probed- but most kids here knew the truth- that she never knew her father and her mother abandoned her and took off with her smuggler boyfriend- the most recent in a revolving door of men. A four year old simply didn’t fit into that lady's equation.

Despite most knowing the truth, nobody dared to ever confront her about it, including you. If kids wanted to create valid reasons for being abandoned, why take that from them? It was so much better than the truth, including your own.

I might be here because I killed my parents.

But in that moment, you were high on the power of confronting her, letting her know that she couldn’t break you. And in that moment, the words came out before you could stop them.

“You’re not a princess. Nobody is coming for you. Your mother left you, because she didn’t want you.”

The crowd of kids that had gathered around, broke out in cheers, clapping and hollering out. Hurt spliced through her features, her eyes welling with tears about to spill. She turned and strode away defeated. Kids gathered round, some clapping you on the back, others praising you for what they had “always wanted to do”. It felt like you might actually have friends after all, or at least the potential to find some. But the momentary celebration was quickly stamped out by guilt. Though Folly had deserved to be confronted, she didn’t deserve to be abandoned by her mother- no kid did, and throwing that in her face felt like a low blow. You didn’t like hurting people- didn’t want to hurt anyone.

Shears still in hand, you brushed past the shoulders of cheering kids and escaped to a private corner, to cut off the rest of your hair.

That night, you were one of the last to enter the eating hall for supper. You collected your tray and made your way over to the tables. The tables were lined up side by side in two rows and as it happened, Folly sat at the one on the left and Tuck sat at the one on the right. You were nervous for him to see you like this. After this morning’s incident- one he was sure to have heard through the rapid rumor mill that was an orphanage- you didn’t know if his offer to be your friend would still stand. Your words to Folly had been cruel and who would want a cruel friend? On top of that, you had sheared off the rest of your hair. After removing all of the damaged hair and every last remnant of the suggam, you had decided to do the rest of your hair as well, in an effort to at least keep it uniform. You worried now that the ending result only solidified Folly’s claims. As if she were thinking that very thought at that very moment, she uttered a single word upon sight of you.

“Freak.” she said, with bitter hatred.

“She’s not a freak.”

Tuck’s words had taken you completely by surprise. Your eyes began to water at the words of support- words that sounded sincere. He looked at you with a smile on his face and hope began to bloom. He still wanted to be your friend.

You smiled back and he returned the gesture and patted the seat next to him. This is why you had come back, this is what you were hoping for. You set down your tray and took the seat next to Tuck. You could feel his eyes on you, taking in your new appearance. You shyly looked up at him, knowing that he was getting a close up view of the hack job that was left on top of your head. You silently asked him with your eyes, how bad is it?

“You still look beautiful to me.”

Your lips fell open just a little as you processed his words.

He thinks I’m beautiful?

Whether he was just saying it to be a friend or whether he actually thought it, didn’t matter. Your cheeks flushed a little at the unexpected compliment.

“Thanks.” you said.

Hearing Tuck’s words crushed Folly. All her aggressions toward you had backfired. She stormed off, and you hoped that maybe this would be the end of it all.

Over the next few weeks, Folly had left you alone. No barbs, no pranks, no acknowledgement of any kind. She was content to go on as if you didn’t exist at all, and that was fine by you. You had a friend, someone who ‘got’ you, someone who was interested in you, someone who cared. When you weren’t doing your daily lessons or working off your extra chores, you were spending time with Tuck. You walked the grounds and showed him how you’d build traps and weave snares out of locally sourced materials. He taught you everything he knew about fishing and the two of you experimented with ways to make fishing poles and hooks. Gradually, you began to feel butterflies in your stomach whenever he was around. You were starting to feel a different way about your friend and wondered if he might be feeling that way too. Sometimes he gazed upon your face longer than seemed necessary. You often wondered what he was thinking in those moments, but didn’t have the guts to ask.

It had to be the middle of the night. The window filtered silvery rays of light from the twin moons lingering outside. The girl's ward was completely silent, save for a few hushed snores. A gentle hand shook your shoulder, rousing you from a peaceful sleep. When you blinked your eyes open, it was the object of all your recent dreams standing beside your bed.

“Tuck? What are you doing here? You're gonna get us in trouble if somebody sees you,” you whispered.

Biala Den might have had a soft spot for the charming young man, but getting caught in the girl’s ward, after hours, is something that would not be tolerated.

“I have a birthday surprise for you, there’s something you gotta see.” he whispered back, excitedly.

“It’s not my birthday until next week.”

“Early present.”

You leaned over the bunk to peer down at Folly. She was on her side, facing the wall, snoozing away. You bit your lip in hesitation, knowing that it would be extra chores for months if the two of you got caught sneaking out after hours.

“C’mon, I promise it will be worth it.” he said with a smile- a smile you couldn’t resist.

As quietly as you could, you climbed down from the top bunk. You took one last look to make sure that Folly was still out and turned to follow Tuck out of the door. Excitement coursed through your body, the butterflies in your stomach doing complete flips when Tuck took your hand in his, to lead you down the hall. The two of you were barefoot, which made it much easier to sneak down the hall past all of the caretaker’s quarters. You stuck to the shadows, padding along against the wall until you finally reached a back door through the kitchen, which led out to the grassy area behind the main dwelling. Even when you reached the safety of the yard, his hand remained locked tightly around yours.

“Ok, are you gonna tell me where we are going now?”

“You’ll see.”

You followed close behind as he led you across the dewy grass- your bare feet sliding across the wet surface, tickling with every step. You trusted Tuck, following him without hesitation. A hundred yards away, near the cliff’s edge, was a large water tank on thirty foot stilted legs. There was a ladder that went up to the top with a small platform and railing.

Tuck headed straight for the ladder and began to climb up.

“C’mon.” he said, half way up.

You smiled up at him and began to climb the rungs one by one.

Bestine was a planet mostly covered by water. It was made up of a series of forested islands that sprung up from the sea to form rugged island spires. The orphanage was situated near the edge of one, bordered by a cliff’s edge that dropped hundreds of feet below into crashing waves. You could hear their gentle call as they crashed against the cliff's edge hundreds of feet below.

The sea air left a slippery film of condensation on every surface at this time of the night.

“Careful!” Tuck shouted down, when your foot slipped on a rung. Luckily, you had a fierce grip with your hand, so you recovered quickly. After forty rungs were climbed, Tuck helped you up the last step until you were safely standing on the platform at the base of the water tower. You followed him around the curved edge to the backside, that looked out over the ocean. He took a seat at the edge of the platform, leaning his chest against the lowest bar of the railing, dangling his feet over the edge. You followed his example, taking up the same position near his side.

“Look.” he said, indicating the sky with his hand.

You watched in awe as dozens of radiating pinpricks of light streaked across the night sky.

“A meteor shower!?” you exclaimed, completely wonderstruck.

“Yeah, I knew you’d want to see it. You talked about the stars the same way my Grandpa would talk about the ocean.”

You smiled at his words. Tuck was a good person. He actually listened when you talked. He had once asked you what you’d do for fun when you were alone out in the woods. There wasn’t a lot of down time when you were working just to survive, but there were occasions when you’d make up little games to occupy your thoughts. Sometimes you’d lay on your little pallet in the woods, under a break in the canopy above and see how many stars you could count. They’d always intrigued you and you’d dreamed of maybe one day leaving Bestine behind to travel among the stars.

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

The two of you stayed up on that platform, watching the meteors fall for some time. You rested your chin on your stacked hands on the railing and enjoyed nature’s show in the company of a friend. My best friend. Time passed and eventually, the falling stars became fewer and further between.

“Let’s run away.” Tuck said, breaking the silence.

“What!?”

“Let’s go, just you and me. We can do it together. We’ll live on our own. We can survive in the forest until I can get us a boat- then we’ll really be free.” He said with complete confidence.

You thought of the orphanage and how Tuck was really the only thing keeping you there. You knew how to survive and this time, you wouldn’t have to do it alone. You’d have a friend- maybe more at some point. Either way, he would be with you. Saying goodbye to that place one last time would be the easiest thing in the world if he was by your side.

“You sure that’s what you want?”

He looked at you like you were the sweetest, most naïve thing in the world, like something obvious was flying right over your head- like one of the dozens of meteors in the sky. He leaned in and surprised you with a kiss on the lips. His lips were soft, yet firmly pressed up against your own. He tilted his head slightly, placing a hand on your shoulder, letting his lips linger against yours for a long moment. Your heart was pounding in your chest. It was your first kiss ever and it felt like the best moment in your entire life. When he pulled away, there was a look on his face, like he felt the same way too.

“What do you say, you and me against the world? We could leave right now. I have all of our traps and equipment saved in a pack beyond the tree line. We can leave right now.”

You saw the hope in his eyes and your heart echoed a similar response.

“We should get our shoes first.” you said, thinking they’d be the only thing you’d want to retrieve from your bunk.

Your answer lit up his eyes. “Let’s go now.” he said, leaping up in eagerness. You followed him back around the platform, your brain running a million lightyears through your head, trying to process what was happening.

I'm leaving this place with my best friend.

Your foot slipped out when you tried to keep up with his hurried steps- the metal surface of the platform having gotten ten times slicker in the time that had passed since you’d first climbed up.

You started to warn Tuck to be careful, but he had already begun his descent down the ladder.

“Tuck, be carefu-” , your warning was lost beneath his strangled cry as his foot slipped out from the fifth rung. You reached a hand out over the rail, but he was already falling to the ground below. You screamed out when his back and skull made impact with the lower rungs on the way down. You turned away, your eyes squeezed shut, to avoid seeing his imminent landing. When you worked up the courage to look back over the rail, his body lay motionless on a bed of sea misted grass.

You climbed down the wet ladder with an iron grip, as fast as you could. You reached his body just as a set of flashlight beams illuminated the scene. Miss Biala Den stood across the field, Folly at her side.

“Can I see him?...Please?” you asked for the hundredth time that week.

“No, I’m afraid not. The headmaster won’t allow it.”

You sighed deeply, completely frustrated at the situation.

“At least tell me, is he getting any better?”

Miss Den grabbed you by the shoulder, pulling you into her private chambers.

When she closed the door and latched it, you breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps she was finally going to talk to you, give you some kernel of information.

“Please, tell me. Did the bacta tank work?”

The heartbroken look on her face told you everything you needed to know. It hadn’t.

“I’m so sorry child. We left him in the tank for three solid days. I’m afraid that there have been no changes or improvements.”

“How can that be?”

“I know. But his injuries, I’m afraid they were just too severe.. His spinal cord was severed….”

“What does that mean?”

“We’re keeping him comfortable. He’s in a medically induced coma, for the time being.”

“Until when? Until what time? What are you saying?”

She took a deep breath. “ If he wakes, I’m afraid... he’ll be completely paralyzed.” She sighed deeply. “He’ll never walk again. I’m so sorry- I know he was your friend.”

Her words angered you.

“IS!....he Is my friend.” you said, storming out.

You lay in your bunk that night, tossing and turning. There had to be something more that you could do. Against Biala Den’s fierce opposition, you had already donated all of your sponsor funds to pay for a bacta tank. Turns out that your sponsor had sent way more money than you had been aware of and it had been compiling over the years. She had begged you to save it for a future that you couldn’t imagine at the moment. There’s little that she could do about it though as the sponsor’s instructions specifically expressed that the credits were to be used however you saw fit.

“Take it all, just get him that tank.” you had demanded. And now it seemed to have been for nothing.

You slid out of your covers and dropped to the floor. The ward was quiet as you snuck to the infirmary at the opposite end of the building. You pushed open the door to where they were keeping him. Your eyes watered when you saw all the scary tubes and wires running from his body to machines in the corner. One ran from his throat to a machine that pumped oxygen. He couldn’t even breathe on his own.

You sidled around the bed coming to stand at his side. You picked up his hand, holding it in your own.

“I’m sorry.” you said, tears rolling down your cheeks.

But there had to be something more that could be done. And then you knew. Knew with every fiber in your being that you could heal him. You didn’t know why or how, just knew that you could. You closed your eyes and imagined every warm feeling you had for this boy. Pictured that friendship and love like an illuminated ball of energy that resided in your gut. You pulled it out until it splintered into a thousand strands of light, like an invisible meteor shower raining out from your body. You directed every bit of that energy out and into him until all the lights in the room began to fade into total darkness.

You woke up three days later. Folly Langra stood beside your bed- the very bed that Tuck lay in the last time you saw him.

“What happened? Where’s Tuck? You began, in a panic.

“Gone.” she said.

“Gone? What do you mean, gone? Where is he? Is he ok?”

“Dead. Thanks to you.”

“No, that can’t be…” you said. “He was going to be ok, I know he was!”

“You killed him, didn’t you? I saw you sneak in here that night.”

“That night? What do you mean? How long have I been here?”

“Three nights ago, I saw you sneak in here, and after that, he was dead. You killed him.”

You shook your head ‘no’ in denial. That simply couldn’t be right. Tuck couldn’t be dead. Your chest began to ache, your heart pounding erratically. You stumbled out of bed, reaching for a trash can to hurl into. When the dry heaves subsided, you made your way to the sink to rinse your mouth and splash some water on your face. You stared at the reflection in the mirror above the sink, not recognizing the person that stared back.

“What did you do to him? What kind of monster are you?” Folly asked.

You stopped in front of her, pulling the i.v. out of your arm.

“I don’t know.” you said honestly.

She looked at you with fear in her eyes.

“This time,”- she said in a pleading tone- “don’t come back.”

You nodded and walked out the door for good.

PRESENT

“My scars,” he says, “every single one I’ve ever gotten- even the ones I got as a kid….they’re all…gone.”

I healed all of his scars?

Sure, the thought sounds all warm and fuzzy at first, but upon actually processing the words, your stomach instantly turns over. You leap up from your comfortable position laying on the floor bed, and race over to the fresher, tripping over Din’s armor and stubbing more toes in the dark along the way. When you make it to the little room, you toss up your last meal into the evac tube.

A moment later and the lights flicker on, and Din’s there holding out a glass of water. You happily take it, swishing the cool water around in your mouth several times before spitting it out into the sink. You repeat the process until there’s no water left and then refill the glass to drink from. Your brow beads with sweat as you lean against the sink.

“You O.K.?” he asks, his now modulated voice sounding worried.

You nod your head, opening your eyes to see that he has redressed in his clothes. He’s not wearing his armor, save for his helmet.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m O.K. now.” you reassure him.

“What was that about? “

How to answer? No big deal, I was just hurled back to a moment where I thought I killed my only friend and then it made me think of you and what might have happened if I had lost control again and killed you too.

You stall answering, by taking another deep pull on the glass of water.

“Could you be....Could we have?....” He hesitates, not able to form words to his thoughts.

It dawns on you what he’s suggesting.

“Oh no,” you shake your head” nothing like that.”

“How do you know?” he asks- and you swear you detected a grain of disappointment in his tone.

“It’s too early for that, and besides...I take precautions, get a shot once a year.”

“I see. What then?” he says, placing a bare hand to your forehead.

“I’m fine, really. It’s just, when you said your scars were all gone. I….it scared me.”

“You wanna go back to bed?”

“Not sure I can sleep now.”

“We don’t have to sleep. We can just lay there.”

“O.K.” you say reluctantly.

You climb back into the little floor bed, pulling the blanket up to your arms. Din once again turns out the lights and you hear the distinct sound of his helmet coming back off. He crawls into the bed beside you, unfortunately, fully clothed this time.

“Tell me.” he says after a few moments.

“I think...maybe I healed you.”

He’s silent for a moment before speaking again.

“Did you know you could do that?”

“Yes...and no.” you say, rubbing your eyes with the palms of your hands. “It’s complicated.”

“Explain it to me.”

You supposed you owed him the whole story. If you really had healed him, he deserves to know everything you did- which wasn’t much. But what if there are other side effects? Things you never considered when you did it? You tell him the whole story, the way your instinct had told you that you could heal that boy and how it had gone terribly wrong.

“For years, I’ve lived with guilt. His death was on my hands. But when I went back to retrieve my records, I learned things. Things I never knew.”

“What did you learn?”

You swallowed hard.

“According to the records, Tuck didn’t die, not the way I thought anyway. The record said that he walked out of there. Walked . As soon as news got out that there was a ‘miracle boy’ at the orphanage, he was quickly adopted. I never knew, I went my whole life thinking I killed him that night.”

“She told you that to get rid of you.”

You nodded. “likely so.”

Din pressed his chest up against your back, curling an arm over your chest. He listened so carefully, content to let you try and make sense of it all out loud.

“When I found you out there, dragged your body back...When you were out, not responding….I thought…” -your voice cracks on the words for a second. Din begins to pet your hair away from your face- “You were dead. I was so scared to try again, but...you were dead, so I had nothing left to lose. I had to try.”

“You saved me.”

“At what cost? I don’t know what I’ve done to you, and when you said all of your scars had disappeared, I realized that I have no idea what I was actually doing to you.”

“You got rid of my back pain too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry for getting rid of my pain?” he says with a lighter tone to his voice.

“No. Not sorry for that part. But I’m sorry about the scars. You’re a warrior. Aren’t scars important? A badge of honor for every victory over the enemy?”

“Nobody but you would ever see them anyway.”

Nobody but me. You sigh.

“ I’ve never felt better, so don’t fret over the scars.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I still don’t know what I actually did to you.”

“We’re gonna find out together.” By finding a Jedi.

A few moments pass and you slowly relax into Din’s arms. When his breathing becomes slow and steady and just before you slip into sleep with him, you ask in a whispered breath, “Do you ever regret saving me?”

“Never. It’s what we do...save each other.”

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter / All Chapters

A/N: comments, likes and reblogs always appreciated.

I have seen a lot of debate about what is a “true” reader insert vs. OC. The way I write In the Dark, it’s like this- I want the reader to be able to picture themselves in my story, so I try hard to be vague regarding the reader’s physical appearance (Skin color, eye color, weight etc.) I want you to see yourself in this world, but I want you to see yourselves as playing the role of this character. Obviously we don’t live in the Star Wars universe, so it’s near impossible to make this 100% immersive without having to imagine things out of the norm anyway. You have to remember, to immerse yourself, you need to be open to imagination. I want you to think of yourselves as ‘this character’. Therefore, she does have a backstory. It’s a necessary key to solving the mystery that I’ve been laying down since the beginning. Whether or not that’s a “true insert” or OC or a hybrid of both, I dunno- call it whatever you want.

Taglist: @mandosmistress, @eyeswidecovered, @michi-reads@cassiopeia, @thisshipwillsail316, @hillelsandwich, @spideysimpossiblegirl, @gallowsjoker, @javierpinme, @luxmundee, @literallydontlook, @icanbeyourjedi, @middlemichi

#din djarin x female oc #din djarin fanfic #mandalorian x reader insert #mandalorian fanfiction

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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

Text

Emma Swan, Olympian is not a phrase Emma Swan, totally normal person, ever expected to hear.

But she never expected one night at a party hosted by her college's baseball team to change her entire life, either. So, it should really come as no surprise that Emma Swan, Olympian, is now something of international sensation. Or that her husband has become a bit of a social media star.

——— Rating: Teen with sports feelings Word Count: 7.5K AN: As promised and because of who I am as a person, I wrote Olympic fic. I can neither confirm nor deny that there is an actual plot here, but there is a surplus of fluff and sports-based feelings. So, that’s something. Thanks to the Detroit Lions, specifically, for posting this Tweet and to my husband who is very much aware of what content I want the internet to provide me. Operation: Make Killian a New York Yankee as often as possible continues.

|| Read on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

———

No one told her the questions would start to blur together.

That would require media training, Emma imagines. And no one is giving a first-time Olympian in a sport that only a handful of people marginally believe warrants notice from the IOC any sort of media training. She got, like, an orientation packet. With a lopsided staple in the top left corner. On her commercial flight. That she booked herself.

Twenty-plus hours crammed into a seat that she’s only a little concerned did permanent damage to her right knee, with a meal that was so chewy Emma was about four seconds and one exasperated, entirely exhausted exhale from asking if it was, in fact, made of plastic.

Mostly, the staple is what’s still managing to frustrate her. As frustrated as she can be at the Olympics. No one is supposed to be frustrated at the Olympics. Not really. Not while experiencing the pinnacle of athletic achievement, the calluses on Emma’s fingertips some sort of badge of honor that she’s wearing with at least a modicum of national pride, and everything is fine.

Her qualifying time was absurd. Where absurd is a compliment and very close to a record she’s suddenly determined to shatter.

So, she’s alone.

Big deal. So is everyone else. This Olympics, at least. Plus, Killian wouldn’t have been able to come no matter what the state of the world was. Even so, the quiet stands are admittedly weird. All these empty arenas with empty seats, the distinct lack of a roaring crowd no more obvious than when the world’s best athletes step to the line. Staring at the climbing wall in front of her four hours earlier, Emma swore she could hear every single beat of her heart echo between her ears.

And that’s—well, solitude is par for the course with an adolescence like hers, half-filled suitcases and brand-new faces in brand-new towns, but she’d gotten used to one town, and the town is actually a city, and the city has long since felt like home, and her fingers reach for the rings dangling above her Team USA t-shirt. They did give her an absolute shit ton of t-shirts, so that was nice.

Except—

Something keeps tugging. Nagging at the back of Emma’s consciousness, almost like she’s forgotten her keys on that flea market table they found in Park Slope two weeks after they moved into the apartment. Because for as well-versed Emma may be in that singular sort of existence, she’s also well-removed from wanting it, and at least three of her knuckles crack. Curling around her rings.

Muscles in her cheeks stretch, another nod and quick blink to avoid the threat of blinding via camera flashes. Someone really should have told her about this. She probably should have assumed. Human interest is the driving force of at least three-quarters of the stories in sports, and Emma’s not used to being the story, per se, but even she has to admit most of hers makes for a good one and they are still asking her questions.

Emma blinks again. Hopes she doesn’t look like a serial killer or the weird blonde, slightly sweaty cousin of the Joker, her smile starting to feel as if it’s painted on her face. She nods. Hums. Listens to questions that are startling in their tonal similarity to Charlie Brown’s teacher, and Emma wonders if Charlie Brown ever got a different teacher or what the school structure of the Peanuts’ universe is and, God, how old was Charlie Brown, even? To withstand that sort of consistent bullying. Was Linus the same age as him? No, right? How long did he carry the blanket around? Was Linus the same age as Sally? Why didn’t the red-headed girl with curly hair get a name?

She nearly falls out of her chair.

That might make the front page of several blogs. Possibly even the back page of a New York tab.

Careful to keep her feet on the ground, Emma lifts her head, directing her eyes toward the source of a question that must have been asked several times if the note of amusement mixing with deadline-based exasperation is anything to go by. Her smile definitely makes her look like a serial killer.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbles, and none of the oxygen she does her best to inhales makes it even close to her lungs. “I, uh—what was the question?”

The reporter grimaces.

“I wanted to know if you’d seen the video of your husband yet.”

Ice runs down her spine. Every single drop of wholly disgusting sweat falling in rivulets down either one of her cheeks freezes. Oxygen disappears from the room. Or so Emma assumes, what with the crushing feeling pushing down on her lungs and whatnot.

Her mind whirs. Races through possibilities and pitfalls with a speed that would be impressive if Emma weren’t already so close to that record, and she is going to break that record. Somehow she manages not to fall, though. From her chair or the metaphorical climbing wall in her brain, ignoring the sudden dryness of her mouth and the increasing size of her tongue.

Her nails are going to leave little half-moon creases in her palm.

“I don’t—” she starts, and eventually she will wish she was more articulate. For what turns out to be a very nice story.

Standing up, the reporter’s seat creaks as she moves toward the desk they deposited Emma behind after even. Several Olympic officials move to block her, but Emma shakes her head again, and she’s not exactly high-priority on the list of defensible athletes, anyway. So, none of them flinch when the reporter slides a phone closer to Emma, her crazed thoughts briefly lingering on how many phones a reporter could possibly need, but then her eyes drop, and she’s not sure if her ears can actually perk, but Emma certainly tries because she hears him yelling before she sees him.

Her smile shifts.

And the cameras flash again.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s collegiate life, because Anna demands it.

She’s only half-listening, so Emma can never be entirely sure what it was, exactly, she was agreeing to, but in her experience, the agreement doesn’t matter so much as the action, and her roommate’s younger sister is unstoppable when it comes to action. So, Emma is dimly aware of a plan. Something about the baseball house and that one left fielder is in a handful of her classes.

David—something.

He’s got a girlfriend, too. A nice one. Who always smells like sugar when she slides into the seat next to David whatever his last name is, sitting in the row in front of Emma during their Tuesday-Thursday statistics class.

