#as much fun as it's been it's kind of painful the unfinished state it's still in

[sarlias]

This game is very pretty, and also silly.

#I'm looking forward to updates #as much fun as it's been it's kind of painful the unfinished state it's still in #but I guess that gives more to look forward to #coral island

[lulaypp]

Lulaypp's Foliage of Lost Fics #1: Psychedelic

Note: Welcome to the first of few. The first of my unfinished/abandoned/kind-of-terrible fic dump collection thing. This is one I love a lot, the concept and torture was fun. But the pacing and decline of mental state had never sat well with me, and a few touches goes into ooc territory, and some lines ended up being weird.

Details of Fic: Nearly 7k words, Batfam Fandom, Jason-centric (and really there is barely anyone else around aside from some nameless villain), Whump with Emotions. Contains Hallucinations (ranging between just strange and gruesome), Non-consensual Drug Use (a heavy theme throughout the fic), Torture, Electric Torture, Broken Bones, Blood & Injuries (vivid, some hallucinated and some real), Sleep Deprivation

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Jason ground his teeth against the cry that wanted to tear out of him. The sharp, painful prickling insistently charged throughout his body as he convulsed uncontrollably. He tried to still his limbs against the spasms; locking his joints, clenching his fist or pressing down onto the cold metal surface, keeping his eyes screwed shut and pushing his head back into the table. Predictably, none of it worked, and the involuntary jerks alone were starting to hurt horribly. Mix that with the steady flow of electricity thrown into him through the table he was strapped to, his broken bones forcibly shifting with each convulsion despite the restraints holding down his limbs, the searing headache that had been plaguing him for far too long, and his lungs feeling tighter and tighter as seconds ticked by. 

He struggled to get a breath in, air coming in slivers before forced back out. A whine slipped past his throat as the pieces of bones in his broken leg moved. He wasn't sure if he was pulling against the cuffs around his wrists or they were just happily jerking away on their own. 

When the electicity finally stopped, he gasped, chest still feeling tight, but he could at least breathe and that is good right? 

It definitely shouldn't hurt this much. 

"Identities," a voice boomed into his ears making him wince at the sheer volume off it. 

Jason wet his lips, tasting the iron of a split, and coughed out a glob of blood before answering, "Wha' 'akes you thin' they-" He was forced to paused to suck in a painful breath and he knew that something was really wrong with his body. "-that they have... i'ntities." 

"Answer it, Red Hood or we'll go for five minutes." 

He tried to not flinch at the threat, rolling his unmasked eyes. "Fine fine. Batman is Bats One. Nightwing is Bats Two. Bats Four is, obviously, your's truly. Or maybe it isn't obvious since Three came in after-" 

The was a sigh in response, quickly followed by a backhand. Apparently, this guy lacks a sense of humour. How was it that Dick managed to win all the villains over by cracking jokes? How unfair. "Five minutes it is." 

Jason closed his eyes against the erratic thundering dread in his ears and heart. A scream tore out of him as strong volts charged into him. His bare back felt like it was burnt from where it was directly touching the table. He struggled to jerk out of the leather cuffs holding his limbs as he spasmed and gasped. His heart and lungs felt like crumbling and bursting at the same time. Seconds passed, minutes. He must have blacked out at one point as when he dragged his eyes open, the electricity had stopped, and he was certain it hadn't been five minutes yet. Unless if his internal clocked was far too messed up by now. Which, while not too surprising, just showed how long he had been here. 

"Identities," the voice demanded again. 

It was a bit of a struggle for him to turn his strapped-to-the-table head, but he managed it and glared at the guy. He was far too tired for coherent words. 

"Still a no? How about we switch up the power. That was two, so does four sounds good to you?" 

Jason wanted to curse the man out but only managed a tired snarl. His breaths were coming in stuttered, laboured gasps, his heart was trying to break out of his already partially broken ribcage and his brain could hardly process any coherent thoughts. 

"Power five for two then." 

That was the only warning he got before the volts started again. His back arched from the table as a breathless scream-whine trailed out of him, his vision going white. He clawed, at the metal suface, at the cuffs, trying to get away. The bliss of unconsciousness was quickly approaching when it stopped, giving him several seconds of break before starting up again. He trashed against the restraints, scrambling and clawing and tugging. He barely felt the wounds around his wrists reopening and his sprained ankle screeching in the midst of the flooding electricity. The volts would stop periodically before running again, successfully keeping him awake and in pain. His chest felt tight and the bones of his broken arm ground against itself. 

When it finally stopped for real, his mind was reeling and nauseous. He collapsed limp against the table, drained and exhausted, sucking in desperate breaths. 

"Identities," was repeated. 

A tired groan left him as he tried to pull his eyes open. He wasn't successful. "God. Stop it already," he hissed between short puffs of breaths. "We both know... know that... I wouldn't tell you even... if I do know." 

"Oh, we both know that you do know who they are." 

"Then 'm not-" He coughed, lungs bursting and clenching, and he gritted his teeth against a pained moan. 

"I will let you reconsider your choice." 

He heard footsteps fading away before a door screeched open and slammed closed, the grating, loud noise making him wince. Edges of sleep pulled at his mind, and he couldn't fight it. 

But something pulled him back. A sharp, short burst of electricity pulsed from underneath him and jolted him awake. His eyes were slipping shut and it happened again. And again. 

He cursed. Cursed the man, the table, the cuffs, his situation as a whole. He wasn't getting any sleep any time soon. 

- 

He moved his eyes to the door as it swung open. His mind and sight were muddled with exhaustion and pain, a thick fog hazing over his vision and thoughts. He had passed out at one point, but someone had come over and slapped him awake before threatening to waterboard him if he fell under again. Jason hated bending down to threats, but he wasn't interested in getting drowned either. 

The blurry moving dots that he assumed was the tormentor entered, closing the door before approaching. "I don't suppose that you have changed your mind." 

"Bite me," Jason snarled. "Why don't you go back to where you belong?" A hand suddenly patting his cheek roughly made him jump. 

"I don't doubt that that is where you belong as well, even if you are on the opposite side of crime. But that is no matter." 

There was a heavy thunk followed by sounds of rummaging, the sound reminding him of Bruce or Tim shifting through their toolboxes and the comparison did not help his feeling of dread. He startled when something cold and heavy tapped on his right forearm, slowly moving to his wrist and hand. His first guess was a crowbar, which fuelled his panic, but the weight felt different (perks of being beaten to death by a crowbar!). Heavier. Specifically, the head that was softly landing on... It was a hammer. 

It was then that the tool was raised higher and slammed down onto the back of his index finger. He hissed, reflexively trying to pull away as another hit smashed onto the knuckle. The hammer continued to move to his other fingers, hitting the joints until they break and shatter. It hardly paused between one pound and the next, leaving him gasping. His entire hand was radiating with burning hot agony that licked fires up his arm, but he refused to let out any more than a hiss. That was before three of his broken middle fingers the grasped tightly and pulled and twisted roughly, making him scream, vision sparkling. 

"Identities." 

Wow, he was starting to hate that word. He tried to conjure and throw a fancy mix of profanities, but the man probably had seen it coming as the hammer slammed onto the back of his hand. Repeatedly. He bit his lip against a cry. It felt like his entire hand was shattered. He did scream, however, when something dug into his hand, hooking onto the broken bones, and pulled. His struggles made it worse, causing the claw- it was the hammer's claw, it had to be- to bury deeper. 

As he was trying to breathe through the agony raging across his limb, he felt a hand pressing down onto his probably dislocated knee. "'go of me, you jerk," he hissed, trying to move his leg away without making it painful. 

"You tell me their identities, then I might," the man said as he pressed harder onto the joint before something smashed onto it. 

Jason let out a strangled noise as the thing slammed repeatedly in rapid succession, making his vision spark and spasm. He clenched his fists, regretting it as it pulled against the hammer dug into his right hand.  Something pushed down onto his knee and his lips bled as he bit it hard, screwing his eyes shut against the onslaught. He didn't get to hold back the scream that left him as the table charged to life, electricity crackling into him. Every convulsion caused blinding agony to burn from his broken leg and hand, pulsing into his mind. 

It stopped just before he could have a chance to black out. His mind was left thrumming with exhaustion and pain. He was really tired. 

He felt something cold and metal grasping his broken little finger before it squeezed and twisted. He clenched his eyes shut and could only try to breathe. 

- 

Jason grumbled out a curse when he noticed that his broken right hand was kindly wrapped in a bandage of sorts. It just meant that they were intending on keeping him around for a while. At least the hammer was gone. He had woken up again to the room being empty and the table, thankfully, turned off. He didn't dare to shift his lower half, not wanting to risk aggravating that newly broken knee and the older broken calf, as he tested the leather restraints again, pulling and twisting. They dug into the existent chaffing on his wrists, but he kept at it. They were wrapped tight around his limbs with no obvious latches, he assumed they were probably hidden somewhere underneath the table. The other possibility, which he'd rather not be a reality, was that there were somehow no latches or locks, the ends of the cuffs sewn together or something. The leather was definitely of good quality, not wearing even a bit no matter how hard he tried scratching and clawing at them. Whoever this guy was, he definitely had good funding or just happens to have access to a lot of quality stuff; the table, the cuffs, the fact that Red Hood was still unable to escape for an estimated week. 

He hated that he had no idea who the person who caught him was. Red Hood had just happened to be checking in on a suspicious looking dilapidated warehouse after helping Red Robin in an exhausting battle with Killer Croc and Clayface. Before he could do anything effective about it, he was jumped by too many people, knocked out, and apparently dragged to where he was stuck now.  

Well, not quite. They drugged and threw him in some room with a simpler collection of restraints, but they didn't account for the Pit's enhancements and the drugs practically flew over him and he had nearly succeeded in breaking out. Very nearly succeeded. 

And now he was stuck here, with leather straps pinning his wrist, ankles, upper arms and head to an electrifying table, and the leader of whatever this was trying to dish out Batman and the rest of the family's identities out of him. Like that would ever happen. While interrogation might not be the worst kind of capture, it was definitely somewhere high up in the list. It got very annoying, especially when the interrogator had the nerve to believe that he would bend down to their demands if they hit him hard enough. 

Jason took a deep breath, trying to clear his head. At least they let him pass out this time around which was relatively nice. The table was perpetually cold against his bare back, and it caused the bits of burns left there to twinge every so often, especially when he moved. It didn't necessarily hurt, but it was definitely uncomfortable. 

The door opened and Jason snarled as footsteps came closer, two people from the sound of it. Yup, this was not going to be fun. 

A person stepped into his field of view, a lackey most likely, and started rummaging through a bag of sorts. It wasn't long before he found what he wanted and pulled out an empty syringe, fitting a needle at the end. 

Jason's eyes widened as panic swished in his mind. "Get that away from me," he growled when the syringe came close. He struggled against the cuffs and practically tried to tear out his limbs from his restraints when the tip of the needle touched his right forearm. His heart thumped loudly in his ears as the tip pressed into his skin, a sound strangling out of him. He bucked and twisted as his vision went hazy. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to not fall into a full-blown panic attack, it was just a stupid needle, and bit his tongue when he felt the thing pull out. 

When he dared to look again, he managed to catch a glimpse of red in the tube just as it disappeared into the bag. Blood. His blood. He could almost laugh, good luck trying to find anything with it. Bruce had made sure to keep any kind of trail untraceable. Even if it wasn't so, the Pit had messed up with his physiology, and he was still legally dead, thus no new medical records. 

His eyes jumped to the leader guy as the man came from his left and he snarled. "You won't even get anything from it." 

"I'll get what I want," the man replied evenly before he, surprisingly, left with the other guy. But, unsuprisingly, not before turning the table on at a low voltage. 

- 

Jason believed migraines and headaches to be two different things, despite having simmilar symptoms. Like... pixies and fairies. Or elves and pixies. And he hated having both at once. This was one of the times when he wondered how Tim had been able to pull off that one month sleepless marathon. Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe he could use some coffee right now. His point still stands, headaches were a nuisance while migraines deserved to be in Arkham more than he himself did. Not that he should be in the asylum. 

He winced as another sharp jolt of electricity sparkled, keeping him up and awake just as he was about to fall asleep. 

The door opened and he counted two people approaching. He cursed silently and glared at the first person to come into his line of sight. It was the leader-guy-person. 

"Anything to say before we start, Red Hood?" 

Jason broke into a cocky grin. "You can kindly go to-" A hand was slammed over his mouth and he scowled. That was rude. 

Before he could bite it, however, it was removed and he fished out a random creative collection of words from his brain. But he froze when he saw the same other guy from before coming with the same bag in hand. 

The bag was opened and a syringe was pulled out, partially filled with something off-white. Jason wanted to scramble back in panic but it plunged in and pulled out before he could. Whatever that was, it was already inside him. He didn't know what in the world was that and it was in him. 

"What did you do?" he growled, trying to not expose his fear and panic. 

"Let's just say history makes for a very good inspiration." 

Jason snarled as his mind echoed with dread. Not good. Not good. This was very very bad. 

Another filled syringe was pulled out as he tried and failed to pull away. 

- 

The dim lights were starting to burn into his eyes and he closed them with a groan. Only open them again when a clown creeped into the darkness. He turned his head away from the light. He really hated drugs in all shapes and forms. 

There was a murky voice saying something and he only knew what was being said due to the repetition of the word. "Identities." That was all the guy had been saying through out this entire thing. 

He didn't know whether or not they had concluded that he was more immune to chemical things, but whatever they had been giving him just happened to be strong enough to override his defences. It was adding to the migraine and making his mind feel muddy. The table charged again and he groaned. He also felt like vomiting. Horribly. He was only holding it back because he would probably choke on bile with his current position and drugged mind. 

He hated getting drugged, with or without his consent. He hated drugs as a whole. And he didn't know what on earth had they given him. It might have been a mix of things. Judging by the wierd things dancing around his vision- were those tiny Nightwings with bunny ears?-, it might be a sort of hallucinogen. 

A cold sharp thing poked at his arm again and he tried to twist away. He was never successful as the needle went through despite his struggles, throwing whatever concoction the syringe was filled with. Why couldn't they just continue to beat him up? Why this stupid drug thing? 

Something snatched his jaw, forcing his eyes back to the light. He hissed. The voice was too close when it growled, "Identities, Red Hood, and this would be over." 

It took a bit for him to understand what was being said. "'ot h'penin', b'stard." His own voice sounded echo-ey and far... 

He flinched as a sudden creaking and slamming sound echoed everywhere. He gasped when the electric table started up again at low power, keeping the flow steady. The bunny Nightwings turned into one and hopped onto his chest. He scowled at it as it booped his nose with its paw-hand. 

"You're an idiot, you know that?" It suddenly talked! It talked! In a squeaky Dick's voice to boot! 

Jason wasn't interested in having anyone in the room seeing him talk to his own hallucination and resorted to internally replying, "You're saying like it is news. You're going to have to be a bit more specific as to what exactly you're referring to." 

Bunny Nightwing- or Bun-Wing, he decided- gestured to the world around them. "You are pumped with gallons of who-knows-what and you are still stuck here." 

"Oi. No no. This was not my fault. I did not sign up for this." 

"It so is." It sing-songed. 

“Then enlighten me on just how is this my fault.” 

"Couldn't even stop yourself from getting caught. You really are such a trouble maker. You never change." 

Okay. That hurt. How was it that his own hallucination was so mean to him? "You're mean. I hate you. Why can't you do something useful. Like turning off this table? Or the lights?" 

Bun-wing rolled its eyes. "You just said I am your hallucination, you idiot. Unless if you want to hallucinate the lights being off, then be my guest." 

Jason nearly huffed out loud. He tried shifting to, hopefully maybe, find a position where the shocks won't hurt as much, but forgot that he was a half-mess of broken bones. He gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes shut, stars and fireworks flashing in his mind. 

"Stop moving, you idiot. I'm gonna fall off." 

"Stop calling me an idiot, you selfish jerk. And don't look like Dick if you're not going to behave like one." 

"You prefer it if I look like someone else? How about someone with a better sense of humour?" 

It cackled, sounding too close to him, and Jason snapped his eyes open, glaring. 

Bun-wing had the nerve to look victorious. "Then I'm staying as I am. Besides, how do you know that this isn't how Dick behaves when he isn't around you? Maybe Dick had always been hiding all of his real feelings from you, trying to be the 'good big brother'." 

Why was it that his mind decided to conjure something who liked to rattle off his stashed away insecurities? "You know that I no longer think that.” 

"Do you, though?" Jason didn't get to retort when it snapped, "Language." 

"I hate you." He pointedly turned away from it. But it didn't stop talking. 

- 

"Stop it," Jason finally growled out loud, certain that the room was empty. Bun-wing spent the past minutes-hours prattling on and on, either about some stupid inane thing, or uprooting one of Jason's many deeply buried fears and insecurities.  "Just stop it 'lready and shut up." 

"Why, Little Wing? Scared? That it might be true? That dad wouldn't find you again?" 

"You shut up. He's not my 'dad' an' y'know nothing." 

"But, Jay, I'm your mind. So technically, everything I say is what you believe." 

"Te'nicality's stupid." 

"It is, but it doesn't make it less true. You're the outcast of the family, if you're even part of it in the first place. You're the Pit-crazed murderer maniac who nearly killed Tim. You're the failure Robin who died." 

"’said, shut up." Jason shifted his wrist in the leather cuffs. Maybe he could pull his hand out and strangle the imaginary rabbit. 

"I'm just saying what you are. What Bruce thinks you are. You don't even belong with us." 

Those were not what Bruce thought of him. He kinda knew that. Bruce had said it himself when Jason had admitted his doubts. 

"You forget, he nearly killed you by slicing you neck, letting you bleed out and get caught in an explosion. He didn't try to save you, remember?" 

He would never forget about it, the night still haunting him. The contempt in Batman's face. The batarang searing into his neck. The burn and crumble of the building around him.  

"I'll say that is a pretty good example of how much Bruce hates you. If he now acts like he doesn't, we both know how much of a good liar he is. He-" 

"Just shut up!" Jason bit his lip, trying to breathe. Whatever stupid things his hallucination was saying was not true and he knew that. But his brain was feeling murky and was apparently too messed up to care. He wanted to throttle that stupid rabbit. 

"No, you don't." 

"I may be imagining you but that doesn't mean I don't want to kill you, you pretentious-" 

"Language." The rabbit booped his nose again and that was starting to get really annoying. 

He scowled. "Ge' off me. You're heavy." His chest was starting to hurt from where the bunny had been hanging out for the past array of minutes. 

"No, you idiot. I weigh nothing but thoughts. Your chest is just having problems with itself." 

That... that didn't sound right. "What d'you mean by that?" 

Bun-wing rolled its eyes. "You are so dim sometimes." 

"Can you stop insulting me an' get to the point? I know that I am a stupid idiot, even if you haven't been telling me that for the past who knows how many hours." 

It looked smug and victorious. "Allow me to enlighten you, Jay Jay." 

Jason cringed at the new nickname but didn't protest as the hallucination would only irrate him further. 

"You battled Killer Croc and, if I remember correctly, both you and Tim concluded that you had cracked some ribs. Time skip several hours or so, you arrogantly thought that you could get out of here and you collected even more injuries. We skip again, you spent days here, on this table, getting shocked to oblivion. I'd say that your chest and maybe lungs and even your heart is not too happy with you." 

He ground his teeth. Now that he was paying attention to it, he could feel the pain coming from inside his chest. He had also forgotten about the table slowly pulsing in shocks up until now, his drugged mind having thrown the detail into the back burner. And now he couldn't stop feeling it, the light prickles coming from everywhere underneath him, periodically jolting him; not strong enough to be outright painful, but definitely uncomfortable. Mixed with his current state of mind, his head was starting to feel a little more than slightly sick. 

- 

Jason had gone back to ignoring Bun-wing, hating the squeaky voice of his brother coming from the imaginary rabbit. It was dreadfully annoying. Not mention some of its words just hit too close to home. 

Instead he closed his eyes and tried to remember quotes from Alice In Wonderland. He couldn't. But the attempt made for a good distraction. 

A sudden slam made him jump. His eyes snapped open and he hissed as the light burned. And he cried out when something pressed down and ground onto his shattered knee. Joker flickered above him, crowbar twirling. But fizzled out when a different voice spoke. 

"Identities." 

Jason cursed viciously, ignoring Bun-wing's "Language." 

"So you have yet to give in." 

"Wouldn't. Ge' 'ver it." 

"You're reeeally sure you wouldn't? I wouldn't be so cocky if I were you," Bun-wing taunted. 

"Just shut up already, you pre'entious 'mpostoring deadweight," Jason snapped. 

"Rude," the rabbit kicked his chin lightly. 

At the same time the leader villian guy spoke up, "Tell me, Red Hood. What is it that you see? What do you see and hear?" 

Jason wordlessly glared at the man. 

The fizzy shocks that had been emitting from the metal surface underneath him jump to a viciously strong voltage. 

- 

"You're wrecked." 

Jason closed his eyes and ears; the latter obviously figuratively; from the words. 

"Come on, Jason. It is not like I'm real. We both know that." 

Nope. No. There was no one talking beside him. If he didn't see it, then it wasn't real. 

A scoff. "Are you really giving your imagination the silent treatment?" 

He wanted to sleep. The table had been off for ages yet he was still kept up by his own mind. He was beyond exhausted. 

"C'mon, Jay. Don't be like this." 

It had to be two or three days since he last slept. His internal clock had gone out of the window and he wasn't wholly sure if his interrogator had a schedule. He wasn't even sure if that guy was even real half of the time. His hallucinations, in a long run, started to get confusing. 

"Jason..." 

He whined and finally turned his head to meet Tim by the table. "Please just stop talking and let me sleep, Red." 

Imaginary-Tim took a sip from his mug of limitless coffee, his neck tie sparkling with tiny glittery bats. "Sorry. You kinda said you probably shouldn't earlier." 

At least having this Tim was better than Bun-wing. Imaginary-Tim wasn't as annoying or willing to hurt as the rabbit. "Did?" 

"They threaten to waterboard you again if you fall asleep." 

