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heliads · 2 years

Note

idk if i can request again, and if not, feel free to delete this, lol, but may i also request an imagine with prompt #25 (tell me you love me. i need to hear it just the once.) with the loml, jesper fahey (grishaverse)? if not, i totally understand. i love your writing lisa, and congrats again!

literally love you olive, thank you for the request!

masterlist

You stand with your back against the wall, doing your best to make your heart skip a beat. You’re in the middle of a firefight, you should be racing on adrenaline and feeling like you could take on the world, but instead, you have to force the excitement to come. As you wait here, ducked into an alleyway with a smoking gun in your hands, all you can think about is that nothing feels right.

You’ve been at this a long time. You were one of Kaz’s first Dregs, and you’ve been proving yourself ever since. Heists and jobs come easily, or they should. A little while ago, everything changed. Now, instead of laughing as you run, you feel like a shade of your former self, as dark and cold as the fog rolling off of Fifth Harbor every night.

A sound of shouting echoes off the bricks from your right, and seconds later, a boy throws himself into your alley. He collapses against a wall for a second, heavy breathing wracking his form. Even though he looks moments from death, he still has enough energy to spin his pearl-handled revolvers another few times, grinning ear to ear as he does it.

Jesper Fahey spots you now, and holds up a burlap sack triumphantly. “I’ve got the goods, Y/N. Let’s get out of here.”

He finishes his pronouncement and, after taking one last moment to fill his lungs again, dashes back out into the fight. You can hear the angry calls of guards, the crack of gunfire. You close your eyes for a moment, then snap them back open again. You can’t afford to lose yourself on any job, especially not when there are people out there trying to kill you. One more second, and then you’re pushing yourself out of the alleyway and after Jesper.

There are about a dozen or so stadwatch officers emerging from the various twisting streets, all of them chasing you and Jesper. Technically, this job was supposed to go off without a hitch, but Kaz ended up having a faulty source when it came to the security details on the building. Instead of silently skipping past the locked doors, the two of you were caught by the backup guards, the ones that weren’t supposed to be there at all.

None of this matters now. You don’t have time to ponder just how you got here, you have to figure out how you’re going to get out. You sprint across the market square, dodging around fleeing vendors, and find Jesper. You take up a position at his back, reloading your gun and taking aim. If there was ever anyone to rival Jesper when it comes to marksmanship, it just might be you. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.

The crack of your pistol echoes through the air; one man falls, and you just move the barrel until it’s pointing at another soldier. Jesper chuckles as he trades shots with the guards, but you move methodically, one bullet after another. His shoulders are pressed against yours, trusting you to make sure he doesn’t take a round in the back of his skull. It’s a position you’ve taken many times before, the two of you against the world. You only wish you could love it as much as you did.

A few more shots and you’re clear, shouting for Jesper to run. He takes off towards a nearby street, and after making sure you aren’t being pursued by any more of the stadwatch, you jog after him. You know the twists and turns of the cobblestoned avenues without even having to look, so used to being on the run that the directions appear easily in your head. The Barrel welcomes criminals, but most importantly, it hides them in its maze of back roads and shortcuts.

You skid around one last corner to find yourself in a well-hidden path behind a row of buildings, their long slanting roofs hiding the way forward. You let your footsteps slow, glancing behind you one last time for proof that you weren’t followed. Jesper is stopped a short distance in front of you, and he walks back to you now.

“What do you think? Are we good?”

You nod, eyes darting along the rooflines and windows. “No one is watching.”

Jesper seems satisfied by this. “Good. They don’t need to see any of this.”

He closes the distance between the two of you with a well-practiced ease, one hand reaching for your chin to pull you to him. His kiss is familiar, the usual post-heist treat, but all you can think about is the fact that it used to set off fireworks in your chest, make you feel dizzier than walking the ridgepole of a building, several stories up without a rope to keep you safe.

Now, instead of feeling the world burn to ash around you, all you see is gray, a neverending bay of clouds. You kiss him back, you always do, but Saints, you don’t feel anything. There is a numbness to you that clings to your bones, hollowing out your heart until you aren’t sure that it could possibly be there anymore.

There’s a sound from the streets a few blocks down, and Jesper breaks away, one hand tapping his revolvers. “We should get going.”

You nod mechanically, and you start walking again, at a brisk pace that does more to speed up your heart than anything before it. Kaz will be wanting to know what happened, and you’ll answer him. You have what he wants, the specificities don’t really matter.

Eventually, you find yourself back at the Slat, locking your door firmly behind you. There’s blood on your hands, but instead of feeling that kiss of pride that comes with pulling off another job, you just feel vaguely disgusted with yourself. You wash the dripping scarlet away down the chipped sink in your room soon enough, although you find yourself wanting to keep going, to rub away the skin off your bones.

Once your hands are clean, you finally let yourself rest, slumping down against the ground. You sit on the wooden floorboards, legs akimbo like a rag doll. You used to love this life, chase it like a dream. You don’t think you’ve felt like that in a long time, not for the job and not for anyone. Even Jesper.

That’s the worst part about it. If you had him, you could take the monotony of everything else. If it weren’t for the fact that you can’t convince yourself that you’ve meant anything to the sharpshooter in a long time, you could figure out the rest. But you can’t.

You and Jesper started off well enough, with both of you waiting months to work up the courage to finally meet up in a late-night kiss. It had been a thrill after that, never wanting to go anywhere without his hands locked around yours or his eyes finding you across a crowded room. You two used to leave the Slat and the Crow Club for hours, just wandering around the streets. You already knew the place like the back of your hand, but it felt different when you were with him. It all did.

You aren’t entirely sure when things stopped, when you realized that something had changed. You don’t think it was your fault, not in the beginning. Slowly, surely, the heart slipped away from it all. You still kissed him because you could, but you didn’t feel anything because of it. He wasn’t your Jesper, the boy who knew everything about you, but a hired gun, just like you. Another criminal with a flinty smile, someone who used to promise you everything. Now, all you could see were the holes in his grand plans, the inconsistencies in his wild dreams for the future.

It occurs to you that you should say something before it becomes too late, before either of you grow too far apart and all you have of him is memories. It takes a few days to finally gather up the courage, but you do it eventually. You drag yourself out of your own head, out your room and up and down the twisting stairs of the Slat. No matter how many times you pound on his door, he isn’t there. The oil lamps light on the stairs, and he doesn’t return, even as the hours pass you by.

Finally, you realize where he is, and start the trip over to the Crow Club. Jesper stopped gambling for months after the two of you were first together, swearing that he didn’t get the same thrill out of it. It felt like a fresh start for both of you, a new way out. He didn’t need the risk of the cards to be satisfied with life. Looks like that’s changed.

You find Jesper eventually, seated around a table with half a dozen other convicts, each looking the others in the eyes and plotting to rob whoever wins everything. You wait until Jesper finishes his round, then approach him on quiet footsteps, asking if he can spare a moment to talk. He goes reluctantly, asking the others to deal him in on the next round. This shouldn’t take long, he says. It usually doesn’t.

You turn and walk out of the club, heading down towards the edge of the canals. You lean against one of the railings, staring out at the dark waters. Although it’s well into night by now, the stars don’t seem to lighten the water at all, their reflections showing back burned wicks of candles that were once in bloom. Even the moon does nothing to carve apart the relentless shadows of the waves.

Jesper comes to a stop beside you, frowning slightly as if he can already tell that something is the matter. “What is it, Y/N? Is everything alright?”

You intended on taking a little longer to get to that point, but the second he asks the question your will breaks. “No, it isn’t. I think we both know that.”

Jesper’s brow furrows. “What do you mean by that?”

You turn to face him, gaze meeting him steadily. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me you loved me. Not once. I’ve tried to remember, but you never have.”

Jesper swallows harshly, and you watch the bob of his throat. He’s nervous. You haven’t seen that in a while. “Surely I have. We’ve been dating for months.”

You give him a cool look. “Time hasn’t done anything for us, Jesper.” Even as you say it, you feel hollow, as if the very wind could blow right through you without disturbing a thread of your clothes.

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “If this is your way of asking me to do better, I’ll try. Do you want me to buy you flowers or something? I’ve never been good at this sort of thing. I’m more of a kiss and not tell kind of guy.”

You know that all too well, but for once, you’re not swayed by his classic grin. “I’m not joking, Jesper. Something has gone wrong with us. I don’t think either of us have felt anything in this relationship in weeks.”

Jesper scoffs, the sound a little too loud. “That’s absurd. We were kissing in the middle of that gunfight the other day, and it was fantastic. You were happy. I was happy.” His nervous smile falters a little bit on that statement, as if even he knows it’s a lie.

You fold your arms across your chest. “Tell me you love me. I need to hear it just the once.” It’ll be a proof of sorts, showing that there might be a chance.

Jesper nods, opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. You can see him falter for the syllables, knowing they’re right there in his mind. He struggles for a few more seconds, then falls silent again.

You fight back the burn of tears in your eyes. At last, you feel something more than the endless emptiness. Too bad it’s not the love you’d hoped to find. “You always were a shoddy liar, Jesper.” He can’t even fake it.

Jesper sighs, shaking his head slightly. “Look, we can fix this. Just give it a little time, that’s all.” He extends a hand towards you, but you don’t take it.

“I don’t think time is going to do anything for us. It hasn’t, nothing is going to change, but I am.”

Jesper cocks his head to the side, as if he can tell what you’re about to say. “There’s no reason to make hasty decisions, Y/N. We can work this out, I swear.”

You just stare at him. “We can’t, and you know that. Goodbye, Jesper.” The words are empty in your throat, meaningless. Just a bunch of letters strung together. If they sting him, Jesper gives off no sign of it.

He merely nods, turning around and heading back towards the Crow Club. You watch him go, not sure if you feel any lighter. There is no burden lifted from you, just the same streak of gray. You stare after Jesper until he disappears from view, then start walking again.

Kaz Brekker does not seem surprised when you ask him for a new mission. All he does is sigh, folding his gloved fingers over the head of his cane. “There’s a chance for you to leave the Slat in a little while. Cargo ship coming in Fifth Harbor, the very edge of our territory. I need you to see if the captain is getting paid off by Pekka’s men to direct pigeons towards his clubs instead of ours. Don’t interfere, just find out.”

You nod. “Sounds perfect. When does the ship dock?”

Kaz doesn’t answer at first, just directs a piercing stare your way. “I don’t trust many people, Y/N, which is why I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. If you were going to take this mission to get away from someone, would you still be able to carry it out?”

You nod, somehow not taken aback by the fact that Kaz figured you out. “I’ll be fine. Probably be able to concentrate better than I have recently, anyway.”

Kaz studies you for one moment longer, then shrugs. “The ship arrives tomorrow at dawn. I’d advise that you head over there in a few hours’ time, if you’ve caught up on sleep.”

You assure him that you’re fine, and head towards the door. You grab a warm coat on the way over. The walk to Fifth Harbor is long, but somehow refreshing. You don’t want to think about Jesper, but his image appears in your head anyway. It all ended so abruptly. You had thought that he’d do something to convince you to stay, especially seeing as he’s never the type to give up on a gamble, no matter the odds, but he’d walked away easily.

You push him out of your mind. The job is what matters, not boys with too many troubles to their name. You’ve got enough as it is. You arrive at Fifth Harbor about half a bell before the ship docks, and spend the time casing the place, making sure no Dime Lions are waiting for the barge to arrive. You don’t see anybody immediately, but there is one man hovering by the outskirts of the ports that makes you suspicious. You let yourself blend back into the shadows, watching.

At last, the cargo ship appears on the edges of the harbor, beginning the process of coming into port. A few sailors jump down to secure it, and then scores of passengers begin to walk off, some woozy from spending so much time at sea. You watch their progress, noting that most disperse towards Dreg territory, although a few seem oddly bent on heading to Dime Lion zones. Perhaps Kaz’s hunch was right after all.

Remembering the man from before, you turn your gaze towards the mysterious silhouette. As you watch, he waits until many of the passengers have left, then starts to head towards the ship. You follow him, waiting until most of the sailors have disembarked from the barge before climbing on as well. You stick to the shadows, slowly making your way down the deck after the man. He goes down into the hull, and after ensuring no one is watching, you head down as well.

You hear voices from a nearby room, and follow them. The door is only half open, allowing you to clearly listen in as a man with a rough-sounding voice thanks the captain for his help, mentioning that Pekka Rollins will be glad for his support. Just to make sure, you peek through the door, and notice that the man from before is speaking to somebody in a naval uniform. A Dime Lions tattoo is clearly visible on his arm, and just like that, you’ve got all the proof you need.

You turn around quietly, and begin making your way back down the hall towards a ladder leading up to the deck. Just before you make it up, though, a sailor crosses in front of you, doing a double take when he sees you. “Wait, there aren’t supposed to be any more civilians on board. What are you doing here?”

Behind you, the conversation abruptly ceases, and the two men come out into the hallway. The Dime Lion points at you. “Hey, I know her. She’s one of Dirtyhands’ guns!”

You swear under your breath, sprinting past the sailor and up the ladder. You hear shouts from belowdecks, and race as fast as you can across the deck. Time to get out of here. Your feet skid across the saltwater-stained floorboards, and the thought occurs to you that you just might make it out in time. Just as you jump off the side of the ship, aiming towards the dock only a few feet below you, you hear a sound like a thundercrack.

At first, you thought they missed. The pain doesn’t strike you at first, and then it comes in waves crashing over you, each one worse than the next. The collision of your heels on the rough wood of the pier makes you cry out with agony. One hand finds your shoulder as if by accident and comes away stained with red. You grit your teeth, clamp your fingers over the wound to stop the bleeding, and start running.

You manage to lose the Dime Lion after a few twists and turns, but you have a feeling that they weren’t trying that hard to catch up. He knew as well as you do that there’s no way you’re going to make it back to the Slat in time- your shoulder is bleeding far too much, and with every step, the horizon swims and bobs as if you were back on that cargo ship. You throw yourself around a corner, panting heavily, and come to terms with the fact that you’re about to bleed out with no one around to see it. No mourners, right? Now, though, you wish there was even just one visitor around to witness it.

You hear the thudding of footsteps ahead of you and coerce your eyelids into opening, not entirely sure of when they closed. Even after your eyes widen in surprise, you still think you’re dreaming, because there’s no way that Jesper is standing before you right now, looking utterly horror struck. You want to cry out that he’s not there, compel your mind to stop playing tricks on you, but your throat can’t seem to force out the words to send this vision away.

Yet Jesper is still here, skidding to a stop in front of you. His eyes search your body for the source of all the blood- there really is a lot of it, isn’t there- and he swallows hard, picking you up. A wave of pain much stronger than the rest eddies around you the second he does so, and within seconds, the world disappears in a storm of black.

It’s quiet when you wake up. After a few moments, you realize that you’re back in the Slat, which makes no sense. You thought you were dead. Distantly, memories start filtering back of your body in someone’s arms, the jostle as Jesper ran through the streets, the rumble in his chest as he called for a medik.

Jesper. You start to sit up, but within moments, a hand is pressing on your arm, forcing you back down.

“Easy, Y/N. I’m here.”

You look to the side and there he is, sitting beside you with an expression far more worn and tired than any you’ve ever seen on him. “Jesper.”

The name barely escapes your lips at all, so cracked and dry is your throat. He nods, as if realizing this, and passes you a glass of water. After taking a few swallows, you try to speak again.

“How did you find me? I was across the city from the Slat.”

Jesper’s lips twitch up in a half smile. “I was already looking for you. I was wrong, Y/N, wrong about everything. I got so used to having you around that I didn’t realize how much it would hurt without you there. That’s the thing about something safe, isn’t it? You don’t know how important it is until it’s gone.”

You say nothing, just look up at him. Something dangerously close to hope is twisting its way around your throat, blocking out any words. Jesper, however, doesn’t seem to mind.

“You were right about it all, I think. Will you give me a second chance?” Jesper asks, his eyes beseeching.

After a moment, you nod. “I think we both need one more shot.”

He smiles gratefully. “Get some rest. We can talk more later.”

You want to stay here with him forever, protected by the half-light of the oil lamp next to you, but rest does sound awfully good right now. You lie back down, and Jesper presses a kiss to your forehead. Just before he goes, you hear him say something that sounds like ‘I love you’. Truer words have never been said.

thank you for taking part in my celebration! not sure if you wanted this happy or not lol but the angst cannot be held back

grishaverse tag list: @rogueanschel, @deadreaderssociety, @cameronsails, @aleksanderwh0r3, @story-scribbler, @thatfangirl42

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thesmokingguns · 3 years

Text

Off To the Races

Pairing: Nikki Sixx!Douglas Booth

Request: Off To The Races by Lana Del Rey

Summary: You are my one true love. She is there for him at all of his worst moments. Coaxing him through his high, making him smile and laugh. She’s at parties dancing with her red smile calling for him. She’s swimming in the pool when he’s drunk and stoned. She’s there through it all. No ones loved Nikki like her. All consuming. His only thought. She is his entire world. And his works is crumbling.

Warning: Heavy themes of drug use, drug induced hallucinations, alcohol abuse, suicidal thoughts.

Word Count: 2270

Taglist: @littlemisscare-all @ayablackwood @agroupiewhore@thenobodies-inc @dannasixxworld @val-sixx@nikkisqueenofsleaze @rocknrollsoul76 @aggressive-slytherin

My old man is a bad man, but

I can't deny the way he holds my hand

And he grabs me, he has me by my heart

He doesn't mind I have a Las Vegas past

He doesn't mind I have a L.A. crass way about me

He loves me, with every beat of his cocaine heart

My eyes are heavy, fingers twisting the belt around my arm to loosen the pressure. The needle drops to the floor, the carpet holding any sound in. Blinking, looking around the cramped closet I see my journal, my revolver, and more smack for after this dosage.

What a life.

My head rolls back smacking the wood paneling with a dull thud that vibrates through me. My hands shaking, waves of fingers in front of me. There’s a bit of blood coming from the injection pin prick in my arm and I’m find myself stumbling to my feet, sweeping the gun off the floor and tucking it in the waistband of my jeans as I head to the bathroom.

It’s washing over me, the feeling I’m always chasing. The fleeting moment of happiness is like a warm blanket wrapping itself around me.

The giggle stops me in my tracks, eyes searching the hallway searching for her. I thought she had left after our last fight. She called me a quitter and was mad I was giving up my partying ways. She loved to have a good time and she thought I was giving up on her.

Guess she was wrong.

The flash of brown hair catches my attention and I’m stumbling, laughing as I chase her through the house. Her laughter was infectious and made me forget about the blood dripping down my forearm.

In the kitchen she turns, giving me that megawatt smile that felt like my heart was feeling something other than the melancholy that usually filled it. She stops and lets me catch her, letting me wrap my arms around her holding her close to me. Smelling the exotic sweetness of her hair as she engulfs me with her golden skin, bangles tinkling down her arms like a musical number.

Safe and warm, happiness and euphoria of her presence with me here. The place that was my Mecca of solitude. Pulling back, confused for a second I try to think about how she got here.

“How did you get in?” As if she senses the confusion in my voice she kisses me, giving me no doubt she is here with me. Warm and solitude against my skin, fire in my veins.

“You let me in.” She purred, letting her mouth kiss along my jawline. Soft hot breath tickling me as she pressed against me, bumping the gun as she rolled her body against mine. “It looks like you’re locked and loaded, ready to go.” Her hands in my hair as she’s touching parts of me I forgot existed.

God I missed this.

Swimmin' pool glimmerin', darling

White bikini off with my red nail polish

Watch me in the swimmin' pool, bright blue ripples

You sittin', sippin' on your Black Cristal, oh yeah

Light of my life, fire of my loins

Be a good baby, do what I want

Light of my life, fire of my loin

I wake up with a gasp.

What time is it? What day is it? Where am I?

Looking around, frantic panic as I realize I’m asleep in the lawn chair by the pool. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels is smashed beside me, glass decorating the concrete in sharp glares of warning.

The sound of a splash throws me off and there she is. Her brown hair wet as she rests her elbows outside the pool, placing her head in her hands with that gleaming smile.

“Well hello sleepyhead. Did you have good dreams?” I don’t know if she’s asking out of kindness or mocking me. I’m drenched in sweat, possibly from falling asleep in the LA afternoon but most likely from the night terrors that always haunt me.

I dreamt I was running. From who or from what was the issue. Everything in my brain was foggy. My eyes snapped up at the setting sun. Has it been a full day already? Was it longer?

The phone rang from inside the house and I knew it must be someone from the band calling or my drug dealer. One of those felt more important than the other and I wasn’t ready to admit which one that was.

I got up, swearing as a piece of glass cut open my door, glaring as she giggle and dipped under the water. A trail of blood followed me into the house as I picked up the phone.

“Hello.” My voice felt gruff and it hurt to talk, like I hadn’t used it in a while. My head was killing me and I felt ready to throw up.

What the fuck had I been doing?

“Jesus Nikki, we’ve been trying to reach you for a week.” A week? I had lost hours, maybe a day here and there but a whole week. Jesus Christ. “Are you okay man? Why don’t you come out tonight with us?” Tommy was begging me and I sighed.

I was embarrassed. I didn’t want everyone to see me when I had been on a bender. I hadn’t seen what I looked like yet but I was sure that it was like hell.

“I don’t know, T-Bone. I think I have the flu or something. I just don’t feel great.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.

Something fluttered beside me and there she was. A white dress on her thin frame. How had she dried off and changed so quickly? Was I loosing more time? Eyes shining as she held out a silver platter of white powder. She loved to party and must have known that my band would want to see me out. At least if I was doing coke with them they didn’t have to worry about finding me dead.

“Where are you going to be?” I relented, watching her twirl. The energy coming off her was exhilarating and I wanted to join her in the ever present state of delight.

My nose was down against the lines, snorting messily, my brain burning, eyes widening as I sniffed a few times to get the whole lot out of my nose. Wiping and then turning to her.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and ready to go out on the town.” She was leading me to the bathroom. My blood rushing everywhere as I was alive and awake and fucking ready to party.

I need you to come here and save me

I'm your little scarlet, starlet, singin' in the garden

Kiss me on my open mouth

Ready for you

Why had I agreed to go to a club?

In the booth we had a mess of drugs, pills and coke scattered on the table like appetizers. Bottles of booze and half empty beer bottles added to the maze of debauchery.

How long have I been here?

I couldn’t remember driving or even getting to the club. All I could remember was hands all over me in the shower, washing the filth off myself. The gentle voice reminded me to wear long sleeves to hide my track marks.

My eyes searched for her. In the sea of women I was sure she would stand out. But all the flashing lights and the noise was confusing me.

The room was spinning, the conversation around me overwhelming me and I could feel Tommy’s hand on my back. My head rolled back, the club's lightning needed to be updated.

A hand was smacking my face and I saw Tommy, wide eyed, looking at me before I turned to the table, throwing up the only thing I had in my body. Brown liquid shot out, mixed with the acid in the stomach. It didn’t stop for what felt like a full minute.

When I finished, puke leaking down in steady droplets to the floor I grabbed a beer tang I had missed and chugged the foamy substance down. I tried not to make eye contact with the people giving us disgusting sneers.

“Oh baby, why don’t you let me take you home? Let me take care of you.” Her hands wrapped around me and I turned, nodding. Confused looks from everyone as I climbed out, reaching for her to take me back into the safety of her arms.

Light of his life, fire of his loins

Keep me forever, tell me you own me

Light of your life, fire of your loins

Her fingers were in my hair as I laid on her lap. The fire from my lighter hitting my pipe as I inhaled and exhaled the sweet delight.

Freebasing in my closet. But at least I wasn’t alone. I had her with me and that changed my usual mood of wanting to slit my wrists or press the gun against my head and pulling the trigger. Painting the inside of my closet with bits of skull fragments and blood-

“Come back to me.” Her voice was lulling me out of the dark place, pressing against my temples and using the magic of her voice to help me. She was the only one that was always there for me. Always making me feel better and dragging me from the pain of my life. Holding me in her arms, compassion and understanding.

She never judged me.

“Have we been here long?” She knew I liked to keep my responsibilities. I wanted to keep my appearance as the rockstar. I couldn’t let anyone know how bad that it had gotten. How I couldn’t stop. How doing drugs was the best part of my life. My one true love.

Except her. She was the one thing I loved more than drugs.

“You have band practice in a few hours.” She reminded me. Her voice was steady and calm, fingers running through my hair and keeping me calm as I took another hit.

I just needed a little more time before I could see anyone. Just a little more time in the closet with her holding me before going out into the world.

“Nikki, don’t let them tell you to give me up. I love you Nikki. Aren’t I the only one who has always been there for you? No one else cares for you like I do. They see you as a rockstar or as a junkie. But I see you. I see you.” Her words promised and I nodded my head, agreeing with her words. She was still so calm, even with the edge to her voice. The words stuck with me.

She saw me and I saw her too.

I'm sorry that I'm misbehaving

I'm your little harlot, starlet, Queen of Coney Island

Raisin' hell all over town

Sorry 'bout it

I didn’t want to go to band practice. I didn’t want them to see my shaking hands or ask my stupid fucking questions that didn’t matter.

At least she had agreed to go with me. Her brown hair wrapped in one of those silky driving scarfs like the 1960s, big sunglasses to hide the hangover in her eyes that she was surely feeling after we had partied. Her hand was on his lap, keeping him steady as he drove to the practice space.

Walking inside, I hide my eyes behind big sunglasses, I could feel the sweat glistening like a second skin on my body. Anxiety crippling me as I licked my lips wanting to get back to my house.

My eyes followed her, watching her move around the instruments shooting me a smile as she ran her hands down my bass. I couldn’t help but smile back at her.

“Yo, Nikki, are you okay?” Tommy’s voice made me turn away from her nodding as I sat down hard on the couch. I had never brought a girl to practice before so I was sure they were surprised to see her. To see me so happy with someone.

“Come here.” I held my arms open, watching her smile as she bounced towards me twisting around the guys as they watched me. The brunette plopped down on my lap and I held her close looking out at them.

“What are you playing at?” Vince asked, the confusion was written across his face and I felt angry. Vince had been parading chicks through band practice for years. And now he was acting like this? Fucking asshole.

“Cmon, show her some respect, dicks.” She was shifting in my arms holding onto me and purring sweet words in my ears, my eyes closing and only coming awake when Vince kicked my shin.

“Show who respect?” My eyes went up to look at her but she was glaring at them. Her eyes were on fire as if she was protecting me from the band.

“Nikki, we should go. Let’s go home and I’ll take care of you. You don’t need this. I don’t need this. This was a bad idea, Nikki. A very bad idea.” She was getting up tugging at me to leave.

“My girl.” I was standing gesturing at her beside me, watching the way her dark eyes were slits now. Anger so clear as she tried to wrap herself around me and get me away from them.

They sat there, no one saying a word as they looked at each other and than a me. I turned to look at her, panic was there as she stepped forward touching my face, my eyes closing at the sweet caresses from her fingers. My skin feeling alive like bristling fire under her touch

“It’s me and you Nikki. Don’t forget how I love you. I love you always. No judgement. No-“

“Nikki, no ones there.” Tommy’s voice came out soft and I turned to look from her to him, feeling the slender hand slip out of mine. I went to tell her to wait but she was gone.

Whirling around I saw it was just the band in the space, no mystery brunette anywhere in sight. I collapsed on the couch gripping my hair as my teeth gnashed together.

This was the furthest it had come. The lowest point of my drug addiction. In my loneliness I had created a woman out of heroin. Someone to make me feel less alone when I shot up.

I created love through a needle and that was when I knew I needed to stop if I ever wanted to love anything again.

I'm not afraid to say that I'd die without him

Who else is gonna put up with me this way?

I need you, I breathe you, I'll never leave you!

#nikki sixx #motley crue #nikki Sixx!douglas booth #Douglas booth!nikki Sixx #the dirt #the dirt 2019 #nikki sixx imagine #nikki sixx fan fiction #nikki sixx x oc #nikki six fanfic #nikki Sixx imagine #nikki sixx x reader #the dirt imagine #Spotify

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lol-im-done · 3 years

Text

The Avenger & Baron of Sokovia: Part Two

Part One

Hi! Here is part two, I honestly got carried away again and will do a few more parts to this! Enjoy!

Those five years were a deep slumber somewhere in the cosmos but you didn’t dream. You were barely conscious, no concept of the time that had been passing by. When you ‘blipped’ back there was no moment to reunite with Helmut, it took you a few moments to regain consciousness. In the chaos you had been dragged out from your chair by security, crying out for Helmut completely confused by what had happened. Helmut looked like he had seen a ghost, not quite believing he had seen you reappear from thin air. It wasn’t until someone had mentioned it in passing what happened did he actually believe it and it made him crazy that you had slipped out of his reach just like that. In the utter chaos that had been caused by the snap of the Infinity Gauntlet, you remembered the portal opening in front of you on that chaotic street, people screaming and running around you. Through the golden sparks you could see Steve, standing there bloodied and beaten on the battlefield and when he caught your eye you could see the relief spread through his face. Without a second thought you jumped through the portal to join him, hands ready and eyes bright green with power. All you knew is that you had to be by your team's side. You hadn’t been there to fight in Wakanda but you were going to make damn sure you gave it all this time. Even in your civilian clothing you fought with such fervor that a suit of pure telekinetic energy covered your body. Waves of your power brought down hundreds of enemies, and in a split second you had used your abilities to bring Thanos to his knees giving Tony enough time to take the Infinity Stones. That was the last time you saw him alive, barely managing to bid him goodbye.

In the aftermath you found out that Natasha hadn’t made it and you felt like you had fallen into a pit of despair. Regret burned deep in your soul, you should have been there with them, gotten a chance to see one of your oldest friends one last time. What happened next was perhaps the most surprising thing out of all of this.

“He wants to talk to you,” Sam murmured as he passed by you, holding Steve’s shield. Taking a deep breath you made your way over to the old man on the bench.

“Steve?” you asked tentatively. He turned around with a gentle smile.

“(Y/N),” Steve said, tapping the seat next to him. Sitting down next to him, he took your hand into his. What were once the strong calloused hands of a soldier were now signs of old age but they still comforted you.

“I know you retired after Sokovia-,” Steve began.

“Steve I’m sorry for abandoning the team,” you cried out unable to stop yourself, tears gathering in your eyes but he shook his head.

“We understood why you did it (Y/N). Tony, Thor, Natasha, Bruce, all of them understood. What matters is that you were there with us to fight one last time. You’ll be one of the few original Avengers left,” Steve said solemnly. “With that comes responsibility. I know how much Sokovia affected you but you’re stronger than you think. I can’t make you lead what's left of the team, you’re going to find your way in the world but I will ask you one thing,” Steve continued.

“Anything Steve,” you gulped.

“Take care of Bucky. He might not ever forgive me for what I’ve done but I need to make sure he’s taken care of. Look after the others as well. We often lead lonely lives and right now more than ever you all need to support each other. Can you promise to do that to the best of your ability,” Steve finished. His words stunned you but Steve was right.

“Don’t you worry about anything Steve. I promise,” you promised giving him a hug, the familiar scent of his cologne filled your nose. That would be one of the last times you saw him.

Trying to find your place in a world that had moved on without you was proving more difficult than you thought. As a past member of the Avengers, it fell onto your shoulders to try and regain some control, to help and advise alongside Rhodey and Sam mainly. The government had decided to keep a close eye on you as well, you were enhanced and in this new world you had come back to they seemed to not trust you the same way as before. You had even been sucked into Wanda’s Westview anomaly when you had tried to help her out after Tony’s funeral. Through all of this you hadn’t returned to see Helmut, the fact that he was still alive and well in his cell a small reassurance. You had been making plans to see him again, your plane ticket booked for Berlin but your paths would cross sooner than you thought as a knock on your door made you get up from your desk one day.

“Hey,” Sam greeted when you opened the door. Behind him was Bucky who gave you a sheepish smile and wave. He was still a bit nervous around you but you had made it a point to see him as regularly as you could taking your promise to Steve incredibly seriously. You had been the one to make sure he got mandated therapy sessions as part of his pardon.

“Sam! Bucky!” you smiled, ushering them into your apartment. Bucky was a bit surprised when you pulled him into a hug but he accepted it. After feeding them some lunch and catching up you got down to business.

“You need my help don’t you,” you stated, crossing your arms with a small smirk. Sam and Bucky exchanged a look before Bucky scarfed down some more fries.

“I know you put your superhero life behind you (Y/N) but you’re the only one I thought of to help us with this,” Sam explained.

“Where to?” you asked.

“Berlin. We have to talk to Helmut Zemo. You remember him right?” Bucky asked. At his words your heart stopped, eyes going wide. They wanted to talk to Helmut?

“(Y/N)?” Sam asked, eyebrows crinkled in worry. Memories of Helmut flooded your mind for a few seconds.

