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thegreatwicked · 8 months

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Meditations

Mediations

For Madelight

Summary: Amid the summer heat on Dathomir, Maul finds himself unable to sleep, restless thoughts stirring within him. Seeking solace, he attempts meditation, only to be joined by his companion Zeala. As they navigate the challenges of finding inner calm, their connection deepens, and unspoken emotions come to the surface. Together, in the quiet moments of the night, they discover a shared intimacy that transcends words and the boundaries of their world.

Notes: Do I need to explain that this takes place in an alternate universe? No? Ok, so here we go. Maul, Savage, and Feral are alive and whole, Maul was not bisected in this universe. The three brothers return to Dathomir after the near massacre of their people to find Mother Talzin, dying. Desperate to see Dathomir reborn, Mother Talzin tasks the strongest of her children, Maul, to bring about a new age on Dathomir. Maul alongside his brothers and his mate, Zeala. Zeala is a native Dathomirian woman who was taken as a young child from her world and raised as a bounty hunter. She meets Maul on Mandalore and they are an established item. If you are a cannon snob then this is not the story for you, please see yourself out or sit down and enjoy. Get’cha an orange creamsicle cause this is gonna be spicy.

Dathomir.

The summer night wraps around the world outside, creating a dark backdrop dotted with sparkling stars like keiber crystals. It is captivating yet eerie, embodying the world's dual nature. The air is heavy and hot, and the sun's departure has not done much to make the temperature more bearable. Occasionally, a warm breeze wanders through the long hallways, briefly relieving the persistent warmth. Despite the inviting bed and the cool sheets against my skin, I cannot seem to fall asleep. I look around the room without any real purpose, feeling frustrated without a clear reason. The day has been lengthy and satisfying, my mind occupied and content. My body is tired, but each time I shut my eyes, my thoughts remain restless.

The physical comfort alone should be enough, but a restless feeling under my skin stops me from finding the peace I crave. My stare fixes upon the ceiling; an empty canvas that holds no answers, provokes no thoughts, and elicits no emotions.

In the haven of my home, solitude feels like a distant memory. My brothers stand by my side to share my burdens, and even as my mother's final days approach, her presence remains as she guides me to the task of rebuilding our home. She celebrates my son and has embraced Zeala, my mate, as one of her own, teaching her the magics that are her birthright.

Next to me, she rests, my mate and companion, enveloped in the solace that rightfully befits a woman of Dathomir. Her ghostly hair flows like a silken veil across the pillow that she holds close to her chest. Slumbering on her stomach, her arms encircle the pillow she clings to as if finding refuge in its embrace.

The intricate tattoos adorning her form draw my gaze down her body, tracing the delicate curve of her back and waist before disappearing beneath the sheet that grazes her hips. Her very presence in my life is still something of a mystery to me, a riddle I have never been able to solve.

Companionship.

It is not something the path of a Sith or Night Brother would have ever afforded to me. As a Sith, lust and embracing of passions was encouraged but such connections led to mercy and mercy was weakness. As a Night Brother the only touch of a woman I would have ever known was as a breeder in servitude to the Night Sisters. Devoid of any sense of equality.

However, Zeala challenges those conventions, carving out her role in my existence as a true equal. Such a thing would have been deemed heretical by both Sith and Night Sisters.

In her presence, I discover a paradox—a connection that feels both forbidden and undeniable. She is mine to protect, mine to touch, sometimes to fight with, and has born my son; complexities that defy my training and upbringing. But I am a Sith no more. And I am not bound by the traditions of the Night Brothers and Night Sisters.

As I contemplate these reflections, her delicate figure stirs, turning on the pillow, arms reaching overhead in a contented stretch. Her naked body is now revealed to my appreciative gaze. Bathed in the moonlight, its gentle glow caresses the curves of her skin, mingling with her tattoos and the various scars from battles she's endured, along with the unmistakable imprints left by carrying my son. A surge of lust courses through my veins and my hearts beat faster. My hands flex with the urge to reach over and touch her, it is overwhelming the sudden desire I have for her; to taste her perfect breasts, to envelope myself in her warmth and make her sing for me. The spectral beauty she possesses stirs sensations within me that at times, I am still learning to understand and control, yet my reverence for her keeps me from waking her. In this quiet contemplation, I make my choice.

It is time to seek solace in solitude, to find my path amidst the swirling tempest of thoughts and emotions.

My path leads me down the ancient stone hallways to a chamber which lies mostly bare and unadorned; yet graced by an open balcony that gifts me a panoramic view of Dathomir’s desolately, haunting landscape. Torches cast a gentle, flickering light upon the walls, creating a dance of shadows that mirrors my inner contemplations.

My legs fold into a familiar cross-legged posture, and I close my eyes, deliberately cutting off the world's visual distractions. Through the balcony, a warm breeze caresses my skin, carrying with it the essence of Dathomir's spirit, both harsh and alluring.

With each breath, I attempt to cast off the shackles of the outside world. Muscles taut from battles struggle to relax, slowly despite my training to always be ready, yielding to the sensation of the breeze and the coolness of the stone beneath me. My breath becomes a lifeline, a guide leading me back to the present moment.

Inhale. Exhale.

The rhythm of my twin heartbeats reverberate within me, a unique cadence born of Zabrak physiology. This is my anchor, grounding me in the now, granting me a brief reprieve from the chaos that clutters my mind.

As I continue to breathe, the world fades into the background. My consciousness extends, attempting to merge with the land, the air, and the very pulse of the planet. Yet I am further disappointed. Frustration simmers beneath my controlled exterior as my efforts to clear my mind continue to be thwarted by an ever-persistent barrage of thoughts. I release a measured breath, acknowledging my momentary defeat and my shoulders slump as if to surrender to the weight of my internal chaos.

Suddenly her presence calls to me at the edges of my consciousness.

I can sense her behind me.

The very air changes as she silently observes my struggles. She waits quietly for a few moments before seeking me out. Trying to ascertain whether I am receptive to her presence or if she should leave me, but the truth of the matter is, that it is a rare occasion that I do not desire her closeness. Even in my most angered state, when I feel more beast than man and pulse with anger powerful enough to rip worlds apart, Zeala’s presence, her touch, and her very breath on my skin soothes me; and I do not understand it.

Her footfalls are soft against the stone floor, approaching as if trying not to startle a skittish creature. I find myself contemplating if that is the lens through which she views me. However, there is no need for her to tread so cautiously, I hold an unspoken devotion to my mate that runs so deep, that I would readily offer my very lifeblood before ever causing her a shred of harm.

A ripple of awareness draws my focus to the cool touch of her hand gliding across my back. She kneels behind me and I can feel the warmth of her breath on my skin as her forehead rests between my shoulder blades—the gesture is both intimate and grounding. This is the sensation I yearn for when thoughts of her consume my mind. And that is the puzzling part—no Night Brother has ever experienced such a connection with a Night Sister. Regardless of how and where Zeala and I met and what our courses are, she is, at her core, a Dathomirian woman. And this union we have, this connection we share is unusual for our shared culture.

Our bond is unparalleled, defying the norms of our customs. It is more than mere intimacy—it is a bond unlike any other. She comprehends me, understanding my thoughts and desires sometimes before I even realize them myself. In another life, the ways of the Sith would dictate severing all connections with her, perhaps even snuffing out her life; viewing her as a vulnerability not to be tolerated. But I am no longer a Sith; I have become Maul once more, son of Dathomir. While the grip of the Sith teachings has weakened, their lessons remain deeply ingrained, making it challenging to dismiss them entirely.

In the customs of our people, parity would elude us; I would assume a subservient role to her, bowing to her, her wishes and whims guiding my stars. If she commanded, offer my blood for any cause she deems worthy. I would exist to serve her, aiming to bring her pleasure; a life not wretched compared to my past horrors. Nonetheless, the intimacy we embrace would not be sanctioned, our cohabitation forbidden. Her absence from my side in our shared bed breeds frustration.

Gradually, these musings disperse, replaced by a hint of a smile as I savor the wordless tenderness she offers. It is a curious revelation, having spent a lifetime devoid of such connections or sensations, yet finding myself relishing them so profoundly, yearning for their presence. The whisper of her breath caresses my spine gently, a subtle disruption to my usual composure. With my eyes firmly shut, I maintain my focus, her proximity an intermittent interruption in my concentration.

Breaking the silence with a quiet and knowing tone, I address the situation, curious about the disturbance that has roused her from what should be a peaceful slumber.

“What has awakened you?”

"I could hear the thunder of your thoughts," She remarks in a whisper, her voice a blend of tenderness and desire. It is a comparison that always catches me by surprise, a reminder of her unique connection to my inner world, even though she cannot truly read my mind.

“I highly doubt that.” My tone is light-hearted with amusement, as I release a breath and temporarily abandon my efforts. "I did not want to disturb your rest." It often surprises me how I think of her well-being before my own.

I shift my gaze toward her, allowing her fingers to glide up my neck, their delicate trail making its way to trace the creased lines on my forehead. Only Zeala possesses the ability to offer such a touch—one that carries a deep tranquility; a connection that is exclusively ours. I convey how my thoughts were a jumble, too intricate to disturb her slumber, hence why I turned to meditation for solace. Her touch persists, a soothing caress mapping the lines etched into my skin.

“How is your meditation progressing?” I scoff and don’t answer immediately,

"Focus eludes me." I further the sentiment with a dry tone. “Though it is difficult to find focus with such distractions, your touch for instance.”

“Perhaps you should channel that focus and teach me.”

Zeala is not a patient woman, and the notion of teaching her such a disciplined exercise as meditation draws genuine amusement from me.

"It might serve you well, considering your temper."

A thousand images of Zeala in various states of anger flash through my thoughts, most of them linked to her role as our son's mother. Her fury rivals even that of my mother, rendering her a truly formidable force—one I have no desire to challenge. Yet, oddly enough, witnessing her in such moments has only heightened my admiration for her and intensified my attraction toward her. To witness the extent of her ferocity as she safeguards our son, my son, stirs something within me, a connection that's both difficult to explain and impossible to ignore.

“Are you saying I’m hot-headed?’

“Yes,” I respond bluntly.

“My temper is nothing compared to yours.” She counters, clearly not offended.

“If that is your belief...”

"My assertion isn't a mere opinion; it's a factual observation. Or have you forgotten the fate you bestowed upon Garyss?"

Yes. That.

A snarl curls my lip as I recall the man who dared extort the mother of my son.

The memory of his audacity, his touch on my Zeala, ignites a fire in me. The repugnant thought of his filth marring my mate lingers. The knowledge of his punishment fails to quell my rage, no matter the price he paid. My posture tightens and my fists clench.

I recalla vividly his fear and screams fueling a devious grin, a fate that was well deserved and yet was not brutal enough. Zeala is mostly right, and her observations are correct to a degree.

"You're not entirely innocent in matters of retribution either. Both Savage and I bore witness to your fierce attack against that Twi'lek girl who dared to vie for my attention in your presence." It was quite the spectacle, a sight forever etched in my memory, to see her stake a claim over me.

A shadowy chuckle brushes my ear, the sensation of the sharp edges of her sharp teeth following, accompanied by a sinister tone.

“She won’t make such a mistake again.” Zeala asserting her possession of me in that wicked whisper, I cannot help but wonder if my declarations also ignite similar emotions within her.

"Meditation might offer you the balance you seek."

"Teach me, then. Your discipline might rub off on me." As her lips find my ear once more, her voice whispers, telling me to instruct her, one I struggle to resist.

The warmth of her lips, a tender touch that trails along my spine, resonates deeply within me. Her presence, her breath, her soft words, all contribute to a growing intimacy that beckons as much as it distracts. The very notion is unexpected, yet a part of me is intrigued by her willingness to explore this practice with me.

With a controlled exhalation, I slowly shift my head, just enough to acknowledge her presence and her request. Her bewitching violet eyes hold mine, and I find myself drawn into her gaze, those unusual depths that could drown me.

I nod in agreement. It is then that I notice she has donned my black robe, wrapped in its darkness that contrasts the pallor of her perfect skin. The robe's oversized nature drapes around her like a luxurious blanket, covering her form yet hinting at the fact that she wears nothing else. The possessive thought that she's wearing only my robe is both alluring and intoxicating, deepening the connection between us in a way that stirs something primal within me.

She has done this on purpose.

As I narrow my gaze at her, a knowing smile tugs at her lips. She has taken a calculated step with her choice of attire, and she is fully aware of the effect it is having on me.

“Sit comfortably,”

She follows my instruction to sit, though not as I expected her to. Instead of mirroring my position and posture, she instead, positions herself in my lap, straddling me. It is an unconventional posture, one that defies tradition and expectation. Her hands find purchase on my shoulders, and her forehead presses against mine. Never before has such an intimate pose of meditation been assumed and for a moment I think she cannot be serious so I pose the question.

“Are you truly committed to this?” My tone is a dry mix of skepticism and curiosity, as I wonder if this is some kind of jest – and yet, a part of me hopes it is not. I follow up with a comment on her unique approach, stating, "Your approach is… unorthodox."

Yet, even as I speak, I cannot deny the undercurrent of affection in my words, nor how enjoyable I find this to be.

I instruct her to focus on her breathing, to let go of the tension that clings to her form. As our breaths sync, her body relaxes against mine. Our breaths intermingle, drawing us into a shared rhythm, a connection that is both unusual and intriguing.

Her thumbs tracing soft patterns on my shoulders invite a question, a challenge. "Is that for my benefit or yours?" I ask, my voice carrying a hint of curiosity.

Her response is honest, confessing that touching me does indeed relax her, it comes as a surprise to me. I find myself mirroring her gesture, my hands lightly stroking her lower back, the touch invoking a subtle shiver that courses through her.

Strange woman, indeed.

I resign myself to Zeala's unusual approach, adjusting her posture ever so slightly, as well as my own. I instruct her to clear her mind and to let go of thoughts of training, responsibilities, and all distractions. My voice is steady and commanding, a reflection of the leadership role I often inhabit. But in this private moment, it is different— I am guiding her, not as a Sith Lord or a Night Brother, but as a partner.

"Clear your mind," I remind her. "Aim for an absence of all stimuli." I watch her closely as she adjusts her position in my lap as if accommodating my teaching, her chest rises against mine as our breaths synchronize. My gaze narrows slightly, and I question whether she understands the reaction her body is going to prompt from mine. The tiniest curve to her lips tells me that she is fully aware.

I add a more challenging instruction, my voice lowering slightly. "Purge your mind of all desires." It is a test, a way to see if she truly understands the depth of focus that true meditation requires. The nature of our closeness is a distraction in itself, but I want to see if she's able to set aside even those desires in pursuit of the meditative state.

I continue, my voice a steady guide. "Let your body relax." It is a strange juxtaposition—guiding her in meditation while she's seated in my lap, both of us so close, yet striving for a state of mental detachment. It is a challenge, to the strength of her mind.

Amid the intimacy of our shared breaths and gentle touches, I guide her with a single word. "Breathe," I murmur, a directive that extends beyond the realm of meditation, a reminder to embrace the present moment.

Time unfolds with its rhythm, and our breaths intertwine as we share a moment of profound intimacy. I sense the currents of energy between us, a peculiar connection that reaches beyond the mere act of meditation. My mind begins to settle, finding a semblance of relief amidst the chaos that usually engulfs it. The weight of my responsibilities and the constant battles fade, if only for a fleeting moment.

Yet, this respite is short-lived as I detect a shift in Zeala's thoughts. I cannot read them as I would an open book, but the undercurrents of her consciousness are unmistakable. She is thinking of me. A fact that should be incongruous with the state of thoughtlessness this meditation aims to achieve.

My eyes flicker open. Her presence, so near and enveloping, is both comforting and distracting, her curves pressed against my muscled torso. My irritation surfaces as I realize that the robe she procured from me, is slipping off her shoulders, leaving little to my imagination. I inwardly grumble at the situation, annoyance, and arousal swirling within me.

Despite my inner turmoil, she appears serene, her calm façade against my internal storm. I can sense her thoughts taking a more intimate direction, a current of desire and longing that courses through her, coming off in waves, she likely does not even realize she is doing it.

It is a shift that puzzles me initially. Is she merely pretending? Yet, as I study her more closely, I come to realize that her calm is genuine, her thoughts unclouded by deception.

The peculiar absence of nothingness in her thoughts begins to have an unexpected effect on me. A sense of calm begins to wash over me. It is as if her serene thoughts are affecting me, transcending the boundaries of our physical closeness.

The act of meditation between us has transformed into something different, something more profound. It's as though her tranquility is merging with my own, weaving an unspoken bond between us, transcending the confines of language and reason.

The space between us diminishes to nothing and her body is pressed against mine in ways that make concentrating or clearing my mind impossible. I can feel my body responding to her, my cock stirs and desire floods my veins.

"You are distracting." My voice is full of discontent. “This meditation is futile.”

She suggests that if I would prefer solitude then she will leave me to my thoughts, her hands exerting a subtle push on my chest as if preparing to withdraw. In response, I grip her waist more firmly pulling her even closer, conveying without words that I want her right here with me.

Zeala's fingers embark on a delicate exploration, gliding from my shoulders down my arms and back up to my neck. The sensation is an odd mixture of pleasure and anticipation, a battle of conflicting emotions that I'm not entirely sure how to process. As her touch ventures upward, following the curve of my neck, it takes on a different quality, an almost tingling sensation that resonates through my core.

Peace and calm, which I had sought through meditation, begin to yield to something entirely different. Desire and longing gradually take their place, like tendrils curling around my thoughts.

Her voice pierces the quiet, breaking the stillness like a gentle ripple in a pond. "Why can't you sleep?" I don't respond immediately, instead, I resort to a jest, attempting to lighten the weight of her question.

“My mate is sitting naked in my lap,” I reply dryly, my words carry a touch of amusement. Her presence, clad in my robe but barely held in place by her posture, is a distraction that I find both tantalizing and vexing. It makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

“Not naked,” she counters.

“Indeed, appropriate attire,” I remark, my tone sardonic as I take in the sight before me. The robe's precarious position on her form is testing my resolve. “Or lack thereof.” There's a subtle, reserved mockery in my voice, a tone I reserve solely for Zeala.

Her eyes open, meeting my gaze with a mischievous glint. “I thought you had mastered meditation,” she taunts, daring me with that enticing tone.

"Indeed, long before you were even aware of the concept," I remind her, a touch of pride underscores my words. But her next words are a tantalizing proposition, a daring challenge that holds a promise of testing my self-discipline.

“Then you won’t mind a challenge.”

She relaxes her posture completely, allowing the robe to slip from her shoulders, and it falls to the ground pooling around us, she has my full attention and she’s keenly aware of it. Astonishingly, I manage to maintain eye contact, despite the temptation presented by her actions. I have seen her naked a hundred times but the pull to touch her is as strong now as it was the first time.

“Witch.”

"Your concentration leaves much to be desired.” She observes my struggles, and it’s clear she’s amused by my predicament. “Am I still distracting you, cyar’ika?” Her voice is akin to a purr and it sets my nerves aflame.

“Yes.”

She is quick to remind me that she had offered to leave me to my thoughts, but I declined her offer. "Seems you're discontent no matter what the circumstances," she muses, her fingers continuing to trace gently following the lines etched into my skin.

"You will not be satisfied until you have driven me to the brink of madness."

"My satisfaction has never been an issue where you are concerned." Zeala’s voice is a melodic murmur meant to excite me.

Just as I am about to unleash my words in a sharp retort, Zeala's gentle touch silences me like a spell. She traces the contours of my lips, "Stop thinking," She commands, the words resonate within me and her unexpected tone leaves me taken aback. It is a tone I have heard many times from her but I have never been on the receiving end of, one that allows no room for argument. Her command cuts through my defenses, and to my surprise, I am unable to hide it, compelled to obey.