Jason vaguely remembered that. He had fallen asleep at one point, gotten a bit of a nightmare -thank you, Bun-wing- and had woken up drowning. His trashing had successfully reignited all his injuries; broken legs and arms shatered wrist and hand, the awful thing in his chest, the stinging burns on his back, and a whole array of unidentifiable throbbing all over him. It still hurt now and he wanted to curl up in a corner somewhere until it all went away. But he couldn't do that, he's still stuck to the table. And imaginary-Tim had clarified that he couldn't help. 

...But maybe... he could... "Red?" 

Imaginary-Tim raised an eyebrow. 

"Can you- Can you maybe like..." Jason felt hesitant and slightly embarassed to voice it out, even to his own hallucination. 

But Tim, smart even in Jason's imagination, deduced what he wanted. Or maybe just knew since this Tim was just a conjurance of his own mind. 

Imaginary-Tim reached out a hand and patted Jason's hair. And Jason melted. He knew that he was just imagining things and he couldn't even feel it, but just the thought of it was nice. Imaginary-Tim’s fingers was the most comforting thing he had ever felt in days. 

- 

So, the gaggle of people holding him had apparently decided to keep him constantly and steadily drugged by hooking him up to an IV thing. He also assumed at it was making sure he didn't die of dehydration. 

He had asked imaginary-Tim how long had it been since he last slept and the hallucination merely replied that he didn't know because he hadn't slept either. He missed that figment of his imagination. Tim had left him alone at one point. 

His interrogator hadn't come by even since the IV pole had been set up. He hadn't been able to willingly stay up anymore. He suspected that something in the concoction of fluids injected into him was doing that for him. 

Joker leered over him, elbows pressing onto his aching chest. "Come on, Jay Jay. You're being awfully quiet." 

Jason turned away but there was a Joker there too. 

"Not finding a punchline?" 

He closed his eyes but something raking over his bare chest made him open them again. 

"We can always turn this party up a notch!" Two other Jokers stepped into view, all wielding crowbars. 

- 

It wasn't real. He knew that. But it felt so vivid. 

"..S-stop..." 

The Jokers went on giddily thunking their crowbars all over him, ignoring. It hurt despite it all being in his head. His heart was beating erratically as his chest felt caved in. His shoulder was shattered again and again despite never been broken in the first place. He tried to tell himself that it was just his hallucination, this wasn't real, but it was starting to get muddier and muddier by the minute. 

“Let me tell you a joke, Jay-kins,” one of the Joker spoke up, grabbing his jaw to turn his head to meet green eyes. “What bird dies in flames and comes back to life?” 

A robin. Him. 

The grin widened. “Bet you think its you, eh?” 

Another Joker made a buzzer sound, “No-se-ree! You got that wrong.” The crowbar was raise before “Fore!” and it slammed onto his shattered knee and he screamed. “Guess again, Hoody.” 

He couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. Couldn’t think. There was just so much overwhelming pain coursing and pulsing through every inch of him. And the worse part was that he knew it wasn’t real. 

All three pairs of manic green eyes suddenly swivelled up to behind his head. "Oh look who decided to join the party!" they chorused as they melted into one. 

At first Jason thought that it was the bad guy again. But the familiar dark figure entering Jason's periphery proved him wrong. For a moment, for a short sliver of moment, he hoped that it was real. 

"Look who I brought!" Jason flinched at the voice of Bunny Nightwing, the rabbit hopping onto the table. 

Batman stepped closer, emotionless as ever. 

Jason knew what was going to come. He’d had this nightmare before. He struggled in vain. The cuffs were still holding him too tight. "No... no please no..." 

Batman snarled and pulled out a batarang. 

- 

The blade trailed down his chest from his neck again, drawing patterns over his heart, tracing over the scar near his throat. It was pressed deep enough to break skin. But there wasn't any blood or new cuts. He realistically knew that, despite the flows of red that shines in the blinding light. All the while, Batman, one hand moving the batarang through the flow of blood, was by his head, free hand almost gently combing his hair, whispering words. Assurances. 

"Shh... It's okay, Jason. A little more." 

"That's it. You can hold on a little longer can you?" 

"Now that didn't hurt too much, didn't it? Can you take a little bit more, Jay? 

Jason sobbed and tried to get away. The twisted words, the sharp batarang, the gentle hand, they were all too jarring and confusing for him to coherently comprehend, messing up his head even further. He couldn't even jerk his head away from the fingers with the strap holding him in place. 

How was it that he was hallucinating all of this? Maybe this was- No. It couldn't be real. This wasn't real. He couldn't let himself think that. 

He bit his lip against a cry as the batarang hooked at his skin and pried it open, back arching from the table as he struggled. He whined the blade pressed down onto the scar at his neck, causing a fresh flood of red to gush out. 

"Shh.. shh... You can take it, Jay," Batman whispered, fingers brushing back his bangs. "You're going to stay strong for me aren't you?" 

Jason screwed his eyes shut against the brimming tears but a pair of furry paws pulled them open again. 

"C'mon, Little Wing." Bun-wing rolled its eyes from were it was hovering by his head. "Stop trying to run off." 

Jason summoned what little strength he could fish out of his addled brain and glared at the rabbit. 

- 

He opened his eyes with a gasp when something cold and wet crashed onto him. Trying to blink his vision clearer, Jason realised that he passed out at one point and greatly hoped that they were not going to hold on to their threat. His sight remained blurry as a voice pierced the ringing in his skull. 

"Identities." 

He tried to get his tongue to cooperate and throw out a curse, but it was a mumbled, slurred response. His thoat felt dry and rough. 

"I am assuming that you have yet to give in?" 

He glared at the villian leader guy– well, the blob which he believed was the villian leader guy– and growled. 

"Then we'll go again.” 

His heart fell. He hated the drugs and the hallucinations it made his mind conjure. He never liked those things in the first place. And he was afraid of what too much of it would do to his mind and body. The childhood fear of being dependant on it. He could already feel the more immediate side-effects of overdose; the relentless nausea, his erratic heartrate, the throbbing-over-pounding headache, the deep layering pains in his chest. And he wasn't keen on meeting any of his imaginary conjurance again. Why couldn't this guy be more physical? He wouldn't even complain against the usage of a crowbar. 

He forced his mouth to work. "'ou- You guys 're 'finitely n-not th'mos'... creative people in'th'world." 

There was a dark chuckle of amusement. "Don’t tempt me, Hood. I can get very creative. Set up the new drip and make sure to increase the potency." 

A hand grabbed his bound arm and Jason struggled, feeling a needle threatening to pierce his skin. But he wasn't strong or free enough to fight or get away as the sharp tip went in. His heart was pounding in his ears as he still kept on trying to break free, twisting his wrists, borken or not, in the cuffs. 

His broken knee was suddenly twisted and he screamed, vision flashing with stars. His movements faltered as the pain pulsed and throbbed, mind fizzing between the agonising shifts of broken bones and the dreading pricks of needles in his arm. 

When it all finally stopped, he struggled to catch his breath, lungs feeling far too compressed and throat too tight. He winced when the lamp overhead was adjusted to shine directly into his eyes and flinched at the sound of the door slamming close as the people left him alone. For now. 

- 

His entire head was a throbbing mess of aches. The dark walls of the small space crumbled around him endlessly despite the too bright light coming from somewhere. Was it the way out? But he couldn't dig himself out, tied down as he was. And- and the dirt was going to suffocate him and- 

No, he wasn't buried. He was somewhere else. The table. Empty room. Not underground. 

He tried to blink away the hazy hallucination around him. It just blurred further and he closed his eyes. 

Not real. Not real notrealnotreal- 

A half cry left him as he clenched his broken hand in attempt to ground himself to reality, focusing on how the skin tore further. That was real, he chanted in his mind, the things he was seeing wasn't. He curled his fingers in tighter and sucked in a shaky breath. 

A touch on his shoulder and a familiar voice made his eyes snap open. 

No. Please please no. 

Batman stood over him, a snarl curling his lips. He raised a crowbar, bringing it down and it stabbed as a batarang. Jason screamed as the blade sunk into his chest, twisting in his heart. He struggled against the restraints, ignoring the way his movements pulled at his shattered knee and tore further into his wrists. 

The crowbar pulled out before the table shocked him with a quick burst of electricity. He let out a breathless cry as, at the same time, the glinting metal weapon impaled his knee. Fingers touched his hair and he tried to run away, hearing soft incoherent words getting whispered in his ear. 

"Stop!" He finally sobbed out when the batarang started to peel the skin of his right wrist. "St-stop... please just- just stop..." 

His breath hitched as he heard Batman’s, "Shh, Jay. It's alright. We've got you." 

It wasn't alright. It wasn't alright. He knew this wasn't alright. He also knew that this wasn't real but it was hard to believe that when Batman was hovering above him, hurting him. And he could vividly feel every single pain inflicted upon him. 

He whined at a particularly harsh wrenching of the crowbar still embedded in his leg. Breathing was getting too hard, his heart was pounding loud and uneven in his chest and it all hurt. Fingers pried open his half-clenched broken fist, pressing it down, as he spasmed against a new flood of electricity. "B, please stop. Please..." 

"Stay still, Jay." Reprimand was in the tone. "Stop moving. But you never were good at listening to orders. I shouldn't expect much from you." 

Jason flinched. All in his head. All in his head.  Not real. There was no way Bruce would say that. But knowing all that didn't make it hurt any less. 

He suddenly felt his legs getting moved and realised that the leather cuffs and straps holding him down were gone. He didn't waste any time and scrambled back as far as he could, not caring when he fell of the table. He just needed to get away. Far, far away. 

Batman followed him and he tried to get up and run, but he was too hurt and weak - weak, helpless, useless - and collapsed before he could even get his legs under him, a pained moan and whine escaping his throat. His knee was pulsing and shrieking and he curled up on the floor with a whimper despite his mind screaming at him to get away. 

"Jason," a different voice called out. It wasn't Batman. It wasn't Bun-Wing or Joker or anyone else who would hurt him. He peered between his bangs and saw Tim. Red Robin was crouched in front of him, a hand outstretched. "Jay. Hey. It's just me, alright. I need you to stop moving or you'll hurt yourself further, okay?" 

Jason couldn't understand the uttered words but he knew that Tim hadn't hurt him. His little brother never had. He kept still as Tim shuffled closer and moved the outstretched hand onto his shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. 

"I need you to calm down and breathe slowly, Jason. I don't know what you're seeing, but I know that not all of it is real. Can you stay still while me and Bruce check you for injuries?" 

Bruce? He wanted his father. Longed. 

But then Batman stepped closer and he flinched back. He whimpered as Batman gently touched his face, thumb stroking across his bruised jaw. He wanted to run, but he was too exhausted. Hurt. Batman tugged him from the floor, wrapping a large black thing around him, and he let it happen. Tim was still there, holding the broken leg, and Jason screamed raggedly when it was straightened. 

A soft, rumbly voice pierced through the pain-fuelled haze and he looked up when something brushed his bangs. Bruce’s strong gaze met his and he felt his breath catching in his throat. Bruce was here. He melted as his father embraced him, trembling and whimpering into the armoured chest. He felt safe. 

It probably was a hallucination, much like Tim, but he would take this comfort even if it wasn't real. 

#Foliage of Lost Fics #batfam #Jason Todd #whump

[pasteleclectic]

🔥Playing With Fire🔥 (unfinished) Part 7 of the Permission series

Authors Notes: So ☹️ Between school work and recovering from surgery I didn’t have time to finish this Halloween wip that was supposed to be part 7 of the Permission series. It’s unfinished and doesn’t have any smut but if any of you are interested, I think the build up is still really fun🖤 You can find the full series on my ao3

WC: 3.5k

Tags: domestic au, established relationship, fluff & smut, Halloween themed, costumes, trick or treating, dirty talk, tempurature play (of the fire variety)

18+ only, minors & ageless don’t interact

✦✦✦ ✦✦✦ ✦✦✦ ✦✦✦ ✦✦✦ ✦✦✦ ✦✦✦ ✦✦✦ ✦✦✦ ✦✦✦

Much of your life changed after you and Sukuna worked together to forfeit his fingers. The two of you still owned the little white house where your family was created, but that was no longer where you resided. You both agreed to try to visit it at least once a year, but the house you were living in now made it much easier to adapt to domestic life. Or as domestic as one could get when you’re married to the king of curses. It was an adjustment but now it was just you, him, Kiseki and the female curse who’s been around almost since the start. It was a bit of an odd dynamic, but one that you wouldn’t trade for the world.

It was this very dynamic that probably led to your costume choice for this year, Morticia Addams. Since Kiseki had just started learning how to walk, he was still too young to take out for trick or treating. But you weren’t going to miss out on an opportunity to dress him up in a little costume, even if the two of you were just going to be handing out candy to the neighboring kids all night. You weren’t expecting to dress up at all, but while shopping for candy one day, you stumbled upon the cutest little Cousin Itt costume that was the perfect size for your precious one. It was hilariously cute and you were looking forward to the look on Sukuna’s face when he saw it. Considering how adverse he was to a simple brownie for Valentines day earlier this year, you figured this would push his buttons even more. And what was it that Morticia said? ‘Don’t torture yourself, Gomez. That’s my job.’ It was only fitting.

So you quickly snatched up the costume and a few extra bags of candy, the halloween spirit flowing through your veins. You spent the rest of the little free time you had that afternoon ordering the pieces you needed for your costume, and waited with much anticipation before the big day. You kept everything under wraps from Sukuna, wanting it to be a surprise. Aaand so there’s no time for him to force you to change the baby’s costume.

Hiding anything from Sukuna was usually next to impossible, but these days proved to be easier due to the condition he was in. He wouldn’t admit it, but his transition from his true form had taken a toll on him. Holding such immense power and cursed energy for as long as he did, it was no surprise that now that his 20 fingers had been casted away that he would be in a weakened state. But this was the king of curses you were talking about, and if kings were anything they were prideful. You weren’t there to personally witness it, but he described his transformation back to the form you met him in to be instantaneous but grueling. And for him to admit to any type of pain was quite the feat.

It had taken a lot of convincing on your part, but you had finally gotten Sukuna to stay on bedrest for longer than a few hours. It was nice of him to wait till after you were all unpacked and settled into the new house to get some rest, but during nearly the entire process of the move you were constantly worried about him overexerting himself. It pissed him off to see you pity him in any kind of way, and he was quick to squash your doubts by doing something rash like hauling you over his shoulder. He even threatened to throw you across the yard when you asked if you could carry a box for him. In front of your new neighbors.

For a little over a week now Sukuna has slept all through the night and most of the day, and was plagued with constant headaches. Him being cooped up in your shared bedroom all day did make it lonely around the house lately, but you knew it was only temporary. You had to remind yourself that there would be plenty of holidays you’ll share with him and your son.

On Halloween night, you were finishing up the last touches to your costume in the downstairs bathroom, hoping to not somehow tip off Sukuna by the smell of your long black wig or your blood red lipstick that something was up. The dress you ordered did technically fit, but you didn’t take into account your breast size when shopping, which varied due to breastfeeding. Even though it wasn’t that long ago, you still reminisced on the days when your boobs were your own and didn’t carry the responsibility of childcare with them. Nowadays they only ever felt sore, heavy, leaking or a combination of all three. You had fed Kiseki a few hours ago, but already you could tell that they were beginning to swell. But trick or treaters would be arriving any minute now and there was no way you were getting to let your stupid milkbags get in the way of your holiday spirit, no matter how much they popped out from the low cut of your slinky black dress.

Once everything was in place, you went out into the living room to fetch Kiseki, who stood like a perfect gentleman as your other curse companion gently brushing out the hairs to his costume. He made for the cutest little Cousin Itt, with sunglasses and a tiny hat to complete the look. You thanked the curse before offering your hand to your son to lead him upstairs where his father was. You wrapped your knuckles on the door before opening it and found your husband sitting up in bed, shirtless with his arms resting on either side of him. It freaked you out sometimes that he could actually sleep like that, but he soon opened his eyes when the door closed behind you. Kiseki followed your lead as you walked towards the bed, your back slightly hunched over to make up for the height difference. It caused some of your cleavage to spill from your dress, which you could see Sukuna ogling with a mostly blank expression. That wasn’t where you needed his focus to be, and you stood behind your son to bring the attention back to him.

“Show daddy your costume,” you said excitedly as you let go of his little hand. You stood close by in case he fell, but was surprised by how well balanced he was as he made uneven steps towards the bed. When he got close enough, Sukuna picked him up rather abruptly and held the boy by his pits at arms length, eyeing the costume with a hardened look.

“What is this abomination?” Sukuna said as he turned Kiseki from side to side as if examining a pet for dirt. The boy giggled as he kicked his feet above his fathers lap, ignorant to the question. It was a good thing no one’s taught him what ‘abomination’ meant yet.

“He’s supposed to be Cousin Itt. From the Addams family,” you finished that with two snaps of your finger tips, the reference completely lost on him. You were hoping to watch the movies with him before he’d seen the costume, but his condition made his already low tolerance for television basically nonexistent.

Setting the boy down on his lap, he looked you up and down before saying, “And why are you dressed like a whore?”

Your jaw dropped as you looked between him and the boy. With your hands balling into fists on either side, you said defensively, “Watch yourself. I’m dressed as Morticia Addams. She’s the mother of the family, for your information.”

His lips turned up at the corners, eyes traveling down as he said, “Hm, fitting I guess.”

Before you could say anything else, a small voice asked, “Whore?”

Both of the boy's parents' eyes widened, but wore completely different expressions. He sat on his dad's lap, completely oblivious as he looked between the two of you waiting for an answer. This really couldn’t have gone any worse, and lucky for Sukuna the doorbell rang before you could think of what to do. Scooping up the boy in your arms, you made your way out the room, but not before shooting Sukuna a death glare over your shoulder. As you made your way down the steps, your son tugged on a lock of your wig, looking up at you with the most innocent eyes as he said, “What’s a whore?”

“Let’s practice saying ‘trick or treat’, okay?” you said, giving him an animated grin to mask your mortification.

—

Luckily, the rest of the evening was going just as planned. Between visits from the trick or treaters, the three of you (as in you, Kiseki, and the female curse) were curled up on the couch watching classical kids halloween movies. Your biggest stress currently was trying to monitor your son’s candy intake since his costume allowed him to sneak it so easily. You’d find balled up wrappers falling from beneath the curtain of hair whenever he stood up to greet someone at the door. Still, you were having a blast. Nearly everyone who showed up at your doorstep raved about your son's costumes. You knew you were biased, but you felt that he was definitely the best dressed of the night.

This night served as good practice for his walking, but when it was getting later in the evening and the trick or treaters were dwindling down, there was a moment when he almost tripped on himself while trying to hand out candy. You immediately squatted down to wrap a protective arm around him, and placed the candy bowl down on the ground in front of the kids.

“You okay, buddy?” you asked your son, who’s covered head nodded beneath the costume. Addressing the people at the door, you said, “Go ahead and take as much as you want. That’s all we have left.”

“What do you say, kids?” came an adult male voice. As several tiny voices of ‘thank you!’ rang out, you looked up to meet the eyes of what you had to presume was the father of at least one of these kids. You gave him a friendly smile, the sounds of crinkling wrappers ringing out as the kids fought for the last pieces of candy left.

“Those are some cool costumes you got there,” the man said with a raise of his brow. It was topical, but came out kind of forced based on his tone and the sweat of his brow. Grabbing the now empty bowl, you stood up as the children started to walk past the man. You figured he would follow, but instead he stood rather stiffly with his hands in his pockets as he said, “You’re smart for choosing to stay in. My feet are killing me right now.”

“Oh, it’s just because the little man isn’t used to being on two feet yet. I’m sure I’ll be in your spot by next year,” you said, your arms wrapping around the bowl. His eyes shot down to it - or at least that’s where you thought they went- before meeting your eyes again.

Just when you were about to tell him goodnight, he said, “Yeah, I’m out here with my daughter and some of her friends and their parents. Maybe next year we could all be a trick or treat squad, y’know?”

“Uhm..”

You weren’t sure how to answer that. He seemed nice enough, but your motherly instincts wouldn’t allow you to trust your son around a stranger, no matter how harmless the offer was. You figured you could ask about his kid to steer the conversation elsewhere while also getting more insight on him, but just as you were about to speak, he quickly said, “Or m-maybe not. Sorry I asked, goodnight!”

The man stormed off your lawn, catching up with his group that were already half way down the block by now. Before you turned around, you could already sense the reason for the man’s sudden change in demeanor standing behind you.

Sukuna stood tall before you, red eyes nearly glowing in the dimly lit entryway as he kept watch of the man. Without looking back, you closed the door behind you to say, “Could you not scare the neighbors, please?”

He was about to say something, but looked to see Kiseki staring up at the both of you. Giving you a look that said ‘wait,’ he bent down to be at eye level with his son to say, “I don’t know what you’ve done with my boy, but he better be in his bed by the time I get there. Got it?”

One of his little arms shot out from the side to give a salute above the brim of his glasses before he hobbled away. You called out to him telling him he needs to brush his teeth extra well before bed, and luckily the female curse followed right behind him. As they both entered the bathroom down the hall, you turned your attention back to your husband, who was now standing directly in front of you. You’ve gotten used to his lack of personal space, but was still caught off guard when his hand circled your waist to press you close against him. Sneering down at you, he said, “I’m only scaring the ones that want to fuck my wife.”

Looking down the hall to check that the coast was clear, you gently knocked a hand against his chest as you said, “You’re being ridiculous, you know that?”

“Am I?” he asked, emphasizing his point by pulling you in closer so your breasts were squeezed up against him. You hadn’t realized till then how apparent they were by now, seeing as it's been hours since you last pumped. Sukuna’s lips grazed the high of your cheekbone as he said, “You’re the one who’s had their tits out for the whole neighborhood to see.”

“Not on purpose!” you said, flushing with embarrassment just thinking about how long you’ve looked like this.

“I’ll allow it this one time, but only because you look so fucking hot,” he said, his hips pressing into yours as the hand that was sitting low at your waist slid down to squeeze your ass.

“Sukuna..,” you said in a low, flustered tone just as you saw your son exit the bathroom. You pushed away from his embrace just in time to hear him say, “I’m going to put the pest to bed. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

In a haze from his words, your response came delayed when you said, “You mean our son?”