“Yeah I remember him,” you whispered, holding a hand to your chest to steady your heartbeat.

“Wait, you visited him a few times right?” Sam asked, remembering what Steve had told him years ago.

“Well- um more than a few times,” you shrugged, turning away to hide your blush.

“Care to explain?” Sam crossed his arms.

“Let me pack and I’ll explain on the way there,” you sighed. Sam nodded and got up to help you, Bucky staying at the table staring at the framed picture of you and Steve, his heart clenching in nostalgia.

“Why can’t I go in with you?” you frowned, feeling increasingly agitated. Bucky sighed and pulled you aside for a second in the white hallway.

“Don’t tell Sam but you’ll have your chance to see him after this I promise,” Bucky whispered. Pressing your lips tightly together you nodded slowly, understanding his words.

“Everything good?” Sam asked.

“All good,” you murmured as Bucky followed the guard down the long hallway into the maze of the prison. It had been so long since you had been here but everything was familiar to you, you could probably find your way to Helmut’s cell blindfolded. It took every ounce of willpower not to go in running after Bucky to see Helmut. Sam watched as you chewed on your lip, foot tapping in anxiousness.

“Why do you call him Helmut?” Sam suddenly asked. You turned to face him in a surprised manner.

“Because that’s his name?” you tilted your head, confused by his question.

“We all call him Zemo but you call him Helmut. It's more personal,” Sam stated.

“Like I explained on the plane....we got close. Like friends after all that time I came to visit him. It stemmed from Sokovia really but I got to understand him and he understood me too,” you whispered, emotion filling your voice. Sam decided not to press it but he was still confused on why you had decided to get so close to the man who had divided the team so horribly. You asked yourself that same question but as time went on with Helmut you could tell he was seeing things from a new perspective. He had even planned on asking Steve to meet him when he was no longer on the run, to talk and ask for forgiveness. Suddenly the door at the end of the hall opened and Bucky walked calmly back to you and Sam.

“C’mon I have somewhere for us to check out,” Bucky said, leading you all out. It felt nice to feel the breeze and walk around like a tourist again, your arm tucked under Bucky’s. He had changed a lot since you had first met him, feeling comfortable enough around you to accept physical affection. It was like having a brother, much like Sam, two brothers you had to keep an eye on at all times you thought with a smile. Finally you reached a large garage filled with darkness.

“Careful,” you warned Sam, pulling him back before he smacked his face into a metal anvil. You used your powers like a candle to illuminate the area until Bucky found the light switch.

“Why are we here?” you asked Bucky who gave you a knowing look. Is this what he meant earlier, about seeing Helmut soon? Your heart sped up a bit as you looked around ignoring Sam and Bucky’s bickering.

“What are you talking about? You wanna break Zemo outta jail?” Sam asked incredulously.

“We have no leads, no moves, nothing,” Bucky countered.

“What we have is one of the most dangerous men in the world behind bars,” Sam snapped.

“And we also have eight Super Soldiers that are loose,” Bucky replied.

“Zemo's gonna mess with our minds. Especially yours. No offense,” Sam shook his head.

“Offense. Super Soldiers go against everything he believes in. He is crazy, but he still has a code. Anyways if what (Y/N) said is right then he’s not as crazy as he once was,” Bucky tried to reason. Suddenly there was movement by the garage doors and you felt the air leave your lungs. The moment he walked in you wasted no time in running towards him, ignoring Sam’s protests as you crashed into Helmut’s open arms. Tears gathered in your eyes as you held him like he was a life raft in an ocean working to drown you. You hadn’t realized you had started crying until Helmut was softly comforting you, stroking your hair. Finally you pulled back, Helmut’s arms still encircling your waist.

“I’m so sorry,” you cried but Helmut shook his head, wiping the tears from your red cheeks.

“Don’t apologize miláčik. None of that matters now,” Helmut smiled, through his own tears feeling a relief so strong it almost made him fall to his knees. Sam and Bucky were stunned at what they were witnessing, they knew you had history with Zemo but never knew the reality of your relationship. To be honest you didn’t know what your relationship was but there was a connection, there was something and you could see it in his eyes. But there was no time for words, Sam had made it clear you had to leave now. Every moment from that garage to the moment you were up in the air in Helmut’s private jet, you were attached to his side like a magnet. Helmut had been so touch starved, he had resigned himself to the fact that he would never touch your smooth skin while he was incarcerated but now having you with him, he didn’t want you far from him. It was clear how protective you were of him as well, when Bucky had lunged at Helmut with his metal arm, a wall of green energy erupted between them making Bucky bounce back and fall into his seat.

“Enough,” you snapped, giving each of them a stern look before relaxing. “Helmut please refrain from pushing their buttons. We are here for one thing and we have to work together. Please for me,” you asked. Helmut sighed but nodded, muttering an apology to Bucky. With a satisfied smile you reached across and held Helmut’s hand, feeling him relax into your touch. You couldn’t stop smiling and it made Sam a bit nervous, seeing you so happy around a criminal like Zemo. Soon the conversation turned a bit more serious.

“You must have really looked up to Steve. But I realized something when I met him. The danger with people like him, America's Super Soldiers, is that we put them on pedestals,” Helmut began.

“Watch your step, Zemo,” Sam warned.

“They become symbols. Icons. And then we start to forget about their flaws. From there, cities fly, innocent people die. Movements are formed, wars are fought. You remember that, right? As a young soldier sent to Germany to stop a mad icon. Do we want to live in a world full of people like the Red Skull?” Helmut went on in his tangent.

“(Y/N)’s enhanced. Why don’t you hate her?” Sam asked sarcastically. Zemo’s eyes hardened, eyes flickering over to you as you waited for his response.

“In the time I spent speaking with her my views have shifted. I no longer see things as so black and white. There is a grey area in these matters, nuance,” Zemo admitted. You couldn’t help but smile slightly at that, he had changed.

“There are threats, people who regardless of super serum or mutant abilities are up to no good. If this has to do with HYDRA we have to end it,” you said. That seemed to shut the door to that conversation, Bucky nodding at your words. Before Madripoor you all made a stop to rest in Hong Kong. Helmut had gotten a reservation at a luxurious hotel for the night but none of that mattered to you all you wanted was time to speak with him properly and a hot shower. As you waited alongside Bucky and Sam in the lobby wondering what the sleeping arrangements would be, heat rushed to your cheeks when you heard Helmut get the room keys for only two rooms and his intention became clear when he took your hand into his in the elevator. Bucky looking at your intertwined hands a bit like a brother would seeing his sister with her new boyfriend. The elevators opened and before you could walk off with Helmut to your room at the end of the hall, Sam grabbed your arm gently.

“Wait you’re sharing a room with him?” Sam asked in a hushed voice, still not trusting Helmut.

“Of course I am,” you replied with a questioning tilt of your head.

“She’ll be fine Sam,” Bucky murmured, opening the door to their room so Sam could follow him in. Sam pursed his lips but nodded as you gave Bucky a grateful smile.

“Goodnight Bucky. If you need anything you just shoot me a text,” you waved. The door closed behind them, Helmut quiet at your side as he led you to your shared room.

“A text?” Helmut asked casually as you entered the grand room. Walking over to the bed you sat down, relishing in the feeling of the bed.

“Yes. Bucky experiences nightmares from time to time as one would having experienced the trauma he’s been through. I always make sure I’m there in case he needs to talk to someone,” you explained, reclining on the comfortable pillows.

“Why?” Helmut asked, as he took a seat on the other side of the bed.

“Because he’s my friend. I also promised Steve to look after him, to look after all of them,” you murmured.

“Is that why you didn’t come back?” Helmut whispered. Slowly you kicked off your boots before you curled up into the pillows, facing Helmut.

“I wanted to but after fighting against Thanos I had to catch up on the past five years. I got stuck in Wanda’s alternate world, I had to try and make my own way with the government breathing down my neck,” you began. Helmut nodded in understanding, he couldn’t blame you. “If Steve were still here or Nat or Tony they would have led us all through it but the rest of us had to figure it out,” you sighed. Helmut curled up on the bed as well as he reached across to stroke your cheek. Looking into his handsome face you felt warmth fill your body, those warm brown eyes you missed so much.

“That day that I disappeared I wanted to explain something to you,” you said a bit nervously. Helmut kept his hand on your cheek in a reassuring manner. “I know I should hate you the way that you hated us after Sokovia but after spending time with you I found myself doing quite the opposite,” you admitted. Helmut stayed silent allowing you to continue, his eyes full of emotion.

“I’ve fallen in love with you Helmut. When I came back after all those years I was scared you never felt the same in the first place or that you weren’t ready to feel the same-,” you began to ramble but were cut off by Helmut rushing forward to capture your lips into a heated kiss. After years of waiting and hoping to have you in his arms Helmut couldn’t wait another second to feel your soft lips against his. Breaking for air he pressed his forehead against yours, eyes closed with overwhelming emotions.

“Watching you disappear in front of my eyes with no way of stopping it, was one of the worst pains of my life. I’ve lost my family already once before and I didn’t think I was going to survive that and after five years of waiting, thinking of nothing but you, I didn’t think I was going to survive that either,” Helmut admitted sadly. “Those months after Sokovia I was already falling in love with you before I was consumed with vengeance. I love you miláčik,” Helmut finished. It was your turn to kiss him which quickly turned into clothes coming off, breathless whispers of love and cries of pleasure filling the room. As you cuddled into his bare chest you pushed away any anxiety riddled thoughts of him returning to prison and simply appreciated having the man you loved in your arms.

Tag List: @hollmarch @lam-ila @anxious-alto @sagyunaro @thenewlarislynn @booklover2929 @husherstan @breadsquash @x-ximenas

#helmut zemo #baron zemo x reader #helmut zemo imagine #tfaws #helmut zemo x reader

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startanewdream · 3 years

Note

*Harry looked at his mother."Stay close to me," he said quietly.* Could you write something about Harry having this moment with Lily, but in your world where Jily lives? Perhaps after Dumbledore's death, or at the end of the War, after Voldemort died. I don't know, I feel that Harry would be very attached to his mother in these important moments, and maybe if you want, your world where Jily lives is just perfect <3

Hey! Thank you so much for this prompt @sweeethinny! I love writing Lily and Harry’s moments together and this one is so special in the books!

Now, in the world I imagine, there are actually few moments that Harry needs his mother and she isn’t there. Then I thought about Voldemort’s ressurrection and the duel after, because this version of Priori Incantatem would have no James or Lily appearing. So Harry is alone... and he really needs his mother afterwards.

And then I finally wrote a version of the Third Task through Lily’s eyes, which is pure angst, really, but full of Lily’s mother love.

It��s on AO3 or below:

Their hug is so fleeting that Lily wonders if that moment will haunt her later.

She admonishes herself for ever thinking about that. Nothing will happen; it’s the Third Task and soon, whether Harry wins or not, this damn tournament will be over.

So for now, she hugs Harry but lets him go quickly, knowing he feels embarrassed of being hugged in public, and watches as James slids his hand fondly through Harry’s hair to mess it as much as he can. Harry smiles at them, nervous and a little excited too, and then he leaves them with the other champions.

James squeezes her hand as they sit again at the table, though neither is hungry anymore. In front of them, Hermione gives her a comforting smile, while Ron shakes his head.

‘Wanna bet he will end up winning this thing after all?’, he asks, turning to his brothers. Lily watches as they start betting on how long it will take for Harry to get out of the maze with the Cup in his hand, coins passing through their hands.

Her heart fills with a warm glee. They are betting on Harry. Never against him.

They walk to the Quidditch Field, James and Ron complaining about the mess they’ve made in the field and discussing how it will be the next season, how much Harry will need to train in the Summer for making up for the year he lost without any match.

‘He caught an egg dragon’, Ginny notes brightly, right next to Hermione. ‘What is a Golden Snitch after that?’

They laugh and Lily lets that sound warm her too; she has been shivering ever since they left the castle, though the summer night is warm. There is just something in the air tonight that makes her feel ill. A calm before the storm, with just the wind announcing the change that will come.

It’s probably just the nervousness. She couldn’t show to Harry, during their free day at Hogwarts, how apprehensive she was, but now her nerves are probably catching on with her. These tasks seemed so dangerous after all, and Harry is still so young…

The air around her is calmer than in the other tasks, however. People are talking excitedly, everyone wondering who will be the champion; now and then, even amongst students of other schools, she hears Harry’s name. He was the underdog, but now he is a favourite - not because of being the Boy-Who-Lived, but because of his achievements so far. First with that dragon, with the way Harry had flown nearly perfect, acting smart and dancing around it, much better than his parents’ original suggestion of attacking it in the eye; and then, during that boring Second Task, when it was announced that Harry had taken longer only because he was worried about all other hostages, not just his.

Lily had been worried with his delay, but she had no heart to chide him later. He was never in danger after all, and Harry was just being his usual selfless; he always had a tendency to defend others. Lily could not complain about her son being a fair player.

‘He will be okay’, James whispers to her as they take their places at the stands, and Lily forces herself to smile.

The sound of the whistle, marking the beginning of the Third Task, makes her jump, but with all the noise and confusion around her, no one seems to notice it. That’s better. She doesn’t need to infect her worries with others.

There doesn’t seem to be anything for her to worry, though. The first hour passes quickly. They can’t see anything inside the maze, but Bagman provides a few commentaries about what the champions have just faced - a boggart, an acromantula, a hole in the ground, blast-ended skrewts (though Lily is not sure she knows that), a disorientation fog, riddles, giant snakes.

And then it’s announced that the Beauxbatons champion is out. Lily remembers seeing that beautiful girl and wonders what happened to her, feels sorry she had to leave.

Ten minutes later, when Bagman announces the Durmstrang champion has left too, the crowd explodes in glee and noises around her. Now it’s only Harry and the Diggory boy on the run, which means a Hogwarts’ win in any case.

And now, for the first time, so close to the end, Lily really wonders how it would be if Harry really wins the tournament, instead of just surviving it. She can see the way he would beam, surprised and proud, how he would raise the cup and people would cheer around him; how Harry would be really happy because he won on his merits, and not because of something he did when he was one-year-old. That would be Harry’s victory, only his.

James will make sure to keep the cup in the middle of their living room; he will tell everyone how his son just won the Triwizard Tournament (‘and all the other champions were already of age, but Harry did not let that scare him, he fought bravely and won all the tasks! My son! Triwizard Champion!’).

And Lily can’t help but think that it’s her son, the son of a muggleborn witch, who will win the most traditional tournament, and what this means to her and other people like her. Oh, she will not mind gloating about this for once.

But the minutes go on, and there are no more announcements, Bagman’s voice silent and the excitement from the crowd is turning into whispers, questions, worries.

There is something wrong, Lily thinks, and she doesn’t need to say out loud because now not even James is frowning, quiet.

There is a commotion in the field, a bright colourful light that lasts for a second (‘Was that a portkey?’, James asks, confused), then she watches Dumbledore and the Minister rushing forward, but she can’t really see anything else. Then the whispers begin, those same words repeated in a crescendo as more people know about it and pass it on, a deadly song.

‘He is dead. Dead!’

She holds James’ hand as not to fall now. Everything is dark around her, and Lily is in a nightmare she can’t wake up, thinking of that last fleeting hug she gave on Harry; she should have hugged him more, refusing to let him leave the safety of her arms for the unknown. Why did she let him go? She feels the fire of the dragon burning her skin alive, the coldness of the deep of the lake and the still air of the maze that Harry entered to never come out -

‘Cedric Diggory! Dead!’

And it’s the first breath of air as she leaves that horrible nightmare, a relief beyond words, a lightness that comes to her as Lily understands it is not Harry that died…

Then it is guilt, a horrible feeling of being the worst person on the planet, because how can she be happy that someone else is dead? How can she actually smile when another parent will mourn their child today?

But there is no easy answer, no trying to understand what happened, just a primal urge to get to Harry and to make sure her son is safe.

She will worry about everything else later.

________________

‘Now I have work for each of you. Fudge's attitude, though not unexpected, changes everything’. Dumbledore is saying, looking at them all, and Lily knows what he will ask even before he says it.

She glances at Harry instead.

His face is pale, his eyes more troubled than a fourteen-year-old should have the right to be, and yet she can see he is watching everything with attention. He is trying to understand what is happening right now, as if witnessing Voldemort’s return and the crazy lunatics of that fake Mad-Eye Moody was not enough.

He needs to sleep - a dreamless sleep so he can begin to recover, as hard as that it will be.

Dumbledore turns first to Snape, asking him to do something if he is ready, and from the corner of her eyes Lily sees Snape’s eyes flickering briefly in her direction. She pretends not to have noticed it, as she has done every time they happened to meet before - it is easy because most of the time Snape doesn’t even seem to be able to look at her. And tonight she has more pressing things in her mind than an old friendship.

She knows Dumbledore will turn to her and James as soon as Snape leaves the room.

And he does, asking for their help to gather the old gang. The Order of the Phoenix.

Lily thinks of everyone that won’t be there for this second time and tries not to let this crush her heart. She doesn’t have time for old grieves today either. Harry needs her.

And, by God, how he needs. She sees the bandages in his arm, in his head; there are dark spots under his eyes, giving him a spooky look - he slept so little before he was awakened with the cries in the hall. And now the world he knows is falling around him, even if he doesn’t understand the full extension yet…

Everything will change now.

‘I will go’, James says softly, and Lily sees him watching her and Harry. James looks somber, much more than she has seen him in the last thirteen years, with that expression she didn’t really miss: the face of a soldier that was getting in a war he didn’t want to, but he would because he believed in everything he was fighting for.

She doesn’t want him to go, but someone has to, Lily knows. It is very important that people know the truth before it can be muffled, and they need to be ready. They need as much advantage as they can get.

Still, the idea of being away from James right now hurts her almost physically, an old familiar feeling of the unknowns that a war brings.

‘But… Dad…’, Harry’s voice is weak, but it is his tone that scares Lily. Harry sounds afraid for the first time that night - as if he too understands the possibility that James will walk off the door and not return.

She thinks of Cedric Diggory. His parents watched him enter a maze and he never returned. She can’t promise safety for Harry, not anymore; his trust in it has been broken forever.

He has faced death now.

‘I will be back before you awake, Harry’, James says soothingly, patting Harry’s feet over the blanket. ‘Right now I must do what I can, okay?’

Harry doesn’t look like he agrees, but he whispers: ‘Okay’.

James glances back at Lily. In those few seconds, she can read the fear in his eyes, not for himself, but for them; being away from his family at this moment doesn’t feel right for him either. But there is a fierce resolution in his eyes too, a notion of duty that James Potter will do everything he can for them, and Lily answers with a soft kiss on his lips.

Come back for us, is what she says in that kiss. If you want to do something for us, then come back.

‘I love you’, James whispers quietly, only for her, and she hears his promise of return in his voice.

And then he is gone.

She turns to Harry, sitting at the edge of his bed. Dumbledore tells him he will talk to the Diggorys and Lily closes her eyes as he leaves, fighting back a will to cry. It is the easiest thing to imagine what the Diggorys are going through and that scares her a lot.

Oh, God, Lily thinks to herself. Voldemort has returned only for a couple of hours now, the war has not even really begun, and she is fearful of everything already.

But she puts on her brave face. Later, when she is alone (or rather with James, his arms around her, preferably in the bedroom of the house they built together), she will let her feelings flow. Now, she needs to be there for Harry.

Lily opens her eyes, looking around. Ron and Hermione are staring at Harry, biting their lips as if they are on the edge of speech, but Harry’s eyes are fixed on the ceiling and nobody talks for a while.

She grabs the bottle of potion in the bedside cabinet, brushing the sack of gold as she does it. The sack falls in the ground, the sounds of metal coins echoing in the room. Harry winces as if that pains him.

‘You need to take your potion, Harry’, Lily tells him kindly, picking up the sack on the floor.

‘I don’t want it’, Harry murmurs. ‘The gold, I mean, I shouldn’t have won it. Ced… Cedric should have it’.

Lily tries to stop her hand from shaking as she uncorks the bottle of potion. It doesn’t work, but Harry doesn’t seem to notice as he holds the potion she gives him.

His brows are furrowed as if he is trying very hard to control himself.

‘It wasn’t your fault, Harry’, she tells him, knowing she will have to repeat it a thousand times until he believes it.

‘It is’, he argues emotionless. ‘I told him to come with me. He was… the spare’.

Lily doesn’t know what he means by that, but she can’t ask right now. Harry is breathing through his mouth now, his lips trembling and he absolutely refuses to look at anyone. She knows his expression.

It’s the same on her face when she can’t cry at the moment.

Harry doesn’t want an audience. He was never one to feel comfortable with his emotions in public.

‘Drink your potion’, she orders gently, trying to force him to lie down, though he remains sitted. ‘We will let you rest -’

‘No’, he cuts her off, taking her hand in his. Harry looks around briefly, his head down as if he doesn’t want to meet anyone’s eyes, and then he whispers: ‘Stay... stay close to me’.

It’s the way Harry says it that breaks her. His voice is guilty as if he doesn’t want to be this weak, this dependant, the words seemingly escaping his mouth against his will. He is pleading to her, asking for comfort as he did when he was three-year-old and the thunder scared him and he was ashamed of it; Lily remembers him refusing James’ company, asking specifically for hers instead.

It is a son’s plea for his mother.

‘I’m always with you, Harry’, she promises him, bending down and placing her arms around her. She thinks Harry should hate her, because she feels a liar - she wasn’t there for her son tonight. Harry faced everything alone, as brave as he could, but all by himself, him against Voldemort, no lingering ghost of his parents to support him.

And yet Harry doesn’t yell, doesn’t accuse her of anything. He accepts her, raising his arms to hug her too almost desperately, and Lily hears him sobbing. It is a cry of misery, a cry that speaks how tired her teenage son is and how sorrowful he is for everything that happened, even when it is not his fault.

‘I’m here’, she tells him softly, caressing his hair, urging him to feel he is loved and protected by his mother.

There is a loud noise and they break apart. Harry’s face is drenched with tears and, as Lily blinks hers away, she realizes she was crying too. She dries them away quickly, before quietly wiping Harry’s face too. He is refusing to meet her eyes now, looking embarrassed and so young.

She kisses his forehead tenderly.

'Sleep, Harry', she whispers.

Harry takes the potion, drinking it in one gulp, and then his head is falling heavily on the pillow. Lily arranges his hair, then smoothes his blanket. Now, at least, in a dreamless sleep, Harry looks calmer, more like the fourteen-year-old boy he should be and yet never will.

She sits back on the chair, in a quiet vigil, waiting for James to return so they can be there, together, for when Harry wakes up.

149 notes · View notes

esmealux · 3 years

Note

Hi there! For the two-part drabble, may I request Deckerstar in situation 13 (someone does something stupid) with sentence 6 ("Do I love you? Yes. Do I like you? That's still up for debate.") Thank you, and I've really really been enjoying your the updates on your Planning a Hell of a Wedding fic!

Hey! It took me two months (including more than one month of writing) but I've now finally finished your prompt. Another anon had requested 25 (being somewhere you're not supposed to) + 6 and dear @my-crazy-awesome-sox had requested 26 (a very cheesy date) + 6, so I've merged all your prompts into one 7K+ long 'drabble'. Hope you don't mind!

And I'm glad you like the updates on PHW! I'll try to write some more now that I've finished this.

Hope you like this!

Also, an immense special thanks to @my-crazy-awesome-sox for helping me with this fic. She truly has been a godsend, and a lot of the wording (especially in the later parts) is kindly and almost directly borrowed from her mind. Thank you again, babe!

Also thanks to @lightbringer-666 for assisting me with some French. If all the French isn't perfect, it's because I also googled my way to a lot of it. Apologies in advance (and please do let me know if there's anything I should change!)

Someone does something stupid + being somehwere you're not supposed to + a very cheesy date + 'Do I love you? Yes. Do I like you? That's still up for debate.'

Rated M. Post 5B - contains spoilers!

Read on AO3 (includes list with English translations)

It’s ridiculous, really. The butterflies fluttering in her stomach like she’s a schoolgirl waiting for her prom date. It’s not even their first date. It’s not even their second. The thing is, between becoming God and Consultant, revising a few laws of the cosmos, fixing some bugs in humanity, bringing Dan to Heaven, and going to therapy, she and Lucifer haven’t had much time for, well, each other. At least not in ways that didn’t involve discussions about the redesign of the afterworld and how to sate world hunger. So yes, she is a little giddy with excitement at the thought of having a whole evening to themselves—no celestial craziness. Just the two of them and a bottle of the restaurant’s finest.

If Lucifer would just show up.

She checks her phone. 06:14. Unlike last time she anxiously waited for him in a restaurant, there’s a text.

Running a bit late. Please forgive me. Can’t wait to see you ❤

And one more.

Sorry. Can’t wait to see you naked*

Chloe shakes her head, a stupid smile spreading across her face. She resists typing back a flirty reply—he’ll be with her in a minute, and she is nota schoolgirl—and puts her phone back in her clutch. Hands trembling a little, she smooths out invisible creases in the dress he’s bought her. It’s short and tight, of course, but perfectly so. Reaching mid-thigh, with a small slit revealing a bit more of her left thigh. Black, unsurprisingly; he still hasn’t gotten over how delectable she looked in the LBD she wore on their last ‘date’. And this one makes her legs look even longer, which is undoubtedly the primary reason Lucifer picked it. Still, it isn’t skimpy. He could have opted for a deep neckline and cold shoulders—she almost expected him to when he said he’d bought her a dress—but he didn’t. Instead, the short and skin-tight skirt is perfectly balanced with a high neck and long bell sleeves that are cut open just above her joints, making the soft fabric flow around her bare underarms. She likes it—would probably have bought it herself if it weren’t crazy expensive. Likes how it makes her feel both sexy and classy and most of all comfortable, likes that he knows her so well.

She fidgets with her earring and traces the rim of her empty wine glass with her fingertip, watching people as much as she can from their semi-private corner. She spots an Oscar-winning film director, a retired NFL player, that pop star Lucifer pretends to hate, and just how expensive isthis place?

She’s immediately distracted by the shift in the air and the sound of Italian loafers approaching her.

‘My me, Detective!’

His brown eyes roam her figure as she stands to kiss him. Their lips meet in a soft peck that could easily have turned into more if Lucifer hadn’t pulled away to look her up and down.

‘You look like a goddess.’

Chloe snorts and chuckles, not yet used to the title he insists is hers if she’ll have it. She puts a hand on his chest, gazing up at him with a smile.

‘You don’t look too bad yourself.’

He hums and leans in for another kiss, but something comes between them this time. They both look down—at a dozen red roses.

‘Those for me?’ she asks, warmth spreading in her chest.

Lucifer hands her the bouquet with a nod and that soft smile she loves more than anything. He pulls out her chair, a gentle hand on her shoulder as she sits down, and sits down himself.

There’s a card nestled between the velvet petals: ‘For the Detective & Consultant’, her old and new moniker scribbled side by side in his annoyingly elegant handwriting. The latter nickname, however, is written in smaller, cramped letters—an afterthought. She smiles.

She turns the card, expecting to find a dirty, eye-roll-deserving comment on the back. But there’s no lewd joke or naughty promise.

It simply says, ‘I love you.’

Her heart swells, filling her chest till it aches. It’s all so new still. Not the love between them, but how it’s uninhibited now. It’s not like they don’t have their obstacles—just yesterday they had a fight—but there’s no doubt anymore, no voices telling them some dreams simply cannot be. They might have a whole universe to deal with, but for the first time ever, things between them are easy. No words are left unsaid. No feelings are squashed. No time is wasted. Every day is spent wrapped in each other’s love. Finally.

‘I love you too,’ she tells him, and he lights up, amazed. Confident. Their hands find each other on the table, fingers intertwining.

A waiter comes by with two menu cards and a vase for the flowers. Chloe reads through the menu carefully, pretending to know what kind of food hides behind the fancy French names. Lucifer sees right through her, sighs, and orders some hors d’œuvres, two of something she couldn’t pronounce if she tried, and a bottle of red.

‘So, were you stuck in traffic, or…?’ Chloe asks him with a glint in her eye as the waiter pours her a generous glass of wine. The celestial being with the supernatural metabolism can drive home.

The being in question looks confused for a moment before he answers, ‘Ah, no. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.’ For a brief second, he looks at her as if he’s apologising for more than tonight, but she strokes his knuckles and smiles at him, you’re here now, and he moves on to explain himself. ‘I just couldn’t find this bloody suit. Only when I’d ransacked the house did I realise it was still at the penthouse, so I had to make a detour.’

He is a little excused; so many things are impossible to find right now, with more or less unpacked boxes spread out between her apartment, Lux, and their new home. In hindsight, moving in together while taking over the almighty family business probably wasn’t the best idea, but they’ll get settled soon enough. Besides, right now, what’s important is that Lucifer was late because of a wardrobe crisis, and she will not let that slide.

‘You couldn’t just wear one of your three hundred other suits?’

A flicker of hurt and sheepishness flashes across Lucifer’s face.

‘Well, this one is special.’

Chloe takes in his suit: the navy jacket, the matching waistcoat, the royal blue shirt.

‘Oh.’

He smirks at her as heat creeps up her cheeks (so much for not being a schoolgirl).

‘You remember?’

She does. Of course, she does. She remembers vividly—how shocked he’d been at first, how new and soft his lips had felt against hers. How they’d held onto each other until the sun was setting and she really did have to go home and feed Maze and Trixie.

She also remembers how she, later, behind closed lids, had ripped off the shirt and waistcoat in desperate need. How it’d earned her a husky chuckle and a breathy ‘D’tective!’, and the sinful Heaven that was his hot and open mouth.

‘You okay, darling?’ Lucifer looks at her, his expression somewhere between concerned and amused. His thumb brushes the back of her hand.

Chloe takes a sip of wine and clears her throat. Adjusts her necklace.

‘Yeah, just, you know. Reminiscing.’

He studies her flushed face for a second before his curious smile spreads into a full-blown Cheshire grin.

‘You had a wet dream about me, didn’t you?! After our first kiss?’

Chloe glares at him. ‘Say it a little louder for the people in the back, will ya?’ He opens his mouth, and she immediately feels the need to clarify, ‘Do not say it a little louder for the people in the back.’

His smile doesn’t falter. ‘I’m just ecstatic to know our first kiss left you all hot and bothered. I mean, not that I’m surprised.’ He brings his wine glass to his lips and lets go of her hand to gesture down himself.

Chloe rolls her eyes. ‘Yeah, like you didn’t go home and wanked yourself blind that night.’

He laughs, surprised by her bluntness, and shamelessly answers, ‘Why, of course I did. That night, other nights. Before and after that kiss. This morning. You serve as quite the spank bank, my dear.’

She definitely doesn’t blush at that. But she does glance down at his waistcoat, at the soft skin and hard muscles she knows hide beneath it. She gives him a slow and dirty smirk, appreciative.

‘You too, baby.’

Lucifer raises an eyebrow, his eyes darkening. Much to Chloe’s satisfaction, his neck and cheeks redden a little. Then he gives her a lopsided grin, smug and impressed.

‘Pray tell, Detective.’ His eyes glide down her face, her chest, her stomach, and slowly back up again.

In another time, she would have given him a stern look and told him it was none of his business, but she doesn’t. She also doesn’t tell him about lonely nights and long showers and crying his name into her pillow when they were still just friends. Instead, she leans across the table and half-whispers—

‘If you behave yourself tonight, I might show you.’

He gulps. Squirms a little in his seat, and—when he’s regained his composure and quite indiscreetly adjusted himself under the table—leans forward till there’s only mere inches between their faces.

‘Is that a promise?’ His voice is low and husky, his breath hot against her face. His eyes drop to her lips.

‘Pardon, monsieur, mais l’entrée est prête.’

They lean back in their seats and turn to the poor, young waiter, who’s balancing two seemingly heavy plates, a carafe of water, and a basket of crusty bread in his arms.

‘Lovely!’ Lucifer’s eyes follow the food as the waiter puts it down in front of them. ‘Merci beaucoup, Olivier.’

Olivier smiles at Lucifer, shy but with a look in his eyes Chloe knows all too well. She doesn’t blame him.

‘Ça va?’ Lucifer asks, his voice lined with genuine fondness.

Olivier nods. ‘Oui, ça va. Et toi?’

Lucifer looks to Chloe, beaming. He takes her hand on the table and interlocks their fingers again.

‘Tout va très bien,’ he answers, looking back up at Olivier with a dazzling smile.

Olivier’s eyes drop to their hands and, probably, to the ring, white and pearlescent, on Chloe’s third finger. His lips tug up at the corner.

‘Je peux voir ça. Félicitations!’ Before Lucifer can respond to that, whatever it means, Olivier gestures towards their food. ‘Et bon appétit.’

