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hippogrifffeathers · 9 months

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A Foal's Trust

Death had a way of haunting you, especially when it occurs at your own hands. Sebastian hasn't been the same since that fateful night in the Feldcroft Catacombs, and struggles to come to terms with who he is in the aftermath- his gaze skirted around mirrors, he couldn't trust his own defensive magic, and begins to fade in to himself, steeping in self doubt.

For weeks, MC has felt condemned to watch as Sebastian's thoughts drifted to where they couldn't follow, longing to reach out and help, but feeling lost in knowing where to start.

But maybe it doesn't have to come from them.

And as it happens, they know just the den of characters that might be able to help.

ao3 link here!

No matter how convincing an act he was determined to keep up, MC was worried about Sebastian. Ever since that fateful night in the catacombs, he hadn’t been the same.

There were moments when it was almost easy to pretend otherwise, pockets of time when the smile on his face was wide and boyish, unweighed down by everything they’d been through, where his thrill for learning overrode everything else as he eagerly explained about some new spell he’d come across, or rune he’d learnt. They’d be struck by the memory of the boy they had met at the start of the year, one who had offered them friendship with a sly grin,

Then, just like that, it would be over.

Moments of carefree bliss became poisoned behind the shadows of the Undercroft, as sad eyes would fixate on a stain in the ground, one that told the tale of a childish game of Gobstones long since past. Studying together in the library could quickly become lonesome and melancholic, as MC felt condemned to watch as his mind drifted to where they couldn’t follow.

Constantly, desperately, Sebastian maintained a distance between them that he never used to, recoiled as though he’d burn if their arms dare brush. Kept them within his gaze, but never his reach, daring not allow himself such sentiment.

Dark circles haunted his under eyes, his once-ample appetite grew fleeting and inconsistent, even as MC would sneak his favourite treats to the Undercroft and he’d pick at the edges.

Then one day, MC caught the expression on his face as he was confronted with it- his reflection. He hadn’t even heard the grating of the Undercroft doors, too preoccupied with the person staring back at him in the reflective surface of a shield. Regarding the figure like a foreign entity, unable to look away, terrified to look any closer, so full of distrust for the man looking back at him- and MC understood the fear that plagued their friend, lingering in his shadow. The ghost that wouldn’t leave.

They penned a letter, and hoped to Merlin that it would work.

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

The whispers of the Forbidden Forest had once filled Sebastian with thrilling curiosity, adrenaline only running hotter when MC joined at his side.

Thinking back to those times, he wonders when the boy with battle in his blood and a need to learn in his veins had become so hesitant. The thrill of adventure hadn’t left, still a familiar companion in this darkness, but he couldn’t control the sharp spike of fear that raced down his spine at the sound of a snapping twig, the uncertainty that gripped him after hearing the distant murmurs of a poacher camp.

MC hadn’t so much as blinked at the whispers of threats that hid around the corners of the Forest, only leading him away from those voices, deep into the thickets of the trees- their reckless disregard for their own safety a key motivator in why Sebastian even agreed to meet them out here tonight.

He hated the idea of them travelling the Forest alone, exploring the highlands without backup- it’s a fear he knows has only gotten worse with time, maybe since the Catacombs, or after their battle against Ranrok- it was difficult to tell, and he dared not think for too long about the reason behind it.

He’d been doing that a lot lately, trying to avoid looking too closely at himself.

Ahead, he watches MC make a turn that leads deeper into the Forest, yet they still hadn’t unsheathed their wand- something which may as well have lived in their hand these days. Such a complete lack of caution was uncharacteristic, even for them.

“You never did tell me where we were going, you know?” MC didn’t even turn around at his questioning, their voice carried in a comforting echo over their shoulder.

“You’ll see soon enough.”

“MC-”

Something in his tone made them stop for a moment, turning to offer him a reassuring smile- it was difficult to feel comforted by such a glance, not when he knew MC’s propensity for dangerous exploration better than most. Still, when the look in their eyes softened into one of understanding, he felt a part of him settle.

“It’s nowhere dangerous Sebastian, I promise.”

Anyone else, and Sebastian would have demanded an answer hours ago, before even agreeing to come to the Forbidden Forest- but MC wasn’t anyone else, and damn it all he’d even go back to the Feldcroft Catacombs in a heartbeat if only they asked.

So instead of pushing, he followed quietly after MC as they led him through the suspiciously silent forestry, even as the trees became increasingly dense, shadowing the moonlight overhead, leaving them to travel in near-darkness.

MC pushed on without hesitation, completely at ease in a forest filled with threats, still crawling with remaining Ashwinders and Poachers who would do anything to see them taken down. Sebastian’s hand itched for his wand as his thoughts raced, but he daren’t trust himself with such a comfort.

Eventually, MC came to a stop by a huge rock in their path, hiding whatever lay in wait beyond it.

They turn to face him, their voice carrying barely above a whisper, and Sebastian feels his breath catch in his chest as their gaze meets his. Eyes glittering in the darkness of the forest, a soft smile gracing their lips urging him to come closer, waiting patiently as he nears, gaze not leaving his own even as they practically vibrate with excitement, eager to lead him ever deeper into adventure, to share another sacred mystery with him. Bitterness twists in his chest, but selfishly he can’t stop the way he leans in to their own frame as he approaches, and for a moment he swears they’re doing the same, warmth filling the decreasing space between them, a whisper hangs between them-

“Come on.”.

Just like that the moment is over as MC turns away, sneaking out of sight around the rock.

Unwaveringly, Sebastian follows.

His footsteps slow as his eyes laid sight on what the rock has been protecting from view, the hidden alcove MC had led him to with barely-masked excitement. Another secret that they had decided he was deserving of, for some reason.

Except, he can’t imagine himself ever being deserving of such a sight.

A clearing, protected by the thickets of trees surrounding them, where the shine of the moon was able to shine down. The picture of serenity, a sanctuary in the middle of one of the most dangerous areas in the country, and MC entered the clearing like it was familiar territory, like they belonged here, and as Sebastain registered the beasts who called it home- the most sacred of creatures, souls as pure as the white of their hair- he’d believe that in a heartbeat.

Unicorns.

He almost couldn’t believe it.

It was rare enough to see one Unicorn, let alone an entire pack from a distance- and here they were, at a den.

Or, if you were MC, amongst the herd.

Sebastian watches with bated breath as a fully-grown unicorn doesn’t hesitate to trot over to MC to greet them, practically preening as MC raises one hand to gently pet at their flank, fond words falling from their mouth in greeting. Another follows close behind, nudging at their shoulder. There’s not a sign of upset across the entire clearing, no sign of startle at MC’s presence.

Unicorns ran from humans, fled at the slightest shuffle of movement, but here, in their most protected of spaces, MC walks assuredly in and is immediately accepted, greeted like an old friend.

His heart races in his eardrums and Sebastian finds he isn’t surprised in the slightest that MC has won the trust of unicorns; Creatures drawn to beauty and purity, the embodiment of magical potential. MC fits in right among them, petting the flank of a particularly shiny unicorn, their melodious laughter ringing around the rich green clearing when a foal nearly bowls them over in its excitement, whinnying for their attention as it presses against their hip.

Merlin, a foal, drawn to MC’s side. Its parents watch the pair, with no concern for their offspring, such a deep display of trust and suddenly this perfect picture, of beauty and magic and purity- it stings like a vicious stab to the chest.

Self-loathing rushes like a wave over him, the familiar bitter taste of acid curling on his tongue as he fights the urge to run from the clearing as fast as he can, like the coward he really is.

Run away from another reminder of everything he isn’t, everything he can never have.

Their laughter cuts through the noise and his heart pangs at the sound.

How can someone like MC, so good, so pure intentioned, bathed in the moonlight and glowing just as bright as the unicorns that surround them, the truth of their soul laid out so clearly before him- how could someone like them ever want to be in the company of someone like him?

A murderer, someone who had killed his own family, who hadn’t hesitated before torturing one of his best friends, taking them for granted ever since they met.

He didn’t deserve their trust, their unwavering loyalty. This hero, with their bleeding heart and faithfulness of the entire school at their backs, a wealth of friends to surround themself with and they continue to choose him.

They deserved so much better.

Lost in thought Sebastian doesn’t notice when MC turns excitedly around, looking over their shoulder at the spot a few paces behind them, then further away, back to the outskirts of the clearing, to where he was standing, still partially hidden by shrubs.

Their expression falls, registering the conflict that burns behind his eyes, the tension wrapping tight around his frame.

MC’s heart bleeds for him.

“Sebastian?” Their voice carries like a soft whisper, hesitant and gentle, so different from the carefree joy they exuded only minutes before. He hated that he was the cause of their uncertainty- Merlin, he couldn’t even let them be happy among unicorns without ruining it with his own selfish feelings.

The urge to run resurfaced with a vengeance, to flee before he could ruin this beautiful scene.

Not for the first time, Sebastian forcefully reminds himself of how hurt MC would be if he distanced himself from them, that no matter how painful it was to be constantly reminded of how undeserving he was of this miracle before him, it would be far more painful to not be in their company, to worry for them every second he wasn’t around.

Instead, he forced his feet to remain still, even as MC pulled away from the beasts they had been so lovingly attending to and neared where he stood, not a second glance spared for the majestic beasts they had left behind.

Over their shoulder, Sebastian sees the moment the attentions of the unicorn pack finally shift from the human they had been so enamoured with, to the second hiding in the outskirts of their den. He dares not watch for the moment they recoil, and makes the easy choice for his attention to land back on MC.

MC, who had now stopped only paces from him, an arm's reach away, They watch him with an emotion he can’t identify, and speak again in that insufferably gentle tone, that one he doesn’t deserve. Somedays, he wished they’d yell at him, scream, do anything except offer him patience and kindness- a part of him longed for MC to realise what a colossal mistake they were making by poisoning this den with his presence, that they’d chase him off with distrust and anger in their eyes- finally realising just how awful a person he had been to them, how awful a person he was.

“Would you-ah, are you coming?”

“No.” The rejection is out of his mouth before he can fully register the loud tenor of his voice, the thick layer of anger that coats it. Lashing out, without even thinking. That’s what you do best.

He’s violent, too violent, for their gentle words, their soft edges. Even the kindest of offers, he always had to ruin.

Except he’s forgotten who he’s talking to. On anyone else, it would have worked- his unexpected venom would have at least pushed them back, put them on the defensive and safely into a zone Sebastian knew how to navigate.

But MC had always seen right through him.

There was no shock or hurt in their eyes, no recoil of their body. Instead, their gaze became only softer as they regarded him, so openly displaying their sorrow for him, their empathy and affection.

Sebastian longed to look away, he couldn’t.

“Can I ask why?” MC pressed, and since when has he been able to deny them.

Well, perhaps since now. The truth sits like a weight on his tongue, a shadow he daren’t yet look at closer. Lying was easier, it always had been.

The corners of his lips pulled into one of his signature grins, the kind he used to flash whenever making a particularly witty joke, inviting MC to laugh along, “Well, unicorns aren’t exactly the biggest fan of blokes, are they?”

They weren’t convinced. It had been pathetic of him to even try. “We both know that’s a preference, not a rule….Why won’t you come closer, really?”

Their head tilts slightly as they ask the question, knocking flyaway hairs into their face, and he longs to reach out to tuck them back. Their gaze searches his own, free of judgement or pity, the light of the moon casting their head with an ethereal glow, and Sebastian is overcome with a surge of hot anger.

How could they do this to him?

They stand here, looking like that, after bringing him to a Salazar-damned Unicorn Den and they had the ignorance to believe everything would be okay, that there wouldn’t be a problem? That he could ever be worthy of any of this, that this was the sort of world in which he could be welcomed?

Anne had seen it. Ominis had too. So why hadn’t MC?

How much longer would he be forced to endure their presence, their radiating warmth and outstretched hand, before they realised the same thing everyone else important to him had, and he was left completely alone?

Unicorns were drawn to the most pure of people, to good souls- and Sebastian Sallow was neither of those things.

He was terrified of the truth he would be forced to confront if he stepped out into that clearing, bore his soul for judgement and forced the unicorns to turn tail and flee from their own home, from the tarnish on his soul.

The thought was too much to bear, and MC was still standing there, all warmth and acceptance, like they hadn’t even considered the possibility that not everyone was so strong as they were, not everyone was so untouchably pure of heart.

Frustration grows within him at the injustice of it all.

“Are you completely blind?! I tortured you, MC! I watched you writhe on the floor in excruciating pain and I still didn’t stop- it was so easy for me to cast the cruciatus- I didn’t even care! I killed my Uncle, and I don’t regret it! I am damaged, MC.” The last sentence comes out as a hiss of self disgust, his chest heaves with laboured breathing, as the last dregs of his rage simmer away, leaving only the ugly truth in their wake.

Sebastian turns his head, fixes his gaze down at the ground so he doesn’t have to see the disappointment in MC’s eyes, the fear when they realise he is right, that he is the exact same kind of monster they had been fighting against all year and there was nothing redeemable about him. He couldn’t face it.

Only the sound of the faint wind through the trees cut between them as he waits for the inevitable rejection, for MC to turn him away from this clearing- from them, as he deserves.

The silence stretches on, and for a moment Sebastian believes they’ve finally come to accept the truth, but then their voice cuts through the quiet, past the occasional whinny of a unicorn, and it’s far from anger, or disgust, or any other emotion that should be thrown at him.

The opposite of the striking hand he had waited to fall against his cheek. There’s the familiar firmness of their words, but it’s gentle, understanding.

“I’ve killed people, Seb, lots of people- and I don’t regret it. Does that make me damaged too?”

“No! Merlin, no, of course not!” Hot panic races through his veins at the mere suggestion that someone like MC, glowing in the light of a Unicorn Den, heart bleeding for the cause of any living being they come across, could ever be like him.

They weren’t being fair. Their circumstances and Sebastian’s were not the same, MC and Sebastain were not the same.

They couldn't be, because the alternative was too much to consider. If MC was right, then what would that say about the shadows he saw lingering in his peripheral vision? The visions he saw every time he closed his eyes, or the fear he’d lose control if he were to ever enter a duel again? What would it mean if the nightmares that had plagued him for weeks were only that- nightmares?

No, he wouldn’t allow himself to even dream of such a possibility. The flutters of hope and the dregings of doubt all felt the same now.

Hands wrap around his own, and he can’t find it in himself to pull away. They’re soft, delicate in ways that should be impossible after all MC’s adventures and battles, and providing a soothing balm against the rough skin of his own hands, tracing circles over callouses from years of farmwork and duelling.

Sebastian hates himself for how much he loves the feeling, the perfect fit of their hands with his own. Despises himself for the way he wants to hold on forever.

Then, their hands grip his with a sudden sense of urgency, their tone beseeching yet so soft, hardly above a whisper as their gaze searches for his own, “Then why are you any different?”

How could they ask that?

How could Sebastian ever begin to explain the chasm of morality between them? That his soul is wretched, damned in a way theirs could never be.

Their misplaced faith in him only hardened his resolve, for they had seen him commit the worst of acts, chose bloodshed over peace and relished in the outcome, and still stood at his side and remained naive to how dangerous he was for them.

MC is blind to the truth, so eager to believe everyone was as pure of heart as they are that they couldn’t understand how undeserving Sebastian was of their devotion. They could never understand the way he never knows what he might do when confronted with an enemy, the depths he will delve to if he ever sees MC in danger again.

Worst of all, was how he already knew he wouldn’t regret it.

He couldn’t break their faith in him like that, tell them that all their hope in him was misplaced and he was broken beyond even their repair.

Instead, he says nothing.

MC remains silent, rubbing soothing circles into the back of his hands. Their gaze focused only on the slouch of Sebastian’s shoulders, the downturn of his head as he determinedly does not meet their eye.

Sebastian hadn’t noticed the unicorn foal that had followed loyally after MC, stopping only paces from the couple, ears twitching with curiosity.

Now that the humans had fallen into silence, he trots even closer, brushing against MC’s side just as insistently as before- they don’t startle at the touch, eyes still only on their companion- and stops when their middle was pressed against MC’s hip- sniffing at the intertwined hands, before looking upwards- right at Sebastian.

His heart hammers in his chest as wide eyes meet his own, staring right through him. For a moment the world may as well have frozen, as the young Unicorn stared intently at him, wide eyes capable of seeing every mark on his soul. Sebastian knows it.

Slowly, he feels the warmth encompassing his left hand disappear, gaze snapping away from the Unicorn, his startled expression clashing with MC’s reassuring one as they pull one of their hands back, leaving his palm hovering over the foal’s head, inches away from the shining golden coat.

He daren’t breathe, the slight tremor in one hand the only movement his body makes, as he waits for the moment this baby unicorn sees him for what he is, turns tail and flees the moment this offspring of goodness and morality and purity feels the stain on his heart. The living danger that Sebastian is.

But the foal isn’t going anywhere, no desperate fleeing from a human boy with death on his hands. There’s no sign of fear in its wide eyes, only patience.

MC urges, voice breathy and encouraging, “Go on.”, and his hand lowers, resting on an impossibly soft golden hide.

The foal nickers, a high and excitable sound, and presses into his hesitant touch, like there had never been a doubt in its mind about the boy who had accompanied their friend here.

So small a gesture, but one that steals the breath from his lungs, sending his thoughts into a spiral because the unicorn wasn’t running away, not like it should have, not like Unicorns did around evil and malice. Sebastian wasn’t the kind of human that unicorns were willing to let close, he was marked, damaged, dangerous-

But if that were true, then why had this foal pressed so eagerly into his touch, looking into his eyes and seeing his heart yet had chosen trust.

He felt the foal nudge impatiently at his frozen hand, confused about why this human wasn’t petting him back, the trust and faith in Sebastian’s humanity unwavering, so much like the other creature of goodness still holding on to his right hand. There was no hesitation, no fear, only unwavering confidence that Sebastian was enough, that he was worthy of being in the companionship of the purest, most magical of beasts. His soul had won their trust in a heartbeat, and he felt all his previous fears begin to crumble at his feet.

Maybe, a part of him dares to dream, maybe he isn’t as damaged as he feels.

It’s enough to break Sebastian’s barely-contained dam apart.

With a shaking hand, he begins to rub his hand against the foal’s flank, his breath shudders at the fond nickering he receives in gratitude. It sounds like days spent helping with farmwork around Feldcroft, trips with his parents to the countryside as a child- memories of blissful simplicity that had hurt for so long, he’d almost preferred to deny them.

He’s not even aware he’s started crying, until there’s a soft hand brushing the tears from his face, momentarily their touch brushing against his jaw in a gentle hold that doesn’t stay- their other still holding tight to his own. As MC goes to retreat, pulling away, he can’t help the instinctive way his hand holds tighter to theirs, a silent request.

Their thumb goes back to tracing circles on his hand, MC stays.

Even as a circle forms around them, curious unicorns from earlier following the foal over, MC remains by him. It should feel claustrophobic, the way the beasts surround them both on most sides, familiarly nudging at MC, eager to greet their new companion whom they seem to have taken an effortless liking to. The unconditional trust makes Sebastian’s eyes water all over again.

None of it feels real. He’s petting a unicorn foal, welcomed into the den of creatures known for their distrust of wizardkind, their ability to sense malice- yet they had seen him, and none had rejected him. Instead, they watched him with open curiously, within arms reach if he dared change his affections from the young foal before him, still hovering at MC’s side for attention. MC raised one hand, cooing lovingly at the pure and sacred creatures that surrounded them, looking completely at home. Even then, their hand never left his own.

It felt like one of the cruller dreams his mind could have devised, another promise of all the things he couldn’t have, but as he waited for the peace to break, for the unicorns to turn tail and flee, MC’s touch to be torn away from him, he only feels the gentle warmth under his hands, the breath of air from a particularly close unicorn ruffle his hair.

‘We’re here’, they seem to say, ‘you’re here, you’re accepted’

He can’t hide the lightness in his chest, the laughter that freely bubbles when one unicorn is just a bit too enthusiastic and knocks MC slightly, stumbling closer to Sebastian as they trip.

A part of Sebastian never wants to leave, even as the moon grows higher in the sky, extending its reach across the den and casting a glow over himself and MC, as they eventually settle against a nearby tree, content to watch over the unicorn pack when they become distracted by a shiny ball MC had pulled out of their bag, throwing the herd’s way with a knowing grin.

The herd ran across all corners of the clearing, always careful not to trample over the two humans they had adopted into their home, chasing after the toy, passing it between them with excitable nickering.

Sebastian wonders if anyone else has even been fortunate enough to witness such a sight, an entire pack of unicorns playing together, with nary a sign of caution for their surroundings, or the threats that may hide within them. Unicorns, creatures known for their ability to hide and run away, are so completely at ease in the company of these two humans watching after them.

How did he get so lucky?

His gaze switches from the gleeful beasts before him, to the companions at his side. The warm press of MC’s arm against his own, the golden foal now sleeping between them, head resting on MC’s lap as their hand ran over its hide absentmindedly.

The familiar urge to pull them closer stirs in his chest and for the first time since that night in the catacombs, he doesn’t deny it. Slowly, he pulls away from where their arms were touching, instead raising his own over their shoulder, pulling MC closer. His heartbeat races as his touch rests around them, revelling in the feeling of rightness that threatened to consume him.

Without hesitating, MC leans into his touch, head falling atop of Sebasian’s shoulder with a careful press, as though they might be scared of pushing it too far. The smell of their shampoo invaded his senses, he couldn’t help but delight in the perfect way their heights complimented each other, the easy fit of their bodies against one another.

Resting his head atop of theirs, marvelling in the way their breathing synchronised with his own, Sebastian knew this was how he could spend the rest of his days. Curled up with the one person who fit all his awkward angles and edges perfectly, surrounded by magic and wonder that was only ever their own to share- just another treasured secret between them- he finally felt that maybe, he was deserving of having this wonderful person by his side.

Perhaps he was enough, afterall.

#hogwarts legacy #my fics #sebastian sallow #my boy needs therapy but i suppose unicorns will suffice for now???#all these years on tumblr and no i cannot tag my fics well and what of it #think it is impossible for me to write sebastian and mc without at least IMPLYING the romance and honestly?? summary of their entire dynami #this one goes out to the guy who was trying to read my screen as i edited this fic on the way to edinburgh earlier this week #i was about to SCREAM the amount of times i had to change tabs whenever i clocked it #yes this is the one i sat on for like three weeks i didnt LIKE IT OKAY!!! but also i no longer desire to hoard it <3 #plus the guilt of it gathering dust while i worked on other wips wasn't great

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ugh-yoongi · 2 months

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the very last thing i decide | pjm

(or, the one in which a love exists that's easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.)

✘ PAIRING jimin x f. reader ✘ SUMMARY you learn what it means to love with blood on your hands. ✘ GENRE hitman/assassin au; angst, smut ✘ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✘ WARNINGS they are both hitmen (hitpeople?) so there's all the content that goes along with that: violence, death, mentions of blood (a lot) and weapons, murder, but no explicit gore. everyone is morally grey at best and downright psychotic at worst (especially yoongi). reader gets stabbed. no one knows how to be a functional human being. swearing, smoking, light smut (penetrative & oral sex), miscommunication and unrequited love but not really, i drop a classic tumblr meme in a line of dialogue. ambiguous/hopeful ending!! some of the themes here are kinda heavy and i am not entirely sure how to tag them so if you have any questions pls don’t hesitate to ask! ✘ WORDCOUNT 12k ✘ LISTEN TO manchester orchestra - telepath ✘ THANK YOU i cannot remember everyone i’ve showed this to over the years. @the-boy-meets-evil for looking this over and brainstorming with me today. @hot-soop for always being a help. @effortandmore because you told me an embarrassingly long time ago this was worth finishing. and i’m pretty sure i also sent this to @jihopesjoint at some point too. i did a quick edit of this on my own, but after nearly three years i just wanted it posted and out of my wips so i'm sure i missed things. pls ignore them. ✘ AUTHOR'S NOTE fic drops two days in a row?? who am i?? i started this in may 2021 and it was supposed to be a simple pegging fic. i abandoned it bc i was convinced no one would want to read it. between today and yesterday i have written thousands of words and made it across the finish line. i hope you like it. the violence is a metaphor for love or whatever.

[37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA]

Jimin’s hair had been red the first time he met you.

How fitting, he thinks, considering he’s currently bleeding out on a table.

Well, there’s still a bit of fight left in him. He hasn’t lost consciousness yet, which he assumes is a good sign; he can still hear Hoseok barking out orders quite clearly. The edges of his vision are fuzzy and the pain in his abdomen is sharp and unrelenting, but he still has enough brain power left to wish he’d died instead.

Because you’d saved his life. And now he’s further indebted to you.

(Jimin never leaves a debt unpaid, but he’s not sure how to make even on something like this.)

Jungkook and Taehyung are fetching supplies faster than Hoseok can ask for them. Two pairs of frazzled, spaced-out eyes. Four sets of trembling limbs. Namjoon’s wearing burn marks into the floor, his cuticles bloody and nearly worried to the bone since he can’t keep them out of his mouth.

And then there’s you.

Sitting cross-legged in a chair as you scroll through your phone. Jimin’s blood is still drying on your hands, leaving smears as you drag your thumb back and forth across the screen, and this doesn’t seem to faze you one bit.

Behind you, Yoongi takes a seat at the piano and starts playing Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and Jimin simply cannot die like this. He can’t die on a wooden table in a room with a piano on which Min Yoongi is playing Baroque organ pieces.

“What is this, a fucking funeral?” Hoseok snaps, though there’s a desperation creeping into his tone that Jimin does not like, does not want to hear. “Cut it out, Yoongi.”

Said man staunchly ignores the doctor, transitioning flawlessly into the fugue. Jimin barely hears the tinkle of your laughter but he hears it all the same, and he wants to pretend it doesn’t calm him, bring him back down to earth when he starts drifting too far away. But you do, and it does, and all he can think about is: will you miss him if he dies? Will it take you long to wash his blood from your hands?

Hoseok’s absolutely incensed, pushed to the limits of his stress at the thought of not being able to save Jimin’s life, and Jimin appreciates this, really, but not when Hoseok pushes two gloved fingers deep into the wound in his stomach so hard all he can do is cry. “Yoongi—”

You snort. You don’t even look up from your phone.

Namjoon, for all his leadership and stoicism and poise under pressure, is just as frantic and panicked as the rest. It’s not everyday one of his people is inches from death ten feet away from him. Most people usually die in the shadows. Kim Namjoon has faced down death more times than most, yet watching the life slowly fade from Jimin’s eyes is too much even for him. “Yoongi, please—”

But the fugue keeps going, tempo change after tempo change, the two pillars of this organization spiraling completely by the time the coda starts, unfocused and sweating and praying. To gods they don’t believe in, to hope, to chance—whatever and whoever might be listening. Jimin usually loves hearing Yoongi play. It’s the only thing that humanizes him, and Jimin had spent so many restless nights shoulder to shoulder with him on that exact bench in the blue hours of the early morning, hypnotized by the way the older man’s knobby fingers moved across the keys.

This is it, he thinks.

Jimin’s going to die with Toccata and Fugue in D minor playing in the background.