Emma hates statistics.

She doesn’t hate Anna, though. Or her roommate, one of the better college-based surprises, and either Anna has magic or Elsa is an enormous pushover because somehow all three of them are ready at the same time, and the walk to the baseball house isn’t far.

First-year players guard the door — passing out color-coded wristbands that absolutely do not do their job because it takes about six seconds of well-meaning flirting and batted eyelashes between Anna and a mountain of muscle masquerading as the team’s starting catcher to get them inside. With purple wristbands and two tickets for jungle juice instead of the keg.

“Victory,” Anna cries, twisting through the crowd. Half of it is already teetering on the edge of drunk, the rest free-falling into the pit of imminent hangovers, and Emma isn’t sure she’d classify their drinks as a victory, but it’s definitely better than watered-down beer.

And it doesn’t take long, really. By Emma’s shaky count, it’s not even a half-hour before the muscle — who introduces himself as Kristoff, and really is pretty cute, actually — returns, standing unnaturally close to Anna’s left shoulder, furtive glances shared out of the corners of their eyes. Emma rolls hers. Elsa’s appear perpetually stuck to the ceiling. It looks oddly sticky up there.

“Go,” Elsa says, and it’s not an instruction. Barely counts as more than a whisper, really. Anna lights up all the same. Like an alcohol-fueled Christmas tree.

Who does not need telling more than once.

Hands reach and smiles widen, Kristoff mumbling something that sounds like it was nice to meet you before he’s following Anna back to the beer pong table, leaving Elsa and Emma standing in the middle of a sea of raging hormones. All of which want to be there way more than either one of them does.

“Well,” Elsa mutters, “that was polite.”

Emma snickers into her glass. A mostly empty glass. That’s surprising. “Got that going for him.” “Plus, his on-base is nuts this year.”

“Say that again.” “On-base percentage,” Elsa repeats, making sure to do it slowly for maximum sarcastic emphasis. Emma’s eyes are going to fall out. That won’t end well. There are too many shuffling feet in this room.

“What does that mean?” “How often he gets on base.” Opening her mouth does nothing. Closing it does even less. Elsa looks overjoyed. “I know things,” she shrugs, “and I’m pretty positive Anna and Kristoff have been not-so-secretly dating since the start of the semester, so—” “You stalked your sister’s secret boyfriend?” “Stalk’s a very dirty word, don’t you think? No, no, there was no stalking. There was light research. One Google search and a single click to the team’s roster, and now I know he’s from Minnesota, too.” “Awfully convenient for the romance of the century.” Humming, Elsa takes a larger-than-usual sip before scrunching her nose in displeasure. At her empty cup. Emma has no idea how they ended up with empty cups so quickly. Suddenly the baseball house feels a bit like a time warp. Enter and drink and find the love of your life. Or something like that.

“I got next,” Emma says, ignoring Elsa’s laugh because she is not the sort of person who says things like that. It’s this house. This place. With its music and its happiness, and she’s not really a sports person. Can only marginally understand the joy of watching other people accomplish something. She has no idea what on-base percentage is.

Still.

Her feet move. Fingers curl over the rim of red solo cups, like the most cliché version of her college self. Her drinks get refilled. And it’s just as Emma’s about to let herself wonder if, maybe, sports aren’t all that bad and might even possess a bit of inherent romanticism, she slams into something.

Someone, more like.

Taller than her, he has to peer down his nose to glare at Emma. That’s fair. They’re both far more damp than they were ten seconds before. Some of that moisture ensures that the hem of his shirt sticks to his stomach. A very flat stomach. That draws Emma’s eyes because she’s human and slightly intoxicated, and it takes quite a lot more than she’s willing to admit to lift her chin, but then she’s glad she does. Even with the understandable glare.

“Shit,” she breathes, “your eyes are stupid blue.”

He narrows them. She hates that. Which is about all it takes for her to get royally pissed off, too.

“Can you pay attention to where you’re walking?”

The stupidly blue eyes blink. Darken a shade, like all his frustration is centered directly around his pupils, and the shirt he’s wearing is team-branded. Another baseball player, then.

“You ran into me!” Oh, Oh. Well, that sucks. He’s got a good voice, too. Eyes and voice and the few strands of hair that fall toward those eyes when he continues to glare at Emma likely aren’t supposed to make her stomach flip.

It’s the alcohol’s fault.

Or sports. Like, in general.

“Because you take up so much space,” Emma snarls He leans forward. Looms, really. Over her and around her, smelling like punch and body wash. It’s gross and absolutely wonderful. “Gotta pick a lane, love. Either I ran into you, or I was in the way.”

“It can definitely be both and there is nothing resembling love here.”

“So I can see. You have a name, wrecking ball?” “My shoes are never going to unstick from this floor.” To his credit, he does waver. His lips twist — which makes it all too obvious how much Emma is staring at his lips, but, seriously, the alcohol. Plus, it’s so hot in this house she can barely think straight. She wonders where he buys his body wash. He smells better than he should in this house. So, it's clear he considers. Ponders, even. Until his hands dart out and those hands are somehow warmer than every person in this house combined, heat scorching through Emma’s t-shirt as he lifts her off the ground.

Only to deposit her approximately fourteen inches to her left.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” “Look,” he grins, “you’re unstuck.” “Bastard!” “Eh, not technically.” “What?” “Not technically a bastard. Orphan, I suppose. But that’s kind of a mood ruiner, don’t you think?”

Emma’s fish impression is really going great. The grin becomes a smirk. Her stomach refuses to stay still. “Is there a mood to ruin?” “Might be if you tell me your name.”

Emma wavers, that time. Considers and ponders. Weighs the pros and cons while laughter drifts past her ears, consummate collegiate experiences that she’s only ever let herself be passably jealous of. A dark-haired girl’s talking to Elsa in the opposite corner.

And the hand hanging in front of her wiggles its fingers.

It’s still ridiculously warm when she grabs it. “Emma Swan.” “Killian Jones.”

Anna’s secret relationship becomes a real relationship no less than sixteen hours following what Elsa begins to call the Drink Incident.

And they become—

Baseball people.

Becoming baseball people is not bad. Not really. Emma likes the baseball team. She understands what WHIP is, now. Kristoff adores Anna, so that’s good. David, who does, in fact, have a last name, continues to be as nice as assumed, and his girlfriend sort of quasi adopts Emma. Mary Margaret Blanchard brims with positivity and an innate sort of joy that would usually annoy Emma, but most of that joy also serves as a direct counter to the snark that Killian Jones appears flush with. So, it’s something of a wash, really.

Plus, he’s a very sore Monopoly loser.

And Emma finds it endlessly entertaining.

“Stop that,” he grunts, glaring at the board with the sort of force Emma’s become accustomed to in the last few months, while she taps on the space in front of her, “I know how many spots it is.” Emma smiles. “So move, then.” “I’ll be bankrupt.” “Capitalism does that.” “Tell me more about capitalism, Swan.”

She doesn’t startle, so there’s that. Not much else, though. Not when a noticeable bit of equally familiar heat skitters down her spine. Her head tilts. His head remains frustratingly still, staring at the board like the spaces will change or Mary Margaret will tear down some of her hotels on Marvin Gardens.

Neither thing happens.

The heat pools. At the small of her back, inching dangerously close to that space between her hips, like it’s trying to tether her to this spot and this moment and its people. Baseball people. People who so clearly care about everything so much that even the cynic in Emma can appreciate it. Plus, they’re all ridiculously competitive.

David had to take a walk when Mary Margaret bankrupt him earlier.

“That’s about the extent of my capitalism knowledge,” Emma admits with a shrug, “I sucked at economics.” Pulling his gaze away from the board, Emma’s less prepared for the force behind Killian’s eyes than she was for the appearance of a nickname that might not warrant the title. It’s just her name, after all. But it sounds like more than that. Sinks under her skin with alarming ease, the precise tone of it wrapping its way around a variety of internal organs until they’re all beating at the same tempo and— “Move my piece for me.”

Kristoff groans. Mary Margaret chuckles. Elsa looks far too sure of herself. Knows everything, indeed.

And it’s not really a command, but there’s that same sense of something that found its way into the sound of Emma’s name and Killian’s voice, and he catches her by surprise. On a variety of levels. His fingers jump the moment hers reach out, all heat and an alarming size difference, his brows lifting when she turns her head.

“You’re taking this game way too seriously, you know,” Emma says. What she doesn’t say is more important, though. Because they’re not friends, really. They’re—acquaintances. Some kind of appropriate metaphor regarding a planet’s many moons and the tendency of those moons to orbit something far bigger than them. But they like each other, too. As much as they dance and twist, do their best to avoid getting hit in the batter’s box, Emma’s more comfortable bantering with him than just about anyone she’s ever met, a challenge in every conversation, and she’s rather loath to realize she’s memorized the different ways the blue in his eyes flash.

Now it feels a bit like a spotlight.

“Matter of pride, Swan.” “Is it just?” If there are other people laying on their stomachs in that living room, half-empty glasses by their hands and equipment stacked in various corners, Emma forgets about them. Quickly. Immediately. Killian doesn’t move his fingers.

He nods.

And Mary Marget only kind of gloats when she bankrupts him.

She dances when she wins, though.

It’s embarrassing. It’s absolutely, goddamn wonderful.

Realizing that baseball is a game of statistics ruins kind of Emma’s day. It makes Killian laugh. Her favorite sort of laugh. Where he throws his head back, an arm around his middle, and his shoulders shaking. Those same strands of hair she noticed that first night fall back toward lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting in an angle Emma is sure she could determine if she just didn’t hate math so much, and it takes about four seconds, her head tilting back and forth twice and one swipe of her tongue to lean forward on the couch they're sharing, tilt her head up and press her lips to his.

Press is a vast understatement.

Crash, more like.

A bases-clearing double into the left-field gap.

She knows so many baseball terms now, it’s ridiculous.

It’s because she keeps going to games. With Anna. Without Anna. With Elsa. Without Elsa. With Mary Margaret every single time. And it creeps on so slowly, she’s practically a Jane Austen heroine, but then Emma finds she cares as much as everyone else. Screams herself hoarse at every crack of the bat. Jumps and fist bumps with startling regularity. Experiences the flutter of butterflies in her flip-prone stomach before ninth-inning rallies.

She memorizes statistics. Killian’s statistics, especially.

Because the Draft is a week away, and the nerves rolling off him are even more potent than his body wash. Bought in bulk from a locally-owned company, she learns.

Killian hates capitalism, too.

Which is only part of the reason she likes him, but right now all of the reason is centered around how it feels as if the world is shifting on its axis and what, precisely, he is capable of with his tongue. Quite a lot if this first time at bat is anything to believe.

Emma laughs.

Joy bubbles from the very center of her, pushing at the seam of her lips, and it’s not much of a seam when her mouth is open to accommodate tongue, but it’s enough of a sound that Killian pulls back. No glare. Definitely eyebrow movement, though.

“That’s not the best confidence boost, you know.” “I’m straddling you,” Emma counters, nodding toward the knees on either side of his, and she has no idea when her fingers found his hair. It’s very soft.

“How did that happen?” “What was that about confidence?”

Dropping his head, she gets a different sort of laugh, one that’s just as potent in its ability to settle into her bloodstream and the empty spaces around her heart, and sports have turned her into a sap. “I like you a lot,” Killian murmurs. Emma’s heart explodes. Metaphorically speaking.

“Good.” “Expand on that, for me.” She pinches his side, almost prepared for the way it leaves him bucking beneath her. Less prepared for the mutual groan it causes. Killian’s eyes widen. “I like you a lot,” Emma repeats, and his arms tighten, and her heart knits itself back together, and the second time through the kissing order is even better.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s nearly-adult life, because Anna demands it.

“I just think it’ll be fun,” Anna says, not for the first time. And, not for the first time, she ignores the pointed look Emma and Elsa exchange. Elsa’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth “Think about it,” Anna continues, “we need something to do before the game, anyway. This way we’re—you know, staying active.” Emma’s eyebrows jump. Fly. Soar into her hairline where the level of her disbelief sits, all too aware of the ring hanging around her neck.

A Draft Day gift. As much as a family heirloom can be a gift. But Killian claimed it was good luck, his brother’s ring, because turns out that snark is at least a partial product of a wholly depressing childhood, and Emma supposes there’s something to be said for common ground. Understanding, too. Stories shared over weeks that turned to months that turned to years and seasons in the minors, and it absolutely figures Killian’s Major League debut is happening in Cincinnati. Where Kristoff plays.

It’s ridiculous how in love with him she is.

Killian. Not Kristoff.

Anna is still talking. “There’s nothing else to do in Cincinnati,” she reasons, which seems unfair to the city itself but not entirely untrue, and even the concept of chili on spaghetti grosses Emma out. “Also,” Anna adds, sounding as if she’s reached the final bullet point on her list of possible arguments, “I’ve got a Groupon deal for this place.”

Elsa blinks. “I didn’t realize Groupon was even still a thing.” “Surprise!”

Emma’s laugh isn’t entirely honest, but her sigh of acceptance is and—

Turns out she’s pretty good at it.

Goddamn fantastic, actually.

At rock climbing. Indoor rock climbing. Her feet push her up the wall with ease, the steady ache in her arms welcome and wonderful and a slew of other alliterative adjectives. That leave Killian grinning like a maniac, but it’s been a weird and equally wonderful day, without a hit, but two walks, so that ups the on-base, and Emma’s really, seriously in love with him.

“I don’t know what it was,” she says, preening just a bit under Killian’s stare. Hotel lighting casts shadows on his cheeks, slumped as he is against every pillow they could find. Even the ones in the closet. He’s not supposed to be in here for much longer, both of them aware of the team-ordained curfew hanging over them, but the pre-game nerves are long gone. Replaced instead with exhilaration and endorphins, the kind that could win Elle Woods a headline-making case. “But,” Emma continues, “I just kept moving, and the guy said it was, like, a course record. Is course the right word, you think?” Killian lifts a shoulder. Even as it’s covered in ice and tape. The play he made at third is going to show on loop. On TV. In Emma’s memory. She’s never yelled that loud before.

People took pictures.

And then she cried. Like a giant sap.

“This is your show, Swan,” Killian chuckles, pride infusing the words. As if she’s the one who deserves the pride today. It’s entirely possible she cried for multiple minutes after that play. They definitely showed that on the YES Network. Mary Margaret texted her no less than forty-seven times.

“I was really fast.” Killian hums, fingers fluttering enough to make it clear he wants her closer. Emma doesn’t argue. They’re a mess of limbs and mouths and that tongue thing they’ve collectively gotten better at giving and receiving over the years, hands that warm with the sort of confidence borne of repetition. Some joke about BP and finding your swing.

“Plus,” he says, a soft laugh at Emma’s noise of displeasure when talking means far less kissing, “becoming a rock climbing savant means more upper-body work, and you know how I love your arms.” Guffawing the way Emma does is not particularly romantic. Doesn’t matter. The sound comes, and the joy remains, a steady stream pumping through all her extremities and clouding her thoughts. In the best way possible. Before Killian, Emma didn’t know this could be that. Fun and easy, not quite simple, but something she’s willing to work for. Athletes are notoriously determined, after all.

Part of her wonders if a proclivity to rock climbing makes her an athlete, too.

“Please,” she says, laughter clinging to the letters even as she finds herself moved directly over Killian’s outstretched legs, “provide, in detail, everything you enjoy about my arms.” “I didn’t say enjoy.” “Were you misquoted, Jones?” His eyes flash. Glow, honestly. At her and because of her and athletes also know how to work their opponents. Goad them into making mistakes. Something about a pitcher’s duel and a battle in the box. Where the box is this bed. And Emma’s winning.

“I love your arms,” Killian says. Dragging his mouth against the column of her throat leaves goosebumps on Emma’s skin. Her back arches. His hand flattens. The compliments continue. Turn into promises. Guarantees. Of a future that’s spread out at their feet now, if only they reach for it.

Turns out Emma’s pretty good at reaching for things. When she wants them.

“This isn’t, like, free-scale, though, is it?”

Her heart cannot be expected to handle much more of this.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says, “all proper safety precautions were taken. Plus, I wouldn’t fall off the wall.”

Killian’s expression shutters. Not in any of that frustration Emma so clearly understood when his shirt was damp, and her shoes were unsalvagable despite his best efforts to get the school’s equipment manager to dry-clean them. No, it’s—it’s something big and important and unspoken, and Emma pulls his hand up. To rest directly over the rink that’s still tucked beneath her t-shirt.

His t-shirt.

It’s got his last number on it, at least.

“Would you catch me if I fell off the wall?” He doesn’t answer at first. Doesn’t mention the absurdity of a question that does not make sense, but those literal and metaphorical clock hands are ticking, and if they don’t replace his ice soon, they’re going to destroy these sheets. “Every single time, Swan.” “Right back at you.”

Killian doesn’t miss curfew, but it’s pretty close.

And Emma wakes up to twelve texts with links for indoor rock climbing gyms in the greater New York City area.

“Holy shit, this is hard.”

Grunting more than laughing, Emma’s fingers curl around the rock in front of her. Chalk cakes itself on the pads of those fingers, stuck beneath her nails and, somehow, the bend of her elbow. “Are you not an All-Star?” she asks, glancing at Killian.

“I do not see how that factors into this at all.”

“Huh, weird.” “Suspiciously sounds like an accusation.” “Weird,” Emma repeats. They’re halfway up a wall only one of them is really supposed to be on, but the other person several feet below them is faring far worse than the pair of them combined, so, that takes precedence in her mind. “He knows a lot more curse words than I realized.” “He’s showing off,” Killian grumbles, forehead resting against the wall.

Will Scarlet hasn’t moved in five minutes. Possibly six. Maybe a round ten. He's much better at second base.

“I cannot feel my arms,” he calls, and Emma’s laugh is better that time. Purer, somehow. As if happiness can actually have a sound. Even happiness that comes with sweat on her temple and a noticeable ache in her triceps and she sort of loves this.

Sort of is a vast understatement.

“Showing off, huh?” Emma asks. She finds her next footfall with ease, happiness blooming into confidence that’s become nearly consistent these days and weeks and years. It does not take her long to feel the stare that’s lingering on her. On her ass, specifically.

She glances over her shoulder. To find her fiancé smiling at her. And staring at her ass.

“Can I help you, love?” “Whatcha doing?” “Ogling you, obviously.” “Forearms feeling good?” He nods. Sort of. There’s a distinct slope to the back of his neck and more sweat on his brown than Emma’s. Not as much as Scarlet’s, probably. “Fantastic,” Killian drawls, “keep going, Swan, someone’s got to show us how to do it.” “Try not to fall off the wall, huh? Last thing we need is the might of the Yankees front office coming after us.” “I don’t think I can move my hands,” Will shouts. Killian doesn’t move. It’s impressive forearm strength. Blushing on the wall is not usually how Emma’s days go.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises, and Emma moves. He follows her. Up the wall and to the top, a quick brush of his lips against her shoulder that leaves Scarlet cursing even more, despite his presence on the floor, but then there’s lemon-flavored water and exceptionally soft towels and Emma’s caught a bit off guard by the question.

“Are there leagues for this?” Will asks. “Because you should probably be winning things for this.” Emma blinks. Considers. Wonders. Turns to Killian.

He’s still smiling. Broadly, in fact.

“We could look.” They do. They fill out paperwork. Buy fancy climbing shoes that Emma claims cost too much, but Killian’s a pushover and even more stubborn and she wins the first race she signs up for.

Plus, ten more after that.

Emma climbs indoor rock walls. Killian hits home runs. Occasionally they do these things simultaneously, and it usually leads to her nearly falling off the wall because everyone in her Tribeca gym knows what it means when WFAN is playing on the speakers.

Sometimes they shout out John Sterling’s home run call with him.

She gets better. He gets better.

They do end up destroying sheets in various hotels across the country. For various reasons. Not all of them post-game or ice related. There are games and events. Wins and losses. Back page spreads that Emma frames and hangs on their apartment walls, right next to other, smaller frames, with the same smiling faces who, once upon a time, called a sticky-floored baseball house home, and Killian’s fingers are warm in hers when the tears prick her eyes at Anna and Kristoff’s wedding.

There are stories. Think pieces and hot takes on a variety of drive-time radio shows. Those are all about Killian, though. He’s the athlete. The true one, some stories say. It’s impressive what Emma does, they admit, but it’s a hobby, and she’s got a grown-up career, anyway. So, she’s got more climbing records than she knew ever existed, but she’s not doing it for press, and both Mary Margaret and Anna weep at her and Killian’s wedding.

She wears her ring on a chain next to her other one when she climbs.

Every time Killian notices them hanging there, Emma swears, his eyes brighten. It’s her favorite thing in the whole, goddamn world.

“What is this?” He doesn’t answer. Just holds the sheet of paper he must have printed out in the clubhouse because they certainly don’t have a printer at home, and one of the edges is bent. Like he had to fit it in his back pocket.

“Going the stoic route, huh?” Emma quips, but there’s a noticeable hitch in her pulse. One that’s been there for weeks. Since the rumblings started, and the rumors began, whispers of possibility, and first-ever has a very nice ring to it. One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up. “Oh, that’s not fair.” “I’d like the record to show, that the only reason I didn’t know immediately was because I was in the trainer’s room, so—” “What were you in the trainer’s room for?” Killian ignores her. Well, sort of. His eyes shift, and his gaze holds, and Emma knows. Right down in the marrow of her. What the paper is and how Scarlet is the one who printed it out, but she’s even more confident Killian carried it home, and that does something funny to her entire worldview. Widens it and minimizes it at the same time, focusing on this and them and the possibility that creates.

In an athletic sort of way.

“My shoulder’s kind of sore.” Emma scoffs. “Oh, that’s pointed.” “I’m sure your shoulders are fine. Golden, even.’ “This is not your best work, you know that?” “Look at the paper.” “Did you fold it yourself?” “And then took a car back home. You really didn’t see yet?” Emma shakes her head. He knows the answer, too. He’s the one with the Google alert, after all. Because she’s still a bit of a pessimist at heart and an adult with a real job, and this is too much and abjectly terrifying, and the last thing she expects is for Killian to crouch in front of her.

One of his knees cracks.

“Don’t,” he warns, even as Emma does her best to swallow her laugh. Warm hands land on her thighs, a quiet steadiness that helps the state of her pulse and makes the possibility of the unknown a little less overwhelming. The lines crossing the center of the paper are absurdly straight. “You’re going to go.” “Oh, that sounded like a decree.” “A suggestion.” “A strong one.” “Mmhm, with the utmost confidence.” Emma makes an impressive sound. “Who’s doing your media training? What an impressive vocabulary you’ve got on you.” “Ready and willing to use it in a persuasive manner.” “Keep talking like that, and you won’t have to.” The smirk disappears. Evolves into a grin that is only Emma’s and only appears in moments like this, support clinging to air molecules and the ends of hair that constantly seems determined to fall into Killian’s eyes. “Passed, huh? All cool with the IOC.” “Decidedly cool. Officially an Olympic sport, now. Although the name could use some work. Sport climbing lacks a little oomph, don’t you think?”

“What would you call it?” “Emma Swan wins Olympic gold.” “Kinda wordy.” “Prophetic,” Killian corrects, hands shifting and pulling, and Emma has to widen her legs. His head’s at a very good kissing angle. “You’ve already got the qualifying numbers.” “You looked at the qualifying numbers?” “Don’t insult me like that. What do you think I did in the backseat?” “Planned the entire 2020 Olympics, apparently.” “Not the entire Olympics,” Killian counters, "just the part involving you. And maybe my individual expectations regarding the United States baseball team, but that’s another conversation altogether.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re using that voice.”

Widening her eyes does nothing. Emma didn’t expect it to. Not after years and games and events because rock climbing has events, and one time Mary Margaret made her a sign. Killian held it. He’s taller, that’s why.

“Don’t,” Killian repeats, “this is happening.” “Yuh-huh?” “You heard me. It’s your turn, now.” Melting is an impossibility. Like, for a human. Even so. Emma feels like she’s melting. Some of that pessimism evaporating under the warmth of Killian’s gaze and his hands and the determination in the precise angle of his chin. Same one he uses when he steps into the box with runners in scoring position.

Lumping herself into that group isn’t as insulting as Emma once believed it would be.

“God,” Emma groans, “that’s romantic.” “You’re really selling it, love.”

“This is supposed to be a hobby.” “One you’re exceedingly good it. World record good at it.” “I like you.” “That’s my end game, yeah.” She laughs. Smiles. Continues melting. Which is easier once they get rid of their clothing, and their bed is way more comfortable than any hotel they’ve encountered. And she falls asleep with Killian’s lips against her ear, Emma Swan, Olympic gold medalist whispered on loop like it’s a mantra he’s been practicing.