Lucifer replies with a friendly ‘merci’ and calls out something like ‘Salue ton père de ma part!’ as Olivier walks off.

Chloe stares at Lucifer, twirling the smashed bullet around her neck between her fingers.

‘What?’ he asks, curious.

She tilts her head, smiling. ‘French suits you.’

He smiles back, lasciviously. ‘Yeah?’

‘Mm-hm.’

The look he gives her leaves no doubt that, sooner or later, he’ll be whispering foreign phrases against her skin.

But right now, they have other appetites to sate. They dig into the first course, and the (assumedly) insanely high prices suddenly make sense, because it is frigging good. The main course is even more delicious—divine, actually, to the point where Chloe has to ask Lucifer if he accidentally spiked the food with a blessing or two. He assures her it’s all Olivier’s father, no holiness involved, apart from Chef Beaumont’s heavenly cœeur de filet de bœuf. Chloe moans in agreement, savouring every bite.

He watches her with a smile, jokingly apologising for not serving her grilled cheese, and she makes a bad joke about this date being cheesy enough as it is. Because it is cheesy. Him buying her a dress, bringing her red roses, the love note, the candlelit restaurant, the French food, not to mention the suit. It’s like a rom-com parody.

But it’s also perfect. It’s everything she’s longed for, an over-the-top romantic date night with her- with her partner. A date that isn’t cut short by a horny stewardess (may she rest in peace) or a failed attempt at exorcism; where Lucifer actually shows up and isn’t just trying to outdo another man; where Chloe isn’t trying to make him ‘do something good for a change’; and their parents aren’t tagging along on a headache-inducing surprise double date that is also a sting in disguise.

So, in some ways, it is kinda their first date.

And it’s a really, really nice date.

They laugh—they laugh so much. More than they’ve done in the past few months combined. Or so it feels, at least.

They laugh, and they talk. About movies they cried to, favourite drinks, and how they’re gonna paint the living room. About the summers spent under the plum tree in Nana’s garden, and all the pranks pulled in the gilded meadows of Heaven. About chasing Amenadiel through the clouds, and how Chloe always wanted a sibling. About her short-lived Hollywood experience and that one time she may have gotten a little high at a Backstreet Boys concert. (He seems impressed by that, her ‘abhorrent’ taste in music aside.) They exchange secrets they never told anyone, stories of bad kisses—Jed used too much tongue; Will was always better with words—and tales from drunken nights out. They reminisce on the first time they met—how annoying she’d found him, how compelling he’d found her—and the many, many cases, some really weird, that first encounter led to.

They talk about Dan.

About missing him, even though he’s making waffles with Charlotte now.

About Trixie, and how therapy seems to be helping her, too. How she still sometimes breaks down crying, but no longer crawls into their bed in the middle of the night, shaking and gasping for air. How she’d laughed the other day, and it’d made them both cry. How incredibly strong she is, that little urchin.

They talk about going to Paris one day, all three of them—the French do make excellent chocolate cakes—or maybe somewhere else she wants to see, once everything is calmer. They talk about some of the prayers Lucifer has been hearing, about faith and free will, what they miss about solving crimes together, what they don’t miss, and how they’re still very much partners, even more so now—in every corner of life.

They talk till their cheeks hurt from smiling and Chloe’s half-drunk on expensive Burgundy. Lucifer asks for the cheque, their food long gone, and pays with cash, making sure to leave a tip possibly the size of Olivier’s monthly salary.

They leave the restaurant giggling about a stupid joke Lucifer makes, his hand splayed out on the small of her back. Her own hand is placed much lower than what is decent for such a fancy place like this, practically cupping his ass, but she’s tipsy enough not to care, and he doesn’t seem to mind the attention. It’s his own fault, anyway, for having his pants tailored to hug his butt like this.

Naturally, Lucifer drives. He doesn’t hold back his comments on how slow and boring her car is, but at least he stays somewhere close to the speed limit. She wishes he’d also wear a seatbelt, and keep both hands on the wheel, but his palm is nice and warm on her thigh, and she trusts he’ll get them home safely. She leans back in her seat, her head comfortably buzzing from wine and him, and watches the blurry city lights through the window. He’s turned down 2ndStreet.

‘Where are we going?’ She looks over at him, curious.

He smiles in the shadows, his fingers stroking the skin left exposed by the slit in her dress. His touch leaves hot, tingling paths on her thigh.

‘I thought we’d go for a second desert.’

Chloe is beyond full, her dress stretched over her now slightly rounder belly, and she can think of other things she’d rather do (things that include pinning Lucifer to their bed and making him groan and beg and laugh), but she’ll never say no to a freshly brewed latte and watching Lucifer obscenely enjoy some Sicilian pastry.

She turns up the radio, fumbling a bit, and closes her eyes with a smile, more content than she’s been in… a long time. His hand stays on her thigh as they move through the night, fingers tapping to the beat of the songs against her skin, creeping higher, teasing, just enough to make her breath hitch, but nothing more, and then back down again. Maybe they’ll just take that latte to-go.

The car comes to a final halt, and first then does Chloe realise they haven’t stopped outside the late-night café and bakery that’s opened down on Spring Street.

‘Lucifer, what’—she looks around, double-checking—‘what are we doing at the back entrance to the precinct? You said we were getting desert.’

He leans across the centre console, fingers spreading on her thigh, and brings their faces so close their noses touch. Chloe swallows.

‘We are,’ he assures her with a wolfish grin, his gaze lingering hungrily on her, and she could jump him right then and there. But he takes his hand off her body and clicks her seatbelt free, pulls the key out of the ignition and exits the car. He strides to her side and opens the door for her, gentlemanly as ever, and she watches him with narrowed eyes as she takes his hand and steps out, sceptical even in her cloud of lust and inebriation.

He heads directly for the back entrance and opens the black iron door with ease, rudely ignoring the state-of-the-art security locks. A part of her knows she should stop him right there and give him a stern talking-to about respecting human laws—he still can’t do whatever the hell he likes just because he’s God now. But another part, the part of her who helped him empty two bottles of French wine, really wants to step over that threshold, to intertwine their fingers and go on a late-night adventure. And that part of her must overpower the other, because she lets him snake his arm around her waist and lead her through the door and inside the familiar building.

She senses him grinning by her side, his fingers curling around her hip in a deliciously tight grip that only stokes the heat pooling low in her belly. He takes her down the corridor, around the corner, and then they’re there, in the middle of the precinct. Everything is covered in darkness, the wide, open space only illuminated by a never-resting info screen and the purplish glow from the vending machine. Still, she can make out the shape of their desk, the door to Ella’s lab, the interrogation room. The fridge in the breakroom still hums obnoxiously, and the air smells like strong coffee and sugary glaze—or maybe that’s just a phantom. Either way, it all tugs at her heart, beckons her down memory lane, and she lets herself be pulled. Through the good, the bad, and the crazy.

Lucifer is quiet beside her, probably lost in nostalgia himself, or maybe just letting her have this moment. But not for long. With titillating eagerness and a devilish smirk, he wraps his fingers around her wrist and pulls her by the hand—towards the evidence closet.

He presses her up against the door, his body hot and hard against hers, and pins her hand against the cold glass of the frosted window. His dark eyes sparkle with mischievous excitement.

‘There’s something we never got to try.’

Her pulse quickens, blood humming loud and hot.

‘Lucifer, we can’t.’ She tries to sound firm around her suddenly heavy breaths and dry throat, but he doesn’t seem discouraged in the least.

He leans in, closer, his smirking lips brush against her ear. ‘Can’t we, now?’

And as if he hadn’t done enough already, he takes her earlobe between his teeth and bites it.

Chloe smothers a gasp.

‘We shouldn’t.’ She puts her hand on his chest and pushes her head against his, nudging him away from her neck so she can thinkfor a second. He reluctantly obeys and settles for placing his hands on her sides, dangerously high, thumbs almost stroking the underside of her breasts. She pushes his hands down to her waist. ‘We shouldn’t have sex in Evidence—shouldn’t have broken into the precinct in the first place. I mean, do you want us to get arrested?’

He only laughs at that, of course. ‘I’m God, darling. I won’t get arrested.’

Chloe rolls her eyes. He would probably charm his way out of it if they were caught, God or not—but that doesn’t make any of this okay. She’s about to tell him as much when he adds-

‘But if you wanted to cuff me and tell me what to do, resisting would be the last thing on my mind. In fact, I’m sure we can find some cuffs lying about-’

‘Lucifer, no.’

Her tone is sharper than she’d intended. He pulls back a little, studying her face. His eyes flicker to her parted lips, her flushed, heaving chest, and then back to her determined gaze. His brows furrow.

‘Do you really not want to do this?’ His voice is soft, serious.

They stare at each other, hot breaths mingling. He’s still pressed up against her, a six-foot-three wall of muscle and love, and his scent—spicy cologne and smoke—floods her head like ambrosia, a dizzying fog of him. Her skin burns beneath his palms, his touch sending embers through the expensive fabric and down, flames licking at her inner thighs. Her heartbeat thumps in her ears.

‘We don’t even work here anymore,’ she rasps, deflecting his question. It’s a weak excuse, but she is fraying at the edges.

A salacious smile forms on Lucifer’s face. ‘We’ll just pretend we do.’

He takes a step back, putting a more ‘professional’ distance between them, adjusts his lapels and attempts at a neutral expression. ‘You wanted to show me something in Evidence, Detective?’

And there’s that word again, want—because she still hasn’t answered his question and her consent means more to him than anything. She loves him for that, she really does, but right now, it’s not that simple. She wants, every cell in her body wants, wants him to shove her into that closet and take her apart. Has wanted it for so long, thought about it for years—at her desk, in the shower, while sitting next to him during interrogations. Thought about it in the self-same evidence closet, as she was pressed up against the wall by someone else. Imagined tugging at his hair, feeling him between her legs—even had to swallow his name. She still thinks about it, thought about it the other night, briefly, wistfully, while making a cup of tea. Thought about how much fun they could have had, sneaking off to secret corners of the precinct like two horny teenagers—if it hadn’t been for, well, mostly Michael, and all the chaos he’d released upon their lives.

In fact, it’s only fair they have at least one reckless, semi-public rendezvous. Just one. To make up for the honeymoon phase they never really had. With all the hurt and heartbreak they’ve had to go through, alone and together, they deserve to have one night of stupid fun.

On the other hand, and this is why it’s not that simple, it’s a bad idea. It’s a really bad idea. And also, pretty illegal. If she asked him to, if she said no now, he would take her home and push her up against the nearest surface, bury himself in her faster than any of them could get their clothes off, bring her to ecstasy-

But it’s not the same. It just isn’t.

With as much innocence she can muster, she looks up at his anticipatory face and puts her hand on the doorknob. The cold steel is a soothing balm against her burning skin.

‘I do want to show you something in Evidence.’

He lights up like it’s a declaration of love, all unrestrained enthusiasm.

‘After you, darling.’

Their lips crash against each other before the door is even closed. He pushes her backwards in the semi-darkness, between shelves and boxes, hands low on her hips. His fingers dig softly into her ass as they stumble towards a sliver of wall together, panting and laughing against each other’s mouths. He doesn’t break contact with her lips as he quickly sheds his jacket on the way and throws it over his shoulder, for the moment uncaring of dirt and creases. Then her back hits the wall with a thunk and she’s instantly struck by déjà vu, until Lucifer grabs her thigh inside the slit of her dress, and the unwelcome memory quickly evaporates in the heat of their clashing bodies as he wraps her bare leg around his waist and pins her to the wall with the hard press of his hips. Their unison groans fill the cramped space.

‘We shouldn’t be here,’ she murmurs breathlessly against his lips before opening her mouth to let his tongue back in. He tastes like wine and crème brûlée.

He hums in disagreement. ‘We should always be here, Detective.’ With the hand still on her ass, he pushes their bodies impossibly closer together and rocks against her. She moans, despite herself.

‘We- I-‘ Chloe stammers, leaning her head back as he kisses his way down her neck, her mind and body pulling in different directions. ‘This is- why am I letting you get away with this?’

She feels him smirk against her throat. His hand slowly glides up her inner thigh—her pulse quickening with every inch—until his thumb brushes past damp fabric.

‘Because you like me.’ His beard rasps against her hot skin in the crook of her neck, a contrast to his soft lips placing slow, open-mouthed kisses from her jaw to her collar. ‘Because you love me.’

Chloe scoffs.

‘Do I love you?’ she questions, her breathing erratic, her eyes turned to the ceiling as he sucks a mark onto her neck. With the hand that is still between her legs, he pushes her underwear to the side and rubs against her, nice and slow. ‘Yes.’ Her gasped answer has a proud, almost victorious chuckle rumbling from his chest.

‘But do I like you?’—she bites her lip and stifles another moan as his fingers press just right—‘That’s still up for debate.’

He breaks off the assault on her neck and looks up at her, eyes black with desire.

‘Allow me to try and tip the scales, then.’

She’s bereaved of his fingers as his hand moves to the edge of her underwear, pulling it down as he sinks to his knees. She almost stumbles when he slips it over her feet, but he grabs her leg, steadying her, and helps her out of her stilettos. Once she’s barefoot, his warm palms slide up the side of her legs, pushes the hem of her dress up a few inches, and then his mouth is on her.

He licks her, slowly, tenderly. She reaches down to pull at his hair, commanding him to give her more, to take more, and he does. He starts feasting on her, all tongue and lips and-

‘God, yes.’

He chuckles smugly into her core. ‘I do love it when you moan my name, darling.’ Eyes fixed on hers, he gives her a nice, long lick before he dives back in. He kisses her clit, sucks it, circles it, laps at her like he can’t get enough, and she’s reduced to a quivering, whimpering mess. She bucks against his face, needing more, and he does that thing that she likes, tongue flicking her clit, warm and wet, as he pushes a finger inside her.

Her eyes clench shut, her head falls back against the wall. She doesn’t bother holding back her groan this time.

Lucifer hums against her, low and greedy, taking as much as he can, before he pulls away with ragged breaths. ‘Ma déesse, que tu as bon gout.’

The meaning is forever lost on her, but his hungry tone, the way his tongue wraps smoothly around the French syllables, the words dripping like sin from his glistening lips, sends warm shivers down her spine.

He slows down his pace inside her, places kisses on her lower belly, seeks her ticklish spots and the ones that make her breath hitch, and then trails down to her hips, studying her sharp bone with his lips and his teeth, before moving down to her thigh, stubble prickling her tender skin. As if he’s got all the time in the world, he lets his mouth travel to the insides of her legs, already spread for him, and kisses a path up her inner thighs, getting closer and closer to where she aches with need,but never quite there. His finger, still moving slowly—too slowly—curls a bit, reaches that spot deep inside her that usually makes her see stars, but he pulls back before she’s even done gasping.

‘Lucifer,’ she breathes, a threat and a plea.

He places one last kiss to her sensitive thigh, nuzzles his nose against her heat, before his tongue finally finds her clit again and his finger starts pumping inside her, fast and hard. Then faster, harder, and, fuck, deeper.

‘Baby,’ she begs him to continue, fire spreading through her body, from her curling toes to her already heated cheeks.

He slows down for a second, and she reaches down to scratch at his scalp in frustration but quickly forgives him when he adds another finger and resumes his perfect pace, thrusting up in her to the beat of her racing heart.

‘Je veux te faire jouir.’ His thumb replaces his tongue as he looks up at her, eyes sparkling with lust and determination, but also patience. Like he could do this for hours, the whole night, as long as she falls apart around his tongue and fingers in the end.

He doesn’t need all night, though. She’s close, so close, can feel the beginning of that blissful high burning in her lower belly, between her thighs, where his mouth licks and nibbles and sucks. A building warmth pumping through her veins. She grabs at his hair, wraps her leg around his shoulder and pushes his face closer into her heat, needing that last-

‘Fuck, right there,’ she gasps. Right there right there right there.

He smirks against her, always eager to please, and does as she says. As she’s teetering on the edge, he curls both fingers inside her, goes impossibly deeper, and reaches the same spot as before, except this time, he doesn’t stop, and she comes with a shudder and a gasped ‘fuck!’ as he licks her through it.

‘Tu es tellement belle, ma chérie,’ he tells her, voice soft with awe as she comes down from her high and opens her eyes. She understands enough of the words to smile down at him, at his dishevelled hair, his swollen lips, and warm, chocolatey eyes.

‘You too, baby.’

She still hasn’t caught her breath when he, after wiping his mouth on her thigh, slowly rises from his feet and starts making his way up her body. His fingers skate lightly up her dress, his knuckles brushing against her rising and falling ribs as his hands sneak higher and higher, closer and closer. With a feather-light touch, he starts tracing the curves of her breasts, deliberately avoiding her aching nipples. He teases her with his fingers, kisses her neck, lips trailing, hot and slow, up to her jaw and the sensitive spot behind her earlobe.

‘J’ai envie de toi,’ he says into her ear, his voice rough with want and determination.

Chloe can’t take it anymore. She fists his waistcoast in one hand and grabs him by the hair with the other to pull him up into a hard kiss. He tries to stay in control, to hold back his obvious desire for just a little longer, but he quickly loses the battle and lets a bit of hunger take over. They pour equal heat into the kiss, tongues pressing and teeth clashing as their mouths slide against each other. She threads her fingers through his curls, he bites her lip, and they both groan and gasp into the kiss.

Chloe’s the one to pull away, needing air sooner than him. They’re looking into each other’s eyes, both panting, when he says it again, ‘J’ai envie de toi.’ This time, breathy desperation shines through his voice. ‘Je veux être en toi.’

And then they’re kissing again and both of them are working at his belt and pants in a flurry of hands until he’s finally inside her with one quick thrust. He fills her to the hilt, deliciously stretching her inner muscles, warm and hard. For a moment, they’re both so overcome they can only pause and breathe, Lucifer’s forehead cradled in the crook of her shoulder as her hand gently strokes the short hairs on the back of his neck.

He pulls back to look deeply into her eyes, and starts off slow. Not teasing, just tender. He kisses her cheeks and neck, every inch of skin he can reach with his lips, and whispers sweet nothings against her skin. She can’t know for sure, of course, because it’s still in French, and she doesn’t catch all of it, the sounds alien and muffled—‘t’es incroyable’, she hears, ‘j’suis fou amoureux de toi’—but something about his tone tells her it’s not as dirty as whatever he was saying before. Still, it makes her just as wet, the words tingling across her skin.

He picks up the pace, wraps her legs tighter around him, and pushes her harder against the wall. His hand grasps her breast roughly, seeking purchase, then rhythmically strokes over her nipple in apology, and she moans her relief. The shelves on either side of them hit the wall with a consistent thump, thump, thump as he thrusts up into her, fucks her, their harsh pants mingling in the small space between their parted lips. Chloe claws at Lucifer’s shoulders and back, hands scrambling for something to hold onto. Even through the two layers of fabric, she can feel his warmth and muscles, and a sudden urge bubbles up within her. With desperate fingers, she starts undoing the buttons on his shirt, but it takes too long—she needs him—so she rips open both shirt and waistcoat and frantically pushes them off his shoulders. He pins her against the wall with a hard thrust, letting go of her thigh and breast to shake the material onto the floor, and Chloe scratches at his finally bare back and shoulders, nails digging into slick, freckled flesh. She arches back into the wall and bares her neck for him to nip and kiss.

‘Fuck, Lucifer!’ she whines. ‘Oh, God, baby, fuckyes!’

He growls at the sound of her noises and bites her ear.

‘J’adore baiser avec toi.’ One hand slides down to her ass, holding her and pushing her dress higher up as the other bites into the now bare skin at her waist. The sharp touch sends a jolt down to her throbbing clit, making her clench tighter around him. ‘J’adore ton corps. T’es vraiment une déesse.’ The last word is a groan against her lips as he kisses her.

It’s wet, messy, and so delicious they both grasp tightly onto each other’s mouths with lips, tongues and teeth, neither of them wanting to ever let go.

‘Je veux t’embrasser,’ Lucifer pants when they break apart for a second, his gaze fixed on her mouth as their lungs fight for air. His dark eyes soften when they look into hers. ‘Chaque jour de ma vie,’ he adds reverently as he leans in. ‘Pour toujours.’ And then he kisses her again, like he wants it to last for all eternity.

His thrusts turn slower and deeper as they kiss, harder, until kissing becomes panting into each other’s mouths and Chloe’s head falls back in sheer pleasure. He tightens his grip on her ass and runs the hand on her waist up her side, brushing his thumb over her nipple as he passes her breast, up her neck, and cups the side of her face. She lets their eyes meet, and the way he’s looking at her, with absolute awe and gratitude, makes her heart flutter and her hips buck against his bare stomach. Her hands slide from where they’ve been clutching his mess of a hair to his back, trailing down to where he’s most sensitive. She places her palms on either side of his spine and presses lightly, carefully.

‘Tu me-’ he cuts off with a gasp when her nails skim over his hidden wings, ‘Tu me rends- fucking hell, Chloe.’

She keens at the guttural sound of her name. He leans his forehead against hers with a grunt, the slight change in angle making his rhythm falter, one hand slamming against the wall next to her. She watches the rest of his control slip through glazed eyes. She did this to him. She rendered God himself lost to his own bliss. That knowledge itself is nearly enough to push her over the edge.

‘Close,’ she breathes.

He grabs both her thighs with strong hands and presses her flush up against the wall, going impossibly deeper inside her. She hisses through her teeth and sputters all kinds of incoherent, unholy prayers into the sweltering air between them. Every hard thrust pushes her closer to ecstasy.

‘You make me so happy,’ Lucifer whispers, sounding so wrecked and raw her eyes clench shut. ‘I want- I hope- fuck- I hope I make you, nnf, just as happy.’

‘You do, baby. You make me so- so-’

Heat floods her veins as she comes, the sweet tension snapping all at once. She cries out, arches her back, and moans long and low as he continues to fuck her through it. His thrusts are quick and inelegant, his arms and thighs trembling, and she knows he’s close. She intentionally clenches around him, whispers his name, and then he too is tumbling over the edge, the only type of falling she ever wants him to feel again.

They smile at each other as they try to catch their breaths, sweaty foreheads still pressed together.

‘I love you,’ he says. ‘So much.’

She hums with happiness, her heart pleasantly aching at the sound of the words he couldn’t say the last time they were here.

‘I love you too, babe.’ She reaches up to lazily nuzzle the hairs at the nape of his neck, still smiling.

‘Maybe you even like me?’

She lets out a breathy chuckle and slides down the wall to land on her bare feet. Her legs are… wobbly, to say the least. Lucifer smirks at her.

‘We’ll see about that.’ She smoothes out her dress as he tucks himself back into his pants and fastens his belt. ‘If anyone ever finds out about this, your chances are pretty bad, buddy.’

She collects his clothes from the floor and helps him into his shirt. Two buttons are missing, lost to the force of her hasty ripping. It gives her an odd sense of satisfaction, the fact that the shirt he wore when they first kissed—the shirt she dreamt of tearing off his body—now is marked by their little escapade. (At least until he gets his tailor to fix it.)

‘Well, I’ll just have to keep trying to convince you then, won’t I?’ He licks his lips and lifts his eyebrows as he offers her a hand to help her up from the floor once she’s put her shoes back on. Chloe bites her cheek so as to not smile at his suggestion and intertwines their fingers.

‘You can start by helping me assemble that new shelf system tomorrow,’ she tells him, waiting for him to groan in response, or mumble something about hiring some people to do it for them. But he doesn’t. He just opens the door for her and lets her go first with a soft smile on his still flushed face.

‘Anything for you, my love.’

The door shuts with a gentle click behind them.

#writing #deckerstar fanfiction #deckerstar #chloe decker #lucifer morningstar #lucifer #lucifer on netflix #fluff #smut #established deckerstar #lucifer is god #post 5b #post s5 #two part drabble game

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harrysweasleys · 4 years

Text

save a life // d.m

Summary: You know what I always thought would be so cute if the reader is a Weasley and dating Draco in secret and he gives her an amulet and if the person wearing it gets hurt instead of dying it turns into a sleeping spell and during the Battle of Hogwarts she saves Fred and ends up on the floor instead and Draco rushes over and just loses it and then he sees that you're still wearing necklace and kisses you and it's angsty but with a happy ending sorry I'm a sucker things like these

Warnings: violence, language, blood

Word Count: 5.1k

A/N: so i changed up the request a tad, sorry about that, but nonetheless it’s pretty much what the request wanted! my requests are still open but i’ve got a long list to get through so sorry for the wait. xxx (gif not mine)

“Draco, I can’t accept this, it’s far too expensive,” Y/N’s mouth was agape as she stared down at the necklace in the little black velvet box. The charm on the end, which Y/N immediately recognized as a Protective Amulet — which they had studied in DADA — was glistening brightly, showing off its worth.

“No, it wasn’t,” Draco replied, placing his hand on hers before gently kissing her knuckles, “Besides, this can save your life, therefore it’s priceless.”

She looked up at him, still stunned speechless. She knew that Protective Amulets were rare, nearly impossible to find as they were in such high demand at this time of crisis, and she had never in a million years expected to receive one.

“What about you? You need to be protected too,” Y/N raised an eyebrow, closing up the box and placing it in her pocket, keeping it safe and away from the prying eyes of passing students. Her and Draco, although public with their relationship, tried their best to keep it as private as possible. She hated the attention they always got for being together.

“Don’t worry about me,” he brushed her off, “You know I’m in a very different position than you are.” He tapped his left forearm as a reminder that he was, in fact, fighting a very different battle than she was. When he showed Y/N the Dark Mark for the first time, they had spent the entire night crying, wrapped up in each other’s arms.

She knew it was coming. Hell, anyone who knew about Draco’s situation knew it was coming. But it didn’t change the shock and heartbreak that Y/N felt looking down at the dark ink permanently etched into the pale skin of her boyfriend. She hated looking at it. It was a reminder that Draco had no control over his life, that his entire legacy was built for him, that this was the reason he didn’t sleep nights. He was just as terrified as she was.

“You’re still dealing with You Know Who,” she pressed on, tossing a strand of her ginger hair out of her face, “If anything, you’d need even more protection. You know I always worry about you, I hate not knowing if you’re okay.”

“Love, it’s okay,” he smiled softly, sadly even, placing a hand on her shoulder and gazing into her brown eyes, “Don’t you worry about me. I can handle my end of the fight.”

Y/N squinted her eyes at him, ready to keep pressing the subject, but decided against it, “Fine. Thank you, though. It’s beautiful.” It truly was beautiful. The red gem in the centre caught her attention right away, the way that it almost seemed to glow under the bright lights.

“I’m glad you like it,” Draco said softly, placing a light kiss on her forehead and interlacing his hand with hers, “Now, should we get a move on to dinner so we can make it in time for pudding?”

Y/N grinned, placing a light kiss to his lips — which he gladly reciprocated — before the two of them made their way into the Great Hall. Draco waved ‘bye’ before making his way over to the Slytherin table, and Y/N made her way over to the Gryffindor one, sitting between her siblings.

“What’d he give you?” Ginny asked, peering over to her sister with a pressing look on her face. She had clearly watched the encounter between the two of them outside the Great Hall, making Y/N’s cheeks flush a light pink.

“A necklace,” Y/N grinned shyly, helping herself to come potatoes, “Protective Amulet, actually.”

“A what?” Ron’s mouth was agape, “Where the bloody hell did he manage to find one of those?”

Y/N shrugged, placing her fork down and taking the little box out of her pocket, making sure no one else was looking, and opened it up. Ginny and Ron looked awestruck, while Fred and George seemed to be too busy paying attention to their food to notice the commotion. Y/N placed the necklace proudly around her neck, letting the Amulet dangle between her collarbones.

“Damn,” Ginny nodded approvingly, “That little squirt has some good taste.”

Y/N giggled, admiring the way the candle light reflected off of the gems. She wasn’t one for fancy jewellery, having even told Draco not to buy her any once they started dating, but this felt like more than a show-off gesture. Him giving her something that would save her life felt like the biggest gesture he could possibly give her, one that really showed how much he cared.

When they started dating about a year ago, it was as if a fire had spread throughout both of their lives. Y/N’s family — her father in particular — were in no means ‘fans’ of the Malfoy family. In fact, although Arthur Weasley denies it, his dislike towards Lucius Malfoy grows exponentially by the day. And Draco’s family on the other hand loved to call Y/N and her family ‘blood traitors’ and ‘disgraces’ as well as making sure the fact that they were poor was very much a topic of conversation.

Both their parents were still iffy about the entire concept of their kids being together, but Y/N’s siblings had learned to accept it, much to her gratitude. Ron took longer than the rest, having dealt with Draco’s bullying first hand for five years now, but he eventually came around as long as they didn’t ‘flaunt their love’ in front of him on a daily basis.

“I reckon he didn’t get one for the rest of us, then?” Ron asked, glaring at Draco on the opposite end of the Great Hall while picking at the chicken legs on his plate.

“If you were his girlfriend I’m sure he would, Ronald,” Ginny replied, chuckling at her brother’s reaction. Y/N laughed as well, her hand still playing with the jewel around her neck as the dinner plates vanished, filling the table with multiple assortments of puddings.

“Always the best part,” Ron shoved his fork in, filling his plate to the brim.

Y/N looked over to the Slytherin table, catching Draco’s eye, and smiled widely at him, pointing to the necklace she was now wearing. He smirked at her, winking and shooting a thumbs up, going unnoticed by everyone else, but causing her entire body to flutter.

— —

“What do you think life will be like after the war?” Y/N was twirling a strand of Draco’s hair, overlooking the grounds of Hogwarts as the two of them sat comfortably in the fresh air of the Astronomy tower. They had used this location for most of their private moments, using it to talk about anything and everything. And of course, it was a good makeout spot.

“Peaceful, I hope,” he replied, gazing up at her quickly before turning back to watch the setting sun. Their sixth year hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park. Voldemort had returned, Dumbledore was missing constantly, and with Snape as the new Defence professor, Y/N Weasley was worried their education wasn’t preparing them well enough for their eventual battle.

“Do you think we’ll win?” she asked, pulling her hand away from his hair and turning to face him with a more serious expression, “By ‘we’ I mean anti-Voldemort people. You know, the good guys.”

Draco, although his parents were forcing him to join the ‘dark side’, was still secretly fighting alongside Y/N. She had helped him overcome the urges that came with his newfound Dark Mark, and promised him she’d stick by his side no matter what. He was prepared to leave the Dark Lord’s orders if it meant keeping her safe.

“I do,” he said softly, sitting up, “I think that once the war happens, we’ll be prepared enough to take him down.”

Y/N smiled softly, brushing her hair out of her face, “Dad says he thinks it’ll happen soon. Everyone at the Ministry is in a frenzy. And Fred and George are basically the only open shop in Diagon Alley, no one wants to go out anymore. The entire Wizarding world is in a panic.”

Draco sighed, gently placing a hand on her cheek, his other hand twirling the Amulet necklace she was wearing, “Love, I can’t promise everything will end up being the way it was before, but no matter what happens, I am not leaving your side. And as long as you wear that—,” he pointed to her Amulet, “—you’ll be by mine as well. And that’s all I want. You.”

“I love you,” she grinned, pulling him in for a tender kiss, “We’ll get through this together, yeah?”

“Of course, my love.”

— —

The war had come.

As another wall came crumbling down mere meters from her, Y/N dodged out of the way, her wand still gripped tightly in her hand.

She had been preparing for this for two years now, ever since Harry had emerged from the Triwizard Maze with Cedric’s lifeless body. They had prepared for this when Dumbledore’s Army came to life, all of them training constantly to fight back against the dark forces that were bound to come.

But, as Y/N gazed around the crumbling Hogwarts, watching some of her friends die before her very eyes, she realized that nothing could have really prepared her for this.

“Petrificus Totalus!” she shouted, the Death Eater that was standing in front of her now tumbling down the staircase as stiff as a board. She watched him fall for a long while before deciding to take off down another hallway, gliding against the wall to avoid being seen. She had intelligently decide to wear all black clothing to believe she’d be well hidden, but completely ignored the fact that her bright red hair gave her away instantly. It wasn’t her best moment.

“Y/N!” Hermione and Harry came barreling around the corner, frightening her nearly half to death, followed by Ron, Percy and Fred shortly after.

“Oh, thank Merlin, it’s you guys,” she hugged her brothers quickly, noticing the deep cut on Ron’s cheek and the blood coming from Percy’s hairline. She herself had a few deep scrapes and bruises as well, the blood smeared across her face and hands. Some of it hers, some of it not.

“Why are you all alone?” Harry asked, eyes darting around the corridor with full alertness, “We should all have backup.”

“I lost Ginny after a chandelier came crashing down,” Y/N said, her voice shaky with adrenaline, “We took off in opposite directions.”