He’s imagined his death so many times. Stupid not to in this line of work. Violent, quick and painless, in his sleep, drawn out and gory, a message. And in all of those scenarios, it’s either jarringly silent or there’s someone screaming. Usually him, sounding much like he is now, two fingers stuck in his gut. In all of those scenarios, Min Yoongi is never playing Bach as everything fades to black.

You sigh. “Shut the fuck up, Yoongi,” you say, your tone as blasé and inconvenienced as ever.

Shocked at your audacity, one of Yoongi’s fingers slips and hits the wrong key, something dissonant and metallic as it rings out. But the music stops all the same, the silence nearly giving Jimin whiplash. Now he can hear the clinkof Hoseok’s tools, the squelching of his wound, Jungkook’s desperate pleading for him to just be alright, please God, just hang on. He wants the music back. He doesn’t want Jungkook’s crying to be the last thing he hears. Doesn’t want the sound of his own organs imprinted into his memory.

“What’d you say?” Yoongi asks, because no one talks to him that way. They wouldn’t dare. Most people try not to talk to him at all.

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

You roll your eyes. “You go deaf in your old age? I said shut the fuck up. Hoseok’s two knuckles deep in Jimin’s fucking stomach and you’re over there having your little Amadeus moment.”

He bristles. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Yoongi repeats, and Jimin can’t see him, but he knows his eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl, fists clenched at his side.

“Oh, princess,” you coo, and Yoongi’s fury is palpable, permeates every inch of this place, overrides all the fear and anguish. “I’m talking to you, baby. I know Jiminie’s busy trying not to die and that’s stressful for all of us, but please do try to keep up.”

Jimin hears the flick of Yoongi’s switchblade. Then he hears him say, “Please let me fucking kill her,” in that lazy Daegu drawl of his, like forming full words are beneath him. Not worth the effort when they’re directed at you.

Still seated, you uncross your legs and, through blurred vision, Jimin watches you grab Yoongi by his belt loops to tug him closer, grab the wrist that holds his knife and press it to your own throat. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Yoongi. Be a good boy and make it hurt.”

Jungkook’s near hysterics at Jimin’s side. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? He’s dying!”

Jimin tries to say I’m not, Kookie, I’m okay but the pressure on his abdomen is too intense. He can barely breathe, and Hoseok’s still digging around, still looking for that stupid fucking bullet, had to do something and do it quick so there’d been very little anesthetic and finesse, and he’s silently screaming for someone to just comfort Jungkook, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but instead—

“Serves him right for being a fucking idiot,” you say, words muffled by the knife still pressed to your throat. “What a painful, permanentlesson in not forgetting your fucking vest.”

“Stop it!” Jungkook sobs, fingers ghosting along Jimin’s matted fringe.

Yoongi’s still scowling. “Just say the word, Joon-ah. I’ll make it quick.”

You actually laugh at that. The kind of full-belly laugh Jimin would kill to be able to produce. “You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Someone snarls. Probably Yoongi. “You’d look so good gutted on the floor like a fish,” he replies, and if Jimin knows him at all, he knows he’s got that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. The one he always gets when he’s about to kill—the one that makes him so unhinged and dangerous. “Left there to bleed out and die all alone like the trash you are.”

No one’s survived that look before, but you just grin, as if being on the receiving end of it is nothing more than another simple inconvenience. “Do it, then,” you prompt. “You’re so big and bad, yet here you are, waiting for Namjoon’s permission like some kind of pathetic fucking dog.”

“I’m no one’s dog.”

Your eyes slowly flick over to Namjoon. “No?” you ask, smile widening as Jimin watches you drag your heeled foot up the inside of Yoongi’s calf, his thigh, stiletto coming to rest in the center of his sternum. “That’s a shame, princess. That pretty neck of yours was just made for a collar.”

There’s no doubt in Jimin’s mind now that he actually died back in that penthouse and is now residing in whatever level of hell is watching you give his associate a semi despite him being a millisecond away from murdering you.

Yoongi would do it, too. No hesitation. You’ve been on his shit list for as long as Jimin can remember, and you’ve been daring him to put his money where his mouth is and just kill you already for just as long.

Taehyung groans. “Can you two just fuck already so the rest of us can be spared of this?”

You click your tongue, tone melting like butter. You’re fond of Taehyung, soft on him. “No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie, and god does that hurt his little feelings.”

Your wicked smile gives away nothing—whether you’re telling a bold truth or just unnecessarily needling Yoongi further—but Jimin’s caught off guard and chokes on your words nonetheless.

Hoseok’s forceps still digging around in his stomach, there’s a quiet hurrah of triumph as he finally locates the bullet. Jimin feels nothing as he retrieves it and plucks it out, a reverberated clank! as he drops it into a kidney dish, your words the anesthetic he’s needed as they play on a loop in his head.

When he finally blacks out, either from the pain or the adrenaline or both, it’s your face that greets him. He never gets the chance to tell you why he forgot his vest.

[64.1466° N, 21.9426° W | Reykjavík, ICELAND]

Jimin’s hair is blue when it happens the first time.

It’s November. Namjoon has sent the two of you to Reykjavik and it’s dark all the time, the midnight hue of his hair blending into the impenetrable nighttime that surrounds you. Jimin works best like this—out of sight, part of the shadows. He’s light on his feet, lithe in ways no one else is, not even you, and he’s impossible to anticipate under the cover of darkness.

That’s why Jimin always takes care of the appetizers.

It’s your job to clean up the main course.

The two of you are two halves of the same lethal coin, working together flawlessly after years of carefully honed practice. Jimin slams an unsuspecting man’s head into a wall and you’re right behind him to put a bullet in it.

It’s just how it goes.

And he trusts you. He has to, otherwise he would’ve gotten taken out years ago. You’re not always in his line of sight, but he always feels you, senses your movements before you’re even on your feet. The times it’s gone wrong—and it’s gone wrong so many fucking times, despite how cautious and skilled the two of you are—you’re always right there to catch him before he even hits the ground. Just like a ghost, as if your only purpose in life is keeping Jimin safe and alive.

(It isn’t, but it sure feels that way.)

Tonight it’s another hit carried out in an overpriced penthouse overlooking the northern shore. You’re in and out, don’t waste a second more than you need to. Jimin doesn’t spare a glance at the carnage left behind. Nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times before. All blood bleeds the same, but he still wonders, foolishly, if his looks different to you. If it feels wrong when it stains your hands and seeps into your clothes.

Jimin has never been covered in your blood before, but he likes to think it would.

The two of you don’t speak until you’re in the quiet safety of yet another hotel room, chain lock thrown across the door, deadbolt secured. A small arsenal of weapons is retrieved from ankles and waistbands and cleaned and packed away meticulously. Jimin’s the one who makes the call to Namjoon, tells him in code that the job’s done. You’ve barely broken a sweat, but under the fluorescent light of the bathroom, Jimin can see a small smattering of blood just along your temple when he closes the distance between you.

Someone else’s, of course.

Anyone who made you bleed your own blood wouldn’t be a quick, clean kill. Jimin would make sure of that.

There’s less to be done about the half-inch scar in the hollow of your throat—a pearlescent reminder of the twin scar he has just below his navel; a callback to the day your devilish mouth said the words Jimin can’t stop thinking about.

“No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie.”

Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s the feral, years-long build up that’s been simmering between the two of you—low enough to keep warm, contained enough to never evolve into a rapid boil. Maybe Jimin’s just finally desperate enough to go seeking out answers to questions he’s far too scared to put a voice to.

(Really, Jimin knows it’s adrenaline. Nothing more than chemicals. The two of you high on it, heads floating above the clouds. Powerless; or, at the very least, indifferent to stop the very clear path that’s unfolding on the ground below.)

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

Needs to know if there’s even a chance you feel it, too: the magnetic ebb and flow the two of you have been dancing around for years. If you see how fondly he looks at you. If you have any idea how easy it is for him to get lost in you. If you know he’d let someone put a bullet between his eyes before he placed his life in the hands of anyone else.

Jimin knows he loves you. He’s known it for a long time, just like he knows all those other things that are second nature to him. Loving you is easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.

At least that’s what he’d thought. Until your devilish mouth said those devilish words and sent him into a tailspin he’s yet to recover from.

You have to feel it. God, can’t you? The way the air crackles between you. The way his skin ignites with a simple look from you. The trembling of his fingers at his sides, desperate to just reach out and touch you—fingers that have been bathed in blood, that have taken life. Fingers that now just want to graze softly across your cheekbones, catch on your bottom lip. Fingers that want to hand you the world on a silver platter. Jimin would do anything for you, give you whatever you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

Jimin is composed, elegant. He kills with grace and still maintains as much of his softness as he can. Isn’t ruled by emotion the way Yoongi and Jungkook are. But now, as he teeters on the edge of the unknown, all he wants to do is jump. Wants to buck all his training, all his resolve and forethought, and jump.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice thick. Fingers curl into the expensive silk of his shirt just so they have something to do—something to keep them from reaching out and touching you. “Back in Seoul.”

You’re the smartest person Jimin knows. When you ask, “Did I mean what, Chim?” he knows you’re fucking with him. Dragging this out. You know exactly what he’s asking and he knows you’ll never give anything away so easily.

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

You tsk, eyebrows raising in intrigue. As much as Jimin trusts you, as well as you know him, know all those dirty, dirty secrets he’d never tell anyone else, he’s never been so bold with you. “That those long fingers of his would look good wrapped around my throat? Yeah, I meant that.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches at your taunt. “Don’t play games with me.”

A smirk graces your lips. “Trust me, sweetheart,” you say, voice sickly-sweet as the affection starts popping at the last seams holding him together, “if I wanted to play with you, there’s nothing you could do to stop it.”

With Jimin pressed into the wall behind you, you turn to meet his eye in the mirror. Another smile, teeth bared as you run your tongue across your lips, and this one is his undoing. Makes his cock twitch in his dress pants. Makes him bold. “Do you want to, then?” He takes a step forward—close enough to smell the gunpowder stuck to your clothes, your hair. Close enough for the sulfur and metal to sting his nostrils each time he breathes you in. “Do you want to play with me?”

You love Jimin. Maybe it’s a trauma bond or the implicit, unwavering trust the two of you have in one another, but you know you love him limitlessly. But you also know you can’t love him the way he loves you, the way he deserves to be loved by someone, which is why your mask slips as you say, “I can’t give you what you want, Jimin.”

You try to make him understand that. Really, you do—because Jimin is the smartest person you know, and you know he’s thought about every possible consequence down to the most minute detail and has decided this is worth it anyway. You want to believe in something the way Jimin believes in you, even though he’s wrong. You want something worth throwing all of this away for.

Maybe it’s Jimin, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just been so fucking long since someone has looked at you with any gentleness in their eyes at all that when Jimin meets your gaze and says, “I don’t want anything more than you’re willing to give,” you take his hand and jump, too.

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

It’s all raw, urgent need, Jimin trying desperately to convince himself it’s more than it is while you convince yourself it’s less.

It’s the two of you finally giving up and giving in, letting yourselves be pulled taut by that invisible string tying you together.

It’s Jimin’s sharp intake of breath when you fully step out of your clothes, the sight rendering him immobile. Whatever plans he’d had before seeing the curves of your body, all the scars from years of working by his side, the mottled yellow-greens and purples from the bruises lining your skin—he has no plans now. Can barely think. Wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from you with a gun to his head.

It’s the final bricks of the wall he’d built around himself—around his heart, around all those words and feelings he’d never put a voice to—crumbling into ash at his feet. Now he knows he can’t go back. Can’t return to a reality where this isn’t his truth. Where there’s no you and him, him and you. Where it’s just a physical exchange, a give-and-take, tit for tat.

And god, he knows he shouldn’t think like this; knows he’s keeping the truth buried somewhere deep behind lock and key.

…But now that he knows how it feels to move inside you, what else is he supposed to do?

You’re everywhere. Clenched around him. Your taste on his tongue. The feel of you on the pads of his fingers. The smell of you making a mockery of all logical thought. No—no, he can’t do a goddamn thing to stop the avalanche now it’s started.

“Fuck,” he whines, fingers digging into your hips. The soft skin he finds purchase in such a contrast from your hardened exterior, but Jimin knows. He knows you, knows the person behind the mask, sees straight through you each time it slips.

What stared back at him had always been just out of reach.

Taunting him.

Screaming come and get me, come make me yours, come and fucking take what you want.

Until now.

Now it’s tangible. Now it’s breathy, fractured moans that echo off tile walls. Now it’s the sound of his name thatleaves your lips like a prayer. Now it’s the sheen of sweat that covers both of you. Now it’s nails scraping down his back, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

(And Jimin won’t tell you this, but those red welts are proof that this is real, this happened, and later on when he’s alone, when his mind is working overtime, he’ll look at them and he’ll smile. Because they’re real. Because this happened.)

Now, it’s the way blue becomes his favorite color. Because he can see his reflection in the mirror as he unravels and comes to his own demise as he spills inside of you; can see the fluorescent lights reflecting off the hue of his hair.

Jimin’s hair is blue when he realizes he’s in love with you.

[34.6037° S, 58.3816° W | Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA]

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

The details had been scarce: a diplomatic advisor with a rap sheet of human rights violations that have been continuously swept under the rug and his equally-corrupt lawyer. A candid photograph paperclipped to another manila folder, Namjoon a fan of all those old cliches. Likes being a little cheeky that way when he can get away with it, because god knows he can’t get away with much, doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.

It’s a simple job. You and Jimin will have it dealt with in a matter of hours. Less if you’re lucky and the universe is agreeable. But the humidity sticks to your skin, has sweat seeping into your clothes and rolling down your temples, and if there’s one thing you can’t stand it’s the heat. Makes it hard to think. And Namjoon—Namjoon, who makes sure all of his agents want for nothing—is a cheap bastard. Rarely approves nice lodging, says it’s too risky despite your arguments to the contrary, that people don’t care what you do when you have money, so you’re stuck in some shithole motel room with an aircon unit that keeps blowing out stale, warm air.

And maybe you shouldn’t, maybe you should be more cognizant of Jimin and all his feelings, but it’s fucking hot, so you peel your shirt over your head and undo the button of your pants. Sit on the edge of the bed and try to think about anything other than the temperature, how it’s starting to prick uncomfortably at your skin.

Jimin clears his throat, keeps his eyes glued to the disgusting carpet. “Got a text from Seokjin-ssi,” he says, words strained. “Looks like they’ll be solo jobs.”

You groan. Leave it to Seokjin to change the plan at the last minute. “Tell Kim Seokjin he’s a useless piece of shit.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Tell Kim Namjoon if he ever sends us to South America in the summer again I’ll kill him myself.”

Jimin has a laugh like an anodyne. A laugh that takes all those broken, bleeding parts of you and soothes over them like a balm. “Seokjin-ssi says he’s not passing along that particular message.”

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

“He hasn’t done field work in years and he’s probably too vitamin D deficient to leave the basement. He couldn’t even kill a fucking rat.”

There’s another laugh. More forced, less tinkling. You recognize it right away, the sound of anxiety. Solo jobs aren’t common for the two of you. For Yoongi and Taehyung, sure, but not you and Jimin. You’re a team for a reason, and though you’re more than capable of getting this done and out of the way, it doesn’t feel right. Settles in your gut like something rotten, knowing you’ll be without Jimin.

And you know he’s thinking it, too. How he turns the burner over and over in his hands, as if there’s some combination of words he can send back to Seoul to get Seokjin and Namjoon to reconsider. Plans don’t change often; not like this, anyway. These have been declared solos for a reason, and that’s a thought you can’t linger on too long.

“Are they leaving it up to us?” Jimin nods, still not meeting your eye. “Do you have a preference?”

He shrugs, tossing the phone on the small table in the corner. Nothing else to be done. “Not really. What do you think?”

“Nah, don’t care, either. Just toss me one.”

Santiago Aguirre… 47 years old… Resides in a high-rise luxury apartment in Retiro…

Your eyes skim the file, study the black and white photograph of the lawyer. Read over the list of all his high-profile, degenerate clients and all their high-profile crimes. You read about the previous attempts on his life, the seemingly never-ending list of people who want him dead. Your eyes go back to his photograph, frowning at the smug look on his face. What stares back at you is a man who thinks he’s invincible, who thinks a penthouse apartment on the top floor and a security team in the lobby means he’s impervious to harm. A man who has made money off people just like him: dirty, corrupt, hands stained red.

“Okay?” Jimin asks, looking up from his own file.

He’s so striking. So safe. And you know what he’s done, giving you the hit he thinks is easier, willing to risk himself on a solo mission to ensure you make it out. There’s no guarantees in this line of work, in life in general, but Jimin’s brand of selfless love is certainly one.

So you just nod, knowing someone slimy like this can quickly go sideways, and decide you can do the same.

“I’m gonna get ready,” you say. “The plan is the same as all the other solo jobs. Get in, get it done, get out as quickly as possible. Lay low. Don’t come straight back here.”

Jimin rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Anything else?”

You exhale. Try to quiet the nerves roiling in your stomach. Barely resist the urge to press a lingering kiss to Jimin’s forehead before you swallow hard and say, “Yeah. Stay alive.”

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

Rarely feel much guilt over it, either, which—well, you’re not sure what that means. That something is permanently broken in your psyche, probably. Being able to take life so easily and without remorse. It’s not natural.

Kim Namjoon is a man who plays God, is the one who decides who gets to live and who has to die. His word is the only law you adhere to. And that’s… that’s something. Makes it less burdensome, takes some weight off, because Kim Namjoon wouldn’t accept a morally-ambiguous job. He wouldn’t ask you to put your life on the line for some petty bullshit.

This is how you’ve lived for the last four years. Four years of blindly following Namjoon’s word, of being a good little soldier and doing whatever is asked of you. Four years of being responsible for not only your own life, but Jimin’s as well, just as he is for yours. Four years that have served you well, all things considered.

Until now.

Something about this job hits you hard. Doesn’t settle quite as quickly as the ones that have come before. For the first time, you’d looked down at the lifeless body at your feet and couldn’t stop the trembling, could barely quell the nausea. Thought what the fuck am I doing, what kind of life is this for the first time. Thought back to that day four years ago when Kim Namjoon saved your life and offered you a job and wondered, for the first time, what would’ve happened if you’d said no.

Now, as you suck on a cigarette, legs dangling off the roof of a building looking not far from collapse, a new thought:

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

He’s taken care of you. For four years you’ve wanted for nothing. Have socked away more money than you’ll ever be able to spend, even if you live to a thousand. You could go anywhere, become anyone, and no one would suspect a thing. There’d just be you and a million lifetimes’ worth of transgressions, alone under the weight of all that burden; alone, except for all the ghosts that come to greet you every time you close your eyes.

Doesn’t matter. Namjoon might be willing to let you go, give you the chance to salvage something from this life in the name of normalcy, but Yoongi would gladly put a bullet in your head before he let you disappear with all his secrets.

Doesn’t matter.

You stub out the cigarette and put the butt in your pocket. Make your way down to the street. Stay under the shadows—just visible enough to redirect any suspicion shot your way. You pretend to take a call, flawless Argentinian Spanish falling from your lips as you tell the imaginary person on the other end all about your fucked up day at work. How your manager never gets off your ass, doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re too fucking stupid to run a simple executable.

No one spares you a second glance.

Not here, on this nondescript street in a nondescript Argentinian neighborhood, and not when you stumble into the tiny lobby of your shithole motel. The poor kid behind the desk doesn’t even glance up, just mutters a good evening, miss under his breath that you return in a voice far too high-pitched to be your own.

Better to be seen and be unremarkable than draw attention to yourself trying to stay invisible, you figure.

The cameras in the stairwell are broken so you take the steps two at a time. Pull the room key from its place inside your boot, happy to no longer have it digging into your skin. Pause just long enough to make sure you don’t hear anything on the other side of the door before you’re unlocking it with your free hand wrapped around the trigger of your gun.

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

Jimin stashed the burner in a place no one but you would think to look. You text one simple word to Seokjin—Hey!—and you get two in return: Who’s this?

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

It takes a few seconds, but the reply is a simple—

Sorry.

Then you toss aside the phone and float in the darkness of the room. There’s nothing to do but wait, because you don’t dare to do anything alone. There’s sweat and blood and fuck knows what else stuck to your skin, your hair, but you can’t risk taking a shower. Can’t risk the water dampening your senses. Can’t risk being cornered in a moldy bathroom, only one way out. Can’t risk doing anything alone. Can’t take a fucking shower.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that has your body flushing with rage.

What kind of life is this?

Namjoon had never mentioned repaying your debt. He’d never insinuated you owed him anything at all for saving your life, but you know something like that never comes for free. Namjoon doesn’t do anything just because. Has no goodness in his heart to do anything in the name of it. Watching Jimin nearly die in front of him had been the exception to his usual nature; a rare slip-up by an otherwise detached, uncaring man.

Still, whatever you owe him has surely been repaid by now. Tenfold, if the bloodstains along your collar are anything to go by.

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

Two hours have ticked by and there’s no word from Jimin. No word from Namjoon or Seokjin, either, which is the only reason you’re still in this nauseating motel room and not out on the streets searching for him. Solo jobs don’t go like this. The two of you are always in and out, tragically efficient. Back to where you started and then back on a plane, nothing left behind except a singular bullet hole and another fragmented piece of your conscience.

You’ve had a lot of jobs go wrong, but never two hours.

You’re about three minutes from coming out of your skin. Sick to your stomach with worry, anxiety weighing you down like an anchor. You wouldn’t be able to go out searching for Jimin like this even if you could, and there’s no point in dwelling on that, examining it further. All you can do is wait.

It’s another hour before you hear the click of the lock. You’re nearly on your knees in relief, but you stay rooted to the flimsy mattress. Try not to think about how you’ll have to sleep on it, even though you’ll be up half the night with residual worry. All those lingering ghosts.

Jimin doesn’t say anything, so neither do you.

[55.6761° N, 12.5683° E | Copenhagen, DENMARK]

Jimin’s hair is orange when you go to Copenhagen.

Not for a job, just to breathe. You wanted to see the city at Christmastime; Jimin’s never been.

You crack a joke. Point out buildings of similar color, have him stand in front of one as you take a picture. Everyone smiles when they pass the two of you on the street, Jimin’s eyes fond even though he rolls them as you pose him how you want. Still stands against an apricot-colored wall and flashes a smile and a peace sign, cheeks pink from the cold. Does a good job of pretending the two of you aren’t here just for fun, that this is something more.

It’s not.

The two of you fucked in a hotel room in Reykjavik and haven’t spoken a word of it since.

You nearly lost your mind over him in Buenos Aires and haven’t spoken a word of that, either.

Instead, his hand finds yours as the two of you walk around Tivoli Gardens. You marvel at the lights and Jimin marvels at you. You share mulled wine and spiced doughnuts. Jimin tries to drag you on the swings but you plant your feet and refuse, laughing through your refusals. As dangerous as your lives are, motion sickness might be the most. He gets his revenge and poses you in front of a giant nutcracker, then again in front of one of the endless Christmas trees.

Jimin pays for the two of you to decorate honey cakes. You’re surrounded by families with shrieking children and palpable adoration, and it’s all you can do not to wonder if anyone you’ve taken out had ever had something like this. Something that makes your soul warm; something that still lingers in your bones years later.

The two of you take a selfie when it starts to snow. It stings when you have no one to send it to, so it just lives in your phone. Maybe it’s enough.

On another day, Jimin holds your hand through Torvehallerne. This time you marvel at him while he marvels at all the food, eyes wide each time he turns to ask if he should buy something. You always say yes and he always shares, and it’s all you can do not to think about why you don’t have to budget yourselves. Why you’re able to walk through the market and buy whatever you want; how you could buy every item for sale and it wouldn’t make a dent.

(You pick up small trinkets for Taehyung and Jungkook. Not because you want to, but because it feels nicer than remembering that you have no one to buy gifts for. Not really. Not anymore.)

Jimin wants to ice skate, so you do. He holds your hand then, too. More out of necessity than anything else, and he has none of his usual grace. Someone hands you a free cup of hot chocolate, just because. Jimin pouts and then it’s his hot chocolate. It’s all you can do not to kiss away the whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

Back in your lavish hotel, after countless days have blurred together and Jimin’s fresh from a shower, skin flushed, you finally ask yourself if it’s worth putting up such a fight. If it’s really all that bad to care for Jimin and be cared for in return. If it’s all that bad to be someone else, just for a little while: someone with a normal life who makes a normal living and has a normal capability to love. Someone who isn’t damaged beyond repair.

That will never be you. Not fully, and certainly not in this lifetime, but maybe it could be, a little.

“Jimin,” you say, because you need to try. Jimin loves you in ways you’ll never understand, and you want to be better for him. “We should talk.”

Your voice is small and hesitant, and Jimin hates it. Sees trouble where there’s only vulnerability, so he misreads. Shakes his head. Takes a risk and stands between your legs at the edge of the bed—yours, because there’s two—as he tilts your head back, thumbs pressing into the contours of your cheeks. The scar still sits in the hollow of your throat, and that version of you feels so far away. That life feels so far away.

There’s no violence here. There’s no blood, no fugues. There’s just you and Jimin, whose voice is small like yours when he shakes his head and says, “You should kiss me instead.”

The second time is nothing like the first.

Jimin moves delicately. Feels like silk lace, tastes like spun sugar. Moves both his mouth and his body fluidly, no hesitation, yet he still takes his time. Still pauses to look at you with endless devotion; with awed reverence. Makes a map of your body and marks all his favorite places with his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Speaks the words against the skin just beneath your ear. “Anything. I’ll give you whatever you want, just have to ask.”

What you want isn’t tangible, isn’t possible, so you stay quiet. Thread your fingers through Jimin’s hair, gasp when he mouths along the column of your throat. Jimin reserves all his softness for you. Bathes you in it. Would kill anyone to keep it that way.

So you say, “Want your mouth,” and let slip a quiet moan when he gives you what you’ve asked for. When he situates himself between your thighs and sucks and licks until you’re writhing, making a mess, grasping fruitlessly at the sheets, his hair, his shoulders, only calming when his hands find yours and your fingers interlock.

Jimin mouths at you until you’re trembling. Until you’re needy and desperate, hips moving on their own, fucking yourself against his face. Until nothing exists except the heat in your belly, the stars behind your eyelids, the heady, fucked-out sound of Jimin’s voice as he talks you through it, murmurs praise against your cunt.

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

This isn’t your life. This is not something you can have.

But, in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? You’ve made peace with death, and there’s only one of two ways it’s going to come for you in the end: by Namjoon’s hand or someone else’s. So what does it matter?

This time, Jimin fucks you slow. Kisses you with your taste still in his mouth. Thumbs over a hardened nipple just to see what earns him a reaction, and what you truly want is more time—something else that’s impossible.

Jimin’s hair is orange when you think you might be in love with him.

[ 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E | Paris, FRANCE ]

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the toilet.

Soaks a washcloth in warm water. Wrings it out. Stands in front of you, and there’s water dripping onto the floor and Jimin doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to see anything in this moment except for you, your hands covered in someone else’s blood, and he reaches out, gently grabs your wrist. Palm up. Someone else’s blood. Everything smells like copper and iron. Looks too surreal beneath the fluorescent lights of this hotel bathroom for your mind to make sense of it.