She proposes that if finding solace in the absence of thought proves impossible, perhaps I should embrace the swirling currents of my mind instead.

I cannot help but scoff at her suggestion, a retort about the fundamental principles of meditation nearly escapes my lips. However, a glimmer of wisdom in her words gives me pause.

"What are you thinking about?"

The impulse to remain guarded, to keep my vulnerabilities hidden, is strong, but I find the words escaping my lips. "You."

"Then concentrate on me," she instructs, her gaze unwavering. "My voice, my breath."

Unintentionally, defenses waiver, and my innermost thoughts spill forth as though I have no control over them. "Your scent..."

Without hesitation, Zeala acknowledges and embraces my unspoken desire. She tilts her head back exposing the hollow of her throat and I breathe deeply, allowing her scent to envelop me. "Yes, Maul."

It feels foolish as if I am succumbing to a spell woven by mere desires, not being able to resist the charms of a mere woman, all my years of training fail to serve me. I feel weak and I consider pulling away, to put distance between us and retreat into myself as I always have. I feel as though a dam is threatening to burst inside me and something primal demands to be set loose, and the lack of control terrifies me. I am not one to bow to urges, not one to be controlled by simplistic desires; I control the force around me, and I determine my fate.

But then, I feel her hands gently touching me in a way I never knew could be pleasurable. I hear the soft cadence of her breathing, its steady rhythm, I feel her heart beating, a steady echo of life. I can smell her, sense her- my mate. Mine. My arms act of their own accord and wrap around her naked body pulling her to me and I lean into her, I begin to feel myself relaxing as my posture slowly begins to shift. I begin to feel the ease of calm that has eluded me for days and I surrender to her suggestion, allowing her to now guide me.

Zeala's hands continued to trace the intricate lines of my tattoos. The air around us seemed to grow lighter and cooler, and the weight of my thoughts slowly dissipates.

In that moment, what began as a lesson has transformed into something entirely different—a union of minds and souls, an intimate connection that transcends the boundaries of the physical world. In the firelit room, amidst the flickering torchlight and ancient stone walls, my mind still grapples with the unexpected calm that has settled upon me.

Is this what people mean when they speak of soulmates?

She prompts me to reflect on the purpose of meditation, and I responded with the essence of my practice.

"To achieve steadiness and focus, and calm,"

Her approval is conveyed in a subtle nod, and her touch moves up my neck—a soothing gesture that grounds me in the present moment. As her fingers dance across my skin, I feel a sense of tranquility settle within me, as if her presence is a tether to some unexplored realm.

“How do you feel?”

Drawing a breath, I follow her rhythm, allowing her to lead me further. "Steady," I murmur, a declaration that resonated with assurance. With each breath that follows, I traverse the landscape of my thoughts, acknowledging the truth that lies beneath. "Focused."

As I exhale, a sense of acceptance unfurls within me. The word I utter holds a quiet revelation, one that carries a sense of wonderment. "Calm," I confess, the syllable carrying the weight of an unfamiliar emotion. It is a state I rarely permit myself to embrace fully.

The progression of her touch continues, lips brushing against my skin as her fingers glide over my arms and up the sides of my face, stopping tantalizingly short of the base of my horns. It is a touch that's both soothing and maddeningly teasing. A low growl rumbles in my throat, a mixture of frustration and desire as I command:

"More."

The word hangs in the air, heavy with implication, as the boundaries of our meditation continue to blur.

She hesitates only long enough to make me crave more, then those cool, delicate fingers continue their journey along my crown, from the base of my horns to their very tips and back again. The sensation is electrifying, causing my skin to erupt in goosebumps and my body to shudder in response. The rhythmic motion sets off a series of reactions within me, from the erratic beat of my hearts to the hitch in my breath. I'm overwhelmed by the intensity of the experience, a mixture of pleasure and vulnerability.

Her fingers stroke the contours of my horns, and I find myself unable to control the grip of my hands on her hips. My fingers dig into her flesh, a mixture of desperation and desire fueling my actions, my body aches to become one with hers. My breathing, once steady and measured, becomes shallow and erratic. I find myself whispering a confession that I've kept buried within me. "Stay," I murmur, the words a quiet plea. "I– need you."

It is a confession that I am not accustomed to making and it catches me off guard. My life has been defined by pain, solitude, and the pursuit of power. The companionship that Zeala offers is both foreign and terrifying, a realm of emotions I have long been unaccustomed to, even feared. Yet, despite my resistance, I have come to recognize the significance of her presence in my life.

In the wake of my admission, Zeala's touch persists, her fingers weaving patterns of comfort and intrigue.

Her words, tinged with playful observation, traced a path of revelation through my consciousness. "I like this meditation." She muses, her touch brushing my earlobe in a gentle caress that gives me chills.

Her words strike a chord within me, encapsulating the truth of our shared experience. What began as a simple attempt to find solace in meditation has transformed into an intimate connection, a unique communion of shared breaths and unspoken understanding. In her presence, I have discovered a new dimension of meditation—one that exists solely between us, an unspoken language of connection and serenity.

“It is too highly flawed to be effective.” I counter, sensing the internal dam straining against the pressure of my emotions.

“You mean to tell me this doesn’t relax you?” Her voice carries genuine concern, she expects a different answer.

“No,” I growl in response, something hot and carnal burning beneath the surface and I have held it at bay long enough. "It is impossible to find a relaxed state of mind when my cock thickens and aches and every inch of my body demands your touch," My voice is thick with a potent blend of frustration and desire.

Without a moment's hesitation, my actions are resolute, and I crush her mouth against mine in a kiss that defies all inhibitions. In the early stages of my pursuit of Zeala, the concept of a kiss was foreign to me, shrouded in confusion and unfamiliarity. I struggled to discern its purpose, questioning the necessity of such an intimate gesture. At first, the notion of deriving pleasure from such an act eluded me, and I failed to recognize the subtle allure it possessed. My initial reaction was one of caution, even interpreting it as a form of aggression rather than a physical connection.

Under Zeala's alluring instruction, I gradually came to understand the depth and significance of a kiss. Through her guidance, I learned to not only appreciate its nuances but also to derive enjoyment from its intimate embrace. Over time, I honed my skills, mastering the art of the kiss and using it to stoke desire and kindle passion in my mate. With every brush of lips, I can elicit a breathless longing and a hunger for my touch, a mastery that occasionally grants me a strategic advantage, playing to my advantage in unexpected ways.

The kiss is a hungry and passionate exchange that goes beyond mere physical desire. It is a connection that transcends the boundaries of the material world. "Witch," I breathe against her lips, my voice is a low rumble infused with a blend of emotions. This term holds intricate layers of meaning—a fusion of adoration, a sense of being enchanted, and the profound recognition of the spell she casts over me.

My lips meet hers again and she offers no resistance when I seek entry with my tongue, she offers no resistance but embraces me, and her hands stroke their way up my chest. She’s pliable in my hands and I feel her sigh into my mouth with each soft stroke of my tongue against hers. Yet, I am not done. In a voice that is a mere whisper, a secret to be shared between us alone, I speak the words,

"Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum,"

The Mando'a proclamation of love that I seldom utter aloud. Her reaction is subtle, yet I catch it, and I feel it. A gentle inhale, so delicate and filled with fondness, escaping into a soft whimper. I have surprised her, the evidence in her firm embrace that draws me nearer, her grip tightened with an urgency that speaks of her emotions.

With those words, I let her in further, allowing her to witness the vulnerability that lay beneath the veneer of my strength. In her presence, I find acceptance, understanding, and the rare comfort of a companionship that has the power to heal even the deepest of my wounds. Her scent is all over me, she soothes me and her touch leaves me wanting her closer. It is almost unbearable how much I enjoy it. I feel drunk with want and I easily negotiate her into her back, she does not seem bothered by the cold stone floor, no matter either way, I will warm her should she chill.

Her slender legs wrap around my waist, prompting a lazy thrust of my hips and I savor the sounds she elicits. My arms cage her against the floor. It lacks the comfort of the bed we share but it is too far a walk and my desire has reached its peak. I will have her here, right now.

Never before has meditation left me in such a state; ravenous, hungry, half mad, and desperate. I want to hear her cry out my name, I want all of Dathomir to hear her sing for me. And sing she will.

Her nails rake down my chest, the sensation stings at first then it just tickles, my patience with this woman is fractured and I want nothing more than to bury my cock inside her. To make her take all of me and feel her convulse in pleasure as I fuck her without quarter. I can smell her arousal now, her sweet perfume calls to me, and I can feel my mouth watering, whipping me up into a frenzy, and my control splinters further.

Those clever fingers of hers reach down my chest offering teasing touches to my muscled body searching for my trousers and pulling at the remaining physical barrier between us. I growl like a wild beast when her hand slips inside and grasps my cock, her thumb stroking the hard ridges in a way that makes my entire being falter. A breath claws its way from my lungs and I break our kiss. Physical intimacy has not been a factor in my life, not until I met Zeala but she was quick to school me in the exquisite art of release.

My breaths are shallow and I try to steady myself to gain an iota of control but she has a game she likes to play, to see how quickly she can bring me to orgasm. In this regard she is the more talented of us both, and she is doing it now. Alternating between softly and firmly stroking my cock, teasing the ridges and her thumb works circles over my head, swirling about the evidence of my desire for her. The sensations are maddening and they are made worse when I feel her lips and tongue graze my nipple. I snarl as my hips thrust into her skilled hand, her touch is fire upon my skin and I need more of it.

Kriff, this woman.

I let her have her fun for a few moments but as the seconds slip by I can almost taste her in the air, but it’s not enough, I need to savor her. Need to make her shudder and writhe against me, to make her crave the pleasure that only I can give her. No one can know her as I can. No one can touch her as I can. My grasp is strong yet gentle, as I take her jaw in my hand, conveying a desire to hold her attention. I tilt her face towards mine, wanting to lock eyes with her, to delve into the depths of her gaze, and for a moment, make our connection irrefutably clear.

I stroke her lower lip and the coy minx she is, sets her teeth upon me, her tongue darts out to lick my thumb before sucking softly.

I demand her to open her lips to me and she does with an abandon that sets my body aflame. I drink deeply of her lips before moving down her body to what it is I truly want. The softness of her breasts is too tempting for me to ignore them any longer, she moans at feeling my teeth nipping and pulling with just enough pressure for it to almost hurt. She thrives off the fine line between pleasure and pain and the revelation first stunned me. I alternate between the harshness of teeth and the soothing strokes of my tongue and lips against her nipples and her body writhes and jolts whenever I do. If I play my hand right I will have her coming undone just from my current ministrations. As time goes on the more sensitive she becomes, a trait I relish using to my advantage. Until she whimpers and she can’t control how she writhes against me, the slightest breath on her skin will send her flying higher than any narcotic could ever hope to achieve.

As I make my way down her body, my tongue dips into her navel, I can see her breathing is slow and steady but I can feel her body beginning to tense. My breath teases her where I know she wants me most. The warmth of my mouth, the sensual strokes of my tongue, she’s thrumming with need.

“Test my concentration, will you? Let us see how you fare.”

Her body opens to me with little provocation and I can feel my lust surge up, demanding I take, and so I do. Her breasts rise in a deep breath which she struggles to conceal as I enjoy her. Although I required guidance on the act of kissing, kissing her this intimately came naturally to me, and I needed little guidance. Slow, leisurely strokes of my tongue against her cunt have her keening against me, her scent permeates the air. I devour her like she’s a treat, and she is. A sweet delicacy only for my enjoyment. Her legs tremble slightly with want as I purposely avoid her clit, I can be cruel sometimes wanting to see how far I can push her till she begs me for exactly what she wants.

My witch seems to think she can wordlessly coerce me into submitting by gently touching the base of my horns once more. She pushes herself up on her elbows and her reach is extended, I can feel her eyes on me. Her fingers stroke my crown with more assertion, aiming for a less delicate approach and I feel its effects immediately. The tremors that race throughout my body and my cock twitches with need, my zabrack physiology works against me now.

A growl rumbles deep within me as I harness the power of the Forces symphony of unseen energies bending to my command. With a purposeful gesture, I direct these cosmic currents, orchestrating their unseen embrace. Her form, once upright, yields to my unseen will, her arms gently pinned above her head, surrendering to my influence.

I sense her strength, a formidable energy that dances within her, yet my connection to the vast cosmic web is more refined, more potent. I see the spark in her eyes, the intrigue of relinquishing control, of being enveloped in the inescapable grasp of my touch. It's a dance we share, a unique understanding that only she and I comprehend.

Sly amusement curls the corner of my mouth, a private expression meant solely for Zeala's gaze. In this moment, our connection pulses with unspoken understanding, a dance of power and desire, a mesmerizing duet between two souls who share something rare and exhilarating.

My hands wrap around her soft thighs giving her no means of escaping me. Only when she is at my mercy do I truly enjoy her, my lips, tongue, and occasionally my teeth tease her, coaxing more and more labored breathing from her. Her breathing transforms before my ears, a subtle shift that reveals to me her internal struggle. From the initial composed, practiced breaths, a hint of excitement and anticipation creeps in, causing a mild acceleration. But I don’t stop there; as my intimate kiss deepens, her mews and whimpers are laden with an undeniable urgency, a manifestation of her desire that resonates powerfully in the air. Her rhythm is now a symphony of need, a melody of longing. Such sweet sounds and I relish each one. Truly, I know her body so well that I could have her coming apart for me within seconds but drawing it out like this is so much more enjoyable. I have always taken my time in this act, and I will not be rushed.

The first time she cried my name in desperation, I felt a rush that nearly overwhelmed my senses. Hearing her voice, pleading for my touch, was a sensation beyond anything I could have imagined. More powerful than any Force ability I have ever utilized. The words she uttered, so filled with need, were a revelation I had not anticipated—nor had I foreseen the intensity of my craving to hear them again. It is a sensation as exhilarating as any battle won and as sweet as victory itself, yet still, nothing quite compares.

I can feel her body tighten as I stroke her warmth with a single finger, then another joins it and another. I want her ready for me, although judging by how she soaks my hand and quenches my thirst, it won’t take much to ensure she takes me effortlessly. The dual stimulation drives her harder and faster toward her peak. She continues to make sweet sounds for me and they grow in need.

I can feel when she is reaching that delicious crest, ready to tip over and I know a hundred ways in which to make her fall. She pulls at the invisible bonds that hold her down as I lap at her throbbing clit with featherlight strokes, my tongue over each growing more firm and my slicked fingers continue stroking and curling inside her until I hear it.

My name.

She’s full of desperation and there’s a need in her voice as her body is wracked with pleasure. Her hips twist and turn, her body shudders against the onslaught that is my kiss and while I slow my assault, I do not stop.

I can’t. The way she cries; “Yes, yes, yes!” And the most sinful of her cries, a fragile and wanton “Please…” I need to taste her more until she’s spent, I don’t know why, but I relish in this power. A power over her body, to bestow endless pleasure instead of pain to know how and where to touch her. To see her revel in the throws of an orgasm while simultaneously almost unable to handle its intensity.

It is a cruelty that as pleasure envelopes her, her body becomes more and more sensitive to the extent that pleasure merges and becomes one with pain. Were it within the scope of my control, it would not be that way, I would never see her in any discomfort… but I know she can take a little more.

So I push her as the waves traverse her body and she writhes against my mouth a slave to my hunger, but my only whim is to see her come fully undone again before I seek my release. It happens so quickly, it always does. It takes so little, such a light touch to her already aching and sensitive clit and she’s coming again, her lips part in a wordless cry. Her hips and back tries to arch off the ground but she is still trapped by my will, unable to move unless I permit it. She curses in our shared tongue of Mando’a, and says all manner of things meant to excite me and they all do. She cries for me to never stop but the trembling in her voice tells me she is struggling with the endless waves of pleasure and begs me to fuck her. Were I less of a man, I might have lost myself then and there to the erotic display, my mate, my Zeala lost in the throes of passion, pleasure and sex.

I release her quivering flesh from my mouth, relinquishing my hold over her, returning her freedom to her, and she’s quick to rise and return to my lap, forcing her tongue into my mouth. She overwhelms me with her aggression and it stirs something in me, knowing she isn’t yet sated and she won’t be until she feels my cock sheathed inside her body. Until I’ve marked her with my seed, I hurriedly work the trousers off my hips just enough that I can take her. There’s time later for there to be nothing at all between us but right now I ache for her, I need to feel her engulf me and feel her walls welcome my stiff cock. Need to be safe within her warmth and presence. I feel only need.

Her hands stroke the ridges on my cock once more and I heave in several short breaths, I hiss at her touch, her eyes bore into mine and I am falling into an abyss as she sinks onto my cock. The breath is pulled from my lungs and her mouth is on mine. She licks at the remnants of her release lingering on my tongue. Clutching onto me as though if she doesn’t I will fade from her grasp. Her walls grip me and I struggle to remember how to breathe. It’s always like this no matter how hard, or how many times I have her, it is as though she was made for only me. Perhaps fate has chosen to be kinder to me now, to give me such a woman.

For a moment we are motionless, there is only the sound of our breathing and the feel of her lips against mine. Her nails dig into my shoulders and the sting is perfect, her thighs squeeze my legs with each slow and lazy thrust as I begin to move. Her lips part and tremble as she arches her back against me and I gain control of my breathing once more, I can never tire of this, never. Not of this act, not of this woman, the stars would burn out into nothingness first. And it is Zeala who breaks our intimate silence with a command that I can’t ignore.

“More.”

I don’t even bother acknowledging her request with a nod or an answer, I only obey a slave to desire. I have to shift our position slightly but once I do I withdraw from her and thrust back up. I grit my teeth at the sensation, the heat of her body, the slickness that coats my cock, and how she squeezes me exquisitely.

My thrusts are slow and deep at first, I need to savor each time her walls clench around me. I need to know she’s as lost in pleasure as I am. She utters my name again with greater urgency. This woman wants me. I’m a monster but I am her monster.

“You’re holding back… don’t.” She clings to me and she forces her tongue into my mouth. I accept it greedily, but I maintain my relaxed pace despite how I know she wants me. “Maul! Please…” She’s insatiable, she craves a faster pace and a harder one. Who am I to deny her what she desires?

I will rip apart the fabric of reality if it offends her so, I will tear down civilizations and erase entire cultures of the annals of history should she ask it of me.

Her fingers weave through my horns with a touch that sends pure electricity through my body and I thrust harder, faster. I can hear my grunts match hers each time I impale her on my cock. She trembles as my hard ridges stroke places in her no other man has, or ever will reach. I wonder if this was what she intended from the moment she crawled into my lap, but it doesn’t matter in the slightest right now.

I cannot manage words, only groans and growls, noises more akin to a wild beast but right now I am such a creature. Her hands on my chest cause me to slow my pace and I relent slightly, uncertain as to what she wants. She pushes me down, flat on my back and my legs straighten from the cramped position I was sitting in, a feral sound claws past my lips when she sinks into my cock and I am lost in the pleasure of my mate’s heat and her scent. The steady rock of her hips against mine racks my body with tremors as she rides me, ‘Sweet Mother’. I allow my eyes to close and the sensations to course through me, my chest heaves in a breath as my cock throbs each time she slides upon it, impaling herself. It is good, so good I cannot be bothered to think of anything else. There is no Dathomir, no galaxy, no Force, no Jedi, no Sith, nothing. There is only Zeala and I.