“Is she okay?” Harry’s eyes were wide, the panic evident in the way his head snapped violently towards her.

Y/N grinned softly, clutching her wand tightly, “She’s safe, Harry.” He let out a sigh of relief, nodding his head slightly.

“Snape’s dead,” his voice was quieter, almost regretful.

Y/N felt her heart drop. She was never fond of Snape — he hated her and her family to his very core — but he was still someone she had looked up to, “Oh, that’s awful. An awful way to go, in the middle of a war.”

“Where’s Malfoy?” Ron asked, looking out the window that was facing the grounds, green and red flashes blasting in countless different directions.

“I—I don’t know,” Y/N admitted. She had seen him not ten minutes ago, he had arrived with his parents looking very sunken and gloomy, but they hadn’t had a chance to speak two words to each other since the battle had begun. She was worried for his safety, but she figured no one was really after him. Students didn’t know he was a Death Eater and Narcissa would protect her son until her dying breath.

Her heart sunk thinking about him. Since the end of their sixth year, things had been weird. She didn’t blame him, he had insane pressure being thrust upon his shoulders. His parents wouldn’t let him leave their side and Y/N’s parents would let her leave the house or even send Owls. She had pretty much lost all contact with him.

After the summer holidays and after Y/N attended her older brother Bill’s wedding, she had not spoken a single word to him.

Were they even together anymore?

“He’s here, though,” she spoke up once realizing she had been silent for a while, “I saw him.”

Hermione nodded understandingly, placing a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. Hermione, who had been falling for Ron since third year, was the only person Y/N really confided in about her relationship. She didn’t even tell Ginny much. The only reason she confided in Hermione was because she knew about her feelings towards Ron. They often had late night chats about boys and their futures — those chats were some of the best moments in Y/N’s time at Hogwarts, really.

“Look out!” Ron shouted, but it was too late. Y/N was sent flying backwards, crashing into a stone pillar, violently hitting her skull and spine. She could feel the blood oozing out of the back of her head, her eyesight becoming insanely fuzzy, but she opened her eyes in time to see Fred hex the Death Eater, who went flying out a broken window.

Y/N’s eyes started to droop again, and that’s when she noticed the Amulet sitting on the ground in a tiny pile of rubble. It was no longer on her. Panicking slightly, she cleared her throat, blinking rapidly to regain her proper vision.

“Fred—,” she croaked out to the closest person, lifting her hand to point down at it, “Can you get it for me? The Amulet?”

Fred picked it up, rushing over to help his little sister stand up. After she was on her feet, still reasonably dizzy and lightheaded, a bright green flash had flown by, blinding them all for a good moment.

“Avada Kedavra!” Y/N ducked down, her heart skipping a beat. Someone was going to die.

Fred’s hand — that had been linked with her own — was now gone. The spell had hit him right in the middle of his chest and he was sent flying back, his body lying limp on the floor in a heap of broken stone.

Y/N thought she was going to vomit. She rushed over, letting Percy and Harry deal with the Death Eater, and picked up Fred’s head, resting it in her lap. His hair was standing on end as if he had been electrocuted, and his skin felt hot to the touch, but it didn’t stop her from attempting to shake him awake.

“Freddie?” she asked, her voice still trembling but this time due to the fact that she was holding back tears, “Freddie, please wake up.”

Ron was slumped against a wall, his eyes red and his breathing irregular as he watched Y/N try to wake up their brother. Hermione was comforting him, leaning her head against his shoulder, also trying to keep her emotions in.

Y/N couldn’t take her eyes away from her dead brother, whose eyes were still open wide, a faint smile on his lips that had been there before he got his with the blinding green flash.

“Fred, please wake up,” Y/N cried softly, ignoring Percy leaning down next to her and holding Fred’s limp hand in his own. She shut her eyes, letting the tears flow freely. The feeling of loss was horrendous. She was never going to hear Fred talk, or hear another one of his stupid jokes—

“Reckon I better thank the Slytherin git.”

Y/N’s eyes shot open, looking down at Fred, whose face was now in a painful grimace. His eyes were still closed but he was breathing. His eyelids flickered open and he coughed violently, dust and bits of stone coming out of his mouth.

“Fred?” Y/N dropped his head, placing her hands over his chest to check for a heartbeat to make sure she wasn’t imagining things, and thankfully, there was one, “Fred, you’re alive...”

“Do I have Harry’s scar?” he asked, eyes opening slightly and his infamous grin making its way back onto his face as if he hadn’t just died, “On my forehead, do I have one now too?”

Y/N, too shocked to do anything, glanced up at his forehead, “No.”

“Damn,” Fred muttered, still coughing, “That’s rather unfortunate.” Y/N couldn’t believe he was still alive. But as she looked down to his hand, which was now open, she could see the bright glow of the Protective Amulet glistening brightly. Fred had it.

“It saved him,” Ron muttered, his eyes wide as he leaned off of the wall, walking over to see his siblings, “Y/N, you had him pick it up for you and it saved him.”

Y/N was still speechless. Her own heart had regained its beat, but her head was still spinning, and the feeling of wanting to vomit was probably even stronger now than when she thought he was dead.

Fred carefully made his way to stand up assisted by Ron and Percy, while Y/N still crouched on the floor next to where he had been laying, her eyes glued to the floor in shock.

“You good, little sis?” Fred asked, sticking his hand out to help her up, “I’m the one who nearly died but you’re the one who seems to be on the verge of passing out.”

“I need to go see Malfoy,” she stood up hastily, rubbing the dirt from her hands onto her pants before pulling her brother into a bone-crushing hug, “Believe me, I’m thankful you’re alive. You have no idea. But I need to go see him.”

“What a roller coaster,” Ron ran his hand down his face, shaking his head before pulling Fred in for a hug as well, “George will have a laugh.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll find his twin brother almost dying hilarious,” Hermione scoffed, crossing her arms, “Y/N, why do you need to go see Malfoy? Isn’t he, you know, not on our side?”

Y/N shook her head vigorously, eyes wide, “He’s always been on our side. He had a weird way of showing it, but he’s never been evil,” she leaned over to pick up her wand off the floor and proceeded to place it in her inside coat pocket, “He’s been forced by his parents to become dangerous. I need to go help him.”

“But why now?” Percy asked, eyeing his little sister with what could only be seen as suspicion. Percy had been the only vocal sibling about his dislike towards Malfoy. Working alongside the Ministry for so many years now, he had heard horrible tales of Lucius Malfoy and tried to keep his youngest sister away from that family the best he could. Unsuccessfully, of course.

“Because he saved Fred, Perc,” she replied, her voice firm, “Well, indirectly, but still. He helped me. I need to go help him.”

The rest of the gang was silent, no one wanting to argue with Y/N — the fire in her eyes was burning bright and there was no way they would attempt to put it out. She was determined, and no one stops a Weasley.

“Do you want backup?” Harry asked cautiously, “Just incase his parents are around, that is.”

“No,” she shook her head once more, “I need to go alone.”

And without another word, she bolted down the nearby staircase, careful not to step on bodies and trying her best to avoid tripping on large chunks of rubble. The school that she had been practically living in for seven years looked unrecognizable. Walls were blown away, blood was smeared on the floors, unfamiliar bodies littered the corridors, and the constant flash of spells reminded her of a violent thunderstorm.

She continued rushing downstairs, luckily avoiding any encounters, and barged into the Great Hall, where she did indeed find Draco. His hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot, and his lip was quivering. He was naturally very pale, but he looked even more ghostly under the faint light and the fact that he was surrounded by at least a dozen Death Eaters.

Her heart caught in her throat as she noticed all the eyes in the room now locked on her, Draco’s as well.

“Well, well,” Bellatrix Lestrange’s cackling voice reached her ears and she could feel her fingers begin to shake as they gripped her wand even tighter, “It’s another Weasley, is it not?”

Y/N locked eyes with Draco, who seemed even more panicked now that she was in the room. He nudged his head towards the door, silently telling her to leave, but she shook her head and stood her ground.

“Bella, don’t intimidate our guest,” Lucius Malfoy’s voice reached her ears and she grimaced. He had never liked her, and she doubted he would play saint right now.

“My name’s Y/N,” she said weakly, ignoring the laughs of the Death Eaters who were thrilled by her discomfort. She only recognized a few of them, having heard from Draco who they were, but some were unfamiliar, and the uncertainty of the situation she was in was starting to settle in her chest.

Lucius chucked, running a hand through his greasy blond hair, “Yes, yes, I am familiar with you. Draco, this is your little... girlfriend... is it not?”

Draco’s eyes were wide and he shook his head, tossing his hair back and forth aggressively, “No. We broke up.”

If Y/N wasn’t already devastated, she was now. Was he being honest, or was it just to get Lucius to leave her alone? The coldness in his eyes told her that it was true, but the way he was silently pleading her to leave the room also made her believe he was just trying to keep her safe.

“Ah,” Lucius nodded his head, holding his wand and twirling it through his fingers, “Then why are you here? You’re hardly Death Eater material.”

Y/N froze on the spot, having no idea what to say. Her eyes were wide, her mouth slightly open, and her entire body trembling in both fear and adrenaline.

“Isn’t it clear?” Narcissa Malfoy emerged from behind her husband, her face fierce but her eyes showing the same uneasiness as her son, “It doesn’t matter why she’s here. It matters what we do with her.”

Lucius’ smirk widened as he faced his son, “Ah, yes. Draco, would you do the honours?”

Y/N took a step backwards, wishing she could leave but knowing there was no chance of that now. Draco’s face fell and his lip opened to speak, until he was cut off by his mother once more.

“I highly doubt we should do this here. I’ll escort Draco and Miss Weasley out, we will do this privately,” Narcissa demanded, glaring at her husband, “This is a war, but have some respect for your son, Lucius.”

Narcissa approached Y/N, who was still standing rooted to the floor, face pale and hands balled up into fists so tightly that all colour had left her hands. She knew Narcissa was more fond of her than Lucius, but she didn’t think that she would be the one to force Draco to kill her.

“Come with me,” Narcissa whispered in Y/N’s ear, grabbing her wrist and pulling her out of the room. Y/N was being pulled around so quickly she didn’t have the chance to look at Draco, who was following in tow with tearful eyes.

“In here,” Narcissa pushed Y/N into a dark classroom, pulled Draco in behind her, and shut the door forcefully. Y/N was holding back hot tears, reaching into her jacket slowly to pull out her wand, prepared to defend herself if ever she was going to be attacked by one of the two people in the room with her.

“No need for that,” Narcissa snapped quietly, “I’m not going to make Draco kill you.”

Both Y/N and Draco’s heads snapped up to face her, their expressions nearly matched.

“I’m not a horrible person,” she scoffed, “I know you two need a moment. I will stand guard outside this door.”

With a swift movement, she was outside, the door shut behind her. Y/N and Draco were alone in the room, heavy breathing being the only sound either of them could hear. It felt strange being alone with him, they hadn’t really interacted or been together in such a long time. A lot had happened, and by the looks of it, Draco wasn’t exactly doing any better.

His hands were clenched around his wand, fingers white, and his eyes glued to the floor.

“The Amulet saved Fred,” Y/N spoke up first, wiping away the tears that had threatened to spill, “I wanted to say thank you for giving it to me.”

“You could have been killed,” Draco snapped, taking a seat on top of one of the desks, running his hands through his hair and then down his face, frustration laced into his features, “You know how dangerous this lot is.”

“Yes, I do know,” Y/N replied softly despite the bubbling frustration she was feeling, “But you helped me. I needed to come try and help you.”

He shook his head, locking his eyes with hers, “I gave that to you to save you. I don’t need you to return the favour.”

Y/N had gotten used to his insane stubbornness, but she was beginning to get irritated. They were in the middle of a war, this was hardly the time to get into an argument about a necklace.

“Draco, please, let me help you,” she placed her hands on his, and thankfully, he didn’t pull away like she expected him too. His hands were hot, the feeling of his skin touching hers making her entire body relax.

“How? How can I just leave them?” his voice was no longer accusatory, but gentle and vulnerable, “I want to, believe me, but I can’t. It’s too dangerous. And they’ll know you were involved.”

Sitting next to him on the desk, Y/N wrapped her hand around his shoulders and pulled him in for a hug, not thinking twice. He relaxed against her touch, resting his head against her shoulder and letting his hands fall around her waist. It was an awkward hug, considering they were sitting down, but Y/N loved it nonetheless.

She leaned into him, running her hand through his matted hair and placing her forehead against his shoulder, “It’s going to be hard, I know, but I’ll be by your side. I just want to save you the way you saved me.”

She was extremely cautious of pressuring him too much. Draco had spent his enter life being pushed into things, ordered around. When they had started dating two years before, he was careful not to let her see too much of who he was. But when he opened up, Y/N jumped at the chance to make sure he knew she would always be there. She reminded him every second of the day that all she wanted to do was help him. Watching him become a Death Eater was the hardest thing she had ever gone through — she couldn’t imagine what it was like for him.

If she wasn’t currently giving Draco her undivided attention, she would have missed the way he nodded his head softly, mumbling a quiet ‘okay.’

“Okay, good,” she pulled away from him, flashing the best smile she could muster despite the weight on her shoulders, “Your mother is outside this door. She can help us. She can tell the others that you killed me or... performed the Cruciatus curse, no?”

“I guess she could,” Draco replied, standing off the desk and standing in front of Y/N, “She told me I could make up my own mind. And I’m doing just that.”

Y/N felt her heart swell. She hopped off the desk too, linking her hand with his. He smiled softly down at her. It didn’t reach his eyes, but she could tell he really did appreciate what she was doing for him. He had never been able to actually get help before, but now that she was standing here in front of him, he couldn’t leave her.

“Come on,” she started leading him towards the door, but as she tugged on his hand, he stayed still, “Draco, what—?”

“Are you wearing the necklace?” he asked softly, eyes scanning her neck.

“Yes,” she replied, reaching under her shirt and taking it out from where she had placed it back on while running down to the Great Hall. Despite the dark room and the tense atmosphere, the jewel still glowed brightly.

Draco looked at it, his eyes softening, and pulled Y/N to him, pressing his lips against hers like she was his life source. Their lips moulded perfectly, as if everything around them ceased to exist. The distant screams could no longer be heard, and the darkness in the room seemed comfortable.

They pulled away from each other hesitantly, both of them having new found determination in their eyes.

“I think I’m ready,” Draco presses his forehead up against hers, his hand reaching to fumble with the Amulet, rolling it between his fingers, “I love you so much. And I didn’t mean it when I said we were broken up, you know.”

“I know. And I love you just as much,” Y/N replied, placing a quick kiss on his cheek, her heart soaring, and pulled her wand out of her pocket. They laced their hands together once more, walking towards the heavy door and pulling it open, ready for what was to face them.

Narcissa, looking slightly more frazzled than before, looked between them, then down to their interlaced fingers.

“I have to go,” Draco’s face was set, all trace of vulnerability he showed in the room were now gone. Y/N squeezed his hand tighter, supporting him. He squeezed back as a silent thank you.

Narcissa nodded, “I understand. Be safe, Draco.”

Draco nodded, turning to face Y/N, and proceeded to run down the hall with her by his side. Not in the direction of the Great Hall, but towards the battle, where both of them could save the place and people they grew up with. As they reached the courtyard unscathed, Draco pulled out his wand.

“Together, yeah?” he asked, clenching his jaw and gripping the wand in his hand, his other one still linked with Y/N’s.

“Yeah, together,” Y/N replied, lifting his hand to kiss his knuckles, “Let’s go win a war.”

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy imagines #draco malfoy fanfic #draco malfoy fanfics #draco malfoy oneshot #draco malfoy oneshots #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy reader insert #draco x reader #draco one shot #draco imagine

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blossom-hwa · 3 years

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Light the Pyres |Rise| - SUNGYOON

Sungyoon + mc finally start getting their shit together I'm gonna scream

Pairing: Sungyoon x gender neutral!reader

Genre: angst, bits of fluff, apocalypse!au

Triggers: cursing, implied death, semi-graphic depictions of blood

Word Count: 4.6k

As the world burns its last goodbyes, you find a jewel amidst the ashes.

Previous: Light >> Rise >> Next: Burn

Golden Child Masterlist

Walking with Sungyoon is slow.

It isn’t like you expected anything more, considering the injured leg and all. Still, as you start off down the highway, you can’t help but feel like he was walking faster yesterday when you two came back to find his family.

Maybe it was adrenaline. Worry. Fear for loved ones can give you a lot of strength.

Or maybe it’s just your imagination.

You try not to show it. You’re the one who offered to let Sungyoon come, after all. He even raised the issue of his leg before agreeing. But impatience rears its ugly little head every time Sungyoon falls behind, forcing you to slow your steps down never-ending streets and highways until he ultimately needs a break and you sit in what miniscule shade you can find.

If it wasn’t so silent, you might be able to stomach the walk better. Maybe if you and Sungyoon were on good enough terms to have a conversation, walking wouldn’t feel so endless and slow. But after you gave each other your names that night in the house, there hasn’t been much conversation other than “break?” and “let’s go.”

Daeyeol was quiet, but in a comfortable way, in a way you’d known for two decades. Sungyoon has a reserved quietude about him. Definitely not comfortable.

Though given the circumstances under which you met, that isn’t surprising.

Which is why you don’t expect Sungyoon to bring up the issue and not you. You always figured at some point you’d explode from keeping quiet too much and say things you couldn’t take back, but one week after you leave, Sungyoon opens his mouth and starts talking instead of eating the granola bar you put in his hand.

“Are you tired of walking with me?”

You blink once. Twice. You still have the presence of mind to be thankful you just took a mouthful of granola bar and have to chew and swallow before you say a thing.

“No,” you reply, lying through bits of granola stuck in your teeth.

Sungyoon raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Really.”

Indignation rises in your chest. “Well, what do you want me to say?” you snap. “Why are you even asking? What does it matter?”

He looks down. Shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, voice smaller and suddenly very tired. “I would’ve gotten tired in your position. I’m sorry.”

That just ups the guilt you feel for having those stupid thoughts. “Why are you sorry?” you say harshly, trying to disguise the emotion threatening to spill out of your mouth. “Last time I checked, doing whatever you did to your leg wasn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t land properly.”

“I was the one who told you to jump.” You grimace at the memory. “So unless you had practice in jumping off fucking buses before this all happened, I don’t see how that’s supposed to change the fact that you couldn’t control your jump from a bus taller than you.”

“I’m still slowing you down,” Sungyoon argues.

“What is this, a competition of who’s done worse?” You scoff. “In that case, if you didn’t remember, I forced you to choose between leaving your family or me killing them.”

Your words are acerbic. Grating. They burn guilty on your lips and tongue and you’re surprised Sungyoon doesn’t do anything more than swallow and look away, teeth worrying his lips. “They were already dead.”

Bitterness. Resentment. Not a lot, but just enough to tinge his words with a sickly venom that eats into your skin, filling your throat with bile. He doesn’t believe that, not yet, which you can’t even blame because you’re still trying to convince yourself it isn’t his fault that Daeyeol is dead.

Oh, God. Daeyeol.

Two bites of granola bar churn in your stomach. “I killed them anyway,” you manage, trying not to hurl.

“But I got Daeyeol killed.” Sungyoon turns, his eyes burning into yours.

Your fingers crush the remains of the granola bar still in your hand. Bits fall onto the ground, but you’re too busy focusing on a point in the distance to care, avoiding Sungyoon’s gaze for fear that you’ll launch yourself at him, claw his eyes out, throw him against the tree he’s sitting under –

Oh.

You stop throttling the granola bar.

This must be how he feels about you, too.

“Don’t tell me you don’t believe it.” Sungyoon’s voice, oblivious to your whirlwind of thoughts, is soft, bitter, but understanding. “Remember? The only reason I’m still here is because I’m living on his time.”

Bile stings in your throat, but you force yourself to lock eyes with him once more. “Yeah,” you croak. “Yeah. I do kind of believe it. But you also believe I killed your sister and her boyfriend, even if you keep saying they were already dead before I did it.”

His jaw tightens. Gaze shifts. But Sungyoon doesn’t argue.

You sigh. “I know the facts and I know it isn’t your fault, Sungyoon.” His name sounds weird on your tongue, but you push away the strange feeling and continue. “My brain just doesn’t want to believe it. Yet.” You swallow, hard. These next words better convey sincerity. “I don’t mean to act like your life only matters because Daeyeol sacrificed himself for us. It doesn’t. I do want you to stay alive if only for you to keep living. It’s just…” Another sigh. “I’m sorry.”

The truth doesn’t fall too flat, at least.

“Mine doesn’t either.” Sungyoon doesn’t raise his head, but one hand goes up to rub his downcast eyes. You fight the urge to tell him not to, that the dirt from his skin might cause an infection. “I would’ve had to kill them, one way or another. You just did it for me. Inevitable.” He looks up. “I shouldn’t blame you. I’m trying not to. Maybe I shouldn’t even have brought it up, I just didn’t want this to keep… festering.” He winces. “I’m sorry.”

“No more apologies.” You wrap up the remains of your granola bar, too drained to contemplate another bite even though you probably need it. “No more guilt. I think we’ve both done enough shit to each other to cancel most of it out.” And it feels weird. “Also, just because I’m impatient about you walking slowly doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you behind. I asked you to come. I’m not an absolute shithead. When you walk it off, you’ll be fine. Maybe we can find some bikes or something in the next city. I don’t know.”

Sungyoon blinks, then nods. Silence falls, a little less tension-filled than before. Then –

“I used to run track.”

You blink, trying to register his five word statement. It feels so out of place, but then you remember you were talking about going faster. “Were you any good?”

A brief glint of pride flashes in Sungyoon’s eyes. “One of the best.”

“Well, track boy, I guess we’ll have to wait until a horde finds us to verify that statement.” Your lips almost curve, and you feel a small bit of satisfaction as Sungyoon’s mouth twitches similarly. Morbid humor. Maybe that’s something you, him and Daeyeol have in common. “Go to sleep. I’ll take first watch.”

He sleeps, then, more quietly than you’ve ever seen him. And as his breaths begin to even, there’s a hint of the peace you used to feel when it was just you and Daeyeol instead.

It lets you pretend that things aren’t really as bad as they seem.

. . . . .

And things aren’t too bad, at least not for a while. Limping along, you and Sungyoon make it through a second week and then a third without ripping out each other’s throats. There are still infuriating flashes of fury and anger when Sungyoon does or says something that reminds you a little too much of Daeyeol, and sometimes you catch him glancing over with lips pressed together, eyes torn in grief. But it lessens. A little. Two weeks after that initial conversation, you find Sungyoon almost pleasant company. On some days, you even consider taking out the almost.

Until the horde attacks.

You and Sungyoon manage to run fast, to lose most of the zombies in a maze of abandoned buildings in a dusty city. The last few you shoot dead. When that’s over, you both breathe a sigh of relief.

Then Sungyoon faints, of all things, and when you finally drag him into one of the empty houses nearby and get him to come to, he can’t put weight on his leg without collapsing on the floor. The skin is tight, the limb swollen. Running that fast on whatever injury he had made it much worse.

Fuck.

Your hands aren’t those of a doctor, not even those of a biology major. All you can do is manipulate machines, not blood flow or heartbeats. Yours is dangerously high as you step close enough to touch his leg with trembling fingers, feeling the swelling flesh beneath your skin.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Sungyoon says when you remain silent, dropping your hands from his prone body. His voice is weak with pain but strong in anger, though whether it’s anger at you or something else you aren’t sure. “Maybe a bigger fracture.”

“How do you know?”

“Got a few injuries running track.”

You swallow. “How… how long?”

“Probably a few weeks.” He looks down.

Weeks. Several weeks. It took around two months for you and Daeyeol to make it two thirds across the country, and part of the way you were driving. On Sungyoon’s leg, you’ve only gone a third of the remaining third, if you’re being generous. Probably more like a quarter.

Three quarters of a third left. You may not have been in a math class in months, but you can still calculate that you have a quarter of the whole way to go.

A quarter. A whole damn quarter. Two or three weeks would cut that down at least by a third. A half if you moved fast enough. But now you’re stuck here for that amount of time, waiting for Sungyoon’s leg to heal.

He doesn’t say anything when you walk out of the room, doesn’t call you back when you disappear into the hall and close the door and put your head against the wall and scream, silent, as pressure builds behind your eyes to signal tears you won’t let fall.

Sungyoon definitely hears when you kick the wall. He also definitely hears your muffled grunt of pain, judging by the look he gives your foot when you walk back into the room, trying to keep the emotions off your face.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, putting your bag down with as little force as you can in the corner. “Need anything?”

He shakes his head. Swallows around what looks like a dry throat. You raise a disbelieving eyebrow and take a half empty bottle of water out of the bag, tossing it over. He catches it easily. “Don’t lie to me,” you say, successfully keeping a bite out of your tone. “If you’re thirsty, you’re thirsty. No sense in hiding it.”

Behind the bottle, Sungyoon nods. The plastic crinkles slightly in the silence as you turn back to the bag, staring at the dwindling mess left inside. Some more granola bars, two full bottles of water, a few empty bottles, clothes and a couple sheets. Sungyoon’s pack probably doesn’t have much more.

You sigh. One of you is going to have to go out and hunt for supplies and with Sungyoon’s fractured leg, it’s clear which one has to go.

There are zombies lurking everywhere. The bullets in your gun are the only ones you have left. You need ammunition, food, and water, and you have no idea where to find it.

Great.

The sun is still in the sky when you look out the window. There are three, maybe four hours left before sundown, which gives you a little time to at least scope out the neighborhood you’ve ended up in. “I’m going out,” you say, standing up. “If I’m not back in three hours, assume I’m fucked. Stay here.”

“And if you are fucked?”

The way Sungyoon says it simultaneously makes want to smile but also want to punch him in the face. Humor. It always seems to come back when you’re at your lowest points. “Then you’re fucked,” you say as flippantly as possible. “At least you have one water bottle and a granola bar to see you through a day or two.”

If you didn’t know better, you’d say you hear Sungyoon snort as you leave the room. Though it was probably just the creaking door.

. . . . .

According to your watch, you come back two hours later with several bottles of water, a scraped leg, and two less bullets in your gun. “No food or ammunition, though there’s a cafeteria where I found some water,” you announce, wincing as you sit on the floor. “And zombies are still everywhere.”

“How do you think they find us?” Sungyoon asks, disconcertedly looking at the blood you’ve started dabbing off your leg. “And how did you get that?”

You pause, a strip of sheet pressed to your skin. “I… don’t know,” you admit. “I feel like they probably can’t see very well given their weird eyes and the fact that they still bump into buildings when trying to get at us. Hearing or smell?” You shrug, pouring a tiny bit of water onto the sheet. “And I got this running away from a group. Lucky they don’t move too fast or I wouldn’t have gotten back.”

“How many bullets left?”

“Ten.”

Sungyoon sucks in a breath.

“Yeah.” You glare at your gun, as though staring will somehow bring the two bullets back. “Might need to find some other sort of weapon.”

And transport. Like a bike or a car that miraculously still has enough fuel for you to hotwire. Though that’s secondary, considering you’re stuck here until further notice.

Silence falls as you finish cleaning your wound, wrapping it behind a strip of sheet with a sigh. “Hungry?”

He doesn’t answer. You frown. “Sungyoon?”

“You could go on. Alone.”

Your lips thin. Plastic crinkles in your grip. Just in time, you drop the water bottle in your hand before it explodes over the ground. “Hungry?” you ask again, voice choking.

Sungyoon doesn’t answer.

“Okay.” It takes all of your effort not to scream or shout or shake as you place a granola bar on the floor within his reach, along with a new bottle of water to replace the empty one sitting by his feet. “I’m going to take a nap. Say something if you need anything.”

He doesn’t say anything as you curl up on the floor, resting your head on your backpack. He doesn’t say anything as you turn around to face the wall.

He doesn’t say anything as you drift into an uneasy sleep.

. . . . .

Sungyoon doesn’t have a gun. Sungyoon doesn’t have a gun or bullets and the only other weapon you have is the blunt knife hidden in your backpack and you are thankful for this, because the next few days are unnerving.

He’s silent. Barely moves, never talks. He only ever eats when you threaten to shove food down his throat and doesn’t even half-smile the way he used to when you crack a sarcastic or morbid joke.

His words don’t leave you, either. You could go on. Alone.

It isn’t as though the thought hasn’t come to mind, you’ll admit, but every time it does, you brush it away. While you might have actually considered it when you first met, Sungyoon has grown on you (even in his silence) that you don’t feel comfortable with the idea of leaving him behind, even if he’s the one who brings it up.

You saw the loneliness and fear in his eyes that day you buried the bodies. You heard the emptiness in his voice when he said he didn’t have anywhere to go. You offered to let him come. You held out that offer even when he reminded you about his leg. Even a few weeks ago, when you were still restraining yourself from ripping out his throat every time he did something that reminded you too much of Daeyeol, you wouldn’t have rescinded your offer and left him alone unless he’d done something absolutely unforgivable. Which he never did.

So you won’t consider it. Even if it means taking longer to get to your mom. Beyond the fact that it just isn’t right, what would she say if she knew you abandoned someone you offered to take along?

But Sungyoon only ever speaks to bring it up, and every time, you pretend he never said anything. If you actually respond, you’re pretty sure it’ll deteriorate into either a yelling match or one of you just leaving the room. And considering Sungyoon can’t move, the one who leaves will be you.

The mental energy required for this conversation is too much for you to deal with right now.

But then you come back from a trip outside, limping on a re-bloodied leg and clutching a sheet to your bleeding arm an hour later than you told Sungyoon you’d be back. It’s dark when you enter the room, but the faint moonlight is just bright enough for you to see that the bed is empty and that the lump of Sungyoon is now on the floor.

The sheet drops from your hand.

“Sungyoon!”

A cracked cough sounds from the ground and you rush forward, ignoring the pain in your own limbs to lift him back up onto the bed. “What happened?” you ask, squinting into the darkness at where you think his leg is. “Did you make your leg worse?”

“You were late,” Sungyoon wheezes.

Frustration rises in your chest when he doesn’t answer the question, but you only nod tersely. “I had to hide for a while,” you say, trying to check his leg in the dark. “I’m sorry. But what were you doing?”

He still doesn’t answer. “Are you bleeding?”

“Sungyoon!” you snap, straightening. Your drop your bleeding arm and put weight on your injured leg, ignoring the resulting pain. “Answer me!”

“Why don’t you just leave?” Sungyoon half yells, burying his face in his hands. “Why are you injuring yourself because of me? I’m a nobody, I got your literal best friend killed, and now I’m preventing you from finding your mom –”

“SHUT UP!”

Sungyoon snaps his mouth shut. Swallowing hard, you do too, waiting for deadened groans to surround the house. Stupid, stupid, why did you yell? Keep your goddamn temper, will you?

One minute. Two. Five.

You finally let yourself breathe. “Are you done?” you snarl in a hushed whisper. “Are you fucking done?”

“Not until you either leave me here or give me a reasonable explanation as to why you still keep me around!”

“Do you think I’m heartless?” Your bag lands on the ground with a thud and you sit heavily beside it, giving in to the stinging of scrapes on your skin. “Do you seriously still think –”

“No, I think you’re stupid,” Sungyoon snaps.

“Stupid for what? Keeping you around when I’m the one who asked if you wanted to come along?” you retort. “It’s called basic human decency, Sungyoon!”

“And leaving me behind would be called the basic right decision for you!”

You scoff. “The right decision? Trading a human life for a week or two of time is the right decision?”

“You want to go and find your mom!” Sungyoon yells. “I’m only keeping you behind! We don’t even know each other – what even makes sense here?”

Everything in you wants to scream again that it’s not right, it’s not fucking right until you get it through Sungyoon’s thick skull, but just enough sense remains in your brain to force you to shut up and think.

Think. Why is he so set on this? And why are you so set on the opposite?

Guilt. He feels guilty that he’s keeping you behind. Which – understandable, if you calm down enough to think about it.

But how would you feel if you left him behind?

Unpleasant emotion rises in your chest. Guilt, horror, even pain at the thought of leaving Sungyoon. It’s alien – you’ve only felt this way about Daeyeol before he died, and certainly not around the few other travelers you met for brief moments on the way home, but somewhere along the way, Sungyoon has become a semblance of a companion.

A lump fills your throat. You think you know how Daeyeol felt, now, every time he heard or saw someone in need.

“You feel guilty,” you say slowly, leaning back against the wall. “Which I get. I think.”

“How –”

“Let me talk,” you interrupt, glaring. He probably can’t see it very clearly in the dark, but at least he shuts up. “You feel guilty for keeping me behind. Which I get, because a month ago I would barely have had second thoughts about moving on without you.”

He doesn’t even flinch. “As you should.”