There is care in the way Jimin cleans your hands. There is tenderness in the way he both refuses to see what you really are and the way he’s the only one to ever see you so entirely, when you look down at the blood he’s washing away and all you can see is stigmata. When all you see is sin.

“I know you don’t love me,” he says, and there is a conviction in his words that stuns you into silence. “Not the way I love you, anyway.”

That tenderness is still there as he says this. As he presses the wet fabric into the meat of your palm, wipes the stains away, and the warmth is as calming as it is undeserved. It feels like something forbidden. It feels like salvation and condemnation all at once, like whatever sick depravity permeates you is contagious, will take over Jimin, too, just from touching you.

Jimin is close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to see the violence that he exists in alongside you: the rips in his clothes, the scars that decorate his skin. Close enough to know he smells sickly-sweet, just like death. Your hand shakes as it reaches for him and never follows through. Doesn’t want to contaminate him.

“I do,” you finally say. Whatever is in your voice is not conviction. “I can’t.” You suck in a breath, try to steady your breathing. This is where it all comes crashing down, you think, because in all the years you’ve done Namjoon’s bidding, you’ve never cried. You can take life so freely and without thought, but you cannot love Jimin. “Someone like me isn’t capable of it.”

Jimin pauses, the washcloth stuck in the space between your ring and middle fingers. “And who is someone like you?”

Water is still dripping to the floor. Serosanguineous: blood tainting something untouched. Not something one thing or another but both, watery-pink. Looks like Jimin’s hair. “I’ve killed a lot of people,” you answer. “More than I can count. More than I can name. More than the ones that come to haunt me at night.” Your free hand moves to your chest, covers your heart. “There’s nothing here, Jimin. I’m not sure there ever was.”

The washcloth drops to the floor, and all that blood belonging to a man whose name you never bothered to learn before you put a bullet between his eyes finds a new place to rest. “I think,” he begins, clasping your unclean hand in his own, voice dropping to a whisper, “you forget, sometimes.” You gasp as he places your palm to his cheek, drags it across his face, smears a stranger’s blood across his skin. “That we’re the same.”

Jimin is always overwhelming, but the love he has for you is even more so. It consumes you entirely, embeds itself beneath your skin, makes a home, would tear you apart, body and soul, to return to him.

[ 47.4979° N, 19.0402° E | Budapest, HUNGARY ]

Jimin’s hair is lavender when it all goes to shit.

“You’re being followed.”

Seokjin’s voice is garbled through the earpiece, tinny and metallic, and you roll your eyes. Some things don’t need to be said, because you’ve known someone was following you for the last three blocks. Average height, black peacoat, close-cropped haircut. Not the kind of person that’d stand out here, and that’s exactly why you’d sent Jimin in the other direction.

“No shit,” you respond in Hungarian, because you already know the man following you doesn’t speak or understand it. “Give me somewhere to go.”

It takes Seokjin a few moments to run the translation. “There’s a side street up on your right,” he answers. “It’s tight, but there’s an alleyway at the end. You can buy some time if you’re quick.”

“Where’s Jimin?”

You pass a vendor selling lángos and duck into the street behind the stall. Just as Seokjin had said, there’s a small alleyway up on the left, and your footfall is near-silent as you break into a sprint to reach it. “Safe,” is all Seokjin says.

You take a second to steady your breathing, knowing you’re good on time—the man following you was close enough to know where you’d turned, but, if you’re lucky, not much after that. That plays on a loop: if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky. What is luck, what does it look like, in a life left entirely to chance? In a life with no guarantees?

You tuck yourself away, focus on Seokjin’s metallic breaths. Think about his basement in Seoul, why he’s in it. Ask, “What happened in Addis Ababa?” because it feels important to know.

There’s not much you know about Seokjin’s life. Whatever happened in Ethiopia had been before your time, reduced to hushed whispers and gossip fodder after your arrival. No one spoke of it, Seokjin especially, but every now and then something would slip in the same way weeds grow in sidewalk cracks.

A job gone wrong. A bombing at the consulate with Seokjin inside.

His reply is simple, words spoken carefully: “I loved someone once, too.”

He can’t see it, but you nod nonetheless; an answer that doesn’t require a response, because you know. It’s enough to fill in the rest. What Seokjin’s trauma looks like. Why he doesn’t do field work anymore. Why he prefers the solitude of the basement, rarely a sound beyond the electric thrum of the server racks.

Who had gone in to retrieve him, and why Yoongi has the scar over his eye.

“You loved someone,” you conclude, “and he would’ve been willing to die for you.”

“Yes,” Seokjin says, and it’s like the word’s been punched out of him. Sounds like something repressed, something left to rot in the darkest corner of the world.

Love, to Seokjin, looks and sounds the same as death.

“I think most people spend their entire lives searching for a love like that,” he continues, and if you could see him you think he might look dazed, off-kilter. You think he might be an avatar. Seokjin is prying his ribcage apart, unwrapping the barbed wire from his heart, saying I once was in love and this is all I know of it. “But, to me, in this life, it’s a prison. Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? How do you—I kissed that skin. I worshiped it. I pressed my lips to it with whatever softness was left in me. How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled?” He exhales, all tremor. “You can’t. You can’t.”

You know this all too well. You know what it feels like to look at Jimin and know, intrinsically and subconsciously, that you wouldn’t even hesitate. You’d take and give life to keep him alive and safe. You know that when you exit this world at someone else’s hand his face is the last thing you want to see.

You know it’s a liability.

You know it’s a target painted on your back. Between your eyes.

You know there’s nothing left to say, that this particular conversation has run its course. The two of you sit in an amicable silence, and you hope Seokjin can hear the life that surrounds you, however mundane. Hope he can hear the lángos vendor trying to hawk his goods; hope he can hear a city 8,000 kilometers away; hope he can hear these regular, everyday people going about their lives and remember there’s hope beyond his four walls.

I think you’d like it here, you think, but you don’t dare to say it aloud.

Time passes in a meaningless blur. Could be minutes, could be hours. No one’s come to kill you, so you reckon you’ve long since been in the clear. And maybe it speaks to Seokjin’s idea that love is a prison, because you know something’s happened to Jimin long before Seokjin speaks it into existence.

You’re up and out of the alleyway before you’re told to move. Have no idea where you’re going, but you’re racing through the streets of Budapest with a panic you haven’t ever felt in your life. Feels like quicksand; feels like molasses; feels like you have to wade through all the blood you’ve spilled, now congealed, to get to him.

“Where am I going?” you demand. Your lungs are on fire. In the split-second of silence it becomes a desperate scream. “Seokjin, tell me where the fuck I’m going!”

“The—fuck, the wa-warehouse up on your right.” You can’t think about why he’s crying. “I don’t—I don’t know wha-what’s there, you need to be careful. Please, you have to—”

Twenty seconds and you’ll be there, you’ll be with Jimin, you just need to keep running. You need to keep your head on straight. Remember your training. Remember you’ve built a life in a viper pit.

A man in a uniform is unloading a shipment around the back of the building. Faces away from you, bent at the waist. Takes very little effort to smash his head into the stone exterior and knock him unconscious, pocket his badge. You can’t get stupid now. Tell Seokjin to make sure all the cameras are cut, ask what floor when you shut yourself inside the freight elevator, unwilling to take the stairs and run into anyone who might be waiting. All the way to the top, he says, so all the way to the top you go.

—

Over the course of your life, you’ve made peace with death. Have stared it in the eye more times than you can count. Have dealt it out, evaded it, shook its hand.

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

Red. Everything is red—the walls, the floor, what used to be a beautiful parquet pattern in the wood. In the center of the room: two bodies, maybe three. Not much that’d be able to identify them beyond a pile of teeth, no saying whose is whose. Slaughterhouse scraps.

And this is not—Jimin doesn’t work this way. Isn’t his MO. Jimin’s kills are elegant and neat, topped with a bow. What you see before you is ultraviolence. It is unhinged, it is fury, it is a complete loss of control. It’s what love looks like to Jimin, because he sits at the very edge of a rotted chair, legs crossed. Face streaked with blood, clothes covered in it.

“Jimin,” you say, because what else is there?

He tilts his head to the side, smirks a little, looks at you beneath his lashes. Eyes that used to find you across a room and calm you. Eyes that have locked onto you in the throes of pleasure. Eyes you’ve seen yourself reflected in, bathed in love and adoration.

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

He removes his gloves with his teeth and doesn’t flinch away from the taste of iron. “They said they hurt you,” he states simply, “so I did what needed to be done.”

“What—” Nausea claws at your throat; for the first time, it’s all too much. This isn’t Jimin. This isn’t your Jimin, who smiled as you posed him against apricot walls in Copenhagen, who took a bullet to the stomach to protect you and never, ever told you. This is not the Jimin who wasted the last of his goodwill on loving you. “What did you do?” you whisper.

He rises to full height and it makes you flinch. You are scared of Jimin for the first time in your life: scared of who he is in this moment, what he’s capable of. And he sees it, lets that brand of anguish overtake him. Reaches for you before he decides against it and lets his hand drop to his side. Says, “I would never hurt you,” as if the words could brand themselves into your skin so you’d never forget.

“No, you’d just—” You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t think about how one of the men nearly embedded into the floor was the one trailing you earlier.

Instead, you think about Seokjin: Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? You think about: How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled? You think about: In this life, it’s a prison.

You drop to your knees. Let the blood seep through your clothes and into your skin, undeserving of shying away from it.

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

You think about the men in front of you. Who they were, who they loved. The grief all of this is going to leave behind, and it becomes impossible to breathe. You grasp at your throat, think about all the times you’ve been strangled and who’d been there to cut the rope. There is no limit to Jimin’s devotion, and you understand now, how it drove Yoongi to madness. How he loved someone so much he would’ve retrieved their corpse from a building and how that same person can no longer bear to look at the damage they’d caused.

“This isn’t love, Jimin,” you choke out.

He stands in front of you. Stigmata. You’re worshiping at the altar of some kind of devil. At least his hands are clean when he places his fingers beneath your chin, forces you to look up at him. “What is it, then?”

“Destruction.”

A quiet huff of cruel laughter. “See, this is the difference between me and you, darling.” He takes back his hand, runs it through his blood-streaked hair, and your chin sags to your chest without his support. “Because I already knew that. Because I have destroyed myself every single day loving you.” He squats down, eye-level, and he says, “I need you to listen to me when I say this, sweetheart: you do not love me the way I love you, because I would do worse. When it comes to you, there is nothing on this earth I would not destroy to keep you safe.”

He clears his throat. Collects whatever’s in his mouth and spits onto one of the bodies. “If this is enough to have you tucking your fucking tail between your legs, then go, because this doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface.”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, and sometimes that says it all.

Jimin presses a kiss to the top of your head. Makes a call. Cleaners will be here soon, he says, better get going.

You watch him go.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair is black when Namjoon calls the meeting.

He takes the seat across from Namjoon’s desk because they don’t meet like this often. Assignments are usually manila folders slipped under doors, hushed whispers in hallways confirmed with a nod or a text on a burner phone. Assignments are not last-minute assemblies in conference rooms and offices.

But the way Namjoon is looking at him, with his clenched jaw and a gaze that’s meant to look barbed to anyone who doesn’t actually know him—Jimin doesn’t need to ask what this is about.

Had he bothered to look, he would’ve known by the way you stood in the far corner of the room, face obscured by the mid-afternoon shadows. Yoongi’s close to you, for some reason: dressed head to toe in black, perched on a lateral file cabinet, using a metal corner to sharpen his switchblade. Just like a harbinger of death. Some sort of fucked up omen, a warning that’s come too late.

Didn’t I tell you this would end badly, he hears Yoongi taunt in his head. This is what happens when you lay with trash.

Easy for Yoongi to say when he doesn’t know what it means to be cared for by you. Doesn’t know how it feels to give in to the freefall and plummet at your feet, stripped back and laid bare. Doesn’t know how it feels to kiss secrets into your skin like constellations, to map his tongue along every unspoken confession.

Easy for Yoongi to say, because he doesn’t have to survive the aftermath. Doesn’t have to feel the heartbreak, the agony of having you and watching as you slip through his fingers. Yoongi doesn’t have to struggle just to breathe, doesn’t have to endure the nights staring at the ceiling, watching as the daylight creeps into the corners of his vision. Doesn’t have to watch you looking so unaffected.

“Jimin.” Namjoon’s tone is flat, needlelike.

Behind him, Yoongi chuckles lowly. “What?” Jimin asks, his gaze trained on the painting behind Namjoon’s head. Looks like one he’d seen in Berlin, the time the two of you had gone just because and spent an afternoon ducking in and out of museums to escape the rain.

When he closes his eyes, he still sees the raindrops stuck to your eyelashes. The beads of water rolling off the sleeves of your leather jacket. How blinding your smile had been. The laughter in your voice as you ordered beer after beer after beer for the two of you in flawless Berlinisch. A brief, fleeting glimpse at normalcy. At the kind of life the two of you could have if you were just… different. Lived different lives. Were different people.

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

Namjoon’s words are a cold bucket of water. Snap him back to reality, yank him back to the present where he’s forced to leave those river-lined streets behind. You’re silent and Yoongi’s still snorting laughter. “Okay,” is all Jimin can bring himself to say.

Jin had gotten sloppy once, too, and Namjoon stuck him down in the basement to work logistics. Might not be so bad, Jimin reckons. He’d be away from you, spared of this fucking misery. “So you know that’s unacceptable.”

Jimin just shrugs, resigned to his fate, whatever it may be. “I’m reassigning the both of you,” Namjoon continues. “You’ll both have new partners for your next assignments, since you clearly can no longer be trusted together.”

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected an argument. “You’re being sent to Shanghai with Jungkook. You,” he says, turning his attention to you, “are going to Moscow with Taehyung.”

She’s fond of Taehyung, Jimin wants to say. But you’d been fond of him too, once upon a time, and that’d only ended in heartbreak, so who fucking cares.

They’re cruel, the tricks Jimin’s mind plays on him. How he convinces himself you look pained. How his fingers wring together at the thought of entrusting his life in the hands of someone else, someone new. At your life being just as at stake; at Taehyung being tasked with keeping you alive. Would you die for him, too, the way you’d always told Jimin you would for him? Would Taehyung take a bullet to the stomach to keep you safe the way Jimin had?

Even more cruel is the way you scoff, pushing yourself off of the wall as you fold your arms across your chest and say, “That’s bullshit, Kim Namjoon.”

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

Yoongi’s knife stops twirling. Just like a bird sensing a storm, senses on high-alert as he flicks his gaze over to you. “I’m sorry?” Namjoon says. “What part of Jimin losing his mind and nearly outing all of us seems like bullshit to you?”

“Hm, let me think,” you retort, a manicured finger tapping against the hollow of your cheek. “The part where you’re reassigning me for someone else’s mistake?”

Which part was the mistake? Jimin wants to ask. Needs to know how much you regret. Was sleeping with you the mistake? Falling in love with you? Getting too caught up in all these daydreams and letting reality get away from him?

“This organization is more important than Park Jimin getting his goddamn dick wet,” Namjoon snaps. “Keeping all of you safe—keeping you alive—is more—”

You scoff. Take an entire container of gasoline and pour it right on top of Namjoon’s flammable ire. “Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain to me why Min fucking Yoongi can fuck damn near everyone in this establishment, yet I have to sit here and listen to your goddamn mouth—”

Jimin doesn’t think Yoongi even knows his arm is moving.

There’d just been the trading of barbed words. His own name being spoken into the ether. Yoongi’s arm moving away from his body, switchblade clasped tightly between his fingers as he plunges it into your flesh.

Jimin watches it puncture your arm in slow motion. Feels the bile in his throat, the heat in his belly. Looks first at Namjoon whose jaw has gone slack, skin pale, as he stammers over words that won’t come. Then he looks at Yoongi—expects to find shock or guilt but finds only a muted disinterest and flared nostrils.

Finally, he looks at you. Watches the white cotton sleeve of your shirt slowly turn red and sticky-wet. Watches as your lips move around syllables and vowels and consonants Jimin can’t decipher.

“—fucking piece of shit, this is my favorite shirt! I’ll never get all this goddamn blood out of it—”

Jimin thinks he hears Yoongi say you deserve it. But Jimin isn’t really thinking much as he clambers out of his chair and moves in Yoongi’s direction. Doesn’t think at all as he lets instinct take over, lets adrenaline steer him headfirst into yet another bad idea.

He’s always known there’d come a day he’d be face-to-face with the sight of your blood. Had always known it’d come from someone else’s hand. Had always promised himself that hurting you would be the last thing anyone ever did.

Jimin has his fingers wrapped around Yoongi’s throat and he finally understands it—the joy Yoongi finds in taking life.

“What’s the matter, Jimin-ah?” Yoongi taunts. Jimin tightens his grip. Suddenly hates that fucking scar across Yoongi’s eye. “You’re never on clean-up duty. Always make your girlfriend do the dirty work. Finally grew some fucking balls, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin says stupidly. Can’t think of anything more to say. Not that he needs to. Wrapping your hands around someone’s throat sends enough of a message, he thinks.

Namjoon’s still tongue-tied as you yank Yoongi’s blade from your arm, immediately pressing your other hand over the wound to stem the bleeding. The sight of your blood is making Jimin dizzy; the smell of the iron hanging in the air. All he wants to do is choke the life out of the man in front of him, but more than that, he just wants to hold your hand. Wants to comfort you, even though he knows you don’t need it. Not from him, not from anyone, but he still wants to. Wants to press his lips to the sweat at your brow.

And Yoongi can see it, too, because he starts laughing. It’s an odd, fractured noise. Jimin isn’t sure if he’s ever heard him laugh before, decides he also hates the way it sounds. Feels all wrong watching it leave his crooked smirk. Makes Jimin’s stomach plummet to the ground.

“Oh, you’re fucked, aren’t you?” Yoongi teases around Jimin’s slackened grip. “You weren’t just fucking her, you’re in love with her.”

Weird how Jimin is the one with his hands around someone’s neck and feels like he’s the one suffocating.

[ 31.2304° N, 121.4737° E | Shanghai, CHINA ]

Jimin watches the life drain from an innocent woman’s face and feels nothing.

Jimin watches Jungkook cut a man down and feels even less.

When it’s over, he cleans up wordlessly and doesn’t eat for three days.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair has faded to brown by the time he returns from Shanghai.

The more complicated job had gone to you and Taehyung. Jimin had tried not to take it personally. The Russian hits are always unnecessarily violent and Jungkook still isn’t fully trained. There’s still a phantom pain in Jimin’s stomach that warns him of the consequences of taking on more than he can chew. So, sure, Shanghai had gone fine, but his mind had been nearly 7,000 kilometers away the entire time.

Good thing he’d returned to Seoul unscathed, too, because he’s sure Namjoon would’ve eliminated him without a moment’s hesitation if he’d fucked up again.

But Shanghai had only served to prove the leader right. Jimin can’t work with you anymore. Can’t focus, can’t stomach the violence, can’t keep his goddamn head on straight.

He sighs as he glances at Jungkook to his right. Jimin had watched him murder two men in cold blood not even thirty-six hours ago and now he’s doe-eyed and sucking down his third banana milk of the morning. It really makes his head spin, being paired with this grown-up infant of a man now instead of you, but for all of Jungkook’s apparent shortcomings, he’d kept Jimin alive. He isn’t dead.

And then you walk in with Taehyung and he wishes he was.

Because you’re laughing and Taehyung’s got his arm slung around your shoulder and you look happy. It’s the kind of happiness that should be contagious, bloom warmth in his chest, but it doesn’t. It just takes the last frayed strand of hope he has and sets flame to it.

You don’t look like you miss Jimin at all. Don’t look like you’ve lost sleep or skipped meals.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” Jimin says, because he’s wounded and lashing out. Not because he means it.

You must know he doesn’t, too, because you don’t react. “Watch your mouth, Park Jimin,” Taehyung warns, because he doesn’t know, and this only sets Jimin off more. You don’t need defending. Or had you, and Jimin had simply thought it wasn’t his place to provide it? That you wouldn’t want it?

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung is cherubic. It’s part of his charm, one of many reasons why he’s so effective. If you’re looking to die, you look for the guy who looks like Yoongi, not the one who smiles wide and warm like Taehyung. So when he sets his jaw and pokes his tongue into his cheek and says, “Or I’ll cut your fucking head off, you stupid fuck,” your attention is finally piqued.

“I’m so sick of this,” Jungkook wails, banana milk tossed carelessly in the trash. “All of you need to get your fucking shit together!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at the same time you pretend to inspect your nails. “Is that why you’re so temperamental, Chim?” Taehyung prods, looking every bit the pretentious, murderous angel he is. “Because you got sent to China on a babysitting mission while the grownups did real work?”

“Fuck you,” Jungkook snaps, rising to full height. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.” Taehyung’s words are razor-sharp and smell like kerosene. “Tell me, then: were you on babysitting duty? Had to look after our precious little Jiminie while he nursed his broken heart?”

You sigh, full of faux-exasperation, and place a gentle hand on Taehyung’s forearm. Dig your nails in just enough to be a warning, and if Jimin hadn’t been looking he’d miss it: the way Taehyung deflates instantly, anger dissipating like smoke, back in control. Just because you’d touched him. Just because you were there. Jimin knows that touch, how it feels to be under your control, and it makes his chest ache. Makes everything feel like it’s sitting wrong in his stomach, and he’s either going to be sick all over Namjoon’s overpriced fucking rug or wrap his hands around Taehyung’s throat the way he’d done to Yoongi.

He’s out of his goddamned mind; he feels untethered. Helpless. Like it was always going to end like this, and maybe Jimin knew that and had just ignored it. Maybe now he’s paying the price—maybe he’s finally found something he can’t afford.

Jungkook’s still going off, nasty gaze set on Taehyung because he’s the only one playing along. They’re exchanging words Jimin can’t make heads nor tails of. Words he doesn’t care about. Words that ring empty and hollow because they sound nothing like the way you say his name. Shapeless, unlike the way your lips move around those syllables.

“Jimin,” you say, the sound finally registering and bringing him back down to earth. All he can do is stare. “Can we talk?” Taehyung and Jungkook are still trading barbs.

Wonders how he got here. Looks around the room and wonders if each and every one of them is destined for this same fate, this madness. Wants to tell you why he forgot his vest, why he was three hours late in Argentina. Wants to grovel and beg and leave this place and never look back.

More than anything, he wants to know what it feels like to actually be human.

So he shakes his head. Tries not to be haunted by the way your face falls at the rejection.

There is a scar on his abdomen and a scar on your arm that both tell the same story. There is a man in the basement who is in love with a man above ground and is too weighed down by guilt to do anything about it. There is a man here who plays god, has soldiers to do his bidding, and there is very little here that Jimin has only for himself.

The two of you will have that conversation, but he needs to be human, first.

[ 34.6901° N, 135.1956° E | Kobe, JAPAN ]

This is a waste of your fucking time.

Whatever Namjoon had thought would be here doesn’t seem to exist. Yoongi can barely tolerate you on a good day, threatens to stick a dagger in your neck at least twice an hour, but the more time the two of you waste chasing ghosts, the closer he comes to unraveling entirely.

“Stop fucking staring at me,” he snaps, blowing the smoke of his cigarette right in your face.

You tut. “But you’re so beautiful, Yoongi, I just can’t help it.”

He digs his switchblade from his boot. Makes a show of flipping it open. “I can cut your fuckin’ eyes out of your skull,” he intones. “Maybe that’ll help.”

In your ear, Jimin’s laughter rings like crystal.

Ricochets off of all the corners of Seokjin’s basement, makes the echo sound warped through the earpiece. “Please tell Yoongi-ssi to keep an eye on the man with the shaved head. In front of him, roughly sixty degrees to his right.”

You relay the message. Watch as Yoongi transforms—sharpened gaze, rigid posture, disappears into the shadows. More apex predator than man. “And me?” you ask.

“Backup,” comes Seokjin’s voice. “We haven’t found your mark yet.”

You hum. Pick up the cigarette Yoongi left behind and stick it between your lips. Smoke it nearly to the filter. “You got it, boss,” you tease, just because it flusters him.

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

Exhale. Stub out the cigarette. Butt in your pocket. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and his voice is soft, sounds like spun sugar. “Stay alive, all right?”

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

if you've read this far: thank you so, so much! i am more appreciative than i can put into words. this is very different from what i typically write, but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

i would love to hear your thoughts if you have any. <3

#jimin x reader #jimin smut #bts x reader #bts smut #jimin imagine #jimin scenarios #jimin fanfic #jimin x you #jimin x y/n #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts x you #bts x y/n

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butdaddyilovehim-hs · 8 months

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✨My Masterlist ✨

This is my official masterlist!! Thank you so much for reading my stories and I hope you enjoy them! Just a few things:

Requests are always open, send me any prompts you would like! I only write for Harry at the moment so if you are sending requests it's a good thing to note :)

I take requests for basically any trope or au so send them through!

Feel free to dm me if you would like to join my main tag list or if you would like to join a tag ist for a specific fic

All smut will be updated with a mature label as per tumblr's requirements. Update your settings so you don't miss out! Here is a link to @ gurugirl's lovely post with instructions on how to update them!

Everything is ordered from oldest and this masterlist will have warnings as well as a summary for each work

Reblogs, likes and comments are always appreciated!! I always love to hear what you think of my writing!

Happy Reading! x

Series:

The Years Between US (incomplete)

age gap, smut, angst, fluff

Synopsis and Character List

Part I

Mini Series:

The Divorce (incomplete)

the one where Y/N takes on her first high profile case as an assistant at a law firm. Her first client? Harry Styles.

smut, angst, fluff and a Harry who is delightfully insufferable :)

Part I

Part II

Part III

Tolerate It (complete)

the one where Harry is a workaholic and Y/N doesn't know how long she can take it anymore.

angst, taylor swift inspired and a Harry who needs to get his head on straight

Part I

Part II

Part III

Obsession (incomplete)

the one where Y/N meets her brother's girlfriends family for the first time and takes a specific interest in a certain older Mr Styles

Part I

Stars Around My Scars (incomplete)

the one where Y/N is throwing Niall a surprise birthday party and she bumps into Harry Styles on the street while buying candles

Part I

Mr and Mrs Styles (upcoming)

the one where Y/N and Harry are assassins for rival companies and they're trying to take each other down. oh and they're married.

Mr and Mrs Smith AU

A Delicate Point of View (upcoming)

the one where recently widowed Mr Styles is looking for a nanny and Y/N just recently happens to be jobless

Sound of Music AU

One Shots:

The Wedding

the one where Y/N is stressed planning for their wedding and Harry can't seem to do anything right

Rainbows and Hospital Rooms

the one where Harry is a grumpy doctor, Y/N is his intern and she's late on her first day

Kissy?

the one where Harry simply cannot keep his lips off Y/N

Enough For You

the one where Harry kisses EmRata in Tokyo and Y/N finds out on Twitter

Spells of Fate

the one where Y/N keeps feeling dizzy and Harry is ever the protective boyfriend

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simplydnp · 15 days

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hey there!