I force my eyes open, feeling drunk, and the room blurs and spins. Everything is out of focus, save for Zeala. Rocking herself on my cock, her hands stroking her breasts, using my body for her pleasure and only for hers. She grips me like a vice and I am powerless, truly powerless as she brings herself closer to another orgasm, I can only watch as this creature who makes my blood burn and my hearts thunder, fucks herself. Every inch of her is mine and no other man will ever see her or touch her, it incites a powerful shockwave through my body and I can feel the rush of my impending release. I can do nothing to stop it and I don’t care to. My breath comes in short gasps and I growl as those white hit waves lap at me, threatening to drown me in electric shockwaves.

Zeala slows her rocking and is quick to climb off my cock but before I can voice my displeasure; her mouth, her perfectly wicked mouth and tongue lavish my cock with attention. Her tongue licks up and down my length before swallowing me. I can feel the back of her throat brushing my head, it is perfect and something primal in me wants to see her swallow every drop of my seed I can give her. Stars this woman, then she does!

I howl as I spill into her mouth and like a hungry animal she swallows me, all I have to give. My muscles burn and my fists clench as my body eagerly greets the crest that is pulling me under. I growl her name and for a moment, I am lost to it all.

I feel everything, my body pulses in time and my skin tingles from the tips of my horns to my toes, and at that moment there is no greater pleasure, no force more powerful than this feeling barreling through my chest.

Is it moments or seconds in which my senses return to me? I am not certain, but as I come back down, my hands shake and I see my mate, Zeala, the mother of my son, mine in all the stars. Lavishing the sweetest of kitten licks on my cock, and each one sends a jolt through me, sweeter than the last. I manage to choke out her name and her eyes meet mine. A devious look flashes in those violet pools and she soothes the hard ridges of my cock with her lips and tongue before stopping.

My physiology differs from hers in that I am not nearly as sensitive to pain and overstimulation as she is, but as it subsides, my cock is hard and I am ready to take her again.

“Such a greedy thing you are, swallowing my cum. I think it is time to take you properly...” I growl. She dips her head back down and continues to swallow my length again, and I feel as though I can breathe fire. “Cyar’ika…!”

It is with some effort that I disentangle our bodies once and she hesitantly relinquishes my cock. I ache and throb from her talented mouth, but I want to bury myself inside her again.

The firelight flickers as I put her on her back and take her mouth while I tease and stroke her body. She leans into my touch and she hungers for more so I oblige her.

My fingers stroke through her folds, shuddering at the overwhelming slickness I find there. She moans into my mouth as my thumb finds that delicate little spot, that all-encompassing bundle of nerves, stoking a fire between her legs once more. I swallow her sounds, feeding off the raw desire, it spurs me on, an addiction unlike anything I’ve ever known before. One of her legs wraps around my waist and attempts to pull me forward but I shake my head at her and tell her:

“Stay still. I want to watch you tremble before me again.”

My mouth claims hers again and to my surprise she obeys me, her eyes close and she lies still while I continue to touch her. The softest touches, the ones that I know set her skin ablaze, they make her crave more and she whimpers as my lips enclose a nipple coaxing it to a hardened state. Her noises grow louder, little sighs and gasps, such lovely sounds.

I can feel her body tighten with each stroke over her silky clit, her back arches pushing those perfect breasts closer to my mouth for me to taste at my leisure. She can barely say my name, but she does say it, a choked sob as another orgasm overtakes her. She is becoming more sensitive and stars help me. I love it.

I can feel her trembling as the crest subsides and she’s trying so hard to take what I’m giving her but she’s losing the battle. I can feel her body beginning to shake, she will cry tears and pass out from the sensations before she asks me to stop. Stubborn woman. The way her blush colors her pale skin is radiant and I slow my assault on her body and withdraw my fingers bringing them to my mouth while she catches her breath.

We exchange no further words, I know what she wants. I want it too.

Our shared kiss is deeper now, a meeting and melding of souls, hungry for the presence of the other.

She rises on her knees to join me and I turn her so that her back is nestled against my chest, her arm curls around my neck, keeping me close enough that she can kiss me, and I, her. My arm wraps around her hip and I drive up between her spread legs, she greets my cock with a deep groan of satisfaction. My face is buried in the crook of her neck breathing her in, I hear her breathing, I feel her heartbeat, and I feel her walls strangle me. She is almost part of me like this, it is too perfect, and neither of us will last long in this position.

My thrusts are slower and deeper, our pace more relaxed and leisurely. A luscious pur escapes her lips when I begin pushing her back to another orgasm, her legs tremble slightly at my teasing touch as my fingers ghost over her thighs.

I am a selfish man at heart, I want what I want and nothing will stop me from attaining what it is that I desire, and right now I desire to see Zeala come over my cock. To feel her thrash against me, so lost in the throes of passion that I see into her very soul.

Her soft whimpers send bolts of lightning down my spine and straight to my cock, she grips me like a vice and my senses are flooded with sensation after sensation, nothing is more powerful than what is happening between us. The Force itself pales in comparison to the energy that exists here in this room.

She grips the back of my neck and her fingers brush against the base of my horns and it spurs me to increase my pace. My arms wrap around her now, needing her as close to me as possible, needing to feel every inch of her against me.

I fuck her hard now with wild abandon, she pleads with me to take her harder, to mark her with bruises that she will wear as proud badges, she wants the galaxy to know who she belongs to.

Me.

My body throbs in time with the very heartbeat of the universe, every nerve is alight, and every muscle aches from this exquisite dance. I cannot hold out much longer, her nails sink into my skin searing tiny crescents into my flesh and her tongue teases my lips in a kiss that burns hotter than any lightsaber.

She bites at my lower lip and growls at me, growls. She struggles to speak but tells me she is going to cum again, and she wants to feel me cum with her. She begs me to. How can I deny this creature when she pleads so sweetly?

I cannot.

I tell her with a single command, one I know she will obey “Come.” and she does! Her exquisite pleasure pushes me further and I roar as my release comes, my hot seed fills her body as we are joined in this. Her walls flutter around my cock, milking every drop. Dathomir itself seems to shake as our bodies tremble together, dissolving into pleasure. It is almost overwhelming once more, my thrusts finally slow and I feel more sated and at peace than I have in a while.

It is most certainly due to Zeala, coming in my hand has never given me the satisfaction I feel with her in my arms, clinging to me as though she cannot stand, though perhaps she cannot. Her heart beats wildly and her breathing slows as we remain tethered together for a few moments more, lost in the afterhaze of our passions.

“Now, I am tired,”

I grumble into her neck, as my cock slips from her body, finally feeling the sweet call of sleep. Although my muscles burn from our held position I would not trade this experience, nor any time Zeala and I have sought pleasure together. I will suffer through the stiff and sore muscles I’m and I will deal with them when morning comes, each throb of pain will serve as a reminder of the exquisite pleasure we shared here. And every time my body cries out in discomfort I will hear only her cries and her moans. She rests against my body and it is clear that I have tired my mate properly, her labored breathing is evident enough of that and it brings an accomplished smile to my face. Once I am able to rise to my feet and I cradle Zeala in my arms as I do. She is her most desirable now, her most beautiful, completely fucked and satisfied basking in the afterglow.

It is time to return to our bed. Even though I am able to sleep anywhere, I yearn for our bed, to feel her sleeping bare against me. And while I feel no such concept as shame or embarrassment over my naked body, I desire the privacy our room affords us that I may enjoy her warmth again.

The sheets are cool to the touch and as soon as my body rests comfortably with Zeala wrapped around me, my eyes feel heavy. Tomorrow Dathomir awaits us, but right now, I am safe with her in my arms and I feel I am finally able to sleep.

___

Wow, this was only 10k words which is like my shortest one shot to date... Guess there's hope for me after all. I am gradually working my way through my WIPs and I'm so happy to see this one done as I wrote it for a friend and I wasn't really much of a Darth Maul fangirl but I certainly am now! How did I do guys? Did you like Zeala? What do you think about a story from Mauls perspective? I personally really enjyoed writing it and maybe I'll do more with the male characters POV stories. Smutty one shot from Obi-wans POV? I would love to know what goes through that mans head while he's getting head... Sorry! Kinda spaced out for a minute! Let me know what you think! Reblog, comment and like and I will see yo uin the next one, bye!

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manogirl · 8 months

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Rewatch Wednesday: On Loving -- and Hating -- 2gether

I have a 2gether problem. The problem is that my brain is almost always prodding me to rewatch 2gether, and I don't even LIKE 2gether. Or that's what I've been saying about 2gether for a while now. My original review (in my terrible google doc) is "7/10, terrible show, loved it." And I am all for holding 2 diametrically opposed truths in your mind, so that review isn't weird to me. What's weird is that a few months after that (exact timeline unknown) I started framing it as "I can't stop watching this show, and I hate this show."

And I do firmly believe that there's a lot to hate about 2gether. Khaotung Thanawat is WASTED as a brilliant actor, for instance. Bright and Win can't, for even 2 seconds, seem to want to kiss each other. Green is. UGH. Green is ugh. A terribly written character. The directing is meh, because someone should have been able to pull something out of Win Metawin. Anything! One emotion. The 11th-13th episodes are entirely 100% without a motherfucking doubt unnecessary. (Though I cannot do without the bits where Sarawat explains how he acted when away from Tine and talking to his friends about Tine. I love non-aloof Sarawat so much.)

The other thing is that I don't have a tie to 2gether like some fans do; for many people, it seems to be the show that got them into BL, so they have an affection for it I don't have. I definitely *understand how* that feels, because I feel that way about Bad Buddy. I love Bad Buddy and will never tire of watching it, either in little snippets or in giant gulps of hours of watching. I don't have that attachment to 2gether (though sometimes I wonder fondly what would have happened if I had discovered BL at the beginning of the pandemic), so my brain's frantic need to watch doesn't make sense from that angle.

But my god, there are moments in the show I just cannot get enough of:

the aforementioned scenes when Sarawat is so so excited about finding Tine

Fong drunkenly kicking Tine in the face; in fact, all the drunk scenes are excellent and I adore them

Though I think Win has a hard time pulling it off, the scene when Sarawat tells Tine how he really feels, and then Tine confesses how he's been missing Tine

Those goddamn soccer jerseys

The product placement juice bottle notes (!!!!!)

Bright in general; I think his acting is miles better than Win's, and I think he's playing Sarawat as a gay man, which I like

Okay fine, I like looking at Bright and Win. They are very attractive men.

(Here is where I confess there is a thing I do when I love a BL in a specific certain way: I call the two main protagonists "dummies". Like, "I love these dummies so much." Or "What are these adorable dummies doing?" Or "These men are my dummies and I love them." If I say a sentence that has that kid of cadence with the word dummies in it, my husband knows that I'm watching (and loving) a BL. But not all shows elicit this response! I have never once said about Pat and Pran: "Would you look at these dummies?" (affectionate) It isn't about the intelligence of the characters though, because the last time I spoke this way about two characters was for HIStory 3: MODC and neither one is unintelligent in any way. I don't know why this is a thing I do; it just is.)

Anyway, Sarawat and Tine were my first dummies, and I love them so much and I can't explain it. Because I also hate them and their inability to so much as have one carnal thought about one another. But I love their silly little faces so much and really wish I could smush them together. 2gether. But they're the worst. The absolute worst.

How many weeks will I go without another rewatch?

#2gether #sarawattine #bright vachirawit #win metawin #gmmtv #thai bl #khaotung thanawat

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rurpleplayssims · 2 years

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Matthew then gave her all the details he’d not mentioned in front of Deidre and Althea.

These details were personal and designed to give Zoey more insight into how and why Deidre had done what she had the night before. He told her about his own perception, both professional and private on Deidre’s state of mind. He confessed that he had been partially wrong, having never considered Deidre would be unstable enough to kidnap a child.

Zoey, somewhat perturbed and yet unable to deny the nod to her medical knowledge, listened intently.

She asked several questions in response, trying to process it in a way that did not elicit an emotional response. She tried putting herself on the side-lines, and trying to distance herself from the situation to try and read it objectively. It did help to hear that it hadn’t been done to do harm to her daughter, or to harm her, despite how she felt about it.

“She needs help” Matthew said quietly. “More help than I can give her. This...this event has told me, quite clearly, that I am out of my depth here. And she’s my friend, so I cannot be objective.”

“Help her as a friend or therapist?”

Matthew gave her a small knowing smile “Both, Zoey.”

He continued with her earlier question with an uncomfortable look. “I’m sorry Zoey. I need to apologise for risking Madeleine’s safety last night.”

“What are you on about?” Zoey said, genuine confusion on her face.

“I was certain that Deidre would return your daughter last night. It’s hard to put my finger on it exactly, but I made her crack. I got her to realise the enormity of what she’d done. She broke down completely. She was very repentant and it took over half an hour to stop her crying.”

“She didn’t tell you what she was doing?” Zoey asked.

He shook her head. “I had no idea, I swear on it Zoey. Honestly, I don’t think she thought it through. She gave me the impression that she walked out the door with Madeleine and then wandered around in the dark until her feet took her to my door, dragging me back into the saga. I feel a bit bloody guilty that I didn’t see a potential breakdown coming. I’m so sorry that I failed you. I failed to save Deidre, and I failed to protect Madeleine. I should’ve paid more attention to Deidre’s longing for a child of her own. I failed Deidre as well but I’m still a bit mad at her for this who situation, but also at myself.”

“Matthew, you didn’t fail me” Zoey said with kindness as she had already started shaking his head as he apologised. “Deidre fucked up and dragged us all in this shit. She will suffer the consequences of betraying me and the rest of the town, and more importantly, herself! I’m pissed off that we gave her next-to-everything, and it still wasn’t good enough!”

“Distance might be the answer” Matthew continued. “You both need time, without a doubt.”

“Yes” Zoey agreed. “But seeing her around town wouldn’t be a good idea. Personally, I never want her to go near my daughter ever again. How can I ever trust her again? I can’t! Part of me wants to, but I just...I will not risk my daughter’s safety, ever.”

“I have a colleague” Matthew started. “He doesn’t live far away, the other town closest to Mayhaven but it’s on the opposite side of the city to us.”

“Go on” Zoey said, intrigued.

“He specialises with people struggling with grief” he explained. “He’s helped me with Emily’s case but he knows and understands people in Deidre’s position much better. We need to refer Deidre to him. Combined with subletting her a place in the city would give her some time and space from town.”

“Sounds like a plan” Zoey nodded as she agreed. “Let’s tell Althea.”

#CampbellQuayBaCC #Campbell Quay #CampbellQuay #The Sims 2 #TS2 #BaCC #Build a City Challenge #The Sims 2 BaCC #Cooper Household #Cooper Round 1 #Spring: First Year #Zoey Cooper #Madeleine Cooper #Matthew Miller

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girls-and-honey · 1 year

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Okay so the other day I told this girl I had gone to art school for 5 years, and she went « oh that’s great, I’d love to know more about the theories of art! You see, I feel like I’m very uncultured and I can’t appreciate art properly because I’m not enough of an intellectual »

Now here comes my slightly angry rant, because I’ve heard this so many times. I used to be like this too, I used to think that ✨art✨ was this mysterious thing that was only accessible to the select few inTelLeCtUaLs who really *got it* because of their immense brain power. But after 5 years of bowing to their supposed intellectual prowess, you know what I learned?

It’s all bullshit. Whatever « conceptual art » tried to make everyone believe, art isn’t intellectual. And anyone who says so is a pretentious, talentless moron (believe me, I met quite a few of them). Art is emotion. Painting, drawing, sculpting, making movies, dancing, singing, writing poetry…. It’s all related to emotion. Expressing what you feel, what you wanna say but can’t put into words. Putting something out there because you *feel* like it. That’s what it’s all about. And if you wanna write a book about the theory of it, good for you. But no one should have to read it to appreciate art.

Please darlings, don’t feel intimidated and belittled by the pompous schmucks who pretend that they understand it better than you because they possess a ✨higher understanding✨ of art. They are *lying* to you and themselves. The concept isn’t prevalent to the feeling, and art cannot be explained rationally.

If you feel something while looking at a painting, then you appreciate it. Simple as that. ❤️

I get so excited every time I see an okay so ask come in askdfldj thank you for sending <3

so happy to see this attitude towards art!! I completely relate to the sentiment that art (and not just visual art - dance, music, writing, and on and on like you mentioned) is all about emotion and think it definitely works both ways - for creating art and consuming it

it reminds me a bit of learning to read and advancing on to longer and more difficult books; throughout elementary school I feel like there was a big emphasis on 'wow you read such a big book!' being somehow superior to 'you read a story you enjoyed!' which should be more the focus. they can totally overlap too, but yeah all the poems and stories and songs that I appreciate most are the ones that pull forward some emotion that's usually hidden or just at a resting baseline level. personally I forget to apply this to art sometimes so while I'm not super technical about why I might like a piece of art there are some where my reaction is 'nice I like this' and some where I'm strongly drawn in to some aspect or it makes me feel. and that's when I remember, when it elicits a strong reaction

"But no one should have to read [books on art theory] to appreciate art" - I wish I could highlight and underline this in your ask because this is so important. very much gives vibes of this part from parks and rec but on the side of 'a person should not have to have an advanced art degree to be able to engage with art in a meaningful way'

#excellent info dump / rant I love it! thanks for sharing <3 #also even though you don't need an art degree to appreciate art it's so cool that you did go to art school!#i love learning tidbits like that #info dump hours #asks

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alder-does-art · 3 months

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Hi!! Found your art through the lovely @aurora-daily ! I am absolutely in awe, I cannot explain the whirlwind of emotions I feel whenever I look at your art, I am going through one of the worst creative block ever, and looking at your art inspires me to create, and make art, because it reminds me how much art can evoke so many emotions that we didn't even know existed inside our hearts!

I cried seeing Your Blood art <3 (btw, if I credit you, and put a link to your blog and to the art itself under my bio, would it be okay to use it as a pfp? It's okay if it isn't! 😊) Please never stop sharing your art with us, it is beautiful and touching, and it inspires me and I hope many other artists to create as well <3

i wish i could explain in words how much i appreciate it!! I struggle with dissociation so i have quite a disconect between me and reality and how i affect it, so thank you so much im so glad!

I hope you will find this spark in yourself to create, cuz my personal opinion is every piece of art is worth creating. I use art as a way to cope and understand my own emotions, and it helped me through darkest of times, so to know that it elicits an emotional reaction from others is a true gift for me as an artist!

