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teyamsatan · 1 year

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Cruel Summer | Chapter IV: 'Tis The Damn Season

Pairings: Neteyam x (f)Human!Reader

Word Count: 8.2k words

Warnings/notes: angst, allusions to/mentions of smut, Neteyam x reader being the absolute cutest, some fluff, all the feels, 18+ minors DNI

Synopsis: Neteyam in unable to stop himself from confessing a truth he's tried to bury for years, a truth that will change everything between you. Jake shares news with his son that will threaten whatever peace Neteyam's come to know.

A/N: there's no earthly reason why this chapter had to take so long except my own inability to write it and procrastinating with requests instead. i hope this was worth the wait, and as this is the second to last chapter, prepare yourself for the main meal soon. I don't think that will take that long, cause I've had the last chapter in my mind before I even started writing this story to begin with. I hope you enjoy, i'd love to hear your thoughts, i love to hear from you besties.

: ̗̀➛ listen to the Cruel Summer playlist here : ̗̀➛ masterlist (x) : ̗̀➛ series masterlist (x)

I'm stayin' at my parents' house

And the road not taken looks real good now

And it always leads to you in my hometown

Neteyam’s head was spinning with worry and mind-numbing fear, watching his sister’s spirit be taken out of her, her bioluminescent freckles that usually shine brighter than any other Na’vi he’s ever seen so dim they were barely alight anymore. He was picking at his nails nervously, a habit he hasn’t had since he was 7, watching as his mother was trying her best to shake her awake, almost like she was trying to will life back into her. The wails got to Neteyam more than he cared to admit, and eventually, he excused himself and left the family marui, settling instead for watching the tiny glowing fish as they surrounded and circled his ankles. Neteyam rarely felt powerless in his life. No matter what the situation was, no matter how dire, he always felt like he could somehow make it his own, he could somehow make it work. But now, as he stood there, listening to cries and tries, listening to his family trying to figure out how to save his baby sister, Neteyam felt hopeless and helpless, like a child. In moments like this, he missed you most. It was hard being without you always, his body having to unlearn and relearn instincts and feelings, having to rewire his brain from having been so accustomed to you and your body, and your mind and your soul for the past 19 years of his life. You would know what to do. You’d have some medical trick or a human way, you’d scream everyone out of the room and you’d just somehow figure it out. You always were able to just… figure things out. He missed that, along with everything else.

“I’m going to contact Norm and Max, ok, baby? It’s going to be alright, they’ll know what to do. It’ll be alright.”

Neteyam was terrified as the hours passed, waiting for the flying machine he knew would be coming any minute, and what would it bring along with it. His questions, his biggest dream and biggest nightmare, all plaguing him and his mind for the past few hours, were swiftly answered as from the helicopter came three figures, one blue one and two humans. One human in particular he cared about. His heart was beating so loudly it was almost completely covering the incessant, deafening sound the propellor blades were making. You were so beautiful, even more beautiful than he remembered. He couldn’t help the way his eyes trailed over your body and focused on scars that have appeared in the time you were apart, scars that made his stomach drop, or the way your hair was shorter, or the way you have gotten leaner and more muscular. He couldn’t help his mind wandering and twisting every change, a deep feeling of sorrow and weird jealousy, for the people that got to watch you grow, for the people that had to touch your body to heal your wounds, for the people the got to help you when he didn’t - when he couldn’t.

Your eyes immediately found his, the way they always had the power to, and his breath hitched in his throat, the way it always seemed to when you did. He didn’t miss the way your eyes widened imperceptibly as you noticed him, nor the way they hardened as his presence took his toll on your mind. The frown and the hurt, the slight glistening of tears threatening to spill reminded Neteyam of the last time he saw you, the time that could have gone better, should have gone better than it did, and how he never got the chance to say goodbye. So many words he wanted to say, so many confessions that have rested in his chest for years that needed to be let out but weren’t, now close to spilling out as a blurt of messed-up feelings. So close, yet so far. Because this wasn’t the time - it never seemed to be when it came to you and him. You stood in the back and watched as Norm and Max greeted his father, and you all made your way back to the tent, the attention fully back on his sister who was still unconscious. The sight of her tugged at his heart so much it was making him sick, so he refused to walk in and see what they were doing, what human devices and contraptions it took to bring Kiri back to them.

There's an ache in you put there by the ache in me

But if it's all the same to you, it's the same to me

His skin felt like it caught fire as it perceived your body in its vicinity, as you walked out of the marui and settled on the weaved pathway by the edge of the water, feet dangling off it. It felt so strange, having you back in his space. Like so much and yet nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t left you, and his life behind, his happiness and hope, like you didn’t kick him out and refused to send him off and at least pretend to make it easier on both of you. Like he never had to keep pretending his life wasn’t permeated fully by your very essence, your very being, by everything you were.

“Vol…”

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Neteyam felt anger bubble up inside him. This whole thing was so fucking unfair. You were so fucking unfair. He didn’t choose any of this. He didn’t want to leave you, why can’t you see that? Why could you not at least try to understand, try to be a little sympathetic towards the fact that this was killing him, and he suffered everyday, and the cold he felt from you cut worse than any blade, hurt worse than any wound.

“God fucking damn it, Vol. Can you stop with the attitude and just please talk to me? I don’t see you in months, you show up here, clearly, you wanted to see us… see me. I’m here, so just talk to me. If you have to scream, or shout, or kick me, you can do that as long as you fucking talk.”

“I’m not here for you. I’m here for Kiri.”

“Oh, stop it. Norm and Max could take care of Kiri well enough, and you know that. You’re not just here for Kiri. You’re here for me, too. I want to talk, we have to talk.”

“No, Neteyam. We don’t have to talk. There’s nothing to talk about because nothing fucking matters anymore. None of it. We’re just strangers now, right? Acquaintances. I’ll see you every few months whenever Jake needs something and that’s about the extent of our relationship. Nineteen years of being there for you, of being your best friend, and in a day, you somehow became a stranger. You gave away the right to talk to me the second you walked out that door.”

Neteyam watched as you took your leave, going back into the tent, leaving him once more to deal with all that stood to plague him.

It took hours, but Kiri’s condition wasn’t improving even with all the contraptions and equipment you were using on her. None of you knew what was wrong, although Norm and Max thought it was epilepsy. It looked like epilepsy, you thought, but if it had been, she would be back by now. It hurt you watching her like that, laying on the floor, the light of her freckles so dim they were barely visible anymore, and you touched her, running your hands over her chest and arm, hoping you could pray the light back into her, so you could tell her you’re sorry that you didn’t say goodbye to her. You would tell her that every time you are in the forest and you find a bead or flower that you’ve never seen before, you collect it with her in mind and keep it there in the hopes you’ll one day see her again, and she could use them for her tops or for the jewellery she always makes for everyone she loves. You missed her, the same way you missed them all, and you needed her to know that, despite all the hurt and the pain they’ve left behind, she would always be your sister.

Neytiri eyed you curiously while you spent time with her daughter, and you cowered a little under her gaze. You knew it was dumb, but you’ve always loved Neytiri. You watched your whole life as she was the best mother to her children, and how patient and caring and funny and attentive she was, and you always hoped one day she’d learn to love you too, and that through her you could finally feel what it was like to have a mother, a loving mother. But she never did, no matter the time that passed or the efforts you made, so you stopped trying and forsook your futile aspirations. It was time to grow up, and you did - not fully whole, never quite the person you hoped you would become, but there was no point in dwelling on matters of the past, of realities you’d never be able to undo.

“Will she live?” Your eyes snapped to her in shock as she spoke. She very rarely ever spoke to you directly. And not only did she do just that, but she asked you a question. A genuine question about the well-being of her daughter. You couldn’t believe she cared what you thought about it to ask. She sounded so sad and desolate, her voice hoarse and nasal from the amount she had cried.

“I’m sure she will… she’s a tough girl. She’s special, she always has been. I think she’ll be just fine.”

“Then why isn’t she awake yet? If it’s what they say it is… why?” Her voice broke at the last word and yours was not far off when you answered her.

“I don’t know. But I don’t think they are right. I think it’s more complicated than that.”

She looked confused at you, then approached and sat down in front of her, across from you, as her hands also found Kiri’s body, pushing the bangs out of her face.

“Her seizure happened at the Tree of Souls. At the bridge between this world and Eywa’s. I think nothing we, humans, or our technology could possibly do could bring her back. I think she needs the Tsa’hik.”

Her eyes widened at your words and she immediately got up and sprinted out of the tent, and you hoped you were right, partly because of Kiri and partly cause maybe this way, not that it mattered anymore, but maybe she’d finally stop looking at you like a stray dog and more like an actual person.

The next thing you knew, Neytiri came in with an array of people, the most imposing of which was a woman, who you assumed was the Metkayina Tsa’hik, who intimidated you beyond belief from the second she walked in, all tall and beautiful and imposing… and pregnant. You instinctively rose from your spot and got out, feeling a sudden chill in the room and knowing for a fact it wasn’t a place you were welcomed in anymore. You didn’t care, as long as it meant Kiri would be fine. You joined the rest of the family and the scientists outside, the silence thick as all of you watched with heavy hearts, hoping for a miracle. It took a while, but eventually, the silence was disrupted by gasps of relief as Kiri did indeed wake up, immediately tackled by several of her family members hugging her, consoling her as she cried.

So we could call it even

You could call me babe for the weekend

'Tis the damn season, write this down

Early in the evening, when everything settled down, you made your way outside the marui once more, looking at the sky as it was preparing itself for eclipse, finally able to take in the beauty of this place, unlike anything you’ve ever seen before and more breathtaking than you could have ever imagined. You felt Neteyam’s presence flood your own as he approached you - your senses might never be as acute as theirs, neither your vision, or hearing, or touch able to hold a candle to their own, but none of that ever mattered when it came to him. His being was enough to turn you inside out, and sharpen your senses so that it would pick up everything about him, from his slightly musky and woody smell, that changed throughout the month as his heat approached, to the sound and cadence of his footsteps that were unmistakable to you no matter how far they were approaching you from, to the slight clink of the beads in his hair, that sometimes felt like it moved on its own accord, to even his breathing and its pattern, and the way it seemed to increase whenever he was close to you.

“Now can we talk? Kiri’s fine, she’s finally fine. Please, Vol…”

“Neteyam, I can’t make myself any clearer. I have nothing to say to you.”

Neteyam felt anger overtake him again. What would he have to do to get you to listen, to get you to give him one second, just one second to explain to you, to talk to you? It was so fucking unfair, to have to lose so much and yet be painted as the villain by you, the person who’s supposed to know him better than anyone else in the world, who used to understand him, to whom he never had to explain any of his thought process because there was no need. You always just knew. He hoped he didn’t have to do this, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and with that rationale in mind, Neteyam approached you suddenly and picked you up, throwing you over his shoulder and making his way out of the village.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?! Put me down!” Neteyam pondered her question for a second. Maybe he truly was out of his mind. None of this was like him at all, this is not something he would ever have done a while ago, never before you. Neteyam was selfless, that’s how he was brought up to be, that’s the only way he knew how to be. But for the first time in his life, he needed to be selfish. For the first time in his life, he would do what he wanted to do, and he wanted to talk to you. Alone. He wanted to feel you, he wanted to remember what it was like for his heart to jump out of his chest and for his nostrils to be flooded with the only scent that drove his senses haywire and for his mind to scramble trying to understand the myriad of emotions running through it while he looked at you. He hasn’t seen you in months, haven’t felt you in months, and he was supposed to let it go without a fight?

No fucking way.

You were so light in his arms, it felt like he was carrying a doll, and he barely registered your tiny ineffectual fists punching at his back, although he did feel like your legs were definitely stronger, just like the rest of you was since he last saw you. He didn’t stop until he hit an isolate meadow in the mangrove forest, your annoyed huffs and croaky screams drowning out the beautiful melodies played by the birds and his family’s ikran, that now had a home in these trees.

“I have no problem with holding you like this the whole time, but I’d rather look at you while I speak. I will put you down, but I swear on everything I hold dear, Vol, if you run, I will drag you back by your feet if I have to. We are talking, whether you like it or not.”

With that threat, he lifted you off his shoulder and put you gently on the ground. You stood where he placed you, but refused to look at him, a deep frown marring your beautiful face. He sighed, feeling defeated and unmoored, but kneeled in front of you so he can look at your face properly, and you could look at his.

“Vol, we haven’t seen each other in months. I didn’t know whether I’d ever see you again, but you’re here. You came here, out of your own volition. I know you wanted to see me. I know you, Vol. And you know me. You’re the only one that knows me.” He takes a hold of your mask gently and angles your face with barely any force to make you face him. “I was so mad at you for the way you shut me out. For not allowing me to say goodbye the way I wanted to, the way I should have. I needed to hold you, and tell you that I’ll miss you and that you’ll always be my best friend. That I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes could barely hold it in, the urge to let it out and cry. Cry at seeing him again, at how frustrating he was, how angry you were, but how happy at the same time to finally see him again, to feel his touch on your skin and the way it lit it on fire, the way desire and ache and love pulsed through your veins at his mere proximity, how, despite all the months, all the time, all the hurt, it felt like nothing had changed between you, like seeing him again was exactly like coming back home after a long day outside, exhausted and spent, and happy to be comfortable and safe again.

“I don’t care. I don’t care how sorry any of you are. You left your clan behind, and me, all of us behind, to go hide while we stand and fight and worry for our lives and the lives of everyone in the clan.”

Your words struck a chord in Neteyam and he felt the anger prick painfully at his mind, and despite priding himself on his composure, he couldn’t hold it in any longer, not anymore. Months of anguish kept inside finally came out and there was little he could do to stop it.

“We left so we could protect you! Why must you be so stubborn all of the fucking time? This wasn’t done to hurt you, Vol. This has nothing to do with you! None of us wanted to go! Believe it or not, you’re not the only one affected by this. I understand that you are upset and you have every reason to be, but what was the alternative? Either we stayed and the whole clan was even more at risk than it already is, or we brought two humans with us across the oceans to a new clan that hates humans?! Stop being so fucking selfish for one second and understand this isn’t only about you! I fucking lost everything that day! I lost my home, and my friends, and my future as Olo’eyktan, fuck, I lost the woman I lo-“

Your eyes go wide in shock at the words almost spoken, words that you imagined all your life but couldn’t believe right now. That can’t be what he was telling you, right? After all this time apart, after all the time together, in which you shared anything and everything under the sun, in secrets kept and broken promises, it couldn’t be that Neteyam was confessing to you something you swore you’d never feel for each other, something you wanted nothing more than to hear, something that would somehow both kill you and put you back together at the same time.

“What did you just say?”

Time flies, messy as the mud on your truck tires

Now I'm missing your smile, hear me out

We could just ride around

And the road not taken looks real good now

And it always leads to you in my hometown

His own wide eyes settle after a while, deep, settling breaths calming his heartbeat that he could feel in his throat, in his ears, in his temples. This was it. After all this time, after everything you’ve gone through, ironically now when there was no chance for you, not that there ever was, now when he was mad at you, when he would lose you again in just a short while, now he was about to confess something that has plagued him for years, that he’s wanted to tell you, that he knew he never could.

He slowly brought his hand to your neck and collarbone, eyes tearing up mirroring your own, and he knew it would be easy telling you this, because loving you was easy, and falling in love with you - the easiest thing he’s ever done. His thumb caressed your soft skin and he watched in wonder as your mouth opened slightly, a soft exhale escaping you, and he followed the tear that rolled down your cheek when you closed your eyes from the overwhelming feelings trying you.

“I lost the woman I love. The only woman I’ve ever loved. The annoying, aggravating, impossible woman who I’ve watched become the most beautiful, intelligent, incredible person, who taught me everything I know about anything that matters. Who I promised I wouldn’t fall in love with, but I did. A long time ago.”

You shook your head slightly, feeling the tears fall down your face, the stitches that you managed to put in the wounds deep in your soul coming loose around him, bleeding once more, and you wondered if despite wishing to hear these words for years, now that you have, it was the last thing you were ever going to hear. Because how are you supposed to survive this now, this overbearing pain of loving him, and losing him, knowing all this time he loved you, too, and that this was so far past what you agreed on… that it was love, requited love, crazy, stupid, incredible, one-of-a-kind love?

“You can’t say shit like this to me, Neteyam. You think I’m selfish? How about you? Why would you say these things to me now? I’m about to leave, I’m about to lose you again. It took me months to put back together what you broke, and I’m still not there yet, and now you say this shit, and what am I supposed to do with it, huh? How am I supposed to move on? To accept that I love a man that’ll never be mine, that I’ll never have except in fleeting moments, in secret affairs, that I’ve had to watch turn his back to me and choose duty over me, over and over and over again. You’re being mean. You’re being selfish.”

“You fucking taught me to be selfish. You told me over and over my whole life to be more selfish. Well here I am, I’m being selfish. I want something, and that something is you. I want you. I need you. I need you to know that I’m in love with you, and to know that at least once in my life I get to make love to the woman i love and know that she loves me too, and that this is real, and that I’ve known this feeling and lived this feeling, at least once. Please. Please just tell me it wasn’t in my head. That all these years, despite what we told each other and ourselves, I loved you and you loved me too. And it was real, the only real thing I’ve ever known.”

He sounded so forlorn, so desperate for you to ease his pain and mend his heart that was just as broken as yours, that suffered through as much, if not more, that was laid bared on the table for you to see it, to feel it, to either take it gently in your palms or squish it under your feet. No matter how mad you were, it was hard not to be taken aback and awed at his confession, not to feel privileged to be loved by him, by the best man you’ve ever met, a man who could have anyone in this world easily, whose mere presence in a room commands respect and attention, whose mind and words inspired Omaticaya songs, whose body motivated young men and enamoured young women. He was the best there was, and he wanted you. A human, who had none of the qualities praised and admired in the clan and in his world, but all the ones he wanted and hoped for. Because you were his best friend. And you understood him, and you stood by him through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, your whole entire lives. And you loved him, despite his shortcomings, despite being different to you, and you smiled at him in the way that put the sun to shame, and your eyes lit up when looking at him in a way that put the stars out of work. And you found him funny, which few people did - Lo’ak was the funny one, not him, that’s what he has always been told, but not to you, and if he was honest with himself, he only made jokes to hear your laugh and to feel the way you punched him whenever you found something funny. You have loved him all your life, you’ve been in love with him for years, and despite all that stood against you, all that you knew would prevent your own happy ending, despite your mind telling you it’s easier to just walk away, it’s safer for you to just leave and protect your heart, your heart needed to feel his, and feel him. Your heart needed to know what it would be, to be with him knowing what you knew now, knowing for a fact this is real, and it’s everything.

You circled his wrist with your fingers and your other hand found his hair, that you pushed away from his face. You couldn’t help your smile that felt like the first real one you’ve cracked in months, and the way your heart skipped every other beat taking in his beauty, marvelling at his eyes that were pools of love and lust, of sadness and hope, of anguish and fear.

“Of course it was real, skxawng.” You said with soft sobs. “It’s all real. It’s always been real. My whole life, you’ve been the only thing that’s been real.” You took off your mask, and closed the distance between you and kissed him, and you both melt into it, feeling the months apart fade away, feeling your mind empty of everything outside of him and his taste and his scent, and the feel of his skin as your palms traced his face and neck, of the way your own skin tingles under his touch. As you put your mask back on, struggling to catch your breath, he reaches for the buttons of your linen shirt and undoes them with surprising gentleness and accuracy, so tiny in his huge hands, and slides the shirt down your arms until it falls on the floor. You shudder a little under the breeze now caressing your bare skin and at the way Neteyam’s thumb flickers over one of your nipples, still covered by a black lace bra.

“You’re so beautiful. So, so beautiful. I can’t believe I get to love you, I can’t believe you’re mine. And I’m yours, Vol. I’m yours, I’ve always been yours. I’ll always be yours.”

You said nothing as the seed of doubt didn’t allow you to hope or even consider the future, instead getting lost in the pleasure of his skilled hands on your body, that still knew everything about you, as he laid you down on the ground gently and hovered over you, as his lips drew maps of unknown marvels on your soft skin, so different to his, but still so familiar, and he felt for the first time since his ikran landed on that beach months ago that this place could finally feel like home. He hated how despite memorising every curve, and beauty mark, and scar on your body, there were things that he had to relearn, curves he had to discover as his mouth came to terms with the changes he wasn’t there to witness, wasn’t there to get accustomed to as they happened to you. He pushed the unpleasant thought aside. It just meant he needed to relearn it, and he was happy with that. He was happy to hope he would get to once again know everything about you, and never get the chance to miss you again.

Despite your silence, the tears still came and went, fogging up your mask listening to him and thinking about how much you’ve wanted this, and how much it will all hurt when it will inevitably succumb into nothing again. He stopped and came back to your level as he heard your quiet sniffles, ears perking up at the sound.

“Vol…”

“We shouldn’t be doing this, Neteyam. When you left, it killed me. It took me months to get back together enough to be normal again, if we do this, after everything you’ve said, after what i know, if i lose you, I…”

For the first time in his life and in your life, it was Neteyam who removed your mask covering your face and kissed you, and you swore you could have died then and been happy about it, and thank your lucky star you got to go while feeling his lips on yours, but soon enough he covered your face again and caressed your hair gently.