—

You only stood around for about a minute when Sukuna came through the door, shutting it behind him while never tearing his eyes off you. The two of you haven’t been too physical since the start of his recovery, so you were eager for whatever he was willing to offer. You knew flat out asking would cause him to throw another hissy fit, so instead you followed his lead as he gripped your upper arms tightly and pulled you into a kiss. It was rough and needy, and you had to grip onto his pecks to balance yourself from the dizzying feeling he was always able to pull from you. Leaning in closer to him, your fingers naturally grazed down his chest. You weren’t using any pressure, but somehow the feeling of your nails going down his nipples caused him to let out a sharp noise. You pulled back immediately to ask if he was okay, seeing smears of your red lipstick across his lips.

“I’m fine, it's just..,” Sukuna must’ve been so foreign to this feeling that even he couldn’t comprehend it, but soon he said, “I think I actually felt pain just now. Not a lot but… certainly more than I ever had before.”

You couldn’t hold back your worry then, and asked him a flurry of questions before he grabbed your wrists and said, “It wasn’t much. You certainly could never hurt me.”

You knew he was just joking it off, but he also seemed genuine. With a huff, you said, “Be careful what you say. I could take advantage of you in your weakened state.”

“You should,” he said with a fire in his eyes. It caught you off guard and you couldn’t help but to nervously ask, “Are you sure?”

“If I said it, then I’m sure,” he said in an irritated voice as his sharp teeth showed. He was being awfully short tempered for someone who was asking to be dominated, and you purse your lips as you gazed up at him through narrowed eyes.

“Fine. Lay down on the floor.”

You pushed off of his chest after that, knowing his eyes were trailing you as you walked to the opposite side of the room. You weren’t sure exactly what you had in mind, but busied yourself by searching the dresser drawer as Sukuna lowered himself to the ground. He has never outwardly asked you to play the dominant role before. It was something you silently anticipated even though it scared the hell out of you. Being bratty with him was easy, like a game you two could pick up on at any time. But being the one in control of such a force as Sukuna… It was admittedly enthralling and terrifying.

“If you’re trying to bore me to sleep, it’s working,” said a voice from somewhere behind you. You rolled your eyes just when your fingers landed on a small cardboard box tucked in the corner of the drawer. You had nearly forgotten you owned a box of matches. You bought them for the brief time period you didn’t own an electric lighter for your candles, and figured you’d keep them in case of a power outage. But now a darker idea was swimming through your head, and you quickly grabbed them and held it close to your middle.

“Lighting candles to set the mood? How cute,” Sukuna looked up at you with a raised brow, his hands tucked under his head.

“Not quite,” you said with a poorly hidden smirk. You grabbed a single match from the box and shut it, running the tip of the matchstick over the textured side. It made a small sound as it lit above your fingertips. Holding it up for dramatic effect, you said, “You have some apologizing to do.”

“For what?” he lifted his head, brows furrowed as he looked at your stern face. Rolling his eyes, he said, “How many times do I have to tell you, he’s not going to remember-”

He let out a sharp hiss in surprise when the tiny flame made contact with his bare abdomen. As he brushed it off himself, he looked up at you in mild bewilderment, more so for having the gall to go through with it. You wanted to feel guilty for what you had done, but the sly smirk that crept over his face told you that you didn’t need to be. Standing up a little straighter, you looked down at him from your chin as you said, “That’s not an apology.”

Sukuna casually picked up the match, which only left behind a faintly rosy mark that was healing itself quicker than it came. You watched as he put the still smoldering tip to his tongue before saying, “What are you gonna do about it? Burn me at the stake, witch?”

“That’s too good for you,” you said as you lit another match, already feeling the enthralling anticipation that hung in the air. You twisted it in your fingertips while saying, “But it’s tempting.”

“You’re getting so worked up over a word,” he said while tucking his hands back under his head, clearly making himself comfortable. As his hips momentarily raised in the air, you noticed the tent in his pants. You still practiced caution when you did it, but you couldn’t resist stepping in between his legs before bringing a foot down on his crotch. You ran it gently over his bulge as you gave him a heated look.

“What are you getting worked up over?”

He rolled his hips up to meet the flat of your foot. It took you slightly off balance and before you could think, he was pulling you down on top of him. The match you held simmered out on the floor beside him as your hand went over his chest. You were straddling his lap now, and with your dress riding up to your hips, you could feel his bulge pressing up against you. It was embarrassing how whipped you were for his cock, but you could already feel the heat forming in your core at the prospect of where things would go.

“I know you’re going easy on me,” he said, propping himself up on one arm as he wrapped the other around your waist, practically pushing his face into your chest. Smiling against your cleavage, he said, “If you’re gonna do something, at least make it count.”

#I’m sorry if the spacing is raggedy I can only post on mobile #writing #fanfic #ao3 #jjk x reader #jjk #my fic #jjk smut #sukuna #jjk sukuna #sukuna x reader #wip #kinktober

[kirschteinsj]

Another life

Genre: angst, (dazai x male reader)

warnings: mentions of blood, guns, language, death

word count: 1.2k

summary: y/n and his last moments with his ex lover

a/n: hi !!! This is my first time uploading something here!! this is a short bit I wrote that I kinda liked !! I'm not too great at this yet, but i hope to post more since its kinda fun !! i hope you enjoy it !! ^_^ !! 

The boy sat there, crutched against the cold, concrete wall, wincing in pain. Blood pouring from his abdomen, how long had that wound even been there? It didn’t matter, he knew his precious days were soon to be over and there was no energy left in him to fight. Eventually, Dazai would catch up to him and find him here in his vulnerable state. Either his old lover would kill him or he would bleed to death in this grey, empty garage.

His eyes felt heavy and begged to be closed. But he couldn’t get them too. A part of him wanted to wait until his last breath for Dazai to find him. It excited him, the latter discovering him there bleeding to death. Perhaps he could put him out of his misery.

Dazai’s quick footsteps echoed in the empty hall, he’d found him. Y/n’s head jolted upwards, a sly smirk plastering his face. He was just on time. The agent made his way over to y/n, gun extended before him in case of any surprises

Seeing the tall, slim man’s face made him reminisce about the tender moments they spent together in the past. How his lips felt against his, how his frail hands grazed his skin under the moonlight. The sweet nothings they shared and the witty banter exchanged. He’d missed him, but knew things were better off without him.

“You’re alone.” He croaks, blood trickling at his lips. Dazai’s expression changes. His face which once was a stone-cold emotionless slate was now washed over with a soft expression topped off with a fragile smile. The brunette huffed and lowered himself to y/n’s position and sat on his knees, gun still in his hand.

“I suppose I am. I told Kunikida to stay back and watch over the entrance. Thought I’d spend some alone time with my favourite person, hm?” He teases, placing a curled finger underneath the boy’s chin, tilting his head up towards him.

Dazai looked into his tired eyes, lids hanging low. He too realized he didn’t have long, he was becoming colder.

He recalls the nights he stayed up with him, talking about all the things they wanted to do, how their days went, shit-talking Chuuya. He missed him just as much. But after Dazai had left the mafia, things changed. What once were mutual admirers were now bittersweet enemies. Though, whenever Dazai saw him, he could only think of the y/n that was his lover. Why did it have to be this way?

Y/n’s expressionless eyes bored into Dazai’s. He wanted to tell Dazai everything about the way he had felt for his ex but knew that if he did, the words would trail off his slick lips and end short. He felt as though he’d run out of air and end things unfinished.

“Dazai,” he spoke, gasping for air, “I missed you, you bastard.” Earning a chuckle from Dazai. The lover raised his hand to y/n’s forehead and pushed wisps of his hair away from his eyes, clearing his face so he could see him better.

“You’ve never been keen on pet names, have you?”

“I haven’t. Some things never change.”

Dazai pouts, “You know I wouldn’t mind being called ‘baby’ every now and then.” He whines, rolling his eyes facetiously. Y/n coughs up a laugh and clings onto his stomach, concerning Dazai. He noticed the wound and felt rage, for some reason. Though his mission was to stop y/n and kill him, he felt infuriated at the idea of someone attempting to hurt him. What kind of sick and twisted way of love was this?

“Ouch, that looks bad, who did that to you?” He posed, moving his gun to the opposite hand, gently lifting the boy’s shirt to examine the wound.

He looks down at Dazai’s hands and then averts his eyes back to his slender face, “I dunno, I just noticed it. It’ll kill me pretty soon.”

The older boy sighs, bringing down the shirt. The injury would kill him, yes, but within a few hours to say the least. Truthfully, Dazai was disappointed, he didn’t want to be the one to kill y/n. But leaving him to die here wouldn’t be ideal either. He’d be found and saved, something that Dazai couldn’t let happen either. If y/n was to die, it would have to happen right there and then. The tension on Dazai could be detected from a mile away, y/n caught onto this almost immediately.

“Dazai, I’ve done some horrible things.” Y/n grunts, attempting to sit up straight. Dazai lends him a hand and the boy leans his head against the wall, closing his eyes.

“I know you have. We both have.” 

“But you’ve become a better man.” He insisted, “Dazai, if I asked you to do one last favour for me, for old time’s sake, would you?”

The tall man was curious yet hesitant to hear his request. But nonetheless, Dazai agreed to hear this favour. Perhaps he could fulfill a dying man’s wish.

The frail boy opened his mouth and spoke in a near whisper, “Dazai, I want you to shoot and kill me. Right here, right now.”

Dazai felt his stomach drop. He’d killed people before and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again if it meant protecting the lives of others. Though in this case, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to.

“What, are you too afraid to die slowly and painfully like this?” The man smirked as he pointed at the wound, teasing him in an attempt to calm himself down. Y/n let out a soft giggle.

“Maybe I am. But in all honesty, I don’t want to be saved. I think I’ve lived an eventful life, don’t you think so? I think,” he pauses to cough, “that it’s time for me to go.”

Closing his eyes, Dazai leans his head back and inhales. Though he still loved y/n, he knew he’d have to do this before anyone else could. He had to end things here.

“Okay. I’ll kill you. On one condition.”

“That is?”

The tall brunette remained silent, and leaned into y/n’s face. He set the gun underneath his chin, allowing it to hold his head up and slowly, he closed the empty space between the two, lips interlocking. Kissing back with whatever energy was left, y/n hoped this moment would last nearly forever. Was this what heaven was like? He wouldn’t know and wasn’t destined to either. Dazai released from the kiss with a tsk, y/n’s blood resting faintly on the latter’s lips. Gradually, he stood up, towering over his lover. Raising the barrel of the gun to y/n’s head, he looked at him one last time, remembering their lives together. Acknowledging that this was the last time he’d see y/n alive, he exhaled in sadness.

“I missed you too. I’m sorry it had to be this way, y/n.”

“So am I, Dazai. So am I.” 

“Maybe we can meet again sometime soon. For old time’s sake.”

“Perhaps, in another life.” He smirked, cocking the gun.

A deafening silence took over. With all his might, y/n opened his mouth to whisper his final words, eyes brimming with tears.

“In another life.”

And with that, Dazai’s gun fired.

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd headcanons #bsd imagines #bsd oneshot #bsd angst #bsd x male reader #bsd x reader #bsd x y/n #dazai x reader #dazai #dazai osamu #osamu dazai #dazai headcanons #hcs #bsd hcs #bsd oneshots #dazai smut #anime oneshots #dazai angst

[itsagrimm]

Imperial!Tech 2

Is it even romantic without murder?

Imperial!Tech is a delight and I am worried why I have fun writing a murderous lost nerdy boi. will likely do a part 3.

about 2.000 words

part 1

Part 3

CN insults, violence, murder, discriminatory behaviour, very toxic behaviour, soldier life in a fascist state, tiny bit of fluff or Manipulation depends on your perspective, blood, pain, talk of injury. imperial!Tech is a bit of a tease but he will come around

Imperial!tech X they*them Y/N reader

“This will not suffice. Repeat.”, Commander Tech ordered.

His command was calm and detached, a contrast to the exhausted and heavily panting Elite Squad soldiers.

They looked at each other. None of them having the strength to continue their practice. But also none of them having the will to argue with their commander.

Y/N looked up to the observatory deck. Commander Tech was up there, his black armour contrasting with the white walls.

“Is there a problem, ONCE?”, the voice of the commander echoed in Y/N helmet, using the moniker the elite squad had given Y/N.

“No sir. Can we get a short break before a new try?”

The commander glanced down before looking at the holopad in his hands again.

“The elite squad endurance and recovery time is miserable as expected. I calculated your performance to be at least on par with regular clone troopers. I see now that it was a mistake, and I will have to lower my expectation further & readjust my strategies to your … lacking skill level.”

“I am sorry, sir.”

“It is not your mistake to be born inferior.”, the commander stated flattly, “Your next round will be in 5 minutes standard.”

The Elite Squad looked at each other. Their commander was in a mood. Since his injury on Bracca the Squad had not been in action and commander Tech worked them into the ground with his bone breaking practice runs.

“It is impossible.”, ES-02 said using a private chat without the commander, “Who is he comparing us to? The commanders’ expectations are inhuman. Only some kind of super squad could execute his mind-boggling plans in the time he gives us.”

They nodded in agreement.

“He expects us to be at least as good as the regular clone troopers.”, ES-04 stated.

ES-03 laughed: “Yeah we are better than thosemeat droids. And what does he mean with regular clones? Is there even fancier cannon fodder out there?”

“Commander Tech is noticeably different from other clones. Maybe there are more like him out there?”, Y/N pointed out.

“Oh maker, imagine more copies of that pretentious smart mouth up there.” ES-03 rolled his eyes.

“Get in position and execute plan 8C.3 .”, the commanders voice cut through their chatter. ONCE felt as if they got caught bad mouthing Tech.

“Yes sir.”, they replied and got into position.

A ping from a private channel ringed. It was ES-03.

“You are quiet protective of our commander Tech, my dear ONCE. Is there something I need to know?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, … it is always ‘yes sir’ and ‘of course sir’ and sometimes you are both gone in the night. And our dear commander got a lovely visit in the med bay when he was wounded. You even bring him caf somet-“

“ES-03, mind your business.”

“No need to get so aggressive. I am sure it is nothing. And I am sure it is just a coincidence that he leaves you out of punishments or giving you the safest positions in his strategies…”

ONCE said nothing.

Since that time in the hangar the commander had some allure and to admit that meant a defeat ONCE could not afford.

“Well my dearest ONCE, got nothing to say about that? I-“

Static cut through their transmission.

“ES-03, I must inform you that I am very disappointed by your unprofessional behaviour within the Elite Squad which I will not tolerate anymore.”

“Commander? Is that you?”

“Yes of course, who else did you expect?”

ES-03 turned around and looked up to the observatory deck.

Commander Tech’s expression was unreadable, his eyes hidden by the reflecting glasses.

For a moment none of them moved. Then ES-03 took of his helmet and started shouting.

“Are you spying on us? Are you listening to all our private conversations???”, he screamed with a red head.

The commanders lips moved but up there and without his helmet ES-03 could not hear the commanders answer.

“Calm down”, ES-04 tried to defuse her squad member’s anger.

“I am NOT calming down! The sick dirty clone listens to our private channels!”

“Mate, it is not worth it to start a fight like this now.”, ES-02 added, “put your weapon down and think about it.”

“Are you serious??? Do you think I am a threat with this crappy old DC-17? A danger to any of you?! No, it’s this meat bag of a clone who should be afraid of me!”

ONCE flinched at ES-03’s words and readied their weapon.

He was out.

An angry man was a dangerous man.

ONCE former life as a bounty hunter had taught them this lesson well.

Static cut through their helmet again before ONCE heard commander Techs voice.

“Tell ES-03 that the Empire has issued an order to all commanding officers to listen into all communication of their soldiers. It is also very much encouraged to record it.”

“Are you sure that will calm him down, sir?”

“I don’t care about that. He either learns how to live with imperial command or he does not.”

“You are testing him.”

Tech paused.

“Follow your orders, soldier.”

He cut the transmission.

ES-03 was still shouting. His spit landed on ONCE helmet when he turned toward them.

“What did that clone say, my dearONCE??? You two just talked, didn’t you?!”

He sounded furious. His eyes burning like laser blasts into ONCE body.

“He said, checking all communication between soldiers is the new imperial standard to which the commander simply has complied.”

“Fuck that!”

ES-03 stepped closer, his DC-17 blaster still in his hands.

“Fuck that! Fuck that clone! Fuck the Empire! Fuck YOU, you little imperial whore!”

He raised his blaster, aiming for ONCE.

ONCE got cold. Trained instincts kicking in. They rolled sideways behind one of the training blocks to avoid the shot.

A blue blast slightly grazed their helmet, but the adrenaline made it impossible to tell whether or not ONCE got hit.

“ES-03! Stand down!”, Tech’s voice commandeered from somewhere close. He must have left the observatory deck.

“HA! What are you going to do, little nerdy boi? Do you want to protect your little pet over there?! Don’t even try! You are not even a real man!”

Another blue blast shot through the air.

ONCE could hear the Tech and other Squad members taking cover.

“He really did go full rage.”

“Not everyone is cut out for the soldier life.”

“Not everyone is cut out for the Empire!”

“What do we do?”

“Cut the chatter, soldiers”, Tech commandeered, “Take ES-03 out. Shot to kill.”

“Sir?!”

“We can stun him!”

Instead of an answer Tech jumped over the training block he was couching behind and kicked ES-03. ONCE heard the blaster slide over the floor and the sound of fists colliding with skin.

Over and over again.

The sound got wetter.

ES-03’s screams turned into pleas before going silent.

XXXXXXX

Another rotation on Kamino. Another dark night in the bunk room of the Imperial Elite Squad. Another nightmare.

Y/N woke up and looked around. Everything was calm except for the rain knocking at the window and the slow breaths from their fellow soldiers. Commander Tech was missing as always.

Weeks since the Commander had been hurt on Bracca. Days since ES-03 s death. Hours since he – since Tech – had looked at y/n. Why was that such a painful thought? He was a horrible man, a murderer!

He is just a good soldier, he follows orders. Just like you.

Y/N closed their eyes. Pictures of Tech beating ES-03 to death flashed before their eyes and with them the realization that whatever crimes and murders Tech committed, Y/N committed them alongside him. Two monstrous beings in service of a monstrous Empire.

The door to the bunkroom opened silently, only a light draft giving away the silhouette in the door frame. Y/N glanced to the door. It was the commander. He looked at the sleeping elite squad members and through the room as if he was searching for something.

Y/N got up on their elbows and looked at the commander.

Their eyes met.

“ONCE”, he whispered, “Come with me.”

Y/N got into their boots and followed the commander. The long white halls of Tipoca, the kaminoan capital, were empty and quiet. Tech lead the way but surprisingly they passed the hangar and soon arrived at his little office.

He turned around.

“I require your assistance, ONCE.”, he explained in a calm voice, using the moniker the elite squad had given Y/N.

“Now?”, ONCE answered.

“Yes, now.”

They looked at each other. Tech looked horrible. He had dark circles under his eyes so prominent, that even his glasses couldn’t hide them. His head wound from Bracca had left severe, still bloody scars and his hair was unkept and in patches from the burn he survived.

“What is it, commander?”

Instead of an answer he opened the door to his office. It was a little room, full of unfinished projects and gadgets, a wall scribbled with complex formulars ONCE was not in the mood to fathom and a littered table with various unfinished reports.

The workspace of the commander surprised ONCE. It was a stark contrast to the thoroughly planning and executing commander they knew.

“Can you cut my hair?”

“Sorry, sir?”

ONCE turned away from the room and faced the commander. His face was reserved but his voice had a telling neediness in it. The commander, Tech, he needed help.

“Well, I cut my own hair. I can try cutting yours. But I am no professional.”

He nodded.

“I noticed.”, he paused and smiled apologetically for his ambiguous phrasing, “That you cut your own hair, I mean.”

ONCE was speechless. He had smiled.

“I have my personal reservations towards the imperial service corps and their droid hairdressers. And the other option is to ask another trooper since I do not have the skill to cut my hair. But quite frankly the thought of trained regular soldiers having blades near my throat and more importantly my still healing wounds being opened up by some well meaning yet bad practising self-learned barber, is distressing which is why I require you to cut my hair.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“I was not aware of the need for sunlight in order to cut hair. Can you elaborate?”

ONCE suppressed a smile.

“I am sorry, sir. The circumstances are just a bit unusual. But I can try cutting your hair. And I do not plan on cutting your throat.”

“Good to know.”

He nodded casually, satisfied with ONCE’s answer, and produced a hair clipper from somewhere before seating himself on a chair with his back towards them. It was a captivating moment. ONCE looked at the hair clipper in their hand with its tiny blades and the commanders turned back to them. He had defined yet narrow shoulders for a soldier and a muscular back, visible through the thigh blacks. His bare neck was visible, and his occipital moved under his skin when he turned and looked at ONCE.

“It is alright. Feel free to give me whatever hair cut you choose to be fitting. As long as it is functional, I am content.”

ONCE breathed in. That was the commander. And they were about to cut his hair like they were good ol’pals or family. Like they were more. It was a sign of trust so unusual on Kamino, yet he had asked for it.

“You will need to take your glasses of.”

He complied and waited.

ONCE touched his hair to feel its texture before cutting. It was soft. Like a child’s.

They started cutting both sides to even out the burned parts and help with the sensitive skin around his scars before shortening the rest. Burned curls after curls fell on his shoulders and he brushed them away with his hands.

His hands. His murderous hands. They were large and had long fingers with little cuts from tinkering around. How did it feel being touched by them?

ONCE finished cutting, walked around Tech to look at the commander and squatted to see him from an even perspective. He looked good.

“This will work, sir.”

Instead of an answer he stretched his arm out and grabbed ONCE’s jaw.

“Thank you, Y/N.”

He got up and turned away.

Part 3

#imperial tech #the bad batch tech #tbb toxic tech #tbb #tbb tech #the bad batch #swtcw #order 66 #clone x reader #good soldiers follow orders #tech x reader #tech x y/n #tech x you #clone force 99 #clone commanders #slow burn #romatic murder

[paradife-loft]

In the blood orange sky

Well. Does anybody remember a couple months ago when I made this post? Because apparently I’ve been thinking about it a fair bit.

And also thinking about... maybe doing a thing? A thing that involves writing various vignettes as I’m moved to, very low pressure, but all in the same continuity, about sequences of various events that are related to one another and a central premise...? So kind of maybe like a “multi-chapter fic” as they call them, but y’know. No particular goals for “finishing” something, or requiring they be in chronological order or any other strict structure binding them together. Just exploring things for fun, and I’ll see where it goes!