I kind of consider you the resident dnp expert (at least in dnp culture) so I wanted your opinion on a question that's been building for a while now.

What are the boundaries for dnp now?

There are so many things that I feel have changed even in the last four years: writing smutty rpf was Gross and Weird, along with art along that line, speculating about their relationship was ABSOLUTELY a no-go, all things that I see happening on Tumblr now. And I'm not saying that's a bad thing!! I'm just acknowledging things have changed over time. They're different people now and so are we, and the "we know you know" era is lots of fun.

I was browsing reddit today (bad idea, do not recommend) and came across a post from a new Phannie asking if DnP were in a relationship. And while I agree that we cannot say for absolute certain that they are, the responses had a VERY different vibe than on here, emphasizing how bad the speculation was (true) and essentially saying "don't even think about that, just enjoy their content." (or something to that extent.)

Which... is very different from this here website in which we joke about them being horney for each other constantly lmao.

Being a very rules-driven person, I like expectations to be made abundantly clear for pretty much everything. So that's why I want to ask: Is there a line here? Are we crossing that line? How defined is that line? (All of this, of course, I recognize is your opinion and yours alone, and if this is posted I encourage anyone else to share their two-cents in a respectful way.)

Obviously, trying to find out where they live/things like that is very clearly crossing a boundary. But is there some sort of limit or boundary I (and tbh the rest of the phandom), in your opinion, should be keeping in mind?

thanks xx

hi!

'resident expert' is a hefty title, i'm just here trying my best!

'what are the boundaries for dnp now?' is really a great question. cause the thing is, we used to know. there used to be a fairly well-defined and mostly agreed upon line, and ever since the dapg revival in particular, the line keeps moving.

i'll be honest, i never really saw phanfic as rpf, even though it is. my stance on phanfic is the same as dnps: it's a beautiful expression of art and creativity and is so, so important. they've always been pro-fic (even though we subjected them to some absolutely horrific crack fics), so i don't think 'smutty' fic has ever been gross or too far. they've given their blessing, and, as the conversation has been in fandom communities the last few years, rpf isn't 'for' the people in them, it's for the fans. so i digress.

art is much the same way. they love art! they even included art of them kissing in a tumblr tag video back in the day, so to say that's not allowed especially after they're out is kind of crazy to me.

i think the line with stuff like that was showing it directly to dnp--tagging them in explicit stuff, that kind of thing. but creating it? go for it! it's always been a green light. (i think fans have previously overpoliced this and we lost a lot of great fic, art, and community members over it)

browsing reddit is always a Choice. i've never participated on dnp reddit before but i am aware that it is an entirely different space than here. something that's important, i think (and i think you think this too as you're asking about them), is to respect the fandom rules of the place you partcipate in. tumblr is generally one of the most phan-positive places on the internet, especially publicly facing. we make a lot of relationship jokes, particularly because we run on the assumption it's already true, based on what they've both said publicly (mostly dan).

i won't comment on reddit specifically just because i'm not a part of the community there, but the speculation about dnp online was a Lot for a long time. but the worst part of it was the stalking, the digging into personal lives, the contacting family members--that is what was bad. dnp have always had a connection--and, honestly, they kind of love flexing it and kind of always have. they absolutely play into things now, but they certainly did even way before coming out too. i think a certain level of speculation was to be expected, especially in that era of online fandom. but it wasn't just the 'teenage girls' who cared, the media did too, and so did many others.

i think one of the biggest differences now is 1 the awareness of 'our' past and trying to make up for it, and 2 the broader societal conversations about parasocial relationships.

you see this reflected on the snippets ive seen from dnp reddit and dnp twitter. they tend to be Very 'cautious' about the words they say, often undercutting perfectly reasonable statements with 'but whatever their relationship is'. on one hand, they don't want to cross a line, and i can respect that. on the other hand... it's 2024 babes. they just put out merch of them holding hands. dan's directly, intentionally, and explicitly called phil a bottom on dapg. they reacted to all of the pinofs, made jokes about 'theyre touching', and even joked about the tackle being 'wrestling 👀'. dan posted half-naked catboy pics and showed us phil was taking them. the 'watch your step babygirl' tweet & their reactions to it. phil is credited in WAD. they're making threesome jokes about themselves as a unit. i could go on and on.

to me, there's a few things that have 'moved the line' for us, so to speak.

1 - DAPG returning. for the last few years they specifically were not a duo (for projects) anymore. (and no, not because they hated each other). they just weren't. they wanted to focus on their goals and projects. they didn't have to resurrect dapg, but they chose to. marketing and money aside, they knew that if this went over well, it would well and truly revive the 'dan and phil' brand again. it would be specifically returning to being a duo in the public eye. (however they've also fully embraced this in all aspects, including merch, videos, and general attitude)

2 - pinof reacts. even though they'd been out since 2019, we hadn't had regular joint content from them since before that, therefore, while they had become more comfortable with themselves and their 'outness', we hadn't (in terms of them making explicit gay jokes together). so i really think dnp had to de-fang a lot of the 'theyre touching' of it all, because we didn't really know where we stood on it anymore. i think they succeeded, too. we couldn't be here, with the content of the last 3 months, without them tackling it head on (well, as head on as they're want to do).

3 - dapc. genuinely another big shift. they did this for the real fans. purely a passion project, and a specific choice in doing the handhold. they know what we're like. and this wasn't a brief, unplanned, unscripted moment. it's a specifically blocked out scene. they know it's opening a door, and they chose to. this is doubled by the fucking iconic merch selling, and furthered by phil's twitter likes of arguably romantic phanart, and then dan's full straddle like.

even throughout the current 6 months of revival, the line has moved. i don't know where it will settle. dnp keep moving it, in my opinion, and, genuinely, i don't think it's going to leave much to the imagination. as you say, obviously not the stalking or the contacting, but beyond that? especially here on tumblr? i wouldn't get too worried. obviously people will have their opinions, but as long as you're generally respectful and recognize that humans will see your posts and humans interact with them, i think you're good.

my rule of thumb is anything they intentionally put on the table, we can joke about or at the same level. but in terms of art/fic? go off, live your dreams. dan and phil would want you to.

#i didn't include a cut because people don't always look under them and this is generally a whole statement. feel free to add things.#there's specific discourse i dont partake in. doesnt mean you have to avoid it entirely. but just dont bring it up to dnp and you're fine.#dnp #dan and phil #phan #<- for the fandometrics #c.text #answered

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shellyseashell · 4 months

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2023 FIC REC LIST

I did this last year, and I thought I’d do it again. To close out 2023, here’s a list of some of my favorite fics I’ve read this year. These aren’t everything, just of course the highlights. If the author has a tumblr, I tried to tag them, but if I missed anyone let me know or feel free to tag them yourself!

WILLOW

did i dream (that we were so perfectly entwined) | General | Tanthamore | One Shot | 8.9k

Jade and Kit, from childhood through season one. Jade’s pov.

Our hardest battles are the oaths we keep by @rehizle28 | Mature | Tanthamore | 7/25 | 50.9k

Jade grows up as a Knight of Galladoorn. When Graydon and Kit are engaged, she travels to Tir Asleen as Graydon’s personal guard. Words cannot describe how much I love this. The pining and shenanigans these two get into is so so good. Kit causes problems on purpose and Jade Cannot figure out what the princess’s deal is. King Hastur is perfectly normal and has Totally Good intentions.

be my mirror (my sword and shield) by @onlyshestandsthere | Explicit | Tanthamore | 30/? | 228k

Bone Reaver Jade helps the Crone’s followers bring Kit to the Immemorial City. Quite easily one of the angstiest fics I have ever read. But for all 100k of angst there’s another 100k of fluff and that’s only vaguely an exaggeration. The magic is absolutely horrifying but it feels totally realistic to what we’ve seen in canon. Jade and Kit both need a hug.

if we’d turned a corner (if i had waited) by @sugarfey | Mature | Tanthamore | 5/? | 13.9k

Soccer au! There’s plenty of angst in this one, but it focuses on the healing. I love everything about this fic. Kit and Jade are so dumb as usual and I love the social media bits.

The Flawless Five, Vol. 1: Rise of the Five | Teen | Gen | 2/6 | 11.9k

Superhero au! It’s silly and goofy and so so much fun to read. I’m really liking the mystery so far, and I’m looking forward to how it unfolds.

Triumph of the Wyrm | Mature | Tanthamore | 3/12 | 13.8k

Series still currently in the first book. Kit successfully runs away, and every attempt to rescue Airk fails. Twenty years later, the world is under the rule of the Wyrm. Kit and Jade work in smuggling, unaware what happened to the other. Until, of course, they end up working together on a job. The world is so so horrifying but so well done. Also, Kit is allies with Sarris the Troll.

Let’s take a knife and cut the world in two by @spybrarian | Mature | Tanthamore | One Shot | 7.9k

Exorcist Jade and possessed Kit! Very angsty. The worldbuilding is very very well done and so so horrifying.

these walls come tumbling down by @onlyshestandsthere | Teen | Tanthamore | 4/? | 28.8k

Vet Jade and Perfectly Normal Human Kit. After Jade hits Kit (as a cat) with her car, she takes it upon herself to take care of her. Told in two timelines, one in Kit’s pov before the accident, and one in Jade’s pov after. I have laughed so much reading this I absolutely adore it.

One Night in October | Teen | Tanthamore | 9/9 | 29.k

Slasher fic! Angsty, mysterious, but it has a bittersweet ending.

Sink or Swim | Mature | Tanthamore | 7/7 | 16k

Lifeguard Jade and disaster Kit. Seriously she is so, so dumb and it is so, so funny.

LEGENDBORN

Rescue | General | Gen | 1/1 | 4k

Valec’s point of view of Chapter 42. I love Valec okay.

A Place at the Table | General | Gen | 1/1 | 7k

Legendborn/Merlin cross over. Basically, Arthur is a lot better than in canon and it’s so nice to read after Bloodmarked.

Beach Day Memory Walk by @justbrainrot | Mature | OT3 | 1/1 | 3.5k

Bree takes Sel and Nick on a memory walk during Sel’s birthday. Super cute and fun.

Mother, Merlin | Mature | Gen | 4/? | 13k

Natasia healing Sel after the events of Bloodmarked. Very very angsty, but also very very good. I love how Natasia is written.

Dancing in the moonlight by @nightworldlove | Teen | Willark | One Shot | 3k

William and Lark dance. Uh. In the moonlight. Very cute one shot.

Sometimes Hunting and Running Blur Together… by @ficnoire2 | Explicit | Other | 4/? | 11.9k

Valec backstory and I absolutely adore it

DESCENDANTS

Yeah I’m pretty sure we’ve all probably read most of these but nevertheless

Blessed Art Thou Among Women | Mature | Gen | One Shot | 1.3k

Claudine and the Catholic virtues

Descendants: A Different Tale by @kanzakurawrites | Teen | Gen | 9/? | 17.9k

I think this altered my brain chemistry tbh Mal deserves the best parents

Dark Fire by @dragoneyes618

Yeah just go read these if you like Claudine

Obligatory @isleofdarkness shoutout I am quite literally obsessed with this au

Let Dead Men Lie by @dragoneyes618 | General | One Shot | 2.6k

Everyone takes the blame for killing Frollo. Ben is struggling.

Death threats on Dead Beauty by @panthera-tigris-venenata | Mature | Gen | 2/3 | 2.7k

Listen I think Harry should be this feral all the time

the devil had done for the rest | Teen | Gen | One Shot | 2.5k

Harriet! Harry! Yeah that’s all.

Cursed || Harriet Hook | Teen | One Shot | 10.7k

Any Harriet content makes me insane and this is no different. Harriet backstory.

THE MECHANISMS

love in his own eyes by @nonbinarylowkey | General | Gen & Multi | One Shot | 5k

Arthur’s first night as a father

(im)mortality by @nonbinarylowkey | Teen | Multi | One Shot | 7.7k

Arthur handles Mordred’s “death” in a perfectly normal way. Sometimes I think about this fic and take physic damage.

From The Wastes His Child Came (Bringing Revelations Of All Things) | Teen | Other | 3/3 | 7k

Arthur forgets trans people exist and finds Mordred. I’ve reread this so many times I adore it.

la soleil passe son bras par la fenêtre by @ladydragonkiller | General | Gen | One Shot | 6.4k

Brian falls from the gallows and stops the Battle of Camlann, as he should

Inverse Suspension | General | Gen & Multi | One Shot | 3.4k

Mordred frees Brian, and everything turns out okay

no path past kindred’s stain | Teen | Multi | 3/3 | 9.8k

Pendragon backstories my beloved <3

#hi the amount of times I had to redo this was insane #this took hours lmao #enjoy the fics that is a THREAT #willow 2022 #disney descendants #descendants #the mechanisms #high noon over camelot #hnoc #naia recs fics

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sipsteainanxiety · 1 year

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okay sooooo while procrastinating on my responsibilities i decided to make a giant list of the bkg/reader fics i've read (so far) on ao3. here's a link to the tumblr fic rec list i made a while ago too lol. please keep in mind that not all of these works are sfw!! i will label the nsfw-containing ones ofc but, as always, be cautious!

note: these are all LONG FICS. as in i sorted the bkg/reader tag on ao3 by word count and kept going until i hit works with abt 5k words. i might continue to add onto this list as i read more LOL idk

be still, just for me by WitchofWriting. this is THE bkg isekai fic tht i'm sure everyone has read lol. contains nsfw. there's also tedium in blue (mermaid bkg). i think that was one of the first bkg fics ive ever read and it will always be special to me LOL

of snowscapes & explosions by sugarbun. tbh i haven't finished this yet but from what i did read it's good!! canon compliant

other by Deadite. also haven't finished this one yet but it's a kind of coraline au!! interesting stuff tbh

enouement by LadysDaze. i read this fic a looooong time ago so i can't rmb much but it was p interesting! it's a choose your own ending type fic. there's also memento mori (fantasy fic w good worldbuilding tbh), entangle, expecting the unexpected (pregnancy/family fic), star-crossed (fantasy), blood bond (vampire bkg) and its sequel blood union tht i haven't read yet sdjfdfkg

misery business by siegmunde. OHHHMYYGODDD this fic. i was obsessed with it omg. i cannot even explain how insane it made me. has nsfw at end

cruel world by lydiasgrace. idt i finished this one but i do like villain reader LOL

like ghosts in snow by Jupiters_Witch. genuinely i think this fic ruined me /pos. vampire au & does contain nsfw things!! mind the tags

surrender (whenever you're ready) by OfMermaids (hi merms!!). THIS FIC. CHANGED MY LIFE!!! literally anything by merms is sososo good. i want to eat them all whole. on loop in my head 24/7!! contains nsfw btw. there's also the widening sky (mermaid bkg tht made me sad for days) and on my way (to you).

white curtains by arsonphobic. tbh i havent finished this one too but its got an older (by a yr) reader whom i liked! canon compliant i think

our love at sunset by LittleSponge. horizon zero dawn au. very well done imo. ending made me cry LOL (in a good way). contains nsfw

uncharted by NyxRedfoxWinchester. reader's quirk in this is soooo fucking cool to me. i read it a while ago so i dont rmb a lot but like i rmb the quirk and bkg LMFAO.

zigzags by hokshi. i can't rmb this fic all too well either but ik i liked it LOL. contains nsfw!!

newsflash, asshole (i kinda love you) by YukiRiikus_Reading_Room. fake dating au!! idt it contains nsfw but it has some steamy parts

i melt with you by art_deco_deity. i am so sad this fic hasn't been updated in a hot min bc its genuinely got fantastic bkg characterization!!!

garden of lungs by 0weCrew. ive read so many hanahaki aus that they've blurred together but this was v good!

exiles by BookWormOnAString. i'm currently reading this one actually! fantasy au with dragon kiri!!

how're your hands? by Spazztastic. another fic i read a long time ago. it's canon compliant i blv but i rly liked the reader tbh

body switch up by Fandomness_randommess. a body swap au if the title wasn't obvious enough LOL. it was interesting reading how both reader and bkg dealt with their predicament here pfft

husband for hire by btp. also currently reading this!! stardew au! there's also boîte de pandore. v good shit

gemini syndrome by opal_vortex. LMAOOOO this was such a fun read ngl. masked singer au!! will contain nsfw

mistletoe by WhenSarahSmiles. this is a UA christmas/new year's booklet that is sooooo well done tbh. i love bkg in it. super cute

and you take me the way i am by willowser (hi will!!). pro hero bkg in this >>>>> he is so AHHHH!! makes me insane. very well written!! contains slight nsfw.

bar tool by thunderhead. LMAO this is like a bar and band au combined?? i loooveeee bkg in this and his interactions with reader pfft. contains nsfw

sugar scorched by restwellsoon. culinary au!! bkg is like gordan ramset ngl LMAOO its rly cute imo and very detailed wrt the cooking things from what i rmb. idt it has nsfw

war paint by andypantsx3. i love how andie writes bkg tbh. he makes me wanna beat him up. there's also statistically significant, and cover shot (through the heart). all of them contain nsfw!!

learning your love language by hokshi. the author has the tag 'when ur love language is getting punched in the face' on this fic and honestly? LMAOOO so true for bkg. contains nsfw!!

oil paintings and late night jam sessions by insanityrunsinthe_family. this was also one of the first bkg fics i've ever read and it is so so so good. it's college au bkg and i looovee every part of it.

the phoenix by orphan_account. i'm so sad this fic was dropped but its plot is genuinely so interesting to me. it's more aizawa/reader tho tbh.

sleeping in the garden by Petrichorium (hi loriii<3). i will ALWAYS plug this fic. single dad bkg au!! sososo fcking good, trust. will contain nsfw

jealousy, jealousy by lytters. i think i rbed this on tumblr already but its such a fun read tbh LOL.

fathoms below by 32Q27. i'd started reading this and didn't get to finish bc life. mermaid au!!

a fractured flame by Magicow12. fantasy au!! very entertaining from what i rmb! contains nsfw

breath of a dragon by free_deku. i rec'd this before but im doing it again bc it's that good omg. fantasy & reincarnation au. contains nsfw!!

bakugô wants a ride. by Bragi. LMAO contrary to the title i dont think it has nsfw pfft. mechanic reader tht bkg's crushin on!!

turning page by rhydonium. THIS IS ALSO SOO GOOD omg i almost forgot abt it. god bkg!!!! i literally cannot describe how good it is.

#once again too shy to tag the authors but ily all #shay's treasure hoard #<- use that tag for fics i've rbed tht i liked too #i dunno i was umm bored ig #i usually read fics once and then go back to it years later once ive forgotten what happened in them #this is my sign to reread a lot of these tbh #memory like a goldfish #fr tho going thru the bkg tag made me realize how many fics i havent read yet #have 2 get back on it

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kmomof4 · 3 months

Text

Orphan Girl- A New Fic by @kmomof4

I am sooooooooooo excited to finally share this fic with y'all!!! It has been a LONG time coming!!! It was inspired a year ago by a song our community chorale sang for our spring concert. The song Orphan Girl was written by Brendan Graham for the Annual Great Famine Commemoration in Sydney in 2012. The ceremony commemorates the relocation to Australia of over 4k female orphans after the famine took its toll. The song is told from the perspective of a 16yr old Irish famine orphan longing for a better life in Australia.

I am an orphan girl,

In Westport I was found,

The workhouse is my world,

Since the praties took us down,

What time in life is left to me,

If I don’t leave Westport town,

But the crown is sending girls to sea, for far Australia bound.

Sail, sail, sail me away,

Sail to Australia;

Sail, sail, sail me I pray,

Sail me away to Australia.

They say Australia’s fine,

They say Australia’s fair,

Australia’s on my mind

And the fields of praties there

I pray when this inspection’s done, that they’ll say me fit to sail,

For they don’t just send out anyone, oh Lord, don’t see me fail.

Sail, sail, sail me away,

Sail to Australia;

Sail, sail, sail me I pray,

Sail me away to Australia.

I am scarcely turned sixteen,

But I’m ready now to go

I’m decent and I’m clean,

Fit for any man to know.

And I will be some good man’s wife,

If there I’ll settle down-

And find myself a better life,

If I get to Sydney town.

Sail, sail, sail me away,

Sail to Australia;

Sail, sail, sail me I pray,

Sail me away to Australia.

Sail me away, sail me I pray

Sail me away to Australia.

I am an orphan girl, oh I am an orphan girl

And now thanks to whom thanks is due! Hollye helped me research and also betaed this monster, Joni helped me with plotting, and the discord ladies kept me sprinting until the dadgum thing was finished!! Thank you all!!!

Summary: Irish potato famine orphans Emma and Mary Margaret Swan hope and pray for a new life in Australia.

Rating: T

Words: 14K Make sure you have snacks and drinks readily available if you read this in one go... 😜

Tags: Period Piece, Irish Potato Famine, Australia Setting, Implied Sexual Assault/Rape, Minor Character Death

On ao3 if that's your preference.

New Tag List for the New Year! Please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed.

@jrob64 @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @the-darkdragonfly @jennjenn615 @donteattheappleshook @undercaffinatednightmare @pirateherokillian @cocohook38 @qualitycoffeethings @booksteaandtoomuchtv @superchocovian @motherkatereloyshipper @snowbellewells @pirateprincessofpizza @djlbg @lfh1226-linda @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @bluewildcatfanatic @anmylica @laianely @resident-of-storybrooke @exhaustedpirate @gingerchangeling @caught-in-the-filter @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite @captainswan-kellie @soniccat @beckettj @teamhook @whimsicallyenchantedrose @thisonesatellite @jonesfandomfanatic @elfiola @zaharadessert @ilovemesomekillianjones @mie779 @kymbersmith-90

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

September 19, 1849, Westport Workhouse, County Mayo, Ireland

I am an orphan girl, but my new life begins on the morrow.

Emma Swan sat on her straw pallet, the moon shining in the high window over her sleeping place in the female dormitory of the Westport workhouse. She could barely see as she wrote in the small notebook on her lap.

The day car departs at 4am for Dublin. From there, we will journey by ship to Plymouth, where awaits the Panama to transport us to Sydney. I cannot help but feel afraid, yet hopeful as well, for what the future holds for myself and Mary Margaret. I know the Lord holds my life, my future, and looking back at what He’s already brought us through, I know I can trust Him. He’s provided an education for myself and Mary Margaret at Achill colony, and preserved my life through the loss of Mam and Da to the great hunger, and during my time here in the workhouse, where so many die every day. I can only expect that He will preserve me through the journey and days, weeks, and months beyond as well.

As I look around myself, I feel more hope than anything. The workhouse has been my world for 4 years. How I’ve survived here that long is beyond me. This is my only escape and if the provisions we’ve been furnished with are any indication, we will be quite well off indeed. I’ve never owned a bonnet, or stockings, or a separate gown just for sleeping. My time of indenture will be 5 years. I’ll only be 24 by then. I’m going toward a better life. A life of hope and promise. Oh, Lord, be with me, I pray.

~*~*~

January 12, 1850, Immigration Depot, Sydney, Australia

Ruby Lucas opened the door to the room Emma and Mary Margaret, along with other girls from the Panama, would be staying in until they were assigned employment outside the depot in and around Sydney. They looked around wide eyed and slack jawed.

“Would you look at this?” Mary Margaret breathed. Emma joined her frank appreciation. She’d never seen a room this fine. The ceiling was high and the walls were lined with many multi paned windows, shades half drawn, but still letting in an abundance of light. The beds were lined up along the walls with a small dresser in between each one. And it was cool. After the heat of the Australian summer outside, it was a relief to be indoors.

“It’s not much, I know,” Ruby said. “But this is where you’ll sleep during your time here. We do hold to a daily schedule. Rise at six, meals at 6:30, 11:30 and 5:30. Bedtime is strictly observed at 8:30. And you’ll have daily chores to attend to as well. Most girls are here for a month or less, but some have been here for as long as three months. It just depends on what you’ll be employed doing.”

Emma looked at her sister, who smiled back at her. The schedule wasn’t anything different from what they’d experienced in the workhouse, but already, Emma could see the hope in Mary Margaret’s eyes and she responded in kind. Their education and the training they were to receive here at the Depot, made their prospects of employment high indeed. Emma hoped to work as a domestic, where she might fall in love with another servant in the household and have a family of her own someday.

“Thank you so much, Miss Lucas,” Mary Margaret said, turning to the young woman. “We are so grateful to be here, you have no idea.” Emma nodded her head in agreement.

“Oh, we don’t stand on ceremony around here,” she said, grinning widely and waving her hand around dismissively. “You can call me Ruby. And Granny will have your head if you call her anything but Granny. We’ve seen hundreds of girls come through here over the years and that’s what they all call her. Not that we see many of them once they leave, but when we do…” She trailed away, still with a broad smile on her face and Emma felt an immediate kinship with her. She had a feeling they were going to be great friends.

The following weeks passed quickly and Emma and Mary Margaret were both assigned to occupations within a month of their arrival. Mary Margaret was to be a teacher in a boarding school in Sydney for the children of landowners who lived outside the city proper and Emma was going to work in the home of shipping magnate and sheep farmer Killian Jones. He had a young daughter in need of a governess since her mother had passed away the previous autumn. Mary Margaret would be taking up her employment tomorrow and Emma would be traveling to Killian Jones’ home for a final interview. She understood that he wanted to meet her personally to determine her fitness for being his only daughter’s governess.

This was their last night in the depot, and they lay on their beds, facing each other in the darkness.

“I’m going to miss you, Mary Margaret,” Emma whispered.

“I’ll miss you, too.” Emma could hear Mary Margaret’s smile in her words. “But we’ll still see each other. I’ll have the weekends off and hopefully, you’ll have the Sabbath off as well. We’ll make it a priority to see each other then. And we can always write to each other.”

Emma pressed her lips together in a small smile. Mary Margaret’s hope was contagious and she felt her spirits lift at her sister’s words.

“Can you believe how far we’ve come?” Emma asked.

“No,” Mary Margaret said, her voice tinged with wonder. “God has truly blessed us. We would have died in that workhouse eventually. But here, we’re going to be productive members of society. Not dependent on it. We have a chance to make new lives for ourselves. Fall in love, get married, raise children.” She paused for a moment. “The headmaster is very handsome.” Her voice was even softer now and Emma had to strain to hear her.

“The headmaster? Of your school?” Emma asked.

“Mmhmmm,” Mary Margaret agreed. “David Nolan.”

Silence fell between them and Emma got lost in her own thoughts. She didn’t know what to expect from her assigned position, or even if she’d receive Killian Jones’ final approval, but the position of governess to the daughter of a wealthy landowner would be as favorable an outcome as she could have expected. She’d be well paid and have higher status within the household than she could have hoped for. Perhaps there she’d meet some good man who would love her and care for her. Someone she could love and care for and raise children with. She smiled in the darkness. Perhaps this David Nolan would be that person for her sister. Only time would tell. She closed her eyes and slipped into dreams.