“Will you quit it?” you snap. “If you feel guilty, think about how I would feel if I left you behind! You think I wouldn’t feel guilty? Instead of wallowing in your fucking guilt, try and think of me!”

And miraculously, Sungyoon falls silent.

“If you were in my position,” you continue, more softly, “what do you think you’d feel? If I asked you to leave me behind? Maybe I wouldn’t grudge you for it, but would you grudge yourself?”

Sungyoon remains quiet.

“It’s humanity,” you say, staring up at the ceiling. Daeyeol, I understand now. “It’s part of being human. I couldn’t leave you behind, not at this point when you can still be helped.” You swallow, tears pricking at your eyes. “I’m not selfish enough to do otherwise.”

And as the silence continues, stretching as light fades in the window, you relax against the wall even with blood still trickling down your skin and onto the forgotten sheet. The last of your frustration sloughs away, the bitterness of blame and guilt gone from your throat.

Because you understand. You understand why Daeyeol tried to save everyone he could. You understand why he would risk his life to save a boy whose name he didn’t even know. You understand the guilt he would’ve felt if he didn’t try, didn’t lift a single finger to help, even if it meant possibly losing his life in the process.

You aren’t at that level. You may never be. You probably never will reach Daeyeol’s heights of selflessness, the quality you always admired him for. But you can understand this much.

It isn’t Sungyoon’s fault. It never was. As much as your brain wanted to believe it, it was no one’s fault – not Daeyeol’s for being selfless, not yours for failing to notice the zombie, not Sungyoon’s for being in trouble and needing help.

Not his fault. Not his fault. Not his fault. With every repetition, the three words grow clearer in your mind, a clear truth rather than a blurry mess you have to force yourself to decipher through gritted teeth every time they play in your head. It isn’t his fault.

It never was.

You blink a few tears away from your eyes, lowering your head to stare at Sungyoon’s dark body on the bed. “Let me see your leg,” you say softly, tongue free of the taste of blame. “You probably hurt it, falling off the bed.”

Sungyoon doesn’t protest, just lets you make your way over to the bed. Pale moonlight guides your hands as they skim over the swollen flesh. “It doesn’t hurt more,” he says, voice small.

“Doesn’t seem that much worse than yesterday,” you agree, pulling back. “You’re lucky. I didn’t run track, but I’m pretty sure falling isn’t supposed to do wonders for a fracture.” You frown. “What were you even doing when I got back, anyway?”

“You were late,” Sungyoon says. “By over an hour. I tried to see if I could find you.”

Something in your heart cracks at the tinge of fear in his words. He hides it well, but you can still detect the terror that frays his voice. It was in yours every time Daeyeol came back so much as a minute later than he told you, and in his every time you returned with a single scrape or cut on your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again, sitting on the floor. Your back presses against the bed. If you looked up, you could probably meet Sungyoon’s eyes, but exhaustion weighs your head and limbs. “I got chased by a few zombies and had to barricade myself in a building before they finally left. When I decided it was safe to go, they apparently hadn’t left, and I fell a few times trying to escape.”

Sungyoon sucks in a breath. “Didn’t you have your gun?”

“Too close quarters.” You shudder at the memory. “I didn’t have enough space to pull it out. Easier to just outrun them.”

Silence falls as you try to shake off the feeling of cold, dead hands trying to grab at your arm. Then Sungyoon sighs. “I’m sorry for pressing you,” he whispers, so soft you almost don’t hear him. “I just don’t like being useless. Or when I’m holding people back.”

You purse your lips. You can commiserate. But how do you make Sungyoon understand that he isn’t useless, even if his leg is costing you time?

“Think about it like this,” you finally say. “If it wasn’t for you, I might’ve gone insane by now. Might not even be alive. I don’t do well when I’m completely alone in my thoughts, especially not when I’m stressed.”

“Extroverted?”

“Not exactly.” You sigh. “Just… I sometimes spiral. And if I don’t have someone nearby me in those moments, I don’t make the best decisions.”

“… We never exactly talked much.”

“Just a presence helps,” you clarify. “Knowing someone’s there is enough. And…” Might as well be out with it. “I was scared of being alone. Terrified. Still am.” You swallow. “Even if it’s silent company, it means a lot to me.”

Sungyoon remains silent for a moment. You almost think you’ve said too much before he speaks. “Me too,” he mumbles. “I was scared, too. Of being alone.”

A pang of guilt resonates in your chest. “I’m sorry –”

“No apologies, right?” Sungyoon breaks in, reminding you of the conversation from just weeks ago. “It’s not your fault. I know that now.”

He does. A sharp certainty edges his words, still inlaid with sadness but free of bitter blame and anger. He has finally reconciled your actions with reality, the same way you’ve reconciled him and Daeyeol, too. And even if you still feel the weight of two murders on your hands, the knowledge that he doesn’t blame you anymore lifts your heart, just slightly.

“I guess I was afraid you would leave on your own terms, once you realized how much I was holding you back,” Sungyoon mumbles. “So I tried to make you go first. I thought if I was the one who made you leave…”

“Well, you can’t get rid of me now.” You lift your head to give him a lopsided smile. “I’m still here, Sungyoon. Doesn’t matter how bad your leg is, I’ll be with you until it heals and then some. Okay?”

“Okay,” Sungyoon breathes. Then – “Thank you for staying. And forgiving me.”

A small, genuine smile replaces the lopsided expression you wore before. “Thank you for forgiving me too.”

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for enduring forgiveness :))

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applsauss · 3 years

Text

Nar Shaddaa

Description: Eager to leave this moment behind, for Rex’s sake, you knock your fist against his pauldron, then make your way out of the alley before he might start to think he owes you any explanation.

Fandom: Star Wars

 Pairing: CT-7567 (Rex)/Reader

Word Count: 4.3k+

Warning(s): Violence.

Worlds like Nar Shaddaa are hollowed out husks of planets, built of nothing but levels upon levels of durasteel and deprivation. Each floor is more crowded than the last and--the neon, the stench, the never-ending noise of civilization--it all presses against your temples to the point of a steady, blurry ache. What’s worse, however, is the uncomfortable emptiness that festers in the air, collects in the deadened streets, like Nar Shadda’s dead core hallows the miles of empty space beneath the maze of scaffolding and walkways.

The quarry ahead of you splashes through a deep puddle, the water violently disturbed by the chase, and you’re eager to follow her through the filth. The Corellian Sector, a den of criminal activity and a smuggler’s haven, blurs into nothing as you train your eyes on your quarry’s back, your thoughts overwhelmed with the need to sink your teeth into prey.

You grimace as the water splashes up your greaves--distantly you loathe the time you know it will take to clean Nar Shaddaa off your beskar once you’re back aboard the Beholder--but you keep pushing yourself full tilt, boots hitting the ferrocrete hard, Rex on your heels, his breath down your neck.

You round another sharp bend, your boots skidding out and your knuckles brushing against the ground as you catch your weight. The skies open up, fat droplets of rainwater begin hitting the ground by your feet, and the heavy sound barely registers over your ragged breath inside your helmet.

The skyscrapers rise up around you, Nar Shaddaa is a veritable concrete jungle you observe only through your peripherals, and it rains and rains and rains something awful--something greasy. The rainwater slicks the walkways and pours down your helmet like a brothy soup.

It is twilight, and yet the planet of Nal Hutta still glows a pale yellow-green above your head, claiming half the sky for its own. You catch sight of it in the black puddles at your feet until the chase leads you through them, and then the planet disappears in a series of violent ripples.

Ahead of you, a crowd gathered at the entrance of a nightclub begins to shove each other forward under the awning to get away from the rain. The quarry takes advantage of that confusion by pushing right through to the middle until your visor’s digital interface loses track of her.

You huff, then sprint into the crowd without pause, slaloming your way through the gaps between the patrons while Rex barrels through them behind you, shoving people aside by their shoulders. “I lost her!” you tell Rex, voice clipped when an elbow jams under your chestplate and into your exposed ribs.

The quarry probably changed shape again. You bite back the distaste, bitter in your mouth, as you reflect on how you loathe hunting clawdites in moments like these--their shape-shifting abilities coming around to bite you in the ass at the least opportune moments.

You keep on forward, placing blind trust on the tracking fob as your visor’s digital interface continues to unsuccessfully scan the crowded street for the quarry’s unique chain code.

“With the red hat--” Rex grunts as he bursts clear from the crowd, and suddenly his arm is in your field of vision as he points towards a humanoid. The figure turns and sprints down the nearest alley, in the direction of the skyslums. Your eyes meet hers briefly, and you recognise the fearful look of a cornered animal when you see one.

You take off after the red hat as it disappears into the darkness, your heart pounding in your ears and beskar on your tongue. The exertion touches on something you do not feel except for in the heat of battle. There is a certain amount of enjoyment you find in struggle, in that reminder that you are alive, because to fight is to be alive.

You pass by a vent and it stinks of Nar Shadda’s dead core. The smell fills your helmet and your curse yourself for ever coming back to this place despite your vow to never take another job here again. Rex had even agreed at the time, groused about the sludge on his boots and told you he’d rather be marooned on Jakku without water than have to clean the greasy rain off anything for a fourth time.

And yet here the two of you are, poking around Nar Shaddaa’s filth once more--after a clawdite, no less. Why Rex would ever accept this bounty puck is beyond you. You make a mental note to give him shit for it when you get the chance.

The chase leads you deeper into the Corellian Sector. You follow the trail of the clawdite’s cloak for two more alleys, and after clipping the corner of a dumpster with your tasset, Rex overtakes you. The puddles are deeper in the alleys, where the rainwater pools on the uneven ferrocrete, and are non-existent where the solid ground below you disappears until you’re left running across slick, rackety grates spanning massive pits.

Your lungs burn with your ragged breaths, and Rex seems to be reaching the limit of his tolerance. He unclasps one of his blasters from where it was secured at his thigh, and you follow suit, pulling out your disruptor pistol and gripping it tight.

“You’re faster than me. Flank and I’ll chase her ‘round towards you,” Rex suggests. He points towards an alley off to your right, and without responding, you slide to a stop on the wet ground, boots slipping across the gritty ferrocrete, then take off down the alley Rex had gestured to, his judgement unquestioned.

Unable to help yourself, you throw one last, careless, look over your shoulder toward your partner and watch as he sprints past without pause, breath steaming from out the sides of his respirator, the glow of the neon from an errant street sign silhouetting his tall frame.

It is…something else. You blink and that vision is gone, replaced by the dark alley in front of you as you leap over the legs of something dead and kick a spice container so it skids across the ground and collides with the wall.

You can taste your heart in your mouth, your lungs are cranking air in and out like a machine, and your muscles are screaming with savage energy. You feel the power of your body all bunched up as you single-mindedly pursue your quarry-and it is only the only thought in your mind except for those of Rex.

You shake your head to rid yourself of that nagging notion when your comlink pips, the light flashing in your peripherals. Rex’s gravelly voice pours through. “Quarry’s headed your way, towards Hutta Town.”

“Roger, roger,” you whisper under your breath, a dog grin working its way onto your lips, carried away once more by the thrill of the hunt. There is something in your head that craves this, the only crop sowed, watered, and growed by Mandalorians.

You glance down at the map projected from your vambrace, then turn on your heel so you’re headed towards Hutta Town. The sudden change of direction has you slipping across the oil-slick ground and slamming into the wall of a building, your disruptor pistol clicking and scraping across the rough material. You push yourself off, then take off down the intersection, racing the quarry to Hutta Town and trusting that she and Rex are somewhere behind you, out of sight, unknowing.

When you see the beginnings of Hutta Town proper, you duck down behind the nearest dumpster, your disruptor pistol clutched to your chest, the muzzle reaching just past the edges of your visor. You ping Rex with your location.

Your helmet is illuminated with technicolor neon and the pale glow of Nal Hutta from above, the planet like the sickly yellow disk of a searchlight fixed above your head.

You can hear the comings and goings of Hutta Town from where you wait inside the alley, that den of criminal activity bustling with life at all times of the day and night and those stolen moments in between.

When you are hidden in the shadows, in that safe in between, there is almost something peaceful about it--but then you remember the Hutts and that peace falls through your fingers like the roving sands of Tatooine.

The Hutts won’t take kindly to a disturbance from an outsider, let alone someone covered head to toe in precious beskar. No...best to finish this job now. Quickly. Quietly. Without struggle or drawing attention to yourselves.

The rain continues to hit your helmet and pauldrons, that slick, sickening sludge beginning to seep through the thick material of your flightsuit. Your breath is loud in the cage of your helmet, barely fogging the bottom of your T-visor thanks to its careful anti-fog treatment, and Nar Shaddaa’s rotten-egg stench begins to work its way through your air filters.

Regardless of the discomfort, you stay crouched, ready to leap from cover, disruptor pistol in tow, to catch the quarry in your deadly sights. You don’t need a scope to be accurate, even at a distance--though it doesn’t matter much because most quarries freeze at the sight of your pistol--the threat of disintegration worse than any jail-time they might face otherwise. There is a reason the Empire banned the weapon, and there is a reason Mandalorians are known to carry them.

You feel yourself begin to relax in the lull of the wait, and so you train your breathing to be fast and shallow, forcing yourself to remain alert. The rain blurs your vision through your visor, and you reach up to drag the fabric of your tunic over the transparisteel, but it only blurs your vision farther, the greasy rain sticking and streaking across your beskar. After what feels like a lifetime, you hear distant shouting.

“It’s useless to run!” Rex’s voice bounces down the alley, rising over the quiet hum of activity in this section of Nar Shadda. He is panting heavily. “We’ve got your tracking fob. You have nowhere...to go where we...won’t find you!”

You feel adrenaline surge through you once again, your heart racing, your ears straining for any sign your helmet’s audio filters might pick up, for the right moment to leap from your hiding spot. Time slows, you swear you can see the rain falling pause midair--and then you hear uneven, panicked footsteps slapping on oil-slick ferrocrete just behind you.

Without restraint or hesitation, you leap up and spin around, disruptor pistol loaded and held out in front of you as the target continues to barrel forward without thought, gaze thrown back over her shoulder, terrified of Rex.

When the quarry finally sees you, she tries to stop herself but ends up skidding across a puddle and landing hard on her back. “Oh, kriff!” The clawdite cries out as her feet kick uselessly across the slick ground. Her disguise falls away to her original form, almost reptilian in nature, and the glow of her yellow eyes is pitiful as she opens and closes her mouth, unable to react to your sudden appearance.

You stalk forward, pistol trained on the quarry. She raises her hands up, submissive, eyes glazed over in fear. Her forked tongue peaks out to wet her lips before she seals her mouth shut and gulps.

You watch her from behind your disruptor pistol, the charged, yellow glow of the bolt in the chamber making the rain reflect the light around you. The neon from Hutta Town is at your back, casting your dark shadow over the clawdite.

“P-p-please!” she begs, and you wonder if she’s crying. You can’t tell because of the dark and the rain. Her hair is plastered to her forehead and her clothes hang off her bones, heavy and slick. Her kind was never meant for this climate.

You clench your teeth and rock back onto your heels, the comedown from an adrenaline high always difficult. Your breathing deepens as you focus on calming yourself. She’s not much of a threat anymore, cornered and caught...pathetic, even, though you suspect it’s an act. You don’t have much sympathy for a bail-jumper wanted on multiple charges of extortion, armed robbery and first-degree murder.

You hear Rex rapidly approaching, and so does the quarry, who grows more twitchy and bothered as she can’t seem to decide who she’s more terrified of, Rex’s intimidating size, or the silhouette of armor that could only belong to a Mandalorian. Her eyes dart frantically from the disruptor pistol, to your beskar face, to her peripherals as she desperately searches for an opening that does not exist.

With Rex now close enough to grab her if she decides to bolt, you reach behind your back for your magnacuffs, and the clawdite reels back at the movement, her eyes drawing to the size of dinner plates.

“I-I swear! I swear I don’t know anything about the Vigilance!” she squeaks, blinking up at you through the now-torrential downpour. The wet seeps through your flightsuit and drips down your back, tacky and cold. “I didn’t even--I sold the data and I never even looked at it!”

You pause, tilting your head to the side, and lower your disruptor pistol a millimeter to get an unimpeded look at her face. “What Vigilance?”

In your peripherals, the movement of Rex’s feet shuffling back catches your attention, and something heavy settles in your gut when you glance up only to find him staring at the clawdite as if she’s just stuck a vibroblade between his ribs. Above the edge of his respirator, his eyes are wide, the whites shining in the light with something like muddied fear.

His expression makes your stomach twist. It doesn’t look right on his face. A fierce protectiveness balls in your chest, and with it you narrow your eyes and raise your disruptor pistol again, glaring down the barrel at the quarry.

“What do you know about the Vigilance?” you demand, despite having no clue what she’s talking about.

“Nothing!”

“No,” you spit out harshly, taking a step toward the clawdite. You discreetly peek up at Rex to gage his expression, then continue when you find it chilled and unchanged. Your voice drips with a dark threat. “You’re lying.”

The clawdite looks as if she’s going to remain silent, so you raise your hackles and square your shoulders to appear bigger, your shadow falling farther across her, engulfing her. She balls her knees up and panics. “It’s a--a Venator-class Star Destroyer! A Jedi Cruiser!”

You remind her of your disruptor pistol by waving it in her face. “And?”

“I-It’s in the Taris system! That’s all I know! It crashed on one of the moons, there’s a mass grave outside it and it had a jedi on it--that’s why the Empire wants to know where it’s at so bad!”

Your act drops at the mention of the Empire, gone and replaced with true malice. “Why would the Empire be after a downed Destroyer--”

“A jedi?” Rex chokes out.

His sudden interjection has you jerking your chin up to check his expression, worry flooding your thoughts at the sound of his broken voice--smaller than you’ve ever heard it before. The distraction proves to be a mistake, however.

There is the sound of something scraping across the ferrocrete, and you look back down just as the quarry throws her leg up to kick your disruptor pistol away. You instinctively squeeze the trigger, your reaction time faster than your thoughts, but it’s too late. The yellow disruptor bolt fizzles on the wall of the building two stories above your head, and you only have half a second to thank the Maker it didn’t hit Rex.

The clawdite seizes forward, the dull hum of a vibroblade registering in your ears, and then it’s over. The quarry gasps, then crumples onto the floor at your feet, revealing Rex standing behind her, the barrel of his blaster still smoking.

With the danger past, you click your tongue and kick the vibroblade away as Rex slips his blaster back into its holster and kneels over the quarry, who is clutching at the singed edges of the hole in her side. He injects the sleep agent into the clawdite’s neck, then begins searching her pockets.

The rain continues to fall. It covers everything in a filth unlike any other, creating deposits where the gutters spill over, greasy stalagmites growing on the ferrocrete. You squint at the street at the end of the alley, but the rain blurs the lights, making them fuzzy apparitions that flicker when people pass in front.

Your thoughts turn to Rex, as they tend to do the closer and longer you work with him. You know he is a man haunted by something. It is in the way he carries himself, a man hollowed out, unsure of how he’s supposed to put one foot in front of the other. He has the same caution a womp rat does after getting kicked in the face one too many times.

But you’ve never pressed him on his past and you’re not going to start now. He doesn’t question your silence, your creed, and he’s never once given you reason to doubt him. You’ve even...for the time you’ve known him, you’ve grown to consider him a friend.

You crane your neck up to try and find the scuff mark your disruptor bolt might have made on the building, but catch a glimpse of Nall Hutta instead. You bite back your dislike for the planet, and turn back to Rex as he appears at your side, the quarry slung over his shoulder.

He holds out a stack of credit chips for you to take, probably previously belonging to the quarry, and you pocket them, then ask pointlessly, “Is she alive?”

Rex catches your eyes with his for a moment, then glances away, something like guilt swimming in his expression. “Yeah.”

Eager to leave this moment behind, for Rex’s sake, you knock your fist against his pauldron, then make your way out of the alley before he might start to think he owes you any explanation.

***

You’re both sitting on stools under an awning at some hole-in-the-wall cantina as it continues to pour on Nar Shaddaa. Your quarry is slumped at your feet in the sludge, unconscious, with her hands cuffed behind her back. Her weight against your leg is reassurance of the payment you’ll receive once you turn her over to the guild.

Someone trudging past in a poncho lifts his head, eyes squinted as he glares at Rex, but you pull out your disruptor pistol and slap it on the tabletop before he can say anything. At the threat, the togruta dips his head down and continues past without comment.

You don’t know why some people so vehemently hate Rex, and you’ve never asked him about it except for in passing, more in an attempt to lighten the mood than anything else. At the time, he’d only shrugged, but after you suggested he wear a helmet or a mask if it becomes an issue for him, he went out and bought a respirator at the next port you docked in.

His respirator is now hanging around his neck, however, and he’s nursing some type of steaming drink. You didn’t pay much attention as he ordered it from the rusty droid tending the bar, instead watching the holonews playing on one of the viewscreens inside the cantina.

There was another terrorist attack in the outer rim--but not in Mandalorian space, so it doesn’t interest you much. Terrorists, separatists, rebels--they are all one in the same, and you care little about what causes they fight for.

The Republic was the Republic, the Empire is the Empire, and what comes next will be what comes next. It makes no difference what name an inefficient government uses because it will only ever be that.

No one has ever fought for Mandalore except for Mandalorians, and so you have little qualms abandoning the galaxy that first abandoned you.

The lamp above your head is out, and so light pours out of the cantina and over your table, technicolor and without order. You blink down at the transparisteel of the table, then look away, the colors sticking to the backs of your eyelids.

Rex is sitting in the shadow of all that light, his bleached hair shimmering like starlight, the same as the whites of his eyes. It is a struggle not to look at him, and so you give into that desire, your helmet tilted toward the street as you observe him from the corner of your eye.

Your heart is alive with worry for him, the same as your thoughts. You try to think of all the possible lives he could have led to bring him to this moment, but your mind draws a blank. You’ve only ever known him now.

The quarry’s words ring in your ears, but you quash whatever questions you might have before you can think them. You draw a greasy finger across the transparisteel tabletop, then look back across the street.

It is filthy, with trash piling up along the walls and near flooded with rainwater. The alleys are thrust into the harsh shadows of the night, and only a sliver of Nal Hutta’s yellow disk is still visible in the sky.

The downpour is still heavy, trapping you and Rex under the small awning until the deluge is finished with. And so you wait on this miserable trash heap of a moon, the wet stench of decay filling your helmet, the air filters beyond useless after so many hours.

It is miserable and cold and Rex looks particularly unapproachable now that he is six feet of sopping wet, sleep-deprived bounty hunter. The shadows on his face make him look dangerous, though you know enough to understand that that’s not all he is.

Another passerby eyes your bounty, Rex, or they’re wondering how much of a hassle it would be to try and peel your beskar off you. Rex shifts on his stool, however, and that movement has them skittering along the street without so much as a second glance.

Rex is a good deterrent. Usually, the T-shaped visor and concave cheeks of your helmet is enough to dissuade anyone from approaching you, but Rex is an added lethality that lifts the weight that rests over your shoulders just a bit.

The hyper-focused fog of paranoia clears just enough for you to let your eyes close, and you can pretend you’re somewhere else--maybe back on Concordia, with the smell of metal in the air and the rustling of the sparse foliage--Mandalore, a chalk-white disc in the sky, a reminder of the lengths to which war can drag a planet, a reminder of what you fight for.

Concordia is very much the Nar Shaddaa to Mandalore’s Nal Hutta, a lawless and wild moon--though there is something beautiful in Concordia, in its torn landscape, in the grass taking root anew, and in the trees, young and sickly, growing back after so many generations of ruin. It is wild because nature is savage, something to be revered and feared and revelled in.

Nar Shaddaa is lawless because it lacks morality. Truth, honor, and vision.

The rain slows to a stop, a couple fat droplets falling on the flooded street, and Rex tips back the last of his drink. People begin to poke their heads out of windows and doorways, cautiously making their way back out into the uncomfortably silent night as the rain dissipates, and a cold fog rolls across the ground, licking up at your knees.

Eyes watch you from the alleys, blinking owlishly in the darkness, and both you and Rex stand at once.

He secures his respirator, then hefts the quarry over his shoulder, and you follow just a step behind him, your disruptor pistol held at your side, a casual threat you won’t hesitate to make good on.

As you begin to make your way back to the Beholder, you feel that emptiness reverberate in the ferrocrete beneath your boots. It nags you once more, warns you of some perceived danger, and you balance on the edge of alertness, just above the raging sea of paranoia below.

Nar Shaddaa is hollow and empty of everything worthwhile, the meeting point of all types of depravity. Coruscant is the same. You won’t be able to relax until you’re safe in the cradle of hyperspace, headed away from this place for what you truly hope will be the last time.

Rex’s figure cuts through the fog in front of you, and your boots sink into the filth as you follow close behind, your kama trailing behind you. That smell again--the dead core of this shell of a moon, floods your mouth, and this time it tastes like the metal of your own blood.

Dread floods your body, this feeling unmatched by anything else--the emptiness of this world and all worlds like it sending you reeling, and the only thing that keeps you together is the beskar you’ve wrapped yourself in.

Your eyes refocus on the profile of Rex’s face as he checks on you over his shoulder. His eyes meet yours through your visor--they seem to find yours more easily the longer he sticks around--and you release the shuddering breath that’d built up in your throat.

You tilt your helmet away, but let your eyes linger on the sharp angles of his face until he turns back to the path ahead of him.

Something tugs you toward him by the heart. You grip your chestplate, fingers slipping across that Beskar Heart emblem embedded in its center, then you pull your slimy gloves away and bury the feeling, resolving to think harder on it once you’re no longer being followed by two trandoshans who think they’ll be lucky enough to steal your bounty from you.

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alicemitch09writes · 4 years

Text

be careful what you wish for

pairing: Prince!Sakusa Kiyoomi x Historian!Reader

summary: He didn’t mean to wish you away. He never did. labyrinth AU.

author’s notes: i have the vaguest idea of labyrinths, just depending only on what I already know from literature class and the fics I read. Also, this was an excuse to make said AU, aaaaaaaaaand because I'm a sucker for angst, I wanted to delve and write into this. Mwahahaha This turned out longer than I expected it to be, and I'm worried if I was able to deliver what I wanted to deliver. Eugh. The fact that reader is the adoptive siblings to the Miyas was an accident, because that was intended for another fic but decided to scrap that idea entirely because I have OTHER WIP fics to worry about first. Heh. Finally, I went for Sakusa because I love him and he kinda fits the general idea of this kinda angst (which was inspired by a prompt list for bakudeku originally lol). Also, if the last part seems rather rushed, sorry it's 12:59am here and I want to sleep yet I want to finish this bc I have a lotta other fics to work on.

also available on ao3.

He wished you away. Prince Kiyoomi actually wished you away.

Which was probably for the best, since, in his words were “you’ve been nothing but a hindrance, a pest” and you've been nothing but pathetic, contributing to little with your history and books, doing little to help prosper the kingdom.

And now, here you were: forever stuck in this maze-like dungeon, guarded by a hulking beast for all of eternity.

Fact remains: your first love actually wished you away.

And away you went to some castled walls, far from the kingdom you grew up in, away from civilization, far and away. Away, away, away from it all. Away from him.

Cold, numb, and hollow, tears blurred and streamed down your face through the monster's running, never letting go as you helplessly watch your kingdom shrink from view.

Then he stopped, your tears halted, heart in your throat. Arriving in your destination, it was a surprise when the monster put you down gently, huffing down at you, before leaving you to your lonesome.

(E/c) eyes slowly took in the room you were in - a wide room, marbled floors, fizzled candles in elegant stands, a plush-lookng canopy bed in the middle, with draperies made from the finest silk, there was an antechamber connecting to a library filled to the brim with books, another antechamber leading to a bath. It was a lot to take in. And strangely enough, it looked like it was waiting for a host to live in.

Shaken and raw from the events that occurred, it was only the sound of clanging iron doors that brought you out of your stupor, rushing towards the doors, shaking, banging, yelling helplessly, and begging to be free.

Huffing lowly the horned-monster disappeared into the corners of darkness, your cries falling on deaf ears.

The first few nights were spent crying.

Crying for you missed your books. Crying for you missed your apprentice and students. Crying because you missed your friends in the palace. Crying because you missed that little boy who sneaks into your room, begging for stories of time beyond him. Crying because you missed Big Brother Osamu, checking in to ensure there was something in your stomach. Crying because you missed fighting with Big Brother Atsumu. Crying because you missed chatting with Motoya. Crying because you missed the handsome visage, the aloof, sarcastic, cutting, yet gracefulness of your dear friend - Kiyoomi.

Crying because he wished you away, far, far away.

Night and day, you spent crying. So many tears were shed, too many had been dried up. Not only did you cry on the outside, but so were you on the side. Your whimpering echoing through your empty prison. Your throat had been hoarse from being used up, wailing for nobody.

Nobody was there to hear you cry, nor were there people to console you.

Alone.

Alone did you cry, alone did you suffer.

Denying everything and anything that was happening to you.

Why you? Why? What had you done? All you did was research on the country's past, pouring hours and hours in your books, often writing drafts and exchanging theories and discoveries - was that so wrong? Why you? You didn't deserve this! No! No!!!!!!!

You could deny your destiny all you want but at the end of the day, you were still imprisoned and by your lonesome. You were here. Nobody else. You.

Denying didn't change the fact that this was your reality now.

And soon, denial bled into acceptance.

Resigning to your hate, you could only feel tears start anew.

You were never to see your family again, let alone leave and see the outside world.

You would never see little Romero again.

You would never gush with your apprentice again about new discoveries and strategies, nor have educational debates with visiting historians.

You would never delight in sweets with the older Sakusas for afternoon tea.

You would never laugh with Motoya again.

You would never see Kiyoomi again.

With a heavy heart, you accepted it.

But it doesn't mean it'll hurt any less, the same way that it didn’t change the fact that your first love, the second Prince of Itachiyama, wished you away.

He didn’t mean to wish you away. He never did. It was just a rash thing he said because he was tired of people prying into his personal life, of people making decisions for him, and probably his fear and frustration that you were slipping away from him.

His status as the crowned prince meant that a lot was expected from him, even though his older brother was expected to inherit the throne. But his brother was never one for battle - too focused on politics and his people, neither was his sister - who fared better in navigation, so Kiyoomi was set to become the commander of the Royal Guard. It was a given since he born and bred for it. His skill and strategic mind were not to be underestimated, as he's led the kingdom to many victories and earned the respect of kings, generals, nobles, and soldiers. His prominent fame eventually caught on different aspects of his life, so it was only a matter of time before marriage was brought into the discussion.

Try as he might, he was a royal and these were inevitable. That doesn't mean he likes people prying into his private life, disliked it even more, when they began to question his relationships - especially with you, the royal historian.

A well-regarded historian, who practiced a bit of politics, you were someone he sought before deciding to go to war or for just a friendly debate over philosophy and strategies. What you thought of his strategies mattered a lot to him, he held your opinions over anyone's in the castle - even to his own parents. It wasn't to say because you were childhood friends, but he recognized your abilities as a historian. You did a lot of things, aside from chronicling the day-to-day life of royals. You were unique, for you were keen on gaining knowledge and voiced your ideas and opinions, never fearful and always respectable to whoever you were talking to.

That, and because of your closeness, became the reason that you became a target for many, for them to keep an eye on you. Sakusa knew this, tried to let it die. But the crowned prince had been too naive to the workings of twisting tales.

And then, marriage proposals were coming in. Left and right, people were badgering him. Not a moment's rest when they were on the brink of war for god's sake! He was not interested, leaving the proposals unanswered for all he cared.

One summer's night, a ball had been prepared to celebrate the foundation of their kingdom. As expected, visiting dignitaries and royals were invited.

("Chatterboxes who don't really have a place in this palace except a name," he'd mutter under his breath, you laugh at his comment.)

As the royal historian, you were expected and had been dressed in the finest clothes, a gift from his older sister - who absolutely fawned and adored you. Dressed in his royal robes, he felt the need to get on his knees, undeserving to be in the presence of such beauty.

In a sea full of royals and socialites, you were the prettiest thing he has ever laid eyes on, easily besting and outshining everyone.

This was the one night he was supposed to tell you how he felt about you, social status be damned, he only cared and has eyes for you and you alone.

In hushed whispers, gossip crept through the castle walls, snaking its way to each and every ear, poising and tainting their image of you. People began talking, eyes darting between him and the unsuspecting girl, who was laughing with an ambassador.

Suddenly, the whispers reached his ears, tainting his thoughts.

"Kiyoomi?" you whispered, tone laced with worry. Discreetly following after him when he pulled away from speaking with some ambassadors, you brought with you a goblet filled with water, fingers splaying over. "Are you alright?"

At the sight of you, he relaxed. Slightly. "No," bringing his fingers to his face, he massaged at his throbbing temples.