“We have to do this because of what I said. Because of what you said. Because you are the only woman I’ll ever love, because for all intents and purposes, you are my mate. I want you to be my mate. Because all I’ve dreamt about for years is doing this with you knowing that you loved me too.” His expression changed, and in a serious tone, he continued. “But we won’t do anything you don’t want to, Vol. If you don’t want to do this, just tell me.”

Damn him, you thought bitterly. Damn him for having the ability of making you completely forget and forsake reason or any critical thinking when it came to him, when it came to what he meant to you. Of course you wanted to do this. You wanted nothing more than to do this. And despite how much your mind was screaming in pain at the eventuality of his loss, another part of it was screaming at the possibility of never feeling this feeling, at least once. All you managed was a meek shake of your head, and he smiled, a stupidly handsome smile and you couldn’t help yours from blossoming on your face as well, or the sense of fleeting happiness that enveloped you like a warm blanket.

Despite whatever feelings of love you now knew were harboured in your convoluted relationship, you and Neteyam very rarely acted like it when you had sex. Your love was mostly tangible in the way you healed him, in the way he listened to your endless chattering about human stuff, in the way he looked at you when you said something that he found particularly endearing or the way you looked for him first whenever something anything of note happened to you. Sex, on the other hand, was a means to an end to you most times, just a way to relief tension and stress, a way to give your body what it needed, what it wanted, with someone who knew how to get it there. It was rough, and teasing, it was pushing your bodies to the extremes and testing your own and each other’s boundaries, but there was no need for that now. Because right now, in the way he touched you, in the way you felt, you knew this was different. You knew it was going to change everything yet again, more so than a mere confession ever could. Because now, knowing what you knew, feeling what you felt, you were making love, and it was an intimacy you’ve never experienced before.

Back then, no matter how thoroughly he got you ready, no matter how long the foreplay, there was always a sense of urgency. It lasted all night, and there was still urgency to it. There was none of that now, as he explored every ounce of your body in languid, deliberate movements in between sonorous whispers that sounded a lot like adoration and wonderment, that told you how much he loved you, how much he’s missed you, how you were everything to him and listening to it felt a lot like heaven, a lot like comfort, a lot like home.

He caressed your thighs from your ankles to the hips, and gently removed your shorts and placed them on the ground, next to your shirt. He inhaled sharply taking in your body and how much he missed it, and how much despite all the little changes, you were still very much yourself, and your body was still the one he used to get drunk on every night, that he got to once more tonight. You helped him out by removing your bra and underwear, and you smiled at the way his pupils dilated watching you, his eyes almost black now. You pulled him by his loincloth until he was over you again, and he took no time in attaching himself to you, and his lips to your neck, and his hands to your waist. Your heart was beating loudly as you felt him and he smiled against your chest when his lips felt your quickening pulse, knowing that his was just the same, that this was so much more than it ever was before. He never quite understood while people put so much emphasis on sex, why it was regarded as such an intimate act, especially to humans, but he understood now, as he felt you, as he knew you were in love with each other, that there was no doubt in either of your minds, that this feeling, and what you were doing, was something he could only conceive of doing with you, that this was going to bind you for life, regardless of the bond, regardless of a mating ritual, regardless of anything else. You were his and he was yours, forever.

You reached over and untied his tewng and threw it with the rest of your clothes and just as it happened every time, you were always taken aback by his length, that somehow was always bigger than you remembered, and in light of the months spent apart, you were genuinely wondering about the logistics of how it was ever going to fit.

“I know, I’m a little concerned, too.”

You laughed, relieved that it was a thought shared between you, and doing your best to compose yourself and take a deep breath in, you removed your mask once more with one hand and pulled him towards you with the other, your lips meeting in a wet, messy kiss, filled with euphoric smiles and breathless moans, and for the first time in your life, you felt happy. Even it was just for a little while, just for a short, fleeting moment in time, you were wholly happy, and you had everything you ever wanted. A maskless kiss in the beautiful nature that surrounded you, shared with the man you loved, that you now knew loved you too, and the quiet hope of tomorrow. You didn’t want it to end, even as you felt the world slowly disappear from view, even as he reluctantly put some distance between you and helped you fasten it back onto your face.

“I never missed your room more than right this second.”

“Tell me about it.”

As he slowly entered you, you were reminded of your first time, nearly two years ago now, and how sweet he had been, and how thoughtful and kind, and how he was the same now. He took his time, comforting you at every point, and held you as you cried from the pain of being stretched out after so long, by a length and girth no human normally was supposed to know, and he talked you through it, and you cracked a few jokes in between soft sobs and muffled cries, and you understood then what it felt like to be whole, and mended by a touch or a gaze, as long as they came from the one person in the world that mattered.

When the pain subsided, it was replaced by ecstasy and the best feeling you’ve ever felt, as the pleasure he was always able to coax out of you was magnified infinitely by his confession, and you knew he felt the same by the way he looked at you, by how isolated tears fell from his eyes and onto your mask, how his smile was radiant and reassured, how he held you and touched you like he’d never let you go again, and God, you hoped he never did. When you came, you came together, and the overwhelming feelings left you a panting, limp mess around him, your mind empty from the high and full from the simple “I love you” that followed.

“I have missed you so much, Vol.” suddenly, he picks you up by your waist and turns you so that you are placed gently on his chest, and you sprawl on his body, with him still deep in you, tightening your arms around him and your head on his chest. You lay there for a long while, while he places kisses on your head and runs his fingers down your back and thighs, taking you in, and you listen to his heartbeat, fast and erratic, so much like your own, so much like the soundtrack to your dreams, the music of your deepest fantasies.

It took forever for either of you to move at all, just content being in each other’s presence, making up for months of lost love and lost nights. Eventually, you removed your head from where it has found its once-more home, and looked at him.

“I missed you, too. I can’t believe I’m here. There’s so much I want to tell you.”

And so you did. You spent hours talking, catching up, talking about anything and everything, like you always used to when you were young. You told him about training and how Tarsem is doing a good job as Olo'eyktan, how he wants both you and Spider to be a more involved part of the plan, how he’s got you training and how you feel excited to be more involved in this part of his life that you never quite got to be involved in before. You tell him about every new scar on your body and he does the same, and he goes over the village and the training, and all the new people he’s met and how he likes Tsireya and Rot’xo but not Aonung, he tells you about all the ways Lo’ak is testing their dad’s patience and all the dreams he’s had of you. That takes a while, and you laugh at the sillier ones and cry at the more emotional ones, and cry at the way he was right that you had been selfish, and how much in your attempt to deal with your own heartbreak, you forgot that he was going through his own. You never separated from each other, still hugging, or cuddling, or pressing at least one leg against the other’s, refusing to be more than a couple centimetres apart at a time, if you could help it.

Sleep in half the day just for old times' sake

I won't ask you to wait if you don't ask me to stay

So I'll go back to L.A. and the so-called friends

Who'll write books about me, if I ever make it

And wonder about the only soul who can tell which smiles I'm fakin'

You didn’t talk about the future. About how you knew you would have to leave soon, and what would happen after, you didn’t talk about the hurt or the pain, or the way it would come crashing down in front of you so soon, because right now, it didn’t matter. Because you knew for the first time in your life that all the pain the world could possibly throw at you would be worth this, and if you had to spend your whole life paying for it, you’ve made your peace with that. At least, you got this. And no matter what you lost, you’d always have this.

In the morning, he took your hand in his and lifted you, and watched as you put your bra and panties back on. He didn’t say anything as you bent for the rest of your clothes, clearly enjoying the view, but stopped you as you were trying to get dressed.

“Let’s go for a swim. You have a mask, you can breathe underwater better than me.” He chuckled a little. “I want to show you my new life, I need you to be part of it.”

You were touched by his words. You nodded and dropped the shirt, and removed your hand from his swiftly. Without warning, you started running towards the beach, not looking behind you as you screamed after him.

“Last one in the water has to do whatever the other one wants.”

Neteyam rolled his eyes, but watched as you ran away from him, as you always did, wild and free, and he was relieved to realise some things would never change, and this was definitely one, alongside the eternal love he felt for you. He gave you quite the headstart, but eventually started running, and it took very little on his part to catch up to you, and he listened to your screams of annoyance as his feet touched the water first and he dove in, submerging his body and grabbing your waist and pulling you under with him. He allowed you to take the unearthly beauty in, with a shocked expression on your face, your mouth agape as you noticed the coral and all the fish that were circling you curiously. You reached out for them and they immediately dispersed, and he smiled at how it made you jump slightly, his heart swelling with affection and jubilance at this moment that he never thought he’d get, that he would never forget, that he would cherish forever.

You swam for hours, and for the first time in either of your lives, Neteyam felt grateful for your mask, that allowed you to breathe underwater for extended periods of time, much longer than he could, that allowed you to go with him on an ilu and experience this new feeling that felt so different than an ikran, and yet somehow just as liberating and freeing, and you loved it, and all of a sudden he loved it a little more than he did before.

"So what do you want?" you say playfully as you resurface, your head in his neck, his body flush against yours as you float aimlessly. He just tilts his head, not understanding your question.

"You beat me in the water. I said that whoever wins gets to tell the other what to do."

Neteyam thought about it for a long while.

"I have everything I want right now." he held you a bit tighter as he answered. "I still can't believe you're here. I can't believe these last few hours have been real. There's nothing else I could ever want."

You sighed against him, and he couldn't tell if it was happy or not, and right now, he didn't want to know.

"You're a better person than I am. I would have asked for eternal servitude."

He chuckled as his lips found your wet hair again.

"You got it, Vol."

And the heart I know I'm breakin' is my own

To leave the warmest bed I've ever known

As you walked back to the village, the dream world you lived in since he brought you to the forest was quickly fading before your eyes, and the worries, and the fear were settling in again, like they always seemed to, and it felt a lot like greeting old friends that never left, just hid a little under a curtain of flowy incandescence, ready to pounce at the slightest opportunity. Neteyam's voice broke through the dark feelings overcoming you, like he always had the power to.

“I know it's scary, thinking of what's next. I know. I'm terrified, but seeing you again, Vol, this night, this morning, it made me realise I can't lose you again. So just stay. I’ll talk to my parents, I’ll talk to the Metkayina. We’ll figure it out. Just please stay.”

His words managed to put your mind as ease almost as much as they shocked you in their spontaneity and craziness. Neteyam wasn't a rash person, or a person who just blurted out big life decisions, such as this one. You laughed awkwardly, trying to defuse the tension you felt in yourself and in the air around you.

“How would that ever work, silly?”

“I don’t know. It will work. Or I’ll come back with you, I’ll come back home. We’ll figure it out, ok? Just please say yes.”

You roll your eyes at him, but you were grateful. And so, so happy. Because despite everything, this was everything you've ever wanted, and everything you thought you'd never get. You didn't know why you came to Awa'atlu. To yell at him, to check for yourself how he was doing, if he managed to move on easier than you could. To be angry, to get closure, to say goodbye forever. But now, it felt a lot like you were here for a new beginning, for a second chance at love, and how could you ever say no to that? The little nod makes Neteyam beam, and he picks you up and spins you around, once again kissing each-other against the ticking time bomb of your forsaken mask, laughing against his lips and his cheeks as he peppers kisses throughout your whole face, on your eyes, and your cheeks, on your forehead and your nose.

"Thank you."

We could call it even, even though I'm leavin'

And I'll be yours for the weekend, 'tis the damn season

"I'll go check on Kiri. You talk to your parents, ok?"

Neteyam did just that, as he found his dad sitting alone by the edge of the water, cleaning his favourite weapon, the way he liked to do when there was something on his mind, or something weighing heavily on his shoulders. Kiri's condition must have taken a bigger toll on him than Neteyam realised, he thought absentmindedly. He was so nervous, so afraid of what he had to say and how his parents would react. His mating situation has been a matter of great debate in their family for a years now, and so to tell them he's chosen... a human, essentially giving up his chance at feeling the bond, at a child... he knew would be a lot to take in, but he was ready, and he had chosen, and for once in his life, Neteyam would have his way.

"Dad?"

His father was startled as he got pulled out of his musings, another rare occurence.

"Neteyam, it's good you're here. I need to chat to you."

Neteyam took a seat by his dad, eyeing him keenly.

"Is everything alright, you seem off."

"Neteyam..." the former Olo'eyktan winced a little, refusing to meet his son's gaze.

"The situation with the Metkayina is... a little more dire than I told you before. Tonowari told us the clan is not fully willing to accept us, that they don't consider us one of them, even despite the Uturu given by their own Olo'eyktan. He's worried for our future here, and honestly son, so am I. I don't want us to have to leave again, to have to uproot our family once more.

He's... thought of a solution. For it to be an easier transition. A way forward, a way to unite the clans, the power of the Omaticaya, the blood of the Toruk Makto with the ruling family of the reef people. As you know, Tonowari has an older daughter, a warrior. She's said to be one of the most proficient and skilled warriors this tribe's ever seen. They say she's beautiful and smart. Kind and charismatic.

Neteyam... in order for us to stay, you will have to mate with her."

And I’ll be yours for the weekend..

‘tis the damn season.

Taglist: @liluvtojineteyam @pinkpantheris @fanboyluvr @bananafruityawne @zaddyneteyamlovergirl @netemoon @www-interludeshadow-com

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velidewrites · 1 year

Text

Summary: When 19-year old Feyre Archeron voluntarily takes her sister's place in the Hunger Games, she expects nothing but her imminent demise. But Feyre is a survivor, and as she is thrown into a battle between life and death, she discovers there are things worth fighting for.

Pairing: Feysand

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of blood and gore, Feyre being sexy and unhinged, wait a second is that Rhysand? Is he also sexy and unhinged? AKA Feysand (literally) slaying the game

Read: Chapter I || Fic Masterlist || AO3

Chapter IV: To the Stars Who Listen

The blood in her arm was pulsating in agony.

Brannagh’s grip on her had been too tight, and Feyre was certain that long, purple-black bruises would paint her skin within hours. She tried not to hiss in pain as she raised her hand to press the penthouse button on the elevator wall. For a brief moment, she allowed her head to rest against the cool metal, closing her eyes and welcoming the dark’s sweet embrace.

There you are.

I’ve been looking for you.

Who was he? Why was he there tonight? Somehow, Feyre couldn’t shake the feeling the violet-eyed man had sought her out. Having almost been killed by her hand seemed not to bother him in the slightest—strange, given the Capitol’s dramatic tendencies Feyre had grown accustomed to.

You’re not from the Capitol.

That feline smile. Finally.

The elevator dinged quietly, and Feyre opened her eyes.

Most of the entrance hall was veiled in darkness, though she could make out the large, ornate mirror on the side, glinting gently in the distant light of the skyline seen from the lounge. It appeared everyone had gone to sleep—still, Feyre hardly wanted to test her luck after the last time she’d been caught. Alis would never let her out of her sight again. Silently, just like in the forest back home, Feyre took a few steps forward, the lounge hidden just around the corner.

That’s when she heard it.

She’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“I knew you were a brilliant young man, my dear,” Amarantha drawled, the words like syrup dripping from her tongue. “I’m surprised I haven’t thought of it myself.”

“You really think so?” her companion asked, and Feyre’s brows knotted.

What was Tamlin doing with her at this hour?

Amarantha clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Are you doubting yourself, Tamlin?

In the shelter of the corridor’s walls, Feyre held her breath, waiting for his answer.

“No,” Tamlin finally said. “But I do wish there was another solution.”

A theatric sigh. Feyre imagined Amarantha patting his hand as she spoke, “We all do, my dear. We all do.” With that, she stood, the sound of her heels on the polished stone announcing her departure.

Feyre made herself count to sixty—a full minute before she dared to step out, enough, she hoped, not to raise any suspicions.

Tamlin’s head whipped in her direction as she came into view. “Feyre?” he asked from the same windowsill she’d found him on last time. “I thought you were asleep.”

Feyre took a few steps forward. “I could say the same thing about you,” she said, then made a show of looking around the space. “Is anybody else awake?”

He held her gaze for a few seconds before shaking his head. “Just me.”

Feyre nodded, taking a seat beside him. Every nerve inside her body screamed as she propped herself up on her sore arm, though she forced her features into a cool stillness that rivalled the stone beneath her.

“Where were you?” Tamlin asked.

Feyre looked out to the city below. “Training hall.”

She could almost hear his eyes widen. “Feyre, if Alis knew…”

“Well, she doesn’t,” Feyre interrupted, meeting his stare again. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Tamlin opened his mouth, then closed it, seemingly deciding tonight was not the best time for an argument. Instead, he nodded, and this time, they both looked to the Capitol’s bright lights, content to do nothing but watch their midnight dance.

Feyre wondered if she’d ever see the city again—not that she wanted to, and yet…with death looming over her, closer and closer with each passing day, everything seemed to be slipping from her grasp a little too fast. Even the Capitol.

She would never see her District again, either. Her house, small and cramped as it was, the black market, the forest. Feyre wished she knew the hunt on the morning of the Reaping would be her last. She would have tried harder then.

Something stung in her chest at the thought, and Feyre tore her gaze away from the view, words escaping her mouth before she could stop them.

“I needed to train.” she told him. “Today’s session was not enough.”

Tamlin frowned, those emerald eyes piercing. “Why?”

Feyre shrugged absently. “I promised my sisters I would win. And even though…even though I know I have no chance, I want them to see that I at least tried.”

He looked to his feet at that, taking in her words with a sad smile.

Feyre angled her head. “You’re thinking about your sister,” she said, and Tamlin’s gaze shot up, surprise—surprise and pain—like a shadow over his handsome features.

It felt like a punch in the gut.

“I’m sorry,” Feyre said quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

But Tamlin was already shaking his head. “No—no, I…” he hesitated. “I’m thankful you’re bringing her up. I don’t…I don’t talk about her as often as I should.”

Feyre said nothing, opting to let him open up on his own despite the questions buzzing inside of her head.

“It’s been years, actually,” Tamlin told her. “That one night you found me in here…that was the first time I brought her up in…forever.” He swallowed hard. “I was never planning to tell anyone about her…but there you were, so painfully honest about what you’d done for your own…” Tamlin sighed, meeting her eyes again at last. “She deserved to live outside of only my memory again. So thank you, Feyre.”

Silence fell, accompanied by nothing but the echo of his words.

“How did she die?” Feyre whispered.

With a shaky breath, Tamlin ran a hand through his hair. “Our uncle—my mother’s brother—used to work at the mines. Dalia—that was her name, she…” he stumbled over his words, another trembling breath leaving his throat.

“Take your time,” Feyre told him gently.

Tamlin closed his eyes, forcing himself steady before he continued, “The miners would be working all day, sometimes all the way through the night, and Dalia liked to leave them food by the entrance—something to keep them going, to give them strength throughout their shift. Her and my mother would make sandwiches—nothing special, just ham, sometimes even cheese…Dalia would leave them in a small basket with a rose, or some other flower, over the lid. She liked to think it would let the miners know they came from her.” He huffed a small laugh at the fond memory, and Feyre smiled. “One day, my sister was going back from the mines through the forest. It was nighttime—one of those longer shifts, I guess—and I…I don’t know exactly what happened, but she must have been picking flowers, and…” Tamlin’s voice strained at that, but he pushed through nonetheless. “And she picked up some nightlock berries.”

Feyre’s smile faded entirely.

“She didn’t know,” Tamlin whispered. “She didn’t know they would kill her. We…I didn’t even know they grew in our forests.”

She knew. Feyre knew. She could have stopped it—

“She was only nine,” Tamlin continued quietly. “She was only nine, and I couldn’t protect her.”

Tears burned in Feyre’s eyes. “I’m so sorry—”

Tamlin looked at her again, silver lining his own as he spoke. “You protect your sisters, Feyre,” he told her. “And I couldn’t protect mine, but…but I’ll do my best to protect you.”

Feyre’s heart stopped beating.

“I promise,” Tamlin said, and left her alone in the night.

***

As predicted, Feyre’s arm was killing her the next day.

On their last day of training, Alis put them through hell. She’d reserved a space underground beside the training hall, just as well equipped as the main area, though Alis had opted for only the exercises she had deemed they needed to revise the most.

Feyre did not dare to look at Tamlin when their mentor talked them through poisons.

He seemed not to acknowledge it though, taking in every word with an unnervingly stoic look on his face. By the time they were finished with hand-to-hand combat, everything seemed to get back to normal

Now, they sat on the bench by the back wall, sweating under Alis’s surveying stare.

“I know you think training is over,” the older woman said, “but the worst is yet to come. Don’t look at me like that, girl,” she told Feyre, seemingly noticing her distress, “tomorrow, you will be interviewed in front of the entire Capitol, and believe me, their judgement is far worse than mine.”

Feyre felt her stomach turn.

“The interviews will be televised all over Panem,” Alis continued. “I’m sure you’ve seen hundreds of those in your life, but don’t let that put you at ease. Like each Tribute, every interview is different, and the sponsors do not enjoy a spectacle they’ve already seen before.”

Considering the fact that Feyre had only been watching the Games for the past two years, this was good news.

Propped up on her crane, Alis leaned in closer. “They’ll be watching your every move, listening to every word. So before you say or do anything, think. The goal is to show them you’re worth their money. Show them you have what it takes to win.”

Bile rose in her throat, the burning sensation so sudden Feyre’s eyes began to water. She’d gotten so used to this phase, the non-stop training over the past two weeks that she didn’t realise how quickly the time has passed. She would die in two days, three, four if she was lucky. And although she promised her sisters she would try her hardest to survive…she knew others would, too.