They postpone the Olympics.

It sucks. Everything sucks. Baseball sucks. Gyms are closed. Emma gets creative, and Killian gets research-prone. They build a makeshift wall. She tosses him BP.

People write stories about it.

It doesn’t help.

Until—

Time passes. Some things change. Others don’t. Their wall stands up to the elements of their building’s courtyard, and Killian’s hitting better than ever this season, a victory Emma’s going to claim as at least partially hers. And then the Olympics are back, and it’s qualifying and racing and a record that’s just out of reach, but she’s good enough even without it, and, this time, she’s the one packing a suitcase.

He kisses her.

Does the tongue thing.

Holds onto her like he’s only a little afraid she’s going to fall off the wall, but now the wall is international competition, and Emma’s freaking out a little.

“I love you,” she says into the crook of his neck.

His arms tighten. “I love you too.” “Gold medal?” “Gold medal.” “Hit some home runs while I’m gone, huh?” Lips graze her temple. Her forehead. The bridge of her nose. Emma might be crying, and Mary Margaret’s definitely recording, a small mob of red white, and blue surrounding them. “I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises.

“Good.”

He hits three before her first qualifying round. So, Emma takes that as a challenge. She’s an athlete now.

It’s why, she figures, her fingers don’t slip on her first run.

Her feet are sure. Her breathing is steady. There’s no one cheering her name, but she’s long since memorized the exact way Killian’s voice lifts above a crowd. How he pushes up on his toes to watch, as if standing up taller makes sure he’s closer to her. Should she need him when she falls off the wall. Only, Emma doesn’t fall, and she’s got no intention of ever falling and—

Her laugh shudders out of her in a watery sort of way that makes the journalist still standing in front of her flinch ever so slightly. Twitter makes sure the video starts playing again as soon as it finishes, which is somehow the best and worst thing that has ever happened to her. Best because, well, Emma’s honestly not sure she’s ever seen her husband like this.

Worst because she’s very nearly goddamn crying. Again.

Bobbing on the balls of his feet in front of his locker, whoever’s recording the video — it’s Scarlet, obviously — is practically frenzied behind the camera, barely able to contain their laughter. Killian doesn’t notice. He’s holding his own phone, all five of his free fingers firmly entrenched in the back of his hair. It’s gotten softer with age, Emma thinks.

She can’t stop watching him.

Every inhale is a clear struggle, the bobbing turning into pacing and quiet mumbling she can hear perfectly. As if she’s standing right in front of him.

Or at least slightly to the side. So as not to stand on the logo in the middle of the clubhouse.

Athletes are notoriously superstitious, too.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Killian chants, another noticeable snicker from Scarlet, “right there, right there, and pull, pull—Swan, pull up!”

“I did pull up there,” Emma mumbles. To the reporter, maybe. Or the world. Possibly her husband. Who was definitely more nervous about the first run than her.

God, that’s romantic.

Killian’s still talking. Shouting, more like. It’s a miracle Scarlet hasn’t fallen over yet.

“Faster, faster, you can go faster than that, Swan—” Emma clicks her tongue. “That’s kind of insulting.”

There’s an appropriate titter of laughter from the peanut gallery, which is a joke she was not trying to make, but she’s also dangerously close to swooning in the middle of press and she should have asked the Yankees for media training. Someone would have made sure she didn’t make a total ass of herself.

“Show me the time,” Killian yells, another demand that isn’t that. It’s too wobbly a string of words to hold any real power, just the supportive sort of desperation Emma’s felt in a variety of ninth innings and series-clinching moments. “Faster! Faster!” “Talking to the time or the judges or your wife?” Scarlet asks.

Killian nearly snarls.

Emma blinks. Hyperactively. Crying is not usually her shtick. More camera flashes...flash, Emma barely noticing them with her eyes glued to a phone screen that isn’t hers because she at least knows not to bring her phone to a press conference, and she can only imagine how many text messages she’s gotten.

Even on the other side of the world.

They post the times.

She knows because Killian gets some rather impressive height on his celebratory vertical. Fingers abandoning his hair, his fist pumps the air, and Scarlet’s not laughing so much as he’s whooping, a steady stream of yeah, yeah, yeah in the background. And for about half a breath, Emma’s worried Killian may turn one of his ankles on his landing, but he’d think that was insulting, and she’s really just full-on swooning now.

“How many people have seen this?’ she asks the reporter, already knowing the answer.

The reporter smiles anyway. Emma should learn her name.

“Pretty much the whole world.” When Emma was a kid — the sort of kid who believed alone was better, and there was strength in singularity, that would have terrified her. Bowled her over, really. Left her running without looking back, desperate to shed any sort of notoriety because notoriety meant attention, and attention meant inevitable disappointment.

Maybe that’s why she was never much of a sports person.

Sports disappoint you. They build you up and let you down, a sharp and sudden fall without a safety net. But sometimes. Sometimes, every so often, something wonderful happens. Sports lift you. Right up an indoor wall. Because, she knows, sports’ power comes from belief, from surrendering yourself to something bigger and better, and she’s back on that alliterative kick, but the tears are barely clinging to her eyelashes now and Emma herself is bigger and better, now.

In an international, decidedly romantic sort of way.

The video’s playing away.

“Let’s go,” Killian cries, and there it is. Her sound and their sound, cheering across an ocean and time zones that are still kind of messing with her sleep schedule.

Emma’s smile stretches.

“Let’s go,” she repeats.

It ends, as with most things in Emma’s gold-medal-winning life, because Anna plans it.

Stepping out of the terminal, it takes less than a full breath for the cheers to start. For the banners to lift and the tears to flow, a small platoon of support covered in the sort of patriotic gear they definitely got from the Old Navy in Herald Square.

Flashes burst behind Emma’s eyelids because she’s got to blink or she’ll definitely fall over. Her legs wobble beneath her, contending against a wave of triumph and jubilation, which is sort of the same word, but they’ve got a game at the Stadium tonight, so she doesn’t expect, she just hopes and reaches, and he has to twist around both Anna and Mary Margaret.

It’s wonderfully cyclical.

As is the way Emma slams herself against him. On purpose, this time. Killian’s arms tighten, more cheers and shouts, and people a few feet away start chanting USA over and over. Emma barely hears them. Her feet aren’t touching the ground, so she’s kind of preoccupied.

They’re all arms and mouths, and her legs wrapped securely around a body that probably shouldn’t be supporting hers when she knows he slid into second two nights ago, but Killian clearly has no intention of letting her down, and the medal around her neck bumps against her rings.

“You’re a very good cheerleader; you know that?” He hisses. In what, Emma can’t imagine. Embarrassment, if the red tips of his ears are anything to go by, and she’s got ideas as to why that is and how long the conversation about social media with Scarlet went, so Emma does the only reasonable thing.

She slams her lips against her home-run hitting husband’s, doing her best to make sure the gold medal doesn’t mistakenly impale either one of them, and the world tilts again. With victory and sports-based support and the sort of love that comes from believing in something bigger.

And better than Emma could have ever imagined.

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“Please,” Emma scoffs, “don’t insult me like that. Plus, I’m claiming every one of those home runs as my own, so comparatively—” He kisses her before she can say anything else.

That’s for the best, probably.

“Your arms looked ridiculously good the whole time.”

Her laugh doesn’t even sound like her when Emma hears it played back — another video that someone tells her goes viral, only she doesn’t care about hits or site traffic, just about the particular shade of blue in Killian’s eyes, and she wears her medal to the game that night.

Because they’re a sports power couple, now.

Or so the New York Post back page claims the next day.

Emma frames it.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #hook heel #this is also apparently my 50th work on ao3 #which is just patently nuts #so if you guys have been clicking and reading all these words know that i am a little in love with you

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skelanonymous · 3 years

Text

Killermare/Nightkiller - Soul Mates

Hey! I finished the prompt person who made a request like a month ago! I literally do not want to even look at this anymore. I’ve been picking away at it all month between shifts and breaks and I’m beginning to hate it by virtue of seeing it too much.

The beginning has been edited and now has some nsfw soul-mating and some after effect scenes!

Words: 6.1K

“Are you sure you want this? With me?” Nightmare wouldn’t meet Killer’s eyes. He stood in front of one of his room’s many arched windows, moonlight shimmering over his blackened form. His tentacles had curled in on him, arms crossed, an uncharacteristic sign of vulnerability that Killer had only seen inside of this room.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Killer, too, let his eternally present grin fall. This matter meant too much, and Nightmare’s insecurity fell heavily on him, on them.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“I have an idea, but I want to hear the specifics. ‘s important.” Killer crossed his own arms to match, to hold back the urge to touch his moon until he finished his thoughts.

“Soul mating is to share all that you are with another.” Nightmare turned to face out over the darkened wilds his castle oversaw. “It’s to be unified on every level and live as one until we cease to be. I am not afraid of being unified with you myself; I have centuries of existence and a power to shake the multiverse, and while I’m certain that I will be affected by you, as I am even now when we’re separate, I am also sure of my ability to handle it as I have everything else.”

“It’s me you don’t trust to deal.” Killer sighed, frown downturning further. Nightmare whirled around in an instant.

“I trust you with my life Killer.” He hurried across the room to hold his beloved’s face, a concerned eye looking into Killer’s, begging him to understand. “I would not humor this for anyone else, I would not want this with anyone else. To be joined with you is a dream I wish for. But…” His thumbs wiped away the streaks of liquid hate on Killer’s face. “To be joined to me is my namesake. You will know misery on a level you have never known.”

Killer reached up to hold Nightmare’s hands. He smiled with a short laugh.

“I think I’ve known some pretty deep fucking misery Night.” Killer let go to reach out for Nightmare’s jacket, pulling him closer. “I’m not fragile. You worry too much. ‘Sleeping near me might give you nightmares’ and ‘if I lose control during sex, I could hurt you’ and, my favorite, ‘I am the guardian of negativity, I cannot love you back.’ Yet we’re here.” He took a nice deep breath, sinking into the comfort that was Nightmare pressed to his chest. Nightmare’s fingers clutched at his back.

“Not like this Killer, never like this.” Cyan tears welled up, hands vice gripped onto his hoodie. “I am not minimizing your suffering, I have felt it firsthand, but mine is long and continuous. It bores into your soul and lives there. You mention that I have always worried and you have overcome, but yet, I still worry. Negativity is at the root of me.”

His tentacles reached out like more arms. The fear was palpable, flavoring the air and thick on their tongues. Nightmare could never forsake what he was. He could not undo what had been done.

“And to join you with that? I’m afraid of what this could do to you. Will you gain my corruption? Will I lose you like I lost myself for all those years? How much of you must be traded for us to experience this pinnacle of connection?” Night’s words flooded from his mouth, crying bitterly at the thought of turning Killer away, all for his sake. “Every single thing others can have, I must first pay a cost. To just exist without punishment cost my life, my home, my family. And even then, I did not escape punishment, I merely gained the ability to fight back!”

“Nightlight…look at me.” And he listened. Killer tapped his teeth to his.

“Killer…” Nightmare tapped back, kissing him deeply with wet cheeks. The tension of the room could be cut with a knife, Killer could feel it in the line of Night’s back, and he knew how to work that out. When they broke apart, Killer didn’t move back an inch.

“Remember when you confessed?” His voice rough and heavy against Night’s teeth, Killer’s eyes went half lidded. “You looked so shocked, like you couldn’t believe it.”

“I still don’t.” Nightmare’s voice dropped low, shaky but wanting.

“Moon, are you happy, being with me?” Night’s tentacles clutched him tight, Nightmare pressing up tight to him with another kiss, their faces still millimeters apart.

“Of course. Idiot...” His eye glanced wistfully at the bookshelves on the wall, expression serious and hesitant. Killer chuckled softly at the worry. He wiped his god’s tears away.

“Then why couldn’t I be happy joined with you?” Night’s body sparked with magic underneath his fingertips. “If even the god of negativity can be happy with the one he loves, why couldn’t I do the same with a piece of him living in my soul?” Killer licked his teeth, tongue touching his moon’s at this distance, groaning at the catch in Nightmare’s breath.

“You could.”

Killer crushed Night up against him, the smaller hands fisting in the loose blue hoodie in their passion. Kissing Nightmare always got his motor running. His dark tentacles sought out every surface to lavish attention on Killer’s body, three times the stimulation of any other partner and a hell of a lot more interesting.

“Let me have ya then.” His pointer finger slid down the black cheek, catching softly on his jaw, over his sensitive throat, and leaving a hot trail of need down his sternum before halting. Right over Night’s soul. “Mate with me Moon.”

Night reached out slowly for Killer’s soul, always within reach but rarely so bright, tapping the surface with a fond smile. Killer felt the weight of his words resonate across his being.

“Promise I won’t lose you?” Killer grinned widely.

“Promise.” The tenseness dropped from Night’s back, arms slung around Killer’s shoulders with a more confident look.

“Then take me Killer.”

Killer had a slight height advantage, but Night made up for it with vigor. The black fingers pulled at the hoodie, growling when Killer laughed at him for its slow removal.

“My soul’s not inside my ribcage Moonlight. Did ya forget?” He chuckled until Nightmare pulled their faces together again, groaning into Night’s mouth, tasting and teasing the cyan tongue until he felt Night’s fingers loosen. He took the opportunity to run a phalange up from Night’s back to his sternum, tracing a rib. Night broke off to shiver.

“Are you trying to rush?” Nightmare traced the outer edge of the target shaped soul. It snapped into a heart shape for the second go around. “There you are.”

“I just like when ya touch me.” Killer winked, grinding up against Night’s pelvis. Night bucked against the bulge in front of him. He kept rubbing the tiny heart in his hands while Killer nuzzled into his throat to nip and lick at the sensitive vertebrae there. “Fucking delicious. Can’t wait to have ya.” Killer took a deep breath in, lost in the scent of Nightmare.

Night didn’t respond, only kissed the soul in his hands, trying to impart what he couldn’t say. I’m the lucky one. That you want me, it matters more than anything else.

Killer’s mouth licked haphazardly. The warm buzz of emotion from Night seeped into his body, unfurling the little anxieties building in the peripheral of their relationship. Killer put on a grandiose show, playing the part of the cocky bastard to his moon’s calm stoic, but Nightmare very rarely opened up this far. His moon cried less than Killer had fingers on one hand. He spoke seldomly about the past in anything but factual recounts. The fact he’d been so honest, that he could feel that pure emotion through the contact, put him in a drunken euphoria.

“Moooooon, you’re wearing too many clothes.” He pushed the hoodie off Night’s shoulders, caught on his elbows. “Come to the bed.” Killer slid his hands up to hold Night’s hands, soul dropped and returned to its place.

Killer led him towards the bed, but let him go with a sly grin. He stripped off his shirt with a twirl, revealing his ribs with hungry eyes, dropping his shorts in the next moment to persuade his love to do the same.

“Eager, are you?” Nightmare’s voice betrayed nothing, but the slow shrug off of his sweater spoke volumes.

“Already missing that touch of yours.” He gestured to his soul. “I could get off from just that.”

A peace offering, a way to back out, to build to this piece by piece. Night stepped closer to his love leaned back on the bed.

With a determined eye, he skimmed over the bulge of Killer’s cock, meeting Killer’s captivated gaze with ferocity. He only broke it to remove his suffocating shirt.

“Ignoring my needs? What type of mate do you plan to be?” Killer’s eyelights popped into existence while Nightmare seated himself on his lap. “I thought you said you’d never disappoint me…” He almost fell off when Killer sat up to meet him, smashing their teeth together.

Killer dove in, not leaving room for Nightmare to fight back, overwhelming his small lover with how much he could explore with his eyes closed. They were both pantless by the time Nightmare’s senses returned, breathless but alive with energy.

“If you’re feeling needy, we’ll focus on you then.” Nightmare had no ecto formed yet, Killer instead reaching up into his chest for the dark apple soul he’d never been allowed to touch. His hand hesitated before tapping the blackened surface. “Last chance Nightmare.” And when all he got was silence, he took it out and held it up to his face.

Unlike his own soul, the black apple sat calmly in his hand. It had little give, the dark peel a thin barrier to protect it from the outside world, everlasting and unbroken until this very moment.

“Didn’t expect that.” Killer ran his thumbs over the surface, testing the limits of the shell and Night in one swoop. His moon sat unaffected except by a blush.

“I’m sorry it’s not what you expected.” He could read Night’s hesitation in his body language, but not from the soul seated in his hands, its aura as calm on the exterior as its owner. He wanted in. Killer gently bit down on the apple, not wanting to go clean through, but maybe create a little breach. When Night didn’t react, he bit down harder. His ectobody formed instantly, boosting him up on Killer’s lap.

“OooooooH!” He broke the skin, a small cut through the outer barrier. Night hadn’t ripped it away yet, so Killer turned it over until he could work his tongue into the hole.

“KiLLeR.” Night’s thighs tightened on his legs, hips bucking down wantonly while his cyan tongue lolled out of his mouth. Killer kept working and tasting, getting deeper and deeper into the soul. “STARS, Killer, please. Fuck me!”

Tentacles curled up every limb stroking and teasing. They sought out Killer like a moth to the flame, knowing who was pleasing their master, eager to return the favor. Killer appreciated their caress, but focused in on the torrent of emotion pouring into his mouth from the apple. Night’s composure seldom broke outside of the bedroom, and even here, he was not driven to utmost debauchery, often just more openly honest about his desires. Licking directly into his core, Killer could taste how much Night was holding back. He sucked out some of the wet flavor with a slurp.

“God ya want this so bad. Good, me too.” Killer worked two fingers into the break to Night’s wrecked gasps. “My soul can’t fit in here love. Gunna have to make room for me inside ya.”

“I need you inside me, right now.” Night’s tentacles readjusted them quickly for his red cock to slide up and down Night’s already wet folds. “I love you, connect with me, I’ve got so much room for you…” Killer heard the wet squelch of Night stretching himself open with a tentacle in preparation, making his cock twitch in anticipation. He forced his tongue in around the three fingers he’d worked into Night’s soul. His reward was instantaneous.

“AAH!” Night’s knees knocked on his waist, his eye wide and hazy, which Killer took advantage of by pulling Night further onto him and starting to sink into his soaked pussy along with the slicked tentacle still stuffed inside.

“Oh FUCK!” Night’s cyan eye rolled into his skull, trembling apart at the seams. “T-they fit?”

“They sure do.” Killer pulled his soul up to the opening in Night’s. “You ready for the second squeeze?” He flexed his hips making Nightmare scream.

“Stuff me full Killer, hah, please!”

With a gentle push, his soul tapped against the inside of Night’s, the opening worked large enough for the entire thing to fit along it on one side. He watched fascinated. Normal soulmating, you could hold two souls together and they’d combine, no work required but the desire to do so, but he had to try at getting his moon open enough to reach the savory core. They sat against each other for an instant, Killer anxious if he’d gone about it wrong and Night if he could even do this at all, before Killer’s entire soul slid directly inside, combining them in a flash of color.

The red apple hung between them pleasantly. Killer’s eyelights glowed bright as Night’s went deep purple.

“Moon?” The words echoed in his mind, though it felt like he spoke them. He didn’t need to say anything, Night was him and he was Night, but his sudden desire to hear Nightmare overrode logic.

“My darling soul.” Hands rested on his face. Night’s locked eyes with his, faces moving closer, but even an inch felt too far. It was slow deliberate love, that first kiss, the taste of their soulmate for the very first time.

But then Night shifted to get a little closer and the thickness inside him sparked the desire.

That spark quickly caught, burning through both of them with the intensity of sun, each thought echoing between their souls, escalating to a constant hum that drowned out the rest. Night slid forward to take Killer and his own appendage to the hilt. Killer moaned loudly before pulling Night up to his chest with a desperate kiss. He could barely get out any words.

“I love you.” It slurred from his teeth, feeling the tentacle inside of Night curl around his cock to make it stretch out Night wider. “You’ve got my soul inside yours, ya shouldn’t mind if I fill ya with my cum right?” He thrusted experimentally; Night wailed and slid down to meet his hips. His purple blush complimented the wrecked expression, staring into Killer’s eyes like a lifeline, before nodding with a broken moan. “Fuck you’re perfect.”

He started slow. Night winced at the end of the thrusts and Killer wasn’t so far gone as to not notice; to the contrary, he had never been more aware of his moon. The sound of his voice breaking on Killer’s name a symphony, the taste of his love’s tongue a banquet, all his senses awakened at the sight of his gorgeous soulmate. And through the bond, he could feel Night’s agreement.

“Please, please, please!” Oversensitive and at the emotional limit, Killer could feel his peak rapidly approaching, speeding up to slam into Night, clapping their ecto together between lewd pants and groans. He dropped his sweaty head against Night’s shoulder.

“God Night, come for me!” Night’s pussy clamped down tight with his orgasm. Killer rode it to his own finish.

“Fuck!”

He slow thrusted through it, filling up Night with his red magic, sliding against each other with pleasant bonelessness. They fell back onto the bed in their embrace.

“Killer…”Night’s head rested on his chest, one hand rubbing over where he could see Killer’s cum inside himself. Killer felt tears drip onto his ribcage.

“Nightlight?” He cradled Night’s head. He held him tight, Night nuzzling his chest with the rarest of expressions.

“Thank you.” The genuine smile, soft and sweet, hit Killer right in their combined souls, overcome with their combined joy. He had it so bad. They readjusted to separate, sharing soft continuous kisses, settling into the blankets with unmatched contentment.

“We look pretty good together.” He stroked a finger over the red apple, both trembling with a soft sigh. “Can’t get rid of me now. No take-backs.”

“I can think of no better partner for eternity.” And that deep honesty flustered Killer. He hoped he’d get to see more of this side of his beloved moon now that they were one. Being one in all forms had unlocked more of himself than had existed before, parts he would adopt from Night starting to click in as extensions of his soul. Something dark ate at the back of Killer’s mind, but combined like this, it was held at bay effortlessly by Night’s calm thoughts and breathing.

“Let’s get some rest Nightlight. We have the rest of our lives tomorrow.” He pulled up a sheet to cover them, and placed one last kiss on Night’s teeth.

“That we do.” With their combined souls hanging between them, they slipped in restful sleep.

Killer woke up late. Looking around, he realized he’d been moved from Night’s bedroom to the study. He sat up (appropriately though not fully dressed) on the lounge that Nightmare had scooted closer to his desk.

“Good afternoon. How are you feeling?” Killer felt strangely apprehensive before realizing that the feeling wasn’t centered in his body. The immediacy lessoned the longer he thought about it, though the intensity of that wariness kept ratcheting up while he tried to speak.

“Is that you?” The sudden break in relief caused emotional whiplash and a spike of discomfort.

“Yes. My apologies, I wasn’t reigning in my reactions.” The normal calm came back, with a background fluttering of too many emotions to name. “It should be more manageable now.”

“Wow, I must be bothering the fuck outta you.” He laughed at the tinges of worry, indignation, and relief in turn. A glance at his own chest revealed only his own soul. They’d separated when sleeping it appeared.

“Always.”

“Wow, this is what you’re actually feeling?” Each emotion felt so distinct and different, the deep fondness manifesting as a touch to the cheek and a soft smile, the yearning a waltz across a marble floor, remaining a respectable distance but waiting for a moment alone to close the distance. So caught in this tide, he didn’t notice the tentacle resting along his back.

“Yes. I hope you could see through the sarcasm beforehand. But focus for a moment.” The appendage slid up his spine, Killer shivering. “I’m syphoning my power out of you by force, but once I break contact, you will be hit with whatever my corruption has done to you.”

“Still worried?” Killer grinned with a tilt of his head, shit eating smile not calming Night in the slightest.

“I didn’t want you to wake up in whatever state this will put you in. There’s a difference from knowing it’s coming to waking up overwhelmed.” Killer rolled his shoulders to ready up, taking a few breaths before nodding confidently.

“Hit me with it Nightlight.”

The instant the words left his mouth, the weight of the corruption fell on his back. He gasped, choking on the weight of the atmosphere, hate spilling out of his eyes. His soul pulsed heavily, weighted and overwhelming, drowning in a pit of self-loathing and anger that he almost couldn’t see through.

He fell off something. His hands scrambled along the floor, colliding with something that Killer clawed at until he was sat up again.

He trembled violently, bones clattering against his leverage. Sounded familiar though. Where had he heard it before? He focused on the sound to anchor himself in the moment, reflecting on it until the answer came to him suddenly. Nightmare’s desk, he’d had sex on enough times to remember the way wood sounded banging against bone.

Nightmare! He’d been with him before this.