But yes, so, I have written a bit this week that I think does what I would like for a first portion of something like this, and... here it is!

1.4k words, Xiyao, post-canon, dark-ish mystery/intrigue/character and relationship exploration I guess?; warnings for injury and general unpleasant body stuff, and also unpleasant mental health stuff, and also discussed off-screen (mass) murder.

*

When he comes to this time, he is sitting - propped up in the gentle rays of early sun against something he can vaguely identify as soft, with enough give to cradle his shoulders. That alone is a departure from each time previous… and Jin Guangyao supposes he ought to be thankful he continues to wake up at all; that his condition upon doing so this one time at least is no longer face-down, body practically smeared into the dirt.

An unpleasant prickling in one of his legs prompts him to open his eyes again, lift his head from where it’d fallen back against a pillow. His neck throbs with the motion. He sees a pair of hands - familiar enough that the distortions between his sight now and his memories cannot help but unsettle him - moving steadily with needle and thread through a deep rent in his left calf.

Ah. That would explain that particular discomfort, then.

Viewing the sight on top of feeling the muted, distant sensation it evokes, gives him the perverse and contrarian instinct to kick out and abort the effort of cleaning him up as it’s only partway done - but he recognises well enough that it would be a waste, and even now he isn’t so far gone as that. And he doesn’t want his leg to remain ruined. And to repair it himself now would be… possible, but far more difficult.

All arguments he has to pull out in front of his mind’s eye, like a text one might recite, to convince himself not to protest this time; but he does hold himself still, does remain for the time being a silent, compliant patient.

(Not entirely still, he must admit: his eyes follow the tiny shifts in those hands, trying to reconcile the absence of both manicured care, and the unique pattern of callused ridges he had memorised once upon a time. And yet more important, more incorrect when compared to the state he is familiar with: Lan Xichen has never known how to sew.)

(And yet. And yet.)

He presses his lips together as Xichen approaches the completion of the task, drawing the words he resents needing to speak up like pitchers of water from a drying well. They crowd his tongue, sour the inside of his mouth.

"I take it you found me quickly this time, after your target was done with me?"

Lan Xichen starts when he hears his voice, head jumping up and eyes round. Jin Guangyao had not taken him to be so absorbed that he hadn't even noticed him waking, but -

(He should have, perhaps.)

Xichen's expression hardens into something resigned after that, the dam holding back a great dredged mass of displeasure. Pain and anger in a hundred or more shades, silt and loam and sand.

"You tore apart the gravesites of three prominent clans, scattering the bones, and then did the same with the bodies of their living families when they came to drive out the robbers who defiled their ancestors' remains. The entire village has been terrified since last night. The news was not difficult to follow."

Jin Guangyao resists the urge to close his eyes, staring down the spray of blood to his face with the same dispassion he once used to with regularity. He is out of practise, however: he can't stop the reflexive flinch in his mouth, or his one remaining hand. It curls stiffly in the blankets pushed to one side of the bed pallet.

It’s not that he hadn't expected something along these lines, from the moment he’d woken up and taken in his surroundings. He hadn’t particularly relished the anticipation of hearing it, and so allowed himself a few moments watching Lan Xichen work in silence before disturbing him, it’s true - but he regrets the pain and exhaustion on Xichen's face and in the set of his shoulders and limbs more than he cares to spend his sympathy on another (inevitable) group of dead strangers.

He glances down at the long column of stitches holding the greying flesh of his leg together around the bone, and wonders which hapless, doomed villager from this new feat of resentful destruction had managed to inflict the injury.

"So it didn't require all that much searching, then. Nobody was angry with you, stealing away with the corpse that had killed all those people instead of burning it?"

"Not enough to express it to me. I imagine it helped that I spent several hours in the interim helping right the disturbed graves, and set wards around several of the neighboring houses," Xichen replies. Stress still lines his eyes, flickering more prominent like a candle flame as he speaks. Reconstructing the sequence of events implied, Jin Guangyao feels a twinge of - something - surprise, or hurt? he can't quite say - that Xichen had apparently seen fit this time to seal him away and then leave him, presumably alone, for some significant time afterward, while he tended to the village. Even though it was presumably an effective distraction, not to mention well-deserved.

"I was intending on returning this afternoon, to add more wards to some of the other houses, and suppress any other spirits roused in the process,” Xichen adds. Half an afterthought, half an explanation.

The emotion, whatever it is, crystallizes into a spike of irritation. "Temporary wards aren't going to be enough to turn away a determined corpse-raiser of this strength if he has unfinished vendettas against anybody left there," replies Jin Guangyao, snappish.

Lan Xichen’s lips thin. "I would still prefer to comfort some of their fears, however unrealistically, in the time before the problem has been solved, than leave them with no help or explanation at all after such a loss."

Jin Guangyao knows this. Agrees with it, even; it had been one of many principles they shared in the nighthunts they used to investigate. If Lan Xichen is frustrated at having to reiterate such a thing to him specifically, rather than in general, it doesn't show amidst everything else on his face.

He does stand though, turning away from the bed, tucking the medical supplies he’d been using back into their pouch and going to check on an iron kettle perched over a fire.

“Where are we?” Jin Guangyao asks, preferring the abrupt change of subject to a continuation of the prior topic. Xichen glances back at him - not for long.

“The abandoned house of one of the walking corpses I suppressed a few months ago,” he replies. He pours hot water into a skin, tying it off, and then another steaming portion into a tea pot - drab by Gusu Lan standards, but still likely worth more than the entire roof they’re under. “Don’t get up on that leg yet; you’ll split it open.”

Silence clouds between them, as Jin Guangyao stops shifting his way toward the edge of the bed pallet and lets the leg stretch out in front of him, holding back his weight against his arm. His fingers itch.

He’s asked Lan Xichen before, how long he’s been living like this, although not in those terms; and Lan Xichen has responded only with obvious deflections, despite giving perfectly cogent answers to less savory questions, such as how he’s managed to take a room at an inn with a resentment-spilling corpse in tow. There are many people in need with no one else to turn to throughout the countryside. A simple glamour works well enough when neither the inkeep nor other patrons are cultivators. Spending nights at the house left abandoned after a prior nighthunt certainly sidesteps the minor inconveniences of the latter, but leaves him even less sanguine about the former.

Would you rather neither of you were here at all, and in all likelihood even more people were dead? his own mind poses snidely, while he sits and watches Lan Xichen putting the hot compress over his lower leg, manually drawing up the blood in his body toward the region. He sips the cup of medicinal brew pressed into his hands, despite strong doubt in its capacity to do anything now for him in particular.

When he can acutely feel the spiritual energy circulating through his through him - pushed by Xichen’s intent and core, urging tissue to repair itself in the same way it would in a living body - Jin Guangyao finally admits the need to push on the issue of what they both have surely understood by now.

“I need to come with when you leave,” he says. He doesn’t make it a suggestion.

Lan Xichen closes his eyes, and Jin Guangyao’s still heart seems to squeeze like a vise. Go back to Gusu! he wants to yell; fuck the villagers, and fuck whatever further bloody deaths he won’t be conscious enough to care about causing.

Lan Xichen only nods, like it pains him. “Yes. I suppose you do.”

#oh my LORD I am GOING to have a fucking fit over trying to post/format this :)))))) #the post editor kept refreshing when I resized the window to check things AND WOULDN'T LET ME PROPERLY COPYPASTE EVERYTHING #I just wanted to look into the html bc it was giving me weird formatting stuff but noooooo ?new post editor? didn't want to let me do that?? #anyway I have. written up the intro part to this post like 3 times now and I am. SO DONE :''''') #*kicks website* ANywAY...... #that time James wrote fic #no good things for the poor sad cultivators #Jin Guangyao #Lan Xichen #xiyao #....I never know whether to call something 'angst' if there's not... on-screen angsting but the characters are definitely Going Through It #(apparently my solution is to just call it dark? I guess? is that the correct solution? IDK!! :D) #......ao3 will happen later probably when there's more than 1 part to this

[coeurdastronaute]

Essays in Existentialism: Boss

Prompt.. Lexa and Clarke sleep together one night, the next morning Clarke comes in to start her new job and turns out Lexa will be her boss (basically how Meredith and Derek first meet in grey's anatomy) yeah cool...love your writing

The tiny townhouse on the corner of Grant and Lincoln was nearly unpacked, but still occupied the unfinished zone of moving in. The furniture was there, with boxes opened and in various states of emptied. Sheets were tossed on the bed, but it wasn’t made. Clothes were rooted through and half hung in the closet at the top of the stairs. The only things in the fridge were little Chinese take out boxes and a handful of sauce packets. 

But that didn’t mean a thing to the bodies on the couch. 

Well tired and sated, the two tangled torsos and limbs hung and clung to each other on the small area, not having much to discuss the night before, but rather making the other body too tired to hear and speak and think, and thus fell asleep in a knot. It wasn’t many hours of sleep between the bar and the sex and the moment one of the bodies shifted and the otehr fell to the floor with a thud. 

“Ow.” 

“What was--”

“Just my back. And hip. And… head,” the body on the floor wheezed slightly, wincing against the pain. 

“Oh shit, it’s daylight,” Clarke squinted toward the windows witn no curtains or blinds and realized how late it was. “Oh fuck!”

“Seems to be.” 

The body on the couch sat up and hopped over the back before snatching the blanket and carefully wrapping it around her naked body. 

“I have to go. I have work...um…”

“Lexa,” she sat up from the floor, propping herself up on her elbows and looking up over the cushions. 

Completely naked, the girl on the floor smiled and pushed away a mess of hair while Clarke looked at her and blushed and tried not to look, desperately. She wanted to look, but that would distract her from the process of getting ready, and Clarke had to get to work. It was her first day, after all, beautiful naked sex god be damned. 

“Right. Lexa. Nice to meet you, but I have to--”

“Yeah, of course,” she nodded, tugging a pillow in front of herself to shield as much nakedness as possible. “Do you live here?” 

“Just moved.” 

“Cool. From where.” 

“I really have to-- It was fun and all--”

A pair of blank panties were held up from the floor by hands attached to a mischievous hand oddly victorious grin. Clarke remembered the same smile somewhere between the whiskey and tequila, the smile nd the eyes and the intent way the stranger in the bar listened to her words. More importantly, she remembered the fragments of the sex and the things that mouth could do and that was the reason for the victory, and it was deserved. 

“But you have to go to work,” Lexa repeated. 

With a graceless motion, Clarke reached over the couch and snatched the offending lingerie before agreeing full-heartedly. 

“It was nice to meet you, Lexa,” Clarke promised. “But when I come back downstairs, you’ll be gone, and I’ll be on my way to work.” 

“Right. Work. I should, too. It was nice, to uh, do this. Maybe we can again--”

The offer was barely acknowledged as Clarke hopped up the stairs and toward the shower, leaving Lexa smiling somewhat, amused at the display before she looked down at herself and chuckled at what the past five minutes of her life looked like. 

XXXXXXXXXX

It was incredibly stupid. It was monumentally stupid. It was the dumbest thing she’d ever done, or at least very close to the top of the long list. But after three weeks of refusing to unpack the house and dealing with the question of employment, Clarke couldn’t handle it any longer, and joined the land of the living again. Perhaps a bit too hard, which was, above all else, stupid. Incredibly stupid. 

Clarke didn’t have too much time to think about anything else as she sprinted into the tall building that had its own distinct imprint on the city. Hair a mess and shirt sloppily in the process of being tucked in, she flashed her badge and rushed toward the elevators as she repeated how stupid it’d been to get absolutely drunk and hook up with a stranger on the couch, and then not setting an alarm, for her first day of her dream job. 

Again and with emphasis, Clarke was an incredibly stupid and gay individual. 

“Ms. Griffin,” the receptionist greeted her with a smile. “I’ve been instructed to ask that you wait right here until Ms. Moore is finished with her phonecall.” 

“Right, of course,” Clarke nodded as she attempted to underplay how extravagantly winded she was. 

Grateful for the moment to process, Clarke took a seat in the reception and processed what the past hour of her life looked like. She somehow woke up and kicked out a very naked woman from her house, that she could almost remember the name of somewhat. And she’d run across town and made it to work. On time, or at least on time enough for her boss. 

Only when she’d caught her breath did Clarke realize that she never got Le-- La-- Lara? Lena? Larry? Fuck. She never got the stranger’s number. 

“Hey, Clarke, thanks for your patience.” 

The woman who interviewed her twice finally walked out from behind the hallowed doors of Woods Publishing, and Clarke gave up trying to remember and prayed she did not smell like as much tequila as she’d inhaled the night before. 

“I’m so happy to be here, Ms. Moore,” she grinned and shook the outstretched hand. 

“Luna is fine. We’re the creatives,” she winked and led Clarke toward the door. “We get a little more freedom than the stuffed shirts in editing and sales.” 

As they moved down the hall, there was a minute smell of weed, and Clarke realized that this job was going to be better than she’d ever imagined. 

“I thought for your first day, I’d kind of get you set up, take you to our morning huddle and pitch meetings, and then after lunch make you meet everyone in a super awkward and invasive department bash.” 

“Bash?” 

“Yeah, well, people stop coming when I call them meetings and ice-breakers. I’ve decided to rename things different, more fun words to trick them into the same meetings.” 

“How’s it going so far?” 

“Amazingly well. Just wait until you see the turn out for your meet-and-greet… I mean bash.” 

Clarke couldn’t help but smile. Her boss was calm and cool, funny and approachable, and most importantly, she was clearly very into her job, which was a godsend. Hiring was often abou personality and camaraderie, as in how well a new personality would fit into a team, and Clarke already felt at home. 

The day went by easily enough, as all first days are known to do. She met her team and got her desk, got to feel out a little of how the day flowed with the promise of her assignments arrival soon enough. Luna passed her off around lunch to one of the teammates, and Clarke fell into enjoying her new coworkers with very light company gossip over not terrible sandwiches in the cafeteria. She learned all about the office romances and the merger, the new corporate structure and how great it was compared to other companies. She learned about the owner’s daughter who started a few months ago and was actually nice to work for, and more importantly, Clarke learned that there was a very lax policy when it came to punctuality. She breathed a sigh of relief. 

By the end of the day, Clarke felt like she would like it there, and was eager to help and work on drawing some of the projects. She was ready to work with the team and she was ready to finally be creative and produce something. 

“Thank you all again, for welcoming Clarke to our team,” Luna grinned and held up her glass as the rest of the team did the same. 

She was right, of course, that calling it a bash did something to make them all want to stay a few minutes later and mingle. 

“Enjoy the gift baskets sent from the studio for our last project, but within reason. And we’ll jump right in tomorrow.” 

“Thanks,” Clarke smiled and accepted a drink. 

“I’ll see you bright and early. We’ll get you started on part of our new programming and onto the new project.” 

“I can’t wait.”

Clarke found herself pulled into a conversation over artwork for the storyboard on the wall in the main rom, and even though it was technically about work, the other artists were more than eager to talk about their plans, even over drinks. 

And then she looked up and nearly spit out her drink before turning around very quickly so that her back was to the familiar green eyes and the person she’d kicked onto the floor that very morning. 

“Looks like the boss decided to make a stop. I’m going to finally ask her out,” one of the guys decided as he stood a little straighter and awkwardly fixed his hair. 

“There’s no way Lexa Woods gives you the time of day,” Raven scoffed, sipping her drink and sneaking a look at the grinning CEO. “I bet you twenty bucks she doesn’t even speak to you.” 

“She’s really nice.” 

“Oh, I know. But I bet she won’t even notice you.” 

Clarke felt the blood leave her face as she hurried to sneak another look to confirm that it was, in fact, hell freezing over. And sure enough, for some stranger reason, in a city of hundreds of thousands of people, she was in the same room as the stranger she drunkenly hooked up with sixteen hours beforehand. 

And that stranger was her boss’ boss’ boss’ boss. That stranger was Lexa Woods, CFO of Woods Publishing, daughter of the owner, inheritor to the castle. 

“What do you think, Clarke?” Raven turned toward her. Just five minutes ago, Clarke liked Raven, but now, she wanted to disappear and Raven was blocking the exit. “Think Dan here has a chance?” 

“I don’t really know anything about her,” Clarke shrugged and downed the rest of her drink, careful to stay turned around. 

She didn’t know anything about Lexa Woods, except how she tasted and the noises she made and this thing she did with her fingers that--

“She hasn’t been here long, but she’s actually not the worst, as far as suits go. She likes the creative floors. Her dad’s given her a few projects I’ve been on and I think we work pretty well together,” she explained, offering Clarke a refill. 

“Cool, cool, nice.” 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or you’re a very bad drinker.” 

“I, uh, had a few too many last night.” 

“Hair of the dog then,” Raven grinned and clinked their glasses. “I think I’m going to like having you around, Griffin. At least until you start asking for advanced tech and drive me crazy with your doodles. Oh shit, there he goes.” 

Despite herself, Clarke turned around and watched the illustrator move through the crowd. She looked immediately at Lexa and actually caught her eye. She held the look and she watched Lexa smile at her, though she couldn’t move to return it. Mortification was at the forefront of her brain. That and oddly proud of herself for pulling someone like Lexa Woods, even when she wasn’t on her A game. 

Only when Clarke saw Dan get close, did she look away and break the stupor she found herself stuck in. 

“I can’t believe he hasn’t figured out that she’s gay.” 

“What?”

“Dan has the worst gay-dar of all time,” Raven chuckled. “I almost feel bad taking his money. Almost.” 

Sure enough, as he walked up toward his boss’ boss’ boss, full of confidence and vim, Lexa didn’t even notice him, her eyes firmly locked on Clarke’s as she moved through the crowd, finally deciding to approach. It took a few steps before Clarke realized what was happening, and only then did she feel the two and a half drinks she’d had. 

She really didn’t like Raven. 

“I knew it.” 

Clarke didn’t say a word, but rather looked for a quick escape, though none existed and she already knew that. 

“Hey, I thought I’d come welcome you to the team personally. I’m Lexa Woods.” 

With a smile and her hand outstretched, the CEO stood there, as if she hadn’t gone down on her new employee on her couch. 

“Lexa Woods, as in…” 

“Yeah, that’s my name outside, but don’t hold it against me,” she grinned, holding the handshake a little bit longer. “It was Callie, right?” 

“Clarke.” 

“I’m sorry. Clarke.” 

“I didn’t expect to see you on my first day.” 

“Yeah,” Lexa chuckled. “I can imagine. I like hanging out down here more than upstairs. How are you, Ms. Reyes?” 

“Doing alright,” Raven nodded, appraising the scene before her. “Taking Clarke under my wing, as it were.” 

“I’d be careful,” the boss warned. “It was nice to meet you again, Clarke. I’ll see you guys later. I have a meeting I should try to get to ontime. Punctuality is key.”

Clarke burned red and nodded. 

“Nice to meet you, too, Ms. Woods.” 

“Lexa’s fine.”

“Yeah you are.” 

Lexa just smiled and waved again before disappearing. Dan joined the group a second later and passed a twenty to his friend. The boss left the room a moment later without a look back, and Clarke finally breathed. 

“So,” Raven furrowed. “When did you fuck our boss?” 

XXXXXXXXXX

For three weeks, Clarke managed to avoid all thoughts and ideas of Lexa Woods, CEO and absolute beauty. She didn’t avoid her social media, nor did she avoid much of the idle gossip about her at work, but for the most part, Clarke refused to think about her as much as possible, which amounted to about never. 

Sometimes at work, she was able to go for hours, focusing on her projects. Sometimes, Clarke found herself avoiding areas she suspected she might show up, and for three glorious weeks, she was fairly successful. 

Bent over her drawing board, Clarke found herself in a period of Lexa-less thoughts, happy to escape her life and all else, and instead find some sort of outlet for everything she’d been feeling over the past year. 

“These are very good.” 

“Fuck, you scared me,” Clarke breathed, turning around quickly. “I mean. Not fuck.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t followed up,” Lexa smiled softly, hands tied behind her back as she perused Clarke’s wall of sketches for the short they were doing. “I was out of town on business. How is your first month going, Ms. Griffin?” 

“Do you take such an interest in all of your employees, or just the ones you seduce?” 

“I believe you were the one seducing. I was drunk and adorable and you took advantage of me in my drunk and adorable state.” 

Clarke balked and grit her teeth before seeing that Lexa was making fun of her, which did nothing to calm her. 

“Someone who pins the other to their front door, is not being taken advantage of.” 

She smiled again and Clarke found it infuriating. And hot. But also infuriating a little more. 

“I did do that, didn’t I?” Lexa nodded. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to address that… trist.” 

“It was a fluke, and I think we should stay professional. Like we have.”

“I thought I was keeping it fairly professional.” 

“I just mean, you can’t-- we don’t have to talk about that… trist.” 

“Or we could?” she waited to gauge Clarke’s reaction. “Or not. Definitely not. Very professional. Just pretend it never happened.” 

“Exactly. Thank you for stopping by, Ms. Woods.” 

“Lexa is still fine. We’re going to be working together a bit. Everyone calls me Lexa.” 

“Professional,” Clarke repeated. 

“Casual, even. Professionally casual.” 

“Exactly.” 

XXXXXXXXX

“Professional,” Lexa nodded to herself and tried to catch her breath. The naked body beside her repeated the same thing with a sigh. 

“But we can’t do that again. We were just scratching an itch,” Clarke reasoned as Lexa agreed, humming along with the familiar song. 

If any of that were true, she wouldn’t have been naked in Clarke’s half-made bed, next to a full-naked girl. If she had anything to say about it, they’d be doing it much more and often and professionally. But she was the boss, and she wasn’t allowed to make that call. Clarke had to make it. And Lexa was very grateful that Clarke made it. 

It wasn’t Lexa’s fault that they enjoyed the same bar, or that they happened to notice each other, and it wasn’t her fault that she liked kissing Clarke. 

“I quite like scratching that itch with you.” 

Lexa turned her head and watched Clarke smile before regaining her composure. 

“Don’t sweet talk me, Woods. I’m your employee.” 

“Yeah, but like, only kind of.” 

Clarke turned and gave her a look before Lexa chuckled and rolled toward her, pressing her luck as she pressed against Clarke, kissing her shoulder and her neck. 

“What are we supposed to do?” Clarke turned over as well. “Go into HR and tell them we’re sleeping together?” 