Taking a step closer, you held out the water, which he took graciously and took a small sip, eyes gazing out into the night with you next to him, not saying a word.

Behind you two, the loud music and fanfare went about. Camaraderie abounded inside that ballroom, glitz, and glamour just filling and living to their fullest as the night went on. However, on that balcony, there was nothing but silence - the silence one desperately sought for, the silence one could offer along with a companion who understood the need for said silence.

You didn't say anymore then, letting the silence fill in, working on a small smile when he looked your way and he appreciated you for it. This way, away from it all, under the moonlight, he could appreciate your beauty even more.

But it didn't last long.

One minute, you were joking about how gaudy people were dressed tonight, the next you were discussing Kiyoomi's battle plans and possible alliance with the Shiratorizawa kingdom, notorious for their undeniable power and might. They started as a small kingdom, which vastly grew over the years. Personally, you've met and been acquainted with them when they visited and enjoyed debates with Satori, Kenjirou, and even the emperor's son, Wakatoshi. Kiyoomi held said man to a high regard, never shutting up about his feats and skills. This was worrisome because Shiratorizawa was becoming especially unyielding when it comes to conquering neighbouring kingdoms - likes their recent dispute with Aoba Johsai and Karaunso, caring very little in casualties. Kiyoomi was quick to defend Wakatoshi, never minding the lives that were ignored during their rise to power, or your obvious discomfort of such alliance.

"So, I'm the bad guy now? For wanting what's best for my people?"

"What you want is war with defenseless people, in an unfair and one-sided war that'll only lead to bloodshed," you reasoned. "I just think you should rethink it, or at least have terms."

"There is nothing to rethink and no terms to talk about," his voice rises, his temper rising. "As royal historian, you should know at least that this alliance is promising and will yield results for the betterment of our kingdoms."

"You're forgetting that history is a philosophy that teaches by example," you quote, hands curling into fists. "I just don't want you making the same mistake-"

"I don't make mistakes, I make results." Something cracked in the darkness, his eyes warranting a scary drip of pride.

"That's not what I'm saying-"

"What would you know about wars and alliances anyway?"

Swallowing, you stood your ground, turning to face him. "Plenty. Enough to tell you, that as the royal historian, one mustn't needlessly push through with alliances without thinking them through first. Yes, it may yield good results but at the cost of many? I don't think so." A cold gust of wind blew, clouds rumbling overhead. "And as your friend, I worry about how rash you're being just because of Wakatoshi-"

Kiyoomi scoffed, actually scoffed at you, incredulously at how ludicrous your words were.

"God, could you be any more pretentious? Not everything is as easy as you make it!"

"Kiyoomi, stop-"

"What would you know? I wish you'd just be taken away, far away because I don't need you here when you've been nothing but a hindrance and a pest to this kingdom's chances of glory. I don't need you here when you've been nothing but a pest and a hindrance. I've clearly wasted all those years of educating you for a rather ignorant mind."

"You don't mean that,"

"Maybe, I do!" he yelled, throwing the goblet away, his voice was able to catch the attention of people nearby. "You think you know everything, just because of your books that talks about dead people-"

"Kiyoomi-"

"-then you talk to me as though I haven't learned about them and disregard the fact that I’m trying to be better than them-“

“I know, Kiyoomi, I know-“

“Shut up, you don’t know! Just like you don’t know a thing outside your books, it’s not always as it was written! You don’t know just how difficult it is to really man an army, let alone try to make efforts to ensure that we make it out alive. You wouldn’t understand how weary the job is at the end of the day, because you’re happy being in the castle surrounded by your books all day. You wouldn’t understand, so just leave this to me,” overhead, thunder rumbled loudly, ferociously. Kiyoomi took a step, you took a step back. “Stop nagging me over things I already know!”

Lower lip quivering, you bit down, chin held up high as you asked. “D-Don’t my opinions matter to you, Kiyoomi?” it was a question laced with hurt, enough to guilt him, but Kiyoomi didn’t yield.

“Just stop!” his breathing was shaking, harsh. Consumed completely by anger, frustration, and fear, his eyes met yours, voice cold as he said, “I wish that you were taken away, there’s no place in the palace for someone so ignorant and a hindrance to the prosperity we’re guaranteed to have. If you can’t join us, you might as well be a pest.”

Famous last words.

Something compelled him to say it, he couldn't stop himself and the words just went out.

Fear, frustration, anger, all pushed him to his boiling point.

Twin pools of (e/c) widened, slowly filling with pain and tears, stopping him cold.

All the words he’s said comes crashing over him, regret quickly followed. Kiyoomi pales, feeling cold all over.

“(Y/N)-“

And then came chaos.

Crashing in uninvited, wildly wreaking havoc with little regard of who was in the way. Panic screaming, yelling, and thrashing.

And then, it lifted its head. To the balcony. Its blank eyes dilating, narrowing at the sight of you.

Kiyoomi only had a moment to realize what was going to happen before it was too late.

One moment, the horned-monster was in the middle of the dance floor. The next, it was barrelling its way towards the two of you, pushing anyone in its path, destroying the doors, grabbing you harshly, and throwing you over its shoulder, all in one second. Kiyoomi hadn't realized that he had been pushed away, blood matting his hair, his robes–

"(Y/N)!" but it was too late, the Minotaur was speeding away with you in its grasp.

Shakily, he tried to get to his feet, only to fumble.

“(Y/N)…”

He tried again.

"(Y/N)..."

And again.

"(Y/N)..."

Again.

Slumping against the ground, his eyes never left the direction the Minotaur left with you in tow.

'I wish you were taken away...'

Twin pools of (e/c). Broken. Destroyed. Humiliated. Tears flowing.

He couldn’t focus. Nothing was right. No. Nothing felt right. Something tightened in his chest. Breathe. Breathe. How do you breathe again? Plink! Something wet fell down on him, wetting his hair, his robes, blood smearing on the marbled floors. Blood. That was his blood. He hit his head. His blood. Blood smeared. To his hands – since when had he fallen to his knees? And screaming. Anguish. Pain. Regret. Screaming. Wait, was somebody screaming?

Oh, wait.

It was him.

He was on his knees.

He was screaming.

Screaming through the pouring rain as he bled.

Dread washed over him when he realized that his wish had been granted, you were whisked away by a beast and never to be seen again.

You slipped away from him, only because he wished for it.

The labyrinth was a rather large domain.

Massive concrete walls, quiet stones that suffocated you with silence, enough to drive you mad. A maze that was endless in its length, wide in its berth, and dizzying to traverse.

Many were the days you spent roaming around, in high hopes you've found an exit, only to find yourself in a dead-end. Many were the days where you practically rammed yourself into walls, hoping for a secret exit. Many were the days where you hoped, that if you crashed hard enough or hit yourself hard enough, you'd wind up unconscious, never to wake again. Dead. You didn't want to stay here forever.

But one day, as you were walking about, you happened upon the strangest thing - a garden. A hidden garden, to be exact.

Walking towards and through the archway, you were greeted with something that was a sight for weary eyes. A lush garden, filled to the brim with blossoming flowers as far as the eye can see. And fruit trees! The rarest you can find and have only heard of from stories. It stretched the whole area that you almost forgot that you couldn't tell if it was closed in by the labyrinth's high walls.

Taking a step in, bare feet meeting the damp grass, for the first time in what seems like forever, you broke into a shaky, wet laugh. Hands covering your mouth as you walked further in, uncaring. (E/c) eyes were filled with tears anew, tears of joy.

The air was fragrant, sweet, comforting. Flowers, colorful flowers in different shapes and sizes painted the gardens with vibrant colors and life.

Alive, the garden was alive, buzzing dragonflies, fluttering butterflies, and other smaller insects.

Feeling something warm kiss your sigh, you made a shaky sound - a gasp. Slowly, you began to breathe. Sighing, you craned your head up to meet the sky up above you. Squinting, your eyes fell shut, soaking it in.

You were probably up in the highest tower, for you were encased in a glass ceiling, allowing the sun to shed its light down on you, on the greenery.

The garden was spectacular, almost like the ones in the castle.

You lost track of time, but you didn’t care. This little heaven was all that you had, even if it were lonely.

Many were the days, with tear-dried face, did you wonder if you were going to go insane in here. Many were the days spent memorizing paths – some were useful, like the way to your chambers and the garden, while many paths proved useless, meaningless. Like the labyrinth knew you’d want to find a way out, giving you nothing.

Acceptance bled from denial.

However pretty your prison was, sadly, you remind yourself again, Kiyoomi wished you away.

A bruised cheek and a split lip. To many, injuries would be a badge of honor to satisfy their male ego. But for Prince Kiyoomi, they might as well be a badgeof dishonor. And for two good reasons - each came from your adoptive brothers, Atsumu's having the most hits since he was the oldest, boiling with rage after finding out that his youngest sister was taken away because of him. Crowned prince be damned, Atsumu would gladly beat him black and blue, had Bokuto not stopped and held him back.

Osamu would surely help, without a doubt. The punch he delivered was undoubtedly was painful. And that was it, followed by a long, cold, hard stare and nothing else. Miya Osamu was always known to be the calmer twin with a filter to his language and could be just as vile with his words as his twin. But his silence, that long, cold, hard stare was enough. His silent gaze was burning enough, a thousand words dying to be said that cut through thanks to his fist. A split lip and message received.

You were too good for him, that much the twins knew.

You were sweet, headstrong, brave, and annoyingly book smart, but still way too good for someone like the third crowned prince of Itachiyama.

Atsumu didn't like it that his (self-proclaimed) rival and commanding officer was romantically tied to his beloved sister. Osamu doesn't give a shit, so long as you were happy, but he was miffed by the fact that he was royalty.

"It's so cliche," he'd tell you, brandishing some rice balls in three different variants. "he's a prince, you're a commoner. That in itself is a recipe for disaster."

Unamused with your older brother's words, you eyed the rice balls in his tray before taking the one in the middle, wolfing without thinking. "Yum!"

"Oi, listen to yer brothers when we're talkin'!" yelled Atsumu, who grabbed the other onigiri, spitting rice everywhere.

"You piece of shit for a brother, don't talk with your mouth full!" but rice also flew everywhere from when you opened your mouth.

Sighing, Osamu took the last onigiri for himself, taking bites as the two of you fought.

Kiyoomo, who had just arrived, could only watch as the Miya siblings fought amongst themselves before the argument died down and you were all laughing at something. Without a doubt, the twins loved you, even though you weren't blood-related.

Looking up, you waved at him with a wide, warm, welcoming smile. Osamu inclined his head, a sort of bow. Atsumu coolly two-finger saluted him, his commanding officer by the way.

Osamu trusted him.

Atsumu trusted him.

They trusted him.

And what did they get? A brokenhearted sister who's now held captive somewhere.

He deserved it, Kiyoomi knew without a doubt that he deserved it and more.

After all, who wishes their childhood friend away?

Who wishes the person they're madly in love with away?

With badges of dishonor brandishing his face, Prince Kiyoomi set out on a quest: to find and rescue you. No matter what.

As far as the books you've read have told, Minotaurs were supposed to be blood-thirsty creatures who devoured on sacrifices kept in the labyrinth. But this Minotaur was different. First of all, it appeared out of nowhere. There had been countless sightings of strange creatures within and outside the kingdom, but they'd been territorial and respectable of keeping their distance from humans. And through your desperate walks around he maze, there were no signs of bones, of any sacrifices that legends told you the creature devoured of. Nothing.

Instead, the creature was just there. Tall. Hulking. Intimidating. Silent. Watching.

When you saw each other, it just stared. It didn't try to stop you, because only it knew the way out, and no way was he willing to let you escape.

It didn't seem to have a master, either.

It just was.

Day in and day out, it was just there.

Unnerving you.

You knew you'd never escape.

Many of your days were spent in the gardens. Sometimes in your room, with a comfortable bed, a warm hearth, and all the books you could read to your heart's desire, and a single gilded narrow window. In the garden, the window was up above you, far within your reach even if you climbed the trees. As though it were a reminder.

Sometimes, when you stared too long at the windows, you could hear the Minotaur huffing behind you, almost laughingly. Mockingly.

Pretty as your prison was, so long as the beast lingered, you knew you weren't safe forever.

Perhaps it was biding its time? Waiting on you to accept death, surrender to it before it could do it's bidding? Maybe it just wanted a dame to lure victims in wanting a chance to prove their heroism? Or maybe it just wanted you to share fate, to stay here in this maze forever? You couldn't escape even if you tried anyway.

Ferocious as he was, the horned-beast saw to it that you were fed, bringing you meals during breakfast, lunch, dinner. Occasionally, he’d bring some fruits. At times, some books and gifts to keep you entertained. When your dress – the beautiful dress the older Sakusa gave you that night – was tattered, ruined, he had given you a new one. It was a wonder where he got these gifts.

“Thank you,” (e/c) eyes turned to the hulking creature, who huffed in response, then left.

Denial bled into acceptance.

If this was your fate forever, then so be it.

After all, Sakusa wished you away for it.

As disappointed as he was in his cousin, Motoya couldn't find it in his heart to hate his cousin completely.

With a brother and sister, both of which who were much older than him, they were all busy learning how to run the castle. His parents were no exception either, as the king and queen of the kingdom. Kiyoomi spent so much of his time alone, growing rather quiet and aloof with his surroundings.

Luckily, the Komori family was there, Motoya was right by his side. But Kiyoomi was still quiet and a bit of a snob.

That was until the Miyas arrived.

The Miyas, who came from the west with two strapping young boys and an adopted bright-eyed girl. They worked around the palace as smith and cook, respectively, the twins always bickering amongst themselves while the youngest quietly tended to her books. More often than not, she'd sneak off to the royal library and read.

Motoya remembered seeing her deep in the library, nose stuck to the book as her eyes glimmered with life, drinking in information with scary speed. She was on her third book. He was with Kiyoomi then, the two were doing self-study, but stopped at the sight of the strange Miya girl.

The next day, Kiyoomi asked for her name. “Miya (Y/N),” she said, tucking a book under her arms, bowing slightly, before walking away, books in tow. Probably to return them.

The day after, she was joining in their self-study, often debating about the histories she read with him, which ended up as a full-blown discussion not even part of their studies!

The next, next, next day, she wasn't there, having been scolded for running off too much to read her books. However, Kiyoomi came to her defense, and (Y/N) was granted access to the library. She eventually caught the attention of the royal librarian before taking the little girl under her wing. Never had Motoya seen (e/c) eyes shine so bright that they rivaled the best jewels some snobby royals had. Later that day, as her older brothers were fighting amongst themselves (for possibly the nth time) and he and his cousin were passing by, (Y/N) saw and ran up to them and did the impossible: she tackled Kiyoomi into a hug! Motoya, and the Miya twins, stared in shock. Nobody just hugs the prince like that, he doesn't like to be touched! Nobody!

But Kiyoomi just stood there, taking in the hug, arms awkwardly raised to the smaller girl's form, before decidedly resting on hand on her shoulder, and the other to pat her head. Not one ounce of disgust registered on his cousin's face. Instead, he saw a soft smile, his onyx eyes warm at the girl.

And the rest was history.

Over time, (Y/N) had proven herself with her studies - as her brothers had proven themselves as well as soldiers, showing promise with each passing. Motoya was amazed by her academic prowess, her sound mind, and cunning demeanor, no wonder she wounded up as the royal historian. He'd like to think his cousin played a role in there somewhere. More often than not, Kiyoomi would endorse her to his teachers, her ideas and opinions, too.

It was no secret that since her promotion, Kiyoomi would always seek her out.

It was no secret either that, eventually, the older Sakusa siblings would hear about infamous Miya (Y/N) and fawn over her.

It was no secret either that Kiyoomi only his eyes for her, having been his cousin’s close-confident regarding confusing feelings and possessiveness over her. For someone who always saw things through, who absolutely refused to do anything half-assed, Motoya made sure to poke at his cousin’s rather slow pace with her. Kiyoomi would reason that the timing was never there, because of his duties, and he didn’t want her to get caught in the drama brewing amongst castle chatterboxes. He wanted to protect her from that. Yet he failed.

Guilt was written all over Kiyoomi’s face the night (Y/N) had been taken away. Unflinching from the cold rain, the blood in his hands, his head injury, Kiyoomi just looked…blank.

Since her disappearance, his cousin was a living doll, he barely slept, barely ate, and barely even cleaned himself!

Worried, Motoya saw to it himself that his cousin was taken care of. His parents would send maids to ensure he'd leave the room. His older brother would personally check in with him and talk. His older sister would rush in and forcibly take him to walks in the garden or get him to bathe. Later, Osamu would send him food to eat. Atsumu came by a few days later, pissed still at his superior, but asked him if he had any orders. Slowly but surely, he was getting on his feet. But at the end of the day, Kiyoomi would buckle from it all and just exist.

He was like a living doll, with no function, no purpose. Nothing. It was unbecoming of him.

Everything seemed pointless now.

How did the Great Commander of Itachiyama's Royal Gaurd fall so hard? Simple, it was because of her.

(Y/N) was always his greatest weakness just as she was his greatest strength. Only, he took it for granted.

Motoya couldn't find it in his heart to hate his cousin, for he knew, probably more than anyone else in the castle, how much he hated himself for what happened.

If there was one thing he knew about his cousin, it's that once he starts something, he'll be so fixated on it and ensures he finishes it through. And with his dying breath, swearing even on his sword, his life, he would- no, he will find (Y/N) and bring her back.

“Kiyoomi?” he asked, entering his cousin’s office after two knocks.

Motoya stopped at the door, noticing the maps scattered around his usually kept desk, along with some notes written in messy, familiar penmanship, the look in his cousin’s eyes.

“Motoya,” he glanced up briefly, shoulders straightening, hands planted on each side of the desk.

“Do you have any leads?” the brunet starts, walking further in.

And Motoya would be there, to help him bring his heart back.

At night, you see him in your dreams.

Intimidating, tall, handsome, wearing that rare smile of his, one that reached his eyes. A secret-like smile, one he shared for those who were worthy of it.

Kiyoomi would be sitting by the pavilion in the castle gardens, watching you across him, head titled slightly, before his lips curled.

And then you’d wake up.

Immediately, your hands fetched for your books, a pencil, to sketch him before your memory of the dream fades – finely shaped jaw, twin beauty marks over his left eye, thick curls, inquisitive dark eyes, long nose, supple lips, his rare smile- only to pause. Stop. Then cry.

Tears starting anew, you looked down at your sketch – of Sakusa Kiyoomi smiling at you, breaking into a watery laugh, free hand shakily touching your sketch. “K-Kiyoomi…”

Dropping the sketch, you covered your mouth with one hand, the other fisted over your heart.

What was the point?

You loved him for the longest time. You’ve been stuck in this one-sided love for your childhood friend for as long as you can remember.

But as the crowned prince, and soon-to-be great commander of the Royal Guard, something as trivial as a romance - with the royal historian of all people, a person with questionable ancestry? It was not meant to be.

Had you been given a chance between taking you away forever and forgetting him forever, you would gladly choose the latter.

Because nothing hurts more than to remember every day that the person you love wished you away, crushing your heart and everything inside. At least when you forget, so will the feelings, leaving you hollow and numb. Ready to start anew.

You were sure he was happiest with your disappearance, finally getting the chance to be closer to Wakatoshi from Shiratorizawa, solidifying the alliance.

You did miss Komori. Your adopted brothers. Your friends. Your apprentice. Your home.

But they were gone now, soon to be a forgotten memory.

Here you stay and here you shall remain, doom to remember until your dying breath how your love wished you away.

Prince Kiyoomi dreams of you.

In his dreams, you were a sight to behold in cream, your (h/c) hair freely falling upon your bare shoulders as you poured into another book. When he walks up behind you, he scoops your hair away and plants a kiss to your shoulders, neck, cheek. A light giggle was his reward, curling his lips upward before he was met with (e/c) eyes.

You were so beautiful.

A sight to behold.

You'd say his name ever so lightly, gently, warmly, and with love. The only way he knew his name should be called leaving your plump lips. Plump lips that looked so inviting and endearing, making him want to lean in-

And then he'd wake up.

Prince Kiyoomi dreams of you. A lot.

Has been for the last 18 years of his life.

Has been for the past year you've been taken from him.

In his dreams, you would be in his arms.

But in reality, you were taken away from him.

All because he wished you away.

It was a plain and simple reminder that you had to remember: he was a prince, you were the royal historian. Nothing more, nothing less.

You didn’t come from royalty like him, so he was out of your reach. You could love him, but what good is the love of a lowly peasant girl? A girl with questionable origins, plucked from the ruins by kindly gentlefolk who took her in?

Even though you were regarded as a genius, strategic in mind that rivaled that of the crowned prince, you were still just a peasant. Someone was regal like Kiyoomi deserved nothing but the best.

Despite having your heartbroken, you smiled at Kiyoomi, eyes filled with so much love. Not knowing that it would be the last time he’d see you.

Later that night, in front of his constituents, brought by frustration and fear of his position and of your social classes, Prince Sakusa rashly wishes for you to be taken away. Not a second later, a Minotaur comes crashing in to take you away. Forever.

Wish granted.

There were many things he regrets.

One of them being missing the chance to press his lips to yours under the rain, a rather picturesque and romantic-setting, had it not been for the fact that he accidentally napped in the palace training grounds and you were happily playing under the rain before finding him.

He still remembered your laugh, a saccharine tune that was pure bliss to listen to. Your smile, it illuminated your face, brightening the dreary downpour, warmed his insides. “Kiyoomi, get up! This is no place for the crowned prince to lie down!” Taking him by the hand, he tugged you to take shelter and he let you.

“Speak for yourself,” he snorts. “what’s the royal historian doing getting herself wet?”

Laughing, you rolled your eyes at him. “I needed a break.”

“And you think getting wet under the pouring rain warrants as break?”

“I love the rain!” you laugh, bright smile splitting open your lips and your (e/c) eyes shining brightly. Reaching a hand out, Kiyoomi watched as the smile remained on your face, watching the droplets on your outstretched hand.

Silent, the crowned prince silently set his eyes in the way your (h/c) hair darkened in the rain, your dress was soaked, yet you had laughed, carelessly, a bright and gentle sound that was threatened to drown out in the thundering downpour. Dark eyes slowly took the slope of your neck, mapping your collarbones, trailing a droplet of rain that slithered down the smooth expanse of your neck.

Kiyoomi inhaled and exhaled, shaking his head slightly, dark curls shaking with him. He heard you laugh, sounding closer.

You had leaned in, playfully poking his two beauty marks before tucking wet curls away. Entranced by you, something inside him started, dizzying, confusing, satisfying. He caught your hands in his, bringing them to his cheeks, revelling, leaning into your touch. Ever so gently, he planted his lips on the center of your palm. Breath hitching, you were unable to look away. Kiyoomi’s eyes opened slowly to meet yours, the thundering in your chest increasing. There was soft, loving, endearing look in both your eyes, something both you wondering. Only a breath away, Kiyoomi slowly leaned in, your eyes fluttering close, waiting. And he would have kissed you then and there, had Atsumu not showed up and cut the mood.

The next day, he drilled the blond bastard harder than the rest.

But the one thing Kiyoomi regrets the most was wishing you away, for he never got the chance to tell you he loved you.

Books lined and filled the room, there was a disarray of scrolls, notes, and opened books scattered on the floor, the table. And there you were, pouring words into your notebook with your sleeves pulled up, stray hair escaping your upswept (h/c) hair - messy, curious, beautiful you.

"You have ink in your fingers," he says, as a way of greeting.

Looking up, your expression breaks into a beautified smile, "Kiyoomi!" realizing what he said, you looked around, then laughed nervously at your state. Grabbing a random cloth off the chair closest to you, you wiped at your fingers, walking around to meet him. "To what do I owe the crowned prince the honor?"

He rolls his eyes at your politeness, as though you haven't been friends since you were younger.

"I had a feeling you would be spending hours on the procured books on the Great Backyard Battle between Nekoma and Karasuno. Meaning, you'd be missing out on lunch." At this, he poked the space between your brows. Hard.

“Ow!”

“I’ve sent for lunch. Join me.”

Rubbing at your forehead, your face morphs into a sly grin. “Aww, you could just say you miss me, y’know~”

There were still remnants of ink on your fingers, because you smeared some over your forehead. With a roll – graceful roll, as you put it, he grabs the cloth, turns it to the clean side, and gently rubs the ink off your forehead.

“How are your hands always this dirty?”

“Kiyoomi, I’m not ready for that kinda joke,” you giggle when he’s finished, blowing into laughter when he throws the cloth into your face.

By the day, you were becoming cheekier like your brothers. He wouldn't have it any other way.

Pulling the cloth away, you inspect your relatively clean fingers, showing them to him. Unamused, he humored you by inspecting them closely.

“Clean enough for ya?”

“It will do. But I will ask the servants for a wash or utensils.”

You reply with a giggle, falling in step with your dear friend out your study.

With ink in your fingers, rumpled clothes, and messy hair, to him, you'd still be the most beautiful woman his eyes have ever seen.

Lonely were the nights spent by your lonesome, with nothing like companionship to fill the silence, to quell the fear, to steady your sanity. Yet, here you were. Still. By some miracle.

Books had been your constant companion all your life, feeding your ever curious mind. They were relative company, but not enough to satisfy your loneliness.

The garden, thriving with life and wonder, had lots to offer. Adorning flowers, gentle little insects, they were almost a reminder of life. Still, it wasn’t enough.

Lonely were the days that came by, yet somehow, you managed through.

Managing through keeping yourself sane.

Managing through the fear of your impending doom at the hands of the Minotaur.

Managing through the ache deep inside your chest.

Night-time befell, unable to sleep, you headed to the gardens.

A full moon was out tonight, big and bright. And yet, it seemed alone, like you.

Under the moonlight, you cry and pray.

Crying for the ones you've left behind – your family, friends, students, praying that they may be well.

Crying for your kingdom, praying that it may prosper.

Crying for yourself, praying that you can still manage by.

Crying for your love, praying that he may find happiness.

Denial bled into acceptance.

Prince Sakusa Kiyoomi, Third Prince of Itachiyama Kingdom and Royal Guard Commander, your first love, wished you away.

Finally, after days, months, and little over a year of searching, he found a lead.

Without wasting a second, he arranged his best men – Atsumu first to call for duty, followed by Osamu, who quickly put on his uniform and begged to join – and set forth.

It wasn’t an easy mission.

Kozume, the oracle, wasn’t lying when he said the road would be perilous, treacherous, and tested even the strongest minds. But he wasn’t commander of the Royal Guard for nothing.

Plowing enemy after enemy, never faltering and always on their guard, his men proved that they were best of the best, in leagues with the greatest fighters in the land - akin to jackals hungry for their next prey.

Even after years of quitting the army, Osamu was a force to deal with on the battlefield, especially with Atsumu. The Miya twins, the deadliest forces to deal with, truly a sight to behold.

Whatever came their way, they pushed through.

When night-time befell, you wandered off to the gardens, unable to sleep for some reason.

Unbeknownst to you, the Minotaur had turned its head and growled under its breath. Lifting its head up, huffing angrily, readily.

“I’ll go,” Kiyoomi told his men, eyes never leaving the tall walls before them.

“I’ll come,” Atsumu says, nearly bouncing on his feet, Osamu, a bundle of nervous energy beside him. Bokuto, Hinata, Meian, Inunaki, Thomas, stood by, waiting for orders. The walls in front of them were intimidating, yet as Motoya looked at his cousin, he was surprised yet unsurprised at the same time to see that Kiyoomi seemed…determined.

“No,” Kiyoomi said, firm and stern. Without looking back, he took a step forward. “I’ll go. Alone.”

There was no moon out tonight, you thought with a heavy sigh.

How lonely.

Bringing your knees to your chest, you heaved another heavy sigh, chin tucked in, as you gazed out to the stars.

As the oracle had warned, traversing into the labyrinth won’t be easy as trials awaits him at every turn.

Kiyoomi didn’t falter at his warning, not once.

Even when he was faced with goblins.

Even when hands began to emerge from the walls, reaching for him.

Even when the walls started to close in.

Even when the walls started talking, trying to goad him to leave, escape, give up.

He didn’t budge, not even once.

Through it all, Kiyoomi had to make use of his wit to beat the labyrinth.

Kozume never said anything about beating the labyrinth, giving him little to nothing. But then, he understood you can’t beat it, you just have to outsmart it.

So when the labyrinth began a new tactic, riddling the prince at each turn, Kiyoomi met the challenge head-on.

Nothing will stop him, not even these trivial challenges that try to undermine him.

Nothing shall stand in his way.

He was a man on a mission, everything else was in his way.

Orion. The hunter. Ursa Major. The Big Bear. Ursa Minor. The Little Bear. Bitterly, sadly, you found the Northern Crown.

Draco. The dragon. Lyra. The lyre. Canis Minor. The Little Dog. Pegasus. The Winged Horse. Cygnus. The Northern Cross.

Andromeda. The Chained Princess.

The story of a princess chained to pay for her mother’s demise was one that fascinated you as a child, especially because the princess had to await her demise at the hands of some monster only to be rescued by a hero.

Oh, what a naïve little child you were–

A shooting star.

Something in you shifts, then settles, a breathless laugh leaving your lips as you hugged your folded knees tighter.

Was it wishful thinking if you wished you could be like Andromeda and be saved? Or were you still naïve?

And there it was, the Minotaur.

Hulking, maddening like he remembered that night.

The night it took away (Y/N).

It was big, bigger than anything he’s ever faced. And strong, too.

With a flick of its arm, Kiyoomi was on the side of the balcony, hitting his head against the wall. It was also fast.

However, that doesn’t mean he would yield, nor would he surrender.

He tightened his grip on his sword, expression hardened, darkened at the sight of it.

He trained like crazy after that night, worked himself to the bone to match the crazy stamina levels of one Hinata Shouyo, and strength of Bokuto Koutarou. Precision and skills were his greatest feats, but he had to be cunning and nasty like that of Miya Atsumu. Also, he had to be reserved and patient, like that of Miya Osamu.

Before him, the Minotaur let out a mighty roar, echoing through the walls, dragging its hooves readily.

Kiyoomi never let go of his sword, neither did he drop his gaze at the Minotaur.

The air was thick, heady.

A beat.

And then they both charged.

“Hey, Tsumu-Tsumu, Myaa-Sam?”

The fire crackled in front of them, burning the iron pot above it, the smell of beef stew filling in.

“Do you think Omi can save (Y/N)-chan?”

The dark-haired twin stopped stirring the pot, the blonde-dyed twin stared into the fire, clasped hand gripping tighter. A brown-haired man perked at the sound of his cousin’s name, watching the men in silence.

The fire danced, wood snapping once, then twice, before it broke into two.

And then, “What kinda stupid questions is that, Bokkun?” Atsumu smirks.

“No one’s crazy enough like him, too,” Osamu added, dropping a few spices in.

Motoya smiled, honored on behalf of his cousin at the twins’ words.

Carefully, the lid was placed in, leaving a little space for the stew to simmer for few more minutes.

A dull pain hummed in his head, followed by a sharp pain that was sure to be from a broken rib. Breathing in was torturous, heaving laboring breaths through his nose and out his mouth.

Before him, the horned-beast huffed, sporting the stabs Kiyoomi had given him.

Yet, it stood there still while he was worse for wear.

The oracle's words rang through his head again, warning him that going in was the same as wishing for a death sentence.

And yet, Kiyoomi willingly accepted in, knowing full well of the risks and consequences - because he's had a whole year to think about them from the hollowness of his chest.

You were the one thing that kept him going.

You were the light in the dark.

You were a beacon he was desperate to follow.

You were the only thing that mattered.

Getting to his feet, ignoring how his body screamed in pain, he lifted his sword.

Angered, Minotaur charged again, head lowered, horns ready to skewer him.

Kiyoomi didn't move, only shifted his position.

When it was close enough, he raised his sword.

"Hey, Kiyoomi?"

"What,"

"If there was one thing in the world that you could have, what would it be?"

"..."

"Like, you could ask for anything - power, gold, magical abilities, a nice exotic pet, what would it be?"

"..."

"Oh? What a silence."

"What a question,"

"Well? What would you want?"

"Umeboshi."

"Kiyoomi, you're just playing with me aren't you?"

It shouldn't be a question, because he already knew the answer.

You.

All Kiyoomi ever wanted in the whole world was you.

And there you were.

Basked in the moonlight, your (h/c) was longer, falling over your frame, barefooted on the grass – looking like a goddess.

His chest heaves heavily with every exhale, weary from his long battle with the Minotaur, never minding the pain and bruises, all he could see was you.

You.

After all this time.

"(Y/N)..."

You looked up in surprise, his voice cutting through the silence, and got to your feet. Staring at him in shock.

It's been so long.

Too long.

Far too long.