Killer heaved in a few gulps of air. If he reached out with his magic, he could feel him, dark and powerful not too far away, and that helped get through the worst of the panic. The calm washed over him like soothing rain. It soaked into his joints until he laid back against the wood, completely still.

Amidst the black came a single bright ping of light. Hope lit in his chest like a lamp, illuminating his eyelights, finally able to see.

Feelings were too overwhelming to speak, but his staticky pupils stared at his moon’s face.

Nightmare forwent his usual propriety, his normally impassive face scrunched up in unease. His cyan pupil took in every movement, any motion or emotion he could see. Every tentacle hovered around him worriedly, barely restrained from touching Killer to sap the feeling away. He felt Night’s palms on his. He gripped them back with a tired grin.

He could see Nightmare trying to speak, but his ears hadn’t caught up to him yet, still roaring with the stress his body had gone through. He tugged on Nightmare’s arms, toppling the king to the ground into him. Pressed against his chest, he felt better already.

Oh look at his cute soulmate. God he loved him.

Night had been knocked down to kneeling over Killer’s collapsed form, sitting in his lap with flushed cyan cheeks, all right in reach of Killer. Night really should know who he was dealing with by now.

Killer kissed him fully, hands trailing to his shoulder joints to get his moon to huff and let him in. It felt incredible, their magic tongues sparking up pure passion between them through the bond. The fog from the shock of Night’s power was clearing, getting further and further away the more he touched his precious mate, measured in the volume of sounds finally reaching him. By the time they broke apart, Killer had his mind back enough to speak.

“I told you. You worry too much.” Killer grinned, eyes closed and amused. He nuzzled Night’s cheeks with his own. “If you think I was handsy before, you won’t be able to handle how much I want ya now.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Nightmare surged up into another kiss. The magical connection pulsed alive in their souls, swept away in the insatiable urge to be closer to each other. So enraptured that they only halted when they heard mumbling to the side.

“I’m not interrupting them Papyrus, they’ll take a break eventually…” Dust didn’t even flinch when their eyes snapped over to him.

“Didn’t take ya as a voyeur Dusty!” Killer laughed. Nightmare stood quickly, but didn’t move to take his place behind his desk.

“I suppose you’re reporting in on your latest assignment in Fellswap.” Night could compartmentalize like a pro, his face blank and unaffected in moments while Dust relayed his findings calmly. Killer had envied Night’s ability to sort away emotions and reject them, choosing to feel them instead of being overcome, but now that he had a direct link behind the facade, he found himself awed at his moon’s composure under enormous influence.

Calmed by the impromptu make out session, Killer searched inside himself for what was new.

The parts of the bond that came from Nightmare felt shiny, not like the pieces that had always been there. He could feel those rotting things from his own past had been broken in, worn to match the rest of him, unlike that which was added. Killer visualized Nightmare’s power like a tiny galaxy living in him. Dark and expansive, powerful and captivating, it crooked a finger at him to indulge in the negative in himself and in others around him. He could pull on it, indulge in the poisonous vapors, become more powerful in an instant.

Tentacles slithered over his arms, lifting him carefully but pulling his back flush against Nightmare’s chest.

“Now where were we?” Night’s voice rumbled through the both of them. Killer stroked each appendage and licked the corner of Nightmare’s mouth.

“Almost to the good part.”

He was level 20. Right hand of the terror of the multiverse. Mated to the god of negativity. He’d killed plenty and taken what he wanted his entire life.

Killer shut the power out of his mind. He’d take it in stride and learn to tame the damn thing. No need to throw away his sanity for more power than he already had, especially not at the cost of his moon.

One stray hand to his pelvis and the thought was gone.

“How do ya deal with the cravings?” Killer’s hand clenched around his knife, breathing through his nose in metered breaths. Blood red magic ran from his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue at the last second.

“I indulge when it is safe to do so.” Night watched cautiously from the door to the training room.

“And when’s that?” Killer curled in on himself.

“Moments like right now.”

He and Horror had been sparring, just like normal, taunting back and forth, when the corruption had reared its ugly head mid-sentence.

“Can’t keep up? Maybe that’s why you couldn’t feed Pap-” Killer instantly ate his own words, teeth cutting clean through his tongue before Horror could do anything in retaliation. He didn’t even block the attack Horror had started. They weren’t fragile, god knows that they had tougher skin than most, but there were lines you did not cross, and Killer had sprinted straight past them without looking back. He hadn’t moved since.

“So you’re feeding off my fuckup? At least that’s something.” His shirt was wet against his sternum, stuck and soaked in the front, sticky and thick on his fingers tearing into the fabric.

Nightmare pulled down, sitting beside him on the floor. Every limb hovered over Killer’s form. Times like this, he almost detested Nightmare’s superior control, unable to see beyond that carefully neutral face and the wall Nightmare could pull between their bond with ease.

“I cannot help my nature. That doesn’t mean I wished for this.” Nightmare folded his hands in his lap, a picture of patience. “He has already forgiven you.”

“He fucking shouldn’t. I knew what the fuck saying that would do.” Killer sneered at the floor. Black dripped down to mix with the crimson staining his clothes. He was such a piece of shit, giving in like this was his first damn rodeo, like he’d never had to exert ANY fucking self control! He fell forward until his face met the floor.

“You’ve only had this power for a few weeks. It takes time.” Killer could feel his tentacles tentatively soothe him at the edges, pokes and pats soft enough to be shaken off should he decide to run. “I’m sorry.”

Killer’s eyelights flicked on at the tiny pulse of sadness. Night could hide a lot, but powerful swings couldn’t be hidden from your soulmate.

He turned over to stare at his moon. His face looked steady as always, but knowing the emotion beneath gave it away. Night met his gaze evenly, but his eye had gotten soft, rounded on the edges. If he looked closely, tension pulled Night’s arms taut, elbows pressed too hard into his lap, tiny tremors in the forearms from pushing his stress to a hidden place most wouldn’t notice. Really seeing it had Killer shuffling up to sit again.

“Moon, I don’t regret anything. I’m mad at myself but not at this.” He sought out Night’s folded hands, grasping them with his dirtied ones. “The only thing directed at you is that you still keep hiding from me.”

“It’s...a lot to handle. You already feel overwhelmed, so I…”

“I get to decide when it’s too much Nightlight. Tell me how ya really feel.” The revulsion from his actions faded away, patiently waiting for Night to let down the wall.

It dropped all at once, a dam cracked open over his psyche, Killer awash in a million emotions, many that didn’t have names but ate at him sharply. Another piece of him soaked it in, eating up all Night’s doubts and self-loathing with glee. Killer flinched.

“It feels weird as fuck to like when you’re upset.” Killer scrunched up his face. “I prefer you smilin’. Or moaning.” He gave Night a saucy wink. His reward, a light peal of laughter, lit his soul up like a glowstick. Night cupped his wet face with a soft smile.

“I’d like that too.” A chaste kiss melted the dark atmosphere away, Killer left besotted in the wave of fondness from his lovely moon. “I will always feed on the negative, but in this, I gain strength from our love too.” He hummed softly at Killer’s enamoured look. “In sickness and health, my soul.”

The kiss was warm, but not drawn out. They were still in the training room after all.

“I guess I should clean up and apologize to Horror. Even if he forgives me, don’t mean I don’t have to apologize.” Killer stretched back. With a swing of his torso, he landed on his feet. Night stood to join him, resisting the urge to take him elsewhere for soft reassurances. “See ya tonight light?” Killer stuck his tongue out.

“It isn’t optional.” Night pulled him forward with a single hand by the collar of his hoodie. “I’d hunt you down if you tried to stay away.” His seductive smile made Killer purr.

“Hunt me down then Moonbeam. I look forward to it.” The pleasant shimmer of emotion under it all warmed his bones as he walked to his room for a change of clothes. Killer caught a glimpse of the hall mirror, taking in his wrecked appearance with little concern. With each day, he owned more and more of this new darkness, and one day soon, he’d have eternity left with Night. He flexed his arms to rest them behind his head.

“Now where is Horror?”

“Take Horror and get the fuck out of here.” Killer swung his blade through an ink stream. It deflected off to the side, narrowly missing Dust, who had Horror up over his shoulder.

“You can’t take Ink and Cross alone idiot.” Dust had started to back towards the exit anyway. He’d save two skins over one any day.

“Don’t need to take ‘em. Boss’s on his way, just gotta run out the clock.” His grin widened as he turned back to his opponents. The liquid hate began to pour from his sockets, dripping onto the floor, starting to puddle into pitch black pools. He slid his knife under the waterfall to coat it in the black sludge. “And I’ve gotten better at taking my time.” When he stepped forward, Cross stepped back.

“What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’re afraid.”

“Not a bit.” Cross’s stance shifted to put his blade between them. He kept readjusting his grip on his weapon, anxiously preparing for whatever new tricks Killer had up his sleeve. “I’m not so easily shaken.” His white eye went gold.

“I don’t think that’ll make that much of a difference.” Killer flipped his knife with ease, taunting his favorite punching bag of the Stars. Internally, he checked his balance to dodge positivity arrows. “Whatcha gunna do? Stare at me?”

Cross swung confidently in a forward dash. Killer jumped out of the way.

“I’ve got positivity on my side.” Killer almost laughed, but a shot of ink missed his face by an inch.

“And a little help!” Ink chuckled, setting himself up around the edges of Cross and Killer’s spar as inconvenient back up. Killer blocked a direct attack, focusing his energy to spread the corruption over to Cross’s blade at point of contact. The gold eyelight flickered until Cross whipped back.

“What the hell did he do to you?” Cross curved the sword to smash into the ground with a grimace. The sludge cracked and crumbled off.

“It’s better than the nothing Dream gave you.” Killer stuck out his tongue, enraging Cross into re-engaging.

Cross hadn’t gotten much better. His stamina had increased, drastically so, but so had Killer’s, that wasn’t making the difference. Cross stepped into the sludge pool, sliding off balance. Killer pounced on the opening. The back up ink stream caught his shoulder. He growled at the shot of pain but poured that feeling into his spark, bouncing back before Cross could even react.

Even the help wasn’t making that much of a difference. Cross just wasn’t messing up as much as usual.

Cross had always left openings in his attacks, and Killer exploited them, which upset Cross, which made him fuck up more, which made him an easier target, ad naseum until he kicked his angry, self loathing ass. Looks like he’d gone and gotten with Dream to get over himself. Well mostly, because he was still fucking up, but each success powered the positivity and that weakened Killer now, even as his own worries ate at him. It was the world’s worst snowball effect. Too absorbed in his own head; he found himself backed into a wall.

“Look who’s cornered now?” Killer hated that smile on Cross. Well, he’d either have to take a scalding or a slice to get out of this. He leaned back to push out of the corner after the swing.

“Try not to get my face. Boss’ll have no eye candy at the castle.”

“Well we can’t have that.” The sight of the tentacle gripping Cross’s knife made him swoon.

“W-what?” Cross’s eyesight dimmed back to white with Night’s touch. “How’d you get here so fast?!” Nightmare tilted his back towards Ink.

“Killer.”

“Yes Boss.” He took off towards the painter like a bolt, powered by the Night’s aura and the dread Cross eeked over the battlefield. He listened to Nightmare’s talk while easily keeping Ink busy.

“The better question, Cross, is why Dream has not come to save you. Are you just not worth saving?” He’d wrapped Cross in his tentacles, the spark of positivity being drowned out by the overwhelming panic, much tastier than normal loathing. “Did you think you could take him alone? Did you doubt that I’d come to defend what’s mine? Or is it...you can’t call him?”

“I can call him!” But no one came.

“Don’t forget who I am. I am not easily deceived.” Night’s satisfied smile drilled into Cross’s mind. “Such a pity. He mates with you but doesn’t tend to your spark. What a waste.” He tightened his hold on Cross, wincing at the tightening pressure. “Killer can call me from any corner of the world if he chooses. He can wield my gift. You were left with nothing but the promise of feeling better, while I raised my mate higher.” Night manipulated Cross to stare at him in the eyes. “Dream truly does not understand his own power, and, by extension, you.” Condescending and conceited in turns, though Killer could feel the pride beneath.

“You and Killer?” He’d barely gotten it out before his eyelights blanked.

“Not your concern.” He’d seeped most of Cross’s strength away before throwing him towards Ink disdainfully. He broke off his fight with Killer to look over at the limp offering. “I suggest you get him out of my sight. I will not spare him a second time.” Night turned away from the crumpled heap, wrecked traitor gone as soon as Ink grabbed him.

“If I said I wanted your body now, would ya hold it against me?” Killer held his arms wide open. Nightmare walked directly into them, not even waiting until Ink had fully portaled, kissing his mate fondly.

“Have I told you that you can be insufferable at times?” Killer laughed so hard he could hardly stand up straight.

“I know I’m your favorite. No need to say anything.” With a hand to guide Night on his chin, Killer angled into another kiss, soaking in the love and affection from his moon as easily as he had his worries and troubles. Nightmare rested easily between his arms, happier than Killer had ever seen and proud beyond measure of HIS soulmate.

“I love you. You are, indeed, my favorite.” He leaned into Killer’s chest. “Now, how about we go home for some preferential treatment?”

“Moon, you just read my mind.” Killer wrapped an arm around Night’s waist, sliding the other hand along his arm until he had Night’s clasped off to the side. A perfect dance pose, Night shaking his head with fake exasperation, straightening to press against him. The portal whirled open somewhere behind them. “Let’s waltz on outta here.” Night laughed.

“Lead the way Killer.”

He grinned and waltzed them right through the portal, to home.

Thank god, it POSTED.

#killermare #nightkiller #story time #soulmate AU

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hargrove-mayfields · 3 years

Text

Harringrove April Day 16- Nostalgia

On just about every flat surface in their mansion, Steve’s mother had put out some fancy Tiffany light fixture.

Steve’s room was the only place in the whole house he got to have any day in the interior design, and his lamp, well it didn’t quite have a stained glass shade, or ornate detailing to fancy up the mansion, his happens to be an old nursery lamp from when he was six and still had a themed bedroom.

At the peak of his too cool for school teenager bullshit, he’d attempted to throw it out, sent it away to the curb with a bag of stuffed animals he claimed he didn’t need anymore, but the very same night he started having nightmares again, so he scrambled to get it back before the raccoons found it first.

That dusty old lamp had saved him from countless nights spent awake and terrified, and he wasn’t one to say he was ashamed of that.

Except, now Billy Hargrove, the pinnacle of badass, is in his room, and there it is, still plugged in on the nightstand.

Of all things too, it couldn’t have just been a generic race car lamp or something he could play off as not really being for kids, it had to be stupid Bambi.

There’s a story behind it, that when he was a toddler, his first venture out of Indiana was to go see his gramma over in Maryland, and, after one look at his big brown eyes and his fluffy brown hair, she immediately nicknamed him Bambi.

After that the name just sort of stuck with him, his parents using it when they wanted on his good side, to make up for forgetting his birthday, or as an apology for leaving him alone so long the babysitter left, so of course his mom thought it would be adorable if his bedroom was themed around it.

Somewhere in a dusty corner of the attic, he still had the curtains and the quilt and the wall hangings, and under his bed was a pillow embroidered with his name and a picture of the clumsy cartoon deer made by his gramma. And of course, there was the brightly shining lamp.

He would never admit that he kept them there for when he was at his most frightened, clutching the pillow to his chest during a nightmare, or wrapping the soft material of the tiny old quilt around his shoulders when he felt an imaginary pair of eyes watching him.

Because Steve had seen some shit, he felt that after witnessing a ten-foot tall faceless monster come through the ceiling and try to kill him, and having a herd of baby versions of that same monster charge at him with nothing but a baseball bat to protect himself and a group of defenseless children, he had earned the right to use a damn nursery lamp in his bedroom.

But, that ass-backwards swell of pride at still using his childhood comfort items at 19 years old is definitely crushed by the fact that, after being in his room for a grand total of five minutes, that’s immediately what Billy drifts to.

A drunken apology at a New Year’s party might have made up for the concussion and proved he was probably not going to beat his face in again, but it didn’t change the fact that he was in Steve’s bedroom with the edge of the printed lampshade pinched between his fingers, and a contemplative look on his face.

It was a little while after their truce was reached, that Billy just started showing up at the Harringtons’ door unannounced. Sometimes it was to borrow Steve’s first aid kit. Sometimes he’d steal some of his weed. Once he’d come over just to watch something on Steve’s TV. Whatever his reason, Steve had let him in every time.

In this particular instance, it had been Steve who had called Billy, because he had a math project and an essay due first thing tomorrow morning, and Nancy was too busy to help him.

At first he’d considered just not getting the work done, but he decided Billy would do. He was smart enough that the co-ed teacher in the math class they shared had begged him to switch to the advanced classes, so Steve figured his help wouldn’t be so bad.

But his desk where all of his school stuff is is upstairs in his bedroom, where he’s left out the dumb baby lamp, and of course that would be exactly what Billy goes straight for. Steve feels himself start to panic a little, unsure if he could trust Billy’s reaction, and convincing himself that Billy might beat his ass for being a fragile little fairy or something.

It never comes, Billy just sits down all casual on the bed next to Steve, pulling one of his legs up so he could cross it over his knee, and nods over at the lamp again. “Wish I still had something from when I was little.”

The weight of the entire universe is lifted from Steve’s chest, knowing that Billy isn’t going to tear his head off. He lets out a sharp breath he didn’t know he was holding in. “Yeah?”

Billy nods and looks down, fidgeting with the pendant he always wore around his neck. “My dad threw everything out. All I have is one little picture of my mom.”

Steve knew he lived with his step-mom, but had never even thought about what happened to Billy’s real mother. He realizes the pendant was probably a locket, the very one that holds the aforementioned picture, and asks “Can I see it?”

It looks like Billy has to think about it, as he keeps twisting the locket between his fingers, before he nods and opens it. Steve leans towards him, putting his hand up under it and holding it in his palm, straining to see the tiny, aged picture.

Even though he’s never seen this woman, it makes Steve incredibly sad, seeing her little face all worn out in that locket around her son's neck. He wonders if she was dead, or if maybe she’d lost custody for some reason, or if maybe she had just left, but whatever happened, when his eyes flicker back up to Billy’s face, the tears shining in his eyes and the way he avoids his gaze, he knows better than to ask.

Steve lets the locket fall and watches Billy snap it shut quickly, and he realizes he has no idea what the right thing to say is.

What he wants to say is that he’s sorry, for him losing his mother and having nothing but one yellowed and tear stained picture to remember her by, but that seems too much like prying, somehow not really appropriate.

Instead, he remembers what Billy said about his dad throwing his stuff out and says, “Your dad must be a real asshole, huh?”

Billy scoffs and blinks away the last of the tears in his eyes. “You’ve got no idea, Harrington.” There’s a long awkward pause, until Billy asks, “You know how I’m always coming over here with like, all kinds of shit wrong with me?”

Steve thinks he knows where this was going. “Sure.”

Chewing on the corner of his nail, Billy takes a moment to get his thoughts together, his eyes flitting nervously across the room, focusing on pretty much anything but Steve, mostly the picture frame behind him. “I lied. It’s not, like, fights or whatever I say. At least not with other kids.”

Steve himself was no stranger to conversations like these, he himself had to confess something of a similar calibre to Nancy, when they were still dating, because his father had come home from a business trip pissed off about something, and slapped him across the face just a little too hard. The sturdy silver ring that he wore on his middle finger had split the skin on Steve’s cheek, and he couldn’t come up with a good enough excuse to cover his tracks.

Admitting to it out loud was one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do, so he decides he won’t make Billy say it. Maybe they weren’t on the best of terms, only here to do homework or whatever, but if he was going to open up about this, he definitely wasn’t going to make him experience that same humiliation he had.

“Is it your dad? That does that to you?” Nancy hadn’t been kind enough to spare him, forcing him to tell her once that the scar he so proudly sported wasn’t actually from a fist fight with Tommy like he said, and he wouldn’t do the same to Billy.

In lieu of a response though, Billy sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, his hands starting to shake ever so subtly, and Steve knows he’s got to keep pressing. “Do you need help? I can call the chief-“

“No.” Billy shakes his head and makes eye contact with Steve for the first time since he started talking. “Cops only make it worse.”

Steve could understand that, had tried once when he was about eight or so, with the assistance of one of the housekeepers, to call the police when his father twisted his arm so far behind his back his shoulder popped out of place, but they wouldn’t dare arrest a public figure like his father, especially not for a little corporal punishment. The first thing they’d asked was what Steve had done wrong, not why his father had felt it fitting to beat on his eight year old for a tiny mistake. He never asked for help again.

“Well is there anything I can do?” Despite their differences and the fact that he only called him here to cheat on his homework, he truly did want to help Billy. Something about repeatedly surviving horrific monster attacks made him a lot more protective of those around him, and now that they were over their dumb pissing contest, Billy was included in that too.

“Think you’ve done enough letting me into your mansion, unless that’s not good enough for your hero complex.” It was a pathetic jab, there was no bite behind his broken tone, and Steve would almost rather have him at his worst than see him so vulnerable and sad.

Steve tries to reason with him softly, “You know it’s not like that, Billy.”

“Do I?” Walls had been put up as Billy made his last ditch efforts to protect himself from being weak in front of Steve. “Cause where I’m sitting, it seems like you get off on charity cases like mine. You tryin to swoop in and save me, King Steve? Feed your ego so you can feel like the savior you were always meant to be?”

He was baiting him, trying to pick a fight so he’d push him away, Steve had seen it all before in himself and wouldn’t fall for it. “Listen. I just want to help you.”

Everything about Billy suddenly seemed to make a whole lot more sense. That whole part animal, tough guy thing was just an act, and Steve knew because he had done essentially the same thing.

Before Nancy Wheeler had taught him to be better, he and Billy really weren’t so different. He’d let high school bullshit bother him, beat up the nerds and fucked all the cheerleaders and mocked anyone lower than him on the social ladder like he was supposed to, but it always made him feel off.

In the end, it had been so easy to get him to the other side, to show him what to do instead, he supposed all he needed was a little push to help him actualize what he already believed.

And then it hits him, in that moment, that this was Billy’s push in the right direction. That he was Billy’s Nancy.

“I don’t expect you to tell me everything and I’m not doing this for me, just,” It became extremely important to him to not set Billy off, to say just the right thing to keep him on the right track. “my door is always open, Billy.”

At first, it seemed to have worked, Billy sat staring at the floor, his lip quivering as he mulled over Steve’s words, but, when he stood abruptly and snatched his leather jacket from where it was draped over the back of Steve’s desk chair, Steve knows he messed up.

“Where are you going?” He stands up fast enough to give himself a head rush while Billy shrugs his jacket back on and yanks the door open.

“Need a smoke.” That’s all he gets before the door slammed in his face, and he hears Billy's heavy boots stomping down the stairs and the sound of him slamming his front door.

He waits with bated breath and tears pricking the corners of his eyes for the sound of Billy’s car starting and tearing out of his driveway, but it never comes.

Still, he feels immensely guilty and selfish and stupid as all hell for not just biting his tongue. He should’ve just fought back, argued with him like was expecting him to instead of trying to be comforting like he was his fucking therapist or something.

Because this was Billy fucking Hargrove, stereotypical meat head bully. Why he even felt the need to help him, other than their similar upbringings and coping mechanisms, or the fact that Billy had obviously been reaching out, hoping for someone to care, was beyond him. Or maybe it really wasn’t, he knew exactly why, he just felt weak and stupid for trying, and especially so for failing.

Apparently he’d been so caught up in his little pity party that he missed the sound of the door opening back up, and didn’t notice Billy had come back until his bedroom door was open.

Steve was so relieved that Billy came back, that he hadn’t pushed him too far or fucked everything up, even if he reeked of too strong cigarettes, and growled at him when he came in, “Don’t we got fucking work to do, Harrington?”

They don’t end up finishing the essay. Steve was hopeless with numbers, and they were too busy goofing off, so the math project didn't get done very quickly. It was okay though, Billy wasn’t much help at all when it came to English anyways.

Steve walks him outside when he has to go, beating a curfew of midnight. He stops on the porch, immediately crossing his arms against the frigid cold of the night air. Billy stops too at his car, his fingers through the handle, and turns around, calling across the yard. “Hey Harrington?”

He hardly waits for Steve’s response, a quick “Yeah?” to tell him, “Thank you.”

There isn’t time for Steve to respond before Billy’s yanking open the door of his Camaro and backing out of the driveway, but he knows he’d still made astronomical progress tonight.