“I could fire you?” 

“Lexa.”

“I could quit?” 

“Shut up.” 

“Or you could agree to go on an actual date with me, and promise not to take your clothes off.” 

“You’re the one that takes them off of me!” 

Despite her wiggling, Clarke let Lexa pull her closer. She ran her fingertips along Lexa’s cheek, squishing her cheeks together so she was making fish lips and smiled at the display, amused at herself and how Lexa let her do that. 

“I zwant tovee hrofeshinal widzth you. Vutd I sink I alike you.” 

“You sound ridiculous.” 

Lexa sighed until Clarke let go of her cheeks, unable to keep the smile there. Instead she held her chin now, between her forefinger and thumb, keeping her steady and there. Fingertips moved up and down her back. 

“I think we can do this without messing up work.” 

“How?” 

“We just don’t work together. I’ll stay off of your projects. Luna has complete control over personnel and who is on what.” 

“If it goes bad?” 

“Then I’ll definitely quit. Sell the company probably. Move to Zurich,” she decided. 

“That plan developed quickly.” 

“It’s always in my back pocket in case a beautiful girl who works for me creates a problem. I will not be caught unprepared again.” 

“Again?” 

“It’s an expression.” 

“Mmm,” Clarke smiled and nodded. 

She didn’t waste a moment. She leaned forward and kissed Lexa because she had to be certain, and she had to find some kind of bravery. She should think about it more, and she should have made a pros and cons list, but something about this moment, this person, Clarke just felt alive, and she’d been chasing it for so long. 

“Did I get the job?”

“You got a date. One date.” 

“I can work with that.”

[moon-in-daylight]

Ignored / Dhawan!Master x reader

Summary: The Master has spent the last week focused only on developing his new plan against The Doctor. Tired of being ignored, you try to get his attention.

Words: 2k

Warnings: Smut, teasing, masturbation, oral sex

A/N: This is the first smut I write in some time (I’m not really counting the one I wrote for ‘Save you’ because that was part of a wider story and it felt different idk) I was a bit nervous about it, but I think I’m satisfied with the result. I want to thank @13atoms​ for proofreading this for me and giving me her lovely opinion ❤

The Master’s TARDIS never ceased to amaze you. You had no idea how Time Lords’ technology worked, but the fact that the ship could recreate its own spaces and design new rooms was simply unbelievable. You could spent hours in there, wandering through the corridors and you would always find new places, new things to do between those walls. You never thought you could get bored inside that time machine…

Well, you were wrong.

After spending what you calculated was like a week inside the TARDIS, you found yourself desperate to go on adventures, to get some fresh air or at least have some kind of interpersonal interaction.

You had tried time and time again to get The Master’s attention, to convince him to take you anywhere or anytime and taking you on an adventure, but he claimed to be extremely occupied putting together his new plan to defeat The Doctor.

At first, you had decided to leave him alone in the console room, hoping he would be over with whatever he was working on in less than a few hours. Considering the ease in which The Doctor usually ruined his plans, you supposed it wouldn’t take him much time or effort to come out with one of them.

Once again, you were mistaken.

As the days passed, you slowly watched the console room become a mess, discarded papers with unfinished diagrams written in them all over the room. You weren’t even sure he had left the console room in the whole week he had been working on his plan, nor if he had eaten or slept at all. He probably didn’t need to, but you were still worried about his state.

Plus, he hadn’t even looked at you at all in that time.

The lack of attention he was giving you drove you mad. Usually, you were his center of attention whenever you both were alone in the TARDIS, spoiling you with anything and everything you could ask for and never leaving you unattended for extended periods of time. Being accustomed to him treating you like the queen he claimed you were, the fact that he wouldn’t even raise his head to look at you when you came into the room was even painful to you.

The situation couldn’t continue that way any longer. You missed him. You were desperate for him, for the slightest crumb of his affection. And, most important of all, you weren’t sure how longer you could keep wandering through the TARDIS’ corridors without going insane from boredom.

You had to do something about it.

Entering in the console room, you found him in the exact same position you had left him the last time you had been there, typing something inside the console and taking some notes of what appeared on the screen. You recognized the language as Gallyfreyan, but you couldn’t understand a word of it.

“I feel like visiting a new galaxy.” You tried to start a conversation, already knowing that it would be useless.

“That sounds wonderful, love.” He muttered automatically, not lifting his eyes from the screen he was looking at.

“Maybe we could take over some random planet.” You continued.

“Aha.”

“And enslave its residents.”

“Yeah.”

You looked at him for a few seconds, well aware that he hadn’t listened to a word you had said. In the meantime, he kept himself busy, attention completely set in whatever he was scheming.

“I’ve been thinking about leaving you.” You lied in hopes that would make him react.

“You do that, pet.” He encouraged you, his mind still somewhere else.

“I’m wondering if The Doctor has a spare bedroom for me in her TARDIS…” Putting a special emphasis in his enemy’s name, you waited for him to answer.

“Did you say something about The Doctor?” He finally turned to you, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

“I said we could enslave some alien race.” You shrugged innocently.

“Oh.” Immediately after hearing your answer, he turned back to what he was doing. “Maybe later. I’m kind of busy right now.”

Watching him return to ignoring you, you couldn’t hold back the desperate sigh that left your lungs. It had been like that the whole week, and you didn’t know what else to try to get him to take a rest from thinking about The Doctor. You were almost jealous of her at that point.

Refusing to give up, you walked up to the console and sat on it, right beside where he was working. He didn’t even seemed to be bothered by it.

“You don’t mind, do you?” You asked, getting no response from him. “Of course you don’t.”

Looking down to him, you observed the work he was doing, the way his fingers rapidly typed over the console’s buttons and noticed the way his sleeves were rolled up, showing his forearms. You instantly wished his hands were on you instead, the idea sending a shiver down your spine.

That thought resonated through your head as you bit your lower lip, a new plan to get his attention already forming in your head.

Your stare kept fixed on him as your hand slowly started to caress the skin of your thighs, imagining his fingers were the ones teasing you instead. He had never gone so long without fucking you before. If he felt half as touch starved as you were, he wouldn’t be able to keep ignoring you after this.

And if that didn’t work, you were ready to give up completely.

Running your tongue through your lips as your hand ghosted your still clothed core, you split your legs open, taking some of his working space. He still didn’t react, oblivious to what was going on right beside him as he was still focused on the screen in front of him. You took two fingers inside your mouth, sucking them with a loud hum before slipping them under your clothes, starting to play with yourself.

You closed your eyes at the sensation, your body slightly tensing at the feeling of finally being touched. Your fingers moved in circular motions around your clit, mimicking the intensity The Master would use on you if he were the one masturbating you. As you felt your breathing starting to unsettle, you let out a loud groan and opened your eyes again.

That was when his gaze finally met yours.

You bit your lip in order to hold back the smirk that threatened to form in your face when you saw his reaction, eyes shimmering as they observed your form and jaw clenching as he swallowed the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat.

Ignoring him like he had been doing with you, you kept focused on pleasuring yourself, satisfied with having his stare on you and you only. When you felt his hand placed on your leg and moving slowly towards your inner thigh, you slapped it away with the one you had free.

“I believe you have more important things to do.” You recalled to him with a false innocent tone, your breathing still unsettled as you felt the heat forming slowly inside of you.

“That can wait.” The Master assured, voice husky and eyes already undressing you.

“Oh, just ignore me.” You moaned, your hips deliberately rocking against your own fingers, well aware of what you were doing to him. “I wouldn’t want to distract you from what you were doing.”

He let out a loud, impatient sigh, eyes never leaving yours as you knowingly smirked at him. He was going to make you pay for that later, but for now you could have some fun.

Deliberately, you increased the speed in which your fingers moved around you, the sounds that came out of your mouth louder and more obscene with every second that passed. You normally weren’t that noisy when touching yourself, but you were putting up a show for him to enjoy – or rather to endure.

You kept looking at him as he shifted uncomfortably around you, trying to place himself between your legs but desisting from it when you placed your free hand on his chest, preventing him from getting any closer to you. The desperation in his eyes for touching you only sent you closer to climax.

“It’s a bit late already.” He growled. “If you didn’t want to distract me, I mean.”

“Such a shame.” You shrugged before letting a finger slid inside of you.

Your hand clenched around the lapel of his vest as you moved your finger in and out of you with a painfully slow pace, your legs shaking from pleasure. Watching the way he stared at you with big, pleading eyes, you almost felt sorry for him. But he deserved some teasing for once, that would definitely teach him not to neglect you again.

“You’re dying to touch me, aren’t you?” You taunted him, the smile never leaving your face. He seemed to consider getting into your little game for a second before nodding silently. Now there was no doubt, he was at your utter mercy. “Well, you’ve had all week to do so. Why should I let you do it now?”

“If I were the one touching you, you would be reaching your third orgasm by now.” The Master stated, making your inner walls involuntarily clench with the sound of his voice.

“But you aren’t.” You added, letting your fingers out of your entrance and spreading your natural lubrication between your folds. You were soaking at this point, and you knew he could tell. “And I’m doing okay on my own, thank you.”

With your fingers rubbing strongly against your clit again, you had to suppress your need to moan his name out loud, refusing to give him that satisfaction. Your whimpers became louder as you came closer to your climax, you almost could feel it about to take over your body when his voice stopped you.

“Please.”

As soon as you heard the word come out of your mouth, you froze. You couldn’t recall ever hearing him using that word. You had never pictured him as the pleading kind… You must have had him even worse than you had first intended or imagined.

“You have to promise me you won’t ever ignore me again.” You spoke, tone deadly serious. “Is that understood?”

“Absolutely.” He agreed, cursing himself for ever having allowed you to think you meant anything other than the world to him.

You nodded your head in a single gesture of consent before watching him desperately drop to his knees, barely wasting a second before undoing your pants and freeing you from every piece of clothing. You were surprised when he quickly put his mouth on you and eagerly started to eat you out, sucking on the hood of your clit and starting to build again the orgasm that had faded just seconds ago.

No teasing, no punishing for the way in which you had taunted him.

The last thing you would have expected was for him to be so gentle with you. You were expecting him to roughly fuck you against the machine’s controls. To bend you over and thrust into you for hours until you were trembling and asking him for a release he would deny at first as a punishment for your insolence, for revealing against your Master.

He would eventually let you cum. Once you had redeemed yourself to him, of course.

But he didn’t seem to want to punish you as his tongue licked your folds clean. Quite the opposite actually.

You placed your hand on the top of his head, playing with his hair as he pleasured you with devotion. When he slid two fingers inside of you, you couldn’t prevent yourself from screaming his name, legs trembling as you reached your first orgasm.

As you came down from your high, you could almost feel the wide smirk that had formed in his face.

The Master stood up from the floor and kissed you. It was desperate, needy. You hummed into the kiss as you felt your own taste in his tongue.  

Wanting to return him the favor, you got off the console. You were about to get on your knees when his hand placed itself on your crotch, fingers already playing with you again.

“I told you I would be making you cum at least three times.” He chuckled against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine as you got ready for another round. “Now, I’ve got to keep my promises, right pet?”

#Dhawan!Master x reader #Dhawan!Master x you #Dhawan!Master smut #Dhawan!Master/reader #Dhawan!Master one shot #Dhawan!Master imagine #Dhawan!Master fanfic #Doctor Who #Doctor Who fanfic #The Master x reader #The Master x you #The Master/reader #Sacha Dhawan #Sacha Dhawan x reader #Sacha Dhawan x you

[captain--sif]

Object Impermanence for Beginners

Words: 1.3k Fandom: Julie and The Phantoms (TV 2020) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Julie Molina & Reggie Peters, Alex Mercer & Julie Molina & Luke Patterson & Reggie Peters Characters: Julie Molina, Reggie Peters (Julie and The Phantoms) Additional Tags: Object Impermanence, Ghost Shenanigans, Dumbasses (affectionate), Forgetting that they're ghosts, Hanging Out, Inside jokes Summary:

Being in a band that's three fourth ghosts can be pretty fun, Julie has to admit.

Sure,  there's the whole object impermanence thing they still struggle with, but for the most part, once you get used to having them around, it becomes surprisingly easy to forget that her bandmates are not, in fact, human.

Julie tries not to let it become a problem. A/N: for @unholyobsessions as part of the JATP Secret Valentine Exchange. I’m so sorry I’ve only been able to post this now. I had a mental health episode that I did not see coming and kept me from being able to post. I hope you still enjoy this. It’s mainly Julie & Reggie, but some other characters have smaller or bigger appearances. Thanks go to @the-sneering-menagerie  for beta reading this! <3 Read on AO3, on wattpad, or below:

Being in a band that’s three fourth ghosts can be pretty fun, Julie has to admit.

Sure, it’s taken all of them a while to get used to everything that comes along with it, especially her, but Julie thinks that they’re doing a pretty great job by now.

And yeah, there’s the whole object impermanence thing they still struggle with, but for the most part, once you get used to having them around (constantly, as Julie sometimes mourns, but always in good humor), it becomes surprisingly easy to forget that her bandmates are not, in fact, human.

Julie feels like, as the token human member of the band, she’s the only one slipping up on that account. Considering Flynn has been the first and so far only person to point it out to her, it’s safe to assume that the boys haven’t even noticed. For the sake of all of their sanity, she promises Flynn to work on it, but, even though Julie has always preferred music to maths, she still knows that the odds of her succeeding converge to zero.

In Julie’s defense: When she’s lounging on the couch in the music room, essentially mirroring Reggie’s position next to her, both of them listening to what Luke and Alex are working on while Reggie browses through a magazine and Julie scrolls through her Instagram feed, it’s easy to forget that they’re not the same. It’s very easy to get fooled by the mundanity they fell into.

Once Julie registers what just happened, she doesn’t even remember what Reggie said, only that it was funny, and that she had offered him a high five in response, as well as the tingling sensation going through her arm when he’d tried to reciprocate her gesture. The two of them keep staring at their hands and the point in the air where they failed to connect, wondering where their high five went wrong.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Reggie says drily and Julie bursts into laughter.

It’s not that funny, but Reggie joins in after a beat and they don’t stop laughing until long after Alex and Luke stopped playing and share a worried look over the state of their friends.

When she’s thinking about it later, the failed high five serves as a calming reminder that Julie’s not alone in this.

It also helps that it keeps happening.

The day is windy and cold, clouds slowly darkening overhead and making Julie believe it’ll probably start raining soon.

All in all, not the best weather conditions. For a human, that is. Reggie next to her doesn’t seem bothered in the least.

Which is good, Julie thinks to herself, as he may have decided against keeping her company otherwise, quickly poofing back into the warmth of the studio, leaving her cold and alone, instead of just cold.

“What’s wrong?” Reggie asks then, causing her to subconsciously wrap her thin cardigan more tightly around her shoulders.

“Oh you’re cold,” he realizes, stripping off his leather jacket, “you can have my jacket if you want.”

Julie furrows her brows as he proceeds to cautiously drape it over her shoulders, only for it to softly float down towards the ground, as if Julie was made of air. Well, no. It’s the jacket that’s made of air.

“That was unexpected,” Julie quips, lacing her words with teasing irony, startling a laugh out of Reggie.

Picking his jacket off the ground, he crosses his arm defensively.

“How was I supposed to know that my jacket is a ghost too?”

This time, it is kind of funny.

Her dad only lifts an eyebrow in question when he comes to retrieve her, soaked through but giddy with laughter. Reggie responds with a smug smile, for once both of them aware that Ray won’t be able to see it.

Other times, it isn’t quite as funny.

Like the time when they’re backstage at one of the bigger venues (those that Julie is afraid to ask how Flynn got them to play at), where there’s a lot of people, but the corridors are still empty.

Julie’s been making music her whole life, been backstage more times than she can count, but the bigger venues never stopped being a little terrifying.

The boys are poofing in and out of rooms and corridors, their curiosity knowing no bounds, their movements not limited by having to be granted access to pass. It’s fun hearing what they discover, small and big practice rooms, signed posters on the walls, rare instruments collecting dust under protective coverings. She wishes she could see it herself.

But mostly, she wishes that Flynn were walking with her to keep her company in these dimly lit corridors with the sickly artificial lights while the boys disappeared in discovery. Still, she wasn’t about to ask them not to. She wants that info of what’s hiding behind the closed doors just as much as them. She can handle some weirdly lit concert hall hallways on her own.

But then Reggie poofs back in next to her with the words, “Alex thinks we should take turns staying with you because you seem uncomfortable.” and Julie exhales.

“The hallways are a little creepy,” she admits, shrugging.

Reggie nods. “Don’t be scared. I’m right here,” he says, and Julie has to admit that she feels better having someone by her side.

Then he adds: “I’m gonna protect you.”

Julie says nothing, just clears her throat, careful not to make him self-conscious.

“I did it again, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” She smiles at him. “For what it’s worth, I do feel safer with you here. Even if you can’t protect me.”

They stay quiet for a while, just walking past the doors that lead to the other practice and storage rooms, listening to the echo of their steps on the linoleum floor.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Reggie asks, and Julie gets the feeling that he’s been stewing on that for a while.

“The ghost thing?” she says, “Uh, yeah.”

“That too.” He shrugs. “But I don’t really mind it. Of all the supernatural beings that could exist and that we could be, ghosts are kinda chill.” There’s a small smile playing around his lips now. Julie nods along.

“We’re still together, and we met you, so that’s cool. We adapted quickly, and so have you, but…”

She turns her head to a surprisingly quiet Reggie, a contemplative look on his face.

“Sometimes you still slip up and forget what it means to be a ghost?” Julie prompts, searching. Finally, she sighs. “Me too.”

Reggie sways in her direction. Julie draws her eyebrows together, then laughs.

“Was that supposed to be a shoulder bump?”

Reggie covers his face with his hands a little too forcefully for it not to have hurt. If ghosts feel that kind of pain.

“Yes, it was.” He sighs exasperatedly. “Why does that happen to us?”

“I think,” Julie says, “that it happens to remind us that you still have unfinished business you have to get to.” More quietly, “And to remind me that I won’t be able to keep you forever.”

“That’s sad,” Reggie says.

Julie shrugs noncommittally. “It’s life, I guess.”

“And death, in our case,” Reggie adds.

That puts a reluctant smile on Julie’s face. “And death, in your case.”

“Do you think that if we just never do our unfinished business, the four of us could stay together?”

“That would be nice.” Julie sways towards Reggie, imitating his earlier shoulder bump.

Reggie answers with a grin.

That’s when a tingling sensation through her whole body causes Julie to stumble. Once she’s caught herself, she looks towards Reggie, who fell a few steps back, now half-obscured by the body he ran into. She recognizes the pink sweater.

“We didn’t aim well,” Alex apologizes.

Julie concludes that she must have walked through Luke then, turning in the direction she expects him to be in.

“You okay?” She finds herself looking up to worry etched onto his face and a hand outstretched to steady her.

A hand outstretched to steady her.

Her gaze flits to Reggie, only to see that his eyes have caught it too. He lifts his eyes to meet hers and god, does she wish they had a better reason to burst into laughter.

AO3. Wattpad.

#jatp #jatp fic #julie and the phantoms #julie molina #reggie peters #reggie jatp #sunset curve #roughly #julie and the phantoms fic #julie molina fic #reggie peters fic #gen fic #genfic

[the-darklings]

—𝒃𝒖𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒋𝒂𝒓;

pairing: john wick x f!reader

word count: 14.2k+

summary: His lips shape your name.

warnings: emotional distress/trauma, ptsd, swearing, ANGST.

notes: I know you’re all looking at the WC and wondering what the hell I’m on but I honestly couldn’t split this part up anymore without losing tension (previous part and this one were originally going to be one piece if you can believe it lol) so please bear with. A LOT is going down in this part so strap yourselves in folks. You’re in for a ride. Enjoy! 

children of ares series: 01 | 02 | . . | 04 |

You don’t remember much.

There are flashes of agony. Even more flashes of John’s face.

From what you later learn, the doctor worked on you for six hours straight.

A part of you wonders what it must have looked like to others: John in his usual sharp suit and expression severe enough to make lesser men scurry away in fear, and you bleeding and unconscious in his arms.

Tokyo Continental is silent as a graveyard when you finally come around. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re on the top floor, or perhaps because it seems to be the middle of the night.

Someone you assume to be the doctor—a short, stout woman with thinning silver hair and a fixed scowl—regards you critically when she notices your tiny twitches. She says something loudly in what you think is Taiwanese but your mind is too foggy to fully comprehend what language she’s using.

But then, you realise that she isn’t talking to you after all but rather to someone that steps into your line of sight, his gaze drilling.

John looks more dishevelled than you’re used to seeing. His tie is missing and there are creases in his dirty white shirt that speak of an eventful last 24 hours at least.

His lips shape your name.

Your cheeks hurt but you still manage a faint, relieved smile before everything fades once again.

“Stop moving, girl.”

A girl. That’s funny. No one has considered you a girl for a long time. To be a girl is to be pure and innocent, to be good and kind. You’re none of those things—not anymore.

You can’t force a single muscle in your face to so much as twitch in an attempt to show your amusement. Words burn against the back of your mind but they, too, fail to come. The silence is, perhaps, made even worse by John who stands like a watchful shadow in the corner of the room, observing you silently.

You’re not sure whose silence is more telling: yours or his.

The needle sinks into your skin again and it takes every last shred of self-control not to flinch. There’s a terrible urge in you to turn around and snap the old woman’s arm in half. The pain is slight in comparison to what you had to go through in the last ten days of captivity.

Just ten days.

Only ten.

Is it possible for ten days to feel so agonisingly long?

Clearly yes.

Shuddering, you allow yourself to flinch when the needle sinks into your skin this time.

“I said—”

For a split second, you’re not in the hotel room at all. You’re back underground. You’re back with Kishi and his touch still staining your skin—his hot, thick blood flooding your mouth and dirt smeared across your face.

Your fingers wrap around the woman’s neck ready to crack every bone in it before you’re sharply jerked back.

The scent and heat of the body holding you back are familiar but a strangled, manic, “Don’t touch me!” still tears out of you so loudly the doctor jumps.

She looks mortified as she gapes at you. Then, even worse, her weathered features crease with concern, with pity.

John’s arm tightens around your waist, and even though pain is prominent and twinges from every muscle and bruise, you still put up a fight. It doesn’t last long though.