And yeah! im fine with personal use of my art as long as im credited so u have my permission! Thanks for asking :D

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lilanxiousramenboy · 1 year

Text

⚠️tw: self harm; crying; suicidal ideation; cursing⚠️

rock bottom

anger in my mind

sadness underneath it

the loneliness sets in

with acceptance in the form of an icy wall around my heart

a knock arrives at the door

as the clock strikes midnight

and an angry “what?” escapes my lips

for i did not know it was you

i rip open the door

to reveal your kind, concerned face

“i just thought you wouldn’t want to be alone.”

you were right.

i didn’t.

four hours past your bedtime

despite my hostility

despite my anger

you cross the threshold

and i let you in

“what’s goin’ on man?”

you ask

there’s a twinge of annoyance there

but underneath it all

it’s genuine concern

i try to explain

as i follow you in

i sit in my chair

you sit on my bed

the words elude me

and i cannot describe

these emotions deep inside

and in your mood of no physical touch

you invite me next to you

hold me close

and don’t let go

that icy wall melts

rushes from my eyes

as i tackle you to the bed

and tuck my face into your chest

you squeeze tighter

and reassure me it will all be okay

reassure me it’s okay to let it out

and just hold me

hold me for an hour or so

reminding me to breathe

reminding me to let it out

reminding me it’s okay

your fingers tangle in my hair

scratch down my back

your palm offers comforting pats and rubs

a little massage from my neck to my back

in a lull of sobs

before they begin again

between blowing my nose

between sobs

between tears

between tucking my face tighter into your neck

into your chest

into your arm

wherever

whatever

you don’t let go

you just hold on

“do you think you’ll be able to go to bed?”

you ask in a calm tone

“i don’t know…”

i croak, in a lull of sobbing

i still lack trust in myself

i don’t know what i’d do

if you weren’t here to stop me

“okay.”

you say

pulling me tighter

continuing to hold on

for another half hour or so

the crying has finally silenced

tears continue to flow

but the sobs have reached their end

and i can finally breathe again

“okay here’s what we’re going to do…”

you announce

still calm and comforting

“i’m going to tuck you in and you’re going to go to sleep and it will all be okay. okay?”

i sniffle and nod

letting you up from the cuddles

you clear off my bed without a second thought

you ask,

“which light do you want on?”

remembering my fear of the dark

you turn off my desk lamp for me

as i turn off my leds

you hand me my frog

the one from our date

you take my blanket in your hands

“what the fuck? how does this blanket work?”

eliciting a weak smile with a silent giggle from me

“oh that’s how. okay.”

you gently place it over me

tucking in the sides

before tucking in my face

and placing a lingering kiss on my forehead

which makes me cry

tears of happiness this time

before i’m reminded of why they began

you place your forehead to mine

hold my face in your hand

as i do the same to you

tears still flowing

“it’ll be okay.”

you tell me

a fresh wave of tears escapes my eyes

“i’m really sorry.”

i croak

for i know what i’ve done wrong

“you have nothing to apologize for. you’re okay.”

you tell me, lightly shaking your head

“i’m really proud of you.”

i cry even harder

for that’s exactly what i needed to hear

and you always know just what to say

“i love you.”

it catches in my throat

drowned by tears

but i know you know that i do

a simple rub of your thumb across my cheek

and your forehead leaves mine

“goodnight.”

you whisper

a kind smile gracing your face

before you turn to go

but your hand doesn’t leave mine until you can no longer reach

and you leave

i cry again

silently this time

but incredibly grateful for you

asking the gods what i did to deserve you

i didn’t deserve this

but you gave it anyway

and i will never forget that

it lives in my heart forever

i cuddle the frog closer

inhaling the cotton candy scent

letting him dry my tears

before i fall asleep

thanking the stars above

that i have someone like you

context/story behind this poem

⚠️tw: suicide; self harm⚠️

okay because so many other people were involved in the story behind this poem i don’t want to go into too much detail. basically, i got upset, engaged in self harm in the form of banging my head on the door, tried to not share with the class, was pushed to share, was told off, engaged in self harm again in the form of cutting, and was very upset and i do struggle with suicidal ideation which was prevalent that night after everything that happened. a couple days before this, i was struggling with suicidal ideation and self harm and asked someone for help which they did not see until the next morning which was fine. this night, however, i did not ask for help they just knew i’d probably need it. and i did. and i have never felt safer than that moment so i wanted to write a poem to remember it and tada. here’s this poem.

#Spotify

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gatheringbones · 2 years

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[“Most patriarchal fathers in our nation do not use physical violence to keep their sons in check; they use various techniques of psychological terrorism, the primary one being the practice of shaming. Patriarchal fathers cannot love their sons because the rules of patriarchy dictate that they stand in competition with their sons, ready to prove that they are the real man, the one in charge. In his essay “Finding the Light and Keeping It in Front of Me,” Bob Vance describes walking behind his father as a boy longing to connect but knowing intuitively that no connection was possible: “Something inhibits me from asking him for what I need. I know, if a very young boy can intuit such things, that I am left out of his world and am somehow forbidden to ask him what I can do to have him take me into his world, to hold me playfully or tenderly. The rift begins here. This is the earliest memory I have of my father.”

To the patriarchal dad, sons can only be regarded as recruits in training, hence they must constantly be subjected to sadomasochistic power struggles designed to toughen them up, to prepare them to maintain the patriarchal legacy. As sons they inhabit a world where fathers strive to keep them in the one-down position; as patriarchs in training they must learn how to assume a one-up role. Real explains:

Sustaining relationships with others requires a good relationship to ourselves. Healthy self-esteem is an internal sense of worth, that pulls one neither into “better than” grandiosity nor “less than” shame…. Contempt is why so many men have such trouble staying connected. Since healthy self-esteem—being neither one up nor down—is not yet a real option, and since riding in the one-down position elicits disdain, in oneself and in others, most men learn to hide the chronic shame that dogs them…running from their own humanity and from closeness to anyone else along with it.

This flight from closeness is most intense in the lives of adolescent boys because in that liminal zone between childhood and young adulthood they are experiencing a range of emotions that leave them feeling out of control, fearful that they will not measure up to the standards of patriarchal masculinity. Suppressed rage is the perfect hiding place for all these fears.”]

bell hooks, The Will To Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love

#bell hooks #currently reading #gender stuff

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samuel-de-champagne-problems · 3 years

Text

Band-Aids Don’t Fix Bullet Holes, But Your Kisses Do

summary: in a standoff with an unsub, reader makes a choice: her life or spencer’s.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

category: angst/fluff at the end

warnings/includes: canon typical case violence, based off of episode “haunted” so spoilers, guns/gun violence, hospitals, kissing, mentions of hotch’s stabbing

word count: 3437

author’s note: i wrote this one a while ago and thought i’d share it. if anyone wants to be tagged, i’m going to figure it out and i’ll add you to a tag list!!

Band-Aids Don’t Fix Bullet Holes, But Your Kisses Do

The two agents that sat on swivel chairs facing each other fake arguing about an episode of Dr. Who. Spencer had his legs straight out, resting on Y/N’s lap comfortably. She leaned forward and placed her chin on her hand as she explained to Spencer her thoughts on the episode.

“Spencer, you cannot tell me that you don't think David Tennant is hot! I watched the episode with you and I can tell you are-"

“I’m not going to argue against that, Y/N. David Tennant is,” Spencer started as he fiddled with the lollipop that Garcia handed him when he and Y/N walked into the bullpen.

“Is what, Spence?” A teasing look graced her face as Spencer’s blush grew down his exposed neck and collarbone.

“He’s hot, okay Y/N is that what you want me to say!” Spencer’s voice rose a couple octaves from his admission over his not-so-subtle-crush on The Doctor.

“That’s exactly what I wanted you to say, Spencer. Least I know we have the same type” She said with a wink.

“You got a type, Y/N?” Derek called from the doorway of the conference room.

“Yeah, hot doctors with brown hair” Emily said without missing a beat. She had walked in behind Derek, the pair of them discussing her annual Sin-to-Win Weekend in Atlantic City.

“But they, you know, have to be like Time Lords, or whatever” She said in efforts to cover up her growing discomfort.

She turned her attention back to Reid, who was in the process of trying to remove his leg from her warm lap. He did not want to give Derek anymore ammunition to make sly jokes at his not-so-subtle-crush on his best friend/co-worker. Secretly, he wanted to keep his leg there, against her soft thigh and maybe she’d drop her hands on his leg in a comforting gesture of….friendship.

Garcia placed a tin decorated with white and orange cats dressed in bonnets on the table just within reach of Hotch’s usual spot near the monitor. Reid reached forward to open the tin, which he deduced was filled with Penelope’s infamous snickerdoodle cookies. Unfortunately, before the genius profiler could reach the gaudy tin, Penelope swatted his hand away from grasping the cookies.

“Hey! Those are for Hotch” Penelope shouted as she grabbed the tin and moved them closer to Hotch’s chair.

“What? You know I love cookies, Garcia. Come on, Hotch hates attention”

“I just made some cookies, it’s not like I made him a cake.” Penelope argued as Derek and Emily both quietly eyed the cookies.

“Spence, we’ll make cookies tonight. It looks like it’s just a paperwork day” Y/N said with a slight smile, that, in turn, elicited a big grin from an unsuspecting Spencer.

“Anyway,” Derek started as he chose to ignore the interaction that unfolded before him “we all know he’s going to act like nothing happened” he remarked as he fingered through the dozen case files spread out before him on the table.

“Doesn’t mean we have to,” Penelope said sadly as she looked down at the cat cookie tin.

“Maybe we should,” Reid said quietly to his co-workers.

“But, I’m not built like that!” said Penelope.

“Hotch is though, Penny,” Y/N noted as she snuck a cookie while Penelope’s back was turned. She broke it in half and handed it to Spencer under the table. He winked at her as she shushed him.

“Yeah, Y/N,” Spencer said with a mouthful of cookie, “Hotch never blinks” he finished with a large swig of lukewarm, sugared coffee.

“Classic Alpha Male” Spencer said, looking towards Derek.

“Do you think he stared down Foyet...you know while it happened?” Emily questioned. She was usually the one who could stomach all these, but when it came to the team, she was as nervous as the lot of them.

“It’s probably what saved his life,” Derek said somberly.

“He can’t be okay,” Penelope said with a whisper.

“I wouldn’t be,” Spencer said with an air of uncertainty, “I’m a blinker”

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

There was an uncomfortable silence during the ride to Louisville. Hotch was more sullen than usual, but, thankfully, Garcia broke the tension with her reports via computer screen.

“Our point in Louisville is Lieutenant Kevin Mitchell, my contacts don’t report any more attacks related to this unsub” JJ relayed. She sat next to Derek, who was across from Hotch and Rossi. Emily sat criss cross on the table across from the foursome. On the small jet couch, Spencer and Y/N played a game of chess as they listened to the initial reports JJ received from the local PD.

“Call’s proving hard to track. He never had a driver’s license, so he’s probably still on foot,” Spencer mumbled without removing his eyes from the chessboard.

“Or public transportation,” Y/N added as she cringed when Spencer announced “check”.

“Well, he’s not going to get anywhere too far with his face all over the news,” Emily continued.

“So, what do we think the stressor is,” Rossi nodded.

“He just lost his job. Worked in a factory since 1990. He made appliances forever. Not a single promotion” Garcia’s voice came across a little staticky.

“That’s a long time to be bitter,” Derek posed.

“Or he just doesn’t care,” Reid countered.

“According, to what you sent over Garcia, he kind of seems like a hermit. Far as I can tell he’s got no one. No wife, no children, no parents.” Y/N added with a sad tone in her voice.

With a sharp tone, Hotch added “then why didn’t he kill himself?”

“He’s not finished killing yet,” Reid continued the thought, “check mate!”

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

It was at times like these that it seemed like the case drags on forever. Call had kidnapped a little boy, who, Spencer had figured out was Call’s biological son. The local PD was getting them nowhere. Those overly macho cops seemed to be having a difficult time taking orders from JJ. Y/N watched as she marched over to Mitchell and demanded that he give a press conference.

Y/N chuckled quietly to herself as she watched the interaction. JJ was a force to be reckoned with, especially when the life of an innocent child was at stake. That cop had no idea who he was challenging.

“Hey, Y/N,” Spencer called from his spot in front of the whiteboard. It was decorated with a combination of their messy, rushed handwriting. Spencer grasped his blue marker and looked at Y/N with a painful expression.

“I’m not getting anywhere with this geographical profile,” Spencer’s somber tone flooded Y/N’s emotions with an overwhelming sense to comfort him.

“Spencer, put the marker down and look at me, please, for a second.” He obliged as he turned to face her.

Y/N reached up on her tiptoes to gently rub her hands along the base of Spencer’s neck. He could feel the tension melt away. Spencer was not one for physical affection, but he realized that he, in fact, craved the soft touches of people he trusted. Whether it was a brotherly pat on the back from Morgan, a playful high five from Garcia, a proud fist bump from Hotch, Spencer had grown to seek out affection.

“Y/N,” he said. His voice but a whisper in the loud, hectic bullpen.

“Shh,” She could sooth his worries just with a graze of her hands across his neck. It was magic to a scientist. Her magical presence set him on fire.

“Hey, we can do this, Spence, all of us, but we need you,” Y/N voice mirrored his own. A hushed whisper that fueled the flames of his love.

Instead of kissing her forehead or even hugging her, all Spencer could make out was a small thank you, before, like the wind, she was gone to see if Garica had any updates on the missing boy.

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

In a frantic hour, Garcia had discovered a possible location of Tommy and his father, Darrin. Like most the unsubs, they were children of tragedy. Children of abusive homes and of deep rooted violence. It was up to the team, as they raced down the street in their crowded SUVs, to stop the cycle of violence for claiming another innocent child.

“Hotch, you are on speaker,” Emily called from the passenger seat of the car as Derek sped down the warehouse where they suspected Tommy to be held.

“Do not go in there without SWAT, do you all here me?” Hotch said sternly.

“That means you, Derek, don’t go in there till backup gets there,” JJ added from the phone that Emily held.

“You got it, boss man,” Derek made a sharp turn that led Y/N to nearly fall into Spencer, who sat next to her.

“Spencer! Where is your vest!?” Y/N asked him impatiently, with a tinge of nervousness and fear laced in her tone.

“Y/N, Call doesn’t have a gun, he’s been using weapons of opportunity. The profile points to him not even being armed right now. If anything-”

“Screw the profile, Spencer!” Y/N’s voice was hysterical now. “You need to where a damn vest, you are an FBI agent, if you get-”

Y/N’s rant to Spencer was stopped short by the disturbing sight before her. From the SUV the four of them could see an even more distraught Call standing out in the middle of the warehouse parking lot. He held Tommy by the neck, with a gun pointed at his temple. Derek stopped the car and jumped out, his gun wielded as he began to try to talk the man down.

“Call, drop the weapon and release Tommy, right now!” Derek’s voice loomed large and powerful as Emily, Reid, and Y/N each got out of the vehicle and turned their spots with Morgan.

“You don’t want to hurt Tommy,” Spencer started. “we know who he is to you, we know that he’s your son, and that you weren’t there for him.” He put his gun away in an attempt to show Call that he was not a threat. Y/N could read the desperation in Spencer’s voice from a mile away. Call, like Spencer’s mom lives with schizophrenia. Spencer and Hotch nearly had it out in the middle of the bullpen after Spencer insinuated that Hotch was implying that Call was only going on this murder spree because of his condition.

“Just let the boy go, Call.” Y/N continued the track that Derek and Spencer started. “Just let your son go. We will make sure that you can get medicine, that’s why you went to the pharmacy, right? You need meds to help yourself and then,-”

Out of the corner of her eye, Y/N could see Spencer inching closer and closer to Tommy. As if it was a chain reaction, Call drew his weapon and fired towards Spencer. Before she even could realize the consequences of her actions, Y/N tackled Spencer to the ground. The bullet lodged itself into the Kevlar vest she wore. Her side burned as she came to understand what had transpired in the last couple of seconds.

Spencer scrambled onto his knees and clutched Y/N’s cold hands in his.

“Spence, I’m okay,” Y/N said as she struggled to sit up straight with Spencer practically laying on top of her.

“No, Y/N! Don’t do that,” Spencer started with tears flooding the corners of his eyes. The little droplets made his sometimes brown and sometimes green eyes sparkle with sadness.

Spencer moved his hands from the place where the bullet lodged itself in her Kevlar to grasp her face tenderly. But his movement caused her cheek to be painted with a deep red handprint in the shape of the crying man crouching before her hand.

“Spencer,” she let out a small whimper when she saw the look of horror on his face. Before he could even ask her why she did what she did, Y/N passed out, her limp, cold hand finding its home in the comfort of soft, warm ones.

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The rest of the case passed in a numbing hum for Spencer. Once Y/N got shot by Call he let go of Tommy and Derek shot him the leg. Spencer did not even stay for when Emily and Derek apprehended the unsub. It was like his legs acted of their own accord when the EMT showed up for Y/N and he walked with them never letting go of her hand.

The ride to the hospital in the back of the ambulance was hectic. The EMTs had to monitor her heart rate, her blood pressure, and her oxygen. Even the temptation of numbers could not capture Spencer’s attention as he mulled over the possible conclusions to why Y/N would take a bullet for him. There was no logical reason for it. Not one. Spencer let the steady rocking of the ambulance to soothe him as he gently rubbed his thumb over Y/N’s hand. Even though he longed to hold her against himself, this would have to do, for now at least. Till then, Spencer forced his mind to focus on the pattern that her beating heart created.

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Hospitals terrified Spencer. The smell, the sick people, the people who were unsavable. Part of him wonders what his life would be like if he became a medical doctor. As a kid, he had a future where he could do anything he could dream of. Cure schizophrenia on Monday, operate on an inoperable tumor on Tuesday- that’s what his life could have been like.

But sitting there, in the sterile hospital with the white walls and constant beeping, Spencer’s mind was only thinking of another life he could be out living. In the minutes that he sat with Y/N as she lay in pain in his arm, false memories of a life together painted in his mind. Laughing children, family picnics, couple’s Halloween costumes. He stroked her hair and saw a life so familiar that he could almost taste it. He tasted cookies that they baked together as they danced without a care in the world. He tasted Halloween and Forth of July and all the holidays in between. He tasted butterfly kisses with his children that had her hair and her eyes and her smile.

He was stripped away from those memories that he didn’t even own. Now all he could taste was the bitterness of regret, the sourness of what if, and the tartness of the nightmares masquerading as reality.

“Family of Y/L/N,” a surgeon dressed in light blue scrubs walked into the waiting area with an unreadable expression on her face.

JJ and Derek stood up immediately as the doctor went to continue to deliver the news.

“She’s awake and doing okay,” the doctor said with a relieved expression.

“Oh that goodness,” JJ said as she hugged Emily in a moment of happiness.

“She’s a fighter,” Derek quipped, “I’m going to call Garcia, she’s probably a nervous wreck”

“She’ll make a full recovery, but should avoid air travel because her internal bleeding,” the doctor reported, “also, which one of you is Spencer? Even since she’d been lucid, she’s been asking for you,” she said looking around at the remaining group, with her eyes landing on the man in question.

“She is?” Spencer questioned carefully. He was worried that maybe she regretted jumping in front of him.

“Yes, why don’t you come with me. It may make her more comfortable having someone she wants with her”

Y/N wants him.

Him.

Spencer was not sure how he even walked himself down the corridor to where Y/N’s room was located. But sure enough, he was met with her ashen face beaming up at his.

“Y/N! Oh my goodness, are you okay, I mean, obviously you’re injured so you’re not okay. I don’t mean to invalidate your pain, I just...why, Y/N, why on Earth would you do that?” Spencer finished. His voice was more tender towards the end. He looked down at his friend before him and tried to read the expression that graced her face.

“Spencer, I did what I had to do. You….you would have died,” Spencer noticed the tears that puddled in her eyes and had to suppress the sudden urge to kiss them away.

“I’d rather die than live my life in a world without you, Spencer.”

Spencer closed his eyes and sat down on the bed with her.

“Why?” he asked in a voice that was hardly audible. It can’t be, he thought. Maybe this is just something that a teammate does for another teammate. Comrades in arms or something like that, he thought. Trying to make sense of senselessness.

“Why do you value my life more than yours? Why-how can you do that” there was not stopping tears in his eyes now. She reached out and held his face, like he held her as she bled out in the warehouse only a couple of hours ago.

“Spence, my life would be dull and gray without you in it. You’re my best-” She stared as he tensed up at what he knew was coming. She only jumped in front of him because it’s what a teammate does.

“Please, I can't bear to hear that. I-maybe you only can think of me as a teammate or worse a brother, but part of me. A hopeful and romantic part of me that I can't let go of the thought of you thinking about in a different way,” he was so embarrassed, so raw in the moment that he could not bear to even look her in the eyes.

“Spencer?” he could only watch the way that their fingers laced together. He focused on the patterns between the itchy hospital blanket.