It makes him feel incredibly dumb, laying in his bed that night, illuminated by the warm light of that very same Bambi lamp and trying to put his thoughts of Billy to rest like he was some cheesy teenage girl, but he’s just happy to have found a friend, to have made a difference in somebody’s life, and he knows that on the other side of town, laying in own bed with his locket left open on the pillow beside him, Billy feels the same way.

#harringrove #harringroveapril #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #ej writer #story by ej!#love how I had something completely different planned but ran out of time and had to dig in my drafts for this fic #and it still took me forever to edit it

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danteinthedevildom · 3 years

Text

A Royal Pajama Party “Analysis” - Part 3 (of 7)

Unlike the previous two posts - which were fairly length - this one is a little less of a formal analysis and more of a “holy shit this man’s so fucking cute” ramble. It’s significantly shorter; I would have actually compiled these together with the previous post if Tumblr wasn’t so awful with its image-per-post limit.

It continues with Diavolo and MC watching a movie together, and once again leads into more Story Key-locked content. So, here is your cursory spoiler warning!

Picking up from the previous post, the movie Diavolo picks to watch with you is a black and white Human World film. A few thoughts come to mind on this.

One: He picked a movie specifically because he wanted to watch it with you. Not just anyone in general, or even just a human in general - specifically you. He spends a lot of time thinking about and noting down things he wants to do with you.

This, to begin with, is just... impossibly sweet. He’s never had a friend before, so he’s never had someone to think about when he’s looking at things he enjoys. Even the closest demons to him don’t generally like humouring him with his more playful whims.

Now, however? He has you. Someone willing to spend time with him. Suddenly, he has someone utterly receptive to the things he loves; someone happy enough to listen, someone who might enjoy them just as much as he does.

We’ve all done it before, after all. As soon as we know someone’s happy to listen to you ramble about something, we take note of things we think they might like so we can share it with them and (potentially) get them into it as well. Make it a bonding experience, because we like the thing and we like them, so why not mix the two? That’s how you deepen a friendship, after all.

It’s such a normal, human thing for Diavolo to do. He’s sincerely just happy to have you there; to finally have someone he can pick out likes to share with. Just a passing thought - “Oh, MC might like that, I’ll have to save it for our sleepover” - that speaks a thousand words to how often (how casually, naturally, easily) he thinks about you.

But it’s also a bit more than that. Because while this is just about the movie, we’ve already seen Diavolo admit he’s quite literally written out a list of activities he wants to do with you.

How long is that list? What sort of things has he got written down? We’ve been given a small glimpse at the list for this Devilgram, but it really is just a small glimpse. How many times has Diavolo seen something that has immediately pinged in his brain as “things I need to do with/show MC”?

(How many things has he never felt comfortable or happy showing anyone else before?

How many times has he tried to share his interests, only for them to be rejected?)

Two: It’s Human World media. Diavolo’s only recently (in the main game) gotten to see the Human World properly, and considering this is black and white, I’d say it’s fairly old. At the latest? Maybe a hundred years old at this point.

That’s (possibly) at least 100 years Diavolo’s been consuming Human World media.

The fact that he’s remembered it this long, too - for you to appear, and him to want to share it with you - either means it’s something he watches frequently, or it’s something that made a big impression on him.

Diavolo’s infatuated with the Human World, that much we already knew; one of his Homescreen interactions is about wanting to see the sunset, and another mentions how he hasn’t been to the Human World (either at all, or often). It’s something he wants to see more - something that excites him in a very boyish, childish way. Like a kid going on holiday to Disney World after seeing it on TV a thousand times.

But this isn’t a recent infatuation. The movie (potentially) proves this. Even before the Exchange Programme - before he met you - he’s held this infatuation with humanity. It’s not just about peace; there’s something about the Human World that draws Diavolo in.

There’s more evidence of this in a later post, so I’ll go over this a bit more then. For now, however...

We can say with certainty that Diavolo wasn’t kidding when he said the Exchange Programme has been a dream of his for some time. It makes me wonder just how far back he wanted to unite the Three Realms, and why; whether he started with interest in the Celestial Realm or the Human World, and whether or not he hoped the Exchange would branch out his social contacts (considering we already know that demons don’t tend to spend time with him, and Diavolo is horrendously lonely).

(As an aside: the fact that he’s seemingly so infatuated with the Human World makes it even more special for him to share this movie with you. This is something he adores, something that’s affected him so much, he’s dedicated his life to improving relations across the Three Realms - and he wants you to experience it, too.)

Three: A bit more of a joking point, admittedly. Boy really said “I’ve been wanting to watch this movie with you that I love that also happens to be related to the Human World” with the same vibe as Ariel seeing the Prince for the first time and realising he could tell her what all the crap she’s been collecting is for.

I just... love the idea that his logic is “well, MC is human. This movie was made in the Human World. Ergo, this is the most appropriate movie to watch with MC for our super special sleepover!”

He’s so determined for everything to be perfect... I wonder if this movie was his immediate choice - something he’s always known from the start he’d do with you first the moment he could - or if he debated over several movies for the longest time, trying to come up with the best possible choice.

Adorable ramble time!

He’s good, in that he won’t make you do anything you don’t want to - you’re always given the choice of how close you want to be to Diavolo, and if you want to nope out of vaguely (or even overtly) romantic situations even at the last minute - but when given the chance? He will get as close to you as possible.

He’ll have you sit right next to him, pressed arm-to-arm, thigh-to-thigh. He’ll thread his fingers through yours, and rest your joined hands on your lap. And he’ll savour every moment, because this isn’t something he gets often, if at all.

That comment - “your hand is so warm...” - has such a sense of awe to it. He’s finally close enough to you to say that you’re warm. He’s finally reached this pinnacle of contact that he’s always wanted - and look at him! He’s so happy! He’s so, genuinely, wonderfully happy to be this close to you.

He’s been wanting to watch the movie with you for at least months, if not a few years (timeline depending), and he finally has the time to show you this thing he’s genuinely excited for you to see - and it is totally blown out of the water by the fact you’re snuggled up to him, holding his hand.

That’s how special you are to him. That’s how special this moment is for him.

There’s something so sweet - and yet so heartbreaking - at seeing the damn Prince of the Devildom get so flustered over asking to hold your hand. I know that the OM demons aren’t always depicted as your typical demons, and a few of them are fairly sex-shy, but there’s just... something about this scene that hits different.

He’s so tentative, so hopeful, to be able to hold your hand. He’s so shy about it, too. And, yes, some of that is absolutely him fretting over ruining the evening by asking - fretting over chasing you off if he’s too touchy, when you’re already doing so much just by staying as long as you have - but some of it has to be him not knowing if that’s an okay thing to ask for. Wanting to get closer, but not knowing if it’s appropriate.

I have a lot of feelings about this scene. It’s just... whether you see it as romantic or not, he’s so happy. He’s so happy just to have you there. He’s so happy you’re humouring him. He’s so happy you’re letting him do these very simple things.

He’s so lonely. And you just make all of that go away.

This is actually more of a silly thing, but I just wanted to note that - the Devildom has fucking Jenga and it’s called The Demonic Tower.

I’m also still not over this for a slightly sadder reason. This is another one of the things that Diavolo wanted to do with you - another activity on his list. And it’s playing fucking Jenga.

He knew/knows so few people and has such little free time, something as simple as Jenga is riveting entertainment for him.

He’s played so few board games in his life, he actually thought it was worthwhile to write down as something he absolutely had to do with you for your special, rare night of shared time spent together.

There are so many normal, plain, boring, everyday life experiences he’s never done, and every new thing he presents just hits harder than the last.

+++

And that concludes our (slightly shorter) part 3! Once again, thank you for making it this far. Hopefully the slightly lighter post was alright-

Next post, we’re going to skip ahead a bit. The game of Jenga itself is mostly just fun, so there’s no need to focus on it specifically. What is important, however, is the next activity - and what Diavolo does based on certain choices.

So, if you’d like, head on over to part 4!

#obey me diavolo #obey me analysis #obey me

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goatsandgangsters · 3 years

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Top 5 Meyer/Charlie moments in the series!👀 in depth explanations always encouraged 💗💗

oh ANON you FLATTER ME! And you indulge my inability to ever be concise…

1. That ending scene in Friendless Child. This is the pinnacle. The peak. The moment where if I had to show a random person exactly one scene from Boardwalk to prove how married these two are, it would be this one. The warm, contented, lovesick way Charlie is openly staring at Meyer throughout their entire conversation with Torrio. The way they’re so relaxed and at peace, finally. The psychic conversation we watch them have while Torrio is talking. When Meyer reaches for Charlie’s arm. The first time I watched it I thought “oh wow they’re actually going to kiss,” not even in a sdkhfgkjfhd way but just this moment of calm surprise because it looked that much like Meyer was going to grab him and kiss him. THE TENDER WAY MEYER HOLDS ONTO HIS ARM AND STARES DEEPLY INTO HIS EYES!!! THE WAY CHARLIE SMILES BACK!!! WHOEVER IN THE EDITING ROOM DECIDED TO FADE THE SONG IN HALFWAY THROUGH ON THE LYRIC “FOR MY LOVE IS YOUR LOVE, THERE’S NO LOVE FOR NOBODY ELSE” FOR THIS. The fact that everyone knew they looked So Absolutely In Love that they had to tack on random women for plausible deniability, but that didn’t even work because Charlie and Meyer barely even LOOK AT THEM because they’re too lost in each other’s eyes. Like WE GET IT!!!! YOU’RE IN LOVE!!!!!!!

they are… incredibly married.

[there were exhibits A, B, and C here but it wasn’t showing up in the tag until I removed them, so thanks for that tumblr]

2. Speaking of being incredibly married, I love their exchange over the stolen watches. “Might as well set up a pushcart,” “fellas who know what time it is,” the SNARKING AND JOKING WITH EACH OTHER! There’s a lot to unpack in terms of what’s going on off-screen (Charlie’s bloody knuckles and Meyer’s sigh of “I wish you’d stop with this,” like how regularly does Charlie beat someone up and steal counterfeit watches??) But the way they joke with each other and tease each other, it’s so comfortable, it’s so familiar. It’s one of the only times we get to see them alone together and at ease—no high stakes gangster situation, no serious business talk. Just two people who’ve known each other since they were kids, who are totally comfortable around each other, and who joke and tease and sigh at each other like the old married couple they are.

3. The way Meyer grounds Charlie in their finale scene in season 3. The way Meyer’s anger from out in the hallway dissolves as soon as he puts two and two together (and he puts it together way before Charlie does). The intimacy of Meyer’s hand on Charlie’s neck. (And WHAT A CHOICE too. His neck? That’s such an intimate place to touch someone, but when you’re Meyer/Anatol’s height it’s also somewhat impractical, so the fact that they still chose to have him reach up and touch Charlie in such an intimate vulnerable place in order to steady up and stand with him….. WHOOF THE INTIMACY). That moment where Charlie is lost and helpless and angry and confused—and he locks eyes with Meyer and you see him deflate, you see the anger disappear from his eyes and you see the hurt instead. The way he looks at Meyer like he’s a drowning man and Meyer’s the only thing that floats for miles. The way Meyer DOES NOT! TAKE! HIS! HAND! off Charlie’s neck. Even when he has to grit his teeth and disparage Charlie a little in order to save their skin (and you see, oh you see, how bad it tastes in his mouth to have to say any of that), he never takes his hand off Charlie. The way he says with his body Don’t listen, you know it’s not true, you know I’m with you. It’s such a vulnerable scene (side note: that’s something I love and admire about Vincent Piazza’s acting in particular, that he’s never afraid to go really vulnerable with his acting choices, which is an impressive choice for a man who often plays, well, prickly assholes where you wouldn’t expect it). This scene is so powerful and intimate between the two of them. And it’s telling about the strength and importance of their bond that this intimate moment happens in front of AR and Masseria.

3b. It’s not as powerful a moment, because it’s a much smaller scene on a much smaller scale, but for similar reasons I also love the scene at the end of season 2 where Jimmy and Charlie are arguing and Jimmy calls him Sal and—again with the vulnerable acting choices—Charlie’s upset. He’s not angry, he’s upset. And I love how Meyer immediately cuts in with “is THAT the issue” to change the subject. I love how Charlie retreats to Meyer’s side and stands with his back to the room for a moment to collect himself because he’s safe at Meyer’s side, while Meyer is standing there arms crossed and baring his teeth. I love that in the middle of these fraught moments with other gangsters, if Charlie needs him, Meyer’s there. And you can tell how much Meyer makes him feel safe.

4. Shayna punim and try not to sit by the window—or How To Say I Love You Without Saying Those Exact Words. The intent way Meyer shifts his focus to Charlie as soon as he comes in the room. The little nod behind Benny’s back that Charlie wants to talk in private. The total lack of hesitation on “I’ll come with you.” MASSERIA HATES! THAT SHAYNA PUNIM OF YOURS! 💖Just Extremely Platonic Business Partner Things: complimenting his beautiful face in his own language💖 I was also so caught up in the other great lines in this scene that I almost forgot about “this is the problem with you, always very headstrong, good thing I’m hear to talk some sense” and Meyer, through all the tension, laughs. It’s such a familiar way to talk, such a teasing way for Charlie to say, “I am very headstrong and I need you to talk some sense,” but like TEASING HIM ABOUT IT INSTEAD OF SAYING IT OUTRIGHT BECAUSE THEY’RE JUST LIKE THAT. How Meyer can’t even look at him when he says “try not to sit by the window” but how he can’t look away as Charlie leaves, with that look on his face that says I love you so much, please come home safe.

5. I wrote the first four answers immediately and then took a couple days to decide on my 5th one, but I think that I’m going with Their Final Scene ever, even though there’s very little conversation between the two of them. But, you know, OUR FRIENDS, OUR PARTNERS!!!!!!!! The very deliberate choice of our friends = shot of Benny and our partners = shot of Meyer. And OH THAT SHOT OF MEYER, sitting there with the slow blink of a cat in a patch of sunshine who also just killed and ate the canary. Like that smug “mhm, yes I AM the one sitting at his right hand. Not any of you. Me.” That pride. That satisfaction. That “yeah, he’s mine” vibe. Overall, I admit it’s more of a significant scene for Charlie than for Charlie/Meyer necessarily, but I love that it’s been such a big part of Charlie’s narrative, the constantly being told “don’t work with them, you’re one of us, we’re your people, not them,” but then everything culminates in a scene where Charlie says “actually fuck that, it doesn’t matter if you’re Italian or Jewish or Irish #LoveWins,” where he’s got Meyer and Benny beside him and THEN the Italians. The table might be round for a reason, but who’s sitting beside you is still significant, Charlie. Plus, the fact that after the whole table does a toast, the FINAL SHOT OF CHARLIE AND MEYER is them sitting back down and quietly toasting each other. Yes, yes, they did the business bit with everyone else, but this is for them. And even though the audio is soft, the chorus of Italians toasting “salute” followed by Meyer getting the last word for Team NY, toasting Charlie with “l’chaim.”

#Boardwalk Empire #Meyer Lansky #Charlie Luciano #otp: soulmates in crime #boardwalk meta #anon tag

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theonetheycallhannah · 4 years

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The Shape of Her

My first ever one shot for all my lovely Cavillry babes! (I’ve recently edited it to make the actual title the title of the post. It’s the same fic formerly under “New One Shot for the Cavillry.”)

Pairing: Henry Cavill x OFC that is totally not me, the author (except that it is, and I just took out my name so nobody felt weird about it!)

Word count: 2053

Warnings: Rimming and oral (f receiving), slightly rough sex, but not like, violent, language, almost orgasm denial but like, not really, very thirsty OFC and a very hungry Henry, mentions of unemployment, panties are heavily featured…I clearly have no idea what might trigger some people, but if you have concerns, ask me. It’s really just smutty smut for the sake of smut.

A/N: This was unsolicited, but I felt that curvy girls were lacking some representation in the fic community in general, so here is Henry worshipping a thicc queen. (Also, the undies in the fic are from Torrid and amazingly comfy, and the fact that I felt super sexy in them also helped inspire this one shot. I hope y’all enjoy.) Also, it’s not Beta’d. I just did my own triple check for glaring errors. Here’s hoping it’s not untenable gibberish. Lol!

Tags (no one requested tags, but I’m tagging the Cavillry babes I can think of, and if you want me to tag you in future work, just let me know. I don’t want to spam anyone): @littlefreya because she convinced me this was necessary, lol! Also @fishcustardandclintbarton @geralt-of-baevia @princess-of-riviaa @geekycanuck @lareinedususpense @radaofrivia @nothingdear @lunedelorient @sunflowersstan @captainbigdy @laketaj24

She liked to air dry on the bed in just her panties. Scroll her phone, see what was new. When she had time, of course. And lately, she’s had no shortage of time. Henry felt for her. Being between jobs could be scary. But he knew great things were out there for his woman. But the air drying. She did this after every leisurely shower. She made a little nest of pillows and draped herself gracefully over it.

With one hand, she diffused her hair, still damp from the shower. He didn’t know what she was looking at on her phone, nor did he care. His eyes had fallen heavy and hard on her backside. He thought this part of her such a wonder. It was strong, round, and large, and it tapered down to her thick thighs. This morning, she had chosen to wear a fairly unassuming pair of briefs. Unassuming, he thought, only if one had never touched them, or seen them up close. Like he had. He’d even helped her pick them out in the shop. He knew that the silky fabric would look stunning on her.

He was right. The slate grey sheen of the fabric covering her ass caught the pure morning light filtering in through the window. With his eyes he followed the narrow lace bands around her thighs right under her ass. He started then at the wider lace band around her waist --yes, waist, not hips-- and was stopped in his tracks in the center of her back. He’d missed entirely, or perhaps he’d forgotten, that little v-shaped corset cutout just below the waist band.

This could no longer be a mission of observation it must become a more exploratory, manual endeavor. He tiptoed toward her, not wanting to startle her before it was time, or for her to turn over before he’d had his fun.

“Mornin’ Hank.” She said sweetly over her shoulder with a smile. She didn’t flip to her front. Good.

“Good morning, love! Sleep well? Nice shower?” He queried as he maneuvered himself between her legs. Just sitting, but with one leg thrown over the back of one of her thighs. He started working her calves which were always tight. He loved her shapely legs, though. He loved every curve of her.

“What are you doing?” She demanded with a slight start.

“I have to get the tension out while the muscle is still warm. You should know that, teach!” He loved teasing her like this for being clever. He loved calling her the teacher in the bedroom, even if he was the more experienced lover.

He increased the pressure as he went, but wanted to go further.

“Have any lotion handy?” He asked. She did, and she handed it right to him. He put a bit of the amber and vanilla-scented cream on his hands, worked it up until it was warm, and then started again. She was moaning now. That was always his goal. Then he switched legs, applying more warmed lotion and going as deep as he dared.

“Henry, I’m not gonna be able to walk when you’re done.”

“Well, I was gonna make that threat, but you’ve saved me the trouble.” He said as he turned around and playfully snapped her waistband making her jump and arch her gorgeous ass up into it.

“Mmmm, you bad man! How did I know from the moment I met you that you only wanted me for my body?” She teased.

“Because of the way I unwrapped and devoured you whole with my lecherous gaze, no doubt. You’re actually the first girl I’ve ever taken into a side room and fooled around with at an event.” He reminisced as he kissed her back, across her shoulders and down her spine until he got to that cutout.

“Fine then,” she said, mock surrender in her voice. “Take what you will. Have your spoils.”she hitched her hips up and put a pillow under them so he could explore every inch of her ass.

He relished the sensory experience of simply running his hands over the silky fabric covering her firm rump. He ran his nails over it, causing her to shiver. He ran his lips over it too, unable to resist that curiosity.

“Henry, I’m dying here!” She moaned.

“And you’re killing me with these knickers, we all have our problems.”

He ran a hand down between her legs to tease her sex. She ground her hips into it, needing the friction. He’d give her friction.

He slid the panties aside, and started circling her clit at first, then he penetrated her one finger at a time. She was so wet already. Drenched for him. This got him so hard. He didn’t want to wait to fuck her. A part of him really and truly wanted to skip her gratification and just plow directly into her getting his own rocks off. Spill himself messily all over her pussy, ass, and those gorgeous panties.

But he restrained himself. He wanted to make her come. Wanted to delay his gratification to hear and see her come apart under his touch. He kept working her, listening and feeling for her reactions. She was moaning into her pillow. And he could feel the tension building inside her. He thought one more element would send her over. He hadn’t used his tongue yet. And he had the perfect place for it. He kissed along her more exposed ass cheek until he got to her opening. He’d wanted to do this for so long. And now he finally was. He ran his tongue all around her tight hole. Experimenting with strokes, textures, and pressures. He got the tip in just a bit once, considering it progress. And she was breathing infinitely heavier, about to reach her pinnacle.

When she did, she lost all control of her limbs and her body. She said nonsense. He adored it. But he’d have time to adore her later. Right now he was about to burst and the sight of her cunt trembling and dripping was too much for his cock to resist. He thrust into her slowly at first so he could feel every spasm of her waning orgasm around him. She always squeezed him in all the right places, but he couldn’t recall entering her so quickly after making her come. Why hadn’t he done this before?

His thrusts were hard and they got faster as he chased his pleasure. He appreciated anew the fabric covering her ass. It made her feel almost as delicious on the outside as she did on the inside. He growled as he got closer.

“Where you want me to finish, baby girl?” He asked, as he tended to do.

“Don’t you fucking think about pulling out, Cavill. I want your hot come inside me.” Her filth sent him to new levels of lust and he went harder and faster. This was one of the many things he loved about her body. He knew it was sturdy enough for the unbridled pounding he could give without bruising or pain. She could take him at his most violent without harm or even complaint.

“I’m gonna come again. Henry. Oh fuck!” And when her body began to contract and contort again, it was all Henry needed to tip him into his own oblivion. His release was hot, fast, and glorious inside his goddess. He fell over the top of her still moving his hips, relishing the feel of her panties against his sensitive hips and pelvis. It was heavenly.

Their breathing was rapid, but slowing in tandem with one another.

“Fuck me!” She exclaimed.

“Isn’t that what I just did?” He teased bitting her ear and inciting a giggle.

“Oh you certainly did, sir. Most thoroughly.” She turned as much as she could with him pinning most of her body to the bed, reaching enough of him to pull on his hair. “Kiss me, you villain.”

He obliged, roughly, as she liked. A full mouthed kiss with plenty of tongue. He loved these hungry, wild kisses, too. He broke apart from her just long enough to flip her onto her back and prop her up with some pillows. He wanted her to be comfortable for what came next. Now that both of their thirsts were sated for a while, he could take his time in pleasuring her and not be bothered by his own need…at least not immediately.

“God, if I had my way, you’d never be fully clothed, do you know that?” She blushed furiously whenever he mentioned how sexy she was to him. He knew she’d never felt so and had rarely been told so. And certainly few had ever shown their appreciation for her voluptuous beauty. He’d show her at every turn. Her body begged to be touched. It was so soft and succulent.

He descended her body slowly and thoroughly, not missing the best bits of real estate, like her neck, clavicle, and her nipples, and further down where he found her hips. She loved to be teased here. And he did so. Over her panties that were rapidly becoming his new favorite article of her clothing. He worked his mouth over the layer of fabric for a few moments. Teased her mound with nips and hot breath.

“Henryyyyy!” She squirmed under him and grabbed a handful of his hair. He looked up to find her breathless and staring at the ceiling instead of him. That wouldn’t do.

He slid her panties all the way off, a bittersweet moment. He loved that they were soaked with her arousal and his seed. It got him half hard again, but he had other things to do.

He spread her legs wide and parted her lips. She was still drenched with arousal and his come. Good. He placed one feather light kiss right over her clit and she bucked. Her body was so responsive to his touch.

“Oh, I like that honey. What does this do for you?” And he latched his mouth to her flesh to lay mercilessly soft flicks over her bead. She couldn’t seem to form words, just sounds. But they were pleased sounds, so Henry continued. He descended, sliding the back of his tongue down to her entrance where he thrust into her gently and began undulating and moaning. Their combined flavors made him yearn. He couldn’t figure out why. But he loved tasting himself on her body. Especially here where her own flavor was most potent.

He added his saliva to the mixture there, and then brought his hand in. He slid two fingers into her, stirring her up and pressing firmly against her g-spot. As he worked his hand in her, he worked his mouth over her again, and he felt her losing control and heard her pleading for him not to stop. But she was still looking away from him.

He paused. And she cried out!

“No!” She looked at him, on the verge of tears.

“I won’t do it. Unless you look at me. Watch me, kitten. Look into my eyes while I make you come.”

“Argh, do it! Do it! I’ll never take my eyes off you again as long as you just don’t stop!”