Kishi fades, as does the fun room. The water and the electricity and the pain, the pain, the pain…

“You’re safe.”

John’s voice is barely a murmur against your ear and you slump against him. You’re only standing because he’s holding you up, anchoring you. Maybe because he pities you too—

Why won’t he? You’re so weak.

Once that voice sounded like your old school bully, then Tarasov, Kishi—

Now, it just sounds like you.

John mutters something in Taiwanese in that low, calm voice of his and you hear the doctor leave hurriedly.

It’s so quiet.

John doesn’t talk, he simply turns you around and patiently leads you towards the bed. He notices how you struggle to sit down, and holds your hand while his other stays around your waist, supporting you. Your hands are shaking so badly, you push your palms between your knees, lacing your fingers together.

Whatever will come out of John’s mouth next will be kind, you know that.

So, because you can’t stand the way he’s looking at you, you speak first, “Are they dead?”

John sits down beside you. The stretch of silence between you is painful, leaden with things unsaid. Eventually, his fingertips touch your unfinished shoulder and the tentativeness of his touch hurts more than the actual wound.

A part of you wants to ask him if it is pity. Another part of you tries to imagine what he must have felt. How you would have looked to him when he found you: bleeding, bruised, clothes soaked, covered in blood, and mud smeared all over your body.

You must have looked like a nightmare—an awful, broken thing who lost her mind to days of torture.

“Yeah,” he intones icily, his touch a stark contrast to the tone of his voice. “They’re all dead.”

Relief is the first emotion.

Second is, predictably, angry disappointment.

Third, surprise.

Tilting your head in John’s direction, you lock his eyes with yours. In that moment, you do see the Boogeyman. Baba Yaga. You see the reason he is feared when to you all he’s ever been is John. Just John. Your John. Except, of course, he’s not really—not even at all.

“Pity.”

Talking hurts too. Your voice is now reduced to a gritty, uncomfortable drawl.

Another few minutes pass in silence. There’s a thousand things you want to say and yet, you can’t seem to find the ability to form words that once came so easily.

The needle is slower, kinder, when John is the one doing the work and normally you would have joked about him making a mess by now. You don’t. He notices, of course.

“Did they—”

He cuts himself off. Frustration, rage, sadness; they flash through his expression so quickly you almost miss them before he rearranges his features into a familiar impassive mask.

There’s a lump in your throat. You know exactly what he wants to know. After all, you’ve been the one to remind him what happens to those who fail to protect themselves.

“One tried,” you force out, every word choked out with enough pain to still John’s hands. “I ripped—I ripped his throat out.”

It feels disgusting saying it, acknowledging that you’ve been forced to resort to animalistic instincts in order to survive, to live, to see him again.

Your ring gleams, still dirty, but it’s not like you can remove it for cleaning since the swelling hasn’t gone down yet. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

“You survived,” John states, his voice empty of judgement, empty of contempt. If anything, it’s full of terrible sort of understanding, and his simple acceptance of what you have done—of what you had to give up to be here—makes you feel warm for the first time since you’ve been taken. “You survived.”

“What if I didn’t?” you whisper, looking past his shoulder and a tremor shakes you. “I don’t feel like myself, John, I feel—I don’t—”

He doesn’t try to feed you false, hollow words to make you feel better and you’re immensely glad for it. He knows you better than that, and you know him enough to never believe something like that from him.

Instead, John finishes fixing your torn stitches and helps you get more comfortable in the bed. He does this is silence, your eyes occasionally meeting as if he’s trying to gauge how you’re feeling, if you’re still present in the moment with him.

These last three days have been lost to bouts of fear and anxiety that you haven’t escaped the underground after all; it now haunts your every waking moment.

Once that’s done, John sits on top of the covers beside you. He places his arm around your shoulders without a sound, and you press your lips together to stop them from quivering.

I’m here, his touch seems to say, and I’m not going anywhere.

He stays with you through the night. Simply holding you, and you lose count of the number of tears you shed until the sun kisses the horizon.

Tears of hurt, pain, fear and despair stop quickly enough.

But in their place blooms a slow, poisonous sort of numbness.

“You heal fast.”

The doctor regards you with a shrewd expression that speaks of her own wariness at being in the same space as you. She’s only been coming back because you can’t imagine John left her with much of a choice.

You regard her coolly in return.

It’s not that you’re ungrateful for her help but everything feels raw and delicate; everything from your mind to your skin, to your very essence. It’s hard not to snap at any unfamiliar touch. It’s even harder trying to smother the deadly instinct that screams at you that everything and everyone will hurt you.

Not John. John will never hurt me.

Oh? Where was he when they held you in the room with no air? Where was your John then?

He came for me. He came—

Far, far too late.

You exhale harshly, your shoulders curling defensively, stricken.

John meets your gaze from across the table in a silent question.

Let her check on you, his dark eyes plead.

What if I can’t?

Your eyes slide away from him, but you reluctantly hold out your arm out for the older woman to check. She hesitates, and rightfully so. Last time you almost broke her wrist. The time before that? Her neck. Then her leg, and once, you almost took her eye out with a syringe, too.

Deep trauma, she told John in heavy English the one time they had no choice but to sedate you and thought you were unconscious, she suffers because her mind refuses to let go. She no longer feels safe. You must stay with her, boy. Let her heal.

The woman works quickly to check your body, and you’re grateful for it.

It goes well for a while. That is until her fingers press too hard against your healing bullet wound, and your fist slams against the armrest, a helpless snarl twisting your mouth.

The doctor wisely staggers back, and you follow, your legs quaking when you stand too quickly.

John’s fingers curl delicately around your forearm, steadying, and you gasp for breath.

“I—I can’t,” you choke out, pressing your hand against your mouth, your voice a stifled mess. “I’m—”

Your chest feels tight, your stomach burns like it’s full of acid, and for a moment you feel like you might throw up again. Like the terror raging through your body will burn you from inside out till nothing but smouldering embers remain.

Your mouth is full of Kishi’s blood again and you’re choking, choking, choking—

John’s voice is the same low, comforting baritone when he places his hand against the curve of your face, directing your frantic stare to him.

The hatred that blooms in your chest is stronger, however, and you pull away from him, lurching towards the bathroom instead.

By the time the panic finally subsides, it’s night again and you only hate yourself more.

Sleep is hard to come by.

John still keeps you company though.

It’s been almost two weeks since Kishi. Your body is on a mend but peace of mind is not so easily found.

From the corner of your eye, you spot John checking his phone yet again.

He’s been doing that a lot lately. More so than you’ve ever seen him do before.

“Tarasov?”

John stills, his head lifting as he looks up at you in surprise.

It’s rare for you to speak after a nightmare so John is used you letting tranquil quiet keep you both company instead.

“Not this time,” he replies shortly, but there’s an odd tilt to his voice that makes you peel your eyes away from the large window and focus on him instead. “But he’s been informed about what happened.”

Those words sink in slowly, somehow even slower than your poison usually does.

“Is that so?” you remark tightly, and there’s something sharp and acidic about your own tone that catches you off guard. “And what did you tell him? That his little slave is broken?”

“You’re not broken.”

The firmness of John’s voice makes your glare focus on him instead. From nothingness, there’s a sudden, violent explosion of irrational anger in your gut.

“Is that why you watch me like I’m some wild animal?” you hiss angrily, your voice dropping to the point of cracking. “Is that why you keep checking your phone day in and day out? Like you rather be anywhere else? I rather not be a burden or a pity case to you, thanks. Just go.”

John frowns; a faint, disappointed thing and it makes you feel less angry and more…more lost, stupid.

Trapped. Always trapped.

Be it your life, your body, or your mind.

He saved you, he’s helping you right now when he doesn’t have to, and this is how you repay him?

The irrationality of your own anger embarrasses you, and you turn away from him swiftly, hoping he hasn’t noticed your wet eyes in the dim light.

“I’m not going anywhere, (Name),” he states, firm and insistent, and you cringe. Why is he still being kind to you?

Do you love me as I love you? Is that it?

Your lips part and those words are right there, ready to be spoken. But something holds you back. Something is always holding you two back, or so it seems.

John’s phone buzzes again. You look at him, expectant.

“It’s not him,” John repeats, and you try to figure out what the slight catch in his voice means. He doesn’t sound angry or disappointed. “But if you want—”

“I want to see him.”

His expression falters, brows pinching in a tight line that showcases his disapproval of your idea already. His clear hesitance says everything you need to know.

A scoff fills the room, and you roll your eyes. “Don’t treat me like an idiot, John. You’re avoiding him.”

“I’m not,” he argues but it rings false.

Your eyes return to the window, to the street below you. A gaggle of schoolchildren must be coming back from cram school and you watch them with detached sort of interest. Three people—two boys and a girl—walk in front, laughing and discussing something with that wild, feverish enthusiasm you can faintly recall too. Close behind them walks a couple, their hands laced together and eyes only for each other. The scene makes something pang in your chest; and acute, familiar ache.

From this high up you can just barely make out their faces, and you distantly wonder what they’re talking about, what is the thing that’s bringing them so much joy. If they’re really as happy as they look, or if it’s fake. They may breathe the same air you do, but they couldn’t be further away from you. To them, you only exist in movies and stories. You’re a shadow; a thrilling tale they share in their friend group, a faceless nobody. With that realisation comes a terrible sort of loneliness and your eyes flutter shut.

You’re dead to the world.

For the first time, Kishi’s words ring true.

Despite your many arguments, John still manages to put off the trip back to New York for another two weeks.

He even employs the doctor to drill you with the many reasons why you can’t go just yet.

Still healing, still need more rest, still not sleeping enough.

Still, still, still.

They might as well say you’re too weak and call it a day.

You’re not resentful with John though. You know he’s trying his hardest to shield you from what will be an undoubtedly epic explosion of Tarasov’s anger.

Your fingers twist in your lap and it’s near impossible to not fidget. Most of your physical bruises may have faded in the last month, but you know there’s still a mile and a half to go before you’re physically back to your old form.

At least you no longer fly into mindless fits of rage that made you attack the doctor trying to tend to you in the first place. Despite that, sitting through entire check-up is still an endlessly arduous task.

A warm, large hand lands on yours and you jump. Turning, you meet John’s stare and force yourself to relax. His dark eyes are softer than usual though he doesn’t say anything. His fingers stay on top of yours, keeping your own still. Without a word, he’s still able to pick up on your poorly veiled distress.

I love you.

It tickles the back of your throat but you don’t dare to say it out loud, not now of all times.

The closer you get to Tarasov’s office the harder it becomes to keep calm.

You recall the last time you visited this place, and you can recall in an even sharper detail how that meeting ended. How you’ve been so sure that you were walking to your death. But that was then.

What about now? What will he do now?

The taxi rolls to a stop in front of an all too familiar building, and John reaches into his pocket to pay but the cabby only shakes his head. “Free of charge this time, sir Wick,” he insists, and the older man’s eyes meet yours through the rearview mirror. “Welcome back Miss Vipress. Mr Winston sends his regards.”

John makes a small noise at the back of his throat and you blink, confused.

“Thanks?”  

The cabby grins, a little awkward, but nods his head.

The journey to Tarasov’s office is more nerve-wracking than you expected. A part of you has assumed that after everything you’ve gone through in Tokyo, this will be easy in comparison, but it doesn’t feel easy at all.

Every inch of your body feels like a livewire.

Some deeper cuts that are still healing ache dully with every too sudden twitch of your body. John is beside you, a constant you’re more grateful for than ever, and you can’t stop yourself from grabbing his arm when Tarasov’s office door looms in the distance.

John stops immediately, turning to face you.

“We don’t have to do this,” he says quietly before you even open your mouth to speak, and you hate the fact that a part of you immediately wants to agree. “We can come back another time.”

“No,” you shoot back quickly—too quickly—and you both know it’s because you’re wavering. “Will you…?”

His features smooth and he dips his head. “I’ll be there.”

Stepping into Tarasov’s office is like stepping back in time. Suddenly, you’re years younger in your tiny, damp Moscow flat, facing Tarasov and his armed guards as you cook dinner through silent tears. You recall how Tarasov’s jovial voice washed over you as he explained—in great, visual detail—how your father died begging and your mother remained strong till the end.

One second, you’re still in that flat but then you’re back here, in this office, but only months prior. Taste of copper in your mouth as Tarasov pats your bruised cheek with a lingering smile.

I will have John himself put a bullet in your pretty little head.

Back then it sounded less like a warning and more like a promise.

A price to pay for failure.

Tarasov’s face suddenly comes into view and time seems to screech to a halt.

Fear, panic, anxiety—

It feels like someone is opening up your ribcage and scooping out all the emotions that live there one by one with frightening efficiency.

A sort of hush falls over you as you stand there staring at him blankly.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t force a single emotion to the surface. Fear that has once crippled you in front of this man, seems to have up and vanished like smoke.

John is speaking. Tarasov is too. His guards shift when you look at them. You recognise one of them. He was there when Tarasov beat you. Your lips curl into a faint snarl.

“What I need to know is how useful she will be—”

“I can still kill,” you speak up, but don’t recognise your own voice. “If that’s what you’re so worried about.”

Tarasov falls quiet, peering at you like he’s never seen you before. His eyes narrow in concentration before he glances towards John who stands stoic beside you. Then the Russian’s gaze goes back to you. He places the expensive cigar back into his mouth and hums in thought. The motion eerily reminds you of Kishi and a shiver crawls up your spine.

He regards you like one may regard a vicious animal, and he’s a lot less subtle about it than John is. His fleeting looks are at least laced with genuine worry as well. Tarasov simply looks at you like one would look upon broken goods. Judging their worth in that familiar, clinical manner.

“How long?” he rolls out his letters in what now feels like jarring Russian. “Before you can be back on the field?”

“Three months.”

“A week.”

Your head snaps towards John but he’s looking straight at Tarasov who exhales a puff of smoke and chuckles.

“Now, now, John,” he chides, leaning back in his chair. “We both know that’s not practical for business. The girl has already wasted me enough time and made a mess in Tokyo.”

John doesn’t expand on his argument for three months though. John simply stands there, unmoving, a looming shadow while minutes crawl by in a tense stalemate.

Much to your surprise, Tarasov’s amused smile fades first.

He’s uneasy. Truly and openly.

Afraid.

And that thought seems so ludicrous that you want to dismiss it immediately, except you can’t because the truth is right in front of you.

“A month,” you propose instead, absentmindedly fiddling with your ring.

Tarasov doesn’t look at you right away—in fact, it’s almost like he’s more worried about looking away from John in case John will leap at him the moment he does. Prey and predator. The comparison gives you an immense surge of smug satisfaction. But when the man does, eventually, reluctantly move his attention in your direction your face is fixed in an unmoving mask as well. Tarasov, despite his steely nerves and well-known ruthlessness, looks taken aback by this entire exchange and is doing a poor job of masking his surprise.

“A month,” he agrees reluctantly.

And then, for the first time since coming into his employment, you turn around and walk out of the room without waiting for dismissal.

John follows you without a word.

Tarasov doesn’t stop either of you.

Burying your face in a plush pillow, you sigh.

Being back in the New York Continental is a bit like being back home. Not that you’ve ever had a home for longer than a few years at the time, but the feeling still burrows under your skin.

You never thought you will get to see it again.

Your eyes crack open and you watch John move around the room. Neither of you has brought up what transpired inside Tarasov’s office only hours ago. Truth be told, it’s still hard for you to determine what exactly did happen. All you do know is that Tarasov has never looked at you like that.

Like he was actually seeing you. Like, for the first time, he regarded you as something more than a nuisance to be dealt with.

“Let’s run away.”

John stops in his tracks, his broad back facing you.

Your words are innocent enough, almost playful, but when John turns to face you, you realise that he didn’t take them as such.

“Run away?” he echoes, his tone flat. “Where would we go? The rules—”

“Fuck the rules,” you say, foolishly drunk on the faint glimmer of a dream you can almost see in front of you. “We could get away from it all. From everyone. Didn’t you say that’s what you wanted once?”

John appears stricken, and you feel your eyebrows pinch downwards at the look on his face.

“There’s no running from the High Table,” he replies, and the stiffness of his words surprises you. “You know that.”

Your lips part to reply but before you can do so, the sound of John’s phone buzzing rings through the room. He pulls it out right away, and you feel a sting in your chest at his deliberate ending of what you wanted to be a serious conversation.

You watch him carefully, and feel yourself swallow when you note how the slopes of his face soften at whatever he sees on the screen. You’ve been so sure that you’re the only one capable of doing that to him. Of making him appear this unguarded, this—

Loving.

“I have to do something,” he says, at long last, but it sounds distant in your ears, fragmented. “Will you be alright by yourself for a bit? If you want I can send—”

“Just go, John. Dear God,” you mutter under your breath as you snuggle into your pillow, trying to mask your uncertainty. “I can handle a few hours by myself, I’m not a toddler.”

“I’m surprised. Seems like you managed to fool me,” John replies dryly, and you close your eyes, flipping him off with a faint smile.

“Stuff it, old man.”

Silence greets your words. After another minute of waiting for a reply, you open your eyes to check if he left, and that’s when you find him staring at you from the doorway.

You can’t pinpoint his expression. But there’s something in it that coils your stomach with unease.

“What? What is it?”

Why is he—

“It’s nothing,” an easy and obvious lie.

You sit up slightly, leaning on your elbow and regard him frankly, “Then why are you looking at me like that?” you demand, narrowing your eyes in his direction.

For a brief second, you think John will tell you what’s on his mind. But then his lips press into a tight line, and he looks away as if settling on a different decision. The clear conflict on his face only fuels your confusion. John rarely lets anything slip by—rarely allows you to see anything besides the cool professionalism he radiates.

“I’ll be back soon.”

The hotel room door closes with a soft click and you fall back onto your pillow, staring up at the ceiling as his footsteps fade down the hallway.

Why were you looking at me like you’re saying goodbye?

The feeling of nameless dread chases you into a restless sleep that transforms into yet another nightmare.

[3 WEEKS LATER]

“If you don’t hurry up, I’m leaving without you.”

Not hearing a reply, you roll your eyes. Typical John.

Before today, John has never been late. But clearly, there’s the first time for everything since you’re the one forced to wait on him for once.

Winston has proposed dinner in the lounge area and you’re already running ten minutes late.

John who is always painfully punctual came back from one of his mysterious meetings late. Something has been going on these last few weeks and it makes you antsy to know what it is.

John is a private person and you’ve always respected that—have always accepted the fact that there’s certain things about him you will likely never know. But this was also before he started acting so oddly around you.

Whenever he thought you weren’t looking at him or openly paying attention, you would catch glimpses of this profound emotion on his face. You couldn’t help but wonder what it is about being in your presence that makes him look so sad now. It chills you whenever you think about it. He’s never been one for expressive emotion before.

“John is not one for emotional finesse. He’s not a man to feel easily or lightly.”

Marcus told you that once in a straightforward, blunt manner you’ve come to associate with him now, and you have taken his words as a fact ever since. Back then, of course, you read the deeper warning in his words, too.

John is not a man to love.

The last time you saw Marcus, his warning had been a lot more direct. “Kill it. Whatever it is you feel for him. It will never work.”

By the time you two had that conversation, it was already far too late, but you couldn’t tell him that. Your heart is your secret and no one else has any right to it.

A sound of phone buzzing fills your ears and your head turns slowly.

John’s phone is just barely visible as it sticks out of his suit pocket. He’s taken it off in a haste upon returning, apologetic and open to your teasing complaints.

Your fingers curl into a loose fist.

The answers, as far as you know, are all inside that phone.

It’s wrong to even consider a breach of confidence like this. But you have to know.

Have to confirm to yourself that you’re simply being paranoid and there isn’t some deeper meaning for John’s sudden distance.

He’s been a near-permanent fixture in your life since Tokyo—he would never leave you for longer than a day without at least checking in—but you have never felt further away from him.

This closeness should make you happy.

But right now this closeness is making you ache with longing instead. It’s like he’s right there, right in front of you, but you can’t touch him without a fear that he’s going to flinch away.

Maybe he hates you, maybe he thinks you’re a monster after all—

No. John wouldn’t. He’s one of the few who truly understands.

You keep repeating that to yourself as your gaze drills into his phone but an echo of those words feels unconvincing even to you.

You stand up on autopilot.

You walk across the room on autopilot, too.

Your fingers wrap around the phone and that’s when you hesitate.

There will be no need to snoop, you tell yourself, you will simply look who messaged him. See if it’s someone you know. Try to figure out if they’re the one whose been sending John messages ever since Tokyo.

Your finger presses a random button and the screen lights up.

The roar of your heartbeat drowns out all other sounds as the message flashes on the screen.

Thank you for the dinner tonight. I look forward to seeing you again soon—Helen.

Oh?

Oh.

“Sorry it took—”

John’s words die the moment he notices you. His phone is still in your hand but the screen has gone dark again and you stare at the small object between your fingers impassively. The roaring in your ears is so loud you think that a bomb could go off right next to you, and you won’t hear a thing.

The silence between you is deafening.

John knows because you know. Because he can no doubt read the blatant, bewildered shock on your face. The devastation. The hurt.

“When?”

Just like back in Tarasov’s office, you don’t recognise your own voice. You barely sound human and that hurts even more because it echoes that underground cave on outskirts of Tokyo too much.

But because John is John, he answers your bluntness with equal bluntness of his own, “Two weeks after your birthday. She’s a friend.”

You slam the phone in your hand back on the table with enough force to make your hand sting. The sound is like a gunshot tearing through the room, and you exhale slowly.

It still sounds strangled.

Your head turns towards him gradually. Every inch of it hurts. “Do not bullshit me,” you bite out with such ferocious anger soaking your words that your vocal cords actually hurt. “You do not chat with random women. You don’t take them out for dinner. She’s not just a friend. Do you really think you can hide her from this world? From Tarasov?”

His expression darkens like a sky before a terrible storm. “Tarasov will never touch her.”

God. God. Why does it hurt so much?

“After everything, I—” your voice breaks, and you inhale a shuddering breath. “After everything we went through—why are you even here?”

His expression transforms into that all too familiar, sad thing that you hate so much. You have never wanted to punch him more than at that moment.

“Because you needed me.”

“I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”

It’s more hysterical than assertive but everything spins in your head like a volatile cocktail of emotion, and you’re not sure if you’re about to burst into tears or tear this room to pieces.