~*~*~

Emma stepped down from the carriage that brought her from the Immigration Depot to the home of Killian Jones. The house was a single story ranch style home that was finer than anything Emma had ever seen. Granny was right behind her as a chaperone since this wasn’t yet a permanent position. Off to the side of the house, there was a paddock with horses and several men working. Emma inhaled sharply as one by one, the men approached the fence to stare at the newcomers. Emma straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin slightly as she stepped boldly toward the house. It wouldn’t do to show her nervousness at their blatant appraisal.

As she approached the house, a tall and very handsome man emerged from inside. He wore pressed khaki trousers and a blue chambray shirt with a black vest over it. His six-shooter sat on his hip and Emma gulped thinking about the reason why he’d need to have it on him inside his own home. He had dark brown hair whose gently tousled style seemed to match the rest of him- controlled but just untamed enough to be interesting. He had piercing blue eyes and dark scruff lined his jaw with just a hint of ginger in the morning sun. Emma felt her heart rate jump when she saw him.

The man was literally breathtaking.

“Emma Swan?” he asked, descending the steps toward them, his hand outstretched.

Emma stopped with Granny beside her and dropped a small curtsey before rising and meeting his gaze.

“Yes.”

“And you must be Ms. Lucas,” he said, shaking her hand. “Killian Jones.”

Granny shook his hand and then waved aside his greeting. “Everyone calls me Granny, young man. And I’ll expect you to do the same.”

The man laughed good naturedly. Emma took a deep breath, hoping it would bring her heart rate under control.

“Very well, Granny. Please, come in,” he said, gesturing behind him toward the house.

Emma struggled to keep her mouth closed as they entered behind him. Like the Depot, the ceilings were high and it was blessedly cool after the nearly two hour journey in the carriage. It was rustic in a way the Depot was not, the walls a little rougher and exposed beams up above. She tried not to stare as he led them into what could only be his office. He shut the heavy double doors behind them as she and Granny settled themselves in the leather chairs in front of the huge wooden desk that dominated the room. He sat down behind the desk and folded his hands on top of it, leaning forward just a bit.

“Welcome to Drogheda Station, Miss Swan,” he began. “My name is Killian Jones, and I am in need of a governess for my young daughter. She lost her mother closing in on a year ago now, and I just wanted to meet you myself before introducing you to my Alice and make sure you’d be a good fit with our family.” Emma nodded, but remained silent. His crystal blue eyes remained on hers as he spoke and she had to give herself an internal shake to keep herself from getting lost in them.

“So, tell me about yourself.” He looked down at a small stack of papers on his desk for a moment before looking back at her again. “I have quite a bit of information about you from your file provided to me from Granny, but I’d like to hear some of it in your own words.” He smiled and Emma instantly relaxed as she returned it.

“Ah,” Emma began, “the name… of the station? Drogheda? That’s Irish isn’t it?”

His smile lit up his face and Emma thought she would swoon at the pleasure she saw in his beautiful eyes.

“It is,” he affirmed. “My father was from Drogheda in County Louth on the east coast of Ireland. He immigrated here when he was a teenager. He died when I was small, but when I bought this land, I wanted to honor him and the roots he left behind by naming the station after his hometown.”

“I see.” She smiled back at him. “That’s a lovely tribute to your family. Thank you for sharing it with me. I’d never been to County Louth, but I had heard of it. I’m from County Mayo on the west coast.”

Killian smiled softly at her statement and nodded for her to continue. He watched the young woman in front of him intently as she continued speaking. Her manners were impeccable and her appearance was most pleasing. Her long golden hair was gathered at the nape of her neck in a ponytail against the summer heat, but it positively glowed in the sun shining through the windows of his office. There was a sadness in her green eyes that Killian found himself responding to. It was the look that he himself saw in the mirror every day. The look of an orphan. Given her circumstances, and where she came from, he wasn’t at all surprised.

What did surprise him, however, was how strongly he was responding to it. He wanted nothing more than to care for and shelter this lovely young lady. Her education and decorum were obvious in her comportment and Killian was sure she’d be a perfect fit for the position. He rarely had trouble discerning the character of a person upon their first meeting, and after just this brief introduction to Emma Swan, he had no compunction whatsoever in bringing her on as Alice’s governess.

“Thank you, Miss Swan,” he said when she finished telling him about herself. He turned his attention to Granny. “She’ll do fine. Thank you,” he continued with a short and decisive nod. “Now, do either of you have any questions for me?”

Emma glanced at Granny for a moment before turning back toward Mr. Jones.

“I had a couple of questions, actually, Sir.”

He waved aside her statement. “You don’t need to address me as Sir, Miss Swan. As a member of the household, Mr. Jones will do,” he said, his blue eyes meeting hers.

Emma was surprised, but nodded. “Well, that was the first one,” she said with a smile. “The second was concerning time off. I do hope this isn’t presumptuous. My sister remained in Sydney as a teacher at a boarding school and I’d like to be able to visit her occasionally.”

“Of course,” he agreed immediately. “We are pretty strict about observing the Sabbath here, so you’d be free to spend that day however you saw fit. Whether you spent it reading in your room, catching up on correspondence, or visiting your sister in town. You’d, of course, have access to a carriage to carry you to and from.”

“Thank you so much.” She looked at Granny again, who’d opened her mouth to speak.

“I have a question as well.”

Mr. Jones encouraged her to continue with a wave of his hand.

“I noticed the men in the paddock next to the house paying special attention when Emma climbed out of the carriage.” Granny was fierce and she wouldn’t tolerate any untoward behavior toward her charges. She fixed him with a glare that had Emma questioning if she’d actually remain behind when Granny left or not. “What guarantee do I have that Emma will be safe here?” “I run a tight ship here, Granny,” he said, meeting her stare with one of his own. “I can’t fault the men for noticing a pretty lass, but there is a line and they know not to cross it. Not to cross me. Emma will be safe here. You have my word.”

Granny was motionless for a moment before she nodded her head sharply and stood. Emma stood as well and turned toward her caretaker for the last month before embracing her fiercely.

“Thank you so much, Granny,” she whispered. “For everything.”

Granny held on to her upper arms as she drew away from her. “You make us proud, Emma. And I will expect a visit when you come to town to visit Mary Margaret.”

Emma smiled through the tears that were forming in the corners of her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

Once they’d escorted Granny back out to the carriage that would carry her back to Sydney and watched it disappear over the horizon, Mr. Jones showed her back inside. Emma noticed the men in the paddock didn’t pay them any special notice this time, not while he was with her. As they passed through the house, Mr. Jones pointed out various rooms as he led her directly to her quarters. Her trunk had already been deposited inside, as he had instructed before they saw Granny off.

“Dinner is at seven. You’ll meet Alice then,” he informed her. “Until then, feel free to unpack and rest. I’ll have a lunch tray brought to you here in a few minutes so you won’t be disturbed.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate a rest after the journey and I’ll look forward to meeting Alice this evening.” Emma smiled and nodded as he backed out of the room and shut the door.

~*~*~

Emma rushed into the dining room hours later to find Mr. Jones and a young girl already seated at the table. Emma quickly curtseyed and apologized for her tardiness before sitting down in a vacant chair opposite the girl.

“It’s your first evening in a new environment,” Mr. Jones said. “And I didn’t exactly take you on a full tour of the house so you’d know where to go. So no apology is necessary.” He gave her an appraising look as their meal was served. Emma’s mouth went dry, wondering if she’d done something wrong already.

“This is the same dress you wore this morning, is it not?” he asked.

Emma looked down as a blush heated her cheeks. “It is,” she said. “I only have one other.”

“I see,” he murmured. “We’ll have to make a trip into town sometime soon to furnish you a suitable wardrobe. You can’t be expected to wear the same two dresses day after day after day. People would think you weren’t being paid a suitable wage. I’ll need to clear my schedule a bit, so we can take a couple of days for the trip. I still have some of my wife’s garments you can make use of until then.”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary…”

“Nonsense,” he interrupted. He glanced at his daughter who watched the exchange with wide blue eyes, just like her father. “I am trying to raise Alice to be a lady, with the manners and comportment to match, and that is difficult enough out here in the bush without a good example for her to follow.” He raised his eyebrows at her with a significant look and Emma nodded her understanding before smiling across at the girl.

“Alice, this is your new governess, Miss Emma,” he introduced. “Emma, may I present to you, my daughter, Alice.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Alice,” she said.

“You as well, Miss Emma,” Alice replied, a wide smile lighting up her entire face.

Once the introductions were out of the way, Alice proved to be a delightful chatterbox. She was inquisitive, attentive, and very observant and it was clear to Emma that Mr. Jones loved his daughter dearly in the way he spoke to her and gently steered the dinner conversation.

As the meal came to an end, Mr. Jones rose from the table and spoke once again. “It’s time to ready yourself for bed, my Starfish.” He turned his attention to Emma. “I’ll see to her bedtime routine tonight, and give you this first evening to yourself. You can take over tomorrow evening.” Emma smiled and nodded her agreement. “Goodnight, Miss Emma.”

He held his elbow out for Alice to take and Emma’s heart melted.

“Goodnight, Mr. Jones. Goodnight, Alice.”

“Goodnight, Miss Emma,” Alice replied. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

As they walked out of the dining room, Emma smiled softly at the obvious affection between father and daughter. It was wonderful to see a father take such an interest in the care of his child. Once they were gone, she thought back to all the circumstances that had brought her to this place. This truly was the beginning of a new life for her, and she had the feeling it would be a good one.

~*~*~

The next morning, Mr. Jones took Emma on a full tour of the house. She met Robin Locksley, the overseer at the station, and the other household staff. They were all friendly and polite and Emma felt completely at ease among them. Once the tour was finished, Alice joined them as they entered the stable to collect a buggy for a ride around the station, for when the ladies might take excursions around the property.

“Cassidy,” he called, once they were inside.

A man with light brown hair emerged from one of the stalls wiping his hands on what was once a white cloth. He wasn’t as tall as Mr. Jones, and was a bit stockier, too. The look in his eye as he took her in reminded her of the way the hands had stared at her when she’d arrived the day before. She did the same thing now as she did then, raising her chin just a bit and squaring her shoulders. A quick glance at her employer told her he’d noticed his appraisal as well, and wasn’t pleased. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he silently clenched his teeth in apparent irritation.

“Good morning, Mr. Jones,” the man said affably. “What can I do for you?”

“Cassidy, this is Alice’s new governess, Miss Emma Swan,” he introduced. “Miss Emma, this the stablemaster, Mr. Neal Cassidy. Whenever you and Alice want to go for a ride, or need a carriage for going into town, he’ll take care of getting your horses ready.”

Emma curtseyed politely, even if she’d rather stay far away from the man in front of them.

“I’ll be accompanying Miss Emma and Alice today, Cassidy, but in the future, if they are traveling by buggy or carriage, I want a stable hand to accompany them.” He turned to Emma, sincerity shining in his eyes. “I know you’re able to drive a buggy, Miss Emma,” he said, “but in the case of an emergency, whether that’s dingos or a broken wheel or axle, I’d feel better knowing you had an armed man with you and my daughter.”

“Of course, Mr. Jones,” she agreed quickly. “To be honest, I’d feel the same way. There’s too much out here that I’m unexposed to and unfamiliar with. I’d feel much better having someone with us who could handle whatever the bush throws at us.”

Killian smiled, relieved she’d agreed with his edict so quickly. Turning back to Cassidy, he gave the man’s back a hard stare as he went about preparing the carriage for them. He hadn’t missed the blatant appreciation in his eyes when he saw Emma. Cassidy was relatively new to the ranch- he’d only been there since the new year- but he’d come very highly recommended. Just as he’d told Granny the day before, he couldn’t fault the man for noticing Emma, but he hadn’t been here long enough to know what was expected behavior around a lady. Killian had a feeling he was going to have to keep a close eye on the stablemaster and make it very clear to him that Emma was under his protection. Anything less than gentlemanly and respectful treatment of Emma and Alice would not be tolerated. And would be dealt with immediately and decisively. Killian’s honor would allow nothing less.

~*~*~

Emma had been at the station for two weeks when Killian was finally able to take a couple of days away from his work to accompany Emma and Alice into town for a new wardrobe for Emma. Alice was quite excited because she’d been promised new hair ribbons.

The bell over the door rang as Killian opened it before allowing the ladies to precede him inside. Emma’s eyes widened in surprise. The sunlight pouring through the windows at the front of the store drew attention to the soft fabrics and rich, vibrant colors. They nearly made Emma’s eyes dazzle. She’d never seen the like.

She couldn’t help reaching out and trailing her fingers along the edge of the dress in front of her as Killian approached the counter. The material was soft to the touch, and nearly exactly the same color as her eyes. A small sigh escaped her as she pictured herself wearing it. A soft gasp beside her brought her out of her reverie and focused her attention on Alice.

“You’d look so pretty in this, Miss Emma,” she breathed. “Don’t you think so, Papa?”

Emma was astonished to find Killian standing in front of them. She’d been so lost in her daydream, she hadn’t realized he’d returned to where she and Alice were looking around at the clothes on display.

He had a soft smile on his face as he looked at her and his hand joined hers as it continued to stroke the soft fabric.

“It would look lovely on you, Miss Emma.” His eyes never left hers as his hand gently cupped hers, so that the back of his fingers also ran along the material. Emma could hardly breathe.

A third voice joined them, startling Emma again. A tall, somewhat plump woman dressed in pink was looking her up and down.

“Ah, yes,” she said. “And I believe this day dress would need very little in the way of tailoring. It seems to have been made for you.” She pulled the dress down and held it up to her. “Yes,” she said, nodding decisively. “Go in the back and put it on. I’ll be there in a moment to make sure no alterations are needed.”

Emma, seeking his permission, looked at Killian who was scratching behind his ear. He nodded gently at her.

“Miss Flora and her sisters, Miss Fauna and Miss Meriweather,” he began, motioning at the other two women who’d also joined them, “are master haberdashers. I’m sure Miss Flora is correct in surmising your size and if the dress will fit.”

Emma nodded and took the dress from Miss Flora. She moved toward the back of the shop and took a deep breath trying to bring her heart rate back under control. The way he was looking at her as they both touched the material of the dress made heat rise to her cheeks and sent her heart into overdrive, beating a staccato rhythm that she could only hope wasn’t obvious to the people around her.

Once she got the dress on, she could plainly see Miss Flora truly was an expert. It fit her perfectly. Just then, Miss Flora came through the drapes that hung over the door to the front of the store and Emma could just see Alice poking her head through.

“May I come in and see, Miss Emma?” she asked, shyly.

Emma smiled widely. “If Miss Flora doesn’t mind,” she answered. “It is her shop after all.”

The woman smiled indulgently and turned toward the child. “Of course not, my dear! Please come in.” Alice came through the drapes as Flora mumbled under her breath about other items Emma would need to round out her wardrobe.

Alice’s eyes lit up at the day dress Emma wore. A soft smile touched Miss Flora’s lips as Alice came closer.

“You were absolutely right, Miss Alice,” she said. “This dress is perfect on our lovely Emma. It really brings out your eyes,” she said, turning her attention back to Emma again. Her eyes twinkled and Emma smiled softly at the complement.

After that, it was nothing but Miss Flora measuring Emma every which way she could be measured. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine all that went into making a lady’s wardrobe. Miss Fauna brought in swatch after swatch of fabric for Emma to choose from and also helped settle her sisters when an argument arose between them about which color- a soft sky blue, or a blushing pink- would better compliment Emma’s fair complexion.

By the end of it all, Emma was ready for a meal and a bed. She’d been on her feet for hours as the ladies brought out dress after dress- with all the accessories that went along with them- for her to try on both before and after slight alterations were made. The first day dress they’d found when they entered the shop was the only one of the bunch that needed nothing done to it and Emma planned to wear it when they traveled home the next day.

In addition to Emma’s full wardrobe, Killian also made arrangements for Alice’s measurements to be taken as well. She’d grown so much over the summer- much like plants, Miss Flora and Miss Fauna agreed- she was going to need new clothing to see her through the winter. But for now, Alice was simply thrilled with beautiful new ribbons for her hair that matched many of Emma’s new dresses and hair accessories.

It was much too late in the day to try and make it back to Drogheda Station before nightfall, besides the fact the sisters needed a bit more time to complete a few pieces of Emma’s wardrobe. They would be ready in the morning. So the trio made a surprise visit to Misthaven School where Mary Margaret taught.

The sisters embraced joyfully before Emma introduced Killian and Alice to Mary Margaret.

“Mary Margaret,” she began, “This is Mr. Jones and his daughter, Alice. Mr. Jones, my sister, Mary Margaret.”

Killian extended his hand for Mary Margaret to shake. “A pleasure to meet you, Mary Margaret. My daughter, Alice,” he said, motioning toward Alice, who dropped a slight curtsey.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Mary Margaret,” she said, smiling shyly.

“And you, Miss Alice,” she replied with a nod, her smile warm and welcoming.

They spent a pleasant evening in one another’s company. Once they were past the introductions, Alice blossomed under Mary Margaret’s attention, telling her new friend all about everything Emma was teaching her and how much she enjoyed it. Even with as tired as Emma was, when their time together was drawing to an end, she was loath to leave her sister’s presence, knowing it would be a long while before she’d be able to visit again.

The sisters embraced warmly and even Alice threw her arms around Mary Margaret’s middle in a surprise hug that was completely unexpected by all the adults.

“It was lovely to meet you, Miss Mary Margaret,” Alice said, releasing her. She turned unsure eyes upon her father, not quite certain how he’d react to her lack of decorum. But the smile on his face told her all was well. A relieved smile broke over her face as she turned back to her new friend and dropped a curtsey before returning quickly to her father’s side.

“You as well, Miss Alice,” Mary Margaret replied, her attention then turning to Mr. Jones. “Thank you so much for this wonderful surprise, Mr. Jones. It’s only been a couple of weeks since we’ve seen each other, but I’ve missed Emma so much.” She placed a hand over her heart, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes, matching her sister’s as she glanced at her. “I had no idea how much I was going to miss her.” Mary Margaret’s attention returned to Mr. Jones as she extended her hand. “I cannot thank you enough.”

“It was my pleasure, Miss Mary Margaret.” He took her hand and shook it before glancing at Emma and Alice. “And now we must take our leave before these two collapse. It has been a very long and tiring day for us all.”

“Of course,” Mary Margaret agreed, reaching for her sister one more time. “I’ll see you again soon and we can write in the meantime.”

Emma nodded, too choked up for speech. She pulled back and turned to where Killian stood with Alice, her arm looped through his. He smiled gently at her and Emma returned it, licking her lips that had suddenly become dry as she approached and looped her arm through his offered arm before they walked out toward their waiting carriage.

Mary Margaret smiled as she watched them go. Thankful that just as her life had turned around since leaving Ireland, it appeared her sister’s life had done the same.

~*~*~

“Goodnight, Alice,” Emma murmured, rising from the child’s bed in the hotel room Mr. Jones had booked them for the night.

“Goodnight, Miss Emma,” Alice replied as she snuggled down under the homespun quilt that covered her bed. Emma was too wound up to sleep just yet, so she crossed the room to where a small sofa sat near the door and sat down. She picked up her journal that lay on the small end table and began to write.

What a wonderful day it was. Our visit to F F & M Haberdashers was like a dream. The clothing on display was simply beautiful. The fabrics were so soft and the colors so bright and lovely. I thought we were abundantly blessed with the items we brought with us from Ireland, but the wardrobe Mr. Jones purchased for me today is so much more than I ever dreamed.

Emma tapped her quill against her chin as she thought about her next words. Her mouth opened slightly and she took a deep shaky breath as she told herself that these words were hers alone. No one else would ever be privy to them, and so she could write down exactly what her thoughts and feelings were as she tried on the different dresses and showed them to Alice and Mr. Jones. She licked her suddenly dry lips and continued writing.

I felt a bit like Cinderella in her beautiful ball gown, with Miss Flora, Miss Fauna, and Miss Meriweather as my fairy godmothers, and Mr. Jones standing in for the prince. Emma’s cheeks heated as she wrote those last words. She cut her eyes over to the bed where Alice was comfortably in the arms of sleep before she re-inked the quill and put it to paper again. Mr. Jones is obviously not a prince, but the way he looked at me with each new garment I tried on made my heart stop. His eyes are so clear and so blue. They’re beautiful and I could get lost in them. She shook her head, trying to banish the fanciful musings from her mind. He was an established landowner and she was only a governess. There’d never be anything between them. But the parallels between the story of Cinderella and my life are clear. A girl with nothing is suddenly given everything. Oh, how I wish… She stopped again, utterly unable to put those deep and hidden desires of her heart into words on the page.

Music reached her ears as she closed her journal and laid it back on the end table. It had been a very long day, but thinking back on all the joy the day had brought, Emma knew it would be some time before she’d be able to sleep. She rose from the sofa and glanced back at Alice, satisfied to see her still sound asleep and slipped out of the door. Mr. Jones was in the adjoining room in case Alice cried out and she’d only be gone a few minutes. Just long enough to find where the beautiful melody was coming from. She descended the stairs to the main lobby of the hotel, following the lovely music to a grand ballroom.

As Emma entered, she saw many couples dancing out in the middle of the floor, while several tables laden with all kinds of sumptuous looking delicacies lined the walls of the room. There appeared to be about a hundred people in the lavishly decorated room, soft candlelight illuminating the space, giving it an almost otherworldly quality. Then her eyes landed on the obviously newly married couple in the center of the dance floor.

They were a truly beautiful couple. Both with blonde hair, hers was piled on top of her head in an elaborate style, held together with strings of pearls woven throughout that echoed the ones sewn on her gorgeous white gown. His countenance appeared to be chiseled from marble, the lines of his face perfect in every way. Normally, Emma would think of marble as cold and unyielding, however, he was anything but as he gazed at his bride. They had eyes only for each other. Their matching smiles were full of joy and love and her heart melted inside her.

“They’re a beautiful couple aren’t they?” a voice whispered from behind her, startling her. She turned, a gasp on her lips and her hand pressed to her heart, to find Mr. Jones standing just behind her, a soft smile on his lips.

“I didn’t see you there, Mr. Jones,” she murmured before glancing back into the room. She smiled as her eyes found the bride and groom again. “Yes, yes they are. Do you know them?” The question flew out of her mouth before she really had a chance to think about it, but she couldn’t think of any other reason for him to be down here. Perhaps he’d been invited to the lavish affair and he’d come down to offer his congratulations since he hadn’t been able to attend the ceremony.

Mr. Jones chuckled in amusement. “No,” he informed her. “This is old Sydney money. I’d never be invited to something like this.” He scratched behind his ear just as he had that morning at the haberdashers and his cheeks turned red. Emma couldn’t help but smile at the nervous mannerism. “My money is much too new for me to be considered a part of the upper echelons of Sydney society. Which this clearly is,” he said, motioning back toward the room. “But I heard the music, and wanted to see where it was coming from.”

“I see.” She paused for a moment as they both continued to watch. “It was the same for me. Alice was asleep, and I only planned on being out of the room for just a few minutes, so I followed it down here.”

They were both silent for a few minutes, simply enjoying the soaring melody of the string quartet and harpsichord.

“This reminds me of my wedding day to Milah,” Mr. Jones said softly. She turned confused eyes on him as he continued. “Not the setting obviously, we were too poor for that, but the way they’re looking at each other. Like there’s no one else in the world. They could be in the outback, surrounded by sagebrush and dingos and they would still be looking at each other the way they are now.”

A sigh escaped her as she nodded her agreement. “After all the blessings I’ve enjoyed these last few months, it seems almost selfish to hope that I may find a love like that someday.”

“Blessings?” he echoed quietly. “Losing your family and traveling thousands of miles to the other side of the world to face an uncertain future… I’m not sure I’d call them blessings.”

“No disrespect, Mr. Jones,” she replied, “but if you’d seen the workhouse, you might think differently.”

“Point taken,” he said, a genuine smile on his lips.

“But, yes, the blessings,” she emphasized the word with a small smile on her lips, “of a good education before coming here, meeting Ruby and Granny at the Depot, and then coming to work in your home, meeting you and Alice… it’s the best outcome I could have hoped for.”

“There’s nothing wrong with hoping to find love one day, Miss Emma,” he said. “You’re young and beautiful.” His cheeks flushed and he scratched behind his ear again before his eyes settled on hers again. They were the deep blue of the sea, and the way he was looking at her made the butterflies in her stomach take flight and her breath catch. “You’re kind and very intelligent. And just seeing you with my daughter the last couple of weeks, I know that your heart is good. You will make a very blessed man a fine wife someday.”

Emma dropped her gaze from his and she could breathe again. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before she looked up at him again. The intensity she found there was the same as before and she could positively drown in them without a whimper of complaint.

“Th- thank you, Mr. Jones,” she stammered. “I should probably be getting back,” she said, motioning toward the stairs. He smiled and nodded, holding out his elbow to her. She took it and allowed him to escort her back to their adjoining rooms. Being this close to him was doing nothing to calm her racing heart and heated cheeks, but his words downstairs had touched her in such a way that she could hardly say anything in response. When they reached her door, she turned back to him. “Thank you again, Mr. Jones. For everything.” She hoped the gratefulness in her heart showed in her eyes and that he saw it and took her meaning. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Miss Emma.”

She smiled softly as she closed the door, unaware that he lingered there for a moment longer before returning to his own room.

~*~*~

The next few months passed happily. The bond between Emma and Alice only strengthened, and Emma loved her as if she was her own child. They settled quickly into a routine of studies during the morning hours with the afternoons being filled with lessons in manners and comportment, drawing and painting, dancing, and learning to play the pianoforte. Killian was a frequent observer of Alice’s afternoon lessons and Emma couldn’t help the little stutter her heart gave whenever he joined them.

He was the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on and even though he was nearly a decade her senior, she couldn’t help but wish that perhaps someday he might come to see her as more than just his daughter’s governess. A personal relationship between a landowner and a lowly governess was very much frowned upon, but she’d been so welcomed into the family by both Alice and Killian himself, she couldn’t stop her imagination running away with dreams of a happy beginning with Killian and Alice.

The only dark cloud in her new life was the stablemaster, Neal Cassidy. He’d never done or said anything overtly inappropriate, but she’d have to be completely blind to be unaware of his lustful gaze whenever she had need to come to the stable. His words and actions toward her were polite, but she could feel his eyes on her whenever he was near, whether that was inside the stable or not. And the shiver of trepidation she felt in his presence warned her to never be alone with him.

Alice’s 8th birthday was soon approaching and she found herself intimately involved in planning a special dinner and party for her young charge. Being so isolated from other children her own age living so far out of town, Alice didn’t have any friends to invite over, so Emma was determined to do what she could to make the day of her birth memorable.

On the Sabbath before Alice’s birthday, Emma traveled into town to visit Mary Margaret, Ruby, and Granny, and also to do some shopping for Alice. She’d made such wonderful progress in her art lessons, Emma thought it was high time for her to have her own set of charcoals and sketch pad. When she’d discussed the idea with Killian, he’d wholeheartedly agreed. He’d been unable to leave the Station to do the shopping himself, so she’d offered to do it for him during her visit. Since the sketch pad and charcoals would be given to Alice by her father, Emma decided to gift the girl a new bonnet and hair ribbons.