A year and a half was long enough for him to meet your (e/c) eyes, to see your face, to be in the same room.

"K-Kiyoomi..."

He felt his heart beating, coming to life.

Dropping his sword, letting it clatter to the ground, he slowly walked, staggering in his steps, until he was in front of you.

What an image, a knight in shining armor, bloodied and bruised- did he kill the Minotaur?!

His hair was longer, slightly greasy, you noticed in shock. He was no way vain, but he liked to look clean and proper. But since you’ve been gone, he’s forgotten to take care of himself.

Suddenly, fear gnawed at his heart, remembering the last time he saw you, remembering the last words he said to you. Did you hate him? Did you fear him?

“Kiyoomi!”

And then, you were in each other’s arms, breaking down and crying, holding each other so tight in fear that someone or something would tear you two together again. Both of you collapsed to your knees, refusing to let the other go.

Kiyoomi’s cries were silent, but the relief that washed over him from a year’s worth of guilt and regret, of finally having you in his arms, it made was indescribable.

“(Y/N),” he says your name, like it’s the holiest thing to say, his saving grace. “(Y/N)!”

Hearing your name in his voice, after so long, it made you cry even harder. Kiyoomi kept holding you as you cried, rocking you back and forth.

Something hot and wet lands on your head, followed by Kiyoomi’s voice repeatedly saying your name.

Sorry, he wants to say ‘I’m sorry’, but the words were lodged in his throat. He wants to apologize, desperately apologize for hurting her. He wants to get on his knees.

Instead, he cries into her shoulder, relief continues to wash over him because he’s hugging you again, feeling you in his arms again and hearing your cries.

Pulling away, hands desperately clung to the other’s face – smoothing through the skin, memorizing the feel beneath their fingers, eyes drinking them in.

Finally, Kiyoomi does the one thing he’s been dying to do for years. He kisses you.

It’s everything he thought it would be – magical, spectacular, burning, and amazing, especially when you kiss him back. One hand holds his shoulder, the other snakes its way to his hair, gripping and grounding.

Uncaring of the snot and tears, he presses his lips against yours with much urgency, hoping to pour years’ worth of pining and affection he’s had for you. Pulling away for the second time, to breathe, he finger combs strands of hair away before cupping you by the back of your head, dark onyx eyes softening at the sight of you, enjoying the flush in your cheeks and the love in your eyes.

“I love you,”

Both of you said it at the same time, much to both your shock.

Eventually, both of you laughed, foreheads pressing.

It was a long time running and both of you were such fools.

When dawn broke out the next day, two figures were seen leaving the labyrinth hand-in-hand, as though they didn’t want to let go. The camp stirred awake, then the Miya brothers stumbled at the figures before they rushed – practically raced, over to meet their rescued sister. Soon, a brown-haired man rushed up to greet his cousin, a few more calls and more men rushed up to meet the two.

Behind them, the labyrinth magically disappeared without a trace.

However, it wasn’t important.

For what’s important was that the third prince of Itachiyama, the commander of the Royal Guard, finally got his heart back.

167 notes · View notes

fullsunalicia · 4 years

Note

can you write a royal au with any of the dreamies?? thank you and your writing is really good!

a true love‘s kiss — NJM

as the youngest of four daughters, you are the least of all expected to ascend the throne. sure, you can marry, but with your father‘s reputation and the land he possesses, no one‘s going to fight for the daughter that is going to inherit nothing. that is, until one particular beautiful prince sets eyes on you and never wants to look anywhere else ever again.

prince!na jaemin x princess!reader

thank you so much for the request, and your kind words! 🤍 honestly i thought of jaemin right away and the idea made me really giddy. i hope you enjoy!

Na Jaemin is famous for his beauty and his power. It‘s no wonder that someday, he comes knocking at your father‘s doors, asking for his daughter‘s hand in marriage.

Everyone hopes to marry Soyeon. She‘s the eldest, and most beautiful one of you. Because there are no brothers in this family, she is going to take the throne someday and be called Queen, while you and your elder sisters will remain princesses. Maybe after her coronation, someone will have pity on you and make you their queen.

But as long as Soyeon is unwed, no one‘s eyes will ever sway to you.

You have come to like living in her shadow. The attention is never on you, and you essentially get to be the troublemaker without being punished too much. Soyeon may be the eldest, but you‘re the favorite, the baby of the family. You are spoiled rotten, and everybody knows. Despite that, you still treat everyone with respect, thank the servants for even the littlest things and like to spend time with the people in the castle, no matter what social standing they are of.

So when a servant of yours informs you that Prince Jaemin is to come visit, you shrug and turn your attention back to the flowers again.

Most times, the servants forbid you from helping them. Most times, you just ignore them and do it anyways. That‘s why you’re sitting next to Haseul (your gardner) right now, knees deep in the mud, even though your dress was more expensive than imaginable.

„Are you not excited to meet him, princess?“ Haseul hands you a particularly beautiful tulip, and you set it aside. Later, you‘d put it into a vase in your chamber. „I heard he‘s very charming. He‘s got it from his father, no doubt - he‘s a good king, but it took the man some time to settle down.“

„How do you know?“ You‘ve heard much about the rumoured Na king, and you even remember an encounter when you were really young. He had gifted you a very nice necklace, still well-kept of in one of your drawers. He‘s nice, but you don‘t know what kind of king that makes him. Politics is not your forte.

Being a troublemaker is.

„Servant‘s gossip.“ Haseul tears open a bag of planting seeds, and she holds it open for you so you can scoop out a a handful. Where you‘re kneeling right now would soon be a field of roses, in just a few weeks. „Information spreads fast, especially when it‘s being spread by the people working in the castle. I‘ve heard their servants are being treated exceptionally well. Maybe as nice as ours, but they don‘t have a princess like we do.“

That makes you smile.

There‘s one amazing key factor to being the youngest. The rules don‘t apply to you as much. You are not expected to be the picture-perfect daughter who has to satisfy the entire world, and you are not expected to mingle with the right crowd. No one is fazed when you hug the maiden who helped you put on your corsage. Nobody minds it when you pop into the kitchen and thank all the cooks for the nice food.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Thankfully, you‘ll never have to.

Haseul helps you up and sighs at the many stains the flower bed has left on your dress, but she only shoos you away and tells you to get changed before your mother sees.

The castle is enormous. If you hadn‘t been raised here, you‘d gest lost often. The hallways are like a maze, leading god knows where and sometimes, most parts of the castle are inhabited. Countless times have people lost their way in here, and every time they are lead back by an awkward grinning servant or the princesses who come looking for them. Your chamber isn‘t the biggest one, but in your opinion the prettiest - through the windows, you have a perfect view of the garden, watching the sun set and rise on your favorite flowers.

„We must get you ready quickly, princess,“ the girl who‘s helping you step out of the dress says. She‘s new, you notice it immediately. Even if it seems impossible, you try and remember every face of everyone who works here, even if you catch a glimpse of your sisters‘ servants only once a year. This maiden is new, maybe even younger than you are. „Prince Jaemin is already on his way.“

„Are you new here? What‘s your name?“

She smiles. „I‘ve heard of your kindness towards the people who work for you,“ the unknown lady mumbles, and you watch as she turns you around to tie your corsage. Her fingers are nimble, rough at the tips. „Thank you. But we mustn‘t be late, so we‘ll have to wait for afterwards with the introductions.“

„Will you tell me your name then?“

Someone opens the door to your room, carrying in a monstrosity of a dress. Of course it‘s breathtakingly beautiful, but it‘s practically a star. Jewels blink at every fold of the garment, thin, barely there, but still shining bightly. A little bit like you.

Your new friend giggles as she waves the person who carried the gown in closer so they can help. „Sure,“ the respond comes several seconds later. „If you promise me to shine just as bright as your sisters tonight. Don‘t let them steal the spotlight all the time - there‘s a reason you‘re the favorite.“

❀ ❀ ❀

Na Jaemin is so beautiful, you almost want to cry.

Well, not like you‘d waste your tears on men. For a silly reason, atleast. But you‘d make an exception for this prince, who seems more angel than human, because his smile makes everyone in the room breathless and he doesn‘t seem to notice. Or maybe he does, and he enjoys it.

For the first time in long, you‘re sad that suitors only look for Soyeon.

Of course you wish the best for your sister. She‘s strict towards you, but she still loves you. She was the first person to see you walk, because she taught you how. Soyeon taught you how to tie your own corsage, because any proper woman should be able to. Every now and then, she forces you to sit down and study, even though it‘s not expected of princesses to be highly educated. But Soyeon expects it. She knows every corner of your razor-sharp intellect and she wants you to use it.

You want her to marry someone who treasures her. But you also want someone to look at you like everyone seems to look at her.

The promise you had given to the new girl rings in your head, but you can‘t seem to bring yourself to do it. Na Jaemin hasn‘t looked at you once. So you lower your head, and wait for it to be over.

„Dear Jaemin,“ your father speaks, voice carrying through the entire room. „We are so glad you made it. Tell me, young friend, how was your voyage? Pleasant, I hope?“

Even his voice sounds dreamy. „It was, thank you! Your country is as beautiful as always. I‘m glad to be welcome as a guest.“

Your mother laughs that. „You‘re always welcome,“ she says, and to an untrained ear, it would sound normal. Only her daughters hear the nervous undertone in her regal voice: the slight worry that Jaemin wouldn‘t want any of the princess, only paying a visit for friendship‘s sake...

Your father‘s kingdom has always bordered to the kingdowm of the Na‘s. To others, that would be a reason to fight. To your families, it was a chance at friendship over generations. The Na clan and the (l/n) clan have always supported each other, lending a hand when the other was in need and treating the other like family. Marriages are unusual, though. There was no need to join the two kingdoms together, but maybe it was time for change since for the first time in long, there are no sons in the lineage of your clan.

Maybe Jaemin has come to use that chance.

Everybody in the room is staring at him. How could they not? It was like an angel had walked into the room, even though his unusual blue hair stuck out like a sore thumb. Maybe he‘s going through a rebellious phase. The color suits him really well, anyways.

All eyes are on Jaemin, but the prince‘s eyes are on you. Past Soyeon and your sisters, Jaemin‘s gaze has wandered to the littlest princess, and he tips his head to the side in curiousity. Like this, he looks like a puppy. Sohye, your third-oldest sister, steps aside to reveal your hiding place, hand landing on your back to push you forward. Your alarmed gaze is met by her own stern one. The meaning is clear. Get out there.

„Who are you?“ Jaemin asks. Your heart stops.

Your father looks at you. His eyes are filled with pride, but also worry. He‘s not used to someone paying attention to his youngest. „This is (y/n),“ he introduces you, and Jaemin steps closer to take your hand. As his lips meet the back of your hand, you notice how he enjoys the way that you‘re blushing.

So he does know how good-looking he is! Kind of attractive, to be honest.

You bow your head in respect. „Pleased to meet you, Prince Jaemin,“ you greet him, and the smile he gifts you with makes you dizzy. It‘s like looking at the sun for too long. Your mother‘s gaze burns on your back. „Oh, the pleasure‘s all mine, I assure you,“ he responds seconds later, sun meeting his ocean locks and making them glimmer in the light.

His beauty is off the scales. Literally. There‘s not a way to measure how fast your heart is racing right now because of it.

When the young prince lets you go, your hand still feels warm. Your father grins and claps a hand on Jaemin‘s back, leading him away from the women with the promise of good alcohol waiting outside. The second they are out of sight, your sisters rush to you, curiousity painted on their faces.

„Do you think he likes you?“

„Do you like him?“

„Isn‘t he sooo pretty?“

„Girls,“ the queen sighs. She‘s the last one to approach you, arms crossed in front of her chest. She‘s trying really hard to seem composed, but you can see the excitement in her eyes, the silent hope of giving away a daughter. Any mother would be blessed to have a son-in-law like Na Jaemin. „He was just asking for her name, not her hand in marriage. Let‘s not get our hopes up. Things like these take time.“ Your mother hums. She can‘t keep up the act for long, though. „But do you think he likes (y/n)? Just out of curiousity.“

Curiousity. You, too, would like to know if he‘s as curious about you as you are about him.

❀ ❀ ❀

The servants come rushing into your room in the middle of the night and for a split second, you think the castle is under attack. But who in their right mind would smile while they’re being attacked? No one. Not your servants, atleast. They giggle and cheer as they lock your door and sit on your bed, tapping rhythms onto your blankets. “We bear good news, princess!” Jina, the youngest out of the bunch, speaks up.

You rub your eyes, still hazy from sleep. The moon is the only thing casting light into the chamber, giving everyone in it the appearance of a ghost. “What news would be so amazing that you’d cheer around like this?” you mutter, but you don’t want to spoil their fun. They’re in an exceptionally happy mood.

Haseul, who’s still wearing her work attire, inches closer. “I was the first one to know, princess,” she whispers, as if it was a state affair she’d be exposing. Her eyes look like jade stones when the light hits them just right. “The king and the foreign prince, Jaemin, they were walking in the garden and speaking rather loudly. I couldn’t help but overhear... and I’m very sorry for listening in, that was rather rude of me...”

“Haseul!” Jina cuts in, begging the older one to get to the point. The gardner clears her throat. “Right,” she laughs. “I couldn’t help but overhear the prince asking for his daughter’s hand in marriage... if she’d like to have him. He said, and I quote, ‘If she’d want to be mine as much as I want to be hers, there would be nothing more that’d be making me happier’.”

Your shoulders drop.

Of course he’d want to marry Soyeon. Really, it was a silly daydream to think that anyone would cast away your father’s precious kingdom at the low cost of one marriage. Any second now, they’ll tell you that your sister’s getting married and someone will finally come looking for you, and not the crown...

“And the king asked him, ‘Has Soyeon gotten into your head already?’, to which the young prince replied ‘My king, I know this must be rather ungrateful of me and if you want to reprimand me then please go ahead, but I’m asking for youngest, for sweet (y/n). If (y/n) feels the same. Otherwise, I’ll stay as planned for the next few days and then return to my father’.”

All servants look you in the face, waiting, hoping you would be as happy as them. You can barely register the news. Slowly, very slowly, you raise your hands and pinch your own cheeks. Once, twice. When nothing happens, your mouth falls open.

Jaemin wants to marry you. Someone actually looked you in the eyes and liked what they saw.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. Then, louder: “Oh my god! He wants me to marry him!”

The words work like a charm; the entire room fills with squeals and laughter, and you grab your girls to pull them onto the bed with you and hug them close. To any other princess, that would be unacceptable. But you’re not any other princess. You’re (y/n), with nothing to inherit but the kindness of your father and the loyalty of your mother, the stars in your eyes, Jaemin’s heart in your palms.

And if he wants it, you’ll give him your own on a silver platter.

❀ ❀ ❀

For once, you’re actually nervous about your appearance.

You tug at your hair, pull at the dress you’re wearing. Is your jewelry too much? Is the perfume annoying? Maybe lavender doesn’t look good on you. Yeah. Maybe changing into something nicer would be better...

“What are you doing?”

You turn around. It’s the new girl - the pretty face without a name. She smiles at you, hands pulling you away from the mirror to sit you down on a stool. You watch her reach for a comb and lean your head back as she starts untangling the knots in your hair. “I’ll braid it for you,” she says, voice as smooth as silk, “if you tell me what’s gotten you so nervous.”

You hum. “You haven’t given me your name yet. If this keeps up, I’ll just have to call you ‘friend’ instead of your name, and that gets rather confusing.”

“I feel like I’m being blackmailed.” The woman snickers. She divides your hair and starts braiding it into a side bun. Her touch is careful, soft. It takes her a few moments before she speaks again. “My name is Soojin. I was born and raised not far from the castle, and I’ve always dreamt of working here. There was this nice little princess everyone admired...” She moves to grab some fixing needles. “.. and I heard we were close in age. Naturally, my interest was piqued.” Carefully, they’re inserted into your hair. It looks really pretty, if your mirror isn’t fooling you. “And here I am.”

“Soojin.” You test the name, letting it roll off your tongue. “I like that.”

“And I’d like to hear about your fidgeting now.”

“Now who’s being blackmailed?”

Soojin giggles again. It sounds really cute when she does it, and you turn around to face her. The name fits, weirdly. You can’t explain why, but it just does. “I think the prince is going to propose to me,” you explain, heart racing again. The back of your hand tingles at the memory of his lips. “Haseul overheard him asking for my father’s blessing to marry me.”

“Leaving so soon?” She pouts, but it turns into a smile. You reach out to hold her hand. For a second, she’s taken aback by the physical affection, but gets used to it rather quickly. “I’m joking. I’m very happy for you, princess. Prince Jaemin is a good man. He’ll court you properly.”

“Thank you, Soojin.” You stand up, previous insecurities forgotten. Somehow, talking to Soojin had helped, and you’re calm now, the excitement making your heart flutter like a hummingbird. Other than that, you’re pretty tranquil. “And if you think I’d leave you behind like that, you must not have heard enough about me. If he .. really proposes, you’re moving with me. If he wants it or not.”

Soojin tips her head back to laugh heartily. “That sounds like a good plan.”

Your father had asked you to meet him in the garden, so with a last hug to Soojin, you depart from your room and begin rushing towards your favorite place in the entire castle. You spent your entire childhood prancing around inbetween the many plants and flower beds, even sitting down often to receive botany lessons from the gardners who worked there to keep your favorite flowers alive. You love the idea of planting something and helping it bloom by caring for it, just like your parents did with you. With their love and support, you grew into a confident woman that knows what she wants, and how to get it.

Flowers were your first love, in a sense. Maybe, if you‘d be lucky, the relationship between you and Jaemin could bloom into your last love.

The garden is unexpectedly empty. Your father is never late, unlike you, getting distracted by every pretty thing. The colored glass in the many hallways. The carnations displayed in the throne room. But there‘s another thing that‘s catching your eye right now: Na Jaemin, standing a few feet away from you, lots of gardenias in his hand.

„You‘re here,“ the prince speaks, heavenly smile spreading on his lips. You nod, heart skipping faster. Was it possible for a human person to look so beautiful? How come a single look from someone can make your knees feel so weak? It takes all your strength to walk to him, and a little bit more to look into his eyes. His gaze is warm, full of adoration.

It makes you giddy.

Jaemin lets his eyes wander over your face before he plucks a single flower out of his bouquet to put it behind your ear. The giggle you let out at that makes him laugh, aswell. Being with Jaemin feels so ... natural. Perhaps if you get to know each other better, this silent admiration could grow into something more. „I heard you like flowers,“ he speaks. „So I went and bought some for you. I hope you like them.“

„They‘re beautiful,“ you tell him, accepting them with the biggest grin on your lips. You‘d bet all your money your father told him about your infatuation with everything that blooms.

The wind tousles Jaemin‘s blueberry-colored hair. „They don‘t match your beauty, though.“ When his fingers brush past your cheek to put your own locks behind your ear, it sends electric currents down your skin. It‘s a pleasant feeling. „If you‘ll allow me, I‘d like to get to know you a little better, princess. For example, did I get your favorite flower right? What‘s your favorite time of the day? How is it that you‘re so cute?“

A heavy blush settles on your cheeks the second he compliments you, and Jaemin has the audacity to laugh at that. When he offers you his arm, you take it without hesitation, clutching the flowers in one arm and him with the other. „You did get it right,“ you admit. „The rest you‘ll have to find out over a cup of tea.“

❀ ❀ ❀

Days stretch into weeks as Jaemin spends every single minute he can spare with you.

You know now that Jaemin has a sugar tooth, and he kisses you on the cheek everytime you bring him candy to a meeting. The first time he did, the servants who were secretly spying almost passed out, which led to the king finding out about it. It was funny watching Jaemin apologize to him, but as soon as your father had turned around, his lips were on your skin again. He lives for the affection; it‘s easy to wrap him around your little finger by disheveling his hair or locking pinkies with him. You even do it in front of your parents and siblings, even though you still sometimes hide your hands behind the expensive material of your dresses. Jaemin grins at your sneakiness.

Though the prince learnt very quickly that gardenias were your favorite flowers, he suprises you with new bouquets often. Tulips, daisies, roses - every flower he sets eyes on makes him think of you, and he can‘t stop himself from buying them. You once spent an entire afternoon making flower crowns out of the many bouquets he buys you, and the second you set it on his head and call him „your king“, he drops anything and everything to cradle your face in his warm hands and kiss you all over.

It‘s no suprise to anyone that the first time your lips meet his, it‘s under the dreamy moonlight in the royal garden.

Jaemin‘s kisses get addicting. Despite being taught to act accordingly as a princess, you find yourself reaching out for him too many times than you can count, and it ends with you ressembling a cherry and both of your lips being swollen. (Soojin spends many hours covering up the many marks on your neck. Really, you should be grateful she‘s so talented with powder and paint!)

It finally happens when Jaemin takes you to see the ocean.

He helps you climb down the rocky path towards the beach, your dress always raised as to not rip the precious garment. „Maybe I should‘ve told you not to wear such a long gown before secretly taking you here,“ Jaemin snickers, arms curled around your waist. He presses you against his side while he carries you like someone would a baby, and you try to fight the embarrassment of his arms being just below your rear. Not like you don‘t like them there.

„That would‘ve been quite helpful,“ you grumble. Jaemin leans his head on yours when you hide your face in the crook of his neck, the cold wind of the ocean making your cheeks freeze up despite the warm weather. The sun is sending its‘ last rays of light over the horizon, but it’s still hot. Jaemin is dressed plainly, while you‘re parading around in what could be considered a ball gown. Well, not really. It‘s a thin, pretty dress that exposes your collarbones, but it has a train.

Obviously, you‘re very excited about all the sand that‘s going to ruin it.

Finally, you reach the beach, but Jaemin‘s neck is so warm. You‘d fall asleep like this, if it weren‘t for said man disturbing your slumber. „Look up, princess,“ your lover mumbles into your ear, the sound making goosebumps appear on your skin. He just has that effect on you. You raise your head and gasp, and the man in your arms laughs at the reaction.

„Do you like it?“

„I love it! Jaemin, it‘s wonderful!“

When you were smaller, your father had taken you and your sisters to the ocean. You remember splashing around in the shallow water, ruining the clothes you were wearing and making your parents burst into laughter. The many sandcastles you built. Your first swimming lessons, the first time you were taken into deeper water. You remember it all.

But this takes the cake.

Jaemin‘s scent mingling with the ocean breeze. Warm hands that hold you up for you to see everything. Miles and miles of water stretching out infront of you, the sun setting and painting the waves pink, red and orange. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

You don‘t even notice Jaemin setting you down, even though his lips on the sweet spot below your ear are a very good distraction from the sight in front of you. „What‘s hindering you, love?“ he asks, hands letting you go so you can bunch your skirts and walk towards the ocean. You leave him behind, adoration evident in your eyes.

This is perfect, you think. What you don‘t know is that it‘s going to get even better.

When you turn around to point out a ship leaving the port to Jaemin, you‘re greeted by the sight of the man of your dreams on one knee. He looks at you like you were the most beautiful view around here, and your knees almost buckle at the love and admiration you find in his eyes. He‘s so honest. When you look Jaemin in the eyes, you see every corner, nothing hidden. Because he trusts you. He wants you to have it all.

You‘re the one holding the keys to his heart. It only needs to be made official.

„(y/n),“ he says, voice trembling. Never has he been this nervous before. „My princess, my love. Whatever you‘d like to be called. In my eyes, you‘re already my queen. I was blessed by the universe the day I met you, and it only got better when I got to know the person behind those pretty eyes. Your heartwrenching laugh. The glimmer in your eyes when something makes you excited. The never-ending kindness that you treat the people around you with, no matter who it is. The first time I set eyes on you, your adorable face and the curiousity in your eyes as you hid behind Princess Sohye, I already knew I was head over heels. My heart has belonged to you for a long time, (y/n), without you even knowing it.“

You let him take your hand, squeezing it tightly as the tears run over your face. Here he is, holding a speech about his feelings for you, when you‘re about to drop to your knees yourself and spend the next few years about the love you hold for him in your entire body. He kisses the tips of your fingers, the back of your hand and lastly, your ring finger, lips lingering there for a few seconds.

„I want you to take it,“ Jaemin admits then. „I want to be called yours. I don‘t want to be king if it doesn‘t mean you at my side as the queen. I don‘t want to be Jaemin if it doesn‘t mean belonging to you, soul and body. I‘m asking you, (l/n) (y/n), emperor of my heart, would you like to marry me and make me the happiest man alive, for the rest of my life and beyond?“

You don‘t even answer. You fall head-first into his arms and lay him down on the sand so you can kiss his gorgeous face, and you accept the kiss he delivers to your lips without hesitation. All your feelings and your gratitude, you pour it into this kiss and straight into his heart.

„Of course I want to marry you, Na Jaemin,“ you whisper against his lips, turning the key in its‘ lock, sealing the deal forever. „I was getting rather impatient waiting for you to ask.“

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goofmemes · 4 years

Text

Universal Monster Movies Sentance Starters

Dracula (1931):

“For one who has not lived even a single lifetime, you're a wise person.”

“Well, and with all this, I thought I was in the wrong place.”

“There are far worse things awaiting man than death.”

“Modern medical science does not admit of such a creature!”

“I may be able to bring you proof that the superstition of yesterday can become the scientific reality of today.”

“A moment ago, I stumbled upon a most amazing phenomena. Something so incredible, I mistrust my own judgement.”

“My humble apology. I dislike mirrors.”

“You'll die in torment if you die with innocent blood on your soul.”

“They're all crazy. They're all crazy except you and me. Sometimes I have my doubts about you.”

“Isn't this a strange conversation for men who aren't crazy?”

“I prefer to remain and protect those whom you would destroy.”

“All these will I give you! If you will obey me!”

“I can't die with all those lives on my conscience! All that blood on my hands!”

Frankenstein (1931):

“Oh, in the name of God! Now I know what it feels like to be God!”

“So if any of you feel that you do not care to subject your nerves to such a strain, now is your chance to, uh... Well, we've warned you.”

“You have created a monster, and it will destroy you!”

“Would you like one of my flowers? You have those and I'll have these.”

“Something is going to happen. I feel it! I can't get it out of my mind.”

“Have you never wanted to look beyond the clouds and the stars, or to know what causes the trees to bud? And what changes the darkness into light?”

“But if you talk like that, people call you crazy.”

“You're quite sure you want to come in?... Very well.”

“So far he's been kept in complete darkness. Wait till I bring him into the light.”

The Mummy (1932):

“He went for a little walk! You should have seen his face!”

“I loved you once, but now you belong with the dead.”

“It was not only this body I loved, it was your soul.”

“Put it back. Bury it where you found it. You have read the curse. You dare defy it?”

“My love has lasted longer than the temples of our gods. No man ever suffered as I did for you.”

“Oh, I know it seems absurd when we've known each other such a short time. But I'm serious.”

“You seem to think this thing has all the devils of hell in it. Why not burn it and be done with it?”

The Invisible Man (1933):

“We'll begin with a reign of terror, a few murders here and there, murders of great men, murders of little men - well, just to show we make no distinction.”

“And if you try and escape by the window, I shall follow you, and no one in the world can save you.”

“I always said you were a dirty little coward. You're a dirty sneaking little rat as well. Goodbye.”

“How many drinks did you have on your way home?”

“There is nothing left for you to do, my dear, except to go. I shall come back. I swear, I shall come back because I shall defeat them.”

“I wanted to come back to you. My darling... I failed.”

“I've no time now but, believe me, as surely as the moon will set and the sun will rise I shall kill you tomorrow night.”

“There's a way back. God knows there's a way back!”

“It's life and death that I should be left alone. You don't understand.”

“Don't you see what it means? Power! Power to rule! To make the world grovel at my feet!”

The Bride of Frankenstein (1935):

“It's a perfect night for mystery and horror. The air itself is filled with monsters.”

“Sometimes I have wondered whether life wouldn't be much more amusing if we were all devils, no nonsense about angels and being good.”

“Nobody'd believe me! All right. I wash my hands of it. They can all be murdered in their beds.”

“You think I'm mad. Perhaps I am.”

“Our mad dream is only half realized.”

“I'd hate to find him under my bed at night. He's a nightmare in the daylight, he is.”

“Look. The storm is coming up over the mountains. It will be here soon!”

“To a new world of gods and monsters!”

The Wolf Man (1941):

“To some people, life is very simple. They decide that this is good, that is bad. This is wrong, that's right.”

“I believe a man lost in the mazes of his own mind may imagine that he's anything.”

“Fighting against superstition is as hard as fighting against Satan himself.”

“There's something very tragic about that man... and I'm sure that nothing but harm will come to you through him.”

“Yes, but like most legends, it must have some basis in fact.”

“You think I don't know the difference between a wolf and a man?”

“As if dead men didn't have all eternity.”

“Just imagine having a stuffed werewolf staring at you from the wall!”

“Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers by night may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and Autumn moon is bright.”

“The way you walked was thorny though no fault of your own, but as the rain enters the soil, the river enters the sea, so tears run to a predestined end.”

#rp memes #sentence starters #Universal Monsters #Halloween

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muertawrites · 4 years

Text

Two Halves - Chapter Twelve (Zuko x Reader)

Part 11

Word Count: 3,000

Author’s Note: Let’s talk about Azula. I know a lot of people really want a redemption arc for her, and it’s something that’s written a lot in the fanfic community, but (like everything else) I have an unpopular opinion about her - I don’t think she deserves a redemption arc. This doesn’t mean I think she’s a bad character. I actually think exactly the opposite - she’s so perfectly written that I feel changing her to make her any less problematic would ruin her.

Characters can be great without ever redeeming themselves, and Azula is a perfect example of one of A:TLA’s major themes - that there’s no such thing as absolute good or bad - in that she’s clearly vindictive, manipulative, egotistical, and sociopathic, but the way the series leaves her convinces the watcher to feel sympathetic towards her. It’s such a beautiful destruction of preconceived notions in fiction that I don’t think it needs to be touched. Azula is evil, but I love her that way.

~ Muerta

Appa’s feet don't touch sand until late evening, by which time it feels like you've been flying for weeks.

A group of about twenty guards is waiting when you land, each of them wrapped from head to toe in white gauze; the woman at the front of the group removes her face covering and introduces herself as the warden of the compound, her expression hard and motionless behind sun-darkened skin. She leads you through a maze of buildings enclosed by high, interlocking stone walls, to an empty store room that’s been converted into a bedroom for your stay.

“We only have what we need out here,” she explains. “The guards’ bunks are all filled, and we don't typically have guests. I'm sorry we couldn't give you more appropriate lodging.”

“It's alright,” Aang assures her. “We’re used to sleeping rough.”

Dinner is composed of a combination of dried meat and pickled vegetables, paired with water from a well in the center of the surrounding block of buildings; you're advised only to use it for drinking and not to bathe, saving it for the guards stationed at the compound. Even after the sun sets, the air feels arid and scorched, the sweat dripping down the back of your neck doing nothing to cool you.

“It's awful out here,” you remark as you settle into your bed roll for the night. “I can see why Sokka went insane.”

“Sokka went insane because of hallucinogenic cactus juice,” Katara corrects you, smirking at the memory.

“I can't believe I missed most of that,” Aang laments. “He must've been a handful.”

“You had more important things to worry about,” Katara softly reminds him. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, placing a tender kiss atop the crest of his head; you look away, your stomach churning uneasily at the intimate display.

You lay and attempt to sleep for the next few hours, finding yourself unable. The ground is too hard beneath you, your thin blankets too heavy and hot. You toss and turn over and over again, trying to find a comfortable position that seems not to exist. Your mind races and refuses to slow down.

Despite your guilt over doing so, you go out to the well and fill a small basin, splashing your face with warm water in the hopes it'll make you feel better. Katara joins you a moment or two later, having noticed your unrest. She dips her hands into the water and runs them comfortingly through your hair to cool you off.

“What's wrong?” she asks.

You sigh as you lower yourself onto the base of the well, holding your knees to your chest.

“I'm worried,” you admit in a murmur.

Katara sits down beside you and rests her hand on your arm.

“Aang and I won't leave until after you speak with Azula,” she promises. “And even then, we’ll be right outside the room the entire time. You're not doing this alone.”

You shake your head, afraid to look her in the eye.

“That's not it. When you go to the Northern Air Temple… they're going to expect me to get pregnant, too. But I'm not ready to have a baby, and I don't know if I'll ever be.”

Katara curls her arms around you, pulling you into her lap in the motherly way she used to do when you were kids. She strokes your hair, and you nestle into the fabric of her night gown.

“What does it feel like?” you wonder. Your voice is nothing but a breath. “To… have sex?”

Katara’s hands pause their ministrations. She sits absolutely still for a moment, gazing off as she mulls the question over.