“Yeah, you do,” John says so gently, so kindly, that tears sting your eyes despite your best effort to control yourself. “I’m sorry. I never planned for this to happen.”

You splutter in outrage. Just like that, the hurt starts to boil into something else. “Planned for it? Do you think I panned it? Do you think I wanted this?”

The nameless thing between you is like a third person in the room; that’s the amount of presence it has. You both know perfectly well what you’re referring to. You’ve made clear what you wanted from the start. It’s him that said that you couldn’t be together and now—and now—

“I know you didn’t. I—”

“No, you don’t know a goddamn thing. Not a damn thing, John.”

John doesn’t argue. He doesn’t look like he even wants to. He just stands there, looking at you with that pitiful stare.

So it is pity after all. Every minute he spent with you since Tokyo was likely spent wishing he was with this Helen instead. You’re just an obligation to him. A burden.

“She’s not one of us, is she?” you whisper and can’t help but laugh; an empty, cold sound. “Does she even know who you are? Does she have any idea how many people you’ve killed? Does she? You’ll never find peace with her.”

John sighs, looking down before he steps closer towards you but you shrink back, taking a step away from him. You almost wish he was angry in return but he is—as always—unfailingly patient with you. Understanding. Sorry.

“She does know,” he admits softly, like he knows exactly how much of a blow those words will land against your heart. And they do—God they do. “But you’re right. There will be no peace for us. That’s why—(Name), I’m leaving this world behind.”

Your vacant expression creases, uncomprehending, and at first you wonder if you’ve heard him wrong.

“What?”

“I’m going to ask Tarasov for permission to leave,” John explains like it’s so simple. “Cleanly. I’m going to retire and never return. Start a new life.”

It’s then that the nagging, ugly thought you tried to convince yourself couldn’t be true becomes unavoidable.

“You love her.”

You whisper it; as soft and as delicate as your own love for him.

John’s face falls and he reaches for you but you find that you can’t quite move. You feel shackled to the spot you’re standing in.

It hurts.

“No,” John’s voice is stern but you don’t believe him. For the first time in your life, you don’t believe him. “It’s not—it’s not like that.”

“I’m nothing to you,” you continue in a trembling murmur. “I’m an idiot. I’m a goddamn idiot. You n-never felt—”

John’s fingers wrap around your elbow, and he’s so close you can feel the warmth of his body, can see the shadow of devastation shrouding his features that he doesn’t hide from you. Like that’s somehow supposed to make everything better.

“You’re wrong,” he argues, but you’re already shaking your head, and everything inside you cracks further with every word leaving his mouth. “You told me you didn’t want a life outside of this and I thought that meant me, too. Tarasov would have never allowed it, either. But it’s different with Helen—”

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” you snarl, ripping your hand away. “You don’t know anything. You’re just like the rest of them. Go and be with your precious, darling Helen. I hope you’re both very happy. Except you never will be. Not ever. You will never get out, and even if you d-do this life will still come back and haunt you. You think you’ve earned it? Peace? Happiness? After all the blood you’ve shed? You don’t deserve it! You don’t deserve any of it.”

It’s acid. Vicious and destructive venom that seeps from your tongue so easily, you’re left gasping for breath after you’re done. It feels like you can’t get oxygen into your lungs fast enough to throw more hateful words at him.

You don’t need him. You’ve always been alone and it was stupid to ever expect him to feel the same. And now—now he’s gone ahead and fallen in love with another woman. In love. So in love that he wants to leave everything behind and start a life with her. Even if he won’t admit it, you know him enough to understand the gravity of such a decision.

It hurts so much.

It’s an awful kind of devastation to feel. After everything you’ve gone through just to get back to him. When Kishi was torturing you for hours, John was likely enjoying dinner with his new beloved. The thought makes you feel sick to your stomach. You try to imagine her. Is she beautiful? Kind? Funny? Smart?

What does she have that I don’t?

“(Name).”

“Leave.”

This exchange feels hilariously delicate in comparison to what just transpired a few minutes ago. The air—previously so charged with a violent mix of emotions—now feels empty of anything other than unspoken kind of sadness; dense and suffocating.

John’s head lowers. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and in that time you almost hope that he will say something that will give you hope. That he’s changed his mind. That he realised how he wants to stay here. With you.

He doesn’t.

John turns. And he begins to move towards the door.

Don’t let him go, your heart begs, gushing with despair.  

You stumble forward a step. “If you walk out of that door,” you state harshly, your voice cracking. “I never want to see you again.”

John stops. His head turns slowly, and he glances at you from over his shoulder. Your eyes meet across the room. You don’t understand the look in his eyes.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

The door clicks shut behind him.

In the white cracks of the ceiling, you view your whole life.

You see the failures (so many), you see the victories (too few), and wonder how one person can feel everything and nothing all at once.

Your vision blurs and you close your eyes. They ache; a dull, persistent kind of throb, and you turn your head to the side in hopes of alleviating the sensation.

Your phone keeps ringing, and ringing, and—

Eyes still closed, you pull it out of your jacket and press it to your ear.

Hours after John left, and you’re still in the same spot he left you in. Except, the moment that door closed, you felt the last shred of self-control and strength crumble away into nothing. Your knees caved, tears coming in earnest, and you fell away to nothing.

“What?”

“Are you quite done feeling sorry for yourself?”

“Fuck you, Marcus,” you croak out, feeling angry that you didn’t check who was calling before answering. “What do you want?”

An inpatient sigh sounds through the line. “I want you to pull yourself together and listen to me carefully.”

Pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes, you exhale impatiently, “While I’m certain this would be a riveting conversation, I’m not really in the mood for one.”

“Shut up and listen,” Markus snaps and you feel a twinge of pain through your temple at his tone. “John went to Tarasov. To ask for his freedom.”

You’re silent as you digest his words. Already. He’s gone to Tarasov already. John must have gone straight to his office from the Continental.

“You knew about her,” you conclude shrewdly, and Marcus is silent which really says everything you need to know. “Why should I give a damn? He cut me loose. He showed exactly how much he cares about me.”

“John cares—”

“Don’t you dare,” you snarl, low and furious, and feel the mangled edges of your heart sharpen your trembling voice into something harsh. Cruel. “Don’t you dare to tell me he gives a shit about how I feel because he doesn’t.”

“Can you stop being a whiny child for one second, and think of something other than yourself,” Marcus cuts in coolly, his own voice losing any guise of warmth. “Tarasov gave John a task he will not survive.”

And then Marcus explains. Tarasov’s task. The mad, hilarious impossibility of it.

You can’t help but laugh—can’t help but marvel at the victorious surge of satisfaction you feel. “I told him he will fail. It can’t be done.”

“No, it can’t. Not unless someone helps him.”

Your laughter dies. “No one will go up against the Russian.”

Marcus hums and even that manages to sound annoyed. “We both know that’s not quite true,” he insists knowingly. “Camorra might. The Italians might.”

You scoff. “The old man will never, and Gianna is too smart for something like that. And—”

Marcus is silent once again and you drag a hand down your face.

You feel raw as an open nerve.

The realisation is gradual and you curse yourself for it. “That fucking hypocrite.”

“Last I heard you’re quite chummy with Santino,” Marcus remarks, and doesn’t bother hiding the judgement in his voice. “Make sure that when John asks for help, he gets it.”

You sit up so quickly, the sudden rush of blood to your head bathes your vision white. “No,” you snap coldly. “Is that clear? No. I don’t owe him anything.”

“Listen to yourself,” Marcus speaks stiffly, and sounds both irritated and disgusted all at once. “After everything he’s done for you? After Tokyo? You can really sit there and say you don’t owe him? You owe him your life. And we both know that I’m right. So stop crying and whining about how bitterly unfair this all is. I told you what will happen if you allow yourself to feel for him, but did you listen? Hm? Did you?”  

“I love him, Marcus,” is your tiny, wet whisper. It’s the first time you’ve ever spoken those words out loud and they taste so bitter. “I would have followed him anywhere if only—I love him. But he loves her instead.”

Just when you think that maybe Marcus hung up on you because you couldn’t put up with you anymore, he answers, “I know,” he utters quietly, and in that moment, he’s the kindest he’s ever been. “I know you do. Which is why I’m asking you this now: will you be able to forgive yourself if he fails, and you’ll have to live on with the knowledge you could have done something to save him? You know the Russian. You know what will happen if John fails.”

“He can’t kill him,” you breathe, but feel unsure of your own words.

“Perhaps not,” Marcus agrees but he, too, sounds worn. “But you and I both know that it’s not the worst thing he can do. And you also know John. You know what will be unleashed then.”

That’s not quite right, either.

You did know him. Once.

Now though…

Now, you think that you hate him for making you love him more. Now, you truly and fully feel the realisation that John is gone sink into your bones. If he succeeds, you will never see him again. He will be gone and you will be alone once again.

Not just alone.

Trapped. Again. This time without anyone to fall back onto.

“(Name)?” Marcus wonders after you fail to respond.

A tear rolls down your cheek, and you wipe it away with an angry scowl. “I will speak with Santino,” you tell him, emptying your voice of any emotion. Of heartache. Of John. “But after today, you don’t ever mention his name to me again.”

You don’t wait for his reply before you hang up.

You pause in front of the table, waiting for the guards to check you but a chuckle greets your hesitation instead.

“Please, cara mia, we’re friends, no?” Santino greets with a slight smirk, nodding his head to the seat opposite to him. “Please, sit.”  

“Santino.”

You sit down in front of him, meeting his curious stare. The restaurant he’s picked is as fancy as you would have expected from him, and it takes substantial effort to stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

Seconds go by in mutual quiet.

Santino observes you through narrowed eyes, his expression growing grimmer with every second that ticks by. “I know about Tokyo—”

“Don’t.”

His scrutiny doesn’t let up. “Why didn’t you come to me?” he asks, his displeasure clear. Then, like a storm passing his features soften, almost disappointed. “I’m not a charitable man, you know that, but I would have helped you. Taken care of you.”

A small noise escapes you. Under different circumstances, it might have been a chuckle but now it lacks any kind of joy or amusement. “Is that what you think I need? To be taken care of?”

His expression strains. “Why do you twist my words?”

“Because I’m not here to discuss this.”

“Then at least tell me who did this to you,” he demands, his tone icy, and his head tilts. “Give me their names and it will be done.”

You look away, frustration boiling in your chest. The very last thing you need or want right now is a trip down the memory lane.

“It doesn’t matter,” you tell him. “They’re all dead now.”

Santino exhales in frustration, leaning back in his seat, and folds his arms elegantly on the table. “Pity.”

You almost laugh at that. Almost.

“I think you already know why I’m here,” you say, and watch him watch you as his eyebrows arch. “So don’t give me that look.”

“Contrary to what you believe, cara mia,” he responds with a roughish little smile. “I am not a psychic. It would be truly beneficial if I was, of course.”

You roll your eyes. “Santino,” you address him directly, not in the mood for his teasing. “I’m here to talk about—”

“The infamous John Wick, yes, I figured you were,” he cuts you off, his words clipped. His piercing eyes flicker away for a moment, and he grabs an expensive-looking bottle sitting on the table between you. “Champagne?”

“No thanks,” you mutter quickly, “So you know why I’m here then?”

Santino pours himself a glass, turning his head from side to side as he hums. “Well, I believe I can wager an educated guess,” he remarks thoughtfully as he looks up at you. “But I’m afraid that you are too late.”

“Too late?”

He takes a small sip and sighs, his eyes closing. Just as you start to feel your frayed nerves begin to rip even further, he finally speaks, “John has already come to me, asking for help with his Impossible Task. I refused him.”

His words leave such potent silent between you that you can hear your own irregular breathing.

“Why?”

Santino takes another sip and smiles that slippery, sly smile of his. “Why what? Why did I refuse? Why won’t I? Everything has a price, cara mia. You know this. Besides, John and I have never seen eye to eye when it comes to…certain things.”

His clever eyes drill into you, and you rack your suddenly empty mind for something else to say. You never accounted for a scenario where you would have to go into this on a back leg.  

“He would have offered you something in return.”

Santino nods in agreement. “He did. But it just so happens that our visions did not align. Not to mention he still owes me from the last time.”

“The last time?” you repeat, uncomprehending. “Since when does he owe you?”

He blinks as if caught off guard by your words, and a gleam of realisation reflects back at you. “Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?” you mutter, your words wrapped with frustration. “What the hell is it that you want, Santino? There’s always a catch with you.”

The sharply dressed man in front of you sighs again, and rests his chin on his folded palms as he gazes at you, assessing. “I do believe that the real question here, cara mia, is why are you here? Did you come to bargain with me? Are you going to beg in his stead?”

Your jaw clicks and your eyes narrow. For a long, tense moment you both simply stare at each other. “Everything has a price,” you quote, at last, your voice distant. “What’s yours?”

His lips flatten in dismay and he lifts his chin, fingers unlacing as he gestures to the side. One of his many guards comes closer and you instinctively tense, your hand wrapping around your poisoned blade. Santino takes note of your taut body right away, signalling for the man to stop and approach slower. He doesn’t look happy about your reaction. The guard casts a wary look your way and places whatever he was carrying into his boss’s awaiting hand.

Santino rolls the object between his fingers deliberately, considering, before placing it on the table in front of you. Not quite halfway, but close enough for you to touch it if you want.

A Marker.

Your throat goes dry.

“You—Winston is not here to witness it,” you whisper unsteadily, feeling trapped once again. The spacious restaurant suddenly feels like a cage, and you feel your heartbeat spike.

“Semantics,” he rebukes easily, lazily. “We both know no one will doubt the legitimacy of this.”

Your eyes finally peel away from the smooth metal and drag up towards him. He’s watching you curiously, expectant. Your heart is in your throat as you do the same. No matter what alternatives you try to think up, they all seem to lead to the same destination.

Bound to yet another contract. Chained to whims of another power-hungry man.

“What do you want?”

You sound angry. Good.

You’re furious.

“A favour.”

“What kind of favour?”

Santino regards you with something close to gentleness, and it makes you even more enraged. “I am not Viggo Tarasov. I will never ask you to do something that will go against your moral fibre.”

Your responding scoff is as disbelieving as it is mocking. “Of course,” you agree sarcastically, and ignore the way Santino’s guards bristle at your clear show of disrespect. “Because I’m supposed to just believe that you’re not all the same. Power-hungry and selfish.”

“Oh, I’m most certainly am, cara mia,” he intones coolly even though his lips twist into a smile. “But if you want this, then you’ll have to take that chance, won’t you?”

Your expression falls and you press your mouth into a tight line, peering down at the object between you.

Is John truly worth it? After everything he’s done?

Here you are, seriously considering selling yourself and for what?  

A man who loves another woman? Who wants to leave everything that you’ve had together behind and move on? John is effectively abandoning you—has abandoned you. But, at the end of the day, it’s not like he owes you anything. And maybe you don’t owe him anymore either, not after this. You promised Marcus that you will talk with Santino, and you have, but you never agreed to this.

Haven’t you done enough? Sacrificed enough?  

“Will you be able to forgive yourself if he fails, and you’ll have to live on with the knowledge you could have done something to save him?”

No. The awful truth is that you won’t be able to live with yourself.

John may have torn your heart to pieces by walking out of that door, but that didn’t make your feelings for him magically disappear in a matter of hours.

Let him go.

But I can’t.

You have to. He doesn’t want you.

Maybe this is exactly what you need. If you do this, John and his departure will always be tied to this Marker. It will be a constant, terrible reminder of your own lack of freedom. Perhaps, with time, the bitter anger and disappointment that comes with it will help you forget how much you love him.

Your fingers touch the cool metal gingerly.

But before you can take it, a larger, elegant hand lands on top of yours, squeezing.

“Really?” Santino practically hisses, his eyes narrowed into slits as he leans closer to you. “That’s all it takes to get you to sign yourself onto a Marker? And for what, cara mia? A man who does not love you?”

You jerk your hand back but Santino’s fingers wrap around your wrist, holding your hand next to the Marker.

“I confess myself disappointed,” he intones tightly after a brief pause, calmer now, but his eyes still rage. “He left you. For another woman. An outsider to our world, no less. You. The Vipress. And you would still give yourself away, would still tie yourself to me with a blood oath for him. Why? Tell me, do you truly love him that much?”

You glare at him for a heated moment.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

He jerks back like you’ve struck him, his grip on your wrist loosening. Wasting no time, you drag your arm back, still glaring at him.  

It shouldn’t surprise you to see a glimpse of pure envy contorting Santino’s face, but it does. His intentions in regards to you have always been clear, and he’s always been forthcoming about them. For all his tricks and sly games, he’s always been surprisingly clear cut with you.

The only problem is that you’ve never taken him seriously until this moment.

Men like Santino D’Antonio crave excitement and bore easily.

But perhaps you’ve been too quick to judge him.  

He leans back, his palms dropping down to his lap and he regards you critically. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you—if the fresh scars you wear are visible to him. The way he looks at you makes you think that perhaps he can see them after all. That perhaps that’s why he looks so calmly furious right now.

The silence between you hangs, hangs, hangs—

“Very well,” he mutters, his smile a sharp, unpleasant thing. “I will help your precious Johnathan.”

A relieved sigh escapes you and you reach for the Marker. Santino grabs it before you can and lifts it to his face, shaking the object a little in your direction with a stilted smile before he pockets it.

“I don’t understand,” you whisper as you watch him rise from his seat, smoothing wrinkles in his suit. “You said everything has a price.”

“Indeed it does,” he insists as one of his guards’ hands him his overcoat. He shrugs it on calmly, an elegant motion that only adds to his effortless charm. His eyes find yours and he looks at you for a long moment. This time, you find his expression impossible to read. “But my mother who was a great lover of art always told me that life is like poetry,” he explains, a thoughtful frown on his face. “It rhymes.”

He steps towards you but you find that you can’t move a muscle. “John was here because he wants the freedom to start a new life, you are here because of John, and as for me…well, I’m simply here. So no charge, not this time, cara mia. But only because I believe that everything eventually comes around full circle.”

He reaches down and gently takes your hand in his. His lips press against your knuckles, the warmth of his breath prickling your skin and making you shiver. His eyes don’t drop away from you the entire time, and you both know that he lingers for far longer than would be deemed appropriate for two friends.

“Besides, something tells me that you and I will be seeing each other again very soon,” he breathes, and you almost jump when he presses another tender peck to your skin with a glimmer of a crooked grin. “Remember, I’m not doing this for him but for you.”

He pulls back, letting go of your hand reluctantly. “Speak to you soon, cara mia.”

Then he turns around and walks away, leaving you alone in the expensive restaurant.

The text comes two days later in the early hours of the morning.

Marcus’s name flares like a sunbeam across your phone screen and you linger on the Unlock button. Regardless of what this message contains life as you knew it is over. You don’t want to lose it yet, don’t want to let go. Not yet. Either John is dead or…

Or he truly chose that stranger and his new life over you.

‘He did it.’

You exhale slowly—in pained relief, in anguish; raw and entangled in each other—and lift your eyes to the ceiling.

The phone in your hand smashes to pieces when it connects to the wall opposite to you.

[1 YEAR LATER]

“Miss Vipress.”

Charon’s greeting is full of subtle surprise, and the slight smile that twitches his lips to one side is a welcomed sight.

“Charon.”

The man inclines his head. “May I say that it is most pleasing to have you back with us again,” he tells you as you place golden coins on the counter. “The usual, I presume? For how long shall I book you in for?”

Clicking your tongue, you glance around, soaking in the feeling of being back here again. “Thanks. And let’s say two weeks?”

The rest of the exchange is familiar to you and a faint, genuine smile lingers cross the seams of your mouth as you look around, spotting more than one familiar face in the lobby.

“There is one more matter that I’ve been instructed to bring to your attention upon your arrival,” Charon begins, and the slight hesitation in his tone catches your attention. “The manager has requested to see you.”

Your eyebrows arch. “Winston? He’s in at this hour?”

“The manager is always in,” he answers, a glimmer of amusement colouring his words. “Would you like me to announce you?”

You nod absentmindedly. “Uh, yeah, sure. The lounge?”

“Indeed, Miss Vipress,” he says, passing your key across the counter. “Please do enjoy your stay.”

Shooting a quick smile his way, you head towards the bar, knowing that Charon will take care of your travelling bag.

Considering that it’s early hours of the morning, the bar is more active than one would expect. Most of the people here are used to the nightlife though, and come from many differing time zones. You’re all nocturnal creatures, living in the shadows because that’s where you feel most alive.

You greet a few familiar individuals with a slight nod of your head and ignore their invitations to join them for drinks.

Instead, you cut a straight path across the lounge to a corner that has long since been dubbed “Winston’s corner”. The man himself sits silent and focused as he examines a small pile of golden coins placed before him.

“New shipment,” he calls by the way of greeting. “Bad timing but impeccable quality as always.”

“Winston,” you greet in return, and the man finally lowers his glasses, looking up at you. “Little nighttime indulgence?”

Your gaze pointedly fixates on what you can only guess is a glass of brandy.

“Can’t an old man enjoy life a little?” he questions with mock surprise and you smirk. Winston gestures to the empty seat. “Do sit down. We have much to discuss. It has been a year after all. How are your new friends?”

Noting his tone, your eyes narrow. “I don’t have friends,” you rebuke swiftly, coolly, “Not anymore. Learned my lesson last time. Now I assume there’s an actual reason why you wanted to see me?”

Winston nods his head, lips twisting thoughtfully. “But of course,” he says like it should be obvious. “But before all that, I want us to discuss some things. For example, your involvement with Santino D’Antonio. Honestly, out of all the people you could have gone to—”

Your expression warps with disbelief and you scoff under your breath. “Is that judgement I hear in your voice?”

“Goodness no,” Winston shoots back, but his bright stare is cutting. “I’m merely questioning your sanity. I don’t think I need to remind you what kind of man he is. His interest in you, for all intents and purposes, is bound to come with an expiration date. And then what?”

“Then,” you force out painfully slow in order to control your tone. “It won’t matter anymore. Because they will all be dead. Honestly, Winston, what did you expect me to do? Lay down and let them kill me? How can you sit there and judge me for doing everything I can just to survive.”

He exhales wearily, and his slumping shoulders make him look older just for a moment.