He continued. Fingering her. Devouring her. Watching her. Watching her watch him. He moaned into her body. Growled. Like the hungry beast that he was.

She bucked and writhed and seized as he finished her. He loved being able to give her this. This unfiltered raw pleasure. He crawled up next to her, wanting only to lie next to her as she came down in the afterglow. But she took his face in her hand and brought him to her for a slow, languid, breathtaking kiss. He loved that she didn’t care about the state of his face. Apparently, the wetness there comprised of his semen, sweat, and saliva, paired with her sex was collectively her favorite flavor.

“How is it that after all this time together, you still shock me, Mr. Cavill?” She said in breathless wonder. She flattered him.

“Darling, we’ve barely scratched the surface of the pleasure I can give you.”

And with that promise, he buried her in the pillows behind her as she squealed and giggled with delight.

#cavillry #henry cavill #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill smut

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voice-of-barsoom · 3 years

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A vignette for @tangleweave

The Jeddak of Helium stared out across the rooftops of her city, ignoring the wine in her glass and possibly the Jedwar sitting across from her. Kantos Kan, admiral, long time adviser, and close confidante of the woman sitting across from him, watched her silhouette in quiet amusement. "Do my eyes deceive me? Is that a little smile I see, my Jeddak?" Dejah's lips quirked and she cast an eye towards Kantos. "Your eyes see more than they should sometimes, my friend." "So it is a smile. I do believe it has been more than fifty ords have passed since I last saw such a smile. Dejah Thoris, have you finally met someone?" "Bite your tongue, Jedwar." That smirk morphed into a proper smile and she looked away again. "I have not 'met someone'." "By the Goddess, I do believe you're lying to me now." "Kantos! I could never lie to you." "And yet here you are, telling me that this," the color of the word 'this' turns golden in his thoughts, "smile of yours is not driven by someone who has touched your heart. You have spent too much time on Jasoom, to think you can deny such a thing. And to me, of all people. I am wounded!" "You are insufferable, you know this, don't you?" Dejah's laughter rung in her words regardless of her denials. "I am missing a certain someone, it's true." Kantos leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hand with a rakish grin. "Who is he? Or she? I want to know everything." Dejah couldn't keep the smile hidden any longer. "All right, fine." She reached for the carafe, refilling her wine glass and his. Her movements are measured and serene, letting him feel the bloom of her thoughts deepen and resonate with the memory of his Mona Lisa smile. "It's a he." Kantos's eyes widen at the revelation. "A human." "Yes." She met his gaze for the first time and for the first time since his best friend's passing, he saw none of the grief and sadness, none of the despair that had haunted her for so long. "He is a warrior of significant metal. Honorable beyond the telling of it. Soft-spoken. Gentle. As fierce a soul as I have ever known." "Go on." Kantos prodded, smiling as he watched his friend speak of this person she obviously cared so much for already. That much is obvious as the more she spoke, the more energetic she became. "He isn't a glory seeker, Kantos. He appears unassuming, almost harmless, and I tell you, he is anything but. His first instinct is to protect those who cannot protect themselves, or even protect those who do not believe they need protecting. He is fearless in executing his duties. Lethal when he needs to be. And when he is not..." Her voice tapered off, and again, her gaze went a little starry-eyed. "Oh Kantos." "Dejah, finish your sentence." Kantos chuckled behind his wineglass, sipping as he watched her come undone a little. "He is so kind, so gentle. Blindingly insightful. He has this wry sense of humor, and so self-deprecating. He is the last person to trumpet his victories or accept accolades. He simply goes about his business, so clear of vision." "I'm sensing a but..." Dejah took a breath, her brow furrowing as she shook her head. "He is so lonely, Kantos. Behind his implacable façade, there hides a man who has no family beyond his colleagues, no refuge save for his quarters." "Sounds strangely like someone I know." "Do you remember how attached John became to his thoats?" "Yes. We thought it strange at first, but now, we treat them with the same respect. Out of regard for his memory." Yes, that's it. "He shows that same kindness and attention to all of his people. Ever single one of them receives a hand on the shoulder, or a full human embrace when they need it most. I have never seen someone so giving of himself. And he has been no less with me." "You have embraced him?" "No," she answered quickly, sitting back in her chair. "No I have not. Though he does this thing that breaks my heart every time." "What is that?" "Well, I was injured in combat, and while we were waiting for rescue, he -- he reached out his hand and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear." Kantos's eyebrows floated up to the very pinnacle of their range. "He touched your face?" "Without fear. Without hesitation. It was just a simple touch, Kantos, but my heart..." "Does he know? That you're in love with him?" Dejah sat back with a scoff. "I am not." "More lies." "Kantos, you might be my closest friend but I am still your Jeddak." "Then quit lying to me. My Jeddak." His lips thinned as he shot her a look. Dejah sagged in her chair, defeated. There was a reason she kept him around. "I might be completely head over heels. Possibly." "You're using their metaphors again." "Shut up, please." Kantos laughed, settling back in his chair. "You are. You are in love with him." Dejah couldn't help but laugh as well, still shaking her head, even though she knew it was true. "He is a remarkable person, that is all. I would be honored to have him as a suitor, should he ever decide that I turn his head." In a breath, a dark cloud descended over her and the fire he saw in her eyes dimmed. She settled back in her chair, her eyes closed. Kantos leaned over and placed a hand on her arm. "You should tell him." Dejah rested her hand on top of his, grateful for that small connection to reality. "I should. I want to." He sat back in his chair again, his lips pressed in a thin line. He is not good with matters of the heart. "So. Why haven't you?" He could feel her drifting back into her thoughts. It hurt his heart to see, after seeing such life in her. Whoever this man was, he needed to open his eyes and see the gift the Goddess had given him. "I don't know." She turned the wineglass a quarter turn, her finger running around the rim. "I am afraid he does not feel the same way about me." "If he doesn't, he is an idiot." She looked back to him, a sad smile on her lips now. "Kantos, please. I am grateful for your ire on my behalf, but this is a delicate situation." "Then why are you talking to me about it?" If he cannot make her smile one way, he will try another. "I don't know," she said, glancing back to him, appreciating his effort regardless. "I suppose I needed your blunt wisdom to advise me." "Tell him. That is my blunt wisdom for you." Dejah rolled her eyes at him and lifted her glass. He immediately lifted his own to received her toast. "I shall take it under advisement." "You have been spending too much time among humans. But I understand, he is wary of you still, as is only right. You are a stranger to him. Do not be a stranger to him, Dejah. Let him see your heart. Let him hear it from your lips. Be fearless for him. If he is the man you say he is, he deserves no less." Dejah listened quietly, and nodded. The silence stretched between them until she finished her wine and stood up. She gathered her skirts and smoothed her hair. "I should return soon." The Jedwar stood as she rose, not saying that she'd only been home a day. Some things would not keep and he understood this. "Your chamber awaits you, my Jeddak. At your leisure." "Thank you, Kantos. For everything." Her right hand rested on his right shoulder, and he mirrored the gesture, touching her in respect and affection. "Always, my Jeddak, I am at your service. Helium is in good hands until you return. Stay as long as you need to." She nodded and smiled, inhaling a breath. She had always done what was required of her as Jeddak. Perhaps it was time for her to do the same for her heart. Perhaps. For him, she would be fearless. And nothing she had done in her long life terrified her more.

FIN @tangleweave, a belated natal day gift for you. You are such a gift, and I’m so glad I overcame my fear of reaching out to a new rp partner to make your acquaintance. You have this amazing serene energy about you that is so wonderful to be around. I love your writing, and I adore you. May your coming year be full of all the good things. You deserve all the good things. 💙💙💙

#ic vignette #npc kantos kan #rp dejah thoris #for phil coulson #{ DEAR UNIVERSE MATT DESERVES ALL THE GOOD THINGS KTHXBYE }

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gffa · 4 years

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Trying to write a fanfic where instead of Vader dying at the end of ROTJ, he wakes up during the clone wars on Mortis. I’m having some trouble with his characterisation though! While I think at that point he is Anakin skywalker again, I have no idea how he would react to Ahsoka and Obi-Wan again other than being standoffish. From the comics and books I’ve read, I feel like he would have to get used to doing certain things again in regards to having the majority of his body back. Please help!

This is a fascinating question, because the way George Lucas phrases the summary of the end of ROTJ--”he takes the last ounce of good in him and destroys the Emperor out of compassion for his son”--makes it seem like there’s probably not really a whole lot of good left in Vader, just enough that he can make a selfless choice again. For me, seeing him return to Anakin and being a Jedi again, when his spirit appears on Endor, is influenced by probably having some time with Obi-Wan and Yoda again, time to idk actually apologize for all the things he did, before he can accept the change in himself. If that part gets skipped, I see his return to being Anakin Skywalker on Mortis as a lot more complicated, because he still has those years of experiencing all that misery and he regrets it, but he doesn’t have that time to come to terms with himself as a Jedi again, which massively complicates his relationships with the people around him, especially Obi-Wan and Ahsoka. I think you could make a case for it either way--one of the things that I think is pretty clear in the supplementary material is that Anakin knew these people would have accepted him back even after all the terrible things he’d done (see: the Star Wars ongoing, where he kills Obi-Wan and says, “he was an old man who thought he could help gifted chidlren, he was wrong”, see Dark Lord of the Sith where he has a Force vision that Obi-Wan would lower his defenses/implying he would be accepted back and Anakin, blue-eyed to show he’s not influenced by the dark side, still rejects that road, etc.), but he couldn’t handle it because they would always know what he’d done. Now they won’t know. They have no idea what he did. They won’t be looking at him with the knowledge of his horrific betrayal. He can accept them back again, even if he’ll be haunted by knowing what he did. And I suspect, if something doesn’t force the issue for him to talk about it, he’ll bury it like he did with the Tusken children murder, that it will eat away at him, but he’s too terrified of rejection to talk about it, too terrified of the way they’ll look at him if he tells them what he did. At the same time, I don’t think he’s going to trust Palpatine in the same way. Oh, Vader knew from early on that Palpatine didn’t really care about him--if nothing else, the list of Force-sensitive children’s names being discovered, that Vader realized Palpatine wanted the list possibly for a new apprentice made it clear to him that Sidious was not his friend (even if he sometimes still fell into the trap, despite knowing that Sidious would betray him, because Anakin’s brain is just wired to make him think people should treat him a certain way, that they should be loyal to him above anything else, good or bad), but that doesn’t necessarily negate that he might turn right back to the dark side. He got a vision of his future self falling to the dark side and immediately turned to the dark side to prevent himself from turning to the dark side. ANAKIN SKYWALKER LOGIC RIGHT THERE. (I say poking at him a bit, but I get why he thought it would cut off a worse future.) So you have a lot of room to play with Anakin’s struggle with the dark side and how he’d be possessive of the people he loves, but also stand-offish because he knows what he did, he knows he broke their faith in him and it eats him up, no matter how hard he tries to justify it. That he is Anakin again, but his struggles have not had time to resolve themselves within him, imo. As for the physical stuff, if nothing else, the sense of physical touch, the sensation of having three organic limbs back, of being able to breathe outside of the suit, BUT also he has to be more careful, because the suit protected him from a lot, he’s used to warning sirens and beeps to tell him when he’s pushing too far rather than his body screaming at him (and him listening to it), he’s used to absorbing pain and using it to fuel himself instead of trusting the Force in a lighter way, that Vader’s style was much more heavy-handed, there was less finesse and more raw power behind his use of the Force--as well as, Vader was never going to reach Anakin’s true potential, so there’s probably a sense of realizing he’s still growing, in a way that Vader saw himself as the pinnacle already.

#anakin skywalker #meta #sonderwalker

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delldarling · 4 years

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lies & gardeners | merrick

chasing truth | chapter one male faerie x gender/body neutral reader 7525 words sfw | navigating human emotions = tricky, dangit chapter index? or the prologue?

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

By virtue of being within the human realm, Merrick knew that none of this would be simple. By Fae standards, and by human too, Garrick’s description is a fairly common one. He’ll find neither hide nor hair of the gardener if he goes around, asking after a fellow with brown hair and tan skin. Even with all the changes humans have made to their society with technology.

Frustration has been steadily welling since the previous day, and his first foray into a human shopping mall.

“It’s why you were chosen,” he mutters to himself, perched in the rafters of a park gazebo as he re-packs his bag. The wallet he’d pinched, weathered brown and full of bills, is shoved in roughly. The soft shirt Kiera had chosen to give him is tucked away more carefully, having been replaced by a human-made shirt in green. The shade is particularly nice, at least, but the material itches slightly, rough against the wings trapped under his skin. He’s highly tempted to find another market and purchase something sleeveless, but… The shopkeeper’s reaction was a deciding factor in covering up.

Plenty of humans might have pictures dotting their skin - he’d seen more than his share during his time in the mall - but had sported wings like Merrick. The shopkeeper had touched him, and asked after his artist and the conversation had lasted far longer than he would have liked. They’d finally come away under the impression that he was the original designer, but a tattoo artist had done the work, which was perfectly fine with him. All Merrick wanted to do was stop talking.

Merrick sighs, confused and tired, and leans back against the curving roof, ignoring the spiders hiding poorly above his head. His cap, at least, is in fashion. The color and the quality haven’t set him apart any, though at some point he supposes he will have to get another. If he’s here that long. He scowls and closes his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. A nap is in order.

If only the children running around the park would stop shrieking. Merrick rolls a shoulder, breathing out slowly, and then a shuffling noise echoes from underneath him. Little feet scuffing the stone. He grinds his teeth and ignores the noise, hoping the child will vacate the area without any prompting.

“If you fall asleep there, you might fall. For real,” the child says authoritatively, having had enough of waiting. Merrick is still and silent, hoping that the child will take the hint and leave, but the tap, tap of little feet turning in a circle below continues.

“I won’t fall,” Merrick mutters, knowing, even as he does, that he should have kept his mouth shut. Engaging with the child will only encourage them.

“I fell off of my bed,” the child proclaims, as if they’ve reached the pinnacle of worldly experience. “Haven’t you ever done that?”

“Why do humans do this?” Merrick asks instead, sitting up straight and nearly cracking his skull against a wooden beam. He stops himself just short of it and turns his gaze upon the child - a girl, he thinks - who can’t be more than 7 or 8 summers. She looks thoroughly unimpressed with his scowl, or the way he’s precariously leaning over the rafter. “Every-” The tang of a lie stops him from saying every human, and he has to amend the statement quickly, before the child can interrupt. “Many of the humans I’ve met over the past day cannot seem to stop themselves from questioning.” Merrick throws the strap of his bag over his shoulder, adjusting until he can lean an elbow on either knee as he speaks, feet dangling over empty space. “Who is your tattoo artist? How did you get up here? Are you looking for a good time?”

The child blinks up at him, still unmoved by his plight, her small mouth curled into a frown. “I think you’ve been talking to weird people,” she finally says, turning on her heels when someone shouts. She leaves, taking her haughty attitude with her, but the words stick with him.

His own almost-lie sticks with him. The elderly man, the shopkeeper, some of those people hawking their wares outside unmoving carts- all of them had peppered him with questions he couldn’t answer. They’d wanted to draw him back into conversation, had wanted to touch if given even the slightest opportunity. And then there was you.

You hadn’t asked invasive questions that he’d little hope of answering correctly. He doesn’t know that he recalls your exact wording, but you’d been impressed by his speed, and your eyes-

Merrick snorts. He’s work to do, or at least a nap to take, and here he is, wondering about a human who had just a bit more manners than any of the others he’s met. “Ridiculous,” he says aloud, and rearranges himself against the gazebo wall once more. It’ll be dark again in a few hours, and he can start searching for the glamour Garrick has likely smothered himself with. Until then, he’s going to catch a few measly hours of sleep.

He should be done with this whole mess in a few weeks time, and then he’ll be back in the halls of the King, lauded as a hero. Perhaps Roran will have started to move on, and Kiera will cease giving him those judging looks. He’ll have his choice of work, and he can hardly wait to see where those jobs will take him. Yes. As soon as he’s back...

But even after that night, even after the next and the one after, Merrick is no closer to finding the gardener. The city is sprawling and there are too many humans for him to fly through the skies - and on the third night, one of their city guards - a policeman - comes and tells him that the homeless aren’t allowed to sleep in the park. He could have glamoured himself, could have hidden.. Though that likely would have tipped off Garrick, if he was anywhere close. He leaves after the fellow suggests a cheap motel, shelling out two bills, and decides that he might as well listen. There’s little reason not to seek out a bed, even a human made one, if he’s going to be here much longer.

The motel isn’t much better than the gazebo, Merrick finds, but it is one of the central points in the city. He’s able to pick up a more extensive, modernized map in a corner market, which makes some of his work easier, but then- Then the days slowly fade into weeks and he switches between motels as he picks up the barest hints of glamour. Every time he lays his head on the less than comfortable pillows, he’s sure that tomorrow will be the day he ends this. That he’ll track down Garrick, knock him out and drag him back to Court. But he can’t ignore the thoughts clamoring for attention in the back of his mind for much longer. He.. Can’t help but wonder if the gardener is even in the city any longer. He worries that he might be inadvertently tracking the wrong faerie, never mind that he hasn’t seen any others but common pixies. He falls asleep, telling himself that he can worry about it the next day.

Merrick wakes as evening falls.

His room is empty, as are those near-by. Or near enough. He can hear a few humans having a hushed argument through one of the walls, a bottle sloshing with liquid and clinking against a table as they pass it back and forth. Automobiles on the street, going much too fast. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever get used to the noise or the movement of them all. He used to assume that humans were called Quick Ones because of their limited lifespans, but it isn’t just that.

Humans are restless. Even in sleep, they move about or speak, and they never seem to keep steady hours either. Merrick doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to catch more than an hour or two of rest with the constant noise of them all.

Still, it’s been a month, and he can sleep through it now, at least for a while. Not always well - but after tonight, he’s fairly sure he’s going to sleep like the dead.

Merrick fumbles for the small pay-as-you-go phone he’d picked up a week back. It’s full of iron and man-made metals - but it isn’t near as heavy as the high-end devices humans are so fond of. It still makes his limbs ache to carry it close to his skin, but he supposes he can’t write off human inventions entirely.

It’s a useful piece of equipment, though Merrick only needs it to check the time, having thrown the motel clock in a drawer after the first night here.

“Seven,” he mutters, pushing himself off of the mattress. Likely he could have found a better place than this. He’s seen the high end hotels with glittering balustrades and carefully cultivated flora, but he’d taken the time and the trouble to track Garrick down to somewhere close to this neighborhood. He hadn’t wanted to be further than a few streets away, just in case Garrick had attempted to make a run for it, or in case he’d been wrong and found a different Fae altogether.

He’s fairly sure he’s right though.

The level of glamour the near-by Fae is using is affecting the environment. The neighborhood isn’t a particularly kind one. It’s full of cheap housing and dirty establishments, but greenery has sprung up in recent months - evidence of one of the Queen of Land’s people.

And then, just yesterday, by some blessed miracle, Merrick had heard a small group of humans mention “- and I’m meeting up with Garrick- Gar,” they’d corrected, phone pressed close to their face, “and maybe some of his friends, tomorrow at 8 at the bar.”

There are two bars in this crumbling section of the city, just a few doors down from each other. If Merrick snags a high vantage point across the street, he’ll be able to watch them both.

He’d best get ready, if he wants more than a few moments to settle.

Other than his bag, still packed full of nearly all his things, there’s nothing Merrick wants to take. He uses the shower because the water is pleasant enough, and cleanliness is nothing to sneer at, but he doubts he’s going to do more than watch tonight. Though if he sees Garrick with his own eyes, if he’s managed to identify him correctly? It will take the edge of worry off of his shoulders. Merrick pulls on the shirt Kiera gave him, just to have a reprieve from mildly itchy human material, and covers it with a grey hooded sweatshirt he’d taken off of a clothes line. He still jams the red cap back over his ears though, unwilling to find a replacement for the item when anything else will likely be sub-par.

He locks up behind himself, praying he won’t have to return - though he knows it’s a far-flung hope, and trudges toward Vine Street, bag slung over his shoulder. Early evening has settled over the city, yellowing streetlights starting to flicker on. Some of the sourness of the streets is dampened by the lack of sunshine, but the exhaust of passing cars still makes his nose wrinkle.

It’s busy, when he gets there. There isn’t quite a line to either establishment, though people flock into the places in steady groups of twos and threes. He eyes the building across the street - some kind of factory, once upon a time, and decides it looks empty enough to risk it.

Merrick might not be able to wear his wings out for all the humans to gawk at, but he’s still a Fae with wings. He’s used to navigating heights, and half the building is lined with a rickety set of stairs anyway. Fire Escape is labeled clearly along one creaking stair, but Merrick hops right over it, taking the steps a few at a time. It doesn’t quite reach the roof, but when he finally comes to a stop at the top, breath carefully measured, he can see hand and footholds in the old brick.

He climbs, and heaves himself onto the roof with nary a scratch. He then finds himself a good vantage point and settles down to wait, crossing his arms and resting them on the building ledge.

The people heading into Corner Pocket look a bit more jovial than the crowd mulling around the doors of Harvey’s, so he thinks he’ll have a better chance watching that one. It’s boring work though, the waiting, and for the first time Merrick thinks he might actually miss Roran. At least a partner would fill the silence.

Truth be told, Merrick isn’t quite sure what to expect. He’s looking for fawn colored hair and skin weathered by sunshine - but there are a fair few of those about. He supposes, if he truly had to think about it, he would assume that Garrick looks a bit sickly. He’s been hiding from his Court for half a year at least, and between the month Merrick has spent searching, and the time the Land Guard spent hounding him, he should be weary.

However, when Merrick spots him, he can’t quite believe his eyes. Garrick might technically be in hiding, but he’s living. He’s tall, at least as tall as Merrick, though after a moment he grudgingly admits that the Fae might be taller. He has short brown hair and a much stronger physique than Merrick had been expecting- and he’s smiling. It’s almost enough to induce a bit of jealousy in him. Here he’d been expecting a knob kneed gardener with clammy hands, and yet Garrick might as well be in the Land Guard.

He seems fond of the humans, laughing with them, leaning into their casual touches and ruffling ones hair. With a start, Merrick realizes he recognizes one of them, and he leans over the edge of the building to try and get a better look.

It’s… It’s you. The one whose phone he’d nearly broke, the one who’d smiled at him, pleasant and quiet, and- Merrick wrinkles his nose and straightens his posture. He’s being utterly ridiculous, letting nerves get to him. It’s been plenty long enough, and he’s going to have to go down there anyway. You shouldn’t remember him, not when he’d made a hasty get-away and spoken so little.

To be safe though, he decides to stay out of your line of sight as well.

He climbs back down the building side and moves slowly down the stairs, watching closely for any eyes that might catch his movement. The humans are oblivious though, and he makes it down without upset, sliding into the tail edge of a rather large group just outside the doors.

Merrick gets into the bar easy enough - he does have to use a bit of glamour to charm the bouncer into seeing proper ID, but it barely counts, and- Garrick doesn’t seem to be particularly sensitive to its use. He doesn’t up and run, or shout. He’s still sitting at a table when Merrick waltzes in, and he’s surrounded by the same group of chattering humans, all of them laughing over something.

Merrick hurries to the counter, sliding easily into the line of patrons crowding the area, and turns towards the bartender. He should order something, make his being there look normal. His shoulder jostles someone standing too close though, and when he makes room, trying to mutter something unobtrusive and calming, the human interrupts him with a delighted noise.

With his heart in his throat, and his every thought flying from his brain, Merrick turns to meet your gaze head on.

“It’s you!” You declare, eyes roving over his face. That same genial smile, the one that had stuck in the back of his unwilling head, curls your mouth. “Mr. Glad-I-hurt-My-Pride! Never thought I’d see you again.”

And I thought you wouldn’t recognize me, Merrick thinks, panic taking hold of his heart. He hopes that you can’t see the shock or any kind of disappointment in his features. Though.. Truth be told, he isn’t sure what exactly it is that he’s feeling. Nerves are making his stomach twist, and his palms heat, but-

“Pride?” He asks, hoping he sounds like he doesn’t know you. He takes a step back from you, and then his neck grows warm when you close the distance he attempts to make. He nearly stumbles into another patron behind him, half expecting you to reach out, to touch him - though he isn’t sure why that has his nerves singing with hope. It turns out that you’re only moving closer to the bar, but it feels intimate now, when you lean in towards him to converse, to be heard over the crowd of customers.

“I said something about my pride being hurt,” you tell him with a shrug, and then motion for him to speak when the bartender asks for an order. “Him first,” you insist. “I’m ordering a round for friends, and it’ll take me a minute.”