Show them you have what it takes to win. Feyre was fairly certain a bow and arrow would never be enough.

“How do we do that?” Tamlin’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.

Alis’s eyes narrowed. “Make them like you,” she drawled. “Your skills will mean nothing if the sponsors hate your guts.”

“Excellent,” Feyre murmured. How could she possibly do that after trying to kill one of them?

Even if she hadn’t done that, Feyre seriously doubted she could win over the sponsors as easily as Alis was making it out to be. Back home, after all, she had no one—no one but Isaac—and not because she was intimidating like Nesta, opting for solitude and the peace it offered. Most people in Twelve seemed to simply…stay away. Perhaps it was the illegal hunts she’d go on almost every morning, or her frequent attendance at the black market. Perhaps they still remembered the one time she was caught on her escapades—could somehow see the five long scars on her back through the flimsy fabric of her shirts, a constant reminder that Feyre Archeron wasn’t a person anyone should associate themselves with.

She wished she was more like Elain. Even when they had nothing, her sister was never alone. There was something about her that people loved—that they could not look away from. As if her mere presence was enough to forget about their daily misery. As if…as if Elain was sunlight, and without her, everyone would wither away. Feyre definitely would.

“Feyre,” Alis demanded, interrupting her train of thought. Was this the first time Alis called her by name?

Feyre sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Save the bullshit for the sponsors, girl.”

That was more like it.

Feyre leaned back in her seat, ignoring the sharp pull on her bicep. “I can’t do it,” she said. “The sponsors hate me.”

Alis opened her mouth, but was immediately cut off by a louder, sugary voice, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of high heels on the stone floor. “Nonsense,” Amarantha said, making her way inside the room. She stopped a few inches away from them, offering a sweet, encouraging smile. “My lovely Feyre. The Capitol absolutely adores you—just be yourself, and you’ll have their favour in no time.”

Feyre frowned. “The Capitol barely knows me.”

Amarantha shrugged. “That hardly matters. They know enough to offer you their support, in fact—well, I’m not exactly supposed to say this, but—oh, well, here it goes. I’ve just returned from a lovely gathering with some of the other aides, and rumour has it you’re the most anticipated appearance for tomorrow night.” She angled her head in a motherly gesture, and reached to swipe two fingers across her cheek. Feyre flinched, though Amarantha did not seem to notice. “The only thing you must do is look spectacular, as you always do, and you’re going to win this thing.”

Feyre stilled, daring a side glance at Tamlin. His expression, practically carved in stone, betrayed nothing.

Amarantha dropped her hand with a dramatic sigh. “Anyway. I came to tell you that dinner will be served in a few minutes, so come on up when you’re ready to—”

Without a word, Tamlin strode right past them, leaving the room before she even got to finish.

Amarantha’s face twisted in worry. “I should—I’ll see you upstairs,” she said, and quickly followed Tamlin out.

Alis snickered and shook her head. “One thing about the Capitol, girl—it never really gets boring.”

Feyre’s brows furrowed. “What was that all about?”

Offering nothing but a one-shouldered shrug, Alis turned towards the exit. “It’s normal at this stage,” she told her, her wooden crane tapping lightly against the floor. “It appears that Tamlin no longer believes he can compete with the Star of the Capitol.” A chuckle. “Now, let’s go and enjoy dinner, girl. With that attitude of yours, it’s likely one of the last meals you’ll ever have.”

***

“You look beautiful,” Nuala said, and Feyre released a shaky breath. “I mean it.”

Feyre did believe her. She’d never felt more beautiful in her life.

The Capitol food agreed with her, filling in her curves and bringing a soft glow into her usually hollow features. Her designer did something to Feyre’s cheekbones, too—a strange, shimmery product that highlighted their sharpness in a bold yet graceful manner. She stained her lips with a soft burgundy lipstick—a new name for a colour she’d never even known existed. It suited her, though, bringing out the fullness of her mouth and complimenting the sparkly eyeshadow Nuala had chosen for this occasion. It suited the dress best, she argued.

She was, of course, right.

Feyre had never even touched a fabric like this before—so soft and elegant, flowing like a shadow with her every move. It reminded her of the dress Nuala had worn the first time they met, though this gown was much more grand and formal, its black silks hugging her body in ways Feyre had no idea were possible. The low, yet appropriate for the Capitol standards cut revealed her collarbone, adorned with the same shimmery product that covered her cheeks, which Nuala had said would reflect beautifully under the studio light. She’d opted for no jewellery, explaining that the dress would do a sufficient enough job to make her appearance memorable. Instead, Nuala curled Feyre’s hair into soft, cascading waves, combing in a small amount of silver glitter to complete the look.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Nuala,” Feyre told her as she examined the stranger in the mirror.

The woman winked. “Remember to save the best for last.”

Feyre nodded, then took another nervous breath.

“Relax,” Nuala said. “Act like no one’s watching. You can pretend it’s your sisters you’re talking to, not Helion Spellcleaver.”

“I don’t think that would help,” Feyre said. “Nesta would cry tears of laughter if she saw me like this.”

“Well,” Nuala said. “At the very least, remember you’ll have at least one friendly face in the audience tonight.”

“You’ll be watching?” Feyre asked.

Nuala took her hand and squeezed it lightly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Feyre smiled. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you out there,” her friend said. “They’re waiting for you backstage,” she added, and with a final check on Feyre’s hair, she exited the room.

Backstage, Tamlin, Alis and Amarantha were already sitting on the couch, anxiously awaiting District Twelve’s turn.

For this occasion, the Capitol had delegated one small room adjoining the stage for each District. A small screen had been set up on the wall for the live holo to display the main stage, which meant they would be able to watch all of the interviews before their turn came—as well as the audience’s reactions.

Feyre forced another breath into her tight chest and stepped into the room.

Right away, she was greeted by a high-pitched squeak of delight, Amarantha shooting up from her red-velvet seat to take her all in.

“Feyre, you look magnificent. Look at this fabric!” she exclaimed, grabbing a handful of the sheer, black tulle draped over her arms. “Truly, this is just lovely. I’ve seen the other Tributes, and frankly, you’re going to be the best-dressed one of them.”

Feyre’s brows knotted in confusion. “When did you see them?”

Amarantha winked secretively. “I’ve had a look at the early designs.”

Behind her, Alis scoffed.

Feyre’s frown deepened. “But how?”

She wasn’t offered an answer, though, as the screen suddenly lit up, casting a bright, pinkish hue over the room to the sounds of applause.

The camera focused on the stage, where a shadowed silhouette sat in a pristine white chair, his back turned to the crowd. The cheers grew louder when the chair began to move, rotating slowly until the figure came into full view, all the lights focusing on revealing the wide grin of Helion Spellcleaver.

Dressed in a dark green suit, his shoulders were adorned with what seemed like actual, long feathers of a peacock, their vibrant blue eyes adding splendour to the ensemble that made the audience roar in ecstasy. The host stood up to greet them, heavy golden rings on each finger of his hand as he waved, that smile not leaving his face for a second.

“Welcome!” Helion announced, opening his arms to the crowd. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the final night before the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games officially begin!”

The audience cheered again, and Feyre paled at the sound.

“So many of them,” Tamlin whispered beside her, his thoughts seemingly mimicking her own.

Helion asked, “Are we excited to meet this year’s brave and noble Tributes?” The Capitol answered with a shout of delight, and Helion laughed, the sound rich and deep. Feyre suddenly wondered how old he was—as far as she was told, he’d been hosting the Games for a little over ten years. “Good answer! So, while I would love to chat with you for the next few hours—” he teased playfully, causing a few giggles amongst the crowd, “—let’s not waste any more time and dive straight into the interviews. Please join me in welcoming the stunning Briallyn from District One!”

The girl entered the stage, the long, golden train of her gown slithering behind her like a snake. The applause grew louder, and the camera cut to the audience to show a standing ovation in some of the sectors. Clearly, this girl already had her fair share of admirers.

Helion extended a hand, and Briallyn took the seat beside him, a knowing smile playing on the corners of her lips.

“I must say, Briallyn, you look absolutely phenomenal,” the host said, then turned to the audience. “Doesn’t she look phenomenal, folks?”

The Capitol erupted with another roar, and Helion smiled at the Tribute. “Did you know gold is my absolute favourite colour?” he asked.

Briallyn shrugged innocently. “Perhaps I did,” she said, then leaned in closer towards Helion, her breasts veiled in golden glitter that sparkled as she moved. “Perhaps that’s exactly why I wore it today.”

Seriously?

But the audience laughed, and so did Helion, a look of elated surprise blooming on his face.

“She’s good,” Alis commented from her seat beside Tamlin.

Feyre scoffed. “You can’t be serious. She’s flirting with the host in front of the entire country!”

Alis pointed to the screen. “They’re laughing, aren’t they?”

“I will never understand the Capitol,” Tamlin muttered, and Feyre was inclined to agree. Could a few smiles in the right direction truly determine whether she would live or die?

Alis shook her head. “The girl has a strategy, and she’s executing it to near perfection. This is how you become memorable—she’s doing the unexpected, and the Capitol thrives on it.” With a sigh, she tore her eyes off the screen. “This is what you have to do. Get a feel for the audience, see how they react to you. To them, you are nothing more but entertainment. So entertain.”

“I’m not going to flirt with Helion Spellcleaver,” Feyre protested.

Alis rolled her eyes. “No one’s making you flirt, girl. What you do have to do is surprise them—in whatever way you can. And I’m not talking about your dress, your hair, or whatever glitter it is they’d put all over you—everyone here has been groomed to perfection. Ultimately, they will only remember you by your words.”

Feyre swallowed hard.

Alis continued, “Whenever you see an opportunity, take it. Play to your strengths. And remember, the Capitol isn’t the only one watching. The same people that are going to try and kill you will soak up your every word—and tomorrow, they will use them to their advantage,” she warned, her gaze meeting Feyre’s directly. “So remember—be entertaining to the audience, but intimidating to the other Tributes. Show them you’re not an easy kill. Sit up straight, but be relaxed. Smile, but not too widely. You want to appear confident and at ease.”

Feyre leaned back in her seat, her head spinning at the sheer amount of information. The familiar, twisting sensation in her gut returned, threatened by the tight fit of the gown on her stomach, and she felt her vision blur out and her heart rate speed up. This was impossible—impossible.

Before she realised how much her panic consumed her, Brannagh and Devlon, the male Tribute from District One, had already finished their interviews. It was only the sound of a chilling, voice that Feyre knew all too well that pushed her out of her state, her vision returning to focus on Brannagh’s vicious smile on the holo.

“So determined,” Helion praised. “How commendable.”

Brannagh’s smile widened. “My brother and I cannot wait to make the Capitol proud.” She looked straight into the camera, and Feyre shifted in her seat. “And no one is going to stand in our way.”

Feyre’s blood chilled while the audience erupted with another round of applause.

Brannagh stood, waving to the camera again, and Feyre couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that her final words were a message—a message meant for none other than her.

The girl left the stage, and Feyre whispered, “She’s going to kill me."

Tamlin’s head whipped to her, forcing her eyes on his. “She won’t.”

Such resolve, such hard abandon in his voice—and Feyre began to feel lightheaded again. What, exactly, was Tamlin’s attitude towards her? For the entirety of their first week at the Capitol—besides that one night she’d found him after her nightmare—he’d barely uttered a word in her direction. In fact, Feyre was convinced he was determined to avoid her so that it would be easier for him to kill her when the time came. And yet, at times…at times Feyre couldn’t tell what went on in his head. Why did he promise to protect her?

Tell me what you’re thinking, her eyes tried to tell him. I can’t figure you out.

No answer came back.

Soon, Districts Two and Three were finished, and Helion announced the next Tribute.

The boy from Four had beautiful eyes, a blue-green shade Feyre hadn’t even known existed before she came to the Capitol. His hair was a striking white, braided back and glistening under the bright stage lights. It reminded Feyre of seafoam—the same kind she’d once seen on the holo news about the District’s fishing shipment struggles over the winter. The livestock shipments from Ten had already been restricted, and Feyre vividly remembered her mother’s face when the news came on. Her blue-grey eyes, the same ones Feyre and Nesta had, dimmed as she sat down. She hadn’t said a word until the following day.

His smile was kind and gentle, though his gaze betrayed wariness as he patiently waited for the audience to settle. Beside him, Helion Spellcleaver took his seat, his feathers glittering so bright Feyre had to squint despite watching through the backstage screen.

“I must say, Tarquin, you look absolutely spectacular tonight,” the host told him.

Tarquin’s head cocked to the side. “Not nearly as spectacular as you, Helion,” he drawled.

Helion’s grin widened. “Well, I’ve lived here longer.”

The audience erupted in laughter, and Feyre finally understood—understood just how important his role was in this whole game. Helion was entertaining, to be sure, and the Capitol seemed to be eating right out of the palm of his hand, but there was a purpose to his shining persona and arsenal of wit. He was there to help them—to give each Tribute a chance at gaining the interest of those that could keep them alive.

Feyre sighed. All the wit in the world wouldn’t make the sponsors like her, no matter how much of it Helion had at his disposal. Once she opened her mouth, all they would see was the Star of the Capitol extinguished.

“So tell me, Tarquin,” Helion said, crossing an ankle over his knee. “What’s your strategy for the big game tomorrow?”

For the first time, Tarquin smirked, tapping the golden trident engraved on the front of his vibrant suit. “You’d be surprised how far fishing can get you in life,” he told the host.

The audience laughed, some of them even going as far as to shout Tarquin’s name. Helion angled his head, pointing to the crowd. “Sounds like a few of us agree,” he suggested, and the spectators cheered their agreement.

“Clever,” Alis noted, impressed. “He’ll be another one to look out for.”

Feyre’s mouth formed a tight line. She remembered Tarquin from training—he was one of the very few Tributes she actually liked. He’d shown her how to tie different variations of knots, even how to attach them to her own body, and asked for nothing in return. Tarquin was so different from the Careers—talented and kind, with no bloodthirsty quality about him that made Feyre want to stay far away from the others.

Looks, it seemed, could often be misleading. Perhaps this boy would try and kill her, too—tie a knot around her neck while she slept in the middle of the night.

Her bruised arm began pulsating again, and Feyre slouched in her seat, exhausted despite not having even begun.

“Sit up, my dear,” Amarantha told her. “You’re going to ruin your dress.”

Feyre wanted to scream.

She ultimately decided it was in her best interest to only pretend to be watching the rest of the interviews if she wanted to make it to the stage with her makeup still intact. Watching the young boy from Seven, twelve-year old Balthazar, had nearly brought her to tears. Young—he was so young, his innocence soon to be brutally taken away. Would the deadly twins kill him? Would Feyre?

And so, her eyes remained fixed absently on the screen until the camera zoomed in on a familiar face.

“Do you think you can win, Ressina?” Helion asked as her interview neared its end.

Her friend raised an eyebrow. “Absolutely. I’m determined to show the Capitol that the outer Districts have as much skill as One or Two.”

She stepped off the stage, and Alis clicked her tongue.

“What?” Feyre asked. “What is it?”

“The Capitol will make sure to prove this girl wrong,” Alis said.

Feyre’s eyes widened. “Why do you say that?”

Alis’s stare was hard and unwavering. “She just challenged their treatment of the outer Districts. They’re going to kill her the first chance they get.”

“Come now, Alis, I don’t think…” Amarantha began.

“I can say whatever I want to say,” Alis interjected. “They’ve put me through enough.”

Amarantha said nothing.

Alis continued, “The girl’s efforts are worthless. Do not stay close to her once the Games begin,” she advised.

Feyre’s heart dropped.

“I see the look on your face, girl,” Alis now addressed her directly. “I can’t stop you once you’re out in the arena, but remember this: there can only be one winner in the Hunger Games. The only thing you can really do, the only thing you should do, is whatever it takes to protect your sisters. Which, at the moment, means doing as you’re told.”

I promised my sisters I would try to survive, she told Tamlin. But at what cost?

How many people would she be forced to slaughter? Feyre’s been a killer ever since she’d gone into the forest—but animals were her only prey. She’d never felt any remorse—her family was starving, and hunting was a means to an end. But this…this was different.

She would be killing for nothing but the entertainment of Panem’s elite—to satisfy their insatiable thirst for the blood of the country’s youth. Here, in this city of never-ending supplies of fresh food, clean water, and anything their heart desired, Feyre and the other Tributes were prey, meant to hunt each other for the Capitol’s enjoyment.

What a waste.

“You know her as the Star of the Capitol,” Helion’s voice suddenly reached her through the screen. “But to us, she is the brave volunteer from District Twelve. Please welcome Feyre Archeron!”

Feyre went deathly still. She’d allowed her thoughts to take over for too long, and her turn had somehow already come. Her heart pounded in her chest, the chill creeping down her spine freezing her entire body in place.

Someone must have taken her hand and led her to the stage, because she did not remember getting up from the couch, walking to the door and up the stairs until a bright light blocked her vision from anything but Helion Spellcleaver, waiting for her a few meters ahead.

Feyre stepped into the light, the sounds of applause slamming into her so loudly her ears began to ring. The high pitch almost swept the floor from her feet had it not been for the host’s encouraging hand she took absently.

She felt herself fall to a seat, soft and plush like anything in the Capitol, and Feyre looked at the blurry splashes of colour in front of her until they sharpened into people—an audience waiting.

Waiting…for what?

Feyre looked to Helion, inches away from her, and she realised this was the first time she’d seen him up-close. He was handsome—too handsome, perhaps, with the kind of face she knew would crush her heart if she’d let him.

His dark brows rose expectantly, and horror washed over her, hot and boiling her cheeks red as she realised he must have asked her a question.

“What?” she asked helplessly.

The audience howled in laughter, and Helion joined them, his own laugh earnest as he patted Feyre’s hand. “I think someone’s a little nervous,” he teased. “I said I am so happy that I finally get to ask you about your entrance at the Tributes’ Parade. Spectacular, wasn’t it folks?” he asked, turning to the rainbow of tulle and synthetic watching from their seats out front.

They cheered loudly, and even Helion offered a small applause of his own. His gaze fixed on Feyre again, and he nodded with a reassuring smile. “Come on—tell us all about it,” he said.

Forcing herself to focus on the host, Feyre looked away from the crowd and into his amber eyes, surprised to find a spark in there—and a message.

He was giving her an opportunity.

She thought of Nuala’s advice from before. What would you say if it was Elain in front of you?

Feyre smiled nervously. “Honestly, it was hard to see anything in the dark,” she told him, and those eyes sparked again in approval. The audience laughed, and Feyre continued. “I was just hoping the horses would take me to the right place.”

Laughter, loud and bright, rolled over the crowd, and Feyre took advantage of the moment to release a quiet breath. It continued until Helion raised a hand with a smile, turning to Feyre again.

“Well, then I feel compelled to inform you that you looked absolutely magnificent. I have to say, my heart stopped,” he said, placing a hand on his broad chest, “when your costume lit up with what looked like actual stars. Did any of you experience this?” Helion asked, looking to the crowd.

Feyre followed his gaze to where hundreds of people cheered their agreement. She looked to the front row again, where a pink-haired woman nodded sagely, her own hand mimicking Helion’s movement. Another spectator beside her wiped off a tear.

“My heart stopped,” Helion repeated, shaking his head, as if the memory still kept him mesmerised.

Feyre offered another smile. “So did mine,” she admitted, and Helion laughed brightly.

“Are you afraid of the dark, my darling Feyre?” he asked, and Feyre’s smile faded.

My darling Feyre, have you not considered that perhaps you are just that talented?

She shook the memory off, carefully crafting the smile to curve up her mouth again. “I’m merely saying there is always light in the darkness, Helion,” she said.

Helion hummed appreciatively. “A light in the darkness,” he pondered. “I think you were exactly that.” His own smile returned as he added, “Tell me, when are we going to see you shine again?”

The question was met with applause, with the Capitol seemingly desperate for an answer as well. Feyre’s eyes scanned the crowd, until they settled on the second row—and a familiar face.

Nuala gave her a small nod, and Feyre blew out a breath. This was the time.

With a teasing smile, she turned to Helion. “I could show you now—if you’d like to see?”

Helion’s brows rose as the audience shouted, begging for a demonstration.

Helion held up a hand. “Hold on,” he halted. “If it’s another explosion of darkness, you have to swear that it’s not going to ruin my favourite suit,” he warned, and Feyre laughed.

“No explosions this time,” she promised.

“Alright, what do you think then, folks?” the host asked, and the Capitol cheered, whistles of encouragement rising over the crowd.

Feyre stood, and took a few steps forward, away from the strong light shining over their seats. The black silks of her gown flowed with her, so dark she doubted anyone could make out their shape from where they were sat over the main stage.

Releasing a final, trembling breath, Feyre opened her arms and twirled.

Just as Nuala said it would, thousands of silver speckles appeared throughout the fabric, twinkling under each layer of the gown with a soft light. The entire Capitol gasped in unison at the sight, more stars appearing with each twirl, from the very top beneath her collarbone where the dress began down to the material pooling at her feet. In a manner of seconds, Feyre was the night sky personified, casting a light of her own over the audience.

Someone shouted her name, and soon, the entire hall was chanting it like a prayer, accompanied by a never-ending applause. Feyre spun and spun and spun until shapes blurred into one, and the floor became soft and unstable beneath her feet.

Helion’s light grip on her elbow steadied her, his handsome face betraying nothing but pure, unrestrained awe. The Capitol roared in delight as Feyre returned to her seat, some of them rising from their seats to show their appreciation for the show they’d just been given.