“Y/N,” he started and took a deep breath. Spencer had never intended to tell her this. Maybe in moments of drunken bravery he thought about it, but he’d always sober up before his dreams could come to fruition.

“I’m a logical man, I solve problems for a living but sometimes. Sometimes, I can’t use logic to solve some problems, and there’s no logical reason for you to jump in front of a bullet for me. Unless you love me? And I hope with every fiber of being that you do, because I am so desperately in love with you”

Spencer allowed himself, for the first in his life, to have once of hope and faith.

Y/N’s eyes met Spencer’s in an uncharacteristically shy moment.

“I do, Spence. Of course I love you”

Spencer let out a nervous laugh as he, once again, gently placed his hands on her jaw. He placed a kiss on her forehead. The small, tender affection elicited a whimper from Y/N. Spencer jumped back in horror.

“Oh, honey did I hurt you? You gotta tell me where it hurts” he murmured in a comforting voice.

“Hmm, no I’ve just been waiting five years for you to kiss me and you settle on my forehead?” Y/N beamed up at him expectantly.

“Nowhere do you want me to kiss you, my dear?” Spencer questioned playfully.

“How about in between everywhere and anywhere you want, Doctor Reid,” Y/N, despite the pain, managed a smile for the man that held her hand so lovingly.

“How about here?” Spencer leaned forward and kissed the left corner of her mouth.

“Or here?” The right corner.

“What about here, I’ve dreamed of kissing you here.” He moved his mouth to meet the place on her neck that met her collarbone. Y/N looked up at Spencer dreamily. One day she might chalk it up to the painkillers flooding through her system, but the pure adoration that melted from Spencer’s lips to her skin was something that never knew she’d crave.

“And here”

His lips parted slightly as he moved in to meet hers. The feeling was more divine and earth shattering than when Prometheus gave humans fire. Together, intertwined in bedsheets, IVs, and fingers laced with hair, they lit a fire of their own. Kissing Spencer stopped time.

It was Y/N who broke first.

“Spencer,” she said with a new reverence that would only be reserved for him.

“Yes, sweet girl?”

“You gotta promise me something,” she said as she raked her hands across his arms, feeling him shudder under her touch.

“Anything and everything for you” he said, mirroring her earlier words to him.

“Wear a vest next time”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x reader angst #spencer reid x reader happy endings #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #dr spencer reid imagine #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fluff

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brokenbutnotquiting · 3 years

Text

Say My Name

A Nace Oneshot where Nancy *really* loves the way Ace calls her name. (Because Alex Saxon makes it sound so damn enticing that I couldn't help myself)

I had always liked my name. Nancy Drew. Not so much Drew anymore, but it sounds better than Nancy Hudson. Or maybe that was just my habits talking.

In any case, I like my name. Nancy.

With the ever-growing confusion regarding my last name, it suited me better to opt for – what I call – the Ace option. Just casually dropping my last name until and unless it's an official or legal requirement.

For the very common folk of Horseshoe Bay, I am Nancy.

Just Nancy.

It was only after I realized and accepted my intense feelings for my best male friend – my partner-in-investigative-work – Ace, I often found my heart skipping a beat at my own name.

Purely because of the way he called it. Nancy. With that adorable lilt at the second 'n'. He probably never even realized that he did it, which made it all the more enticing.

But I would never tell him that.

__________

I ignored the screaming soles of my feet as I locked up the Claw. It was date night for George and Nick, and despite my best hopes, I was the one left in charge of closing up the seafood restaurant.

How had I ended up here tonight, I wondered sarcastically before a face flashed in my mind.

Ace.

How was it that most of my stupid impulsive decisions nowadays were because of him?

He had opted to lock up for the night, claiming to be happy to do it only if George allowed Amanda to stay with him.

"We haven't seen each other much since we returned from our road trip, and she has been asking me if we could just talk for a while without either of us running off for something or the other," he had said with a shrug.

Now, normally I am not a goody-two-shoes. Or a masochist. But seeing Ace with that utterly adorable little pout made my heart melt, and I jumped in to sacrifice my sanity to let him leave early. To be with his girlfriend, no less.

What can I say? Sometimes, I am just that much of an idiot.

Bess had side-eyed me so hard when I chimed in, I wondered how transparent I had become regarding my feelings for Ace. How did no one else notice?

But then, maybe everybody had noticed it at some point in time and had chosen not to comment on it.

Everybody except Ace. A sigh heaved out of me at that particular thought.

Ace was blissfully unaware. And thank God for that. I didn't need him to hate me for ruining his chances with Amanda. As much as I had rolled my eyes at his dopey smile that first time he had accepted his crush on her—almost endangering George in the process—I did want him to be happy, even if it wasn't with me.

Even if watching him fall for her tore my heart out every time, I thought about it.

Even if I was wrecking myself over him. Every. Damn. Day.

I looked around aimlessly. I only had to mop the floors one last time, and then I could leave. So I got the mop and the bucket— put on some music, and let my mind daydream about a life where I wasn't the girl one-sidedly crushing on her best friend as I let my body move on autopilot.

I didn't even realize that I wasn't alone until I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise, pulling me out of the daydream just before I got kissed.

I whirled around towards the door leading to the locker room to find him standing there.

Ace.

He looked angry. Really angry.

"Ace? What are you doing here? What's wrong?" I asked worriedly. Was someone in danger? Was there an accident or something?

"What's wrong is that I cannot fucking stop thinking about you," he snapped, his soft blue eyes flashing with barely concealed anger.

"What – what are you on about?" I stuttered with surprise.

His nostrils flared delicately. "There I was, with my girlfriend, finally spending some much-needed time together, and my mind kept reminding me that she is not you. That you are you. And that you are here. And I was so distracted by the thought of you being here alone with no one to protect you, should something happen, that I completely missed her telling me that she loved me."

He strode over to where I was standing, grasping onto the mop as if my life depended on it. The weight of his words, the complete and utter disaster of it all hit me at the same time he stopped barely half a foot away.

"Ace— ” I started and stopped. What was I supposed to say? Was there anything I could say that would help? Anything at all? It didn't seem so.

"There she was, looking all hopeful as she told me she loved me, and all I could think of was whether you were safe. Whether I would see you tomorrow." His voice held an undercurrent of fear. And I understood that.

After the Aglaeca and the Wraith and Everett Hudson and the threat of the Road Back still lingering, all of us felt overprotective of each other.

"I am not a marshmallow, Ace. I can take care of myself. At the very least, not drop dead while locking up the Claw," I joked half-heartedly. I admit that I might have intentionally ignored the part where he said he barely paid attention to his girlfriend. Or how my heart skipped several beats at it. I didn't need him more antagonized over my feelings for him.

"That's not the point, and you know it," he snapped. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, before he continued, "my girlfriend told me she loved me, and not only was I distracted enough to miss it, I couldn't even say it back."

He shook his head, eyes still closed, as if he could somehow forget everything that happened. I understood that feeling as well. Sometimes, I wished the same.

"Why?"I asked him softly because I knew that was the part he wanted me to stress on. I knew him well enough to know his cues. I could play along.

He opened his eyes at my question.

"Because, as much as I like Amanda, I don't love her. At least not as she wanted me to. I tried, God knows I tried so damn hard, but I just couldn't," he explained.

I didn't ask him the question on the tip of my tongue again. I merely kept staring at him. Ace knew my cues as well as I did his. If he wanted me to play along, he could as well.

Why?

"She broke up with me, rightly so. She deserves someone who isn't already in love with someone else," he whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the music, "what kind of a pathetic person does that?"

Even then, my heart beating fast enough to rival that of a marathon runner, I stayed silent.

"Nancy." He whispered almost pleading, for what I didn't know.

"I love the way you say my name, "I whispered back as if in a thrall. Completely inappropriate? Perhaps. But a kernel of truth nonetheless.

He raised his hands, cupping my face so softly as if afraid that I would break under his touch. He touched his forehead to mine, his eyes closed again.

A slight tremble shook me at his touch. His breath ghosted over my face. "Say my name again," I whispered to him.

"Nancy."

He shifted his face a tiny bit and kissed my cheek. I closed my eyes at the onslaught of feelings his adoration elicited.

"Nancy," he whispered before kissing my other cheek.

"Nancy."

A kiss on my chin.

"Nancy."

A kiss on my forehead.

"Nancy."

A kiss on my brows.

"Nancy."

A kiss on one eye, and then the other.

"Nancy."

A kiss on my nose.

"Nancy," his voice took on an almost worshipping quality as he whispered my name but didn't lower his mouth to mine.

Tell him, I chided myself. Tell him that he isn't wrong in his feelings for you. Tell him that if he felt condemned about his feelings for you, then you shared the damnation with him.

"I love you, Ace," I said, tears escaping me, my throat raw with emotion, "I have loved you for a while now."

There was so much I wanted to tell him and couldn't. So much he needed to know. Another day, I reasoned with myself. I would tell him another day when we were both far more clear-headed than we were at the moment.

"I know, Nancy," he said softly, nodding his head, "I love you too."

And then he closed the gap between us.

His lips were soft against mine. Unhurried. Moving with a languid assurance that he knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to claim it any longer. I played along with him, slow and steady, our form of normalcy until the heat growing in my body took over.

The kiss turned frantic as soon as I bit on his lower lip. His tongue was in my mouth, claiming me. He wanted everything, and I wanted to give it all to him. My tongue followed his, teasing him to a sensual dance of their own.

His hands, which were previously cupping my face, slid lower until one of them was grasping onto my neck – positioning my head as he wanted – the other grabbing onto my waist, pulling my body closer to his.

I let go of the mop, and it fell on the floor with a clang. I placed my hands on his chest. His heartbeat was strong and steady, if not galloping at a faster pace, under my fingertips. I moved my hands on his body, feeling his muscles flex subtly until one of my hands took a life of its own and decidedly wandered over to his hair, tugging on it as if he could come closer than he already was.

I don't particularly know how long we stayed like that, devouring each other like the last meal, but when we did eventually come up for air, I knew I wouldn't be able to let him go, and I told him as such.

His chuckle was like music to me. I opened my eyes just in time to see his smirk, "after a kiss like that, I should hope not, Nancy."

"Jesus Christ, Ace," I swore, "the way you say my name is my favorite thing."

His used laugh vibrated through me at that, warming my core but you know what? I didn't care.

"That's all?" Ace asked me playfully. No more stoicism. It was almost as if he had pulled back another layer of his surprisingly dazzling personality. I smiled at him in answer.

His answering grin almost knocked me right out. Damn! I really did love this man.

I didn't know what my face showed him, but the grin dropped off his face as he asked, "what's wrong?"

Ah. I must have been emoting the pent-up sadness I had repressed for so long.

I shook my head at him, smiling again. I combed through his hair with my fingers and let all of my affection pour into my voice as I said, "I didn't think I would ever get to do this again."

"Touch my hair?" Ace asked amused, quirking an eyebrow.

"Just be with you. Touch you without having to worry about offending anyone," I explained.

He placed a soft kiss on my forehead, pulling me into a hug, "You never really had any sense of personal space when it came to being near me, Nancy. That was just so you, I never really questioned it further. I was so scared of you putting up defenses against me that I purposefully ignored all the signs. Even when they were glaringly obvious."

He kissed my cheek and said, "I shouldn't have tried as hard as I did to deny my feelings creeping up on me for over a month. And I definitely shouldn't have chosen the easier way out with Amanda."

I shook my head at that. "You did what you thought was right for you," I said, somewhat sadly, "I remember your smile. You told us that she made you bloom."

"She did. For a while."He said. There was a trace of sadness in his voice. It would take time, I knew, for him to stop blaming himself for everything that happened with her.

"Take your time before you move on, Ace. Both of you deserve that respect," I told him.

"I will," he said, a small smile gracing his lips again, "but not tonight." I nodded my acceptance of his decision. Whatever he needed.

"Nancy," he whispered my name in my ear a heartbeat later.

The groan that escaped me was obscene, and I rightfully snapped, "Stop saying my name like that, Ace, if you want to keep your clothes on."

His answering kiss made my blood heat up and my toes curl in my shoes in an instant. I kissed him back with equal fervor. His hands started roaming, and I gasped into his mouth as he cupped my ass. He chuckled in response. A challenge.

Very well, I thought to myself. I dropped my mouth, kissing his neck softly before biting on it. An obscene groan escaped him. I smirked.

Two can play this game, Ace. And I barely got started.

I licked the spot I had bitten.

"I won't be able to even see straight if you keep doing this," his warning rang. I ignored the moan accompanying the statement.

I took half a step away from him and said playfully, "You need some space, Ace?"

"Nancy," he almost growled before yanking my body flush against his again and dropping a searing kiss on my lips.

Dear God, in the heavens above! I loved the way he said my name.

Nancy.

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omniscientwreck · 3 years

Note

Hi🖤 Omni! If you're looking for a fic request I've got one.

Okay so Essek is Feeblminded by remaining Volstrucker at his tower. Verin came to visit later that day and has been taling care of Essek, as they both would be scared of the Umavi's wrath should someone find out.

Well Caleb comes to visit a few day's later and Certainly gets a surprise.

Fluff ensues.

I'm talking the Unicorn from Despicable Me level Fluffy😁😁😁

Hi Umbra! Sorry I'm incredibly late answering this, life is weird but I hope the length makes up for it! I know I said drabble but like this just turned into a whole fic so I hope you enjoy!

Verin had worried when Essek’s door hadn’t opened of its own accord, usually he knows when he’s arrived. Deciding something was certainly wrong he barges his way into his brother’s tower. He finds it silent which is normal but unnerving and the unnatural stillness as he calls for Essek has his hackles up.

His knuckles pale as he grips the hilt of his sword and searches methodically throughout the tower. Finding the main floor empty he heads up the stairs to the library. There’s a shuffle, a falling book, a whimper. He draws his sword, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The door is ajar and he can hear shuffling. He thrusts it open is momentarily relieved to see his brother. His hair is tousled and white is stained with flecks of red, his robes are torn and his mantle is askew.

He’s never seen him like this before and his heart lurches. Surprise and fear are plastered across his features, far more freely than Verin’s ever seen him feel. He doesn’t talk and he seems to not even recognize him. Checking the rest of the room, the sword is returned to its sheath and Verin crouches, reaching a hand to Essek.

“Brother, what happened?” Silence, a whimper. “Essek? What’s wrong? It’s Verin, your brother.” His brows unknot, and the tension in his jaw slackens. There’s a looseness to his demeanor and as he stands he waves his hand as if to float, but nothing happens. He tries again and again. The first try was decisive, after watching him for so long Verin knows what it looks like when he casts it. The second time it’s not quite right, the third time it gets looser still. By the time Verin has stopped counting and Verin has grabbed Essek’s hands to calm him it seemed like Essek didn’t know what he was attempting to do.

“Is this some kind of spell? What happened?” His brother looks up with the face of a stranger. His eyes are open and sad, his ears fall just a touch and Essek leans in to hug Verin. He’s never wanted to do that before.

Verin hugs him back. “Oh Essie, what are we going to do?”

Caleb approaches Essek’s tower and is struck by immediate concern when the door doesn’t open for him. Essek always lets him in when he arrives, and with everything that’s happened he immediately panics. Caleb tries to tell himself Essek must be busy and has missed him tripping the wards. So, he lifts the knocker and gives the door a few raps.

He’d asked Caleb to meet him here to assist in the transport of his most important items after their trip to Aeor. He needs to run, he knows it and Caleb knows that turning himself in to the Dynasty would mean certain death so he’s agreed to help. No amount of good will from the Bright Queen would let them bargain for his favour. Selfishly, Caleb won’t allow him to get caught, so he will harbor Essek for some time, helping him stay out of the eyes of the Dynasty.

Eventually he knocks again, beginning to hold a firebolt just in case. “Uh, just a minute,” calls a stranger’s voice from behind the wood. “I’ll be right there.”

The door opens just a crack, “Who is it?”

“I am Caleb Widogast of the Mighty Nein, who is this?” His hand is up and encircled in flame.

“Oh thank the Light, one moment.” Whoever he is, he’s clearly relieved. Caleb’s firebolt stays held.

As the door opens Caleb is greeted by a tall drow, muscular with long braided back hair. He looks familiar but Caleb cannot place him. His features are slowly fading into relief from what must have been a deep concern. “Hello Caleb Widogast, I am Verin Thelyss and I am so glad you’re here. Your the wizard yes?”

Nodding, bewildered as he’s being dragged into Essek’s home by his brother, Caleb can hardly remember to respond, “Uh ja, that’s me. Where is Essek?”

“Well so I came by a few days ago and he didn’t let me into the tower which was weird. There have been some rumors going around and when our mother said he was back I had to ask. I don’t know if you know but… well it’s bad.”

He’s leading him upstairs as he explains and the back of Caleb’s neck is on fire. Verin doesn’t know, but there are rumors that are most likely true. Is he too late?

“So, I’m hoping since you also practice the arcane you might know what’s happened here and how to solve it.”

He leads Caleb into the library and Essek is seated on a chair idly flipping through a book far too quickly. It doesn’t even look like he’s reading, Caleb knows what he looks like when he’s reading. The quiet concentration and the tension it brings his jaw is completely missing. When Essek looks up at him there’s recognition but no words and when he rises to make his way to Caleb, he walks.

He’s wide-eyed and has a sweet smile across his face, it’s difficult to look away but if he doesn’t the heat rising in his cheeks will show. “Essek, what is it mein Freunde?”

No words. Why can’t he talk and why isn’t he floating?

“Essek?” A gentle hand reaches up to rest on his cheek and the heat takes over at the abrupt contact. Especially with Verin standing over his shoulder observing them. “Verin how long has he been like this?”

“About 2 days. I didn’t really know what had happened and if the Umavi found out well… I’m unsure what she would do.” Verin is a little more easier to map out than Essek had been initially and he’s been told enough stories about Dierta to understand the undercurrent of Verin’s words.

“Ja, I understand.” Verin starts at that and Caleb just continues past it, “I believe he has been affected by the spell Feeblemind. I - ah - have experience with this kind of thing. We have friends that can cure him but I will have to contact them, which I will not be able to do until tomorrow.”

Essek’s hand has wound its way into Caleb’s and he tries and fails miserably to contain the blush that he knows is spreading to his ears. Memories of little touches in Aeor flood back and Caleb pushes away thoughts of conversations he’d promised they’d have later, after Essek was safe. To call to attention this thing between them and get it out in the open before it drives him mad. Even if Essek’s feelings do not align with his it will be better to have it in the open.

“So this isn’t hurting him?”

Caleb turns to Essek, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He remembers a blur of time, when his mind had failed him. He remembers terror, looking down at his hands and not knowing whose they were. He didn’t have an anchor, nothing but his own thoughts, with someone there it might be different. Essek can’t understand him but the tone of voice seems to elicit some positive emotions and Essek squeezes his hand, a contented smile across his face, “He seems alright to me. It is unpleasant to be cut off from your casting, but he isn’t in pain and he isn’t alone.” It’s difficult to mitigate the emotion bleeding into his voice.

He pushes down memories of the years he’d been locked away and squeezes Essek’s hand back, reassuringly. “Have you gotten him to eat?”

Verin nods, “Occasionally. Probably not as much as he needs. I’m not exactly an excellent cook and nobody can see him like this so I’ve sent his staff away.”

“Alright, well I’ll just do this then.” he begins casting the tower, “I understand if you want to stay but if you need to go I can care for him.” he wants Verin to leave, he wants him gone so badly, to just take care of Essek properly without the shadow of somebody who doesn’t know hanging over them.