She left immediately after breakfast with Will Scarlet, her usual companion when she and Alice had need of the buggy. Thankfully, she had time to complete her shopping before meeting her sister at a local inn for a meal. It had been over two months since their last visit and they embraced warmly before settling at a table in front of the windows.

As they sat down, Emma’s eyes were drawn to a beautiful peridot ring that sat on the third finger of Mary Margaret’s left hand. One hand flew to her mouth in shock as she took her sister’s hand with the other in order to bring it closer.

“Is this what I think it is?” she breathed.

Mary Margaret giggled with delight. “It is!” she exclaimed. “David asked me to marry him! I didn’t want to tell you in a letter and so just waited until our visit!”

At their surprise visit two months ago, Mary Margaret had told her more about the handsome headmaster of her school she’d mentioned their last night in the Depot. He’d made his interest in her clear, but hadn’t yet begun courting her. In the subsequent weeks in between that visit and this one, Mary Margaret had written faithfully to her every week with new developments in their relationship. And now to see the beautiful ring on her sister’s finger, Emma was overjoyed to share in her happiness.

“When is the happy day?” Emma asked.

“August eighteenth,” Mary Margaret gushed. “Once worship is finished, the wedding will take place.” She grabbed both of Emma’s hands in excitement. “Tell me you’ll be able to come.”

“Of course, I will! I wouldn’t miss it for anything!” Emma exclaimed. “I’m sure Killian wouldn’t mind. In fact, I’m not sure he wouldn’t want to accompany me. Alice as well,” she said.

“We’d make them most welcome,” Mary Margaret assured her sister, speculative thoughts swirling through her mind.

She was so excited to share her joyous news, that she almost missed the longing and hopeful look on Emma’s face when she mentioned that Killian might want to join her for the wedding. When they met two months ago, Emma introduced him as Mr. Jones and in her letters, she always referred to him the same way, but that little slip of the tongue made Mary Margaret wonder if there was more between them than what her beloved younger sister had heretofore expressed. Perhaps some subtle questioning was in order.

“Killian, huh? When did you start calling him Killian?” Emma’s mouth fell open, clearly just realizing she’d called her employer by his first name instead of Mr. Jones. The blush spread across her cheeks and her eyes cut away making Mary Margaret smile indulgently before continuing. “It’s clear from your letters that you are happy there, and that you love Alice, but tell me more about Killian. We only had those couple of hours together when you were here last time. What is he like?”

Emma’s face took on a faraway look. One that told Mary Margaret definitively that her sister was in love. She’d been teased about her own similar look quite enough by her colleagues the past couple of months. Her heart melted at the knowledge and she could only hope Killian Jones shared her sister’s regard.

Emma began telling her about him in fits and starts that only made Mary Margaret’s certainty about her sister’s feelings for her employer all the more steadfast. Emma told her how kind he was, how honorable he was, how well she was treated in his household. The attributes she described reminded Mary Margaret very much of her David and she sent up a prayer that Emma would find love with Mr. Killian Jones. It may have been frowned upon in society, but Mary Margaret believed in love with her whole heart and that love was a part of all happiness. She didn’t want societal norms to get in the way of true love, and so she happily ignored those norms and hoped and prayed for that happiness for her sister, no matter what society thought.

The rest of their visit flew by, including tea with Granny and Ruby back at the Depot. It was the first time the sisters had been back to visit with them since leaving three months prior. Ruby had her own news to share as the General Store owner, Graham Humbert, had finally begun courting her and she was hopeful he’d ask for her hand in the next few weeks.

All too soon, the sisters had to take their leave and Emma had to journey back to Drogheda Station. Tears and hugs between the four were had in abundance as well as promises not to wait for three months before coming back for another visit. Once Emma was safely ensconced in the carriage that would carry her home, she waved out the window at her sister, Ruby, and Granny. When they were out of sight, she settled back and closed her eyes for the long journey.

It had been a wonderful day, but she was ready to return home to her charge and prepare for Alice’s birthday on Tuesday. Killian would be leaving Wednesday morning for an extended trip into Queensland, New Guinea, and New Zealand to look for new shipping markets for the wool and meat Drogheda Station provided. Robin would be standing in Killian’s stead with the day to day operations of the Station while he was gone. She hadn’t had much occasion to really interact with him over the months she’d been there, but he always treated her like a gentleman should and Emma felt no unease about him with Killian gone. She’d certainly miss Killian though. Which was why she wanted Alice’s birthday celebration to be so special. Both for the child and for her father.

~*~*~

Alice’s birthday was as perfect an autumn day as one could wish for, much like the actual day of her birth. It was Killian’s favorite time of year, both for celebrating Alice’s birth and the change of the seasons. The heat of the Australian summer was now fully behind them but the cold winter months were as yet a way off. Losing his wife, just over a year ago now, had obviously cast a pall over his daughter’s birthday last year, but Emma was determined that they’d make new, happier memories to replace the sad ones from their loss the year before. She wanted to make sure Alice was fully celebrated, as she deserved to be.

Emma had begun the day foregoing Alice’s regular studies for the special day, and had instead enlisted her help in the kitchen to assist with the preparations for tonight’s celebratory dinner. Alice was thrilled to help and Killian had been unceremoniously shooed out of the room, his ladies insisting he’d only be in the way.

His ladies.

Dangerous thoughts, those.

But Killian really couldn’t help them. Since Emma had joined his household three months prior, he thought of his beloved Milah- Alice’s mother- less and less. His heartache at losing her had finally begun to heal.

As he watched Emma with Alice during their lessons, his heart would be fit to explode with happiness at seeing the clear love and affinity between them. Alice positively blossomed under Emma’s gentle tutelage. She was so smart and eager to learn that she excelled in every subject she and Emma had undertaken. Just last week, Emma had come to him to discuss accelerating her studies to keep Alice’s insatiable appetite for learning appeased. He couldn’t have asked for a better governess for his precious daughter.

The more time he spent with them, and Emma in particular, the more he realized that the regard with which he held Emma was not entirely of the type a man like him should have for a woman like her. Her beauty never failed to make his breath stutter and his heart rate to increase dramatically. Her grace and mannerisms endeared her to him in a way he’d not experienced since he’d met Milah. Her love for his daughter, her quiet and gentle spirit, in spite of the circumstances she’d faced in her short life spoke to a strength of character that was astounding in one so young. His heart was in imminent danger of becoming hers forever, but societal norms wouldn’t look kindly upon a romantic relationship between them. He’d be more than willing to throw off the conventions of society- he didn’t have much contact with society in the first place- if he knew for sure what her feelings were toward him.

She’d never turned him away when he requested to watch them during their lessons, though he would have expected her to be a little nervous to have him as such a frequent observer. Thinking back on the last few months, he realized his requests had become progressively more frequent as time went on. Why, this month alone, he believed he’d observed them just about every other day. And as he did, his own regard for the lovely young woman in his employ only grew. And if he wasn’t mistaken, Emma seemed to be quite pleased when he did request to join them. Her smile seemed wider, the sparkle in her eyes just a bit more apparent. Perhaps she did hold some affection for him- and not of the familial type.

Perhaps tonight, after Alice’s birthday celebrations, he could have a private word with the lovely Emma Swan.

~*~*~

The birthday dinner was a complete success. Alice told him all about the different things she’d done to help prepare the meal. Of course, Cook and the other kitchen staff took care of the heavy lifting, so to speak, but Alice was thrilled when she’d been allowed- with Emma’s close supervision of course- to help chop the vegetables for the lamb stew they dined on, and then Emma had taught her how to make the Irish soda bread native to her homeland. The meal was completed by plum pudding that Alice helped prepare by doing all the mixing of ingredients before pouring it into the mold. The single candle in the middle of the pudding for Alice to blow out was as bright as her smile and Killian and Emma, as well as the other staff, all cheered when she successfully blew it out after shutting her eyes for a moment and making a wish.

Once the pudding was consumed, Killian and Emma gave Alice their birthday gifts. Alice was delighted with the new bonnet and hair ribbons and asked if they could have a picnic the next day so she’d have occasion to wear it. The sketch pad and charcoals were received with utter shock. Tears gathered in the corners of the child’s eyes and Emma worried for a moment that she wasn’t pleased with the gift. When Killian explained that it had been Emma’s idea given how well she was doing in her drawing lessons, Alice flung herself into first Emma’s and then her father’s arms sobbing out her joy and elation at having her very own sketch pad that she could use anytime she wanted, to draw anything she wanted.

As Emma and Alice were leaving the room to prepare for bed, Killian cleared his throat drawing both their attentions.

“Yes, Papa?” Alice asked.

Killian smiled softly at them. “Happy birthday, Starfish.”

Alice let go of Emma’s hand and ran to her father, throwing her arms around his waist. “Thank you, Papa. It was the best birthday ever.” Killian lifted his eyes to Emma’s and mouthed Thank you to her. She nodded and smiled before turning back towards the door of the room.

“Uh, Emma?”

Emma turned back toward Killian and Alice, who’d released her father and was walking back towards her.

“Yes, Mr. Jones?”

“Could you join me in my office after our evening prayers?”

“Of course.”

Emma couldn’t help but wonder why he wanted to see her. She’d have to curb her curiosity for the next hour as she and Alice went through her bedtime routine before Killian would join them to kiss his daughter goodnight and pray with them. Could he perhaps wish to tell her goodbye personally before he left for six weeks? She’d find out soon enough.

~*~*~

Emma preceded Killian into his office and he shut the doors behind them.

“Please, sit down, Emma,” he invited. She sat down in front of his desk as he moved behind it. He sat down and clasped his hands on top of it, just as he had the day they met.

“You may be wondering why I’ve asked you here,” he said. “I, ah…” he paused and scratched behind his ear. It was a terribly endearing gesture and Emma couldn’t help the smile that broke over her lips at his action.

“I do have to admit, I am curious,” she replied, still smiling softly.

“Well…” he cleared his throat and reached up to loosen his collar just a bit. “As you know, I’m leaving in the morning and will be gone for about six weeks.” His eyes finally met hers and Emma felt her breath leave her completely. His gaze was so intense. So clear. So blue. She could happily drown in them. She was shaken out of her disjointed musings when Killian rose and came around the desk to kneel next to her chair. Emma gasped as he took her hand in his own and met her gaze again.

“Emma, since you’ve come to Drogheda Station…” He looked down at their joined hands before beginning again. “Emma, your presence here…” he paused again, at a loss of how to continue, “...has been most welcome. You came to Drogheda Station and became a part of my family. Mine and Alice’s. You have fit in with us seamlessly and I have difficulty remembering a time when it was just me and Alice.”

Emma didn’t know what to say, but after a shaky exhale, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’ve become my family, too. You and Alice.”

He looked down at their clasped hands again, a light blush coloring his cheeks.

“Alice loves you dearly, and I…” His clear blue eyes met hers again and Emma’s chest tightened so much, the gasp she released was more of a sob. “I never thought I’d be able to let go of my Milah. Until I met you.” His voice was just above a whisper and Emma could see tears gathered in the corner of his eyes as he raised his hand to her face. He cupped her chin, and drew her face close to his. “Emma, may I have your permission to court you when I return from my journey?”

Emma’s breath left her on a sharp exhale. She couldn’t believe it. He wanted to court her. All her hopes and dreams were right in front of her and all she had to do was reach out and grasp them.

“Yes, Mr. Jones,” she whispered.

He looked down and chuckled. “Perhaps under the circumstances, you should call me Killian,” he said just before his lips captured her own. It was everything she’d ever dreamed of. It was fire and ice, sweetness and passion, strength and vulnerability all wrapped in a single sensuous package. She’d never been kissed before and had no idea how it could melt her insides and send her soaring at the same time.

This was affection and tenderness.

This was yearning and devotion.

This was hopes and dreams for the future.

This… was love.

Long moments later, Killian pulled back and Emma could breathe again. They remained close, the warm breath from his lips caressing hers just as his mouth had moments ago.

“I must insist that you retire to your room now, Emma,” he said. “I am a gentleman, but you are already testing my resolve.” Emma felt a thrill of feminine pride go through her at his words and she rose to her feet, Killian following.

He took her hands in his own again and raised them both to his lips, kissing the backs of her hands and her knuckles before turning them over and kissing her on the center of each palm.

She lifted one hand to his face and gently cradled his chin. “Goodnight. Stay safe. Come back to me, Killian.”

“I will come back to you, Emma,” he promised her. He turned his face into her hand and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist, sending a sweet shiver up her spine. “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s surviving. Goodnight, my love. Until we meet again.”

He released her hand and she walked to the doors of the room, turning back one last time to look at the man she loved. She left the room, determined to keep the gathered tears from falling until she was in the privacy of her room, where she would begin counting the days until she’d see him again.

~*~*~

Wednesday was another perfect autumn day. Just right for Emma and Alice to be able to enjoy a picnic by the creek at the edge of the pasture. They were up early enough to bid Killian farewell, but once his carriage was out of sight, they returned to the house and began Alice’s morning lessons.

Having Killian gone was proving to be quite a distraction to her young charge and Emma had to refocus Alice’s attention on her studies more than once throughout the morning hours. When she finally deemed Alice getting close enough to finishing her work that she could be left alone for a few moments, Emma rose.

“I’m going to go gather up our picnic lunch and head on out to the stable to inform them to get the horses ready so we can head straight out as soon as you’re done with your work, alright, Alice?”

Alice looked up and smiled, nodding her head enthusiastically. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Can I trust you to attend to your work without me here? You’re almost done.” Emma hated to ask the question, but with the level of distraction present this morning, she had to have an affirmative answer before she’d leave Alice alone.

“Yes, Miss Emma,” Alice promised. “I’ll be finished in just a few minutes.”

“Very well, come to the stable as soon as you’re done. Don’t forget your new bonnet,” Emma teased with a smile.

Alice patted the bonnet that sat on the side of her desk and smiled widely. “I won’t.”

Emma left Alice alone and went down to the kitchen to find the picnic lunch Cook had prepared for them. She found boiled eggs, roast mutton, and root vegetables inside the sturdy basket. There was also the left over soda bread from the party the night before.

She picked up the basket and walked out the back of the house toward the stable. She sat the basket on the ground outside the door and stepped inside.

It was quiet in the stable and Emma wondered if the stable hands were all at lunch. It was no matter. She had watched the hands prepare their horses many times over the last few months and was fairly confident she could saddle the horses herself.

She’d just finished saddling Alice’s pony when she turned to see the stablemaster standing in the door of the stall. Her breath caught, very much aware they were alone in the stable.

She dropped a small curtsey and then met his gaze. Fear skittered across her skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake.

“Mr. Cassidy?” she asked, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. One thing she’d learned out here in the bush the last three months, when a predator smelled fear, they attacked. “Did you need something?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, raising his eyebrows slightly, “I need something all right.” His voice was pitched low with an edge of something Emma couldn’t identify. It made her heart rate pick up even more than the initial fright his appearance had caused. He looked out into the main area of the stable. “Where’s Alice?”

Emma swallowed thickly. “She’s just outside waiting for me to saddle our horses for a picnic. She wanted to wear her new bonnet I gave her for her birthday yesterday.”

“Really? I didn’t see her outside when I came in.” He turned back toward her and took a step into the stall, his gaze now lewd, his smile lecherous. “I think you’re lying to me, Emma.”

His use of her name instead of Miss Swan sent Emma into a panic. Alice would be out here any moment, and if she could placate him somehow, perhaps she’d be able to escape with her innocence and dignity intact.

“Yes, you’re right, Mr. Cassidy,” she admitted on a shaky exhale, her stomach rolling with her fear and anxiety over the situation she found herself in. “Alice is inside finishing up her morning studies. She’ll be out for our picnic lunch any moment.”

“Oh, a moment is all I need,” he muttered, a sneer on his lips. He lunged for her, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her outside the stall, slamming the gate closed so the pony couldn’t escape. He spun her around and pressed her up against the side of the stall. Emma tasted blood and closed her eyes, lifting a prayer that Alice would be delayed just a few more minutes… for both their sakes.

~*~*~

Alice skipped out the back door of the house toward the stable to see Miss Emma running towards her. She couldn’t see her very well because of the distance, but Alice realized immediately something wasn’t right. Once she was close enough to really see, she saw Miss Emma was hurt. There was a dark bruise high on the side of her face and her lip was split and very swollen. The beautiful golden hair that Alice so admired was falling out of the braid they’d worked on so carefully this morning, and there was a rip in the bodice of her dress, exposing the shift and corset underneath. Her eyes were red and swollen, like she’d been crying.

“Miss Emma, what’s wrong?” Alice exclaimed. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” she gasped. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. I tripped and fell inside the stable, catching my face on the side of Dinah’s stall. I just need to go inside and get this all cleaned up. We’ll have to do the picnic another day. I’m sorry, Alice.”

“Of course,” Alice agreed. She’d been looking forward to their picnic, but taking care of Miss Emma was more important. She took the basket from her and turned back toward the house.

“Don’t say anything to anyone about this, okay, Alice?” Miss Emma asked in a low murmur. If she hadn’t been standing so close to her, she probably wouldn’t have heard it.

Alice looked up into her beloved governess’ face. There was a look in her eyes she’d never seen before- it almost made Alice afraid- but she knew that Miss Emma loved her and would do anything to protect her. Just like her Papa. In the last year, Alice’s memory of her mother was beginning to fade. She could no longer remember her voice or the color of her eyes. But the feelings provoked in her by thoughts of her mother were now wrapped in the golden light of memory- hazy at the edges, but sharp in their recollection. In the absence of the woman who’d raised her, the love and loyalty and obedience given to her was now being transferred to Miss Emma. If Miss Emma didn’t want anyone to know what had happened in the stable, then Alice would obey her.

Alice nodded her head slowly, willing to do anything she asked. “Yes, ma’am.”

~*~*~

The six weeks were finally over and her Papa was coming home today! He’d never been away from home so long, and while, of course, she had Miss Emma caring for her, she’d missed her Papa desperately. Getting letters from him every week helped some, but she couldn’t wait to actually see him and hug him and hear the tales of all his travels and everything he’d done and seen. She was absolutely beside herself and Miss Emma finally gave up trying to keep her focused on her studies. Alice glanced at her and saw the paleness that had been so evident the last week or so was even more pronounced today.

“Miss Emma, why don’t you go lie down and rest?” she asked. “I’ll draw in my sketchbook and I promise that I’ll wake you as soon as Papa arrives home.”

Miss Emma put a hand on her stomach, closed her eyes, and sighed. “You know, my sweet Alice, I think I will do exactly that. As excited as I am that your Papa is coming home today…” Her statement was interrupted by a huge yawn, “I am exhausted. You’re sure you’ll be ok on your own here for a little while?”

Alice grinned, eager to set Miss Emma’s mind at ease. “I’m sure. You go rest.”

She nodded and moved into the next room, leaving the door open so she could wake quickly if she was needed. Alice could see her lie down on her bed from where she sat and in moments, Miss Emma was snoring softly.

Alice got out her sketchbook and charcoals and began to sketch as she waited for her Papa to arrive.

Suddenly, there was a loud commotion outside. It may have felt like it was only a few minutes, but it must have been at least an hour given how much of the picture she was drawing was completed. Miss Emma always laughed at how caught up she’d get in her sketching that she wasn’t aware of any time passing at all, and that had certainly happened again today. The picture of Miss Emma asleep on her bed was nearly finished, but the sound of a carriage outside was difficult to miss. Alice looked out the window and flew from the room, her promise to wake Emma completely forgotten.

“Papa, Papa!” she cried, bursting from the door and flinging herself into his arms. He laughed and spun her around, hugging her tightly.

Killian pulled back and looked into his daughter’s face. Oh, how he had missed her. It had been a productive and successful trip, but he couldn’t tolerate being away from the ones he loved that long ever again.

“You know, Starfish,” he said, “I do believe you’ve grown a foot since I left!”

Alice smirked, recognizing his teasing tone, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks.

“Oh, Papa,” she scolded lightly. “ You know I haven’t.”

“Where’s Miss Emma?” he asked, searching the front of the house for her, eager to see the woman he loved again.

“She’s lying down and resting, Papa,” Alice informed him.

“Resting?” he asked, confused. “At this time of day?” He looked at his daughter and caught her furrowed brow. “What’s the matter, Starfish? Is there something wrong?”

He moved toward the front of the house and Alice clung to his neck as he carried her inside. He walked straight to his room and deposited her on the bed. He pulled off his boots and sat next to her.

“Did something happen, Starfish? Why the furrowed brow?” He smoothed his thumb over her forehead until the lines disappeared and she looked up at him with love and happiness at his return shining in her eyes.

“I missed you so much, Papa,” she said, hugging him tightly again.

Killian returned her embrace. “I missed you too, my love. Now tell me what’s troubling you.”

Alice pressed her lips into a thin line, almost as if she was hesitant to say what was on her mind.

“Alice,” he urged, using her name instead of her nickname to impress on her the seriousness of his words, “You can tell me anything.”

Her blue eyes met his and Killian found himself a bit nervous to hear what she had to say. He hadn’t said anything to her about courting Emma before he’d left. Could Emma have said something to her? And perhaps Alice wasn’t as happy as he’d thought she’d be?

“There’s something wrong with Miss Emma,” she said. It was the last thing he’d expected to come out of her mouth and Killian had to double check to make sure he’d heard her correctly.

“Something wrong? With Miss Emma?” Alice nodded. “What is it?”

“She hasn’t been feeling well.”

“How has she not been feeling well?” Alice shrugged, and Killian pressed. “What exactly makes you say she hasn’t been feeling well?”

“She’s tired all the time,” she explained. “She hasn’t been waking up with me in the morning, I’ve had to come in and wake her to help me with my hair. She’s been sick, too. She tries to hide it, but I know that she’s been sick in the morning after breakfast. And sometimes after lunch and dinner, too.”

“How long has this been going on, Starfish?”

Alice shrugged again. “Since not long after you left.”

“And you say she’s asleep now?”

“Mmhmm,” she nodded.

“Ok, as soon as she wakes up- don’t wake her up yourself, understand, Starfish?- tell her I’d like to see her in my office.” Killian gathered his daughter in his arms and hugged her tightly. “Let me get unpacked, and you go down and ask what Cook has planned for dinner.”

“Yes, Papa.” Alice skipped out of the room and Killian frowned.

After stating his intentions before leaving, he was sure she held him in the same regard as he held her. He had a lot of trouble believing that she would betray him. But, if what he suspected was going on with Emma was correct, he was going to need some answers. Answers that only Emma had.

~*~*~

It was another hour before a knock sounded on his office door.

“Enter,” he called.

The door opened and Alice bounded in followed by Emma. It was a very good thing that Alice was here to distract him slightly, because if she hadn’t been, his jaw would have dropped in shock and dismay.

Emma was sick.

There was no doubt.

She looked to have lost a stone since he’d been gone. The dress she wore hung on her overly thin frame. Her skin was pale and her hair hung limply around her face. Even though she’d just awoken, it was clear that she was utterly exhausted. She looked like a stiff winter breeze would blow her over.

“Thank you, Alice,” he said, giving her a big hug and kiss. “Would you go ask Cook to prepare some ginger tea and some sandwiches for myself and Miss Emma?”

“Yes, Papa.”

She skipped out of the doors of his office leaving Killian alone with the woman he loved.

“Emma,” he breathed, moving toward her, his hand outstretched.

“Killian.” Her smile trembled, her tear filled gaze holding all the love and longing he hoped to see. She took his hand and he pulled her close, enveloping her in his arms. He held her tightly, turning his nose into her hair, inhaling her scent, imprinting her on his soul. This was his Emma and whatever had happened, he was sure she hadn’t betrayed him.

He gathered her in his arms and sat in the chair in front of his desk, still holding her closely on his lap.

“You’re with child.” It was a statement, not a question. With the evidence in her body before him and Alice’s observations, Killian had no doubt.

Emma buried her face in his neck, unable to meet his piercing gaze. He may have said he loved her and wanted to court her, but with the reality of him knowing that she carried another man’s child, there was no way under heaven that he would still want her. That he would still allow her to remain as governess to his daughter.

“Emma, look at me.” She felt his finger under her chin, exerting subtle pressure, urging her to lift her gaze to his. She allowed him to lift her chin, but once he stopped, she couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes. To tell him the truth. “Emma, please.”

It was the pleading in his voice that finally broke her resolve. She opened her tear filled eyes to behold the same in his.

“Tell me what happened.”

Taking a deep breath, the entire thing spilled out of her. She’d kept it bottled up, buried, never again to see the light of day. But with the growing certainty that she was with child, she knew it was only a matter of time before Killian found out and her life as she knew it would be over. Killian would surely send her away and she’d lose her family again. But as she told him everything, he continued to hold her close, stroking her hair tenderly even as his eyes cycled through sorrow, fury, dismay and finally settled on controlled fortitude.

He looked her in the eyes, love and devotion swirling in their depths, and cupped her face in his hands. “Emma, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this happened. I never should have left. If I’d been here, this never would have happened.”

“Killian, no,” she replied. “You can’t blame yourself. This trip was necessary for your and Alice’s future.” She paused for a moment, her unsure gaze meeting his. Did he still love her? “For our future,” she stuttered, haltingly.

He smiled gently. “Yes, Emma. For our future. I love you and you have nothing to fear. Either from the future or him. I will stand by you. I will marry you, and claim the child as my own. If you’ll have me.”

At his words, Emma could hold back her tears no longer.

“I love you, Killian,” she sobbed. “And yes, I will be yours forever. I want nothing more than to be your wife, and a mother to Alice.”

“You can stay here with me while I confront him, or you can wait outside,” he told her. “I will not force you to remain in the room with him, unless you wish it.”

Emma shook her head. “I’ve stayed as far away from him as I could since it happened. And I’d just as soon as never lay eyes on him again.”

“Very well, then. Wait in the parlor while I send for him. I’ll come to you when he’s gone.”

Emma nodded, rose, and left the room.

~*~*~

Killian sat behind his desk when there was a knock on the doors.

“Enter.”

The door opened and Neal Cassidy walked in.

“You wanted to see me, Sir?”

Killian didn’t look up, but continued to peruse the correspondence in front of him. After waiting for several long moments, he finally met Cassidy’s gaze with a hard stare. He didn’t invite him to sit. He wanted the man to be on his feet for what was about to happen.

“I understand from Miss Emma…” He paused for a moment to see if the mention of Emma’s name provoked any reaction from the man in front of him. He wasn’t surprised to see nothing but a slight widening of his eyes and a muscle tic in his jaw. “That you violated her in a most disgusting and vile manner. What have you to say for these charges?”

Neal snorted in derision. “You’re going to believe some Irish whore…”

Killian rose from behind his desk and slammed both his fists down on the surface. The move was so sudden, Neal choked on his words.

“Don’t you ever say such things about my intended.” His words were low and deadly and Neal Cassidy got just a glimpse of how much trouble he was truly in. “Yes, I believe her. Because she is the epitome of honesty and integrity. The authorities have already been notified. They’ll be here within the hour. If you are not off my property by then, they’ve been given leave to shoot to kill. I’d hurry, if I were you.”

“I’ll hurry all right.”