Merrick orders the first thing that looks appetizing, some kind of blackberry cider that the bartender claims is good. He licks nervously at his lips as a thought occurs to him. You know Garrick. Enough to share his table, to order drinks - he can use this. Use… you.

“-and then you said good in this really serious voice and stomped away,” you tell him, as soon as the bartender takes his currency and darts over to a register. You arch an eyebrow when he frowns, though you don’t sound accusatory.

“Good as in you weren’t physically injured,” he clarifies, happily accepting the pint the bartender returns with and turning to survey the room. Garrick is still sitting at his table, though now one of the humans is whispering something in his ear and he looks- He looks fond. That human too, is one he could use to get in close to Garrick. Surely using them would be better?

Friendship is one thing, but physical attraction can be a vastly powerful tool. Merrick glances back at you, mulling over the pros and cons.

“That’s a relief,” you murmur, flashing a smile his way before you order for your table, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. It’s almost irritating that he isn’t irritated. He still doesn’t find anything about you grating. He should - you’re a human, just making casual conversation - but you haven’t asked him prying questions or tried to interrupt him.

“Is it?” He asks, unthinking as he takes a sip of his drink. His eyes dart to your hands, fingertips tapping awkwardly against the bar. You look… Nervous.

“Is it a relief to me that you weren’t being rude?” You laugh, ceasing your fidgeting. “Yeah. I don’t think relief would fit very well if I found out you were trying to be an ass. Besides, you did something nice, saving my phone from the pavement - I wanted to think well of you.”

He shouldn’t care at all, but he can’t help the small smirk that pulls at the corner of his lips. The sound of your voice, the way your mouth is shaped when you laugh? He likes it. He opens his mouth- only to snap it shut when the bartender returns with a pitcher and a stack of glasses.

“Interested in helping me out one more time?” You ask, glancing at him from beneath lowered lashes, and there’s a tone to your words that he believes might be flirting. He could help you out, but even if Garrick hadn’t noticed his glamour use at the door, standing right in front of him might very well tip him off. Might, he thinks to himself, irritated with the vagueness of his thought. It will tip him off.

“I’ll follow,” he says before he can think more on it. His mouth is dry and his heartbeat is starting to thunder in his ears. Better to get this whole thing over with and get back to Faerie. Merrick steadfastly ignores the realization that it would mean the end of any flirtatious hints between you, and takes the stack of glasses you hand him. It’s a useless thought. He’s not here to charm humans, he’s here to do what his King bade him. He leans back to avoid the brush of your elbow, waiting for you to precede him, and then turns towards the table you’re sharing with Garrick.

Garrick isn’t there.

Adrenaline crashes into his bloodstream at lightning speed, and it takes everything within Merrick not to drop the glasses to the floor, let them break and scatter in a fountain of glass shards and start searching. He stays on your heels, searching each visible corner of the room, but he doesn’t see him anywhere. Had he truly been so distracted by a few moments of flirting?

You set the pitcher down with a hmm, glancing at the two - two - empty spots across the table.

“So Gar and-”

“Yep,” one of your companions, a red headed man, interrupts you, grinning slyly. “But I see you made a handsome friend over at the bar! Care to introduce us?”

“Next time, I’m getting the drinks,” one of them murmurs.

You grin, accepting the glasses that Merrick hands you, but before you can ask for his name, or say another word, he’s backing away.

“Pardon me,” he says, trying not to look you in the face. He fails, eyes raking quickly over your startled expression a single time, just- just so he’ll remember your face. Just so he’ll recognize you again, if he needs to use you. To get to Garrick. “Enjoy your evening,” he tacks on at the last second, feeling slightly ridiculous, but mostly angry. He’d taken one look at you, taken one sip of fizzing cider and lost focus, and now Garrick is gone. Merrick slides through the crowd, using glamour heavily to slip unnoticed between talking friends and dancing couples, and heads straight for the bathroom. He doubts the gardener took his companion there, not if he wants either of them to live, but he has to check.

Both of them, frustratingly, turn up empty of Fae. Merrick upends his glass of cider in one of the cracked sinks, glaring at his reflection. There’s a heavy flare of glamour, like pressure building and bursting at the front that suddenly catches his attention- but it’s fading already.

He follows it anyway, sifting through the people making their way toward the bathroom and then milling about the bar until he’s made note of every face throughout the building.

Merrick finds himself back out on the street, shoulders trembling with tension, wondering how he’d gotten it so wrong. Garrick must have noted his use of glamour the moment he’d done it, and simply kept his calm until he realized Merrick was distracted. He should have known better, should have kept his boring seat on the factory building and waited. He would have been able to follow Garrick back to his home, or at least make a note of where his companion lived.

He’s going to have to throw caution to the wind, then, and head into the skies. He’ll have to risk Garrick feeling the glamour, because the chance of a human snapping a picture of a Fae launching himself off of a roof is far too great. He heads back to the factory roof, breathless now when he reaches the top, and stares down angrily over the edge. Merrick has been yearning to stretch his wings, but the wait doesn’t quite feel worth it when he’s lost track of the damn gardener.

He strips off his shirt and his cap, uncaring of the cool breeze and shoves them into his bag. It almost aches, the feeling of his wings slipping free of his skin, but he doesn’t have time for more than a quick rub of the muscles he can reach, before he needs to be flying. He won’t be able to catch him - not without diving upon Garrick like some great bird of prey - but he hopes he’ll see him. At least then, this won’t have been one big waste of his time.

Merrick rolls his shoulders, steps up to the building edge, and jumps. His wings aren’t exactly made for slow, sweeping circles through the air. The four of them are strong, but thin, veined with a shade that Roran has always claimed reminds him of copper. They buzz, fluttering fast enough that they’re nothing more than a blur. He’s always done best with short, sharp distances, and it’s still been a short length of time. Surely he has more than a fair chance of finding some human-loving gardener?

He zips over the street, eyes keen on the people below, and starts his search.

Four hours later, he has to trudge back into his motel room, too tired to keep up a cloak of glamour, or to even lay his wings back into his skin. One of the inebriated humans he’d heard earlier is sitting on the steps, staring at him with bleary eyes and a red nose.

“Tho- thought absinthe brought on visions of fairies?” The man asks, glancing down at his paper wrapped bottle in surprise.

“Weariness, too,” Merrick mutters, blinking heavily as he nearly stumbles on the last step. He’s three doors down the walk - he can make it. He’s not sure, but he thinks the drunkard whispers some kind of expletive. It’s the last coherent thought Merrick has before his motel door is shutting behind him and he’s flopping straight onto the bed. Darkness rolls over him like the tide, and he willingly gives in.

He wakes to housekeeping tapping nervously at his door and just barely gets up in time to catch it. He waves away their apologies, pressing his hands firmly against the placard underneath the peep hole to close the door fully - and then drops to his knees, wings sagging against the ground. The carpet is rough, and even though he’s relished having them out, Merrick slaps a hand to each shoulder, hiding his wings in his skin once more.

Perhaps, if Merrick weren’t stubborn, he would send word back to the King of Air. He could have used a bit of help - but the thought of Roran showing up on his doorstep flat out halts the thought. He needs more information, because what the Queen of Land had given them was sorely lacking. The traitor’s chosen name? Had been correct. As had the vague description. Faun brown hair, eyes near the same shade, and skin, weathered tan by the sunshine. His hands and ears had held a green tint - glamoured from the human eye - so he was from the Land Court.

But he knew how to blend in with humans, had made friends of them. He was living, and living well among them, and he knew how to lose someone attempting to track him. He’d vanished at the first sign of trouble.

“Or he really was passing time with his companion and they distracted him from me,” Merrick grumbles, lips pulled into a frown as he stumbles over to the rickety table in the corner. The chair creaks as he flops into it, pulling close the map of the city and the small pad of paper provided by the motel.

Merrick supposes that Garrick could have been human born - maybe his human parent had been spirited to his Court and had passed on their knowledge as he grew? Maybe human parentage did have something to do with being able to lie. Still. He’s tempted to swear something crass to prove that Garrick isn’t simply a gardener. Other than that single flare of glamour, Garrick had left little to no trace of himself behind, and even someone with Merrick’s talents would be hard pressed to do that. Roran couldn’t have done it so smoothly.

The only thing Merrick had been able to find out with any certainty is that Garrick is fond of the group of humans he’d gone to Corner Pocket with. He’d checked back into the bar after he’d canvassed the area and found nothing. They’d been gone as well, safe from being followed or questioned. He’d asked after the group from one of the workers, but he’d been run nearly dry by then, dizzy on his feet. The worker had only given him a strange look and urged him to call his friends after he’d grabbed a few hours of sleep. Of course, asking the worker in the back alley while they took their smoke break… Had possibly been ill advised. He hadn’t wanted to risk glamour, and he couldn’t head inside the bar without a shirt on. They’d likely assumed he was as inebriated as the two men staying in the room next to his at the motel. It could have been worse.

Though he can’t say he’s not convinced that Garrick didn’t double back after he’d left and gotten his human companions to vacate the area.

Perhaps- no.

For the breadth of a second, he wonders if Garrick has roped the humans into this, but it’s highly unlikely. With such a large group of them, at least one would have spilled his secret. No. They’d been too at ease, and he doesn’t believe that you would have li- It simply doesn’t matter. None of the humans could have known enough about Garrick’s true nature to fool him.

A very small part, that he studiously ignores, is pleased by the thought. Being distracted by honest flattery is one thing, but being lied to is quite another.

He wonders how often Garrick has dealt with human lies, and whether it galls him or not, tasting the sourness upon the air.

Merrick scowls, fingers tracing idle paths on the now creased and worn map. He doesn’t even know if those born to the Land Court possess the same drawbacks when it comes to attempting to lie.

Besides, it’s entirely possible that Garrick will decide to run again. Even though he’s done his best to make a home for himself here, and seems to be fond of the local populace, he’s run twice already. Once from the Queen of Land - the place he was raised, and once when the land Guard found him. Both times he’d run far enough that it had cost quite a bit of time to track him down again. And yet... he might decide that a random citizen of the Air stumbling upon him is nothing to worry about.

He might not be able to find Garrick at the bar for some time, but he imagines one or two of the humans will return. They’d been charmed by his appearance, at least, so he doubts it will take over much to befriend one of them. And if, by chance, Garrick comes to assume that Merrick is a fellow runaway?

He might just be willing to speak to him.

Corner Pocket soon becomes Merrick’s most regular haunt, and his least favorite place in the human realm.

The drinks make it bearable, at least some of the time. The vast amount to choose from means he’s not bored, but enjoying a glass of anything by his lonesome is… Not very entertaining. And most of the attention he draws? Merrick does not want in the first place. He’s offended at least three different humans there in the week following his decision to befriend one of Garrick’s companions. One woman he refuses flat out, which leaves her petulant and loud. One of her friends apologizes on her behalf, rolling their eyes as they tow her out the door. One man seems to be desperately looking for a debate partner on human sports teams, and another says he simply doesn’t like the look of Merrick.

“There’s a couple colleges here,” one of the bartenders shares with him after the last man is quickly ushered out, having decided to upend his barstool and his drink. “We have regulars, but there’s always someone obnoxious popping in. If you’re going to be in here frequently, look out for those ones.” The truth of it is staggering, and Merrick quickly becomes used to picking out the humans who show up too far into their cups.

He’s tempted to give the endeavor up - to go back to searching for flares of glamour or seeking out spots that have shown an uptick in greenery growth. He has no desire to spend his afternoons or evenings in this place, repeatedly being approached by pushy humans. Even if getting to Garrick via his companions is a good strategy, he doesn’t have to needlessly suffer time with others.

But then, you walk back into the bar one evening.

Unthinking, he hides, moving to a seat out of your view that still lets him hear your conversation with the friend you’ve brought with you. He thinks he might recognize the fellow as well - his patched jacket and red hair seem familiar anyhow.

“-still think it’s silly,” your friend complains, tapping a knuckle against the bar as he glances at the daily specials. Merrick leans back a little farther in his chair, drinking the sight of you in. “This is the closest and cheapest place to meet, and now we’re going to that dance club? Since when do we all dance?”

“I think it was Em’s idea,” you say with a shrug, smiling and ordering something for yourself. Your friend grimaces, looking only mildly more pleasant when he orders his own drink.

“I think she’s trying to make the moves on Garfield,” your friend adds, a huff of a laugh escaping him.

“No. Red, come on, is that really his full name? I thought it was something like.. Garrett. Or Gary. And Em is going to have a serious time of it, he really only has eyes for-”

“Everyone knows,” Red says with a gruff sigh. “And honestly, I don’t know. I just thought I’d try it out on him and see if it stuck.”

“You really want to saddle him with the name Garfield? What if it is his name and he’s ashamed or something?” You ask before you thank the bartender. You wait until your friend has his glass in hand before you both raise them in some kind of silent toast and drink.

Red wipes the beer foam from his mouth and shrugs. “Then he’ll say something and I’ll let it go. We better hurry up here though, Em will blow her top if we end up being more than a minute late.”

It’s all too easy to glamour himself and shadow the two of you to the dance club. Merrick keeps well back, wrinkling his nose when the thumping music is loud enough for him to hear outside the heavy doors. The two of you don’t even blink, flashing IDs at the door and trading a look that has you both laughing. Merrick follows and drops the glamour as soon as he’s in the door. He doesn’t want to leave half his attention on holding it, or risk walking up to Garrick like a glowing beacon.

Despite the discomfort of the loud noise and the press of the bodies, a stillness comes over him when he does finally spot Garrick sitting at a low table. He looks well fed and completely at ease, staring at a young woman who is talking a mile a minute - though Merrick isn’t sure if Garrick is actually listening to her, or just looking past her. He perks up when he sees you and your friend Red though, waving the two of you over in obvious relief.

“Just you two?” You ask, eyebrows raising when Garrick gets to his feet to greet you with an embrace. You return it kindly enough, but it doesn’t appear to be something that happens frequently. Em doesn’t look quite as happy to have you both there, and Red looks startled when he, too, receives a sudden hug from the tall Land Fae. The three of you take your seats, though Red waves away the drink list when Em offers it to him, grimacing when he sees the prices. Garrick’s hand closes around a half-full glass and he too, looks as if the selection isn’t exactly to his liking.

“Everyone else was busy,” Em says brightly, though the way her eyes dart around tells Merrick that she’s lying. Garrick winces at the lie too, glancing off into the crowd of dancing people.

“What a shame,” Red mutters, scowling at the press of people, just quiet enough that Merrick is fairly sure Em doesn’t catch it. “So did you just have a real hankering for the club scene or-”

“It’s you again!” Your voice pipes up and then Merrick realizes: he’s drifted too close, the crowd of human dancers had parted to let him through. You’re smiling at him again, eyes tracing over his hair and his mouth, and you’re inviting and lovely- and Garrick’s face has gone completely and utterly blank.

“Yeah,” Merrick chokes out, taking another unsteady step towards you when you lift your hand in a slightly shy wave. He can’t get distracted. He can’t, he knows this, but he forces himself to look away from Garrick anyway. The last thing either of them wants is to start a fight amidst the humans, right? He can approach if he sticks to manners.

“I remember you too,” Em perks up, arching an eyebrow. “The runaway. Was it too soon to meet the friends last time?”

“Ignore her,” you urge him, trying to scoot further into the booth to make room for him. “She’s like a sour patch kid,” you tease. The words make no sense to Merrick, but a little of the tightness in Em’s face seems to even out, and she smiles at you, shifting aside so everyone can fit in the booth.

“Join us!” You suggest. “Unless you’re busy. I’m not trying to force our company on you.” You shrug, glancing away, as if you’re regretting your sudden outburst.

“O-of course,” Merrick hastens to say, and wants to kick himself, twice over. He should be claiming some kind of important business with Garrick, he should be trying to complete the task he’s been given by his King and all he wants to do is agree to whatever you say. He takes another step closer, mouth opening- and then there’s a clatter and Red is cursing something awful and Em is squealing, trying to stand in the booth without knocking over the table.

“Seriously?” Red barks, pushing to his feet and trying to grab at any napkins on the table. Garrick’s drink is empty, having been poured almost directly all over Red’s pale trousers. Though there’s a small splatter across Em’s pale shirt as well. “Shit aim, man, look at this!” Red snaps, gesturing at his damp lap.

“Will that stain?” Garrick asks, and he looks guilty, cheeks gone ruddy from embarrassment. “Is there anything I can-”

“He’s crashing on my couch,” you rush to say, getting out of the booth. “It’s not too far, come on, you can grab the clothes you left and shove these in my washer.” You meet Merrick’s eyes and give him a slightly sad smile. “Nice to see you again. One of these days, I’ll actually get the chance to-” You jump when Em latches onto your arm.

“Please let me use your washer too, the dye in that drink-” Em starts, nearly pushing you over as she starts to walk you and Red towards the entrance.

The three of you rush off, apparently having forgotten Garrick- and that’s when Merrick notices the glamour. It’s been washed over the two of them like a shadowy bubble, separating them from the surrounding humans, dulling the noise if not exactly canceling it.

“If you’re here for me,” Garrick says, sounding weary as he rights his fallen glass, “then come after me. Leave them out of this. They’ve done absolutely nothing to you.” He gets to his feet slowly, lips curled into a frown, broad shoulders slouched. There’s still a bit of space left between them, and he’s staring at Merrick like he’s reached the end of a very frayed tether.

For a moment, Merrick believes this is going to be easy. Garrick is all but defeated, tired of running, ready to face the fate laid down for him by his Queen. Merrick unsheathes the small blade he has strapped to his wrist, palming it as quickly and quietly as possible. Garrick’s eyes track the sudden gleam of it in his hand, the sharp edge catching the flashing lights over the dance floor.

“The Queen of Land isn’t pleased,” Merrick tells him, taking a step. Garrick doesn’t move. “The lies you’ve been spreading-”

Tension springs through Garrick’s limbs and Merrick has to throw himself back into the crowd of humans to avoid being tackled to the floor. The humans shriek, and Merrick curses - he’s cut his own hand, and knocked a few dancers down, but otherwise they’re all unhurt. Garrick though, is heading straight for the door, much quicker than Merrick would like.

“Really?” Merrick snaps out, exasperated, and then he’s streaking after Garrick, as fast as his feet will take him, glamouring himself as he goes. For someone so broad, for someone once tasked with doing nothing more than growing the Queen’s garden, Garrick runs like he was born to it. Merrick only just barely keeps up.

He decides though, watching the Fae dodge between humans and hurdle over one parked car, that he’s going to have a long conversation with Garrick before he does as he was tasked.

The chase carries them both through the city on feet too swift for humanity. The glamour is going to make both of them lag after a while, but for some reason Garrick still wants to keep his presence hidden from the humans, more than he wants to escape. Eventually though, Merrick gets tired of running. He strips off his shirt, freeing his aching wings and takes to the skies, just as he realizes that Garrick is heading for the park.

It’s a race then, to try and stop him before he has a myriad of plants at his disposal - and it’s one that Merrick very narrowly misses out on winning. He uses the momentum of his flight to bounce off of a fence, brandishing his weapon in a swinging arch. Garrick dodges the swipe of his blade purely on luck, and then willow tree branches are snapping out at Merrick like whips. He slips his wings back into his skin, not wanting to get them hurt and falls to the ground, rolling across the grass at high speed, stopped only by a park bench to his back.

Merrick grunts with the impact and leaps to his feet, ready to fight, clutching the handle of his blade with a still-stinging palm, and halts.

Garrick is standing on the other side of a slide, chest heaving as he attempts to get back his breath- but he’s not fighting. There’s ivy near at hand, Merrick notes, and he could make swift use of that, but instead he’s just staring, eyebrows drawn together, a frown just barely tugging at his mouth. The both of them stand there and stare, the moon rising slowly overhead.

“The King of Air sent you?” Garrick finally asks, still fairly breathless, eyes darting to the ink lines of Merrick’s wings, wrapped around his biceps and trailing down over his shoulders and arms.

“Are you a gardener?” Merrick asks, rather than answer. The answer to Garrick’s question is obvious anyway. Merrick possesses wings. The question he asks makes Garrick’s eyebrows arch.

“Hardly,” he mutters. “I’ve never been a gardener,” he says at normal volume and his shoulders lose some of their tension, hands resting carefully at his sides. “Were you looking for one?”

Merrick scowls. The Queen of Land had given them incomplete information - or her guard had tracked down the wrong Fae. It’s hard to believe her guard could have been so utterly incompetent though.

“Did you betray the Queen of Land?” He tries instead, straightening from his crouch of a fighting stance. The heat of the chase is beginning to leave him, and he’s regretting abandoning his shirt.

Garrick doesn’t answer, just purses his lips, watching him, waiting for something else to happen, for another question, maybe.

And then Merrick does something absolutely idiotic. He’s searching for common ground, searching for a way to get Garrick to continue speaking, even if it isn’t about something important. The only thing he can think of that he wants to ask, that has nothing to do with the Queen or betrayal - is about you. Heat rises along his neck and face, but before he can stop himself, he blurts out his question.

He asks Garrick for your name.

Garrick’s belly deep laughter echoes throughout the entire park.

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

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#exophilia #faerie boyfriend #male faerie x reader #fairy boyfriend #male fairy x reader #fairy x reader

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aniray · 4 years

Text

... How You Least Expect It

Set 3 months after Grace's visit in '...When You Least Expect It'.

~*~

Lizzie had been nervous after Grace’s visit.

Seeing the woman that Tommy had loved in the house that he had bought her- the house Lizzie now lived in- it had shaken her. Even with Ada and Esme and Arthur and Pol lined up in support of her. Even with Tommy’s eyes locked on her- only seeing her. Even knowing how much Tommy Shelby loved her, Lizzie couldn’t help but look over her shoulder. For weeks she held Ruby tighter. As if someone- as if Grace- would come and snatch her away. For weeks she fucked Tommy harder, faster, wilder- using tricks she remembered from boyfriends she wished she could forget.

But things had settled. Tommy had grabbed her hand one day, pulled her into his arms and kissed her. For no reason. ‘I fucking love you, Lizzie Stark. Hm? It’s like a fucking…I don’t know. You’re like air or water or a cigarette on a bad day. Can’t do without you, Liz. Don’t want to.’ And maybe he’d known she was worried. Maybe he’d seen the way her body tensed when a blond approached him in the street or in a restaurant. But it didn’t feel like it. It felt honest and spontaneous and true- the kind of true that was too deep for anything to tarnish.

So she’d relaxed. She’d learned to breathe easy again. She went shopping with Ada and Esme and left Ruby with the nanny instead of keeping her close. She fucked Tommy hard and fast and used her tricks until he was clinging to her and whispering her name the way she liked. But she made love to him again, too. Slow and gentle- letting the pleasure build and fade again and again until they were both blissfully destroyed at the end. She’d let herself get comfortable.

She should have known it wouldn’t last.

He’d been acting strangely lately. Taking more and more private calls. Staying out late at night when he was usually home in time for supper. His kisses were distracted little things more often than not. Unless they were fucking. She could still hold all his attention when she was wrapped tight around his cock. But she’d lived this life before. She knew the signs. And it was tearing her up inside because she’d let herself fall for it- fall for him.

She didn’t tell anyone her fears at first. She knew the Shelby crew. They loved her- they’d take her fucking side. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? She couldn’t turn his family against him. Grace had done that well enough simply by marrying Tommy. Lizzie didn’t want to reopen a rift that had only recently mended. So she smiled- though it didn’t quite reach her eyes as often. And she laughed- forced though it was. And she enjoyed the weight of Tommy’s hand holding her and the warmth of his smile. Because it’d be gone soon.

She wanted the memories while she could get them.

~*~

It was Ada that she ended up telling.

They were sitting in Lizzie’s little study, when Ada’d asked, “Hey, Lizzie? Do you know who Tatiana Petrovna is?” Lizzie flinched. She didn’t- not really. But she knew the name. She hated the fucking name. But she schooled her expression into slight confusion and shook her head. “Huh. Thought you might. Tommy’s been meeting with her for lunch the last few weeks.” Lizzie swallowed hard, her nails digging into her palms. “Won’t say shit, of course. Fucking secretive, always has been.”

But Lizzie was barely listening. She’d known he called her, the Tatiana woman. She’d been angry and stupid drunk and Tommy had left his phone when he and Ruby had gone for their Daddy/Daughter Date. So she’d gone through his contacts. There were two new ones that she could tell right off: Alfie Solomons and Tatiana Petrovna. And he’d called Tatiana every single day for three weeks straight.