“I should be back to Bazzoxan soon. They’ll begin asking after me.” Caleb finishes casting the tower and leads Essek in. Just before he enters, Verin stops him, “You mean something to each other. I’ve never seen him act this way before, granted there’s an arcane influence but genuinely he has never smiled like he did when he saw you. I trust you with this because I think he would. Do not betray that.”

Caleb nods, “Of course not. We’ve faced the most difficult challenges of my life together and with our friends. I will care for him.” Verin seems satisfied with that and makes to leave, and Caleb enters the tower to find Essek waiting in the centre of the tower. He has an idea of where he wants to go. As the tower door closes behind Verin, he and Essek begin to drift upwards. Essek opens his mouth as if to reflexively murmur ‘up’ as had become their custom in their long travels together and his brows knot in distress, as if he’s realized again that his voice will not come. Caleb reaches for his hand, to comfort him and says it for them both, to which Essek smiles.

The drow releases Caleb’s hand and begins to swirl around, never leaving the central column and Caleb is forced to mirror his motions lest they collide. He flashes back to a moment of levity when they’d first come to Aeor. They had showboated then, dancing around each other as their works often did. This Essek is less restrained and his eyes and nose crinkle into a genuine smile when Caleb joins his frivolity.

They stop at the ninth floor which Caleb had known to be Esseks’ destination and immediately Essek lays on the pillows he always places in the corner. Usually, on their research expedition, he tranced in his room but on particularly emotional days they both preferred an expanse of stars above them as they rested. It became tradition and over time they’d drifted closer and closer together, until they would sometimes come to consciousness to find that through the night Essek had curled into Caleb’s side or that their hands had wound together unknowingly.

Now, Essek’s eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open in wonder as though it’s his first time seeing it all over again. Caleb stands over him, following his gaze up to the idly shifting starscape above. Caleb is quickly distracted by the versions of them that traverse different paths. Sometimes in each other’s company, other times in solitude. In a few they hold hands or make contact at the shoulders. Those are the ones he likes the most.

When his gaze is pulled back downwards, Essek stares up at him with a tenderness that quickly turns to expectation. He’s arranged burgundy cushions across the floor beside him for Caleb and so he obliges. As he stretches out across the crude bed slender, cool fingers interlock his own and he lays back and tells Essek of the constellations he’s hidden among the stars.

When Caleb himself was in this state he remembered lacking familiarity. Nothing around him made sense and the upheaval of his life only moments prior had only amplified the disorientation of the magic that kept him prisoner for 11 years.

Essek has someone to watch over him, he’s in a place that evidently brings him much joy and in recent months he’s found himself halfway to peace. Caleb finds his heart swell at the idea of making this experience bearable.

The silence was always the worst so he points to guide the elf’s eyes as he tells them the stories behind each constellation. He tells him of Nila, gentle and fierce. Of Twiggy, ever optimistic and wholly delightful. He tells him about Reani who Essek has spent some time with. Brief recognition flashes across his face, though it’s quickly replaced with frustration. Caleb remembers. He remembers knowing that someone was there who he should recognize but not having the words to know he had forgotten their name. He was in terror and treated everyone as a threat. Essek treats everything with wonder and discovery. The innocence is sweet and a syrupy feeling pools in Caleb’s throat as he’s again confronted with the way his heart swells when Essek looks at Caleb with that same contented smile.

He scoots closer and this is entirely too much. The idea that this version of Essek may curl into his side willingly, while they were fully conscious where the other version cannot unsettles him. Instead he stands, offering his hand, “Why don’t we get you something to eat ja?” There’s a momentary droop of his ears, much more pronounced than any movement he’d seen before before he lifts Essek and they go down to the dining room.

If there is to be anything significant between them it cannot be spurred under these circumstances. Caleb has to know he means it. As they wait while he cats prepare what had become their usual fare while traversing Aeor, he defaults to telling stories. First he tells him of the tunnels they traversed to reach the Dynasty, crafting an illusion as well as he can of the crystalline caves they made camp in. Food arrives and he continues weaving story and image as Essek picks at the well spiced soup comprised mainly of squash and potato. As he crafts an illusion of the dragon turtle they’d fought just after the peace talks out of amber and morphs its shape to a smaller turtle and then a sea slug, laughing to himself at the absurdity, he notices the clink of Essek’s spoon has long subsided.

Glancing over electric eyes focus on him instead of the illusion, so he drops it. “Ah, Es tut mir Leid, I know I tend to get carried away.” A little contented noise bubbles from Essek’s throat and his heart squeezes. In a desperate attempt to try and get Essek to eat more he turns back to his own soup and looks expectantly over to his friend.

Giving him a look of exasperation, he mirrors Caleb and eats most of the soup. Caleb rips up bread and encourages him to dip it in what’s left of the soup and finally, the bowl is empty. They leave the cats to clean up and Essek’s hand grasps Caleb’s again and squeezes. He knows he shouldn’t draw conclusions or let himself be taken by these gestures that the man wouldn’t make if he’d had the presence of mind, but it’s turning into a losing game.

With the time spent on the ninth floor and the prolonged battle of coaxing Essek to eat they only have a few hours until sleep. Essek takes his customary seat on the couch in the study and Caleb withdraws some of the lighter fiction that now populates the shelves. Lying back on the sofa, feet resting on the armrest, head by Essek he holds up the copy of Der Katzenprinz to show the illustrations. “You seem to like hearing me talk so why don’t I share this with you? Either way you won’t understand what I say so I will read it to you as it was originally intended.”

He begins, in Zemnian to tell him the fairy story that had brought him so much joy as a child, and the cats bring them hot chocolate as instructed. Warm mug in hand, Essek sits patiently through the story and as it turns to a close, picks up another of the books Caleb has gathered and thrusts it upon his chest. A real laugh bubbles up at that and he obliges.

As the night winds on and the mugs are emptied, Essek’s hand winds its way through Caleb’s hair, gently combing. When he looks up at Essek he’s met with soft, drooping eyes and a plain smile laced with nothing but care. He tries to stop Essek over the course of the book but finds that the drow always goes back to his hair so eventually, he leaves it. When Essek’s breaths even and elongate and he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open, Caleb sends him to trance.

He’s met with a slightly mournful look as Essek settles into the cushions he’s provided for trancing, but Caleb squeezes his shoulder, “If something goes wrong the cats will know to come get me. This is for the best.” Looking not at all reassured, but staying in place, Essek lets him leave without protest.

In the middle of sleep, dreamless and warm, there’s pressure. Then a caterwaul cuts through his subconscious followed by several more. He awakes with a start and immediately the cats gather around his feet as he pulls on slippers. They lead him to Essek’s room, where through the closed doors he can hear the sounds of furniture being disturbed.

Barging in, heart pounding, he finds Essek with tears streaming down his face. “Essek Schatz what’s wrong?” He kneels, abandoning any sense of propriety or boundaries and as he collapses into Caleb’s arms with nearly silent sobs he’s struck by how small the other man is.

“It’s alright Essek, whatever it was it cannot hurt you. I will keep you safe as you have done me.” They’ve never talked about the nights when the cats would do the same to Essek as they’d done to Caleb. When he’d been awoken from nightmares with angry red scratches down his forearms and a friend to bandage them. They’ve never quite discussed the comfort in Essek trancing just beside Caleb’s bed on difficult nights and he’s tried to stifle contemplation about the safety the man brings to his subconscious. The timing wasn’t right and despite his own longing he couldn’t make that step towards Essek. Not then.

Now, however, the elf shudders in his arms and he brings him into his lap, lighting soft amber globules of light to examine Essek. When he finds no physical harm he puts them out again and draws him in tighter as Essek clutches at the sides of his nightshirt and curls into his chest. He sings gentle lullabies his mother had once used to soothe him, voice cracking slightly as he flexes it in a long forgotten way. Eventually the shaking stops and breath becomes more solid, but hands stay grasped into his shirt so, with assistance from the cats, he maneuvers them into an easier sleeping position. Ever determined, Essek stays in his arms the whole time and when he tries to encourage him to trance beside him, arms wind around his waist.

“Okay, okay. If this will help.” Caleb resigns himself to creaky joints the next morning and sleeps with Essek in his arms, pushing away any indulgent thoughts of future nights spent with him in the same orientation.

When he awakes Essek is gone from his lap, though their fingers are laced and his head rests atop the drow’s on his shoulder. “Guten Morgen Essek.” He startles and smiles over at Caleb. Open, honest, vulnerable. They need to fix this. “I just need to prepare and then we will see Jester ja?” He receives a blank stare in return and nods to himself. “I will be back in a few moments and then we will go to Nicodranas. Just wait here.” He leaves and dresses quickly, returning to find Essek essentially where he’d been left. He takes a moment to glance over his spellbook and concentrates as he casts Sending, “Hallo Jester, I need your assistance with a pretty big restoration. Can you help today?”

She sounds half-asleep as she responds, “Caleb? Oh hi! Yeah I can help, just come to mama’s, we’re in Nicodranas. Oh my gosh I have to tell you, the dragon turtle-” her word economy same as ever.

“Okay Essek, Jester can help. I don’t know where you kept your parasol but I’m sure she can make you another.” With that they head out the door and Caleb transports them safely to the Lavish Chateau. Essek’s hand never leaves his.

Upon arrival they’re beset by a shouted greeting and Jester crushes Caleb in a hug before even realizing the other man is there. “Ohmigod Essek hi! I missed you!” Instead of awkwardly patting her back as he usually does, he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her in. “Hey Caleb, what’s going on with Essek?”

She pulls back and sees his broad smile and dancing eyes and looks at Caleb distinctly concerned. “Ah- I’m afraid he is a victim of the Feeblemind spell. It’s what they used against me in… well.” Her face clouds with understanding. “He’s okay physically though, whoever attacked him clearly just needed him out of the way. If you can use Greater Restoration that will undo the effects. He’s been ah - rather clingy.”

She waggles her eyebrows at him, making suggestive noise, and gets out the required diamond dust, sprinkling it delicately over Essek who watches in wonder. She puts both hands on her shoulders and green radiant energy emanates from her and passes to him. Before long he’s shaking his head and stepping back, voice hoarse from disuse, “Where- Jester? Thank you oh my gods thank you.”

She grins back at him, “I’m glad you’re back Essek! It’s a good thing Caleb brought you here you were acting so weird-”

She’s cut off as he chokes out, “Caleb.” and looks over with a deep violet flush and wide, apologetic eyes. “I ah- I am sorry for putting you through that. I-”

“Nein, do not apologize. Maybe we should get back to your tower to try and piece together who did this to you and what they were after ja?’

Essek nods and casts his levitation cantrip, shoulders sagging with relief when it works. “Yes, of course. Thank you Jester, I’m sorry we can’t stay but-”

She hugs the both of them again, “It’s okay, you have lots to talk about probably I don’t know bye!” she gives Caleb a wink as he begins casting the spell again and to his surprise Essek’s hand winds itself in his as they vanish.

They’re back in the tower and Caleb looks down, Essek’s hand still in his. Essek drops it and there’s a flush set deep into his cheeks and it spreads to his cheeks as their eyes meet. “Caleb I-” he swallows “I remember most of what happened, though not very clearly. I um-” his eyes are downcast and Caleb braces for what he believes to be coming, “Thank you for your patience. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable it is very difficult to explain but I think you’re aware of the feeling. I didn’t exactly have my full faculties and I fear I broke boundaries that may have encroached too far on your hospitality and our friendship.”

It’s difficult to see him so apologetic for the affection displayed. This thing between them has gone unspoken quite too long and before he realizes it he’s speaking, “Don’t apologize for that Schatz, I ah- I didn’t mind. There’s something I think we ought to discuss fairly plainly because I do not want to mince words about the way I feel anymore, it’s tiring.”

Essek looks up to meet him, steeling himself and as Caleb is about to speak he cuts him off, “I am aware enough of how I acted to realize I cannot properly hide my feelings further.” He takes a deep breath, the back of Caleb’s neck is burning and time has all but frozen, “I care deeply for you Caleb. It is difficult to bring myself to those words for I know this is the last thing I deserve but here I am, a fool for you. I know that there were moments in Aeor, I hold them close to my heart as precious things in a life of solitude. If you do not do the same, if you do not feel the same I will remain your friend if you’ll allow it, your research partner, anything. But-” he looks down almost sheepishly, “I owe it to you to be forthright and so I will tell you that if you’ll have me, I would very much like to see where this takes us.”

A smile breaks across Caleb’s face as their eyes meet, “May I kiss you?”

Essek draws in a sharp breath, eyes wide, and nods. It takes Caleb only a moment to close the gap, hands sliding around Essek’s waist and over the back of his neck as he leads them together. Essek’s hands hold his shoulders and his eyes flutter closed as their lips meet, electricity and heat mixing. When they finally pull back they’re both flushed. Essek lets out a huff of a laugh and Caleb wraps him tightly as he brings him in again, smiling into another kiss.

#shadowgast #critical role #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #the mighty nein #cr fanfic #cr #critrole #fan fiction #archive of our own #omniwrites

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coccinelle-et-chaton · 3 years

Text

Ladynoir July Day 15 - Forbidden

This is a gift for my beloved @sparklylovegiver because today is their birthday and I love them very much, and mom I am so sorry sketchy and I are always tormenting you with angst so here is my gift to you: I try to NOT be as angsty as usual, and offer you some warm humanitarian relief <3

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SPARK!! 💞💞💞

Day 15 - Forbidden

For Sparky

“Chat, are you sure everything’s alright?” Ladybug said, interrupting the silence as she and Chat Noir patrolled the streets of Paris a few days after Nino’s last akumatization. “You’ve been very quiet lately.”

Chat frowned. “I’m okay, LB,” he reassured and offered her a smile, but Ladybug saw right through it.

She stopped and placed a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look squarely at her. “Chat...”

“I just... I was just wondering...” He sighed. “It’s nothing. Really, don’t worry about it. You... you’ll get mad I asked.”

Ladybug searched his eyes with concern in her expression. “Chat Noir, I promise I won’t get mad. You can talk to me. What’s wrong, minou?”

He looked down, unable to deliver his question while being pinned by her piercing stare. “I was just wondering... why can’t we know each other’s identities? I mean... you are the Guardian, aren’t you? You-you're the one that makes the rules, and I was just thinking... I mean, it’s because... Well, I just... Never mind.”

“Tell me,” Ladybug encouraged.

Chat Noir shook his head. “I can’t. If I tell you more I might give myself away.”

Ladybug was warmed by the fact that despite Chat had always longed to reveal his identity and even was asking about it, he still respected her decision.

Ladybug sighed and took a step forward to him. She grabbed both his hands as she spoke. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he said immediately; a distinct discomfort settled in his stomach. That of not being able to tell whether he was telling the truth, or acting out what was expected of him.

“It’s to protect you.”

“Protect me?” he asked, puzzled. “Protect me from what?”

“From being akumatized.”

Chat frowned, itching to explain exactly where the question came from because Ladybug’s explanation made no sense. But he knew if he were to speak, he would probably unravel a gossip mill that would wound up with his identity being discovered and him losing Nino’s trust. Against his own will, he bit his tongue.

“But how--”

“Trust me, chaton.”

He let go of an exasperated breath. “Can I ask you something else, though?”

“Of course.”

“And you promise to be honest?”

“As honest as I can be.”

“Are--are there any wielders that know each other? I mean, under the mask.”

“Why do you--”

“I just... was curious. I kept thinking about Rena Rouge and Carapace. They... they seem like they know each other. I mean, I can’t possibly explain why they act like a couple when they’re not even permanent wielders like us.”

Ladybug bit her lip, feeling her stomach plunge with nervousness. She promised to be honest. And really, what could possibly happen if she told him the truth? Chat was being curious, nothing more. Right?

“Yes,” she admitted. “They know each other behind the mask.”

Chat knew what the answer was going to be and yet he found himself feeling the same searing anger that briefly overtook him when he learned the truth from Nino. He took a deep breath and reeled in.

Ladybug could see the disappointment in his reaction. She waited for him to say something, but only silence met her. Anxious that Chat was angrier than he was letting on, she disposed to explain herself.

“It was an emergency,” she said, her voice helping Chat find his footing among the whirlwind of emotions that mangled him. “It was on Hero’s Day. When Scarlet Moth attacked, remember? I sent you to get Chloe and I went for Carapace and Rena. I found them together and I didn’t have time to come up with an excuse to separate them. I had no choice but to give them their Miraculous at the same time.”

The sigh of relief that escaped Chat was almost a little too obvious. It made Ladybug wonder whether his questions were really stemming from curiosity alone.

“Ladybug,” he said. “Can I ask you something else?”

She smiled sweetly at him and teased, “You’re quite inquisitive today, aren’t you? Okay, shoot.”

Chat Noir couldn’t help the smile that spread on his lips as he rolled his eyes.

“If you didn’t have to “protect” me,” he air-quoted. “Would... would it still be forbidden for us to know each other?”

“Chat...”

He looked away, unable to hide his disappointment. “It’s okay.” His baton beeped with an alarm clock he had set. He needed to be back in the mansion in ten minutes. “That’s me,” he said. “I have to go now. See you around, LB.”

“Wait,” Ladybug said, grasping his wrist and forcing him to wait. She sighed, and then looked at him with a pleading, a longing, Chat had never seen in her before. It made his heart skip and stumble.

“I had never thought about it,” she explained and knitted her eyebrows in concentration. “But I guess... it depends. If the stakes were lower, maybe. But kitty, you have to remember, our main objective is to defeat Shadowmoth, and we cannot afford to be vulnerable.”

“But Carapace and Rena...”

“I can bench them whenever I please, even change wielders. But I can’t fight without you. You’re irreplaceable.”

Chat Noir pouted, determined to push his argument. “But--but... aren’t they stronger for it? Wouldn’t we be stronger if we knew? And if you’re scared that we may become akumatized... can’t-- can’t you just... I don’t know, make one of those charms you’ve learned to make?”

Ladybug couldn’t help but chuckle. “It’s not so simple, Chat. I’m still not exactly sure how to do that. And don’t you remember what happened with them during the Hero’s Day fight? Carapace was distracted and Rena sacrificed herself, then Queen Bee was taken off guard because Hawkmoth knew her identity and used her family against her. It’s not as easy as just Akuma-proofing.”

“But would you want to?” he insisted, desperation becoming apparent in his voice. “Would you want to know who I am if none of this were in the way?”

A painful knot forming in Ladybug’s throat prevented her from speaking more clearly. “Yes,” she muttered. “Of course I would, Chat.”

Chat Noir looked at her with hope.

“We’ve been through so much together, of course, I would like to know who you are. What you’re like when you’re not making horrible puns, what sort of movies you watch, if you play any sports, what your dream job is... I’d like to know all that. But... we can’t,” she said, sadly. “At least not yet.”

“Not yet?” Chat Noir repeated, his voice broken and evidencing the fact he was holding back tears.

She smiled with a light blush on her cheeks. “Once this is over, chaton.”

“R-really? You promise?”

Ladybug took a moment to reply, if only because she was making the conscious effort to make sure she was promising something she’d be able to deliver. “Yes,” she said softly.

Chat’s eyes glistened with tears, which he hurried to wipe off with his forearm. Then, the alarm went off again.

He hiccupped, trying to not let the menacing tears get the best of him. “Okay.”

He unclipped the baton and disposed to vault off. At the last minute, he turned back to her. “LB?”

“Yes?” she said, smirking. “Weren’t you about to leave?”

“Meowch, trying to get rid of me already?”

Ladybug rolled her eyes and chuckled. “What is it, Chat?”

“We’re good at keeping secrets, right?”

“Right.”

“Do you mind keeping one for me?”

Ladybug looked at him with amused curiosity, then nodded.

Chat gulped, trying to swallow the hammering pulse stuck in his chest. He bent down and quickly pecked her cheek, catching Ladybug by surprise and eliciting a deep, crimson blush on her face.