Feyre smiled, and Helion returned the gesture. “That was really something,” he said, his grin growing wider as he added, “The Star of the Capitol indeed.

“Feyre,” he continued, “I have one more question for you.” Helion took her hand again, his expression fading into seriousness. “It’s about your sister.”

Feyre stilled, shifting only slightly in her seat. “Okay,” she said hesitantly.

Helion looked to her hand, once again patting it gently—this time, a gesture of support. Feyre wondered if the man was simply easy to read, or if he’d made himself this transparent on purpose. “We were all very moved, I think,” he began, “when you volunteered for her at the Reaping.” He swallowed, as if the topic was somehow hard for him to discuss. “Tell me…did she come to say goodbye to you?”

Feyre. My beautiful Feyre.

Everything will be okay.

You shouldn’t have done that, Feyre.

Promise you will make it out.

“Yes,” Feyre finally said, her throat tight. “She did."

“And what did you say to her before you left?” Helion asked quietly.

“I told her…” Feyre hesitated, looking around the studio again. Just beneath the stage, only slightly below the first row of spectators, stood a camera.

Feyre looked straight into it.

“I told her I would try to win. That I would try to win for her.”

The audience fell completely silent, as if mourning that final goodbye with her, and Feyre turned back to Helion, who nodded knowingly.

“I know you will,” he said, placing a light kiss atop her hand, his lips warm and soft. Then, Helion stood, Feyre following closely behind him. “Ladies and gentlemen, Feyre Archeron from District Twelve!” he exclaimed, raising her hand up in triumph to the sounds of a rapturous Capitol.

Backstage, she was pulled straight into Amarantha’s arms.

“Brilliant!” she told her. “Absolutely brilliant! Feyre, you did an incredible job, truly, I think you made quite the impression, the sponsors especially—”

“Quiet,” Alis interrupted her rambling. “Tamlin is on.”

Feyre’s head whipped back to the screen.

Tamlin lounged in the chair, seemingly relaxed as Helion smiled encouragingly.

“I hear you work at a flower shop back home,” the host teased. “You must smell like roses all the time.”

Tamlin cocked his head contemplatively. “I’m not sure,” he hummed, then gestured for Helion to lean in. “Do I smell like roses to you?”

The host leaned forward, making a show of smelling Tamlin’s arm to the utter surprise and delight of the audience. “You do smell amazing,” Helion told him, his brows furrowing. “I think I might want to change professions now.”

Tamlin waved a playful hand. “Every job comes with its benefits,” he said, and the audience laughed.

“Speaking of benefits,” Helion continued, a sly smile playing in the corner of his mouth. “Does selling flowers come with the advantage of some extra female attention?” he asked with a wink. The camera cut to the audience again, a few women’s eyes wide as they awaited Tamlin’s answer.

Tamlin laughed. “No…not really.”

“Come now,” Helion’s amber eyes narrowed. “A handsome lad like you? There must be a girl waiting for you back home.”

At that, Tamlin’s smile slowly faded. “I, uh…well.”

“Ah, there it is!” Helion exclaimed happily. “I knew it. Go on, tell us more.”

Tamlin looked to the camera, his gaze betraying nervousness for only a split of a second, then back at the host. “There was a girl back home,” he finally said. “But I don’t think she really knew who I was until the day of the Reaping.”

A sad groan emerged from the audience, and Helion nodded. “I see. Well, how about this—you win the Hunger Games, go back home a victor, and then she’ll simply have to go out with you.”

Tamlin shook his head. “No, I…I don’t think winning is going to help me at all, Helion.”

Helion angled his head in confusion. “And why not?”

“Because…” Tamlin’s chest heaved with a shaky breath. “Because she came here with me.”

The audience gasped, and so did Feyre backstage.

What?

Feyre’s a hunter, Tamlin’s voice echoed in her head. I see her in the woods sometimes when I’m out getting flowers.

My sister was a lot like you. I was never planning to tell anyone about her…but there you were.

I’ll do my best to protect you. I promise.

“What?” Feyre asked again, this time out loud, as the holo showed a tearful man in the audience, covering his mouth as he shook his head in disbelief.

The camera cut to Helion again. “Ah. That…could make things difficult.”

Tamlin’s lips were a tight line as he nodded. “Yeah.”

The host’s expression was pained. “Well,” he sighed, extending a hand. “I wish you the best of luck, Tamlin.”

They shook hands, and soon Tamlin appeared in the room.

His eyes swept over Amarantha, then Alis, until they finally settled and locked on Feyre’s.

She couldn’t breathe. Feyre opened her mouth, and—

Tamlin’s gaze slid off her, and in a few quick strides, he hurried out of the room without a single word.

Alis cleared her throat, looking—for the first time since they’d met her, perhaps—entirely uncomfortable. “I better go check on him,” she said, then made her own way out.

Feyre’s eyes remained fixed on the door, her whole body completely and utterly still until she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. She flinched, turning on her feet to face Amarantha’s concerned face.

“Is there anything you need, my dear?” she asked sweetly, and when Feyre shook her head, she sighed. “Poor Tamlin. Young love can be so heartbreaking. Take your time, lovely.”

With that, Amarantha left the room.

What the hell just happened?

***

Feyre simmered in that question for what seemed like hours.

Alone in the small room backstage, she replayed the interview in her head over and over, until words ceased to make any sense whatsoever.

Tamlin couldn’t like her. He couldn’t, because…because in a manner of days, one of them would be dead.

Was that why he’d avoided her so often? During the first week of their training, he had barely spoken to her, opting to leave her side the second the morning briefing would end. If it hadn’t been for her accidentally stumbling upon him in the middle of the night—twice—she doubted the two of them would even have a proper conversation.

Winning isn’t going to help me at all, he’d said. Perhaps all this time, Tamlin hadn’t really hated her. Perhaps he simply protected himself, knowing he might eventually have to kill “the girl from back home”—or she might kill him.

Feyre was certain it was nearing midnight—she couldn’t allow Tamlin to occupy her thoughts now, not with the Games due to start in less than twenty-four hours. What Feyre truly needed was to sleep. In a bed, for the very last time.

With a deep sigh, she rose from the couch and made her way to the exit. She stepped out to the corridor, the door shutting with a small click behind her.

“Hello, Feyre darling,” a voice purred.

“Shit!” she jumped, startled, turning towards the sound.

Leaning against the wall to her right, tall and with a glass of champagne in his hand, was him.

The violet-eyed man smirked. “My apologies,” he offered, though his tone suggested he wasn’t sorry at all.

Taking a few steps in his direction, Feyre’s eyes narrowed. “Are you stalking me now?

He looked pointedly to the door, clearly marked ‘12.’ “You weren’t exactly hard to find.” Feyre scoffed, and his smile widened. “I only wanted to congratulate you on your interview. And your dress, of course,” he drawled. “You must have a spectacular designer.”

“I finished my interview over two hours ago,” she told him. “Were you waiting outside this whole time.”

He shrugged. “I figured you wanted some privacy. It was an…eventful night for you.”

Feyre frowned. “You’re a strange man.”

For some reason, he looked delighted to hear that. “You have no idea,” he said before taking a sip from his glass and bouncing off the wall to face her fully at last. That mesmerising, violet gaze took her in, scanning the dimming stars on the sleeve over her arm. “The Star of the Capitol,” he murmured, hypnotised by the sight before him. “Interesting.”

Heat rose through her body under the intensity of his stare. “What’s interesting?” she asked breathlessly.

But the man’s eyes fixed on something beneath the sheer tulle, something not even the stars could cover. Understanding shone in them as he realised those were bruises, and he stepped in closer to inspect them.

Feyre held her breath as he surveyed every inch of the battered skin, splatters of dark purple long and shaped like human fingers…the same ones he’d freed her from two nights ago.

Darkness filled his eyes, that vibrant shade of violet long forgotten, his irises bleeding anger and pure, unrestrained violence.

“I would kill them,” he began, practically grinding out the words, his fist tightening around the glass. “I would kill them, Feyre, if I wasn’t sure you’re going to get to them first.”

A cold sweat broke out over her as she felt the weight of that declaration, and Feyre took a step back.

Noticing this, the man tore his eyes off the bruise to meet hers. “I would never hurt you, Feyre,” he swore with such hard abandon that Feyre’s eyes widened.

“Funny,” she whispered. “That’s the second time someone’s made me such a promise in the past two days.”

He looked at her again, and there was a wait there—a hint of hesitation before he slowly said, “Be careful who you trust, Feyre.”

“And who is it that I should trust?” she asked. “You?”

The man stared at her, an insufferable silence filling the space between them as he considered. He tipped his head up slightly, looking to the ceiling quizzically before he finally asked, “Do you ever look up to the stars and wish?”

Puzzled, Feyre’s brows knotted. “The stars cannot save my life. They never have, not here, and they certainly can’t help me out in the arena.”

Something twinkled in those pools of violet as they settled on her again. “Maybe they can,” he said, raising the glass to her before he added, “To the stars who listen, Feyre.”

Feyre opened her mouth, but the man had already turned to leave. “Remember that.”

Before he managed to disappear in the shadows, a silhouette emerged from around the corner, accompanied by a light tap of a wooden crane, and the man stopped in his tracks. “Alis,” he greeted her smoothly.

An incredulous look appeared on her mentor’s wrinkled face. Her voice was stiff as she answered, “Rhysand.”

The man nodded and left.

Rhysand.

That was his name.

Rhysand, Feyre’s mind repeated, as if the name had been an answer to a question she’d never thought to ask.

“Why are you still out here?” Alis asked, taking a few steps towards her.

Feyre ignored her completely. “How do you know his name?”

Alis raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Feyre pointed to the shadows behind her. “Rhysand. How do you know him?”

“How do you not?”

Feyre sighed in frustration. “I know he’s the sponsor I almost shot, but I always thought he was no one significant.”

Alis shook her head, her usual grimace now replaced by a look of outright bewilderment. “Rhysand isn’t a sponsor. He’s a victor—a victor from District Twelve.”

Feyre’s mouth hung open.

“He won the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games, exactly ten years ago,” Alis continued, her eyes searching Feyre’s. “I trained him. How can you not remember?”

“I wasn’t allowed,” Feyre whispered.

“What?”

Feyre cleared her throat. “I…my father never allowed us. To watch the Games.”

Alis’s eyes narrowed. “Was he aware that it’s illegal?”

Feyre looked down to her feet. “Yes.”

“Well,” Alis sighed. “That explains a lot.”

Feyre said nothing.

“He was a lot like you,” her mentor said, and Feyre was grateful she didn’t question her any further on the matter. “A clever boy, witty. Talented, too. He slaughtered his way through the competition at only fifteen,” she hummed. “It’s no surprise the Capitol adored him. So much, in fact, that he never returned home. He used his charm to feed off the Capitol’s rich—and he’s doing it to this day.” She added wryly, “It’s why he’s never had to mentor anyone in the past decade, including the two of you. They’ll let him do whatever he wants as long as he remains…entertaining.”

Feyre soaked up every word and let it fuel the anger that had slowly began to boil in the pit of her stomach. This whole time, Rhysand was from Twelve—from her home, and he said nothing?

Alis leaned in closer. “A word of advice to you, girl,” she offered. “Stay away from those who hold the power in the Capitol. Tomorrow, the Hunger Games will begin, and you must trust yourself and yourself only. People in the Capitol can be…deceiving.”

Feyre frowned. “Even Amarantha?” She couldn’t imagine the aide hurting as much as a fly.

Alis warned, “Hybern’s granddaughter is capable of much more than you can imagine.”

Feyre’s eyes widened. The President’s granddaughter?

“Be smart with your choices, Feyre Archeron,” Alis told her. “There are enough people trying to kill you already.”

***

Feyre navigated the bright corridors of the hangar, her heart thumping in her chest.

They’d tied a blindfold around her eyes on the jet—no doubt to preventing any last-minute escape plans—and now, she could feel tears burning inside them as she tried to adjust to the white, artificial light.

She did not see Tamlin in the morning—only Amarantha, who offered her a small kiss on the cheek, once again expressing her confidence in Feyre’s chances. There’s a reason you’re the Capitol’s Star, lovely Feyre, she told her. Don’t prove them wrong.

Now that she knew who Amarantha truly was, Feyre could see past the good wishes and see them for what they were—a message.

Luckily, the Capitol would forget about their Star soon. She was likely to be dead within hours.

They’d placed a tracker in her arm—the healthy one, thankfully—its soft, blue hue almost invisible under her skin. Feyre wondered if it latched onto her vein, and if so, how difficult it would be to rip out. Likely impossible, a small voice in her head answered. You belong to them now.

The two Peacekeepers escorting her finally stopped in front of a heavy, metallic door. It opened with a loud creak, and Feyre almost cried in relief as she saw Nuala waiting inside.

She launched herself into her arms, and the door shut behind her.

The room was small, with only a long pipe that served as a coat hanger attached to the wall, and a large, glass tube waiting in the corner. Nuala picked up a bodysuit, a stretchy, grey fabric that covered her arms in their entirety. “Thermal protection,” she explained, helping Feyre slide it over her head. “This could mean anything.”

She passed her the trousers next, long and somewhat heavy, their shade a washed-out green. Feyre checked out all of their pockets—empty. She didn’t know what she expected.

Finally Nuala handed her the jacket, a simple, black piece of clothing made from a strange material that the designer explained was waterproof. Feyre put it on, her hands shaking slightly on the zipper, and Nuala reached to help her.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said softly. “I have faith in you.”

Suddenly, an artificial, female voice filled the room from the speaker hung somewhere by the ceiling. Thirty seconds, it announced.

Feyre’s heart picked up, raging wildly in her tightening chest.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she choked out.

Nuala grabbed her hands. “You can. You will.” Her fingers brushed over her cheek. “For your sisters.”

Twenty seconds.

“For my sisters,” Feyre repeated, and walked towards the tube on shaky legs.

“Feyre,” Nuala called when she stepped inside, and Feyre turned to face her friend one last time. “To the stars who listen,” she said.

Ten seconds.

The glass door slid and closed, trapping Feyre in.

Nuala smiled. “Remember that.”

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The platform rose and lifted Feyre into the light.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @fieldofdaisiies @vulpes-fennec @houseofhurricane @reverie-tales @kingofsummer93 @melting-houses-of-gold @labellefleur-sauvage @shadowriel @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @headcanonheadcase @cascadingmoon @rhysiedarling @msfeyredarling @itisiyourfemur

#chapter 4/30 #acotar hunger games au #feysand au #feysand fic #feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction #feysand #pro feysand #feyre x rhysand #feyre archeron #feyre acotar #rhysand #rhysand acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #my writing

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zoeykallus · 2 years

Text

Tech – Thank You For Loving Me 27 – A New Life

Warning: Pregnancy /Labor / Mention Of Blood / Angst / Fluff

What Happened Before:

Nervous Flutter

Part 2 - Help Me To Let Go

Part 3 - Asking For Advice

Part 4 - Devotion

Part 5 - The Explorer

Part 6 - You’re The Best

Part 7 - Experimental (½)

Part 8 - Experimental (2/2) - Not Fully Functional

Part 9 - Not Alone

Part 10 - Cared For

Part 11 - Don’t You Worry

Part 12 - A White Lie

Part 13 - Hope

Part 14 - Games To Play

Part 15 - Work Work Work

Part 16 - Trouble

Part 17 - In Loving Domination (½)

Part 18 - The Game Changer

Part 19 - Wild Animal

Part 20 - Embarrassing Vulnerabilities

Part 21 - Between Hangover And Love

Part 22 - The Future Ahead Of Us

Part 23 - About Making A Baby

Part 24 - It’s Going To Be Okay

Part 25 - Returning A Favor

Part 26 - Baby Fever

Part 27 - A New Life

The contractions were coming in shorter and shorter intervals and you were already completely exhausted. It hadn't caught you off guard but it was a few days early, luckily the guys and Tech had returned from their last mission just in time.

"Don't forget to breathe, Cyare, just like we practiced".

You sigh and push a sweaty strand of hair out of your forehead.

"Easier said than done, Tech"

"I know, I know" he said understandingly and dabbed your forehead with a cloth "You'll be fine"

Another contraction rolled over you and you clung to Tech's arm.

"You need to start pushing" said AZI who was keeping an eye on the situation and acting as an obstetrician.

It was extremely painful and it took what felt like an eternity but after many hours you finally heard the first cries of your little daughter. You felt joy and a small surge of energy in your battered body, but you were also dizzy and in pain where you would rather have none.

AZI called Omega into the room and handed the child to her with quick and concise instructions.

"My baby... I want to see my baby," you can barely get the words past your lips, your strength fading very quickly.

You don't understand what's going on. You just see Omega leaving the room with your Baby and a worried look on her face.

"Why is there so much blood?" you hear Tech ask with concern.

"I'll take care of it, you take care of your wife".

Tech holds your hand and talks reassuringly to you while AZI gives you an IV and takes care of the follow-up and treatment.

"Everything will be fine" AZI says reassuringly after a little while "You just need to rest a little before you get to hold your child". Omega and Tech will take care of the baby for the time being. You lost a lot of blood and need to recover first"

You didn't like that at all, but you were so damn tired you guessed it was the right thing to do.

"Take care of our girl" you said powerlessly to Tech while AZI cleaned you and the bed and helped you lie down properly.

"Get some sleep now, when you wake up we'll bring you your baby," AZI said cheerfully.

"Thank you AZI, for everything," you said just before your eyes fell shut.

When you woke up, Tech and Omega were already at your bedside, Omega holding the baby and Tech keeping an eye on her. Basically he knew she could take care of a baby very well, she had taken care of him and his brothers back on Kamino when they were babies, but this was his own child, of course he was keeping an eye on it.

"Hey Cyare," Tech says softly when he sees you are awake "Look who came to visit you."

Omega steps closer to you, the girl has a bright smile on her pretty face and places a wriggling bundle in your arms. Your heart beats faster as you look into your daughter's tiny face, eyes only half open, little hands fidgeting back and forth. She looks at you, almost questioningly, very quietly, and blinks.

"Hello Amelia, little Amy."

Tech smirked, "So you decided on the name I suggested after all".

You nodded.

"It's nice, I think it suits her" you said smiling.

"Hunter, Wrecker and Echo are out right now, but Crosshair stayed behind, he's waiting outside. He didn't say it but he's been loitering outside the door for a while now, I suspect he'd like to see you and the kid," Omega said amused at her brother.

Tech helped you sit up and you finally called Crosshair to come in.

The Sniper approached you tentatively and finally said, "Man you look like shit."

You frowned but had to laugh while Tech as well as Omega poked him admonishingly from both sides.

"It's okay it's okay, she knows I'm just kidding," he said rolling his eyes.

Crosshair leaned forward to see the child.

"Amy, meet your uncle Crosshair."

Amy made a bubbling sound and Crosshair said with a smile, "I see she's impressed."

You chuckled.

"How are you feeling, Cyare?" asked Tech.

"Tired, still, a little groggy, but actually okay".

Tech nodded and said "AZI says you should stay in bed for a few more days before you're allowed to get up".

You sighed but nodded, you were so knackered you didn't really mind.

Omega beamed at you "I'll help you with Amy".

"That's so sweet of you, sweetie," you said, gently squeezing her hand that was lying next to you on the bed.

"I'll go make you a snack," Crosshair said.

Omega rolled her eyes and said, "I'd better go with him, just to make sure he doesn't set the kitchen on fire."

"Don't be cheeky or I'll put you in the oven," Crosshair said more or less jokingly as the two left the room.

Tech looked at you, a soft loving smile on his lips, you had never seen his features so soft before.

"You had me worried for a moment, yesterday," he said gently, sitting down on the edge of the bed, leaning over you and kissing your forehead.

You nodded slowly as he sat back up and looked at you.

"I know, I was a little worried myself".

"But you did it, you gave birth to our daughter" he said, smiling a little wider "I really hope she looks more like you"

You laughed softly.

"Oh Tech, she will be perfect, a part of both of us".

@ben-is-a-hoe

@kaminocasey

@nunanuggets

@hypnoash

@brynhildrmimi

@livi-s

@ttzamara

@thebadbatchscyare

@rexandechosandwich

@mybigfatspoonielife

@clone-whore-99 @chxpsi

@the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond

@andyoufollowyourheart

@kaliel2310

@misogirl828

@tech-deck

@loverofclones

@thebahdbitch

@meshla-madalene

@stardusthuntress

@ladykatakuri

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sweetlittlemosments · 3 months

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It's been awhile since I posted but I have great news! My mom has finally moved out to my state!

She and my brother drove 19 hours to get out here (and literally almost died) and are both knocked out from the trip.

Ive been with them almost exactly since I got off work (12hr shift 😮‍💨) but I can't sleep anymore.

I am up!

I'm excited!

I'm awake! And anxious to get the day started. It's 3 am tho, sooooo I guess I'm just waiting .

#cute blog #journal #10 #?#i think #🤔#rt #she completely fell asleep at the wheel while my brother was asleep in the passenger #he woke up and screamed at her until she woke up and regained control of the car #luckily there were no other cars nearby #🥺#im glad they're here now and they're safe

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thewurstgirlfriend · 4 months

Text

On: Drugs

So in a prior post I alluded to having a surgery(it was unrelated to my transition) and it was such a wild experience! The only other time I had been put under anesthesia before was when I had my wisdom teeth removed, so that was the litmus I was gauging it by.