Neal reached for the gun at his hip, but Killian was ready for him. He got his shot off first, hitting Cassidy in the gut. He fell to the floor, but still got his own shot off, just grazing Killian’s left bicep. A hiss of pain left his lips as Killian walked around his desk to see the man writhing in agony before him, his pistol on the ground. He knew the wound he’d inflicted was deadly, but that it could be hours, perhaps even days before it would eventually kill him. And as pleased as that would have made him- for Cassidy to have just a taste of the suffering he’d inflicted on Emma, and thus on him- he knew that as long as that gun was within reach, he was still a threat. Killian leveled his own pistol in front of him and shot Cassidy right in the middle of the forehead. A thin trickle of blood leaked from the hole, down the bridge of his nose, his sightless eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The door to his study crashed open as Emma ran in, followed by Robin.

“What the hell happened?” he cried.

Emma flung herself into his arms and buried her face in his neck.

“I’m alright, Love. You’re safe now.”

Emma sobbed into Killian’s neck barely conscious of him lifting her in his arms and going around to his desk chair where he sat down, holding her close and murmuring words of comfort in her ear. She only knew that when she’d heard two gunshots in quick succession, she’d feared the worst. She’d run from the parlor and had heard the third gunshot just as she’d burst through the doors. She was hardly aware of Robin wrapping the body in a white sheet and dragging him out as Killian continued to hold and comfort her.

She felt something wet under her hand. She drew back, her mouth dropping in a horrified Oh when she saw the tear in Killian’s shirt from the bullet and the blood soaking into the fabric.

“You’re shot!” she cried.

“Tis merely a scratch, darling.” He smiled disarmingly at her. “I got him first.”

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, quickly unbuttoning his shirt so she could get a better look at the wound. Once she got the shirt open and off him, she looked at the injury with a critical eye. “It doesn’t need stitches, but it does need to be cleaned and bandaged.”

She turned to Robin who’d returned from disposing of the trash and asked for a few items that would help her accomplish that. As soon as he left, she turned back to Killian.

“I wish it hadn’t come to that, Emma,” he said, sorrow and apology obvious in his eyes and tone. “But there’s nothing I won’t do to keep you safe. To keep the ones I love safe.”

“I know, Killian,” she breathed. She dropped her forehead down to his and closed her eyes. “And I’m so thankful to be counted among those you love.”

Her lips found his in a gentle caress designed to show him everything in her heart that she couldn’t put into words.

As he held her close and deepened the kiss, Emma’s heart soared. This was her Killian. The man she loved. She was his forever and an orphan girl no longer.

The End ~*~*~

Thank you so much for reading and sharing! I'd love to know what you think!

#orphan girl #krystal writes #art by krystal #inspired by the song

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be-the-glenn-to-my-maggie · 1 year

Note

I don’t know why I’m here but you gotta know about it. TW mentions of child abuse

There is an actual dead dove poster in the Spider tags now 💀 posting creepy shit and doing it openly on a platform with a shit ton of minors. I saw only one before filtering the tag out but it was a Spider x Quaritch post where they discussed how people "sleep on their dynamic" and "imagine the Stockholm syndrome"

I sent them an ask and said that they should perhaps keep that to themselves or at least out of the general tags bc surprise surprise! Users don’t want relive their past trauma while scrolling through fucking tumblr and hey legit laughed and mocked me in their response. The worst part is it’s an actual 33 year old and despite the fact that they’re apparently ace I just can’t understand what fucked up morbid curiosity can drive a person to become, and I quote, a “dead dove connoisseur” and enjoy reading about sexual child abuse? Make it make sense.

It’s not even a preference thing. It’s basic human decency. What part of “don’t post about how you love fictional child abuse when there are kids looking through the tags and some people can get triggered by it” is so hard to understand? Anyway, this is just a heads up that you might see their post one day, so now you know.

Don't be shy anon drop the @.

You are absolutely right, a preference for writing about child abuse/incest is super not okay, and it's always in young fandoms and around characters like Quaritch. Despite there being whatever proper tags people think are there, I really don't think that content needs to exist. People STILL don't know what they are getting into. Case in point: I know we all stalk the Avatar a03 and we all unfortunately saw the newest gross Quaritch/Spider fic posted. Well, I clicked on that shit, because my dumb ass thought maybe it would be comfort focused enough we could skip around that bc Quaritch was already dead in the fic. When I tell you I have been so uncomfy for the last twelve hours, I cannot scrub that shit from my brain. I wish it had never been written! I wish I was dead! There are very few things that can still make me feel genuinely bad on the internet, and that managed it. I feel icky.

Anyways this just became about me resenting my decisions, I will definitely be reporting anything I see like that and I hope my followers do the same. Thank you for warning us. Tumblr is not always the safest place for minors, but hopefully we can make sure this community is.

#that was actually my first ever click on a dead dove do not eat i'm pretty sure #never again!#there were literally all the red flags in the universe and i still thought maybe it wouldn't be that bad i don't even know #ughghhg #i was like it CANT be that bad people can't ACTUALLY read this it has to be like about recovering from this kind of thing #nah #listen its dead dove do not eat for a reason i'm just stupid and didn't believe people were that awful i guess #miles quaritch #miles spider socorro #spider socorro #avatar #avatar the way of water #james cameron avatar #melissa's asks #melissa on avatar (cameron)

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swervestrickland · 11 months

Text

HANGMAN PAGE BIRTHDAY WEEK

-> starts Friday, July 21st, 2023 and ends Thursday, July 27th, 2023

Hello, everyone! It's me, Emi adampage here, coming to you fresh from the post-Double or Nothing high, to announce that HANGMAN PAGE BIRTHDAY WEEK will be happening again this year! I am going to make this considerably hard on myself, as I will be out of the country during the week of, but I will do my very best to reblog any creations you make!

That being said, here's what I have in mind for this year :)

OBJECTIVE

To create wonderful works [edits, gifs, writing, art, videos, etc] in the name and in the honor of our lovely cowboy, Hangman Adam Page, during the week of July 21st, 2023, to July 27th, 2023.

RULES

There are prompts/themes for each day, sometimes even two. You may choose to do either or both! You may also do multiple of each, if it strikes your heart to do so.

Do not take the prompts at face value. You may interpret them in any way you would like! (If you cannot choose one of something for a theme, feel free to talk/write/create about more than one. Multiple loves and multiple favorites are implied!)

You can use any form of post available to you through tumblr. Video, photo, gif, text, audio, etc etc. It’s ALL up to YOU! (Fics can be linked from ao3 if it’s easier for you)

If you only want to do certain days, no worries!! Do everything in any way you would like. And if you’re a bit late on some prompts than others, that’s completely fine (just don’t be early lol)! the hangman gang will want to see them either way <3

If you have ANY QUESTIONS, please don't hesitate to DM me or send me an ask!

THEMES

Day 1 - July 21st - FRIDAY: Hangman + LOVE

Day 2 - July 22nd - SATURDAY: Hangman + HATE

Day 3 - July 23rd - SUNDAY: Hangman + BLOOD (or, if that's not your style, SILLY/GOOFY)

Day 4 - July 24th - MONDAY: Hangman + PLAYLIST

Day 5 - July 25th - TUESDAY: Hangman + FOIL* (or other literary device, such as 'parallel')

Day 6 - July 26th - WEDNESDAY: Hangman + FANTASY/DREAM

Day 7 - July 27th - THURSDAY: HANGMAN'S BIRTHDAY! Hangman + FREE CHOICE

*it was brought to my attention that this one can seem confusing. The definition of "foil" is as follows (from literarydevices.net): Foil is a literary device designed to illustrate or reveal information, traits, values, or motivations of one character through the comparison and contrast of another character. A literary foil character serves the purpose of drawing attention to the qualities of another character, frequently the protagonist. This is effective as a means of developing a deeper understanding of a character by emphasizing their strengths and weaknesses. In addition, a literary foil allows writers to create a counterpart for the protagonist that puts their actions and choices in context. (You can use this definition, or you can get inspiration from it. Or, you can use a different literary device, if you so choose. You can also liken the word 'foil' to, I dunno, tinfoil. What I love about word prompts is that you can take a word and create something completely different than someone else. Go crazy!)

As always, thank you to @mistress-omega-majesty, @jonmoxleys, @sheslikealostflower, and @cowboyshit for the feedback on the prompts!

LAST BIT OF RULES

Please remember to mention the THEME in your post, as well as to TAG YOUR POST with the following: #HANGMANPAGEBIRTHDAYWEEK within the first five tags, and to tag ME (main @adampage), in a reply comment under your post, or in the body of your post, whatever is easier. I will be posting my edits to @bloodycowboyclub, and likely will post any text posts/writing from my main.

PLEASE REBLOG TO SPREAD THE WORD! Even if you only plan to enjoy the creations!! I want as many people as possible to participate and it’s only possible if this ends up on their dashes! Thank you (:

Don’t forget to have fun!!

#hangman adam page #adam page #aewedit #aew #hangman page #HANGMANPAGEBIRTHDAYWEEK #hangman page birthday week #we got a month and a half lets goooooo

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steddieunderdogfics · 4 months

Note

Okay this is my other one (again hope this is okay!!)

I think all of their works are fucking fantastic but this one is my favorite:

Such an oversight as to rank as egregious by hitlikehammers on ao3 and on tumblr

The link!!!: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49428982

(Hitlikehammers if you see this- hi ✨)

Such An Oversight As To Rank As Egregious by hitlikehammers

@hitlikehammers

Rating: Teens and Up

6,636 words, 1/1 chapters

Archive Warning: No Warnings

Tags: Everybody Lives, Eddie Munson Lives, POV Outsider, POV Wayne Munson, Established Relationship, Comfort No Hurt, As In: ALL Comfort and NO Hurt, i Cannot Emphasize That Enough This Is Pure Saccharine Fluff, (Just In Case You Need Some of That In Your Life Today), Anniversary, Or I Should Say: Anniversaries in the PLURAL, Good Uncle Wayne Munson, Happy Ending, An Utter Abundance of Romance, As in ‘Every Day is Worth Celebrating When You’re IN LOVE’ levels fr

Summary:

“I fucked up.” Wayne takes a seat in his recliner but leans forward, full attention. It’s not that he wholly doubts that his nephew could, maybe very well has fucked up, he just highly doubts that’s not a particularly dramatic and probably inaccurate way of phrasing it. Also? If Wayne’s picked up anything about the relationship Eddie’s built over more than a year, now, it’s that it’s one of odd but undeniable equals. Adults, who squabble and shout and sometimes storm out but usually only because they recognize the need to step away, take some air. Adults who disagree, sometimes in big loud ways, but still don’t spend their nights alone. Almost ever. So: whatever the fuck up is? Wayne’s…just not too concerned. “How’s that?” Eddie’s eyes flick up from what he’s reading, not even scared. More…ashamed. Devastated, and ashamed. So Wayne pays extra close attention when Eddie shakes his reading material, oh: a calendar. The calendar. With all the anniversaries on every goddamn day. Eddie tosses the calendar on the table and moans, despondent: “I missed one.” - In which Eddie misses an anniversary. But…does he really?

Thanks for the rec!

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

#steddie fic recs #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steve x eddie #fluff #teens and up #happy ending #comfort fic

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shootingstarpilot · 1 year

Note

Do you have any recommendations for fics where Qui-Gon is a good master/dad to Obi-Wan?

Oh, boy, do I!

Author-wise, I really cannot recommend @the-last-kenobi enough. Definitely the best source for some good master/dad Qui-Gon- they were actually the first SW author I started following! You can find their works here.

The vast majority of the works in my bookmarks under the Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi relationship tag have Qui-Gon being a good master/dad to Obi-Wan, so if you'd like, you can browse those here. Some of my absolute all-time favorites are listed below, but I love everything in my bookmarks!

The Melida/Daan Probation series by @trysomecats has some really good sweet interactions between Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon as they try to rebuild their relationship.

Memory's Betrayal by @maychorian gets me every time. A oneshot with amnesia and Qui-Gon realizing he has the opportunity to do better.

The Recovery series by @firondoiel, @happygiraffe, @luvvewan, and @sanerontheinside is a masterpiece of long-term recovery from a severe injury- both Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon survive Naboo, but Obi-Wan is left severely injured by Darth Maul. An achingly tender read.

I thought I fought this war alone by @stonefreeak, I just-- man, I have no words. It's a oneshot. Go read it. You won't regret it.

the massive machinery of hope by Kilbothtwins (I don't know if they have a Tumblr account) is an absolutely magnificent series- at the end of the war with the Empire, Obi-Wan wakes up in his twelve-year-old body and decides to be an utter BAMF about it. Qui-Gon is not 100% sure what's going on, but he trusts his Padawan and is enjoying himself immensely.

Invitation by @antheiasilva is one of my FAVORITES-- during an awkward Lineage dinner, Obi-Wan finds out that Qui-Gon had a shitty Padawanship and rallies magnificently in his defense. Sweet, well-written, and provides a wonderful glimpse of the budding Negotiator.

Patrilineal by @markwatnae is an absolute delight- with bonus Codywan! General Jinn is dispatched to join the 212th, and Cody can't quite figure out the relationship between him and his General.

I can't imagine that you haven't heard of the Mission Report series by @smilebackwards yet, but just in case, I'll add it here! A brilliantly done series that gets me every time-- Qui-Gon survives Naboo and finally manages to start repairing his Padawan's shredded self-esteem. No lie, this makes me so emotional every time- they care so much about each other and I would die for them both.

Oh, my gosh, and also everything by @deniigi. My favorites are:

Owl Dad Qui-Gon in pines and needles (the follow-up to take flight is equally good, but only mentions Qui-Gon in passing).

poisoned chalice is EXCELLENT for post-Melida/Daan Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon trying desperately to cope.

skipping stones has some fantastic lineage feelings-- Feemor is going absolutely feral over his new Padawan brother. There is a lot of bonding and I am having a lot of Feelings.

And to round it off- sunshine_lollipops_and (also do not know their tumblr) has been putting out some top-notch good dad!Qui-Gon content lately! Learning Curve is, quite frankly, an adorable mission fic, and Tales from Teatime is a series of oneshots that range from hilariously funny antics to heart-wrenching hurt/comfort- all of it equally well-written!

Feel free to add your own recommendations-- I'm sure I'll end up reblogging with more additions soon enough, but I wanted to get this out today!

#good jedi master qui-gon jinn #fic recs #i love their relationship so much your honor #everyone gimme more recs #qui-gon jinn #obi-wan kenobi #star wars

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clatoera · 5 months

Text

Always Remember We're Burned For Better Epilogue: I Vow I Will Always Be Yours, For We Survived the Great War

Here we are. The end of an era. I have..so much to say.

First of all..if you do not like the canon epilogue you will not like this. If you do not like the choices Katniss makes you will not make the choices they make.

Secondly...This fic took me exactly forty weeks to write. That is intentional, as forty weeks is the length of an average pregnancy is forty weeks. This is my baby. You have all travelled with me from the middle of my third year until the middle of my residency interview season. I hope you will continue to follow for what comes next, but this is my baby. Today I release her into the world for the last time, and I am incredibly sad about it. Thank you for loving her with me.

Third.. I hope along this journey you have grown to empathize with the four careers of the first Hunger Games Book. I hope you see them as the children they were, I hope you have even grown to care about them. I am a careers apologist (one of the OGs thank you very much) and I hope you have all opened your hearts to them, as well.

Finally.. thank you. I will never be able to thank you all enough for your endless support and comments and likes and reblogs and asks. Thank you to you all. I of course want to give shoutouts as usual. There are so many people beyond this list. Who I don't know well, or I don't talk to enough to want to bother them with a tag (like you @dukeysquid I dont want to bother you). But you are ALL seen. You are all loved.

I cant give one to the og, who has to keep her socials clean, but you know who you are. You are the first person I ever told about this fic, and have been around for allll the changes. Thank you friend.

@mollywog a TRUE og who has stuck around even though this fic is far far from her usual andher cup of tea. She's a real one. I love her. I thank you, friend.

@cyansadness another OG friend. I don't even know what you're into these days..but thank you for listening to the earlier iterations.

@bodyelectric77 a NEW friend, who has given me such insight on Enobaria and the older careers. Thank you for taking a chance on this fic which is not in your usual wheelhouse.

@crookedlyniceperson I am so sad for my last set of memes, but so thankful for the memes that brought us together. Thank you, and I cannot believe the insane AU in our DMs that I'm going to bring up after this immediately in the DMs. Thank you.

@clarascrabarmy ANOTHER OG who I always feel like i'm bothering, but I could COUNT ON YOU to read these when I was dropping them at 4 am when I was on night shift. I love you, and I thank you.

@lwveless my little college baby I dont know if you're even around but I wanted to give you love for loving Marvel with me.

@kentwells a TRUE BACKBONE of this fic. A sounding board of all my insanity. I want you ALL to know that the outcome of Glimmer and Marvel (Namely them not being back together) is entirely her fault <3 It was her idea and it is her fault. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Ultimately, I cannot thank @ohhowwehavefallen enough. In the last nine months you have become one of my legitimate besties. You have supported me here and in my actual life beyond anything I can put into words here. Our constant, non stop Clato aus and talks literally keep me going on my bad days. I love you. I thank you. And of NOTE: She is entirely responsible for the wedding rites of District Two. I struggled so much creating them, it took me forever to figure out and I owe the answer to you. I owe this fic to you. I love you. Thank you bestie.

Fun facts:

The kids at the end are not named because it is hard to name them but I have ideas <3

There are jokes for most of my friends here

The sequel is called Picket Fences, Sharp as Knives (High Infidelity, Taylor Swift)

Alright.

AO3

tumblr masterpost

Title from The Great War, Taylor Swift.

The End.

Thirteen months after the end of the war

“Clove, stand still.” Glimmer clicks her tongue, hands tugging tighter the fabric at the small of Clove’s back for emphasis. “If you fidget I can’t get these buttons. I don’t know what I was thinking when I added them, knowing Cato’s probably just going to rip them off like a heathen–”

“Oh no he won’t, Glimmer, you have no idea how much he’s going to love it.” Clove assured, taking in the length of her body in the mirror. It was the first time she had seen the dress too, and unsurprisingly Glimmer did far surpass any expectation she had. “You missed your calling with design, seriously, this is insane. You made this?”

The ivory crepe fabric was fit like a second skin through her thighs, where it fell freely to the floor, even fanning out a little behind her. The trail end of the train had little windows of lace, with the entire trim a continuous border of hand placed lace appliqués. The top of the dress was similarly overlain with lace, a few pieces trailing up at her hips before coming to cover the entire top half of the dress. The thin v-shaped straps were made of the intentionally placed lace, and though the entire back of the dress was open from the middle of her back upwards, a couple appliqués seem to float along the top of the fabric. Even the open sides are overlapped with the ivory design. The most unexpected aspect may be the deep cut of the sweetheart neckline, and the large strip of open skin from her neck to midway down her sternum.

“Of course I made it Clove! It’s just for you! I even used the lace from that dress, like you wanted. I was worried I didn’t have enough but with the open neckline I made it work.” Glimmer hooks the last button with the use of her littlest finger nail, pushes herself to standing. “It’s going to be the only wedding dress I ever make, though. It’s an honor but I was so afraid of messing it up. Besides…everyone else is dead, already married, or not going to be.”

Clove turns to the side, catching the back of the dress in the mirror so she can fully appreciate it. She could not, no matter even if she wanted, wipe the smile that stretched across her face. “I know you think the deep plunge is a lot, but I don’t want to ruin it with blood–”

“I know, I know, you District Two freaks have a fucking blood ritual.” Glimmer bristles, taking her hand to wipe at Clove’s side, to swipe away some of the golden glitter from her own dress that transferred in the hustle and bustle of getting dressed. “You know in District One we just exchange jewelry like normal people.”

“We do that too.” Clove teases, bringing her left hand up to wiggle her fingers in front of Glimmer’s face. There was certainly no lack of the jewelry aspect either, with a flashy, oval shaped diamond with the equally shining gold band that had come to live on Clove’s left hand. “And it’s not a District Two tradition, Glimmer, it’s a District Two Victor tradition. We are the only ones that are left– we’re also the only two victors who have ever married each other. We have to do it.”

Glimmer grabs at Clove’s left hand, running her thumb over the diamond with a reverence only a girl from One, especially one with no marriage prospects of her own, would manage. “I just want to know how he got it. The diamond mines in one have been closed from the war, this should be impossible to get. I’ll never get my hands on one of these, and my cousin worked in gemstone acquisition. I should theoretically have a whole closet full.”

If she can smile any bigger, she somehow manages. Clove twists at the ring on her finger, exceptionally excited to add another band underneath in just a short hour. “He’s had it for years. From before the war, back before the Quarter Quell....he had it since the seventy fourth games.”

“I don’t think anyone loves anyone else more than he loves you.” There is a wistful edge to her voice that Glimmer tries her best to tamper, though the loss of love still does not sting any less even now, almost exactly one year after the end of the war. “It’s extraordinary.”

Clove grabs Glimmer by her wrists, wrapping the woman’s arms around her waist so they were half hugging, still facing the mirror. Glimmer rests her chin on top of Clove’s shoulder, careful not to disrupt the soft, free flowing curls that were still cooling at her shoulders. “Thank you, Glimmer.”

Clove takes a moment to soak in Glimmer, too. She would have laughed, and maybe stabbed, anyone who told her two or three years ago that Glimmer Belcourt from District One would be standing here getting her ready for her wedding. And yet, here she was.

Looking at their reflection in the mirror she could see there was finally a little bit more to Glimmer, far more like the girl she met in the capitol, and not like the starved skeleton of a girl she found in district thirteen. Her hair was perfectly curled and incredibly shiny. Her skin had the healthiest, most intrinsic glow to it, with the most beautiful pink flush in her cheeks. Even the gold shimmery ball gown– yes, ball gown– that she wore only added to the warm tones in her skin. Oh Glimmer, how she did indeed shine once again.

“Glimmer? Why did you pick a glittery ball gown for a wedding in my backyard?” Clove raises a dark eyebrow, craning her neck to make eye contact with Glimmer directly rather than with their reflections. “It is summer, isn’t all that tulle going to weight you down.”

Glimmer cracks a smile– a genuine, gorgeous smile that Clove had not seen since a time before the war, a time before Glimmer’s heart was broken, a time long ago on a rooftop in the capitol– and gives half a shrug. “I don’t think I'm going to get many opportunities after this. I always wanted to wear one.” She steps back, giving a little spin for Clove to truly appreciate her hard work on her own dress. It was solid gold, glitter covering every spot of the tulle underneath. The dress sat just off her shoulder like a princess, and truthfully the dress moved around her like something of a fairy tale. “Cash always got to wear big princess dresses in her interviews and parties and stuff after she won. I was so jealous, and when I won I was so so excited to get my turn. Cash was always in pink and I was hoping I’d get the same..they skipped the ballgown stage with me and went right to the– yeah. I just…always wanted to wear one. They never let me be pretty, it was always sexy and sultry and glamorous. I just wanted to be pretty. And today is my last chance… Thank you, Clove. For letting me have this.”

Clove’s hand slips down to grab Glimmer’s and gives the softest squeeze. “You look so, so pretty. You look beautiful.”

“You look beautiful, Clove. Thank you for letting me be part of this. Even though I am your only friend–” Glimmer teases, smile never leaving her face, revealing that it is truly just a joke.

“Oh way to ruin me trying to be nice,” Clove taunts, but turns to face the mirror once again. “Thank you, too, Glimmer. For all of it. The dress. Being here. Buttoning me in.”

“Of course! Now, I think I'm about done…oh! Do you need lipstick, I know you’ll just get it all over him, but–”

“Blood ritual, Glimmer.”

“Right. Freaks. Okay!” Glimmer reaches down to fan Clove’s dress out behind her, gently running her hand over Clove’s bare arm. “Okay. You look beautiful. Enobaria should be in soon to do your hair… I’ll see you out there.” She pauses, taking a moment to appreciate her months of hard work, finally coming to a head on Clove’s body. She lets out a content little sigh, approving of her work, approving of the little victor girl in front of her. “I’m just… really really happy for you, Clove.” She squeezes her arm one last time before slipping out the door, a flurry of gold and glitter.

Clove takes her final moment alone to look at herself in the mirror. She looks more adult than she ever has in her entire life, in a tight white dress, long dark curls free around her shoulders. It is different than any other time she has been dressed like this in her life. There is no Capitol makeup obscuring her freckles, no intricate twists and pins in her hair. Notably, of course, are the faded scars along her shoulders, elbows, wrists. In a different world her scars would be wiped away, her skin unblemished and holding no evidence of the horrors she endured. Now her skin bears the proof of her survival.

She had begged Glimmer to give her sleeves to cover them. Glimmer in return had insisted there just wasn’t enough lace for sleeves, and even if it were untrue, maybe now Clove could see that she was right to deny her request.

Her moment alone is only brief, when the bedroom door in her usually untouched Victor’s Village house flies open again. This time, another blonde flurry of tulle rushes in, this one only half the size of the last.

Cora rushes in, in her little white dress. It’s gorgeous, too, with layers and layers of tulle with beautiful hand beading on the edges that make her look like she wears snow covered rose petals. Glimmer clearly spent excessive time on this dress, too.

“What else am I going to do with my time?” Glimmer had asked when Clove insisted she didn’t need to go to all these lengths for them.

Clove turns from the mirror to look at her sister in law, and with the girl’s ever increasing height she doesn't even need to kneel to hug her any longer. “Oh you look like a princess, Cora.” She pulls her into her arms, leaning down to kiss the top of her perfect, ringlet curls. “An absolute princess.” She does crouch down just a little, holding Cora’s angelic little face in either of her hands to look at her from eye level.

“Cato’s jeeeeealous I get to see you and he can’t.” Cora gives her a mischievous smile, one that Clove had seen on Cato hundreds of times and hopefully would see hundreds more. “You look soooo pretty Clove..” Cora reaches her hand out and gently touches the lace on Clove’s hip. “This is so sparkly.”

Clove puts her hand on top of Cora’s, squeezing so gently. “Glimmer really knows what she’s doing, huh?”

At the mention of the blonde woman Cora somehow lights up even more. When Cora met Glimmer it was like the stars aligned for them both. Glimmer, who needed to see this beautiful little girl grow up safe, loved, and far from the grasp of the games and the capitol and Snow’s best clients. Cora, who thinks she has a real life princess in her family, to teach her all the things Clove never got to learn as an orphan girl. “She has a pretty princess dress, too, Clove.”

“You should tell her that, she’ll love to hear it.” Clove straightened herself, afraid to wrinkle the tight fabric of her gown. “Thank you for coming over to see me, since everyone’s probably having so much fun over with Cato.”

Cora gives a little half shrug, bouncing forward onto her toes before rocking back onto her little mary jane heels. “Marvel is lying on the couch saying he’s sick, and he won’t get up. Finnick is telling him to rally.. What does ‘rally’ mean, Clove?”

Clove’s eyes go wide, and she would not be shocked if alarm is written on her face. That is not something she was anticipating explaining to Cora for at least seven or eight more years. “You know, you should ask Cato when you go back, that sounds like a boy thing.”