Ada’s hand came to rest on her arm. The sudden touch jerked Lizzie out of her thoughts. “You went somewhere. Want to tell me about it?” Lizzie opened her mouth to say ‘no’, but Ada cut in. “And don’t bother saying ‘no’, because you’ve got tears in your eyes.” Despite how much she was hurting, Lizzie couldn’t help but smile. Ada never let her hide anything. She was as tough as her brothers- tougher, really- and it showed.

“It’s Tommy.” Ada raised a brow, but didn’t look surprised. “I think he’s fucking her. Tatiana Petrovna. Has been for weeks, probably.” Ada sat up straighter and she had that look about her. Lizzie avoided that look. Fuck, even Tommy avoided that look. “Don’t look like that. I could be wrong. No point in stirring up trouble before I’m sure there’s any to stir.” Ada relaxed a bit, her eyes turning sad instead of angry. It was almost worse in Lizzie’s opinion. “Promise you won’t tell anyone else?” She wasn’t sure she could handle seeing that look on the rest of the family’s faces.

“He’s stupid if he’s screwing around with some other girl. Me and Esme will hold him down while you take your heels to his balls. I swear, we will. Polly won’t even try and stop us.” The image made Lizzie smile. Then chuckle. Then she was laughing and Ada was too. And if her tears weren’t quite from laughing like Ada thought, that was no one’s business but Lizzie’s.

~*~

He was angry when he got home.

It would have bothered Lizzie more if he didn’t smell like some other woman’s perfume. Or maybe if his hair wasn’t mussed. Or maybe even if he’d just had the decency to fucking call instead of showing up at nearly eleven at night. But since he did smell like perfume and his hair was mussed and he hadn’t called, Lizzie didn’t give a shit that he was mad. She was fucking fuming, wasn’t she?

She was sat at the top of the stairs, silk robe- fucking strange still, her being in silk anything- tied loosely to cover the little slip of fabric she’d worn. For Tommy. Tommy who reeked of some slut’s perfume. Tommy, who’d probably just had his dick- the dick she’d fucked that morning- in some other girl’s cunt. And she couldn’t believe she’d got dressed up for him. She couldn’t believe she’d let herself think that maybe she was wrong about him. Maybe he wasn’t like the other men she’d been with. Maybe they’d fucking last.

“Lizzie.” It was like he was surprised to see her. Like he’d forgotten she lived there. Like he’d forgotten that he’d been the one to come find her. He reached for her hand. “It’s late, love. C’mon, let’s go to bed, eh?” She stared at his hand like it was covered in filth. Then her eyes found his and she watched him tense. She watched as his eyes narrowed in that way they did. “Liz? What’s wrong?”

She stood up, ignoring the hand still held out to her. “I’m going to sleep in one of the other rooms tonight. Whoever she is, I hope she’s a good fuck.” She turned and walked down the hall, fighting back tears with each step. She’d not let him see her break. He wouldn’t be another man she broke over. She couldn’t- there was Ruby to think about now.

She shrugged out of her robe once she reached the room she’d chosen for the night. She crawled under the covers and pulled the extra pillow closer, hugging it to her stomach. Then, behind the security of a locked door, she cried. She let the pain and the betrayal and the anger and the love- God, how much she loved that fucking man- pour out of her and soak into her pillow.

Her eyes were heavy and swollen. Her throat tight and raw from self-inflicted silence. And she knew she wouldn’t sleep. As tired as her body was from crying. As exhausted as her soul was from everything else. She wouldn’t sleep. So she took deep breaths until her lungs stopped shuddering on every inhale. Then she thought of Ruby and every wonderful thing that made her daughter so special.

It took a long time- the clock on the wall said at least two hours. But finally she was calm. Finally she had let out all the things she could for the moment. No doubt there’d be more tears later- especially when she left this place. But that was a tomorrow problem. So she let go of the pillow she’d held crushed in her grip. She got a dry pillow for under her head.

Just as she had gotten comfortable, the door opened.

Tommy stepped in and turned on the light. She could feel his eyes on her, taking in her puffy face and red-rimmed eyes. She wanted him to go. She wanted him to let her have this night- this one moment to be broken. But he didn’t leave and she couldn’t help but let her eyes go to him. He was in his night clothes. His hair was damp from a shower. And his face was a bit paler than usual- she might have called it a guilty conscience. But he still looked perfect.

The fucker.

“I’ve got a plan.” She nearly rolled her eyes out of her head. He ignored her. “I’ve got a plan, Lizzie Stark. For my future. And you-” he said, pointing at her, “are fucking it up.” She felt her heart break a little bit more. Hadn’t thought it was possible, that. Then he was walking to the bed, and climbing in. She sat up, a squeak of indignation leaving her as she searched for the best words to tell him to fuck right off. He didn’t give her the chance. “Now. I’m having to do this different because you’ve got some nonsense in your head.”

“Tommy if you don’t-“

He kissed her. Just a quick little thing. Just enough to startle her into silence. “Right. So tomorrow, we’re doing this again. And when we do, just know that this- tonight- is your own fault.” Then he was reaching into his pocket and pulling out a little box. She didn’t care. He wasn’t going to fix this with a bit of jewelry. She’d never been one for jewelry anyway. Instead she rolled over and ignored him. And the fucking prick laughed. “That’s alright,” he whispered, lips glancing along the shell of her ear.

“Lizzie, you make me laugh more than anyone. You don’t put up with my shit. Call me out more than Pol, and that’s saying something.” He let out a sigh and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her stiff body against his. “I thought I knew what love was once- with Grace. Thought I’d found the purest, most perfect kind of love. But I was wrong.” She tensed, waiting for him to say he’d found it with this new girl, this Tatiana. “You- us- that’s the purest. That’s the pinnacle. The most perfect. And I want this- us- for as long as I can keep it. So, Elizabeth Stark- my angry, perfect, Lizzie… Will you marry me?”

The little box was placed on her pillow, right in front of her nose. In it was a beautiful ring. At the center was a perfect, round cut ruby. It was surrounded on both sides by three diamonds. Two years ago, she wouldn’t have been able to tell it was a real diamond just by looking. Life was strange. She blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. She forced herself to ignore the rush of giddiness and excitement she felt at his words.

“Who’s Tatiana?”

The arm around her waist, didn’t tense. Tommy’s breathing didn’t change. Instead he pressed a kiss to her hair and Lizzie felt him smile. “Ah. That’s what’s got you so wound up.” She bit her lip to keep from snapping at him. She wanted his answer. She needed it. Rolling her to her back, Tommy brought a hand to her cheek and guided her so she was looking at him. His blue eyes were light, but she could see that whatever he was about to say- it was the truth. “Tatiana Petrovna is a Russian duchess. Her family are jewelers- top quality, fucking expensive shit. But it’s the best. Custom.” Lizzie nodded slowly, the pieces coming together. “You deserve the fucking best. And she’s… She’s fucking insane, but she makes beautiful jewelry.”

A small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. Her finger, of its own volition, traced a line down Tommy’s chest. It was almost coy. And she’d been ready to cut off his dick not even an hour ago. “It sounds like…Tommy Shelby was scared.” His expression deadpanned. Her smile broke through. Her joy poured out of her in bright laughter.

Tommy smiled then. He tugged her closer. “Lizzie,” he whispered, forehead dipping to rest against hers. She hummed, brushed his nose with hers. “Say ‘yes’. Please.” His fingers slid into her hair, gripping it lightly. She pulled back a bit so she could see him properly. He looked nervous. He looked like a kid asking a girl to the school dance. It made Lizzie smile. That- out of everything- made her let go of the fear and the hurt and the anger. That little bit of nerves- proof that this, she, meant something to him.

“Yes,” she whispered, leaning in to brush her lips against his.

“Yeah?”

She loved him. Fuck, she loved him. She kissed him again- let herself sink into it for a moment. “Of course I’ll marry you, Tom. Pick the day. Pick the place. I’ll be there.” He caught her smile with his lips. She wondered if he could taste her happiness. She thought maybe she could taste his. “I love you. I love you so much, Tommy Shelby.” He slid down a bit, pulled her in so his head was pressed to her chest. She let her fingers thread into his hair, tugging the strands a bit. This was good. And, now, she could only see it getting better.

“Can’t believe you thought I was fucking cheating on you.”

She shook her head and smiled.

“Shut up. You gonna put the ring on me, or what?”

#tommy shelby #lizzie stark #tommy x lizzie #peaky blinders fanfic

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shayprose · 3 years

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On Sobriety, my Quiet Place, and the Sliver

It’s difficult to wrap my mind around where I am now. Not the physical — my body is in Somerville, MA. That’s easy. I’m talking about the bits in between where my body is and where my mind drifts; the emotional and the spiritual, the elusive two states that are hardest to describe.

I’m sober, you see, and with that comes the immensity of where I was. You can’t think of one without the other, and the shoe that drops on the other side of sobriety is — well, it’s a topic that sells sad artists a lot of albums. The little golden medallion I carry around with me to signify that I’ve made it through a year of “recovery” is so heavy in my pocket because of its significance. It’s a little metallic tomb full of memories made manifest of a very, very dark time.

But if I’m practicing radical honesty, then it — “it” — is actually the pinnacle of so many other things, so many other memories, all interwoven into one point. The threads of a long life of good things and bad things, all culminating in the reason I carry that medallion around with me, despite its heft.

It all started when the quiet place I used to go to, deep inside myself, the safe place with all of its carefully hewn comforts, where pleasant memories and dreams were the wallpaper and the rosewood floors, was destroyed in a 9-alarm fire called addiction. And I miss it there, so, so much.

This thought dump is rambling already, but bear with me. I suppose the nature of what I’m saying is the rambling point I’m trying to make: so much of my days now are made up of trying to grapple onto the thoughts that started spiraling around me like a hurricane when I let myself black out every night. Rambling is par for the course.

Right before I tipped over the edge, after a night (or an afternoon) of drinking, I remember thinking every so often, “Self, you’re really fucking up, my dude,” and having the actual sensation that my mind was melting. It was a vibration that ran through my face, surged through my brain, and then ricocheted down into my outer extremities. A few times, that shockwave made me panic and I filled up my Google search with things like, “Effects of alcoholism on the brain,” and “Can I lose my mind from alcohol?”

Scary stuff, right? I think the scariest thing, though, is that after a while, I stopped Googling those things. It didn’t really matter anymore, after all — neurodegeneration was, according to my 2 a.m. panic-laden internet searching, impossible to reverse, so fuck it, right? Black out, self. Go for it. Let it all fall away, and if you remember anything from the night before, well, try harder to forget next time. The recipe can always be tweaked, after all! Don’t stop at three shots after your four martinis. Add a fourth, and chase it with a Truly. Add a beer if it’s a work night — they fill you up so you don’t have to eat dinner.

The quiet place was still accessible in those early days of my downward spiral, to some degree, fragmented though it was. And then, it wasn’t.

The most painful part of my shredded humanity, I think, was when I tried one day to make the journey to my quiet place, through meditation and soft music, and I stumbled over the corpses of the things that I sacrificed for him. There was Dignity, her face bruised and slapped around, still beautiful in death. Over there was Desire, who held all of my dreams on his back, now reduced to a crumpled-up heap on the floor, barely recognizable anymore. The hardest body to see was Hope, whose glowing effulgence used to be the light that powered my quiet place, her soft illumination the fuel for all the pretty candles that lit up the darkness. Her light was snuffed out completely in death.

And so, my light was dimmed in life.

When I finally waded through the mistakes and the tragedies, I arrived at a place I called home for so many years, the place inside myself I built through all of my childhood traumas, to find the windows shattered, the garden ransacked, the curtains torn. Every square inch of my safe haven was hollowed out. In November, 2019, the last time I tried to go there before I let it go completely, I remember thinking, “You did your best, and it wasn’t good enough. You’re free.”

I had woken up at 3 a.m. to make sure he was safe, and when I saw that he wasn’t, I drowned the terror in half a handle of gin. The next morning, when I got to work, I started packing my desk because I didn’t want anyone else to have to deal with it. A few cigarettes, a few pills, a few coffees later, I unpacked my desk, went to a few meetings, and then purposefully forgot the way back to my quiet place.

In therapy, I learned that something like my “quiet place” is a very real trauma response folks can develop. My therapist explained that I was wise beyond my years to have taken so much pain in my childhood and translated it into a lighthouse, where I could always go if I needed to escape. “It’s healthy,” he said, “to know that you are safe inside yourself. What changed?”

What indeed. Before I started writing this, I took a trip through the pages of this old tumblr and remembered where I used to be then, emotionally and spiritually, and the difference seems to be that back then, when I thought I was giving myself wholly to whatever mission I was on, I still held back just enough to keep the quiet place alive. A sliver of my mind was always tethering me to safety, and I think I knew that. I took comfort in that. It was me remembering to spare some energy to keep my own lights on. Good job, me.

There’s no sense in trying to rationalize addiction, and that’s not what I was doing when I flipped through these pages — people spend their entire careers trying to decipher the origins of that disease, and I’m not going to crack the code by rereading a young adult’s foibles. However, I do think there’s something important in the work of sifting through the examples I’ve left behind for myself. To maybe see where the path I walked so carefully through life became so twisted.

The sliver I mentioned before, the place in my mind that tethered me to safety, took a risk. He reached out a hand to someone who said they needed me, and in a state of perfect trust, I allowed him to free fall. After all, who’s wouldn’t after hearing these things?

“I will always love you. It’s just you and me now. Don’t worry; I got you.”

A running leap over a cliff, and then

“This terrible thing is part of me. I understand if you want to leave, but I can’t stop crying. Do you want to leave me?”

eyes closed,

“It’s not your turn right now — I love him, too — but someday, I’ll give you what you need. I love you.”

I let myself fall.

“I tried to kill myself — it was all set up, and I was ready. But your face is what stopped me. I didn’t because of you. I need you.”

I knew I shouldn’t have jumped, but

“I promise I’m trying to get better. Therapy just doesn’t work for me; meetings just don’t work for me. But I’ll do it for you.”

if I could help someone, someone who needed me,

“I told you I’m working on it. If you don’t believe me, then you are hurting me, and hurting me will just lead me back to the darkness. Don’t hurt me.”

then who cares if I get hurt.

“They don’t love you like I do. Let’s go get breakfast, and I’ll teach you how to take care of yourself.”

I fell. That sliver, that tether, fell farther and farther, until I couldn’t see him anymore. He was weighed down by all of the affirmations, all the promises of love and safety, all the hollow words. And the cruelest:

“This is a risk for me, too, but that’s why it’s so important that we do this together; no one else understands.”

Without that tether, without the quiet place, I was numb. And I liked being numb. I kept adjusting the recipe to be number longer, and that was how I lived.

So much of AA is about putting yourself into the shoes of your peers who are going through the same thing. Everyone has a story like mine. They might not think about it the way I do, with personification and magic, but their stories all have a similar energy to them, which is accompanied by a familiar far-away look in their eyes. Every story also has something that ties us all together —

— when all of us felt a spark. A tiny mote of light that flickers behind our eyes and tells us that there’s another path, less twisty and less dark, where we can take a deep breath, if we’ll just follow it. A moment when the free fall stops, even for a second.

Mine came when I woke up next to him one morning, the day after I sobbed my way home on a bus from NYC. We had gotten too drunk at a bottomless brunch, and we went to another bar (probably at my pressuring). I spilled a martini, I fell off my stool, we left, and then the memory becomes hazier. We fucked in our hotel room? We ran through Manhattan to the bus terminal? We almost missed it? My memory picks back up with me weeping because I was confused. Where are we? What are we doing? Please don’t be mad at me — I hate me, too. Will you marry me? Please? When is your next trip? Will you please be safe? Will you be safer if we’re married? I’ll protect you. Just think about me. Am I enough?

My spark ignited. The day after that trip, I looked down at him and, as if I were waking up from a nightmare, I thought, “You will never change. But I can. And fuck you.”

As I climbed out of bed that day, my brain fried from my hangover, I grabbed my phone and sent a message to a friend who had gotten sober the year before. He told me we could get coffee so I could ask him questions. I went. That’s when he told me about a meeting he was chairing. “Come,” he said. “It’ll be easier to explain if you just see it for yourself.”

So I did. My nightmare came with me, supported my decision, held my hand, and while I was watching my friend chair the meeting, as I listened to the stories of everyone in that church basement, I realized I wouldn’t be whole, I wouldn’t be safe, unless I didn’t need that hand in mine anymore.

A year has gone by since then. Over time, the spark grew into a candle flame, which exploded into a fire, and I haven’t had a drink or a drug since. The medallion is heavy, and it brings me back to NYC, to the thousandfold traumas of emotional abuse, to the guilt of allowing myself to be caught up in a whirlwind of self-doubt, but I’m learning to find comfort in the weight of it.

This is the first time I’ve written anything like this since I lost my footing. It isn’t anything like my other posts — my therapist says I’ll probably never get that same easygoing talent back, not without a lot of effort, and so I suppose that’s what this is. My therapist inspired this post, actually. He’s sober, too, and knows what I mean when I talk about not being able to wrap my mind around where I am; when I talk about the weight of the medallion, and the two sides of that coin. He says to me, over and over:

“You can trust yourself again now. You never lost your quiet place, it’s all still there. It’s just different now.”

I’m pleased to report that my new quiet place is in bloom. Hope is alive again and her light is as gentle and steadfast as ever. Desire and Dignity are rebuilding my gardens, and the Sliver, the little tether I hold closest of all, is the gatekeeper, the star in the sky, and the only thing that matters to me anymore. His name is Shay, and I love him again. I can’t wait for you to meet him.

#writing #personal #sober #sobriety #emotionalabuse

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erazonpo3 · 4 years

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Thinking a little bit about Best Girl Nuru and the way she’s often given the role of the Voice of Reason, aka the one with the brain cell, and I’ve spoken a bit about this with @bestworstcase where uh, we gotta remember that taking the only girl of the group, who is the second youngest, and making her the Mature one raises a lot of red flags. (The fact that she is Black is also something that should not be ignored because young Black girls are often treated as though they are older than they are, but rather than a white woman telling you this you can learn more about that through this article with links to said study).

There’s simultaneously a lot and yet very little that can be inferred about her character given the small amount of original notes she has, and I could go for a more specific reading based on her circumstances but ultimately I’m gonna go for a more broad take of Responsible Characters And You: How to give them flaws that make them feel more like a real person rather than just The Straight Man.

This is hardly an exhaustive list but I went with the biggest five points I could think of in order to expand on them, but the list can go on and grow more specific.

Being the ‘Mom Friend’ at your own expense

This one is probably the biggest one I associate with Nuru, and I think it’d hit particularly hard given her specific situation of being the only girl in the group and also the second-youngest. Let me tell you, straight from personal experience: being the Voice of Reason to a group of teenage boys is like trying to tell a wall to sprout legs and walk around. It’s not gonna happen and you’re just going to tire yourself out. My friends were smart, lovely people but I needed to learn that it wasn’t my job to protect them from themselves.

It’s normal for a friend group to have ‘the one with the brain cell’ or ‘the mom friend’, but that friend group shouldn’t rely on that person to be their only source of support, or expect them to constantly monitor their decisions. It’s unhealthy for all people involved. You need to be willing to let people make their own mistakes, and not hold it against them when they don’t take your advice. You need to see your friends as independent people who understand their own decisions, and although it can be tricky to balance being supportive while also not encouraging bad decisions, it’s important to figure out.

The Mom Friend is also often someone who habitually offers emotional support and advice, but keeps their own issues bottled up. They could have more healthy outlets for their personal issues, like a therapist, but this kind of stereotype usually pops up in people who prefer to deal with other people’s problems in order to avoid dealing with their own. Either way, it’s important for this kind of emotional support to be a two-way street, and for friends to recognise that they shouldn’t be relying on just one person for all their help.

Healthy friend groups can navigate this by ensuring everyone can share what they’re struggling with, and by having everyone able to provide some amount of support, whether it’s advice or condolences or just listening; this way it doesn’t fall on just one person to be the therapist or the mom.

‘Intellectually’ mature but Emotionally immature

So, let’s be straight up: ‘responsible’ kids are usually just kids who respect the authority figures/institutions in their lives, either because they thrive in academic environments or because they have a lot of anxiety about upsetting those figures (or any other reason), but it doesn’t actually say much about their maturity as a person. It’s very easy for a smart kid to fall into the idea that they’re responsible and mature because the adults around them trust them not to cause trouble, but at the same time they can be very behind peers their age in terms of emotional development.

I’m doing a lot of generalising here to spare us a larger essay about the faults of the education system for both gifted and forgotten ‘troublemaking’ kids, but the idea is that your responsible kid might feel as thought they’re the pinnacle of maturity compared to some of their peers, while at the same time do things like hold petty grudges, give their friends ultimatums, make decisions out of spite and have a general lack of consideration for people they might otherwise care about. These are flaws anyone can have, but it’s a very good way to show that being the smart, responsible kid does not mean you have emotional maturity.

Circling back to our example character Nuru, we could take her suspicion over Hugo as something she believes is insightful and cynical (mature), but the others see as a grudge and an inability to trust others’ judgement.

Straight up Immature

Yeah, they’re mature for their age. But that doesn’t mean they’re not still young and inexperienced. Maybe they do have more emotional intelligence and social skills than their peers, but that doesn’t automatically spare them from being gullible, making uninformed decisions, and much worse: being preyed on by people who would take advantage of them.

That last one’s a pretty dark path to take and you’ve got to be ready to deal with that issue from top to bottom if you’re going to go that route, but otherwise the message behind this one is simple: Kids are Kids and they can enjoy juvenile things, where the novelty hasn’t worn off yet, and they can make mistakes simply because they haven’t ever made that mistake before in order to learn from it.

If your character is under 18, or even if they’re over, they’re allowed to be uninformed and say or do things that hurt others because they don’t understand the implications, and they’re allowed to be a little obnoxious or uncritical of what’s going on around them. Kids be kids.

Obsession and an inability to see the bigger picture

Following the earlier example, ‘reasonable’ characters are probably people who rely a lot on logical thought processes to make certain decisions. (Note that Logical =/= Correct or even Sensible, it just needs to abide by whatever the person’s internal rulebook is). That kind of mindset can lead people down rabbitholes and lead to conclusions that only they see, because they’ve jumped through so many mental hoops to reach their destination that nobody else can see how they might have arrived there.

The expression here is “Can’t see the forest through the trees”, where a person misses the bigger picture of the situation because they’re so deep in the details they can’t see what’s going on. You see it a lot with puzzles that are fairly straightforward that people try to overthink and search for clues because ‘it can’t be that obvious’ when it really is. Thinking twice about something isn’t bad, but sometimes a first impression is the right one too.

I can definitely see this applying to Nuru, star-chart master, and particularly in conflict with Yong- she has a great eye for detail that often comes in handy! But sometimes keeping your eye on a single star will blind you to their constellations. (Also for a more advanced reading, as a Princess Nuru might be less likely to see institutional problems compared to someone like Hugo).

Selfish and Privileged perspectives

Keep in mind that prioritising yourself and your own health doesn’t make you a bad person, and being selfish doesn’t mean you lack empathy- it’s just a character flaw that means you have to actively think about other people and how your actions/inaction might affect them. A lot of people, especially ones who are raised in privileged positions, aren’t used to factoring in other people when it comes to making decisions. It comes down to “how will X thing affect me?” and they go from there, without thinking about how X affects others.

This can be paired with socio-economic privilege, in which people who enjoy the benefits of a particular social system don’t pay much attention to how it fails others, or perhaps they know and make excuses that relieve them of any guilt (or maybe they don’t really care at all, so long as they’re winning). The remedy to this is education, and learning from the people who are disadvantaged the way in which certain social systems fail them and ways in which they can be improved. It also means committing to those improvements, even if they may come at your expense.

In regards to Nuru being a Princess, there’s definitely a lot to unpack. I imagine her kingdom isn’t very wealthy (relatively- they’re far from destitute), given that it spends all its money on rebuilding infrastructure and apparently doesn’t have the resources to send a bodyguard or even a LIW along with Nuru on her journey. Nonetheless I think her position of privilege is a good place to start if you want to give her some sweet flaws

a few more ideas I won’t expand much on

Jealousy (ties in with Emotional Immaturity)

Overly Risk-Averse (The man who sleeps with a hatchet is a fool every night but one, but his friends still think he’s a fool most nights. Ouch.)

Insecurity (Do they have doubts? Of course they do.)

Overly Emotional (Not always a flaw, but can impact their judgement)

Just straight up bad with emotions (Maybe they have trouble empathising with others?)

#era soapboxes #though this is less soapboxing more just: let sixteen year olds be dumb i guess #also not that i think anyone is doing this maliciously disclaimer #i mostly just want to write it down that a character that thinks they're responsible and mature rarely is 100%#princess nuru

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