I showed up in the early afternoon, I was admitted and shown a bed & given a gown to change into. They hooked an IV up to my left wrist with one of those rolly carts. I had to bring it with me like 3 times to the bathroom cuz of the old t-blocker peeing...and they kept me waiting for almost 2 hours before the doctors were ready for me so I was anxious AF about it too. But they finally wheeled me in and Holy Crap! after never having seen an operating theater before I was impressed by the medical tech on display.

The anesthesiologist was a little firecracker of a Chinese woman, we spoke for a few minutes and she asked me about my meds because she couldn't figure out why I was on such a high dose of a blood pressure medication at my age and there was this awkward moment where I had to explain that I'm trans & that's part of my HRT. I still haven't submitted the paperwork to change my gender indicator on all my ID,and THAT will be another writing unto itself. But the doctor had the nurse put a breathing mask over my face and she told me it was oxygen, after a moment she goes "OK! Medicine now!" and I took about three breaths then gasped awake in a different room.

It was entirely weird! I had been put under for almost 3 hours but when I awoke I didn't feel as if I was missing time, it felt like seconds to me. I was also a lot more alert and lucid then I expected to be, I was hauling my IV cart for a pee just a few minutes after waking up. I thought I'd be groggy and feel almost drunk, and be generally unable to move. They told me they pumped me full of freezing which probably helped a great deal when I took the stairs up to my loft. They had given me a prescription for painkillers but the pharmacy was closed when I got back home so I had to wait. Again, I had the false impression that they'd send me home with the medication in hand. My logic being that even though it was a simple routine surgery, an open operation is still a major surgery. I was anxious about the entire ordeal, I expected things to be entirely different.

The next morning I hobbled down my stairs and to the pharmacy across the street, I was in pain but not excruciatingly so. In classic doctor shorthand, I had no idea which medication I was waiting on. They called me over for a consult & it turns out it was hydromorphone! It came with a giant warning package with it about all the associated risks and I took it quite seriously....I have been closely affected by the opioid crisis several times, as recently as 6 weeks ago a friend passed in a questionable overdose. And I know all too well the power of addiction.

In addition to the statistics surrounding mental health disorders and self-harm behaviors in the trans community, addiction rates are also disproportionately high, and I am no exception to these numbers. Waxing honestly, coming from a troubled childhood home I've been linked into the mental healthcare system for most of my life. I have been diagnosed with dysthymia and Cluster-B characteristics in addition to having ADHD. I have struggled with alcohol for most of my life, I was introduced to it by family at a young age & became a problem drinker in my teens and early 20s. I had been sober almost 6 years when my marriage ended just a few months before the first COVID-19 lock-downs...around this time I was laid-off and had my car repo'd because I could no longer keep up the payments. Now, I know I'm not the only casualty of the pandemic but I did NOT handle all that disaster in my life all at once and I relapsed into drinking for about 2 years. I'm currently 10 months alcohol free, and I stopped smoking cigarettes. I still smoke a fair amount of cannabis but it's legal where I am and just as hard to avoid as booze. I occasionally use psylocibin mushrooms but I approach that more therapeutically, as does my therapist. She's a beautiful soul, I owe her my life. I've worked with her closely for 3 years now...she's helped me get sober & help me work up the courage to live honestly. And 20 years ago my counselor would have given me proper crap about "eating shrooms" and I would've been kicked out of the program. Now I tell her and she's curious about how helpful the experience was....the science is there, I don't make this up. It is what it is, fight me in the comments. But what the hell was I even saying??

Oh yeah, opiates...So I took 2 doses of the hydromorphone, exactly as prescribed, and that was enough to make me itchy if you know what I mean. It's a powerful drug omg, don't get me wrong it does what it's supposed to. It dulled my surgical pain beautifully and I slept better than I had in quite some time. And there's the rub, just like that I felt I wanted to use it every day. Not to get high of course, but that deep rest was alluring.....I'm not alone here & it's crazy because we're talking about single-use event addiction pathways!! I ended up bringing the pills back to the pharmacy because I never really needed them in the first place, plus... in a low moment after 3 days in bed, I realized there was enough drug in that jar to make ALL of my problems go away....not that I'm any more sad than usual but that's how readily I can think like that.

This experience opened my eyes, bearing in mind that this is all IMHO, and knowing that everybody's unique experience is exactly that....perhaps physicians are over-prescribing and over-medicating? Should there be a better screening process to ensure these drugs are the most appropriate for the correct circumstances in the right patients? Absolutely, there are legitimate conditions for their clinical use, and one of the bigger factors is non-pharmaceutical grade drugs infiltrating city streets. What are we to do? I'm left perplexed, all I have is questions and more questions where no answers are coming.

Going forward, I had a sweaty, sleepy day after I took the pills back... I was able to manage the pain with plain old acetaminophen. A few more days in bed and I was back on my feet. Its been 11 days since the surgery and I feel great and I'm healing well! I've had more time to pull this girl together and a more permanent transition into womanhood is on the horizon in the new year. My writing is going to be a huge part of my healing, and my becoming whole. Make sure you like/follow/subscribe and do all the things! Talk soon!

Much Love

Genni Bee

#trans community #trans woman #trans author #trans pride #mtf trans #trans rights #positive mental attitude #self improvement #self care

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rustic-space-fiddle · 3 years

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My jam is being so tired I can barely see enough to draw but being so filled with ideas that I cannot find rest, and the radio is always playing my jam

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galaxywhale-moved · 5 years

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Good news everyone I survived the bus assholes, nobody is dead, and I am off the bus and on my way home from the bus station so that I can finally Sleep

#ive been awake almost 19 hours now #i got 3 hours sleep last night

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cherrycocaineee · 3 years

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19. Sam Winchester - Hospital Visit

It was extra busy today at the hospital, there were three patients in need of major surgeries along with a line of people either waiting at the clinic or waiting for their minor surgeries to take place. I had been running around all morning wherever I was needed, and since I was the lead surgeon that was pretty much everywhere. Every time I got the chance, I glanced up at the ticking clock that was mute amongst all the loud chatting and alarms going off. I needed to hang on til three, and then another head surgeon would be here to help. I wiped the forming beads of sweat off of my forehead as I headed to the bathroom, wanting to escape from all the chaos that was hitting. Of course I loved being a doctor but I wasn’t made for such large groupings like this. It sent anxiety through my body causing me to sweat. So I just needed a small break to calm my nerves.

Pressing my back against the cool wall felt almost painful against my hot, sweaty skin. I was just praying silently that I was wearing my doctor’s coat over a turtleneck sweater, stopping most of the chilling pain. Finally catching my breath after fifteen minutes, I pushed myself off of the wall, the cold no longer bothering me, and headed back into the jungle that awaited outside. Not much time passed before my Nurse, Lacy, ran up to me.

“Doctor,” she said, her voice frantic and filled with worry, “come quick, there’s two new patients in need of medical treatment.”

Nodding curtly, I followed after her quickly to wherever the patients were. There weren’t many rooms open, so when we did eventually find them, they were in the last two rooms. I went inside the first room, the room that was closer to us, and peered inside at the man lying on the hospital bed. My eyes widened at the sight of John Winchester, an old family friend from way back then. He was covered in slash marks, fresh blood that still needed to be cleaned off of his unconscious body. He was also covered in sweat, glass, and dirt.

Lacy looked up at me.

“Bring me a rag,” I muttered, “and some warm, soapy water.”

Nodding, she turned on her heel and walked out of the room. I took another glance at John Winchester then headed out of the room, silently praying that the other person in the second room wasn’t one of his sons.

But I wasn’t lucky. Lying in the next hospital bed was his older son, Dean. I frowned, my forehead creasing slightly. Like his father, Dean was covered in blood, sweat, glass, and dirt. He would need to be cleaned up as well.

“Doctor.”

Looking up, I spotted my nurse standing at the door with the bucket of water and a rag hanging over it.

“Thank you. Please, get another one for this patient.”

“Of course.”

I took the bowl from Lacy and headed back into the room where John was waiting. Sitting beside his bed was Sam, also covered in blood but not as much as his dad and brother. His eyes met mine, widening as he saw my face.

“Noel?” He questioned, his voice soft and surprised.

“Hey Sam,” I replied, placing the bowl down.

His eyes shifted to the ground. The last time I saw the Winchester’s was when I was twelve years old. I was a year younger than Sam. Out of the two Winchester boys, Sam and I had become close. I knew all about their hunting and everything they did.

“You gonna tell me what happened?” I asked, grabbing the cloth and beginning to clean John up.

The blood wiped away easily, revealing his tanned up, scarred skin.

“I’m not so sure that’s a great idea,” he admitted.

“Maybe not, but I still think you should tell me.”

He was quiet for a moment, contemplating inside his head whether telling me would put me in danger. It probably would but I could handle myself. Finally, he told me what happened. They had gotten into a fight with a demon, one who called herself Meg, and these shadow things came out of nowhere attacking them. They were practically defenseless, their only saving grace was light. That’s how they were able to escape, along with throwing Meg out a tall window. By the time he finished telling me what happened, I had finished cleaning his dad up.

Placing the cloth inside the now bloody water, I faced Sam.

“Is she dead?” I inquired.

“We think so,” he huffed, his hair shifting with the breeze escaping his lips, “but we’ve never dealt with a demon before so we’re unsure.”

Nodding quietly, I started stitching up the large gashes displayed on John’s body. Lacy was right, he did need quick medical attention but not so much that he needed to be placed in the operating room. Not while there were people who needed surgeries on their brains waiting, or even their stomach. This was an easy fix.

I could feel Sam’s eyes watching me while I sutured up his dad. Clipping the final set of stitches, I got rid of all the leftovers, then washed my hands.

“I’m going to Dean’s room,” I muttered, “he needs more care than your father, so I’ll need more time to deal with him. Wait here.”

Sam didn’t argue, he just nodded his head.

Taking care of Dean’s injuries were much harder than I had realized. He was losing lots of blood, and no matter how much of it I tried to wipe away, there would always be another rush of it pouring from the wound. So I had to deal with the large, several gashes that covered his body. Fixing him up took me almost three hours. When I was finished with him, it didn’t seem to matter, he was in a coma from the amount of blood he lost. I wasn’t sure he was going to make it and that was going to be hard to tell Sam and John.

Lacy informed me that John Winchester was now awake, so now I was heading to his room to give them the bad news. Some doctors would call it semi-bad news but that didn’t really make any sense to me considering. I walked into John’s room, seeing him speaking to Sam, neither of them looking happy about whatever was being discussed. Sam was first to spot me.

“Dad,” he said.

John turned to face me, and at first I wasn’t sure he’d recognize me but when his eyes widened, I knew he did.

“Noel,” he said, “it’s been a long time.”

“It sure has,” I replied, smiling, “it seems you guys got yourself into a pickle.”

“Seems that way.”

I walked completely inside the room, my hands folded together.

“How’s Dean doing?” Sam inquired.

My heart felt like it was hammering against my chest but I tried to remain professional.

“I’ve stitched him up, and cleaned up his body. However, he’s lost a lot of blood and is now in a coma,” I informed, sadness lurking in my voice, “right now, it isn’t looking so good. If he doesn’t pull through soon, then I would start preparing for the worst.”

“Noel,” Sam said standing up, “he has to come back.”

“There isn’t anymore that I can do, Sam. Had he’d been brought in earlier, maybe, but he’s lost way too much blood. We’re replacing it, he’s getting round the clock treatment and blood is being added to his body through an IV, but that’s all we’re able to do.”

He looked away from me, his eyes noticeably filling with tears, then grabbed his jacket and walked out of the room. A soft breeze brushing against me as he passed me. John didn’t say anything to Sam as he left. I sighed and walked over to John, removing a small flashlight from my pocket.

“Let me have a look at your pupils,” I muttered, “how are you feeling?”

The bright light danced across his now dilated pupils.

“Much better,” he replied.

It was quiet for a moment before John spoke again, asking about Dean.

“He was in really bad shape, huh?” He asked.

“Yes,” I muttered, removing the light from his eyes, “I wish there could be more done but right now, all we can do is wait and see.”

John’s eyes looked away from me, staring down at his covered legs. I could tell he was feeling bad about what he did to Sam and Dean, specifically Dean since he was in a coma now. I stuffed the flashlight into my doctor coat, taking another look at the oldest Winchester. All three of these boys were tough as nails but everything seemed to be shattering right before their very own eyes.

“I know this is hard, Mr. Winchester,” I replied, “but I promise you, I’ll do what I can to help Dean get better. For now, it’s best if you pray for his healing.”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t even nod. Something seemed to be brewing around in his head, so I left after giving his shoulder a small squeeze. After leaving John’s room, I went to go look for Sam, taking a final look at Dean in his room. A small pang in my chest rippled through me before I headed off to find the youngest Winchester.

I found him sitting outside on the hospital steps. The breeze was starting to pick up, ruffling Sam’s hair along with my own. I walked over to him, my white shoes slapping quietly against the concrete. Sitting down next to Sam, I watched him look over at me. I folded my arms around my stomach and looked away, watching the hundreds of people walking around. Either lost in their own world or talking with someone who was with them. I didn’t want to say anything that would anger him or cause him to get up and leave.

“It’s all my fault,” Sam whispered.

My head snapped towards him, shocked completely at his sudden admission to guilt.

“How so?” I inquired.

“If I hadn’t gotten mad at Dean, if I hadn’t ran into Meg, then we would have never been tricked into this situation.”

I clicked my tongue, shaking my head. My long, jet black hair waved in the wind.

“Sam, you couldn’t possibly know that Meg was a demon. Like you said before, you guys have never dealt with one before so how are you supposed to know the difference between one of them and a girl. I mean look around you.”

Our eyes scanned the area around us, watching the people who caught our eyes do what was normal: eating ice cream, talking, laughing, walking, etc.

“Anyone here could be a demon but how could we know?”

A soft sigh escaped from his lips.

“All I’m saying is, there’s no need for you to worry too much. Dean is a fighter, I’m sure he’ll pull through. However, if he isn’t, then you can’t walk around blaming yourself. It’s not what your dad would want and it’s definitely not what Dean would want.”

I touched his shoulder and smiled sweetly at him. Sam smiled back before nodding.

“You’re right,” he said.

“Of course I am. I’ve never been wrong.”

A laugh left his mouth, colliding with the wind that was picking up more and more. I couldn’t help but giggle along with him. Soon Sam and I were discussing how life had been after we departed so long ago. I learned that Sam had previously gotten out of the whole family business, hunting things to attend college at Stanford to become a lawyer. He had only joined back up with his family because his girlfriend, Jessica, was killed by the same demon that killed his mom. Yellow eyes. It had its ups and down, constantly worrying about one another and the consistent fighting back and forth. Dean was ultimately too childish and took any opportunity to pull a silly prank on Sam. But, according to him, it wasn’t all too bad since he missed his brother a lot. And now that he and his dad were together again, he remembered that he loved him too while disagreeing with him like he had when he was younger.

Once he was finished catching me up on how his life had been going, I told him about mine. How my mother passed away a year after they had left, inspiring me to go to medical school. I had also been engaged for a little while before finding out that my fiancé was cheating on me behind my back. The rest of my life wasn’t much to gossip about, considering most of it was just me going to school and being cheating on.

“Despite everything though,” I replied, “I enjoy what I do and hope that I’m making a big difference every single day.”

I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling my pager buzz beside my hip. Pulling it from beside me, I saw that Lacy was paging me, letting me know that another lead surgeon had arrived and that I could go for lunch. Standing up, I held out my hand to Sam.

“Wanna get some coffee with me?” I inquired, “It’ll help clear your thoughts. Maybe you can figure out a way to help Dean behind bringing him to the doctor.”

I hoped that he caught on to what I had to say. By the smile that appeared on his face, I knew that he did. Taking a hold of my hand, I pulled him to his feet and headed across the street to the small coffee shop where I normally went when I was able to have a small break. On the way over, the two of us talked with one another and laughed at stories about each other's life. It was nice to reconnect with a friend from so long ago. Sam and I had always been close to one another when we were young. And on the way to the coffee shop, I hoped that this wouldn’t be the last time I saw Sam. And hopefully under much better circumstances than the one that brought us together today.

#sam winchester #sam #supernatural #spn #sam winchester x female!reader #sam x reader #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester one shot #supernatural imagines #sam winchester fanfiction #fluff #sam winchester fluff #imagines #one shot #fanfic #sam winchester x reader #smut #supernatural fluff #supernatural smut

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zelzenik · 3 years

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all of her longing

prompts 19 & 20 of @zutaramonth 2021: hurt/comfort & longing

Three times Katara asks Zuko for a baby... and the first time Zuko says yes.

click here to read on ao3 or keep reading below the cut!

“Zuko?” Katara whispers into the darkness. She flips onto her side, a few dark curls slipping over her shoulders.

It’s been almost an hour since Zuko dimmed the lights in their room with his bending and a single flick of his wrist. She can tell that he’s just about ready to drift off to sleep when he replies, “Yes, Katara?” His voice is a soft rasp as he shifts his position so that he can face her, reaching out and drawing her close.

Tucked securely beneath her husband’s chin, curled up against his warm body, Katara somehow finds the courage to admit, “Zuko… I think I want a baby.” She can feel the way his muscles tense as he registers what she said.

All of a sudden, Zuko’s more than awake. “What?” He pulls back slightly so that he can glance down at her, golden eyes earnestly searching her face.

“I want a baby,” Katara repeats, her brows furrowing.

Cupping her face with his hands, Zuko presses a kiss to her forehead, hiding a laugh, “Katara, we’ve been married for all of two weeks, and you want a baby?”

Katara isn’t joking, though. “We’ve been together for all of two years now, Zuko.” It’s true. Katara was only seventeen when she began courting the Fire Lord, and now, at nineteen, she finds herself married to him, sharing his bed and holding his tender heart in her careful hands.

“You’re… You’re not serious, Katara,” Zuko manages to choke out in reply. Upon realizing just how earnest on the matter she actually is, his golden eyes suddenly fill with an anxiety that she hasn’t seen from him in years. “I… Katara, it’s too soon for us to have children.”

In this moment, Katara knows that it’s better to drop it than press further. So she does, for her husband’s sake. She remains quiet, wrapping her arms around his bare waist, rubbing soothing circles into the small of his back.

Above all else, above her maternal instincts, above her deep desire to have children, Katara loves Zuko. And, when he hides his face in the crook of her neck, she holds him tightly, peppering kisses along his skin, whispering words of comfort for whatever pain that grips him in the dark of the night. “It’ll be okay, Zuko.”

ii.

“You’re quite distracted, Fire Lady Katara,” Zuko notes, his voice teasing. “Like what you see?”

They’re sparring in the courtyard, both sweating lightly from the pervasive Fire Nation humidity. Seamlessly gliding in and out of forms, they dance around each other in a way that’s unbelievably familiar but still manages to keep them on their toes.

With a coy smirk, Katara arches her back, narrowly avoiding a fiery kick to the face. “So what if I do?” She’s light on her feet as she launches herself away from him, pulling streams of water along behind her.

“I should hope you do,” Zuko replies, rolling his eyes lightly. He pursues her, though, just as he always has over the past five years.

Before they know it, their sparring is long forgotten as they tear down the hallway together with reckless abandon. By the time they reach their chambers, they’re both breathless, panting heavily as Zuko nearly shoves open the front door.

As soon as they’re both inside, Zuko shuts the door behind them, pinning Katara against a wall, hovering over her. The air grows thick with tension as he brushes her nose with his, broad arms caging her in on either side.

“Katara,” he murmurs, pressing kisses along her jawline. “Katara, I love you.”

Tipping her head back slightly, giving him better access to the soft skin of her neck, Katara allows her eyes to close, blissfully. “I love you, Zuko…”

The windows to their room are still open, and their skin glistens beneath the afternoon sun. Their limbs tangle, and Zuko’s fingers run along the curve of her waist, skimming beneath the blue fabric of her simple training tunic.

They’re a mess, really, but they’re a mess together.

Katara doesn’t mean to ask, but the question tumbles from her lips before she can stop it. “Zuko… What if we tried for a baby?”

This time, Zuko seems perfectly content pretending as though he didn’t hear her, far more interested in the bottom edge of her tunic than her question. He pushes her toward the bed and hovers over her, love shining in his eyes.

“Zuko?”

His eyes seem to shift back into focus as he meets her gaze. “Yes?”

“Can we try for a baby?” She asks, completely in earnest. “We’ve been married for several weeks now, and I just…”

Zuko sits up, pressing shaky fingers to his temples. “I… I don’t know, Katara. The council barely approved our marriage to begin with. I don’t know if springing a baby on them so soon would be wise.”

Rolling off the bed, Katara begins to rummage through their closet, looking for a fresh set of robes to change into, hiding her disappointment. “Yes… You’re… You’re probably right, Zuko. We can wait.”

iii.

There’s something very peaceful about the turtleduck pond that had once belonged to Zuko’s mother. Standing at the edge of the water, soft waves lapping at her bare ankles, Katara breathes in once, then twice.

After receiving several pointed comments from various members of the council regarding the current insecurity of Zuko’s line, Katara fled to the pond. Under normal circumstances, she would have snapped back at them in an instant, but now, she’s all too aware of the fact that she’s a nineteen year old girl that many of the more traditional council members believe to be merely a figurehead. Deep down, though, she’s also mindful of the fact that, in some regards, she agrees with them.