“Thanks for answering my questions, m’lady,” he whispered before rushing out of view.

#this is a lifeboat in the sinking titanic that is ladynoir #ml spoilers #happy birthday spark!#ladynoirjuly2021 #ladynoir july #sparky tag #hope you liked it beloved <3

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hongism · 3 years

Text

mists of celeste ➻ 32

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, eventual smut ➻ Word Count: 8.7k ➻ Rating: M ➻ Warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

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✧✧✧ act four ➻ part seven

“Captain won’t hurt him.”

You don’t need to turn to see who has just stepped in, but you do nonetheless at least for the smallest semblance of confirmation. It doesn’t make it any easier to see who stands at the edge of the tunnel, bright light cascading around his tall form and casting crude shadows across the floor as he walks closer to the group. You swallow around nothing in anticipation although nothing could prepare you for what Mingi says next.

“Because I’m the one going in there, not Jongho.”

“Absolutely not!” Yunho blurts without a breath of hesitation, hand jerking down by his side in a fist clenched so tightly that his knuckles go white.

“Mingi, how did you get here?” Seonghwa adds. This must not be according to plan for him to sound so bewildered, unless Hongjoong has truly kept him out of the loop but again that wouldn’t make an ounce of sense since Hongjoong spoke so adamantly about Jongho being the one to go in with him. So the only reasonable conclusion is that —

“I left the bunker.”

The only reasonable conclusion is, in fact, that Mingi has come to the arena by his own choice and volition.

“How the hell did you get out?” San interjects, pushing closer to Mingi with a hand stretched towards the man’s arm. Mingi merely blinks back at the shorter man without seeming surprised in the slightest.

“I knocked on the door and they let me out. How else would I have gotten out?”

“Why?” Seonghwa’s tone is nothing short of livid, and for a moment, you fear that his rage will affect Mingi in turn, but the Berserker manages to keep his steady expression with little effort.

“That’s my captain in there. That’s my captain who is about to fight, and that’s my crewmate who is taking the place that should be mine. Lieutenant, you said yourself that if he let you, you would take Captain’s place in a heartbeat. I feel the same way about Jongho.”

Feel. Mingi feels the same way about Jongho. It shouldn’t have as much impact as it does, but your heart clenches painfully in your chest and you blink at Mingi’s expression of determination with a certain sense of disbelief. The anger on Seonghwa’s features melts away, replaced by some other emotion you can’t quite place upon first glance.

“I was there when they prepared this plan yesterday,” Mingi continues. “I heard Jongho and Captain discussing what would happen as a last resort. Captain had wanted to talk Vladimir down and make him see reason. But in the event that he was not able to do that–”

“He would put himself on the line,” Seonghwa finishes, gaze falling to the dusty cobblestone. His jaw shifts as he mulls over his next words, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head. “Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth.”

“Exactly. But Jongho doubted that Vladimir would take Captain up on the offer, didn’t think he would allow Captain to select his own opponent.” Seonghwa hums, a sound that is noncommittal and meant to fill the small lapse in conversation when Mingi finishes speaking.

“Vlad only accepted because he has something else in mind. He can’t trust Jongho not to go easy on Hongjoong or anything like that.”

“But… he can trust the Brute of Kebos to do his job. What that man wants is more than blood. He wants the Brute of Kebos in his arena because that’s what he can trust. And so, I must deliver it.”

“No,” Yunho mutters, head shaking from side to side almost violently. “No! This could ruin everything. Don’t you see that? All the years of progress, everything I’ve done, all of it–”

“It won’t though.” Mingi sounds far too confident. There is a sense of finality to his words, and even Yunho is forced to stop speaking and focus on what Mingi has to say for himself. “The second Vladimir sees me in the arena, the tide will shift. His plan will go out the window because everyone here heard what he said. He craves to control the beast. The way he exercises that power is through his hand. It’s just like my father. I have seen it time and time again, lived it time and time again. Vladimir wants to see Captain dead, and he will want me to deliver the killing blow. But when he puts that thumb down and tells me to kill Captain… I won’t do it.”

“You were — Mingi, there is no guarantee that the beast won’t take over the second you set foot in there. I am not attempting to doubt you, but the mere mention of this planet sent you into a frenzy not too long ago. You cannot possibly think that this will end differently or that you won’t be able to hold back!”

Perhaps it’s all on account of a ridiculous effort on Mingi’s part, but still, his expression shows no cracks. No faltering, no flashing in his red eyes – just the very same neutral visage that reminds you of a statue.

“You know better than anyone what I’m capable of, Healer. And I am capable of disobeying orders because I have done so once before. Have at least a sliver of faith in my abilities to protect my captain.” Yunho snaps his lips together, forming a thin line that nearly disappears into white, but he does not say anything else. Seonghwa glances between the pair in a similar state of silence for several moments.

“If…” He trails off before he can finish the thought, lashes fluttering as he looks upwards now. “If this is truly what you want to do, we obviously can’t stop you. Though this is – it’s a hard agreement to make.”

“Have I ever hurt him before?” Mingi asks. The question is not truly inquisitive, moreso rhetorical, but it causes Seonghwa is sputter and struggle to come up with a response anyway.

“I – n-no, not that I can recall.”

“In six years, I have not once laid a finger on Captain. Not in all those years of episodes and relapse after relapse. I know the circumstances are different, and I know you have no reason to take me for my word, yet I would still ask you to trust me.”

Seonghwa extends a hand all of the sudden, eyes coming down to meet Mingi’s with a flare of determination. Mingi seems just as taken aback as the rest of you but he is quicker to understand the intention behind the gesture, hesitantly stretching his own hand out to latch around Seonghwa’s forearm. The lieutenant squeezes hard at his skin as though putting all his emotions into that one hold.

“Then Mingi, I beg of you — please bring him back to me alive.”

“Understood,” Mingi murmurs through a small nod. Then his hand falls away from Seonghwa’s, and the latter man releases a shaky exhale, watching Mingi step around him and move down the same tunnel that Hongjoong and Jongho descended into not too long ago. Yunho must be too stunned to say or do anything in that very moment because it takes at least two minutes for him to even react in the slightest to what just transpired before him.

“Tell me you have simply lost your mind and you don’t actually trust him.”

Seonghwa reels at those words, and he isn’t the only one to be shocked either because they elicit a broken gasp from Wooyoung’s lips that is followed up by the sound of skin slapping skin, no doubt the man trying to cover the sound a bit too late.

“Explain to me why I shouldn’t trust him.”

“Because the last time he disobeyed orders, it was when his fucking father was in my clinic recovering from a near-fatal injury and Mingi murdered him! There is no guarantee that this won’t affect Mingi badly and no guarantee that the second Mingi sets foot in the arena, things won’t go to hell! The moment he gets the chance, he will kill Hongjoong regardless of whether he is Mingi’s captain or not.”

“That is my captain down there as well, Yunho,” Seonghwa seethes through gritted teeth. “You are a fool if you think I am not even the slightest bit worried as well, but I trust my crew.”

“You act like you’re the only one who gets to call him that. He’s my fucking captain too – fuck that, he’s captain to every single one of us.”

“Yet I would not sit here and watch him die in that arena. I would never do that willingly, and as such, that’s not what I am doing now. I am putting my faith and trust in Hongjoong’s word and in Mingi’s word.”

“You aren’t a fucking savior to him!” Yunho pushes forward and slams both palms against Seonghwa’s chest, knocking the man back several feet. He doesn’t fight back though; he just stands as still as ever and glares forward at Yunho with enough heat to make you shift uncomfortably from where you stand. Out the corner of your eye, you can see San taking a few hesitant steps towards them, hand outstretched towards Yunho’s arm. Just before he can stop the healer from doing anything more, Seonghwa lifts a hand – a stopping motion directed at San and San only. “You blindly throw trust in his face and for what? To turn around and spit at his feet when he actually needs you?”

“What can I do, Yunho? What would you have me do? Go in there and take Hongjoong’s place? Speak the word and I’ll do it!”

“Stop fucking around and be serious.”

“Stand down, Yunho.” The enunciation of the words sends chills down your spine. There’s too much evenness to his tone, too much steadiness even though his rage billows off him in waves. Seonghwa’s anger is far more terrifying than you could have imagined it to be, a cold and harsh knife that deepens in your chest. In that moment, Yunho seems to shrink despite being taller and larger than the lieutenant, and his size could not possibly hold a candle to the absolute power and control in Seonghwa’s disposition. “That is an order, not from your lieutenant, but from your acting captain. This is me being serious, and I will not have you endanger my crew because of a reckless and distorted sense of pride and narcissism.”

Yunho’s face is overtaken by a stark pallor as Seonghwa takes a step in his direction. A finger jabs into Yunho’s chest, and even though it’s only one, Yunho reacts in such a way that it seems like he’s been hit by some incredible force.

“You will learn your place because whether you like it or not, I am your lieutenant and in Hongjoong’s absence, I am your captain. You listen to what I say, you follow my orders, you do as told without complaint. And if you feel differently, then you should have jumped ship during the mutiny.”

Silence comes in response to Seonghwa’s cold words. All Yunho can do is manage a shaky nod before dropping his gaze to the ground.

“Now if that’s the end of your whining, listen to me. All of you. San, Wooyoung, Yunho, Y/N — you four will stay down here during the fight. Once Hongjoong and Mingi go through, the guards will close the gates. You will be allowed to stand by the gate and watch that way, but be wary. The guards typically don’t question it when crowd members come down because they assume it to be for a closer view of the fighting. On the off chance that they do ask questions, just say that: you want a closer view. Yeosang and I will remain with you all until Jongho returns so I can inform him of the plan, then us two will head back up the left-wing. Should anything happen, use the comms channel.”

“I… I need to be on standby for when Mingi takes the hyacinth but — well, I ideally need someone to go into the market and find me some supplies.” Yunho’s shoulders loosen a bit as he speaks, all the anger in his tone dropping to a state of calm once more. Seonghwa’s lips part to respond, but Yunho cuts him short and continues speaking. “If you truly want everyone to come out of there alive, I have to have supplies. I truly will not be able to help Mingi without at least something to help him throw up to get the root out of his system.”

“I’ll get it.” You turn to the source of the voice only to find Wooyoung stepping forward, hand still clasped tight around Yeosang’s, and through the panic on his features, you can see a bit of determination in his eyes. “I can’t watch the fight, and I-I would rather not even be present for it. Maybe I’m weak but I don’t have the stomach to watch that.”

“I’ll go with then,” Yeosang adds without missing a beat.

“No, Yeosang, you can’t.” Seonghwa shakes his head, causing a few strands of black hair to fall loosely over his forehead. “Vladimir is expecting the two of us to be watching. He will have his men ready to watch us and look for us. If he only sees me, or if he sees me with anyone other than you, it will be problematic at best. He expects Hongjoong to try something, but that doesn’t mean we should give him the opportunity to confirm that thought.”

“I can go with him.” You hardly realize that the words have come out of your mouth until all eyes turn to yours. A large part of you would much rather stay and witness the fight between Hongjoong and Mingi – just out of a sense of curiosity and fascination at what might happen – but you know that there are bigger things at play here which matter far more than your personal agendas. Even if you think solely out of logic, this is the best course of action. Yeosang wouldn’t trust San to go with Wooyoung, Yunho can’t go, and Jongho isn’t even back yet for some reason that you can only boil down to him and Hongjoong talking with Mingi. And thus that leaves you.

“Me too.” It’s San who speaks this time, although Seonghwa’s immediate response is a sharp shake of his head.

“You have to stay with Yunho and Jongho. Y/N can… she can go with Wooyoung. There’s no telling how long this fight will last, but knowing Hongjoong, he will try to drag it out as much as possible out of pride and to make seem believable. We can only hope that it’s enough time for the two of you to get what Yunho needs and hurry back.”

Your initial reaction is just to nod and turn towards Wooyoung, not bothering to face Yunho when he decides to speak again.

“I’ll tell you what I need once you two get further into the city. There’s an old supply shop not far from here, at least there used to be — if you can’t find it, let me know and I’ll try to figure something else out.”

“Okay,” Wooyoung says before pulling his hand free of Yeosang’s. For the briefest of moments, Yeosang chases after his retreating hand, but he pulls away before Yeosang can close his fingers around Wooyoung’s again. You glance away from the pair as the creeping feeling that you’re watching something you shouldn’t be sneaks up on you. Then a hand closes around your arm, burning the skin in a tight grip, and you jerk from the suddenness of the touch. It’s none other than Yeosang who stares forward at you when you turn to face the culprit, eyes wide and pleading. For once, you find no scathing hatred in them.

“Make sure he comes back unharmed.” There is something so raw and unadulterated about the way he utters the words, and it’s that very emotion in them that causes your throat to constrict a bit. He carries the same desperation that Seonghwa did when he asked Mingi to bring Hongjoong back alive, a desperation that runs deeper than love or adoration. You can’t quite explain it – it’s hard to even imagine something being stronger and deeper than love – yet you can feel it at that moment. More than that though, it pushes a new thought into your mind that you’ve never had before, one that nearly shatters you into a million pieces.

“We went to a fortune teller once – just the two of us before we even joined the crew or knew anything about pirates. To see my future, not Yeosang’s, but… when the woman looked into my future, Yeosang wasn’t in the picture. She said that we were not meant to be in each other’s lives. Our meeting was a mistake, and it was not what fate had planned for us. And as such, any attempts we made to stay close to each other would inevitably end in flames. All because the stars didn’t align for us.”

How can one still fight so vehemently that even fate is against? What drives a person to be that desperate? To bear a desperation that would drive you to do absolutely anything to save the person you care about more than anything else? Was it that very desperation that drove Hyunwoo to take your place and kneel before the king prior to his death?

There won’t be hell to pay if Wooyoung gets hurt or put in danger; it’s what comes after that, what Yeosang might do in turn, what he might sacrifice to guarantee Wooyoung’s safety. That kind of devotion and commitment terrifies you — to love someone so much that you would lay down your life without a second thought to protect them.

“You have my word,” you whisper. And it’s not merely because he asked you to because frankly you don’t have many fond feelings surrounding Yeosang and the both of you know that you owe him no favors, yet here he stands, hand on your arm, pleading for you to do the job he cannot. You aren’t entirely sure why you agree with sure vehemence, but something compels you to, and the melting away of Yeosang’s panic adds to that stirring sensation in your gut.

“I don’t care for fate or destiny. I would rather it not exist, but I can’t deny the feeling that I get in my chest in those moments of intimacy. In a perfect world, I would get to call him mine without worrying about what fate has planned for us. But this? This is far from a perfect world.”

They are doing nothing more than the rest of every last sorry soul in the universe: trying to create what would be their perfect world. Fate has deprived them of enough. Who are you to take more from them?

When you pull away from Yeosang, the tightness in your throat has strengthened, and when you come alongside Wooyoung, you don’t miss the way he glances back at the Elitist. You cannot see the emotion in his eyes or his features, but you don’t need to to understand the hesitation in his movements. It is the same emotion you recognize in Seonghwa when it comes to Hongjoong. Back on Echidna when he pleaded for you to make sure that Hongjoong stayed safe, just now with Mingi, the haughty Lieutenant of Death begging for his captain to come back unharmed because he could not go in there to do the job for him. You can hardly imagine it — fearing for someone else’s life so much so that every time you part from them you have to treat it as though it could be the last. Well, you can imagine it because it’s a feeling you have always run from; one you ran from when it came to Jisung, and one you ran from when it came to San the moment it started blossoming. And with Seonghwa, you don’t feel that, you don’t fear for his life or what might happen if you are not around, and perhaps that is why you find yourself so drawn to him.

“Come on,” Wooyoung mutters. “The sooner we do this, the better.”

Merely seeing the way Wooyoung and Yeosang interact makes you want to run away, yet you find yourself turning just like Wooyoung did. Except when your gaze finds someone, it isn’t Seonghwa that you look towards. It’s San. San, the bright-eyed man with the cat-like smile who grinned at you on a military ship. The gentle man whose eyes seem to hold all the stars in the universe when he looks your way, the one who said he couldn’t bear the thought of you forgetting about him, who couldn’t dream of losing you before he told you he truly feels about you. The same man who looked you in the eye and said he would rather suffer pain to have you in his life than live a day without you. Gentle, kind, loving, oh so loving, San. As his eyes trail over your features, brows knitted together with concern washing over those deep brown eyes, you are overcome by a stark pang of fear in your chest.

You turn back to Wooyoung, struggling to push your legs into action and follow him out of the arena’s tunnel because each step feels heavier than the last. Walking away from San seems too much like a goodbye, even though you’re confident that you and Wooyoung will both be fine. The one thing you failed to take into account was that in your efforts to keep that flower of worry from blossoming, you forget it had already taken root, and now that you can so clearly see it reflected in the people around you, you feel its roots stretching deeper into your chest.

“How do you do it?” You murmur once the two of you are further away from the rest of the crew. Tall buildings rise up around the two of you, filling the void of the arena’s cobbles with its colored brick houses and buildings. It brings you back to when Yunho brought you here along with Wooyoung and Yeosang, with the glittering lights against the sunset sky and snow falling around your heads. The scenery now is far from that sense of peace — hard, bright rays of sunlight bearing down on you with a cold in the air so brittle that it bites at your skin.

“Hm?”

“How do you keep fighting so hard for Yeosang? When even fate is supposedly against you?” Wooyoung inhales sharply at the question, and you think you’ve crossed an invisible line for a moment. Life goes on around you, people bustling over the same streets that you walk with Wooyoung and minding their own business without a care in the world. He doesn’t respond right away, in fact, it takes quite some time for him to muster up even a few words.

“Because love is… I-I know I can’t, but sometimes I feel like I can outrun fate. And Yeosang – he makes me feel that way. I was a slave for as long as I could remember, that was my fate, they told me it was. They said I was destined to be nothing more than a slave, just someone to be used and tossed around until I died. Everyone in my life said that even the people who raised me. B-But a dumb little blond prince came in and… and h-he shot my chains and set me free. Yeosang changed my fate for me, and he did so without any hesitation. If he could do that for me — me, who was a complete stranger back then — then why would I not try to do the same for him now when we are so much more than strangers? Fate can do a lot of things, but it could never keep me from loving him.”

Despite the stutters and hesitation in his tone, Wooyoung sounds more confident about his words than anything else. You have never heard him speak with such conviction. You thought you had seen the extent of his resolve when he cut his hand open and told Yeosang that the man could not protect him from himself, but he proves you wrong now.

“And how do you find it in you to walk away in times like this?” Perhaps you are just searching to hear what he would do so that you know how you should cope yourself. What he says instead hurts far more than it helps, and you cannot even begin to think about having that same mindset yourself.

“Because I know that even if I were to die apart from him, we would find our ways back to each other in whatever comes after this life. I know that I have loved him better than I have loved anyone in my life, and despite all his faults and missteps, he has done the same for me. I can never be at peace with the thought of him dying before I do, and I’m confident that he would say the same about me, but I can be at peace with the thought of resting eternally in the knowledge that I gave him my all through thick and thin. That’s how I can walk away.”

“I…”

What can you say in response to something like that? You understand Yeosang’s desperation now because even if Wooyoung would be okay with it, he could never forgive himself for not being there in those moments. That makes your drive heighten, the desire to protect Wooyoung from if only to keep Yeosang from suffering a pain worse than death.

“Hey, you two there?” Yunho’s crackling voice breaks through the silence and tension hanging between you and Wooyoung.

“Yep, we’re almost to the trade district.”