The little girl accepts that answer, and nods enthusiastically. “Okay! Oh! Clove! I have a present for you!”

“A present for me?” Clove kneels down to her height again, disregarding the fear over wrinkles and creases in the fabric. There was so much more in life than the perfect press of a dress. “That's so sweet, Cora, you didn’t have to do that–”

“It’s yours though!” Cora digs into the little pocket of her dress, fishing out a little silver pile that she holds out in the palm of her hand towards Clove. “You told me to keep it safe, see? Do you wanna wear it?”

It takes all in Clove not to grab the necklace out of her hand, to snatch it and keep it safe as soon as she recognizes what it is. She doesn’t have to, because Cora unclips it for her and gestures like she wants to secure it around her neck for her. With a nod, Clove pulls her hair out of the way, and blinks hard, willing away tears that would otherwise ruin the minimal makeup she was amenable to wearing. Clove runs the tip of her fingers over the script C, the sterling silver chain tarnished and worn, emblematic of over twenty years of wear.

Clove pulls her in, both hands around her little shoulders as her hand comes to cradle the back of her head. “Thank you, Cora Jade. Thank you so much for keeping it safe for me.” She kisses the side of her temple as the door flies open once again.

“Clove lets get this- oh! Cora. Cato is looking for you.” Enobaria warns before she steps into the room. “Something about getting to sample the cookies–”

“Bye Clove!”

The little girl nearly runs out the door and out the door before Clove can process it, and she is left staring at the doorway where Enobaria enters.

“God damn, look at you Enobaria” Clove calls out, pursing her lips and looking her mentor up and down. Enobaria rolls her eyes but leans on the door frame. She’s opted for a well tailored black velvet suit, except that her skin is completely bare underneath the jacket that is held together with a single gold button. Her natural curls frame her face, tamed only by the gold victor’s crown around the center of her forehead. “You look hot.”

“Yeah, well, were you expecting me to be in a ballgown like Glitter, she looks ridiculous. I didn’t know we were playing dress up today.” Enobaria flashes her a coy grin, a grin that is no longer serrated like a shark, but restored to her natural, blunt smile after the war. No need to upkeep a defense when the threat is eliminated.

“Oh be nice, she feels pretty, Baria. Let her feel pretty.” Clove warns, holding her hands out to take the bundle of flowers that Enobaria brings her in her left hand. “And it’s Glimmer, You really should know her name if you’re going to continue to sleep with her sister.”

“Chill, I know her name. And I'm kidding, I had to talk Cash out of feathers this morning. You’re welcome.” Enobaria’s eyes roam from her toes to the tip of her head and she gives just the slightest nod of approval. “You look like such a grown up.”

“I’ve been an adult for a minute, Baria.” Clove reminds her, but does turn her head to catch her appearance in the mirror once again. She feels almost vain for the way she keeps looking at herself, but if there is ever a moment to feel that, it’s now. “I feel like I wore a lot of dresses on the tour that showed a lot of skin, too-”

“And you were a child, then. A little girl playing dress up, even if you didn’t think so. Now, you look like such a woman. You are just beautiful” Enobaria comes behind Clove, and brushes her hair back off of her lace capped shoulders. She looks at their shared reflection a little longer, and Enobaria can’t help but imagine Clove’s mother would have looked all the same.

“Noone uses that word very often for me, but you all keep saying it today.” Clove shifts the flowers in her hands– she isn’t entirely sure what they are but they are red and white and there is no rose in sight– and swallows her pride as she locks eyes with Enobaria. “You told me I was going to thank you, one day. Back when you told me you were pulling us from the same games. You said I’d thank you one day, and I guess that day is today. Thank you. For not letting us kill each other, or die together. Thank you for keeping me alive my entire life. In so many ways, I wouldn’t be here right now, if you hadn’t been there.”

“Keep telling me I'm right, I like to hear you admit it.” Enobaria teases, but gently squeezes both of her arms. “I’m proud of you, Clove. Do I wish it were literally anyone but Cato, yes, but I'm still proud of you.” Before Clove can refute, she turns her away from the mirror and to face her. “I’m kidding. I’m not kidding about the fact that we all know you should have chosen something other than white to wear considering what you did on national television–”

“Enobaria!”

“I’m proud of you. I mean it. Now. Lift your chin.” Enobaria nudges the tip of her chin up with her knuckle, before reaching to lift the golden band of metal from inside her suit pocket.

She centers Clove’s head, before gently and intentionally placing her well earned Victor’s crown along the top of her head. Once it is settled she pulls her loose curls to the front, untucking pieces from behind her ear. Once she is happy, she places her hands on Clove’s shoulders and twists her to face the mirror. “There. You’re ready. The last Victor of District Two..”

It had been a debate, how many of the traditions to follow. District Two had enough Victors that they had their own marriage traditions. It was questionable, if in a world without games did it really make sense to wear the crowns and say the lines? Ultimately they decided, yes. Because before they were here, before they were considered rebels, before they were even victors…they were partners. Partners who gave their entire lives to end up here.

“Thank you.” Clove emphasizes again, nodding at herself in the mirror. The dress, the flowers, the crown… he’ll love it. “I think i’m ready.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you down there then. If you change your mind just say the word, we can sneak out the front.” Enobaria promises, stepping back, giving her one final look over before turning to leave. “Good luck.”

“Wait!” Clove freezes, suddenly overly aware of the pounding in her chest, the deafening sound of her own heartbeat in her ears. She has not done any of this alone, and she will not start now. “Will you walk with me?”

Enobaria pauses, and cocks her head as if she’s debating it before cracking a smile and holding out her hand. “Thought you’d never ask, kid”

Clove is unsure if she blacks out in the following moments or if time skips on her, but the next thing she knows is she is on the other end of a short aisle from Cato.

Cato. Identical crown on his head, perfectly tailored black tuxedo clinging in all the right ways. She notices the white button down underneath is unbuttoned most of the way down his chest, and if she weren’t so aware of the blood pounding in her ears she’d make fun of him for it.

She wants to kiss that absolutely infuriating smirk off his face, and she’s about to. When Clove looks up and catches his eyes with her own she is sure her heart stopped. She’s vaguely aware of Enobaria to her right, holding her arm and guiding her the twenty or so steps, but all Clove really can recognize is him.

She doesn’t absorb their friends line either side of the short aisle, in perfectly floral lined chairs. Johanna making a face, or Annie and Finnick waving with their baby. She doesn’t notice that Glimmer is sitting directly beside Marvel, her dress acting practically as a blanket over Marvel’s hands. Cashmere and Gloss are there, somewhere amongst the florals. She does not notice Cato’s mother in the front or little Cora in her lap. There are others– kids they went to the academy with, friends of his parents– but none of them matter, not now.

All Clove knows is that the second she’s in reach of him, he grabs her by the forearms and pulls her into a burning, heated kiss with a hand on her face. Clove half heartedly tosses the flowers in her hands in the general direction of Glimmer, and grabs firmly on the unbuttoned edges of his shirt to pull him into her.

“Hey! Not yet.” Brutus interrupts from his place at the head of the altar and the laughs of their friends pull them out of their locked embrace.

Even when they pull away, his hands are still on her hips, holding her flush against him. “Hi.” He whispers, a boyish smile spread across his face, a joy in his eyes that she isn’t sure she’s ever seen.

“Hi.” Clove whispers back, a heat in her face that she is all too aware of as she catches the way his eyes are trailing down the front of her dress and her body.

Brutus must repeat himself once or twice before finally reaching out and breaking the reverie in which they stare at each other by nudging Cato’s shoulder.

“For the third time…” He starts, and the distinct howling laugh of Johanna firmly plants them in reality. “I never thought I would be officiating a backyard victor wedding a year after a war ended the Hunger Games.” Brutus explains, before giving a jerk of his head to signal Clove to take a step back away from Cato, who is still holding her body against his. She obliges begrudgingly, knowing the moments they have left apart are counting down by the second.

As Brutus begins to read from a long book of District Two traditions, Clove feels Cato tighten his grip on both of her hands. “You look incredible.” He mouths, and Clove can’t help but feel the blush rising to her face again.

“Like the lace?” She mouths in response, and sees the recognition fall over his face as his features soften just enough for Clove and Clove alone to notice.

“Like I was saying.” Brutus raises his voice, once again snapping the two of them back into the moment beyond just themselves. “ In District Two, we are not known for verbal displays of love. We do not have deep professions of love through vows. This tradition is rooted deep in the history of District Two Victors. We are raised and trained in bloodshed. We are also aware of the vulnerability of allowing someone to raise a weapon against us, and trust them so entirely not to cut too deeply. This is particularly special for these two, for many many reasons. As all of us know, they are the only two District Two Victors to marry each other, and they will be the only ones to ever do so. What is most special, of course, is that these two were raised to be partners. I remember the day we paired them up, this giant monster of a boy and this feisty, scary little girl. They hated each other and then when they didn’t hate each other was when it became a problem for Enobaria, myself, and the other trainers. We made them too good of partners, because here we are today. What you’re about to witness is the blood oath of Victors. It is tradition to use their weapon of choice. Cato, will be first.”

Their hands fall as Enobaria comes and first, places the hilt of a sword in his hand, before slipping the handle of a knife into hers. Vaguely, Clove can hear Glimmer go “oh my god an actual blood ritual’ from her place in the front row of chairs, followed by a whispered “fuck I hate blood” immediately after from Marvel.

Clove takes a step back, making room for the duration of the silver blade of the sword between them, and tilts her chin up to give him space. She does not flinch when the sharp tip slices through the top layer of her skin overlying her heart, she does not unlock her eyes from his when she feels the sticky warmth of blood pooling and dripping down the front of her chest. It’s not deep, but it’s enough to sting. Her eyes are locked on his, never once breaking when she feels his thumb wiping through the blood on her chest. She feels like prey and a prize at the same time, with the dark look in his eyes locked on her. He breaks their locked gaze to look down at her hand, where he slides a solid gold ring onto her left hand, resting securely above the diamond she already wears.

She does not even wait for instruction that she is next. She steps forward and the knife in her hand closes the space between them, and Clove cannot help but flick her wrist into the shape of a C as she slices into the skin directly over his heart. She hesitates, for only a moment, watching the blood run down the plane of his chest, before she too runs her thumb over the blood. Clove cannot get her hands to work fast enough as she grabs his left hand in both of hers, and works as fast as she can to get the gold band on his hand, to claim him as hers, hers, hers forever.

Brutus is talking again, but it doesn’t matter. He’s got her by the waist, and she’s holding his face in her hands. She brings her bloodied thumb to his lips, smearing his own blood along his lower lip as he does the same to her.

“I love you.” He whispers first, pressing his forehead against hers, pulling her body against his, taking careful care to only touch the bare skin of her back with his bloodied finger, not daring to stain the lace she wears.

“I love you.” Clove responds, and is somewhat aware of Brutus in the background formally announcing them as married in the rites of victors. Cato Hadley and his wife Clove Kentwell Hadley.

Her thumb hovers over his lip, before she threads her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re my partner.”

“You’re mine.” Is all Cato gets out in response before he crushes his lips into hers.

The taste of blood and each other is familiar and enchanting and all exciting all at once.

It tastes like victory.

Pictures, dinner, all of it passes in a blur.

It’s nearly night now, and drinks are long past flowing. Cato’s mother has taken Cora to Clove’s house for the night, allowing the adult behavior to come out in full force.

Clove is pressed into his side, his arm around her hips, hand firmly grasping the top of her thigh, when the sun starts to go down and Marvel makes a point to gather everyone’s attention.

“Hey guys, you all unfortunately know who I am. Noone asked me to speak, in fact Cato explicitly begged me not to this morning, and Clove threatened that if I did she’d cut off my-”

“Anyway!’ Glimmer interrupts, taking the champagne glass from his hand and holding it at her side and out of his reach. “I also was told not to do this. But I planned this whole thing, and so I think I can say whatever I want. Besides, you owe us this, because we did keep watch while the two of you fucked in the middle of the Hunger Games. Also, the world was convinced for a little while that all four of us were-”

Marvel interrupts before she can continue to ramble on.“Originally, we were going to do this separately. I was going to talk about Cato, she was going to talk about Clove. I’m sure no one's expecting Glimmer and I to be doing this together..this is quite literally as close as we’ve physically been to each other in months.” Marvel begins, and turns his attention directly to Cato and Clove.

“What are they doing?” Clove gets out through clenched teeth, pseudo-rage flashing in her eyes. Maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was the pure joy she felt, but she couldn’t find it in her to actually be angry with them.

“Embarrassing themselves.” Cato pulls her closer, and leans them back in their chairs. “What's the worst they could say?”

“Noone expected us to be friends! We all could have so easily ended up in the same games, all of us dead.” Glimmer begins, a giggle escaping her that had Clove not been with her all day, she would have assumed to have been nervous. But no, that was the giggle of a drunk girl, who had been drinking mimosas since sunrise, that is about to recount something horrendous. “But by all accounts..things worked out for us. The stars aligned, fate stepped in..whatever you want to say. And I know Clove didn’t like me the day I met her. I can’t blame her, I looked at her and said we should have a double wedding and look where we are! They’re married and me and Marvel here can’t look at each other for more than five minutes without one of us leaving in tears–”

“He was drunk crying about her this morning. He had three shots and went down, going on and on about how he threw away the love of his life.” Cato leans over to whisper to his wife, who whips her head over to look at him with wide, amused eyes. “Finnick was literally holding his head in his lap like..stroking his hair. It wasn’t even eight a.m. yet.”

“I heard about that… You need to teach your seven year old sister what rally means, by the way.” Clove admits, poking him in the knee playfully.

“Well one of us wasn’t stupid enough to throw away the best thing we’d ever have.” Marvel gets out, and Clove gasps so loudly at his repetition of the words Cato just whispered that everyone whips their head around to look at her this time. “Anyway! Clove also found me exceptionally annoying, and it’s okay, everyone does!”

“But what Clove has never heard about, is this story. We met Cato during his tour, of course, and he was this cocky kid. We thought he was just a standard District Two victor, nothing special.” Glimmer goes on, this time bringing the glass she confiscated from Marvel to her own lips and draining it. Clearly, the slip from Marvel left her flustered, too. “But, then it was the seventy third games. And Cato would not shut up about how good this girl was. He never looked away from her on screen. He stole all the sponsors talking about how incredible she was. He thought he was being so nonchalant and sly about it…but we all knew.”

“And I remember getting a knock on my door in the middle of the night. It was Glimmer, but I was positive it was someone saying Clove died and that Cato was coming to kill us all. Because I knew, if Clove had died, every single one of us, our tributes, and anyone else he could get his hands on, we're going to be dead.”

“And then it was down to the final few. I remember him sitting on that on that couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together so so nervous. And she threw this knife and she missed and I saw the color drain from his face. The fear in his eyes when he thought you were going to die, Clove, I wish I could say that was the only time I had ever seen it.” Glimmer shakes her head, the curls in her hair starting to slowly fall and frizz around her face like a little halo. “But then she won. And most of us were there when it happened, most of us remember the way he jumped up. And Clove, without thinking, he pumped his fist in the air and he said “that's my girl.” And we had all known. But the look on his face..I’ll never forget it. That boy was so deeply in love, and today I am so sure he still is.”

Marvel clears his throat, and it is clear from the way his face drops that there is a serious turn about to be taken. “I mentioned that we were originally going to speak only for one of them. But, it is a disservice to the way they love each other to do that. I went through the worst experience of my entire life with Clove, in the capitol, and Glimmer similarly can speak for what she went through with Cato. We’re so uniquely privileged to have seen the way you both love each other so deeply. Most of you know, or unfortunately were part of, the horrific things we went through in the Capitol. Clove…she had it worse than maybe anyone. We all know that Clove is incredibly stubborn, and incredibly strong. What I am unfortunately aware of, myself, is the extent of what was done to her. It is not my story to tell. But I know that all those fuckers wanted was to get her to scream, and she refused. She wasn’t going to give them that. The only thing Clove ever asked for, wanted, and she’s going to kill me for exposing this, but the only time I ever saw her cry in those entire months of torture…was Cato. It was towards the very end, and I was scared, truly scared, to know they had brought her to the point of crying for him even alone in her cell... because I thought that meant we were all going to die if even Clove was at her breaking point. There is a deep, deep, incredible trust and love between them, beyond anything I have ever seen.”

At some point Glimmer had started crying, because it is through heavy tears that she concludes her aspect. “We are so lucky, to be witnesses not only to today, but to the way you two love. Through multiple Hunger Games and forced separation and a war..there’s never been a moment where I thought of you as separate. You are always Cato and Clove. Please don’t kill me for saying this, but I mean it, when I say you are my best friends. I do not think I would be alive without the two of you feeding me and pushing to keep going. I’m also really really excited for you two to have babies for me to be Auntie Glimmer to, I’m already in my fairy godmother dress, so if you two could like…hurry up with that and maybe give me a girl in like…nine months I’d really love that, thank you. We love you guys.”

Marvel’s hand experimentally finds the small of Glimmer’s back, and she doesn’t flinch away. He grabs a champagne glass off a table and raises it infront of him. “To Cato. And To Clove.”

Glimmer interrupts with a smile on her face that juxtaposes the tears running over her cheeks “to Cato and Clove.”

When Cato turns his head to look at Clove, who’s curled into him, he notices the way her eyelashes are clumped and wet. “Are you crying?”

“Shut up.” Clove warns, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand, before she more properly turns her body to fully lay against his side.

Enobaria takes the moment, then, to stand up while the attention is still drawn all while drawing the attention away from Glimmer and Marvel, who seem to be heading towards the bar set-up together. She’s also clearly enjoyed her night, her jacket now unbuttoned (and missing the single button), the fashion tape underneath holding it closed, but more notable was the pink lipstick faintly visible along her neck and collarbones.

“I..couldn’t pass up the opportunity to embarrass you.” She starts gesturing towards Clove. “As everyone here knows, I raised Clove. We can say I was a mentor to her, but in reality, I helped raise her. I met her when I was twelve, and she was two. Her mother was my mentor, and we all know that her mother is not here with us now. I only feel so inclined to do this, because of the fact her mother isn’t here to do so. I remember Clove as this tiny tiny toddler, about the same height as now. I remember the day her bitch of a grandmother dropped her off at my house to teach her how to throw knives. What she didn’t know until right now is I really had no idea, and actually had to ask Cashmere and Gloss how to teach her. But hey, clearly, I made her a victor anyway. And then… there was Cato. This little infuriating prick of a kid, who broke her clavicle the day they met. I knew he was going to be a pest in my life, ever since. They were the best partners though. They knew each others moves, their strengths, and their weaknesses. They were good and then when they were teeangers exactly how good of partners they were became all of our problem. Clove..she was traumatized. A dead teenage mother will do that to you. I was not worried about her…repeating…that statistic. Until fucking Cato Hadley won the games and came home a cocky Victo. And then…I caught her sneaking out of his house the day he got home. I about killed her. I went home, and I called Cash, BEGGING her to help me figure out how to keep her from getting pregnant too. Cato, Clove, remember to thank Cashmere for all the years of risk free sex, later.”

“Maybe she should also be thanking Cashmere for all the risk free sex, look at her right now?” Clove murmurs, and the shaking of Cato’s chest underneath her is all she needs to know he is holding back a laugh.

“I was ready to kill Cato, because I was sure he was going to distract her from her last year of training. But to his credit, and I hate saying that, he pushed her harder than even I did. I remember telling him to back off, and when he didn’t, I was so hopeful Clove was going to get over him. Clearly..I had no such luck.” Enobaria gives a smile that is so soft without her filed teeth that it nearly does not look like her. “When she was in the games, and Cato and I went through the fear of losing her together…I decided he was okay. If she was going to pick one, at least he was a victor, too. And as much as I hate to say it..he loved her then, too. When they went into the quell..I knew they were not going to come out without each other. I wanted to kill them, and I do mean that literally, when I saw them covered in that blood and going into the cornucopia, but then…everything went to hell. I was in the dark about them the entire war. I did not know if they were alive, I did not know if they were dead, though I assumed that they were. I’ll never forget when one day, when she appeared on that stupid video and she looked..off. One of the worst moments of my life was when I heard her scream for him in the background of that video. Because I knew…I knew he was not there. I did not know if he was alive, but I did know that if he was, he was going to get to her and get her home. And he did. I cannot believe I am about to say this, but I am so happy to see you marry each other. I am also very glad it is now and not because you were seventeen year old teen parents. Above all else…I am so proud of you both. Cato…Clove..you are both my victors.”

At the conclusion of her speech, Clove pushes herself up just in time to meet Enobaria half way as she leans across the little table to hug her. “Thank you, Enobaria.”

One of the biggest joys of their wedding is to watch their friends enjoy themselves.

“Annie!” Clove grins, throwing her arms open to offer the redheaded woman a hug. “Thank you for making it, I know it has to be hard with the–where is that baby of yours?”

“Oh, Glimmer has him.” Finnick explains, taking his turn to hug Clove as well. He nods his head to the corner of the room, where Glimmer is seated at a little table, gently rocking the three month old baby to sleep. “She also gave us the whole Aunt Glimmer Fairy godmother talk this morning.”

Glimmer is in fact swaying in her chair, clearly singing some song to the boy. The longing in her face is evident, even from across the room, from the way she offers her finger to the baby in her arms to how she holds his bronze covered head intentionally above the glitter of her dress so as to not irritate his baby skin.

“I think she should just have one herself.” Annie remarks, leaning her head against Finnick’s chest. “I think she’s meant for it.”

“Yeah, well, she’s missing half that equation.” Cato recalls, pulling Clove’s back to his now entirely bare chest, his shirt having lost the rest of the buttons throughout the night.

“I don’t think she will be for long.” Finnick suggests as Marvel settles himself in the seat directly next to Glimmer, reaching out to tickle the bottom of the baby’s pajama covered foot. Glimmer gives him a smile before redirecting her attention to the baby, but Marvel, oh Marvel never looks away from the expressions on Glimmer’s face.

Johanna finds them as they’re sitting next to the cake, in their own little world, spooning bites of the confection into each other's mouths.

“Okay, Lovebirds, where are all the hot people for me to go home with?” She remarks, slamming herself down in a seat across from the two of them.

“Nice to see you too, Jo.” Clove murmurs, wiping icing off the corner of her mouth gracefully. “I dunno, I bet Glimmer would be down.”

“Are you serious? Her and Marvel literally snuck off into your house fifteen minutes ago. I don’t want to get in bed with them.” Johanna scoffs, shaking her head. “I thought Cato would have a hot brother or something here..”

“Wait Glimmer and Marvel did what?” Cato interrupts, holding up a hand to stop her from continuing with her subject change. “In our house?”

“Well, in Clovey Girl’s house I think. Marvel had a plate full of cake and a bottle of the good stuff in his hand too, like the kind of shit Haymitch used to hoard at the games…speaking of Haymitch! You didn’t even invite them? Miss Mockingjay I understand, but after all Peeta went through with us..” Johanna clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “Cold even for you two.”

“We did invite them, Johanna.” Cato defends, reaching behind them and getting another slice of cake for him and his wife– oh he could say it in public now— to share.

“Katniss is still on District Twelve house arrest. Peeta didn’t want to come without her. He did make the cake though. That kid can bake.” Clove swipes her finger through the ivory icing, before dolloping it on Cato’s nose. “We tried.”

“Ugh, you two are so gross. I’m going back to the bar.” She pushes herself to a standing position, surveying the room before straightening her dress. “....congratulations, I guess.”

“Thanks, Johanna.” Cato calls as she walks away, before pulling Clove fully onto his lap.

“We did it.” He teases her, pressing kisses along the juncture of her neck and shoulder, “You’re my wife, Clovey.”

“I’ve technically been your wife for years.” She turns so she faces him, her arm languidly draped over his shoulder. Clove strokes his cheek with her thumb, and flashes him a wicked grin. “Now it’s just public.”

“Are we ever going to tell anyone we did this before?” Cato’s hands come to rest on her hips, squeezing, promising of what is to come later in the evening as he leans forward and once again starts kissing from her jaw down her neck.

She lets out a delighted gasp at the feeling of his lips on her. “Absolutely not. This is for them. That? That was for us.”

I gave my blood, sweat, and tears for this.

It is worth saying that life blooms through the cracks of a broken nation, love takes root in the rubble and ash. It is life itself, it is love embodied, that is a true pioneer species rising like a phoenix amongst ash riddled towns.

It is the passage of time that lets life and love flourish in the new panem.

It is friends in District One. Marvel who remembers the way cold aches in the very core of Clove’s body, and always has extra blankets casually lying out for her to take without ever needing to ask.

On a beach in district four, It is Glimmer and Finnick, watching her blonde little girl and his bronze haired little boy playing along the shore, with no care in the world other than their mission to find whole sand dollars and laughing in delight as hermit crabs scurry across their toes. Two children who, along with their siblings and friends, are free. Their childlike innocence intact, their bodies forever their own.

It is Johanna in District Seven, who finds that she had more in common with career victors than she thought. Or maybe, Cato and Marvel just make her feel like a fucking genius when it comes to women, and thats good enough for her.

In District Twelve it is a baker and an ex-revolutionary, who are never quite expecting for literal career killers to show up to a tiny little bakery on the edge of the seam. They come looking for cinnamon rolls and maybe tease Peeta a little too much about the status of his relationship. Peeta never turns them away (even if Katniss does pretend not to be in the shop that day, sometimes).

And in District Two.

It is in the combined efforts of Brutus and Enobaria, in establishing a recreation center for the surviving children of Two. It is far from the training empire it once was, let there be no mistake, but it gives a playground to the ghosts of the victors they once were. It serves as a memorial of sorts to the nearly one hundred and forty tributes who did not come home to District Two.

Cato and Clove, above all else, are happy.

These days, Clove does not have much use for throwing knives.

The ache in her body, the sharp pain in her wrists simply isn’t worth it anymore.

Clove Kentwell Hadley still never misses, but she is so much more than a girl with perfect aim.

Clove is the friend of the only surviving victors, she is the sister to the most affectionate Hadley she knows.

They are Aunt Cove and Uncle Cayo to the identical little daughters of their best friends, who wrap their tiny arms around their necks and smother them in honey blonde curls and pure, unfiltered adoration.

She is half of the best dinner parties– Clove makes the best food, but Glimmer plans the best parties. (It’s a bold statement to call them parties when it’s the four of them and the only other career victors, but Glimmer won’t have it any other way).

And she is loved. So, so, so loved, by the only man she’s ever trusted, wanted, and needed.

Clove is no longer just the girl who never misses.

In fact, three years after the end of the war, the only time Cato finds Clove throwing a knife is in their kitchen.

Her only goal?

Trying to earn the brilliant, infectious laugh of their blue eyed, blonde haired infant son in her arms.

This is the life of a victor.

The end.

#clato #clato fanfic #cato and clove #arwbfb reactions #arwbfb tag #always remember we're burned for better tag #the hunger games fanfic #careers fanfic #the careers hunger hames #marvel thg #glimmer thg #cato hadley #clove kentwell #cato and clove fanfic #thank you. All of you #I love you all so much.

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