This is a subject that she and Zuko have spoken of on several occasions before getting married.

Children.

Really, after the sheer amount of conversations they had during their courtship regarding becoming parents one day, Katara would’ve expected a more positive reception from Zuko when discussing carrying on their family line. She thought that they were of one mind on this, that they’d look toward starting a family as soon as they were married.

But, no… They’re married, and Zuko’s shied away from the topic twice now, and Katara can’t bring herself to push him too far, too soon.

Kneeling beside the pond, Katara doesn’t pay the clods of mud and loose grass any mind as she trails her fingers along the surface of the water. A few turtleducks swim nearby, occasionally daring to quack in her general direction. The air is balmy, and she basks in the gentle warmth of the day.

“Katara?” Zuko appears beneath an archway leading toward the gardens. “I thought I’d find you here.” Then, he’s by her side in an instant, looking down on her kneeling form with concern. “I’ve scolded the council members who spoke out of turn soundly. They had no right to make such remarks toward you.”

Her lips twist into a frown. “I can fend for myself, Zuko.” She can. And she does, when the situation calls for it.

Zuko seems taken aback. “I know that… I just… I didn’t want them speaking of you in such a way.”

“Thank you,” Katara replies simply. “But while I disagree with their delivery and the methods by which they convey such a message, I can’t help but think that perhaps what they say has some merit.”

“You’re not some… harlot or concubine with whom I’m supposed to conceive children, Katara.” Zuko looks scandalized.

Katara’s temper flares as frost forms at her fingertips. “No. I’m not. I’m your wife. Your wife, Zuko.” She stands abruptly, water she doesn’t bother to bend away dripping from her robes. “We spoke about children before getting married, and Dad and Iroh aren’t getting any younger, and we have the security of a nation to think of, and… I was under the impression that we… that we weren’t going to waste any more time.”

“Waste any more time?” Zuko repeats, hurt clouding his eyes. “How is any moment I spend with you a waste of time?” He stumbles backward, nearly tripping on his long robes.

Almost instantly, Katara’s anger dissipates. The surface of the water toward the edges of the pond have begun to crackle with ice, but she steps away from it before she causes any further damage, turtleducks quacking indignantly. “Zuko…” She reaches for her husband, gripping his warm hands in her freezing ones. “I didn’t mean it that way…”

Zuko stands rooted to the ground in silence, allowing her to trace his palms with her thumbs.

Then, Katara reaches out to tug her husband into her arms, not bothering to heed her drenched robes. “Zuko, I love you.” She rests her head against his chest, hoping that the tears glistening along her lashes go unnoticed. “We can talk about this some other time.”

iv.

“Katara?” Zuko lingers just outside of her study, a hand resting on the doorframe.

Fingers stained with ink, her hair piled atop her head in a way that’s likely quite unfitting for a Fire Lady, Katara lifts her head, meeting her husband’s gaze. “Yes, Zuko?”

He steps into the room uncertainly, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder as he stands by her side. “Are you… Are you feeling okay?”

Forgetting that she’s covered in ink, Katara pinches the bridge of her nose lightly. “Of course.” She’s buried in paperwork and notices and letters, and she’s very likely overworking herself, but she’s also happy, helping others, serving Zuko’s people and, by extension, her own.

A ragged sigh slips from Zuko’s lips as he tugs an empty chair forward so that he can sit beside her. “Katara… I’ve given everything a lot of thought, and I think that I’m finally ready to talk.”

“To talk?” Katara repeats, her brows furrowing. “Talk about what?”

Zuko dips her brush back in its ink well and scoots her parchments across the table. “Children.”

Instantly, Katara’s eyes fill with worry. “We don’t have to – Really. Not until you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Katara,” Zuko replies, his voice a light rasp. “But I think that I am ready, now.”

So, Katara stills her body and gives him her full attention, correspondence and paperwork long forgotten.

“I’m… scared.” Zuko’s confession is soft enough that she almost doesn’t catch it the first time. “I’m really scared.” He clarifies, “I’m scared to have children. You know as well as anybody that I don’t really give a damn about what the council says, as long as they’re not hurting you or our people. But I’ve been using them as an excuse because I haven’t been sure of how to explain this to you.”

Carding his hands through his hair, Zuko unties his topknot, dropping his Fire Lord’s crest onto her desk. “I love you, Katara, and I’m sorry that I haven’t been more clear about how I feel or what I’m thinking.” He hangs his head, suddenly looking less like a twenty one year old man and more like a sixteen year old boy. “When we’d spoken about children in the past, it had always felt so distant, so far away in the future.”

Zuko continues, “But now the council’s pressuring us for an heir, and we’ve only been married for a month or two, and I guess I wasn’t expecting for everything to happen so fast.” He steals a glance at her when he thinks she’s not looking. “I don’t want to be like my father, Katara.”

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

“I don’t want to be like my father,” Zuko repeats again, stronger and with more conviction. “The thought of having children scares me because I don’t know who I’ll become with them around or who they’ll become with me as a dad.” He laughs bitterly, “I’ve always known that you would make a wonderful mother, Katara. I just didn’t have confidence that I would be a good father.”

Katara softens, opening her arms so that he can collapse lightly against her. “Zuko… I’m sorry for all the times in the past where I’ve pushed you.” She drops his gaze. “I had no idea.” Running her fingers through his messy hair, she presses a kiss to his forehead. “Thank you for sharing this with me… And, for what it’s worth, I think you’ll be a wonderful father one day.”

“I think so too,” Zuko agrees in a whisper, as though saying it too loud will cause it not to come true. Then, he flicks his gaze from her eyes to her lips and back again. “Hey… Katara. Ask me again.”

“What?” She nearly laughs, tugging him even closer.

Zuko’s expression shifts, the features of his face softening with joy. “Ask me if we can have a baby.” He pulls her onto his lap, allowing their limbs to tangle despite their heavy robes.

It’s as though the wind’s been knocked out of her. “Can we have a baby, Zuko?”

“Let’s have a baby, Katara.” Zuko surges forward to kiss her again, and they’re both nearly delirious with happiness. “I’m ready now… We can have a baby,” he whispers.

And those are the sweetest words Katara’s ever heard.

#zutara #zutara month #zutara month 2021 #zuko #katara #family portraits #let them be happy #let them be a family #;-;#post canon #post war #prequel fic to family portraits #but can stand alone #zel writes

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magnoliasinbloom · 3 years

Text

Lie To Me - 19

AO3 :: Previously

Jamie prays as he has not done so in a long time. He prays on his knees in the hospital’s nondenominational chapel, long enough that there are likely permanent dents in the bone. He lays prostrate on the weathered linoleum, hands held fast in supplication, hands beating at the floor in anger and desperation.

His voice in the empty chapel is rigid with fear and grief. He pleads; he bargains; he threatens; he begs for a miracle out of the lavishness of his God’s grace.

“Dinna leave me, Sassenach. This time I’ll beg. A Dhia, dinna take her from me.”

Dr. Denzell Hunter is listed on a whiteboard as the man responsible for operating on Claire. She had been rushed to the nearest operating room, and it had taken several nurses and a security guard to stop him from going in after her. The threat of being kicked out and banned from the premises had made him acquiesce.

Now, curses mingle with his prayers as he recalls the fabric of Claire’s dress turning almost black with her spilled blood. He vows to destroy the MacKenzie, to strangle Dougal with his own bare hands and watch with fervent glee as the life leaves his eyes.

Jamie had failed, once again, to protect her. That particular thought gnaws at him and will not let him rest. He briefly touches the bright red stains on his white jacket, some already rusted brown; a nurse had offered him clothes from the lost and found to change into, but he had refused. He would wear this until he knew for certain whether Claire lived or died.

Claire.

He struggled to his feet, knees protesting from the hard floor. He stumbles to the nurses’ station near the waiting room, hoping for an update on her condition. Geillis rounds the corner, in surgical scrubs but an incongruous, fully made-up face from the gala.

“Jamie!” She hugs him briefly and takes in the bloody jacket with a gasp. “I came as soon as I heard. The group chat blew up, saying a doctor had been shot outside the museum. I’d hoped it wasna Claire, but…” she trails off and suppresses a sob. “Hunter’s operating, he’s one of the best. She’ll be alright, Jamie.”

“They dinna ken… they havena—” He gestures helplessly towards the board and the nurses’ station and Geillis grips his hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Aye. They’ll talk to me, let me see what I can find out.” She whirls away through the doors marked for authorized personnel only. Jamie feels time slog by in fits and starts, minutes dragging on endlessly, and before he knows it, it’s already been three hours since Claire arrived in the ambulance.

Geillis returns and takes him by the arm, dragging him to a secluded corner of the waiting room. “She’s stable, for now. The bullet hit her liver, which is very vascular—meaning there was a lot of blood loss, because it has many blood vessels,” she adds, understanding the look on his face. “But the liver regenerates itself, and she’s received blood transfusions to replace it. She was damned lucky.”

“Not lucky enough, to be with the likes of me,” Jamie whispers, dragging his hands through his hair. Geillis pulls his hands back down roughly, shaking him out of his stupor.

“It verra well could have been you, and I’d be having a different conversation with Claire. Now.” She regards his blood-soaked jacket with distaste. “I’ll take you to the doctors’ lounge, and ye’ll have a shower and change into something less morbid. Ye have to take care of yerself too—do it for her, at least.”

Her words tug at what’s left of Jamie’s heart and he agrees, if only to kill more time while the other half of his soul lies on a cold operating table.

X-x-X

“John Grey is here to see ye, Fraser,” Geillis calls into the lounge where Jamie is tying up the drawstring on the too-short scrubs. He fits the brace back over his hand and comes out to meet John Grey.

Jamie’s first instinct upon seeing the chief inspector is to wrench him into a hug. It catches Grey by surprise, but he is quick to return Jamie’s tight embrace.

“Thank ye, John,” Jamie manages, fisting handfuls of Grey’s shirt in his hands, the struggles of the previous night catching up to him once more. “I dinna ken how to thank ye.”

“No need, Jamie.” Grey pulls away and gestures toward the waiting room. “If you don’t mind, there’s someone here from SCD who would like to take your statement regarding the… incident. I know it’s a lot to ask, with what happened to Ms. Beauchamp, but it’s important to have all our ducks in a row. We’re moving ahead with the legal process, and bringing Leoch down. And I brought Murtagh along as well.”

The thought of seeing his godfather lifts Jamie’s spirits. The waiting room holds an elderly couple and a young man reading a French newspaper, and Murtagh surrounded by a few police officers. He sits and at Grey’s prompting, begins to recount everything that happened. Remembering the moment that Claire was shot makes his voice and hands shake with anger, and he glances at the clock behind the nurses’ station. Almost 3 AM. As he signs the affidavit, he’s suddenly yanked to his feet by Geillis.

“Family for Claire Beauchamp?” A tired-looking surgeon with blue paper booties covering his shoes emerges from the direction where they’d taken Claire.

“Yes, doctor?”

“Are you family?” He has an American accent, odd amongst the Scottish burr he’s accustomed to hear in Glasgow.

Jamie wavers, but Geillis intervenes before he can say the wrong thing. “He’s her fiancé, Dr. Hunter. Jamie Fraser.”

“Very well, Mr. Fraser. Miss Beauchamp is presently in the post-op recovery room. We managed to extract the bullet, and patch up her liver as best we could. The next 48 hours will be critical, as we’ll be watching for infection, but hopefully that won’t be an issue. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me. She was very lucky indeed.” Hunter extends a hand to shake Jamie’s, and he feels a small weight lift off his shoulders.

“Can I see her?”

“We’ll make sure to let you know when she’s in a room. She’ll be sleeping most of the time. And yes, Inspector Grey, I’ll appraise your team when she is in fit condition to talk to you,” Hunter adds, anticipating the officer’s comment.

With a grateful handshake, Jamie watches Dr. Hunter walk away. He drops onto the vinyl couch like a stone, his face in his hands, as the storm within finally gives way to racking sobs.

Alive. Claire’s alive.

X-x-X

Claire is aware of her body before anything else. A dull, throbbing ache laces her right side, and it feels rigid. Bandages, her mind thinks fuzzily. Why am I bandaged?

Her eyes still closed, she tries wiggling her toes. Still there. The feeling traverses up her legs, avoiding her abdomen which she instinctively knows will hurt like bloody hell, and then a fluttering of her fingers. She finds her left hand entrapped and she panics for a second. At this, she struggles to open her eyes. She blinks at the harsh white lighting above her head.

Claire glances down as she feels a warm wetness, and she realizes it’s Jamie. Jamie is crying, kneeling by her bedside. She wishes she could cradle his face and wipe his tears away, but decides it would hurt too much to move. She settles for speaking, after clearing her throat.

“I’ve decided… not to die.” Claire’s voice is soft and rusty from misuse, but it still startles Jamie. He comes out of his reverie to see that her eyes are open, a luminous gold in her white face.

Jamie doesn’t know what to say to that, so he manages a strangled, “Oh, good.”

“I could have. This is… bloody awful.” She winces as she tries to shift her body, but Jamie stops her. He is afraid to touch her further, for fear of hurting her, but can’t bear not to. He lays a hand as lightly as he can on her cheek, finding it cool. No fever; the IV pumping antibiotics into her via the needle in her right arm seems to be working.

“I know,” he says roughly, recalling the weeks spent in hospital healing from his own wounds. Jamie brings her untethered hand to his lips. Her bones feel frail. She hasn’t even the strength to squeeze his hand.

“But I… wouldn’t do that to you.” Already this small interaction is tiring her, and she is out of breath, but it seems important to let him know, that she is here, and she is still fighting. For herself, and for him.

“Thank ye, Sassenach. Truly.” He pushes himself off the floor with a groan, knees stiff and painful. He drags an uncomfortable-looking chair from the corner of the room and sits, still as close as possible to Claire. She looks him over, notices the dark bruises under his eyes and how his hands shake slightly.

“You haven’t slept or eaten, have you?” she asks critically; Jamie ducks his head and she knows she’s right. Claire is mindful of how much energy each word expends. She wants to remain awake, to drink him in, to just be with him, but knows the road to recovery is just beginning. “It won’t do me any good to have you sick, either. Go eat, please, and then get some rest too.”

“I dinna want to—”

“Stubborn Scot.” Claire sighs, and exhaustion wants to pull her under again. “There’s a couch. I’m sure it pulls out.”

Jamie offers a small smile. “What I want right now, Sassenach—I want verra much to kiss ye.”

“Come here, then.” Afraid to hurt her but even more desperate to feel her lips against his, he brushes his mouth in the gentlest kiss.

“Do ye need anything, Claire? Shall I call the nurse? Geillis has been around, but ye were still out.” Jamie is anxious to leave her, but understands that he cannot run himself ragged; he would be unable to help her recover and be with her.

“No.” Her eyes are already drifting closed, with a combination of what her body endured and the pain medication. “I just need… you. Go. I’ll be… here.”

With a final peck on the lips, Jamie heads for the door. Even though Claire is sleeping again, he makes her a promise, out loud: “You werena the first lass I kissed, but I swear to ye that ye’ll be the last.”

#outlander #outlander fanfic #jamie and claire #ltm19 #one more to go #i have absolutely no knowledge of the scottish legal system so next chapter's straight outta my imagination #thanks for reading and commenting and liking and reblogging #<3

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orange-waterfalls · 4 years

Text

Sleeping Beauty

Darkiplier x Wilford Warfstache

@grey-b0y ty for the request!(im sorry it took so long lol)

A/N: ight so. first time doin a ship. literally the best thing ive ever written. may like to do more. uhhhh Dark being an overworked bastard. Wilford being the caring boyf that he would be. Disney movies. If you couldn't already tell. Uhhhhh finished this in an hour, re-read it, may actually be the best thing I've ever made I'm ngl. Dark may be a bit OOC, but that's just cause he's a lil bit tired. uhhhhh yeah. Enjoy!

Requests are open

Dark let out a quiet sigh as he opened the door to his and Wilford’s house. He threw his suit jacket to the side with absolutely no fucks to give about where it landed. He stumbled through the house until he eventually landed in his office, plopping down in his chair and leaning back with a groan.

He had so much work he still had left to do, and it was already 9:00. He was so, so, so very tired. The egos had been especially annoying that week, all having the stupidest comments during meetings and refusing to shut up once they got started. Dark had noticed Wilford gave him a “look” whenever he saw the entity annoyed or angry. He didn’t want Wilford to worry, so he always brushed it off. In hindsight, it might have been a good idea to let Wil help him. They were in a relationship, after all. People are supposed to help those that they love. Dark never gave Wil much of a chance to do that. He felt bad for it at times.

Dark rubbed the bridge of his nose and yawned. He shook his head and cracked his neck and flexed his hands, trying to make himself more awake. “Trying” being the keyword here. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out his laptop and computer mouse. He opened the laptop and opened a document of everything he was supposed to schedule, approve, and deny. He went through everything, the blue light illuminating his pale face, the bags under his eyes looking very prominent. Any person with eyesight and half a brain could see he was sleep-deprived and overworked.

He heard a noise come from somewhere in the house. He stopped clicking and raised his head a bit, trying to listen. Nothing else came. He shrugged lightly. He was probably just imagining things…

Probably…

Another noise. A THUMP. Louder this time. He took his hand away from the mouse and leaned back in his chair, watching the closed door of the office. He stared at it, waiting for another noise to show up.

The sound of shattered glass and Wilford cursing caused Dark to jump up out of his chair. He threw the door open and ran to the source of the noise.

“Wil!” He called as he stopped in the living room. The panicked look on his face died down into indifference and mild annoyance.

Wilford was laying on his back in the middle of the room, margarita glass in hand, with the window shattered and shards of glass surrounding him. He turned to Dark and smiled.

“Good evening, pumpkin!” He greeted joyfully. Dark exhaled deeply and walked over to Wilford. He had no problem with the glass because his shoes were still on. Wilford, apparently having some sort of supervision when it came to Dark, noticed this small fact. “Why do you have your shoes on? When did you get home?” Dark, ignoring the question, pulled Wilford to his feet.

“Where’s your key?” He asked, exasperated.

“Now, hold on. I asked you first. It’s not fair that I have to answer questions when you haven’t answered mine!” The reporter pouted. Dark rolled his eyes.

“Stuck in a meeting. Stuck in traffic. Got home a couple of minutes ago,” He sighed, “Where is your key, Wil?” Wilford looked around for a moment before his eyes landed on a clock. He let out an exaggerated gasp.

“Dark! It’s so late! You must be exhausted!” He said, cupping Dark’s face in his hands. He can’t help from melting into the touch of his favorite person.

“No, no, I’m fine, really,” Dark mumbled, obviously lying. Wilford frowned.

“Come along now, darling, you know you can’t lie to me,” He said, stepping a bit closer to him. He looked into Dark’s eyes while the entity avoided eye contact. Wilford huffed before his eyebrows raised and a smile formed on his lips. Dark noticed and furrowed his eyebrows

“What?” He asked, slightly worried. Wilford grabbed his hand and led him to their bedroom. Dark sighed.

“Wil, I don’t-” He was cut off by a T-shirt being thrown at his face. Dark, being extremely tired, didn’t process what had happened until he looked down and saw the shirt. He looked back up at Wilford, squinting a bit. Wilford had somehow already changed. He was wearing pink shorts and a white shirt with a rainbow on the front. Dark glanced down at the shirt and raised an eyebrow. Wilford cleared his throat.

“My eyes are up here, Darky-poo,” He teased. Dark would have blushed if he were less proud. Would have.

Dark rolled his eyes and picked up the shirt, ushering Wilford out. God knows how long into their relationship and Dark still refused to change in front of his boyfriend. Wilford shook his head and chuckled, heading into the kitchen.

He made two bowls of popcorn, knowing for a fact he would scarf down his in a matter of minutes. He walked into the living room. He heard creaking and looked back to see Dark walk in after him. The pale entity wore black boxers and the grey shirt that was thrown at him. Wilford smiled.

“What took so long, darling?” He asked sweetly. Dark scoffed at the third pet name that night.

“Resting my eyes,” he claimed. Wilford hummed, knowing it was a lie. He wouldn’t push it, though. Dark sighed. “What are we doing, Wil?”

“Watching Disney movies. Only the musicals, though,” Dark groaned.

“Wil-”

“Listen,” Wilford said, suddenly sounding serious. Dark closed his mouth. “I know you won’t listen to me when I tell you to rest. So, if you’re gonna stay awake, you might as well do something vaguely fun, right?” Dark smiled softly.

This person. This person loved him. This person cared about him more than anyone else did. And this person that cared about him was trying to help. Dark sighed, but not in an exasperated way. In an “I really can’t argue because a) I have nothing to argue and b) I kinda sorta really don’t wanna argue but I still wanna act like I do” kinda way. He shuffled his way over to the couch and plopped down next to Wilford, scooting as close to him as possible. Wilford grinned and settled himself.

“But do we have to do all of them?” Dark complained. Wilford stroked his mustache a bit.

“Well, no, but we gotta start somewhere.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you get to tell me which year to start from.”

“Last year.” That earned a small glare from Wilford. “Fine, fine… uh… 19...8...9?”

“The Little Mermaid it is!” Wilford said excitedly.

“Wait, you know all the years?”

“Of course I do! What do you think I am? Some sort of commoner?!” Dark slowly blinked at that wreck of a sentence and turned back to the TV screen. Wilford put an arm around Dark, who snuggled into the touch. Then, Wilford hit the play button on his remote.