“... It hurts,” she says after a while, “but only at first. Then it feels exciting. It's sort of like getting hit by lightning, but gently, over and over again. You feel it in your whole body; it's unlike anything else. The best part is being so close to someone you love in a way that nobody else will ever be close to you. It’s like magic.”

“But I don't love Zuko,” you reply. “I didn't choose him like you chose Aang. How could it be the same for me?”

“You did choose Zuko,” Katara contests. “Do you think Dad would have forced you into marrying him if you fought hard enough against it? You might not have chosen him because you love him, but there's a reason you're together. I think you will love him. There's something about the two of you that just… fits. I've never been very good with intuition and even I could feel it the first time I saw you together. You will love each other; and we both know Zuko cares about you too much to force you into anything before you're ready. Trust him. Follow what you feel for him.”

You sigh, shutting your eyes tightly as the weight of the desert heat squeezes down on you; nonetheless, Katara’s hands are chilled as they begin to rework the braid knotted down your back.

“I know he’ll protect me,” you say. “That's all he's done since we met. But I don't know if I want to be protected.”

“You don't have to be,” Katara tells you. Her voice is soft and serious. “You've never let anyone tell you what to do; not even now.”

“Keeping that up is dangerous though,” you whisper. “Doing the wrong thing could get me killed - it could get Zuko killed, or you, or any number of people I care about. And I've been really stupid about it up until now.”

“Has Zuko ever talked to you about redirecting lighting?” Katara asks.

You shake your head.

“It's a water bending technique,” she explains. “The idea is that you take your opponent’s force and turn it back against them, but you have to keep your own energy steady to be able to do it.”

She takes one of your hands between both of hers, pressing it tightly between her palms.

“Keep doing what you're doing,” she urges. “If one of us gets hurt, you can't let the loss break you; you have to use it to fight back. Anyone who wants to destroy you needs your permission to do so.”

You sit up so you can look her in the eye; her expression is resolute, brows drawn together with agency and concern. Your arms fall around her, pulling her into a tight embrace; she holds you close as you bury your face in her hair.

“It'll be okay,” she promises. “You'll survive; it’s what we do.”

The next morning, you meet with Azula’s psychological counselor before going to see her.

The center of the compound is devoted entirely to the disgraced princess and her keepers, each of them living within the bounds of a large wall lined with guards every few feet. Her counselor’s home is divided from the main house by an ornate fence, painted red and black and gilded with gold detail; guard houses stand at either side of the gate.

“This part of the compound is designed to look like a Fire Nation neighborhood,” the counselor explains. “We don't live luxuriously by any means, but a homey atmosphere is important to Azula’s rehabilitation.”

“How has she improved?” Katara asks.

You remember her retellings of what would've been Azula’s coronation, how she lost her mind with power and corruption. Thinking back on them, you almost pity her.

“She's much more stable than she used to be,” the counselor states. “We know her vindictive behavior will never go away and that her condition prohibits her from understanding or feeling empathy, but she's learned not to act on those tendencies. She's also greatly overcome the anger her father instilled in her.”

“I need something I can use as leverage,” you say. “Zuko’s told me that everything she does is a negotiation, and I need something to trade for her insight.”

The counselor nods, tapping her fingers against the table you're seated around in thought.

“The information alone won’t be enough incentive for her,” she concludes. “She’s seemingly lost interest in the outside world or trying to get out of the compound in the past few years, but I have a feeling she’ll use that to try and get more out of you. Perhaps offering her a chance to see her father will hold useful.”

“She still wants to see him?” Aang gasps, incredulous. “After everything he did?”

“She blames him for the breakdown she suffered at the end of the war,” the counselor elaborates. “She’s expressed a desire to confront him for years, and I’d like to help her find the catharsis in it without setting her back in her rehabilitation.”

“We’ve spoken about the possible need for execution,” you say; your voice is meek, the shame making it difficult to meet the counselor’s eye. “Would the threat do anything? As a last resort?”

“... I don’t know,” the counselor admits. “It truly depends on her mood. She swings between bouts of stability and episodes of deep, manic depression; were she depressed, the threat wouldn’t do much. She unfortunately is always on the brink of an episode, and I don’t think death is much of a fear to her.”

You nod, unable to respond any other way.

“Be civil,” the counselor advises, “but don’t let your guard down. She’s improved greatly, but she’s still extremely dangerous.”

Azula’s home is quaint, consisting of only four rooms, but is every bit the palace she grew up in compared to the rest of the compound. The walls are painted deep, warm crimson, every inch decorated in elaborate murals; in the dining room where you meet, images of giant salamanders curl around pillars of forest and flame - they're terrifying, but as beautiful as any more traditional work of art.

When Azula enters the room, she smirks at you. You're stricken by the fact that she looks nothing like her brother, her features much softer and rounder, save for her eyes and brow bones which are drawn downward in a permanent scowl; it occurs to you that while Zuko closely resembles their father (something you've learned he resents), she’s almost a perfect mirror of their mother. Her clothes are simple - a shapeless dress over loose trousers - and her hair is knotted messily behind her head, loose tendrils falling carelessly around her face. Her cheeks are gaunt, years of living on only what the compound can provide clearly having taken their toll.

“So Zuzu’s got himself a wife,” Azula chirps, sitting down across the table from you. “I suppose that's all you Southern women are good for - selling off to more powerful nations so you don't get yourselves pummeled.”

You ignore her harsh words, bowing your head respectfully in greeting.

“Zuko and I have actually known each other since we were teenagers,” you tell her. It isn't exactly a lie, but you decide that forfeiting her game is the best way to defend yourself. “It's an honor to finally meet you, Azula.”

If she's put off by your deflection, she doesn't show it. She leans forward on her elbows, leering at you over the table like some sort of heinous, bloodthirsty predator; you stare back unfazed, reminding yourself that there's nothing she can do to you if you remain stoic.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of my dear sister-in-law’s visit?” Azula wonders, grinning. “I doubt this is a family reunion given Zuzu’s absence.”

“We need your help,” you tell her. “We’re facing serious problems with outside opposition and our advisors have failed us; Zuko suggested I come to you because of your intelligence in these matters.”

Azula scoffs, her sickening smile disappearing as she leans back and crosses her arms over her chest.

“I may be captive, but that doesn't mean I have to help you,” she spits. “I no longer hold any loyalty to the Fire Nation.”

“We don't want to force you,” you reply. “Zuko and I are willing to offer something in return for your expertise.”

“There's nothing you can give me that will convince me,” Azula states. “My brother lost any sympathy I had for him when he locked me up here.”

“We both know you never had any sympathy for him.”

Azula’s eyes shoot upward, meeting yours in a chilling glare.

“He's the eldest,” you continue. “Despite your talent, he was still in your way - if he hadn't been banished, he’d have taken your father’s place. You hated him for that. You hated him for earning your mother’s affection. You hated him for things neither of you had any control over, and all you've ever wanted to do is have control. He defied that. So you took matters into your own hands and tried to kill him.”

Azula glowers at you, her eyes icy as her face sets into stone. She's not used to being on the other end of this sort of needling; behind her muted, immobile shock, you know she's calculating her next move.

“It wasn't fair,” you go on. “I've heard what people in the Fire Nation say about you - that you shaped the odds of the war while your father took all the credit. That's why we need you. Zuko himself admitted that he can't do it. This is your chance to show him once and for all who the true heir to your family name is.”

Your sister-in-law studies you for a moment before tilting her head, the nasty smile she entered the room with returning.

“Thanks to my shrinks, I'm no longer motivated by personal vindication,” she drawls. “And besides, what good would it do me for Zuko to take all the glory like Father did? He always liked to believe he took after Mother. He's wrong - he's just as cruel and underhanded as the rest of us.”

At this point, you decide that bargaining is going to get you nowhere. Instead you turn your attention to the murals, standing so you can run your fingers over the scales of the nearest giant salamander; they're so realistic that even their grooves have texture, delicately carved between layers of thick paint.

“These paintings are stunning,” you comment. “Are they yours?”

Azula nods, though her expression remains shuttered and somewhat threatening.

“Since that little brat took my bending, I had to find a new hobby,” she hisses. “When I run out of space on the walls, I'll start tattooing myself.”

You smirk at her joke, but she doesn't reciprocate. Her eyes narrow, and though she doesn't move from her position at the table, she seems to prowl closer to you, caging you in with the sheer power of her presence.

“I know why Zuzu married you,” she claims; her tone is matter-of-fact, her golden irises cutting through you. “You remind him of that Southern wretch he used to chase around during his banishment. He was enamored with her. But of course she chose the Avatar over him, since she wanted the alliance for your puny little nation, so it seems he rebounded with the next best thing. He's always been weak that way - falling for anyone dumb enough to buy into that kicked kitten act and let him use them for sympathy.”

For a split second, her words bite you in a way you don't expect them to. Just last night, you told Katara you didn't love Zuko - now, at the thought that his affections could lie with anyone else, that you could mean nothing more than a placeholder to appease the ache of an unrequited love, your ribs feel as though they've caved in and are crushing your lungs. You do your best to keep your expression void, but the corners of your lips flinch with the ghost of a frown, your eyes fogging with a shadow of fear before you can stop them. Azula grins - she knows she found a weak spot.

“I heard she's knocked up,” she spits. “Tell me, does Zuzu even bother to fuck you? Or is it just too painful, knowing you’ll never be the woman he loves?”

The sting in your chest subsides the moment she speaks, the rest of her scathing going unheard as you look her dead in the eye, suddenly unmoved by the attack.

“How do you know that?” you murmur.

Azula’s face falls. She doesn’t avert her gaze, but instead locks it with yours, frozen as if debating whether or not to admit defeat. It doesn’t matter if she does or not - she’s stabbed herself in the gut.

“How do you know Katara is pregnant?” you ask again.

You pace forward, pushing back on the way she attempted to close you in with her criticism. Her poisonous grin once again makes a comeback, this time accompanied by a cackle as sharp as a spearhead.

“You’re in far too deep, little girl,” she lilts. “All of you are. None of you can see the danger that’s been in front of you all your lives.”

“Tell me what you know,” you command. “If you do, we might be persuaded not to execute you.”

Azula huffs, tossing her head back as her laughter continues. By this point, the guards standing in the room’s corners have converged on her, taking her by the arms to hold her still; she doesn’t fight, instead leaning into their grip as if the touch is welcoming.

“Zuzu could never bring himself to kill me,” she jeers. “Sniveling little cad he is. The world isn’t perfect because the war is over, and you’re a fool if you think that my grandfathers were the only men to ever destroy for the sake of their hate. Everyone has evil in them - some of us are just smart enough to embrace it.”

As she growls out her last words, the guards drag her from the room, her laughter subsiding but her hideous, manic grin remaining splattered across her cheeks. The door slams as she's carried away, and you’re left with nothing but the looming silence of terror and dread.

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stragglewort · 3 years

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Tales of Waterdeep: The Chained Madness - Heteroclite, Heterodox, Hklinein

Picture by ArtBreeder - “Heteroclite’s Eye” - https://www.artbreeder.com/i?k=850faba632d420dd93c621b4783a

TW: Near death, non-sexual (but non-consensual) touching, fear, memory loss, quite a lot of hands

There’s a tiefling in Waterdeep - Illistar Motts, a charming weaver with a slow, country-drawl. You can never find him in one place, always bouncing around the city selling his tapestries, fabrics, and dyes wherever he’s allowed to park his wagon for the night. But Illistar, though he’s never been seen with a partner, doesn’t travel alone. Not anymore, at least. No, he has a friend that he met some time ago, in some place deep in the ground - though this being acts much less like a friend, and much more like a... patron.

Labyrinthine. Of course they’d gotten lost, the warning was written in the name itself. Illistar didn’t even know why they’d – no – why he’d come in the first place. His original intentions had long left his memory.

“It’s gotten us trapped.” Uday coughed, her words barely whispering above the air as Illistar pulled her closer, shushing her. There was a bolt lodged in her chest, something old and wild that must’ve been sitting in those trapped walls for a millennium, carving a wound that spilled the life out of her in a steady trickle. He had one in his back, and another that’d gotten stuck into his side, and he was pretty sure one had almost gotten him dead in the skull – but none of those were quite as bad as the woman’s pierced lung.

“Don’t worry yourself now, I – I’ll find us a way out of here.” He looked around as he said this, though he didn’t trust that he was telling her the truth. The room was tepid, old, and untouched – if the circumstances had been better, the two would’ve been excited to find it.

They’d come in with an expedition party. Just some mercenaries and a mapmaker setting out to turn old stone hallways into paper and ink. But at some point, they’d all gotten split up. Markus, Aaylon, and Willowberry went one direction while he and Uday got pushed down a pit, trapped behind bars, and in their (attempted) escape, flung into some maze of mold and musk. Trapped in this labyrinth at the center of the world that seemed to be built with the sole purpose of making lost or killing anything with the misfortune to exist anywhere around it.

It was doing a great job.

Even with his eyes, magical in nature, attuned to see in pitch black as if it were the middle of the day – he was practically blind. That was new, and it scared him. He’d never been in actual darkness. Something about the horns on his head and hooves where feet should’ve been implied an infernal heritage that was supposed to thrive in places like this. But he sat there, losing his breath while sitting still, propped up in a corner with his ever-optimistic friend draped over his legs. She held on like she didn’t even realize she was dying. Suppose one could say he was doing the same thing.

Where had they even come from? Of all places they could’ve gotten stuck, it had to be a maze. The one place where short term memory – his worst attribute – was key. It was only after what felt like ages of dragging themselves through trapped, winding corridors that stretched for some unspecified eternity that they’d finally ended up collapsing in the corner. He looked to one side, the other, looked up, down, behind him, and found it was all as empty as it was silent.

The quiet was going to drive him insane – topically so.

His mind vied for the smallest sound. It took the distant scrape of mechanical traps, the dripping of underground water, and made it a whisper, a voice, a hope. They needed that hope, and between the blood loss and the head trauma couldn’t piece together how to find it.

It was suffocating; the hands of silent darkness wrapped around his neck and practically choked him –

“Please –“ He meant to yell but was stuck instead with hoarse whispers that scathed off the walls. There was no way he’d manage to make himself any louder, and there was no asking Uday for help. She was barely hanging on as it was.

But the tricky thing is that sometimes when you call out to nothing, it might decide to answer back.

He leaned against the stone and almost felt a sob rise in this throat, a last cry of exhausted effort, before out of the corner of his eye he saw… pink.

Thinner than blood but thicker than water, this light seemed to trickle out of the pores of the stone chiseling. It was faint, barely noticeable, but odd enough that he couldn’t take his eyes off it as it filled the crevices like watercolor. He lifted a tremoring hand to the wall and touched the illuminated carvings. He jolted, though, when the pink filtered off onto the pads of his fingers in a thin, nothing film. It was like he’d been stained with light itself, a dully mellow purple glowing faintly over his grey skin. In the odd glow that swirled like water and oil with the blood on his hands, he could finally see the wall and its odd stone-carved decoration. It didn’t have any rhyme or reason – just lines and patterns woven into each other like a river turned bright. “…Obaya, are you seeing –?” He shook her, but she didn’t respond. She was breathing, but every gasp was shallow, thin, and whispering as if she could barely lift her chest enough to take them. He wasn’t running too hot himself, but feeling her get heavier by the second. Every second. It rekindled those fluttering sparks of panic he thought he was too tired to feel. She was a good friend, a great woman, let alone a fantastic cleric when she’s not the one needing healed. He had to get them out of there or they’d both die. “Alright then... if you’re showing me a way out, I’m counting on you – yeah?” He asked no one in particular, calling out with no intention of staying hidden.

The glow on the wall, the swirling pinks and purples, only seemed to flow faster out in some odd direction.

Even if he thought following the strange, nearly hallucinatory light was a poor idea, it beat having none at all. Not to mention he would be lying if he said he wasn’t desperate. As far as knew, that light might’ve been a literal godsend; Uday was a cleric, maybe her god was taking pity on them. Who was he to deny a blessing?

He struggled onto his hooves for a moment, staggering against the wall only to get more of that pink, glowing light dappled on his skin. Once he was balanced, he hoisted Obaya over his shoulders, pain striking through his side with the new weight. But he threw the feeling to the wayside – gritting his teeth, biting his tongue, and stifling his aching joints to the back of his mind. If he could walk, he could carry; at least until reality caught up to him. As he struggled down the corridor the lights guided him, seeping through the wall in patterns that he knew couldn’t have been carved into stone. It led them in whatever direction it felt they needed to go, while darkening the way back. Following this magic, whoever it belonged to, would be a commitment. There was no chance he would manage to retrace his steps, even if he thought it would do any good. As the maze got tighter, the walls narrowing around them, something like dread boiled in the pit of his stomach. It was heavy, in contrast to the fluttering lightness that grew in his mind. He’d been frightened before, been terrified and nervous, and he had assumed he was just feeling it all again. But that, whatever was churning in the pit of his soul was nothing like the fear he’d felt at any other point in his life. It wasn’t even fear as he could place it. He was afraid of what could happen to him and his friend, but was uncontrollably confused otherwise. Completely muddled by the world they’d fallen into. It was just stone and magic, like every other dungeon or ruin this side of existence, but something about it was changing and he could feel it in the air. Like fingers dancing lightly across his skin. What he was feeling as the light led them further into the dark was unavoidable but agile, heavy and baffling.

“Where are we going?” He called out, hoarsely. As the light dragged them slowly but surely through the labyrinth, he could feel himself starting to drop. No amount of magically projected determination can fight with a failing heart and what had to be poisoned arrows. Did you want people to come in or stay out? He thought, wondering what the use of a guide was in a maze littered with traps. Coincidentally, they hadn’t stumbled over a single one since they started following it. Maybe it really was his friend’s god; in that case, he made a note to speak with her temple if they made it out in any semblance of alive.

The sound of his hooves cracking against the cold stone became muddy as his hearing started to fade. For a moment he could’ve convinced himself that the light was, in fact, not a helpful guide through some underground death trap. But that it was something of a hallucination created by a poisoned, dying mind. That certainly would’ve been the thought if not for the cold of the next room, something finally different from the winding endlessness of the maze, that rushed over him in a wave. The passages had been so narrow, the void openness of the chamber felt infinite in comparison. Though squinting, the farthest wall could be seen from a distance in the dim, pinkish hue that enveloped the room with no clear source. He raised his eyes to the new ceiling and saw… nothing. So much nothing that he didn’t realize he’d tripped over a shallow threshold until his chin hit the stone with hollow thud, Uday tumbling from his grasp into the dark.

It took a second of rattled incoherence before he could speak again – “Obaya? Are you alright –?” He called out, not expecting a response but hopeful for a miracle.

“You’re not supposed to be here. I thought those mages made it very clear I was never supposed to be found.” A soft, quiet voice called out in response. It echoed off the dim walls in such a way that it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. He was almost relieved, but realized all too quickly that it sounded nothing like the deeply kind voice of his friend. It was masculine; breathy and light but with this drone of tiredness that carried over the darkness. “This is no fun place to die.”

“…I – pardon me?” He called out to the stranger as he struggled to lift himself from the cold stone. One hand pushing and the other feeling around for any sign of Uday.

“I’m certain there’s better graves on this plane to lay yourselves into.” The voice cracked into a low, muttering chuckle. “Come to me, will you? I want to know whose corpse I’ll be smelling for the next… oh, eleven years. Twelve if it doesn’t get too damp.” With that, those pinkish watercolor lights filtered into the room from every direction. They snaked through the faint cracks in the stone, filling them like a dam-broken into a drought-ridden river. With his hands planted shakily on the ground he could feel the light properly; it was freezing. The tendrils of color wound to the center in pulsating, pastel waves. The figure was illuminated with every strike of pink and white. It was humanoid but radiated this inhuman presence that stifled the room in a light, panicky fog. It sat slumped over its legs with long, spindly arms pulled behind it. Its face stayed turned to the ground as it spoke; long, unkempt strands of hair running in tangles over its bare shoulders and down its back. In the slim cascades of tinted light – purples, blues, and pinks now washing over the walls – it was impossible to tell the color of any one thing on its body. As Illistar peered through the light, trying to determine if the figure in front of him was real or some poisoned hallucination, he realized it was more than some kneeling man with an odd choice of seating – it was bound to the center of the room. Its form propped up, just a few inches, from the floor on a sharply carved pedestal that raised it into a series of chains. They were dull and old, black at the farthest points on the walls but turning white the closer to figure they got – as if absorbing every magical ray of color it created. The links of metal shot in every direction off the kneeling form. From the traps around its wrist, the collar around its neck, to the largest clamped firmly around its waist – linked with dozens of short chains that drove it further in the ground – it sat there in a mess of tightly bound cable and rope. A prisoner in technicolor water.

“Wha – who are you?” Illistar pulled himself forward by the long of his arm, dragging himself in slow, aimless drawls.

“That’s a loaded question, friend.” The voice was harsher now. Though he knew who was speaking, its source was still impossible to place. The bound figure’s very presence was maddening, heart-breaking, but like any good tragedy impossible to pull away from. “I am quite a lot of things.” With that it raised his face. Illistar winced as their eyes met. Between long, tangled strands of pale pink hair sat a glare of bright, glowing gold. Full, oddly dark lips – like that of a corpse – were churned into a tired grin.

“I’m dying; you’re not real.” The poor man gasped, trying to make sense of the simple impossibility of what he was staring at.

“I should be flattered. I’m told you people only see true beauty at the brink of death.” That soft laugh rang off the walls again. It was soft but booming – all-encompassing. As Illistar tried to watch its mouth he couldn’t tell if it was the thing itself, the warbling light, or his own fading vision that staggered the words away from the movement of its lips. But the words seemed to reach him three beats after the stranger appeared of have said them. “Don’t worry. I’m not real, but I’m exceptionally good at pretending to be.” A pause, doubled. “Come closer.”

“Where are we?” He cringed as he, near-involuntarily, dragged himself more to the middle of the room. Where that film of pink, dappled light stained his skin he could almost feel the pads of fingertips tugging at him, pulling him forward in an incoherent urge. He followed the pull of those scattered lights mixed with the draw of the stranger’s golden stare and tired, broken smile. “Wh – what are you?”

“We’re in a prison, here in the core of your material plane.” It said coolly. “And I am its prisoner.”

Illistar was asking questions but only half paying attention to the answers. In all honestly, he was barely convinced any of it was real. “Obaya? Where are you?” He called out, but the noise of his words got stifled in his throat – as if the air itself pushed the question back into his lungs.

“Don’t worry about her – she’s… dying.” It hummed, thoughtfully. The colored light in the room got brighter, and in the distance he could just barely see the shadowed outline of his friend laying in a stained bundle of cloth. Her form overtaken by the technicolor lights. Its head lulled before falling back into a hanging slump. “But aren’t you all?”

“What about you?” He coughed.

“No… not me.” It answered, softly. “That’s no pleasure of mine. You need to be real to die.”

Illistar was then about an arm’s reach from the pedestal the thing was chained to. Being so close he could feel this aura of excitement radiate off its wry figure – but his vision was fading quickly, and his strength with it.

“But you’re not looking too well, friend.” It cooed, the rattling of its chains echoing off the stone. It sounded like it was trying to move, but to where and for what reason, Illistar wasn’t in the state to place.

“How do we…” The sentence trailed off in a breathless murmur, hollow and weak as he tried to work his tongue around the syllables. “Tell us how to get out of here.”

The stranger sounded surprised. “I assumed you’d already decided – death’s an easy out.”

“I’m not letting us… we’re not going to die. Tell me how to get out of here.” He pushed himself up to the pedestal, his hooves clacking against the stone in his struggle. His desperation seeped through the question – who else would ask a prisoner for their escape plan? His teeth began to chatter as his whole body started in a coldless tremble. He reached up to the lip of the pedestal and the figure – in a slurry of heavy metallic clacking – tried to move towards him but was held firmly in place by its bindings. He looked up into its eyes, their faces now inches from each other, and he suddenly felt as if he were falling into them while standing still. If the thing staring back at him were some abstract figment of reality, it couldn’t have been from his own. Its glare was otherworldly – bright yellow with flecks of gold in what might’ve been an iris. It was impossible in that moment to blink, let alone pull his face away from the figure’s gaze. It might’ve been chained to the pedestal, but he was trapped to it. So entirely enraptured by the stare he didn’t even notice the snakes of watercolor light that pulled from the ground, climbing up his legs.

“You really are dying.” The thing started with a short gasp that led into an even breathier chuckle.

“What are you?” There was this moment where Illistar had a sudden urge move the hair out of its face to get a better look, but something about touching the figure felt wrong. Not revolting, but like it shouldn’t be possible – like trying to spin water into yarn.

It tilted its head and Illistar couldn’t help but mimic. “How do I put this into your words?” It seemed to think for a moment, mulling over itself. “…I am the color of air, the wetness of a candle-flame. I hum to the tune of silence and touch the feeling of sound – I am a Heteroclite.”

Illistar couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration through his charmed, enraptured fog. Even confused, he understood how little time he had to think over riddles. “A what?”

“A heteroclite – Heterodox – Hklinein to some in the north, Het'kelel to the south, a burden to those particularly good at making traps. Above all names, though, I am the promise that will save both your lives.” The chains around the figure rattled again as it shifted in place, tugging at its bindings.

That caught his attention. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I bother?” It hummed, its head lulling. “As we are now, you two will end up rotting on these chamber floors whether I’m telling the truth or not. And I’m the one who’s stuck with the maggots. Have some consideration for my time, you don’t have much of it.” It held out its words in a long, frustrated drawl. “There so much in this world to look at; imagine being stuck in the bottom of it!” Its voice boomed from every direction, filling Illistar’s ears with ringing laughter that echoed off the color of the walls.

“…What are you getting at, then?” He said, though it didn’t feel like his mouth was moving. He tried to turn his gaze to the room, to Obaya, but he realized that although the feeling of movement hit him – the action never came.

“I can blink between everywhere and nowhere at once – but I cannot do so here. I have a home but it’s so boring, I would almost prefer to spend my time stuck at the bottom of the material plane than float in that void of infinite nothing.” It sighed, wistfully. “In short – because you don’t have enough time for the long – I want the one thing I am forbidden to have.”

Illistar stumbled a bit, his elbow giving out under trembling weight. But something kept him upright, leaned against the thing’s pedestal. His breathing was suddenly very shallow, more than it had been before. He was dying, and it was rotting him from the inside.

Did you know rot doesn’t feel like much of anything?

“Take me with you.” Its voice was suddenly very quick – he almost didn’t catch it. Behind the words was a harsh metallic ratting that seemed to shake the world. He couldn’t tell, then, if it was the whole ruin that shattered under his stumbling hooves or just their center-corner of it. “My hands have eyes in all parts of this realm but how can I see everything if I’m only carried by some few? I am the whisper of madness, the breath of the clouds, and I’ve been locked – blinded – for far too long.”

“I don’t – I don’t understand –“ He had to move both his hands up to the stone to stay balanced – fingers grasping at random. Except as he pushed to stay awake he realized those weren’t his fingers, it wasn’t his grip that kept him floating on the stone.

“You don’t have to –“ It laugh was hopefully desperate. “Come closer. I can get you out of here – you just need to take me with you.”

“There’s no such thing…” He wasn’t sure exactly what he was trying to protest. No such thing of what? A free out – salvation at the cost of nothing? He was desperate, but his wasn’t the only life trapped in that prison. Present company not included. “What are you – gods – I’m just a weaver. I can’t…” He shook his head, trying to sort through the oddly incomprehensible words. He’d spoken Common his whole life, but it then felt like he had just started learning it. “I don’t have nothing for the likes of you.”

“You have legs and eyes.” Its own eyes seemed to look over Illistar like he was some cut of meat, a plated dish to be judged. “…And no sane being can get this this far with bolts lodged in its flesh like pin-needles, those mage’s poisons churning through their veins. Your cleric is of a sound mind, that’s why she’s dead. Friend, you have plenty for me.” He almost heard the sound of cracking as it wretched itself forward, bringing its face so close their noses could almost touch. He couldn’t tell, though, if it was the cracking of stone or bone. “I may be bound, but my hands weave through this land in a way that is impossible to bury – no matter how much stone, magic, or healing one might put me under. Even if you could leave this place without me, I’d already be within you – we might as well make it co-habitable.”

It was strange. As Illistar stared, trapped in its glowing eyes – looking over the thing’s ruddy face and calmly broken expression that contrasted its frantic words, he wasn’t scared. Everything from the darkening room to the fact that he was sure he wasn’t breathing anymore told him he should feel otherwise. Instead, as he brought his conscious eyes back to focus on the Heteroclite’s – he almost felt… warmth. It was pink. Maybe he was right – true beauty is only at the brink of death, because he had never seen anything so welcoming in his life. A way out – strange and chaotic – impossible to speak to – but kind. There wasn’t malice in the creature’s, the entity’s voice, just hope. Desperation and a want that he understood. What kind of hell was it being chained to the bottom of the world? What was this sudden feeling of finding exactly what he was looking for in a place he didn’t even know existed?

“And what about… Obaya? What are gonna’ do to her if you’re leaving with – ”

“Your friend? I’m madness, but I’m not evil –“ It started, as if explaining simple addition. “You’ll both survive, but she has no part in this. At the moment, she’s sane and dead. I can’t do anything with lifeless hands.”

Illistar wanted to be shocked, but was about to follow in the sentiment.

“Take me into your world, and I will give you the fragments of mine.” It hushed at the end, pursing its lips together for a moment. “I don’t even want your soul – just your legs to walk through, your eyes to see through, your tongue to taste, and your hands to feel. A piece of your mind, really. You won’t even realize I’m there.”

He waited just enough to recognize it had finished with idle words. It was his turn, his answer. “Alright –“ He coughed, his mouth suddenly dry and eyes fluttering under a new, heavy tiredness. Even if he believed this chained stranger was lying, what was the harm in grasping at heterodoxic straws? “Just help us.”

“This will be lots of fun.” The voice was scattered – as if he were hearing every letter individually, but still piecing it into a scrambled sentence that organized itself as it reached the left side of his brain. The man couldn’t tell if he fell forwards into the stranger, or backwards onto the stone. All he felt where the pads of fingertips – dozens, hundreds – that wrapped impossibly around him. Coming from the ground or the ceiling, he couldn’t tell. He opened his eyes, and then opened them again – and once more – before he could finally see. Where that film of light had dappled his skin, he could only see hands. Disembodied and clinging, each one colored in an impossible shades of… pink. Dead at the fingertips but grasping until he was drowning in them. It was at last moment before palms, less than one but more than two, covered his eyes that he could finally turn his face only to see that bundle of stained fabric – the slump of flesh that was his friend – engulfed by the same colorful flood.

They were both pulled into the floor.

###

“Ellie? Ellie, you’re alive?” A familiar voice shook him from a deep, unnatural sleep. “Come on, Ellie – wake up.”

“…Obaya?” He felt the word tumble listlessly from his lips. His fingers grasped at the ground and under them he could feel something cold, wet, and a little sharp. It took a moment before he realized he was pulling at grass and dirt. His eyes shot open only to meet the battered, but living, face of his friend. “You – you’re alright?”

“Wouldn’t you be the one to know?” She laughed, breathlessly – putting a hand over her chest where there had been a bolt lodged what felt like moments before. “How did you get us out of there? What happened?”

“I don’t –“ He stopped for a moment. He had an answer, at least some kind of answer, but he couldn’t tell if what had happened was real or some delusional dream. He looked up to the sky for a moment – it was morning. The sun barely peeked through the clouds and a cold mist drifted over his vision. “…Are the other’s okay?”

“They seem to be, but they haven’t woken up yet.” She looked out to the flat of grass around them, over it there were the unconscious bodies of his party. Mercenaries and a mapmaker scattered like their paper and ink on the ground. “…The entrance caved in.”

“What –?” He tried to sit up but winced, a sudden raging headache protesting the movement. He, much slower that time, turned his head to where he remembered the entrance of the cave being. She wasn’t lying – the mouth of the dungeon had turned into a mound. Dirt and stone dotted with bright flowers seemed to be the only evidence left of the labyrinth below.

“By Waukeen’s mercy, I can only hope they’ll wake up soon. How did you manage this?”

“Obaya?” He shook his head and lifted a hand so she could help him back to his hooves – something she quickly did. “Let’s get everyone awake, and then we’ll talk about whatever happened in there, alright?”

“…Sure.” She looked to him, worried. He was never the kind to keep his mouth shut. The obvious concern scrawled over her face. Between the worry, though, she seemed distracted. “Ellie, I do not mean to pry. But were your horns not yellow?”

“What do you mean?” He looked at her, confused, a little nervous that she might’ve hit her head amongst the other, more obvious injuries. “Course they are –“

“They’re pink, now.”

He froze, then raised a hand to the top of his head. But a different hand, it seemed, beat him to it.

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