“Okay, start looking for the supply shop. It’ll be somewhere on your left, The Quiet Peony, let me know if you can’t find it.” Yunho’s voice dissipates into nothingness once more, leaving you and Wooyoung to blink at each other without saying a word for several passing moments. Then the dark-haired man reaches down and catches hold of your hand, yanking you closer to his body. The action startles you, and you hardly realize why he is so urgent in his movements until you hear a loud clatter of metal resounding from behind you. A whoosh of air hits the back of your neck, one that feels a bit too much like the point of a spear for your liking. Wooyoung prevents you from turning around to examine your surroundings. All you can do is beg for answers in the form of a hushed whisper.

“What’s going on?”

“Guards. Look like Vladimir’s men,” Wooyoung mutters back, hand clinging to yours with more force now. “I think they’re just passing through to get to the arena.”

“Why is he bringing more men in? Could he already know about Mingi?”

“Seonghwa would tell us, wouldn’t he? Is it – no, no, they can’t have even started the fight yet.” Wooyoung glances past your shoulder as the rattling of metal continues. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips once, twice, three times. Then he brings his other arm up, lips pressing against the thin band around his wrist. “Hey, would you – could one of you please tell us when the fight starts?”

“Of course.” It’s Seonghwa who speaks this time, voice as cool and steady as ever, and his words confirm the suspicion that the fight has in fact not started quite yet. Wooyoung exhales a sigh of relief, then the rumbling steps behind you fade into the din of the city. He releases your arm after that and steps away from you, a bit of the worry creasing his features dissipating more with each passing second.

“Let’s just hope that it’s unrelated to the mission. Come on, I think I see what might be a supply shop over there,” you urge as you stretch a hand back out towards Wooyoung. He offers a quick series of nods. His hand slots against yours as he takes it, letting you guide the way through the lines of people. As you push closer to the row of buildings, the small hanging nameplates outside them come into view, and sure enough, one of those very nameplates reads in small uppercase letters The Quiet Peony.

“Yunho, we’re here, it’s here,” Wooyoung says into his wristband, and there’s more optimism to his tone now that you’ve found what you were looking for with little issue.

“Thank goodness,” Yunho sighs. Behind his voice, you can hear a clamoring of noise: loud cheers and shouts, applause that rings in your ears, a booming but unintelligible voice somewhere off in the distance. “Vladimir is announcing the fight and the rules. He—” Yunho’s voice drops at least an octave, if not more, as he hushes his tone “—he doesn’t know about Mingi yet.”

“What do you need us to get?” You press the question, urgent to get this done and over with so that you can return to witness the fight.

“Um, violet stems, cardamom seeds, two vials of pure lily essence, and a bit of pink peppercorn. Just things to help him vomit the hyacinth mixture. I’ve got some purified water in my emergency bag so I won’t be needing any.”

“And you’ve got a mortar and pestle?” Wooyoung inquires, obviously knowing far more about whatever Yunho is on about than you do.

“Yep, brought the backup.”

“Alright, we’ll – we’ll head in now.” Wooyoung hesitates though and refuses to budge from his spot outside the door. You think he’s waiting for you to make a move, but after a second you realize what it is that has him caught up. “Yeosang?”

“I’m here.”

Except it isn’t merely a confirmation of his presence on the line or in the arena. Wooyoung breathes out again, lashes fluttering as he shuts his eyes, and he almost seems to bask in the sound of Yeosang’s voice while he can. It rubs you the wrong way. Something about Wooyoung’s disposition is off, even if he isn’t showing the same signs of anxiety and worry that he was showing earlier. Still, you keep your lips pressed tightly together as he pushes into the shop, and you follow hot on his heels. There’s nothing for you to do once in the shop; Wooyoung takes the initiative of speaking to the shop over and requesting all the materials that Yunho listed off for the two of you. You just stand back by the door, wringing your hands together endlessly with a growing disturbance in your gut. Enough is enough when Wooyoung bows at the waist and pulls away from the man behind the counter. The second he faces you, you level him with a firm stare.

His throat bobs behind the metal collar clinging to his neck. Slowly but surely, he walks towards you, eyes not leaving yours for a second, then he motions towards the door.

“We should go.”

“Wooyoung,” you utter. A bit of a tremor slips into your voice.

“Y/N, we need to go. Now.” This isn’t the same man that you met in the med bay, the same man who was so desperate to follow orders with a high-pitched and panicked tone. This Wooyoung is far different — he doesn’t waver under the heat of your glare, and he bears a firm resolution to him. It feels entirely wrong. When he grabs hold of your arm this time, it’s to pull you out of the shop and back into the streets. The din resumes louder than before, and now you find it accompanied by your heart thrumming in your ears.

“The fight is starting now,” Seonghwa announces. The adrenaline pumping through your veins seems to reach impossible heights. “They announced him as Jongho, but it won’t take long for Vlad to realize who is truly down there in the arena with Hongjoong.”

Wooyoung’s grip tightens on you. You try to pull free of his grasp, startled by the sudden shift in his demeanor, but he’s holding you with a newfound force that you can’t get out of.

“Wooyoung, what the fuck is going on?” You hiss as you give up on your attempts to get out. He barely shifts to look back at you over his shoulder.

“I-I can’t explain. You won’t – it won’t m-make any sense. You just have to trust me on this, Y/N. We need to get back there as quickly as possible.”

“Wooyoung, you’re hurting me.” The words are only half true – mostly an attempt to get him to loosen his grip, but it backfires because he only clings to you tighter.

“I had a dream about this last night, Y/N.” Wooyoung’s chest heaves in an unsteady pattern. “I had a dream about the mission and everything that would happen on it. And everything I dreamt of is happening, it’s all coming to life. I dreamt that Hongjoong would offer himself up and that Mingi would be his opponent, and I dreamt that Hongjoong dies in there. I saw him die, but it wasn’t Mingi who killed him. Vladimir killed him – both of them – then he killed Jongho, Yunho, San a-and Yeosang. And after that? He captured Seonghwa and you and m-me, and he used that same squadron of guards who passed us in the streets not long ago to do it. I dreamt that we would pass them, that one would hit your shoulder and knock you to the ground, and t-that’s why I was able to stop them from doing that today. Call me crazy, but there are far too many coincidences happening right now for me not to think that that dream is coming true.”

Under any other circumstances, you would yank your arm away from Wooyoung’s and call him batshit insane. Now, however? The blaring sirens of panic and warning rampaging in your head are enough for you to take Wooyoung’s word for it. It may only be superstition, but you know that you never would have guessed that Mingi would come to the arena or that Hongjoong would offer himself to go down to fight. Yet Wooyoung seems to have dreamt both into reality. You don’t fight him anymore, not with your body or your words; instead, you let the man tug you back towards the arena with an increased sense of urgency to your movements.

A panic settles into your bones the closer you draw to the rising walls of the arena. It’s one that you have felt before — when you were scaling the walls of the palace grounds on Eros to stop the king from killing Hyunwoo. His form swirls to life at the forefront of your mind, the black silk hood cinched around his neck and covering his face even in his last moments. Again when you and Hongjoong were racing through Echidna in attempts to catch up with San before he did something reckless. Wooyoung’s mention of Vladimir killing San in his dream is not the only reason why his face replaces Hyunwoo’s in your head.

In all your time in the military, you never had to fear for Jisung’s life. You didn’t have to fear for any of your team’s lives, not until the end when Hyunwoo’s was on the line. Even when you were in jail for your crimes, you did not fear for them because they were your crimes and not theirs. The pain you felt when you learned that Hyunwoo was scheduled to die is the same pain you feel radiating through your whole body now. You aren’t there. If anything happens to him now, you can’t be there. You are too far away to get to San in time. Logic tells you that he can protect himself and keep himself safe, but sheer panic screams louder in the din of your thoughts.

Something stops you in your tracks. Wooyoung comes to a halt beside you, a startled and broken cry ripping from his lips. Everything happens in slow motion.

An explosion first. It’s so loud that your ears ring and your head throbs from the pressure of it. The both of you are staring directly at the source of the explosion, just through the tunnel leading to the main fighting ground of the arena and just past that gate that separates Hongjoong and Mingi from the rest of the crew. It starts and ends there, a cloud of sandy, pale dust billowing up so quickly that you have to duck your head to keep from choking on it.

Wooyoung tears forward. His hand drops yours without second thought. Someone is screaming through the earpiece, you can at least feel the vibrations of their voice, but your ears are still ringing too much for you to actually process what’s being said. Your legs work on their own accord and thrust your after Wooyoung.

Hongjoong. Mingi. Both in the arena.

How bad was the explosion? Everything happened too quickly for you to recall the extent of the blast, but it could be that the dust made it seem much worse than it was in actuality.

Jongho?

He would have been close to the gate with the others. With Yunho. You are angry with the healer, yes, but you wouldn’t go so far as to wish death on him.

Seonghwa.

He said he would be in the left wing with Yeosang. That would be far enough away from the blast, no? Surely it would be. Unless Vladimir’s guards reached the two of them first. Yet you can’t imagine that either one would go down easily.

San.

He was to remain with Yunho and Jongho. That’s far too close for comfort.

Please. You’ve never been one to pray, but if that’s what it takes for San to be okay, then you will do whatever you have to. Please be okay. You don’t care what kind of monster you have to become in order to keep him safe. It scared you before — back when you turned into a person you did not recognize in that warehouse on Echidna — but now you cannot find it in your body to care in the slightest.

As you burst into the tunnel, a body slams hard against yours. You are so clouded with panic and too focused on staring forward that you thrash against the grip on your shoulders.

“Y/N!” It isn’t San’s voice calling out your name, you know that much.

“San!” You scream out nonetheless, fingers ripping and tearing at the arms caging you in to no avail.

“Y/N, listen – listen, it’s me! Y/N!” You stop thrashing long enough to bring your gaze to the face of the man holding you. Blond hair fills your vision, panicked eyes wide and your throat nearly closes in on itself when you recognize it to be Yeosang. But —

Wooyoung was just in front of you. He is nowhere to be found now, not anywhere near Yeosang which is where he should be, and Seonghwa isn’t anywhere in sight either despite him being with Yeosang earlier.

“Se-Seonghwa?” You stammer through a few heavy breaths.

“He went straight to the source of the explosion.”

“Hongjoong and Mingi?”

“Hongjoong and Mingi,” Yeosang confirms through a shaky nod.

“Wooyoung. He – he went ahead of me. Did you s-see him?”

“No, I just came down the stairs. Seonghwa jumped straight down into the arena, but I got caught up in the crowds of people trying to rush out.” You couldn’t even focus on the people rushing around you and Yeosang until he mentions it, still high on the adrenaline pumping through your veins and leaving you dizzy.

“San,” you exhale. Your gaze falls over Yeosang’s shoulder again and stares deeper into the tunnel ahead.

“There’ll be guards ahead. Vladimir probably launched an emergency attack when he realized Mingi was down there.”

“And? We can’t leave them there.”

“No, I’m not saying we should. Just – just that we need to be careful.” Yeosang pulls back to hold you at arm’s length now, but his gaze isn’t focused on you. No, it’s shift to look back over his shoulder and down the tunnel that remains clouded with dust. There is far too much screaming from the crowds trying to rush out of the arena for either of you to hear anyone further down. Yeosang maintains a steady grip on your bicep as he pulls his gun free of its holster. You fumble to do the same albeit with much more of a struggle because your hands are shaking so badly.

Yeosang leads the way down the tunnel despite not being able to see far in front of him, and you stay close behind him, leaning to the side just enough to glance past his shoulder. The whole situation is horrifying enough but the whole concept of not being able to see or hear your crewmates makes it far worse than it already is. The two of you are only about halfway into the tunnel when a gunshot resounds. It ricochets and echoes throughout the length of the cylinder. Your steps come to a halt as Yeosang darts a hand out in front of your body. The barest outlines of bodies come into sight, dust beginning to disperse enough to expose the people inside the cloud. You can’t make out any faces, but certainly, some have to be your fellow crewmates.

“Move!” One voice rises above the others, and it’s one you recognize in a heartbeat. San. San, who sounds tired and out of breath and strained but still okay. Alive. More noises begin to resound as you and Yeosang push closer. The clattering of metal against metal for the most part – very sparse gunshots – along with a few shouts that are foreign compared to the voices of the crew. You can only hear Wooyoung and San in the mess, but there’s certainly more fighting than that going on, so you can only hope that Jongho and Yunho will be there as well when you finally push through the dust cloud.

And it’s with a sigh of relief that they do come into view, Yunho sprawled out of the ground with a gun in hand, and Wooyoung and San standing back to back both with spears in hand. They must have taken them from some of the guards because the guard standing across from Wooyoung holds the same weapon in his own hands, swinging the weapon in Wooyoung’s direction. Yeosang reacts before the dark-haired man can; his gun whips up and places a bullet in the guard’s helmet before he can come close to touching Wooyoung.

“Yeosang!”

Wooyoung nearly drops his weapon in favor of rushing towards the Elitist, but another metal-clad guard comes down on his left. Yeosang doesn’t have time to react this time. San does though, hand stretching behind him to snag the shaft of the spear before the point can sink through Wooyoung’s skin. He twists and slams the tip of his own weapon deep into the gut of the attacker. A grunt leaves his snarled lips as he shoves the guard back and plants a foot on the base of the spear. You and Yeosang came just in time to see the end of the fighting it seems; no other guards stand in the tunnel, just San and Wooyoung surrounded by a myriad of bodies with Yunho not far away. One person isn’t in sight though. Jongho.

San wipes at the base of his nose with his sleeve before turning to face you. Sweat paints his brow, dripping down the sides of his face, but as far as you can tell, there are no injuries or blood on him. Wooyoung and Yunho are in similar conditions, which is reassuring at best, but the lack of information surrounding the rest of the crew doesn’t let you rest easy.

“Seonghwa and Jongho went in for Captain and Mingi,” San heaves, mouth continuing to hang agape even after he speaks. “Seonghwa told us to wait here for them, but a squadron came in. Most likely will send backups too.”

“We’ll just have to be ready for a fight then,” Yeosang answers. He doesn’t push his gun back into its holster, but he does lower it to his side as Wooyoung rushes over to join him where he stands. You don’t have time to glance away before you catch the sight of their lips slotting together fervently, Wooyoung’s hands clasped desperately around the back of Yeosang’s neck. San moves towards Yunho’s reclining form, and he extends a hand to the healer before helping the man get to his feet.

“What happened?” You inquire, trying not to let your gaze linger on the carnage strewn over the cobbles.

“It took longer than we thought it would for Vladimir to react to Mingi being in the arena, but… everything happened really quickly after that. The fight didn’t last more than ten minutes at best. The explosion came from under the arena, no doubt a failsafe for Vlad to use in emergencies, but it wasn’t a true bomb. An electrostatic pulse meant to incapacitate. He has nodes lining the walls of the actual circle, and my guess is that they can conduct the pulses through them and send it throughout the whole arena. Still, any bomb of that size causes a big impact, and that’s why there was a sudden dust storm and so much chaos.” San brings a hand to his hair and combs through his sweat-slick locks. “No doubt that’s what is taking Seonghwa and Jongho so long. And a unit was probably dispatched to take care of them too.”

“Then shouldn’t we go in there and help out?” You offer, tilting your head to the side.

“It’s best to guard this entrance from further intruders.” Yeosang is the one to answer you. You peek over in his direction. Wooyoung clings to him like a vice and refuses to let his arms pull away from the blond for even a fraction of a second, and frankly, you cannot blame him at this point.

“Then we should—”

You cut your thought short out of the blue. Expectant eyes turn to you, waiting for you to continue what you were saying, but your mind goes elsewhere. A chill runs down your spine. A freezing cold sensation blossoms in your fingertips, spreading and spreading until you feel it down to your toes. Jerking your head, you glance back over your shoulder only to find nothing there except for the retreating backs of civilians who are still trying to get out of the building.

“Y/N? What’s goi—”

“Shut up,” you hiss, not caring to process whoever the voice belongs to. Nothing. Not the barest hint of a sound. A ruckus coming from both ends of the tunnel, but the air is completely still under the tension hanging about you in this part. Too still. You bring your chin forward once more only to test a theory. It proves useful because the second you face San again, a clink of metal resounds. Something rolls by your left foot. A small, round silver ball. Etchings all over the sphere. Two carefully carved initials into the side of the metal. Technology you’ve only seen from one person before.

You’re too late to kick it out of the way, and a gust of freezing cold smoke hisses around your body, filling the air with a new kind of dust that blinds you in seconds. All you can hear are the sounds of the others coughing near you. You think back to the letters that rolled across your vision.

Smoke bomb. Not just any smoke bomb — one specially crafted and made for reconnaissance and assassination missions. You would know exactly what their original purpose was supposed to be because there is only one person you know of in the entire universe who would sign his name off on a bomb.

Your body careens to the floor before you can think about it further, a force slamming so hard into your back that almost every ounce of air leaves your lungs.

“Jisung,” you exhale with the last few huffs of air in your body. The pressure on your back alleviates in less than a second.

Han Jisung.

Assassin, Spectre, reconnaissance specialist.

Talents: crafting special grade weaponry for missions.

Trademark: carving his initials into every single weapon he creates.

Han Jisung.

Jisung is gone.

“I swear on my life that I’ll never leave you.”

Gone.

“Promise me that you won’t.”

Here.

“I could never. I love you far too much to do that.”

Jisung is here.

“Did you miss me, Y/N?”

That’s the last thing you hear before something sharp digs into the back of your neck, and a strange warmth fills your veins. You don’t have time to think about what it could be because it sends you into a deep and intense state of unconsciousness within mere seconds.

…

The air around you is stiff and unmoving, cold as ice yet you don't feel goosebumps rising across your skin. A dark night sky looms above you with its scattering of bright stars. Near the center of the indigo sea lies a brilliant red moon; bright in its blinding color. Something about the scene is familiar, the clearness of the sky reminds you of something from your past. No clouds, no breeze, no sounds of nightlife.

It's a sense of complete and utter peace. Something damp seeps through your clothing, touching your skin and leaving you cold. You sit up and press your palms to the ground below you. Instead of meeting solid ground, however, you're met by water. It splashes against your legs, and you withdraw your hands from the surface in an instant.

Water?

You bring your chin up, glancing across your surroundings. It's a lake, a shallow one yes, considering that your legs aren't fully submerged and you seem to be placed in the middle of it. A chill runs down your spine. You know exactly where you are. The water beneath you runs black, and the enormous moon hanging in the sky is only present on one planet. It's only then, when you discern where you are, that you realize you're in a dream and not reality. You push yourself to your feet, nearly slipping on the slick mud beneath the layer of black water. A man sits at the edge of the lake, undisturbed and unbothered by your presence.

You wade through the water in the direction of the man. As you get closer, his features become more clear under the vibrant red moonlight. A familiar face to go along with the familiar scenery. He prods at the pebbles along the shore of the lake with a crooked stick, paying you no attention even as you splash water across the rocks with your steps.

“It's been a while since I've seen you, old man,” you greet, soft tone carrying through the air with ease in the absence of a breeze. The rugged form before you doesn't move. He continues to prod at the stones near your feet and pushes black water against your ankles. You wait a moment in the hopes that he'll look up at you and respond, but he still acts as though you don't exist.

“Daichi,” you try again in an attempt to garner his attention. It works this time.

His chin snaps up, a wrinkled face becoming clear before you, and blue eyes stare into yours. Piercing and cold, just as you remember from your last encounter with the aged man.

“Ah, Tsukio. There you are.”

✧✧✧ a/n: ignore that i haven’t fixed the banner yet that is a later problem right now it’s all about sURPRISE CHAPTER 32!!! WHATS GOOD?! jk um please dont yell at me LMAO yall about to be mad mad after this so save your anger for the next one WHOOPS!

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