Two movies later, Dark was out cold. They’d barely gotten through a third of “Newsies” before Wilford looked over and saw the entity sleeping. Wilford had been mindful enough to keep his singing voice to a minimum, and so Dark hadn’t woken up. Wilford wasn’t even sure how long he’d been asleep. When did he last look? Halfway through “Beauty and the Beast?” Aw, too bad. 30 more minutes and they would’ve started on “Aladdin”! Wilford shrugged and paused the film.

He gently shifted in his spot and lifted Dark into his arms. He slowly carried the “Sleeping Beauty”(shut up I’m funny) to their room. He gently laid Dark down on the bed, covering him with the blankets. Dark almost instantly cuddled into them. Wilford bit his lip as he stared down at his lover. Well, since they didn’t watch Sleeping Beauty…

Wilford gently leaned down and brushed a small curl out of Dark’s face. He gazed at his sleeping figure in admiration before leaning down further to connect their lips in a small kiss. Very small, more of a peck than a “kiss” kiss, but still. Dark slowly opened his eyes and blinked a few times as Wilford pulled away.

“Aw, Dark,” Wilford whispered, “I woke you with true love’s kiss!”

“You woke me, period,” Dark grumbled but stretched out his arms, tempting Wilford to go to bed.

Wilford climbed in next to Dark, spooning him. He held his arms tight around his partner’s torso, burying his nose into the entity’s hair and inhaling deeply.

“What are you doing?” Dark almost chuckled. Wilford smiled.

“I like your smell…”

“Oh?” Dark twisted around to look at Wilford. “And what do I smell like?”

“Home…” Wilford answered with a lovestruck look on his face. He could’ve sworn he saw a blush before getting hit in the face with a pillow. He laughed as Dark turned back around.

“You are the cheesiest person in the galaxy,” Dark said. Wilford’s lips curled into a grin as he snuggled up behind Dark again.

“Maybe…” He answered. Both of them sighed contently. “I love you…”

“I love you too...” Dark mumbled, still very tired, “Goodnight, Wil.” Wilford smiled as he tightened his grip ever-so-slightly.

“Good night, Sleeping Beauty…”

#darkiplier #markiplier darkiplier #wilford warfstache #markiplier wilford #markiplier wilford warfstache #darkiplier x wilford #darkiplier x wilford warfstache #darkstache #darkstache fanfic #slash fanfiction #not x reader #markiplier egos #markiplier alter egos

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let-it-raines · 4 years

Text

Catch Me If You Can (30/40)

298 days. That’s how long Killian Jones was away from a baseball field. It’s less than a year, only part of a season for him, but it might as well have lasted a decade as he alternated between physical therapy and spending an excessive amount of time sitting on his couch.

But then he came back and won the World Series.

It’s something no one saw coming, and it’s certainly not something anyone who knows about his arm would predict. Now it’s a new season with new possibilities, and anything could happen. On-field reporter Emma Swan will be there to cover it all even if she is not his biggest fan right now.

Asking her out live on-air will do that.

Rating: Mature

a/n: I am not a fan of the fact that there are only 10 chapters left. Like, not at all. Where did all of this time go? How are we at this point in the story? I feel like I was just writing it!

Anyway, it seems fitting that this chapter posts in a week where a lot of us have gone home to see family because Killian is going home with Emma to meet Ruth😘 Thanks to you all for being you and thanks to @resident-of-storybrooke for reading these words for me and checking my facts!

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-/-

“Did you know that it’s Friday the thirteenth and a full moon?”

“Thank you, Alec Trebek.”

“No, seriously. That’s what it says on my phone.”

“Love, I know the date.”

“But did you know about the moon thing?”

“I did,” Killian sighs, picking his suitcase up off of the security belt and placing it on the ground while Emma grabs her sneakers. “I read about it the other day, and I am prepared for all of the haunted werewolves to come out to play.”

“Shut up,” Emma laughs before she plops herself down on a bench to tie her shoes.

It’s a little past four thirty in the morning, and JFK is nearly empty of anyone who isn’t traveling in some kind of suit. He and Emma are surrounded by people in black blazers and tailored trousers only traveling with a sleek black suitcase and their briefcase. He and Emma, meanwhile, are both in joggers with t-shirts on (Emma has on his Vandy sweatshirt over hers) and their hair tucked underneath baseball caps.

Emma got in from Detroit late last night, only taking five minutes to kiss him hello and take a quick shower before collapsing on his bed on top of the covers. The only flight they could get so last minute that wasn’t an exuberant amount of money is at the ungodly hour of six in the morning, so Killian insisted that she just stay at his place last night so that they could leave from the same place and save time. Considering they woke up ten minutes before their Uber arrived and could barely brush their teeth before they left, that didn’t exactly work in the whole saving time department.

It doesn’t help that Emma has pretty much been deadweight this entire morning until she started to wake up right before they went through security.

He, on the other hand, is wide awake. Nervous jitters run through his body, his stomach twisting in knots, and for someone who doesn’t get nervous for many things other than baseball, Killian is pretty much a wreck when it comes to meeting Emma’s family. Ruth is the last one, the final piece of the puzzle, and as intimidating as David was to meet, his mother might outrank her.

Killian both wants to spend the entire weekend sucking up to her and thanking her for taking Emma in and giving her the love she’s never had but has always deserved, but that could prove to be a bit much.

Then again, if Ruth hadn’t taken Emma in thirteen years ago, Emma would have never met David. If Emma hadn’t met David, David would have never taken her to the baseball game that truly allowed Emma to fall in love with sports. And if Emma hadn’t done that, he doubts she’d have ever gotten into broadcasting and found her passion there that makes her so damn happy.

The two of them also would never have met, and that thought sends a shiver down his spine.

It’s funny how such little things can change absolutely everything.

Everything.

So, yeah, Killian is most definitely a little nervous to meet Ruth.

“You want to go find some coffee, Swan?” Killian asks Emma as he props his foot up to tie his own sneaker. “I think the two of us are in some desperate need of caffeine.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think we’ll be able to find a coffee shop in an airport. There are never any coffee places here.”

“I don’t appreciate all of this sarcasm so early this morning.”

She pokes his stomach. “You’re the one who woke me up.”

“We’re going home to meet your family.”

“I don’t see your point.”

“You should.”

“Well,” Emma huffs, standing up and pulling up her pants so that he sees a flash of tanned skin on her stomach, “you should. Onto coffee we go.”

They both grab onto their bags and start walking down the terminal, passing gate after gate and store after store, but everything is black with the lights turned off and bars pulled over the stores. Nothing is open, not even the convenience stores, and the moment Emma realizes this, she stops walking and buries her face in his shoulder.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“There are vending machines,” he soothes. “I think they have coffee.”

“But it’s gross coffee,” she wines before wrapping her arms around his stomach. At first, Killian thinks that she’s being affectionate, but then he realizes that she’s using him so that she doesn’t have to stand on her own. He’s not sure he minds either way. “I need real coffee, and I need it in an IV.”

“Okay, Lorelai Gilmore.”

Emma laughs into his shoulder, the vibrations working through his shoulder. “You’re learning. I’m so proud, babe.”

“I might have watched an episode or two.”

Emma’s head pops up then, the bill of her cap hitting him in the chin. “When?”

“While you were gone. It was on Netflix, and it just kind of happened.”

“Good choice, twenty-nine. Good choice.” Emma’s lips brush against the corner of his jaw, and he tugs her a little closer as his hand runs up and down her back while she presses up on her toes to make contact with his lips. “I need a diet coke or something, and then when the stores open, I’m buying the biggest damn cup of coffee in this entire airport.”

“Whatever your heart desires.”

-/-

The flight is only an hour and a half, Emma sleeps the entire time despite them getting her the biggest damn cup of coffee in the airport right before they boarded, and Killian spends his time answering emails before closing out the app so that he won’t see anything else work-related for this entire weekend. It’s a conscious decision, one he’s happy to make, and it’s almost refreshing to know that he doesn’t have anything to worry about for at least a few days.

Well, anything to worry about except for Ruth Nolan and making sure that he can impress her.

-/-

The taxi they get from the airport takes them directly to Ruth’s house, so Emma doesn’t get much time to show him around, only pointing out a few landmarks. They pass the minor league baseball stadium here, the Portland Sea Dogs, and Emma tells him that she’s never actually been despite having such easy access. She was too caught up in everything having to do with New York and getting there that she never really thought about it. He teases her and tells her they’ll have to go to a game, but Emma turns him down by saying that she needs a break from baseball.

He does too.

So that’ll probably be knocked off the itinerary that Killian is sure Mary Margaret has made. Luckily, though, she and David won’t be here until early evening since they both had to be at work and school for half a day, so they’re pretty much free to do whatever they want with Ruth today.

He’s still slightly reeling from his injury and their fight and everything that came from that. He’s not angry or upset, but this is all still such an adjustment. He should be playing. He shouldn’t be here, but it’s his own damn fault that he is. He screwed up on so many levels, and owning up to it all has been a tough pill to swallow.

Hurting the people he loved nearly killed him, and he doesn’t want anyone to hurt because of him ever again.

In the blink of a bleary eye, they’re pulling up to a quaint two-story Victorian home with brown and white details and bright green bushes lining the brick-paved walkway to the front door. It’s a home, undoubtedly, one much the same as all of the ones in the city and yet entirely different in that he can see vibrant green grass and flushed trees that spread out all over the neighborhood. It reminds him of growing up in Ohio, even if they were not the ones to have the spaciously fenced-in backyard, and a little fluttering of his heart takes place as Killian takes it all in.

He’s always kind of wanted a place like this – away from everything.

“So, this is the place?”

“This is the place.”

“It’s nice.”

“Yeah, I’ve always thought so.” Emma hikes her bag up a little higher on her shoulder and turns to look at him, trepidation written across her face. “We can still turn around if you want to. There are hotels around here.”

“We’re going inside, love.” He leans down and quickly brushes his lips over hers. She tastes strongly of coffee just from the little taste that he got. He’d like to kiss her more, to have the privacy of the hotel so he can show her just how much he’s missed her the past few days of her being gone, but they’re not doing that. “Besides, I believe I just saw Ruth peeking her head through the window looking at us, so it’s too late to turn around now.”

“Yeah,” Emma sighs, “I guess it is.”

Emma steps forward and begins moving up the path, Killian following right behind her, and Emma barely gets a chance to knock on the door before it’s swinging open and Ruth is lunging forward to practically smother Emma with a hug.

Damn. Ruth Nolan is a force of nature.

Then again, she was already for being a single mom most of her life and still taking in foster children, especially one as stubborn as Emma. He can’t even begin to imagine.

He fully intends on finding out this weekend. There are a million questions running around in his mind.

“Oh,” Ruth coos, shaking Emma in her embrace. A dog escapes the front door and comes to sniff at Killian’s feet. This must be Wilby. “I have missed you so much. I think I’m going to have to move to New York so I can see you more often. Do you have room in that apartment of yours?”

“Only if the couch is comfortable for you.”

“I think it may kill my back.”

“No, it’ll definitely kill your back. I have no doubt. It kills my back. Killian’s couch is super comfortable, though.”

“Well, I hardly know the man. I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to sleep over in his apartment.”

“Who cares about proper, love?” Killian teases. “I would be remiss to not let a beautiful woman sleep over at my apartment.”

The words slip out of his mouth before he’s able to stop them, and he immediately regrets them. Ruth may not be Emma’s mom, the title something that Emma still struggles with no matter how much she loves Ruth, but she’s very much a mother figure. Yet here he is spewing words that pretty much scream in her face that he doesn’t care about proper and has been fucking Emma for months now. What a smooth start.

The pit in his stomach becomes a heavy, solid weight, one that’s going to have him breaking the wood of the wraparound front porch.

Shit.

But then Ruth is leaning her head back in laughter, her eyes shining brightly as her hair falls off of her shoulders, and that weight lessens a little bit.

“I’m not much of one for proper either,” Ruth says with laughter still on her lips. She releases Emma and steps toward him, wrapping him in a hug as well, even if this one isn’t quite as smothering. It likely helps that he’s larger than Emma. “Hello, sweetie. SoSo, you’re the infamous Killian Jones I’ve been hearing about?”

“From Emma?”

“No, my grandson. He loves you. I think he was probably more devastated about your arm than Emma was.”

“How did you know I was devastated?”

Ruth pulls back from him to look at Emma. “Intuition told me that you’d be upset over the fact that your boyfriend is injured. Mary Margaret gave me all of the other details.”

Emma’s eyes roll. “Of course she did.”

“You know she can’t keep a secret.”

Killian looks over to Emma to see what she’s got to say, thinking that this first meeting is going rather smoothly, but then Ruth’s eyes are snapping back to him and looking him up and down in a way that has him feeling rather naked under her scrutiny.

Obviously, it was wishful thinking for him to assume he was quite out of the woods.

“You’re much more handsome in person than on TV.”

“Thanks,” Killian laughs awkwardly as he reaches up to scratch behind his ear. “I, uh, appreciate that.”

Emma looks over to him with raised brows that are pinched together, probably wondering when he turned into a stumbling fool instead of someone who can charm anyone, and all he can do is shrug is shoulders at her. She shrugs back before squatting down on the porch to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“Have you eaten breakfast yet, Ruth?” Emma asks, obviously trying to save him. “We’ve had coffee but not food, and we’d love to take you out to breakfast.”

Ruth waves her away. “Nonsense. I’ll cook breakfast for all of us.”

“You really don’t have to do that, Mrs. Nolan.”

She smiles at him. “It’s Ruth, and yes I do. I hear you’re quite the baker, so you can help.”

“Well, who told you that?”

“Mary Margaret. She’s where I get all of my information, don’t you know? Emma and David don’t give me nearly enough.”

“You know, Ruth,” Killian smiles, “I have heard a little bit about the two of them not sharing a lot of information. You practically have to drag it out of them. I would never do such a thing as keeping secrets.”

Emma scoffs but there’s that loving, playful smile. “Too soon, twenty-nine. Too soon.”

Ruth guides them inside and sends Emma off to take their bags to her old room. Killian raises his brow in question to make sure it’s okay for them to share a room, and Emma simply rolls her eyes before taking both of their bags up the stairs while Ruth ushers him into the living room.

It’s just as homey as the outside. Everything is covered in warm colors from the deep brown of the leather couch to the inviting green of the wall. Two windows sit on either side of the stone fireplace where the television is mounted, and that’s when Killian spots the myriad of picture frames on the mantel, as well as on the bookshelf in the corner of the room.

This is exactly what he’s been so excited about.

(Besides getting to spend a weekend away with Emma where she spent the last of her teenager years.)

There are a few photos of David as a child, ones of him alone and then ones of him with both of his parents. Most of them, however, everyone is a tad bit older. Killian knows that it’s so Emma can be included in all of the photos, and his heart swells a bit at the thought of Ruth being that thoughtful so that Emma doesn’t have to feel left out in any way.

A picture of David, Mary Margaret, and Emma sits in the middle of the mantle. David and Mary Margaret look much the same, if not younger than they look now, but with different hairstyles. Killian makes a mental note to tease David about his shoulder-length hair. Emma, though, is definitely a teenager here. Her face is rounder, far less angled, and he can see the tepidness of her smile as she leans into David in the picture.

“Are you looking at how cute I am?” Emma questions as she walks into the room.

Killian turns to look at her and at the shy smile on her face now, and he opens up his arm to let her walk into him so that her arm can wrap around his back while her head rests on his shoulder.

“How old are you here, love?”

“Um, that’s a question I don’t know the answer to.”

“Sixteen,” Ruth supplies, and Killian doesn’t miss the way she’s smiling at the two of them standing there. “That’s from Thanksgiving. Emma still wasn’t too sure about us.”

“I’m still not.”

Killian squeezes her hip. “Liar.”

“Nope, I’m serious. You’ve only just met Ruth, so I don’t think you can judge her character yet.”

“Oh no, darling, I can. She’s promised to tell me stories about you while we cook breakfast, and that’s good enough for me to love her forever.”

Emma groans and dips her head down. “Just let me sulk, and I’ll come to the kitchen when breakfast is ready.”

“Just like when you were a teenager,” Ruth teases.

The morning is mostly spent in the kitchen where they eat waffles and bacon, which is definitely not on his diet but he’s not playing right now anyways, and he gets to listen to Ruth tease Emma all about what she was like as a teenager. Emma’s cheeks are painted red, the embarrassment very clearly there, but she takes it like a champ and smiles and laughs along even when Ruth tells a story about Emma nearly breaking her arm while trying to sneak back into the house after meeting a guy who she wasn’t supposed to be meeting.

“Not my finest moment,” Emma admits as she bites into a piece of bacon. “And definitely not my finest boyfriend.”

The stories continue, and as the day passes on, Killian’s stomach hurts from all of the laughter. Everything about his time here just seems so…perfect. And he knows that there is no such thing as perfect, but the crisp breeze of the air with the sunshine filtering through the leaves of the trees tells him otherwise as the two of them help Ruth with some of her yardwork. Of course, he hasn’t done yardwork in over a decade, so he’s a little rusty. Ruth and Emma make sure to point that out to him every time he cuts a shrub in the wrong way or manages to screw up turning on the lawnmower.

It was complicated, okay?

And Killian definitely wasn’t aware that this is how they’d be spending the first part of their afternoon. It was not at all mentioned in Emma’s pitch of asking him to come here.

Not that he would have ever said no to helping. It’s good to feel useful when he’s been feeling a little useless lately no matter how well he thinks that he’s handling his injury layoff.

It’s decidedly different than the first time around. It likely helps that the injury isn’t as serious and that Killian knows that the end of it is in sight, even if there’s still bits of uncertainty that no one can answer and predict for him. Yet, it also has everything to do with the fact that the people closest to him know exactly what’s going on instead of him letting it all fester inside of him. Honesty is the better policy this time, even if his hand was the slightest bit forced.

Watching Emma easily guide him through Old Port with a beatific smile on her face may help as well.

No, it definitely helps.

She’s such a force of light in his life, even if she doesn’t like admitting that sometimes, but the fact almost seems reinforced after having been apart from her and facing the thoughts of what his life may be like without her in it outside of being someone who he works with.

Frankly, it would be kind of dim. She’s integrated herself so easily into every aspect of his daily routine, and while at first, he thought it really only had to do with her clothes in his closet and her shampoo bottles littering his shower, it’s more in the way that he’ll be sitting with Elsa and look over to see her texting Emma or the way that whenever he wakes up in the morning and she’s not in bed with him, his first thought is to check his phone for a text from her. It’s ridiculous and yet also…not.

She annoys him more than anything or anyone in the world, but he also loves her more than anything. It’s easy in a way that it’s never been before, and Killian wonders if this feeling of fluttering deep in his belly is what he was missing in the past.

They grab a late lunch at a quaint little seafood place, one he can tell is family-owned simply from the atmosphere, and instead of sitting inside, they settle down at one of the umbrella-covered tables outside so that they can have a view of the ocean with the salt-water breeze wafting over them.

He’s missed the water.

Of course, he’s been around it living in Manhattan and traveling to several places around the country that are surrounded by water. Hell, he’s even been back in it in the three years since the accident with Liam. But it’s been a long damn time since he’s sat and simply enjoyed getting to spend time near the water.

During the off-season, he and Emma are going somewhere that’s surrounded by water for at least a week, and they’re not going to let any outside distractions get to them. It’s making plans for the future, and that’s all that he wants right now.

(Some would call it baseball mating season, and while he doesn’t plan on them reproducing anytime soon, they can sure as hell practice.)

They get a call that David and Mary Margaret are nearly there when Emma is showing him some of the lighthouses while using a ridiculous voice that she calls her “tour guide” voice, so they quickly gather their things and start walking back to Ruth’s car since she absolutely cannot wait to see the rest of her family and refuses to have them be at her house before she can get back to her house.

David and Mary Margaret get there first because they are apparently the fastest drivers on the planet today.

And Leo practically tackles Ruth in all of his ten-year-old glory when he sees her.

That’s how Addy and Lucy are with Elsa’s parents too, and Killian imagines that being a grandparent is a hell of a lot of fun since you aren’t in charge of molding a little person into a functioning human being. You just have to give them candy and all of the things their parents don’t want them to have.

Or, at least, that’s what he thinks Ruth does.

(That’s what he does as an uncle and wishes his mom could have done as a grandmother.)

They all eat takeout dinner together from an Italian place that Emma and David swear by, and while it’s certainly not the best thing he’s ever had to eat, it’s pretty damn good. Then again, he’s had so much to eat today that his stomach very well may explode soon. He’ll have to get up and go for a jog in the morning.

But right now, it’s a little past ten at night, he’s been up for over eighteen hours, and all he really wants is to sleep. His body is dragging enough that he imagines he’ll have no trouble falling into a slumber as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He’s wrong.

Because then he sees Emma’s teenage bedroom and sees just how empty it is. It’s absolutely nothing like her apartment in New York full of throw pillows and blankets and every artificial plant known to man with a colorful paintings above her headboard. Everything here is rather…beige.

Emma walks out of the bathroom where she’s been getting ready for bed, and he watches as she rubs lotion up and down her hands and her forearms. “Why that glum look on your face? Are you still trying to figure out better ways to argue with David over soccer? Because that dinner conversation is long over. I thought Leo was going to climb on top of the table and start beating on his chest or something equally ridiculous.”

“Hm, no,” Killian chuckles, opening his knees so that Emma can step into them and his hands can find their spots on her waist, warm flesh against his fingertips.

“Then what?”

He blinks up at her, not entirely sure if now is the right time to ask, but then he sees the glint of his mom’s ring falling against Emma’s chest and is reassured in who he is to Emma. “I can’t help but notice that your room here is not quite as colorful as your room at home.”

Emma sighs, and he squeezes her hip in response so that she looks down at him and smile. ��It’s kind of a stupid reason. You don’t want to hear about it.”

“I’d love to know more of your beginnings, Swan.”

“Haven’t you heard enough about them today?”

“There is never enough information, love.”

She smiles and reaches to push his hair back off of his head, her hands a magic touch as they move through the strands there. “I’m not a sentimental person. Or, I wasn’t.” Her right hand leaves his hair to find the chain around her neck. Killian’s heart stutters at that movement. “And I never trusted that I was going to stay in one place for very long, so if I had the chance to decorate my room, I didn’t. I kept everything I owned in a little box that was always ready to go.”

His heart may actually break for Emma in this moment, the sad reality of what she’s telling him something that’s hard for him to take in. He can’t imagine what it must be like for her to have lived that way.

“I think this place worked out for you, though.”

“Yeah, it did.” She smiles again, but Killian can see the twinge of sadness in the corners of her lips. “You sure you still want to know about these beginnings of mine when they’re a little bit sad?”

“Like I’ve said before, love, we make quite the team, sad backstories and all. I do, however, think that you need a little something on these walls of yours.”

“I think all of the home décor stores may be closed.”

Killian winks. “Well, I think I’ll just have to get a little creative then.”

His hand slides around her back to squeeze her ass before he’s pushing Emma back from him and getting up from the bed to walk out the door. Everything is darkened with the lights turned off, and since he doesn’t want to wake up everyone else in the house, he uses the flashlight on his phone and quietly walks down the stairs to find his way to the kitchen where he knows there were sheets of paper in the printer as well as a few pens in a cup right behind it. Emma is on his heels, questioning what the hell it is he’s doing, but he doesn’t tell her until he’s grabbing the paper and a thick blue marker.

“What are you doing?” Emma hisses.

“I’m making you some artwork for your wall.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s endearing.”

“You say that about every weird thing that you do.”

“Because the weird things are endearing,” he corrects, looking back at her and smiling. “What kind of drawing do you want? I’m pretty talented, if I do say so myself, but it’s been awhile since I’ve drawn anything.”

“Just…do whatever you want. I’m going to fix myself a hot chocolate. Do you want one?”

“Does Ruth have any tea?”

“I’m going to make you the hot chocolate. It’s better than tea.”

Killian rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t protest as he starts sketching out what he can remember of the view of the lighthouse today. It’s rough, definitely not his best work, but considering his original plan was simply going to be writing her name out, it’ll have to do for quick work.

Strange things happen when he’s far past tired.

“Milady,” Killian sighs, picking up the paper as well as a bit of tape before walking the few steps toward Emma as she sits on a barstool at the island with two cups of hot chocolate, her mug piled up with whipped cream and sprinkles of cinnamon, “I present to you your artwork for your wall.”

Emma’s eyes glance over it before glancing up at him with a slight smile on her face. “You’ve got to sign it.”

He taps the corner of the paper where he’s scribbled in his number. “Already done.”

“Ah,” Emma laughs, “how could I have missed that?”

“You were distracted by the beauty of the picture.”

“Exactly.” Emma presses up over the countertop and leans forward to quickly brush her lips over Killian’s, and while a part of him wants to deepen it, he doesn’t want to get carried awhile while here. “Thank you. That is very sweet of you to do.”

“Endearing, right?”

“Sure.” She shakes her head and slides his mug over to him so that he can have some of his hot chocolate. “I hope today hasn’t scarred you for life, especially since you still have to survive tomorrow.”

“It’s been fun, Swan. I’ve been…I think it’s gotten me majorly out of my own head. I needed that. And I liked getting to see you be so happy. My only complaint is that I’m under strict instructions not to make your bed squeak. I don’t like that rule.”

Emma reaches over to slap his shoulder, but he moves it out of the way quick enough that she doesn’t get it. It also causes a slight twinge in his shoulder that reminds him that he needs an ice pack for tonight. He hasn’t gotten to put ice on it all day. So, he turns toward the fridge and opens up the freezer, grabbing one of Ruth’s ice packs, and placing it on top of his shoulder before turning back to Emma whose fingers are tracing over the drawing.

Emotion lodges in his throat again, something that’s been happening quite a lot tonight, and it’s what propels him forward to step behind Emma’s back and wrap his arms around her stomach before resting his chin on top of her head.

“I’m not going anywhere, Emma,” he promises, meaning every word. “Not unless you tell me to go. So, you can plan on hanging paintings and making plans and keeping little trinkets in more places than a box. I love you more than I know how to tell you. That’s not going to change.”

Emma audibly sighs, something that he feels under the palms of his hands, before leaning back into Killian and simply staying in that spot so that he can breathe her in.

“I love you,” she breathes out as her head tilts up so that her lips can move across the underside of his jaw. “Let’s take the hot chocolate upstairs and go to bed.”

“And your picture?”

“Yeah, that too.”

-/-

Killian’s arm tingles, the feeling nearly gone, when he wakes up in the morning and finds Emma’s body pressed around it. This isn’t how they fell asleep, not even close, and he’ll probably never have use of his arm again. It doesn’t seem to matter, though, and he flexes his fingers a bit before nuzzling his nose into the back of Emma’s head in an attempt to get to go back to sleep.

They were up until maybe two in the morning talking, sleep never really coming to either of them no matter how much they both wanted it, and judging from the dim light coming through the blinds on the window, it’s still early yet.

He desperately needs coffee. He’s probably not going to be able to go back to sleep, and he desperately needs coffee.

Slowly, Killian begins to extract his arm from Emma’s grip, stopping when she flinches, and after several careful minutes, he’s able to quietly get off the bed and step out of the room, leaving her door cracked so as not to make any kind of noise. He walks down the hallway and uses the guest bathroom before walking down the stairs and wandering to the kitchen in search of coffee.

To his surprise, David is already there sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop open and a cup of coffee sitting next to him, the smell wafting toward Killian.

“Hey,” Killian greets. David nearly jumps out of his chair and knocks everything over, and Killian can’t help but laugh at the shock on his face. “Did you really not hear me coming down the stairs?”

“I, uh, I – ” David is stuttering, obviously at a loss for words, and Killian can’t quite figure out what’s going on. He doesn’t think Dave is usually this flustered in the mornings. “I wasn’t expecting you or Emma to be up this early.”

Killian shakes out his arm, still trying to wake it up. “Believe me. I wish I wasn’t up. Do you always work this early in the morning on a Saturday?”

“No, I don’t, but my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing with emails this morning, so I came downstairs to see so it wouldn’t wake Mary Margaret up.”

“Ah, I turned off my emails this weekend for that exact reason.”

“You probably shouldn’t have done that.”

“What’s that, mate?” David coughs in response, and Killian steps forward to the table and sits down across from David, confusion running through him as his stomach twists and turns. “Seriously. What?”

David can’t look at him, not really, and that doesn’t help calm any of Killian’s nerves as he tries to figure out what in the world is going on with him this morning.

“I didn’t know this was happening, I swear. I’d have stopped it if I got one whiff of it, but there’s been an article.”

“An article?”

David turns his computer around, and Killian reads a headline that he’s always expected to see and yet has always hoped to avoid.

The Truth Behind Killian Jones: A Story Told by His Father.

“Fucking hell,” he murmurs, his eyes taking in the picture of his father that’s plastered on the screen. Killian hasn’t seen him in years, actual years, and yet he looks exactly the same. “What kind of shit is this?”

“It gets worse.”

“How could it possibly get worse?”

“Look at the journalist.”

Killian’s eyes glance toward the screen again, his gaze finding more words he didn’t want to see.

Walsh Osborne.

As in Emma’s ex, Walsh Osborne who she still works with at ESPN. Though, this article is decidedly not on ESPN’s website.

Holy fucking shit.

Killian’s got to go back to bed. This isn’t real. This is all some kind of messed up nightmare that he’s experiencing, and soon, he’ll wake up and none of it will be real. And yet Killian keeps scrolling through the article, skipping the words to instead look at pictures of himself that Killian hasn’t seen in years. His father shouldn’t have these pictures. Liam should have all of them. And yet, somehow, he doesn’t.

Childhood pictures are nothing, though, at least for right now, when at the bottom of the article are pictures of Killian and Emma standing in the airport yesterday with Emma’s arms wrapped around his waist as well as a picture of them kissing in his car from who knows when. Then there’s one that he knows is from the hallways of Yankee stadium in what was supposed to be a private room.

“Everyone knows about you and Emma,” David tells him.

This is too much. It’s all too much, and he doesn’t know how to handle the reappearance of his father and the very public reveal of his private relationship.

Fuck.

#catch me if you can #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic #captain swan

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bittysvalentines · 4 years

Text

You Can’t Hear My Soul

From: @eatallofthepumpkinthings

To: @corgiberus

Rating: T

Tags: Soulmate AU, Angst, mentions of anxiety, mentions of loneliness, mentions of defamation of character, mentions of paparazzi being rude, OC, ASL/RSL/Sign language, NHL Chowder, NHL Whiskey, Open Ended, mentions of Zimbits

Note: Sorry I can't write fluff! I hope you like it anyways.

Alexei wakes up groggy. The night before he'd tried to stay up until midnight, his heart racing with anticipation, yet he'd fallen asleep at some point. As soon as he is awake enough to realize why he's so groggy, his heart starts running again and his face splits with a grin. Immediately he feels for that space in his head where the connection to his soul mate should exist. When he finds it, nestled just behind his eyes, his heart sinks.

There is wind blowing past his ears and he knows he won't be able to hear his soulmate. He'd hoped that they'd fall into that small statistical chance and have the same birth date. He knew it was unrealistic, but he still had hoped to hear his soulmate. He often stayed up at night wondering if their voice would be airy and melodic or deep in soothing. Would they be Russian like him, or would they be foreign and the translation weird and distressing. Of course, it wouldn't matter if his soulmate was foreign, living half way across the world even – but it would be so much easier if they were Russian. If they were, then the likelihood of them being close by would be higher. They could be together sooner.

His daydreaming didn't matter now. The connection was open. He could tell his soulmate all about himself and maybe they'd come and find him before their 18th birthday. Even if they didn't come and find him – he had to stop himself . There were only 24 hours in the day and he'd already wasted several sleeping.

“HI! I'M ALEXEI!” He shouts into the connection. His cheeks heat. Why am I shouting? I'm going to sound desperate. he thinks.

He tries to reign himself in, but he knows its going to be difficult. “Uh sorry for shouting. I'm just really excited to talk to you. I've been dreaming about this day for a long time. I can't hear you now. But I'm sure in no time I will be able to hear you. We will talk non-stop on your birthday. I just know it.”

He stays up until midnight telling his soulmate everything about his life.

********************

Months pass and Alexei's hopes fade. He throws himself into his hockey career again. His father is right, if he's going to transition to the NHL he should do it now. He's been working with agents and talking to teams. By the end of the regular NHL season he's secured his spot with Falconers.

********************

Nervousness sits in the pit of his stomach everyday. Without any games to play, he refocuses his energy into learning English. It's profoundly frustrating. After a particularly disastrous lesson, he decides to take out his feelings the only way he knows how – on the ice. He's laces up and heads onto the iced over pond behind his family home.

Who knows when I'll get to do this again, he sulks.

He's skating laps, pushing himself as fast as he can. Suddenly he's tripping over himself. There are words flashing behind his eyes. As he falls forward, he becomes aware that the room where his connection lives is open and the wind rushing past his ears is just from the fall.

“Hello, can you hear me?”

“Are you awake? I hope I'm not waking you.”

“I'm really excited to talk with you Alexei.”

As he catches his breath and tries to push up off his knees, his mind is racing. After a few minutes he realizes he hasn't said anything back and he probably should do that.

“OH, HELLO... Hi. Uh... Happy birthday!” He replies awkwardly.

“Thank you! I'm so happy to finally talk to you.”

Alexei is excited but he is so very confused.

“Why can't I hear you?” he asks.

“WHAT?” his soulmate replies.

“It's like I'm seeing your words. I... I don't hear them. Is there something wrong?” Is he sick? He's heard that colds can sometimes mess up these conversations. Or maybe it's because of his concussion. He hopes that that isn't the case. Concussions have all sorts of long term affects, and in his line of work, its likely he'll have another if not more.

Suddenly he feels a door close. He frantically feels behind his eyes for that space where his soulmate just was but its gone. The void is overwhelming and he's back on his knees. What just happened?

********************

Alexei's 19th birthday couldn't come sooner. He's managed to stay up all night this time. Midnight finds him sitting up straight as a board, staring out the window of his senior teammate's guest bedroom. The city lights are stunning. He feels the connection open and he's speaking as fast as he can. Every question that's swirled in his head for the last few months spews out of him. He gets silence in reply and in just a few minutes the door is slammed closed, the connection lost. He cries himself to sleep.

********************

When he decides to put his mind to something, Alexei always manages to see it through. Going into the NHL, learning English, making friends with his teammates, becoming rookie of the month – he set his mind to those things and he did them. He makes his mind up to be as positive as he can about his soulmate. He may not know why they've hung up on him, why they've not talked to him, why they haven't tried to find him, but he knows he can't control what they do. He can only control himself.

With his mind set on positive, when his soulmate's birthday comes back around, he keeps it casual and light. He talks about his life. He talks about hockey. He talks about his teammates and friends. Every birthday flies by like this. His soulmate never speaks, but the connection stops closing right away.

********************

A few years go by. The Falconers win the cup. But his soulmate never talks to him.

********************

There is a movie playing on the plane. It was a tough game against the Capitals and every muscle in Tater's body is beat. He thinks that the movie is a romantic comedy, but he isn't really sure. The actors all seem to be mumbling or talking too fast. Lulling his head to the side, he asks Poots to translate again for the 5th time.

“Dude, Aren't you paying attention?”

“Yes, I'm just very tired.” He gives him his best puppy dog eyes.

Poots smiles. Tater sees a light go off in Poots head and suddenly Poots is climbing over him and stumbling towards the front of the bus.

“Hey who has the remote.” Someone produces the remote up front. Tater watches Poots struggle with it. Eventually Snowy gets up, rather reluctantly, and helps Poots with whatever he was doing.

When Poots returns, Tater turns back to the movie and is amazed. There are words steaming at the bottom of the screen, highlighted in black, and in Russian.

“Now I don't have to translate.” Poots says victoriously. Tater nodes dumbly. This is what my soulmate's voice looked like.

********************

Its been awhile since he's thought this much about his soulmate when it wasn't his or their birthdays. Stewing on this new information is easy. Making any sense of it, that isn't easy. He tries to Google for some answers but he must not be using the right search words because none of the search results make much sense to him. Once again he finds himself wondering if there is something wrong with him.

After a couple of weeks, he decides to talk about it. He trusts his friends, and the old guys have worldly experience. Maybe one of his teammates will know something that can help.

He's hanging out with the guys, having a few beers when he musters up the courage to bring it up. They're all silent for a few minutes. It unnerves Tater. Am I the only one this has ever happened to?

“Maybe they speak a different language?” Poots says.

“If they speak a different language he should just hear them in Russian. That doesn't explain why he sees the words and not hears them” Snowy refutes.

“Oh right”

“Ive never really heard of anything like this before” Marty says. A couple guys nod in agreement.

“Maybe they're sick all the time?”

Thirdy brings up, “I read a story once that a guy started hearing his soulmate's voice in a whole different language than either of them knew and it turned out he had a tumor.”

“I just had a scan when I had that minor concussion” Tater replies exasperatedly.

“Maybe they're deaf?” Jack offers.

“What?” Everyone turns to Jack.

“I read a book on historical figures with disabilities and it explained that many deaf people and their soulmate's see each others thoughts.” That makes sense.

He goes home and googles some more.

********************

On his next birthday he tries to casually slip in “Are you deaf?”

It doesn't come off casual. Thankfully his soulmate responds.

“Yes”. Then the connection drops.

********************

His family and friends start to worry about him as the years go by. Its not uncommon for people in their early 20s to be single or dating around. But when you're close to 30, people notice. His parents set him up with a Russian National figure skater. She's nice enough but they don't last long with their mismatched schedules and distance between them. He hooks up regularly with a goon on the Bruins for almost two years before he gets traded to the Lightning and meets his soulmate.

On home game nights, when his teammates head home to their soulmates, he returns to his empty apartment. The silence is overwhelming. When he feels like the loneliness will crush him, he turns on ASL and RSL tutorials and clumsily signs along.

********************

It's the off season. Usually he tries not to schedule anything on his soulmate's birthday. But admittedly he's starting to give up hope. When Jack invites him to his summer home for a cookout and a friendly game of hockey with friends, he accepts. Its made easier by B's promises of pie and jam. He's pretty excited until he gets there and is slammed with regret.

Milling about and taking pictures are several PR people from the Sharks, the Aces, the Baby Penguins, the Belleville Senators, and of course the Falconers.

“Sorry guys, I was just so excited.” He overhears Chowder saying. A few Samwell alumni and Falconers are huddled around Chowder and the keg.

“It's alright Chowder. This is good PR.” Whiskey assures him aloofly.

“Yeah and its not like they are staying the whole party – right?” Poots asks.

They all shrug.

Tater makes his rounds. He gives crushing hugs to his teammates, the wellies, and the players from other teams that he has grown to care about. He shuffles in and out of the house. He helps Bitty keep the tables full – and subsequently helps to empty them of their contents. He plays games on the living room's Nintendo Switch, pongs it up with the Pong Master, and gives piggyback rides to the various little ones. He's enjoying himself, but he can't shake the feeling that he's being watched.

He's pouring himself another beer when he glances up and catches the stare of a Shark's photographer from across the room. The guy is lean, with broad shoulders, and flaming red curls. He's also wearing a serious expression aimed right at Tater. His unnerving blue eyes bore into Tater and suddenly Tater feels very self conscious. He trains his eyes on his cup as he takes a drink. When he looks back up, the photographer's face is buried by his curls. The guy is looking down at his camera. Tater is suddenly filled with the fear that he'd just had his picture taken. For years tabloids have tried to make him out to be a heavy drinker. It wasn't true and he didn't need a photo of him chugging a beer to stoke those flames.

He makes his way across the room and stops a few feet from the photographer. “Hey” he says lamely. He was upset a moment ago but now up close, with the man's pale face turned towards him, he can make out the freckles on his nose. He always had a weak spot for freckles.

He was hoping the guy would at least say hello back. Instead it seemed like Tater had returned the favor and unnerved the guy. His eyes were wide and frantically searching around the room, looking everywhere but at Tater. Finally they seemed to settle on something behind Tater. Turning Tater sees Chowder and his soulmate chatting with another couple.

“Uh, hey Chowder” Chowder turned to Tater and Tater pointed his thumb at the photographer. Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out movement behind him, but by the time he had turned back to the photographer the movement had stopped and Chowder had materialized between them.

Then Chowder started introducing them and signing.

“Hey Tater, this is Cody. He's one of our team photographers. Cody this is Alexei Mashkov.”

“Nice to meet you” Cody signed. He offered a handshake.

Tater shook his hand, then he signed back “Its nice to meet you too”

“Oh you know sign language?” Chowder asks exuberantly.

“Yeah, a little” Tater replied sheepishly.

Cody's expression relaxs somewhat, but he still looks apprehensive.

“How do you know sign language?” he asks.

Surprisingly without hesitation Tater responds “I learned it for my soulmate.”

He regrets it almost immediately. He had almost managed to forget that it was his soulmate's birthday. It felt like he just dropped himself in an ice bath. Cody looked about how Tater felt.

Chowder doesn't pick up on the tension.

“Is your soulmate deaf?” He asks.

“Yeah”

“I didn't know that! Are they here with you? I don't think you've ever introduced us! I know Caitlin would love to meet them too!”

“Well I haven't met them myself so.”

“Oh”

Tater wishes the floor would open up and swallow him.

“I'm sorry” Cody signed. His face looks pained, like he felt what Alexei was feeling.

Chowder offers an escape. “We should probably get padded up for the game. I think I overheard a couple guys talking about starting it soon.”

Tater was about to agree, when Cody cuts in. “Wait, can I get a picture of you both before you're all sweaty.”

Tater chuckles at that. “Sure”

Cody maneuvers them to stand beside some of the Zimmerman's tall houseplants and underneath one of the living room's skylights. Tater is a bit disappointed when Cody takes a few steps away to take their picture. Up close he could see the sun bouncing off of Cody's curls. He even got to see his eyes light up when he joked that Chowder and himself should pose like a falcon and a shark respectively. He's still smiling when he aims the camera. Tater is smiling too.

Cody raises his hand and counts down from 5. With the click of the camera shutter Tater sees words flash behind his eyes.

“Wow he really is a sweetheart isn't he.”

Tater's heart jumps and flutters wildly. He watches Cody's face transform from embarrassment to terror, flaming red cheeks turning to ghostly white. They both stand still, staring at each other.

Finally, Tater asks “It's you isn't it.”

“Yes”

#tateroc #bv2020 #bitty's valentines #omgcp fandom #omg check please!

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