“Johnathan was a top-level associate of ours, a legend in his own right,” he begins and that name being spoken out loud cuts through you like a knife. “I always knew that his departure would cause a rather large power vacuum in our world. As his closest associate, I also knew that some people may see fit to try and take out their old grudges on you. Johnathan had as many enemies as he did friends. But he did his best to protect you. The depth of his care for you—”

“I’m sorry, his care?” you repeat, soft and disbelieving, as you consider the man in front of you. “His care came in the form of abandonment. He as good as threw me to the wolves. He left without so much as a second glance, so please tell me again, where exactly was his care?”

“I assure you, he went through great lengths to ensure your protection,” Winston replies calmly, and there’s that hint of chilly authority in his voice that usually makes people shut up and listen. It’s a sore spot for a topic, and you know that’s the only reason why he’s tolerating your cracking disposition and sharp tongue. “What I’m hearing from you right now is bitterness and jealousy. You’re better than that. We both know that what you truly resent is not the fact that Johnathan left, but that he did so without you. But what did you expect?”

“Excuse me?”

“Let me be blunt,” he begins and lifts his glass, sloshing the amber liquid inside from side-to-side. “Viggo was onto you. He knew that there was more going on between you two than a simple partnership. He would have had you killed if he got so much as a shred of proof. Johnathan knew that too. He did you a kindness by pushing you away. He was more fond of you than you can ever truly understand. Too fond. I warned him against it. But he couldn’t let you go. The distance you imposed after his rejection—if you can even call it that—came at a good time. Meeting that woman was an accident. In her, Johnathan saw a chance for a different life. Saw a way for both of you to be safe and happy. You told him that you couldn’t see a life for yourself outside of this, did you not? He left so he could forget you and keep you safe. And I imagine that Santino D’Antonio did not, in fact, help Johnathan with his task out of the goodness of his heart. Especially not when Johnathan already owed him for Tokyo. So I think you’ll forgive me when I say that I don’t quite buy into your supposed hatred for him.”

You stare at Winston in dumbstruck silence. Forcing air into your lungs, you clear your throat, trying to process everything you’ve just heard.

“What—” your voice creaks and you swallow again, determined. “What do you mean John owed Santino for Tokyo?”

“Of course I’m referring to—you don’t know,” he concludes astutely, an eerily familiar understanding washing over the contours of his weathered face. The same understanding that you saw on Santino’s face a year ago on that dreadful night. “Oh, how typical of Johnathan. He left you to believe whatever was the easiest. What do you think happened, my dear? How did Johnathan get there, do you reckon?”

“He—but Tarasov—”

Winston tuts, and places his glass back on the table.

He looks almost sorry when he speaks next. “Johnathan noticed your absence quickly, and you’re right to assume he went to Tarasov first,” he tells you quietly, and the words rattle through your mind like marbles. “But Tarasov refused him. He did not care. So Johnathan went to someone he knew would.”

“Santino.”  

Winston dips his head slightly. “I do not know the terms of what exactly they agreed but I do know that Santino was less than pleased with the outcome. He didn’t tell you this but…John called in a great number of favours and burned an even greater number of bridges to get to you. He did not rest until he got you back. Except he didn’t, did he? A part of you died in that damp, dirty underground pit. You haven’t been the same since Tokyo.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“No.”

Your eyes move away, and you try to subtly swallow the sudden lump in your throat. Despite your best effort to appear unaffected, it still feels like you have lead sitting in your stomach. You want to stand up and walk away from him, but you also respect the man in front of you too much for that.

“Why did you help him?”

You let out a weak chuckle. “Come now, Winston, we both know why. Why even bother asking?”

“Because I need to know that I can give you this,” he replies, taking out a white envelope and placing it on the table between you. “Without the worry that you will do something…unwise.”

Your gaze zeros in on the white material and for some reason it frightens you more than you would care to admit.

“What is it?” you ask, already regretting the question.

“I don’t know,” Winston says, all nonchalance, and you wonder if it’s because he knows what this is doing to you. “But Johnathan took a great risk to call in this favour. It came to me three months ago. I would have had it sent to whichever Continental you were staying at but Johnathan was very clear that it’s for your eyes only. I couldn’t take that chance.”

“Burn it,” you tell him stiffly. “I don’t want it.”

Winston shakes his head, a flash of displeasure crossing his features. “You will regret it if you don’t take it. Make this the closure you need it to be. You never said goodbye properly. Maybe this can be the full stop in this tale that you so desperately need.”

Your lips part and you hurriedly lick them, feeling even more frustrated than before. There’s truth to Winston’s words but it feels too much like picking at a scab that has just healed over.

Tapping your fingers against the table, you finally reach over and snatch the envelope, rising to your feet.

“What do you plan to do about the people still coming after you?” he wonders idly, curiosity lacing his words.

The letter burns in your hand, an enormous weight that makes you feel like you’re being dragged to the ground.  

“What I do best,” you inform him without turning around. “Kill.”

If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought that Winston’s laughter followed you out.

You consider the envelope for a long time.

You consider ripping it to pieces and throwing it away.

But a part of you that sounds suspiciously like grumpy Winston stays your hand.

So instead you eat, shower, stare at the envelope, pace your room, and stare some more.

You’ve moved on.

Or have been trying to, at least.

Life without John is a different experience. It’s a colder, even crueller place than it was before. So, to a degree, you understand what Winston meant when he said that John has been shielding you from the worst of it before.

But he’s gone now. And you’re relearning everything from scratch.

Santino’s offer, now more than ever, burns through your mind.

You did not give him your answer before leaving Italy, and a part of you wants to call him right now—let him be the voice of reason that will tell you to throw the letter away.

You’re done with John. You are.

Falling heavily onto the loveseat, you reach for the envelope.

It feels heavy but not too full. Something hard is inside but it’s still bendable when you test its limits. Curious, you bring it up to your nose, inhaling, and run your fingers through the length of it to see if anything suspicious sticks out.

Nothing.

No odd odours, no unusual edges or bumps.

You stare at it.

There is nothing but your name scribbled in a familiar, cramped font on the front. Your fingertips trace over it and you feel a pang in your chest. Your hand hovers over the envelope and you watch your viper ring gleam against the white paper.  

You still wear it. Isn’t that a sign enough that you haven’t let go?

Even if you’ve been trying—so hard—it still manages to feel fresh. It’s unhealthy and you deserve better than to torture yourself over this. But this last year has already been torture for a multitude of reasons, so is this really any different?

Gritting your teeth, you rip the envelope open. You can’t allow it to have power over you. You can’t allow John to have that power, either.

A card slips out first, clearly the heavier object, and you check the inside to find a letter, too. You rub your fingers together, hesitating, before you take it out and unfold it.

Dear (Name),

I know I have no right to ask this of you, and I will understand if I never hear from you again. But it would mean a lot to me if you could be there.

- John

Short and direct enough for any doubts about its authenticity to crumble away from your mind.

Your eyes slide towards the card that lays facedown on the coffee table.

Swallowing, you pick up the expensive paper, turning it around.

You are joyfully invited to the wedding of—

The invitation slips from your hand, falling clumsily through the air before it lands on the table once again.

You stagger to your feet, swaying, dazed, and wander towards the window. Your forehead presses against the freezing glass, and a breathless sound rattles free from deep within. It’s a low, devastated sort of noise and like a wounded animal you fold into yourself, breathing deeply.

A wedding.

John is getting married.

Is this some cruel joke?

Is he doing this on purpose? Why else would he invite you to the one occasion you would never want to attend? Especially after how you last parted ways.

But John is not one for cruel tricks, not one for mindless harm for the sake of amusement.

Last time you saw him, you told him that you never want to see him again, but it’s clearly not a sentiment he shares. The problem is that you’re not sure if you can handle it. For all your struggles, for all the ferocity to keep living, this could be the one thing you will not be able to overcome. That night, a year ago, was already bad enough.

Your head moves back, and you look over your shoulder towards the invitation still laying innocently on the table. It’s the type of startling white that sticks out in the dim room like a beacon.

Feet unsteady, you walk back towards it, reaching for it once again. Your hands are shaking and you clench your fists till your rapid heartbeat evens out. Then, gritting your teeth, you force yourself to read through the entire thing.

Finally, your eyes snag on the time and date printed, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest.

Tomorrow.

You shouldn’t have come.

You don’t know why you did.

No—that’s not quite true, is it? You do know why you came.

You came because, in order to be free of him, you have to see this through. You have to allow John to drive that one last knife into your chest and twist it for good measure. Then, perhaps, you can finally let go once and for all. Strip him out of your heart till there’s no trace left of him. A full stop in this story just like Winston said.

Still, this decision kept you up for the entire night, restless and hurting, and it wasn’t until two hours before the ceremony that you finally decided to come.

The venue is stunning. A warmly lit, open space and you can’t help but envy the beautiful composition of colours and flowers.

The attendant—a stunning blonde with bright green eyes and an extravagant gown—greets you with a beaming smile, taking your invitation.

“Bride or groom?”

Your mind is so chaotic that at first, you don’t really register her words; they’re a distant murmur only. Wincing, you give her an awkward, pained grimace of a smile.

“Sorry, jetlag is a killer.”

The woman looks sympathetic and nods her head in understanding. You likely look terrible and just sleep-deprived enough for her to buy into your words.  

“And, it’s…” you trail off, suddenly unable to speak. The groom. It’s easy to say. If you can’t even speak what’s the point of coming here? Just to embarrass yourself further? “The groom. Groom’s side, I mean.”

“Wonderful! Please sit on the right, then,” the attendant says with a happy chipper in her voice. You can’t hear any forced cheer in it either which surprises you. “You’re running a bit late. The ceremony has already begun but I think you’ll still make it in time for the exchanging of vows.”

Great.

This is torturous.

It’s been a year but it feels like yesterday.

You should have taken Santino up on his offhand, deliberate offer to go to Paris together. You could have prolonged your trip for just another week and would have missed the wedding entirely. Then, you would have had an easy explanation, an out.

On instinct, your eyes sweep over the crowd. Despite it being a wedding, you still have blades and needless on you; most of them are soaked in some of your latest inventions. Each as nasty and as lethal as the last. You’ve learned from your mistakes. Never again.

It surprises you but you see no familiar faces in the crowd. A part of you expected John to invite Winston or at least Marcus—his oldest, most trusted friend.

It’s startling to realise that you’re wrong. That on one of the most important days of his life, you’re the only one here.

John has truly torn out his old life root and stem and this is proof of that.

Your eyes finally find him standing hand in hand with his bride and your stomach coils.

He looks—

He looks so happy.

The happiest you’ve ever seen him.

He stands tall and proud, his dark gaze warm and full of love as he speaks his vows.

He looks in love. At peace. Happy.

It’s like a punch to the stomach to see him like this. To know that he’s found those things you told him so cruelly he didn’t deserve to have.

And Helen…

She’s beautiful. Practically glowing with happiness as she beams up at John.

So many times—there’s been so many times when you had imagined that she wasn’t anything special. That maybe she’s ugly or stupid. That John will never be happy once the initial attraction fades. So many times when you unfairly demeaned her in your head just to make yourself feel better. But you’re wrong.

Helen is stunning. The type of woman you can’t help but admire.

It hurts so much that you feel—for the first time since that night John left you—tears begin to blur your vision.

“You may now kiss your bride.”

John smiles, a small but loving curl of his mouth, and leans down to kiss his new wife.

A shuddering breath escapes you, swallowed by the crowd that explodes into wild applause and cheers. You watch as the new-wed couple exchange words, intimate and soft, and John places a protective arm around Helen’s waist.

Your gaze drops.

The crowd is still a roar.

“What a beautiful couple, don’t you think?”

Head turning, you glance at an old man you’ve never seen before and find him clapping as loudly as the rest of the crowd.

“Yes,” is your empty whisper. “Yes, they are.”

It’s okay. It’s over now.

Your eyes close and you turn away from the happiness and cheer, walking blindly. As long as you get away from this, it will be fine.

Soft music fills the air when you stumble outside, swallowing large gasp of air and pressing your hand against your chest. Your head falls back and you look towards the sky. The sun has just set, the furthest corner of the sky already allowing first stars to peak against the darkened expanse. Then your chin drops, your vacant stare lingering on all the beautiful fairy lights wrapped around trees and bushes.

Putting one leg in front of another, you stagger forward. It feels like being back underground. It feels like that time Kishi pressed his heavy boot against your lower back, keeping you still after you tried to crawl away. It feels like you can’t move, walk, jog, breathe, exist.

Yes, I can.

You take another step and another, feeling...it’s devastating, it is. But with every heavy, pained step also comes a sense of calm. Of finally—

“You came.”

You freeze.

Blinking, you try to compose your expression before you turn around.

John comes closer, hesitant, as his dark eyes take you in. As always it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, and it’s so obvious now that he’s always been so guarded around you. So unlike moments ago when he showed just how open he can be with the person he loves.

“Well,” you halt, nibbling on the inside of your cheek to gather yourself. “I couldn’t miss your wedding. Some friend I would be if I did.”  

“I didn’t think you would come,” he says, stopping right in front of you. “But I’m glad that you did. I wanted to talk to you.”

You laugh weakly, and it sounds so forced you regret it immediately. “Yeah, well, impeccable timing as always, John. Congratulations, by the way.”

His expression is unreadable, but you feel a whisper of surprise when he extends his hand towards you.

Then, with that gesture, comes the understanding.

You were right. None of this has been about hurting you. Everything; from the invitation to this, is about giving you both closure.

John didn’t want the last interaction you’ve had to be a hateful one. And, until this very moment, you didn’t know you didn’t want that, either.

You place your hand in his and he pulls you closer. Then, arms careful and hesitant around each other, you begin to sway to the distant music coming from the reception.

“You should be back there,” you tell him quietly. “Celebrating.”

He meets your stare, calm and patient as always. “There’ll be time for that later.”

Silence follows his words and you move together for a while without a sound. Your eyes flutter closed, and you rest your cheek lightly against his chest. His scent, his warmth; they sink into you gradually and you add them to your memory.

“I just wanted—”

“Winston told me.”

John looks down at you. “I asked him not to.”

Your smile feels sad, weary. “The old man likes to gossip, I guess,” you mutter in a poor play on humour, and tighten your fingers around his. “John I—I just wanted to say that—I didn’t mean what I said that night—”

“You don’t have to apologise, (Name),” he tells you, and his expression seems strained, so unlike the previous joy you saw earlier. “I hurt you.”

Shaking your head, you glance away, and try to smile again. “I was angry…and hurt. But it still did not give me the right to say that to you. You—you of all the people deserve this more than anyone. I’m happy for you. I am.”

“(Name) I—”

“Please,” you cut him off before he can continue. “Please make this easy for me. I’m trying to do the right thing here but it’s so damn hard. It’s so hard and I—just thank you. Thank you for everything. You saved me and I will never be able to thank you enough for it. But I had to at least try before this goodbye.”

“Then don’t make it a goodbye,” he whispers suddenly and your eyes find his, full of surprise. “We can keep in touch. You’re my friend.”

You chuckle; a wet, weak sound. “We both know that’s too dangerous,” you answer him, and hate how sad you sound. “You’re out, John. You’re free and you’re happy. That’s all I could ever—”

Your voice cracks and you lower your head, swallowing. John’s cheek rests against the top of your head and he squeezes your fingers when he feels them tremble between his own. You stand still for a while. Simply breathing together and you love him for the fact that he allows time for tears escaping your eyes to dry.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you breathe, choked. “You tried to keep us both safe and found happiness on the way. My anger was selfish. And sometimes…sometimes people can be good together but it still doesn’t work out.”

You pull back slowly, carefully turning your fingers to free your hand from his grip. Staring at the ground beneath your feet, you allow yourself a silent moment of grieving.

For what you had.

For what you still could have had.

John stands still, sensing that you need this moment and you feel a small smile twist your mouth. You lift your head and place your hand—his ring gleaming—on his chest. He looks so handsome in a tux.

“So,” you begin with a smile. “This is me letting you go, John.”

You lean closer and press a gentle kiss against his cheek. Your expression crumbles, and you tilt your face till it’s next to his ear, so he won’t see your pain.

“Please be happy.”

Then you pull back, your hands dropping away, letting go.

“(Name), wait—”

“John? There you are. What are you doing out here?”

Your head snaps over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of Helen. She looks even more beautiful this close up. She walks down the steps, lifting her stunning wedding gown and recognition flashes through her eyes when she spots you.

“Oh, you must be (Name),” she greets with a kind smile. “I’m Helen. John has told me a lot about you. I’m glad you’ve been able to come. Wouldn’t you join us inside?”

Your eyes slide towards John who looks as torn as you feel. You give her a smile too. Whatever resentment you once felt towards this woman has up and vanished into thin air.

She comes to stand beside John and you’re momentarily speechless. They look good together. Like they belong.

“It’s lovely to meet you. And I’m sorry, but I can’t,” you say, keeping your smile intact. “I have, ah, a job…that I need to get to. But it was a beautiful ceremony and—take care of him for me, would you? He’s so awful at it. And…”

Your voice wavers but you’re still smiling even though neither Helen nor John are.

“I just wish you both…all the happiness in the world. Truly.”

You nod your head, inhaling deeply, and laugh.

Your eyes meet John’s for one last time and you grin at him. “Goodbye, John.”

Not waiting for a reply, you turn around and start walking away.

In and out. In and out.

The cool evening air kisses your burning, tear-streaked cheeks but you keep walking with your head held high.

Alone. Just like it’s been for so long.

A butterfly trapped in a mason jar.

Never to be free.   

. . .

an: hope you all enjoyed that pain fest (˵ ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°˵)ﾉ⌒♡*:･。.  

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick fic #john wick imagine #keanu reeves #santino d'antonio #winston #marcus #fic: children of ares

[juniperwindsong]

In Love & War (3/3)

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has been so kind as to comment on this story and even kinder in their patience for how long it took to complete. I’ve never struggled so much to write anything, and I might still be staring at an unfinished draft if it weren’t for the help of the most incredible, @navirosera, who listened patiently to my ranting, raving, and complaining and provided the spark to help me finish. I really can’t thank you enough. 

I have posted the remaining part of the chapter at the bottom so it’s in its proper place. If you’ve already read the first part of this, just keep scrolling till it looks new. 

Part 3: Quatervois

  You hold your left hand up against the glass of the window. The setting sun catches the diamond of your ring, creating lines of rainbow light. It gives the impression your whole hand is sparkling. You smile. It's only a modest sized diamond set against a pale gold band. But it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

   "Something out there I should be jealous of?"

   Arms encircle your waist. A warm body presses against you from behind.

   "'Out there'"?" you echo playfully. "Oh, I suppose there is a lovely ocean view. I hadn't noticed."

    Felix rests his chin on your shoulder to see what's caught your attention.

    "You know, I really ought to get you another one. Something better. With a diamond you can actually see."

   You spin around in Felix's arms.

   "Don't you dare. I love it. It's perfect."

   Felix glances at your hand now resting against his chest. He frowns at the ring slightly.

    "Hardly perfect. It's ridiculously small. It barely counts as an engagement ring."

   You wrinkle your nose at him. "Then why did you pick it in the first place?"

   A hot blush creeps up Felix's cheeks, a sight you find intensely amusing.

   "There's a face I don't see often,” you laugh softly.

   A change comes over Felix. His eyes widen, and he leans away from you, dropping his arms. He peers into your face intently as if he's seen something he doesn't like. You’re worried you must have offended him.

   "I wasn't poking fun," you assure him soothingly. You close the distance he’s created between you, reaching up to take his still heated cheek in your palm. "I like it. Makes you look younger."

   Felix's eyes soften. "Do I look old then?"

   "Far too old for me." You shake your head in mock concern. "What my friends will say when they discover I've eloped with my prefect, I can't imagine." Your face suddenly clouds. "Why did we elope? Was there a reason? I mean, it was lovely little chapel, but it would have been nice to have my friends there. And Mrs Weasley will be so disappointed when she finds out.”

   Felix swallows. “The war, remember?” He hides his face in the crook of your neck. “Everyone choosing sides. We didn't want them to be uncomfortable."

   "Oh. Right."

   On some level you're aware this doesn't make sense. But the vibrations against your throat send lightning through your body. The answer no longer seems important. You run your hands through Felix's hair as he places hot, slow kisses up your neck, under your chin. When he reaches your lips he murmurs against them: "Let me buy you a new ring. Please."

   You shake your head. Your nose nuzzles his with each small movement. "No. This is the one I want."

   You’re at a loss for how this sweet statement could cause your new husband to look so unhappy.

  -

   "Not again! That's the second time this week!"

   The sudden exclamation startles you from your reverie. You lift your head from its resting place against your hand. You’re in the Burrow's kitchen with an irate Mrs Weasley, not a villa in Nice with Felix. The sun setting outside the window had brought the memory back.

   Mrs Weasley wads the offensive letter up and throws it into the fire.

   "I mean really, and at the last minute, too. So inconsiderate. I suppose that sort of thing is acceptable in France, but you'd think manners would be the same everywhere, wouldn't you? Pass me that cutting board, dear."

   You rise from your chair and reach up to pull the cutting board from a high shelf. You could easily retrieve it with magic, but you need the distraction. It's precisely the reason you've moved to the Burrow. Mrs Weasley's strict regimen of conversation and domestic work keeps your mind from wandering. Most of the time.

   You offer Mrs Weasley the cutting board, then lean against the counter. You force yourself to pay attention to her diatribe.

   “I'm sure it's a phase, but I do hope it will pass soon. Once he grows out of that hair and that earring," Mrs Weasley shudders. "And that's really the most telling, isn't it? Any woman who likes that sort of thing can’t possibly be any good. You don't approve of it, surely?"

   You look up from where your gaze has fallen to your hand and shake your head vigorously.

   Her opinions safely confirmed, Mrs Weasley returns to the cutting board. She directs her wand to a veritable army of knives that begin dicing vegetables with gusto. "Like I say, very telling. Bill never used to be like this. He would never have dreamed of sending an owl last minute saying he wouldn't be at dinner. I mean really! What if we'd had something important to discuss? What if-"

   You stare at the ring on your finger. It's the same one from your memory: a single, small diamond, a band of pale gold. Humble, but an auror's salary isn’t high. And this is definitely the ring Talbott had given you.

   You relish the ability to call this memory to mind. You, dusting the curtains in your cheery flat when Talbott suddenly appears behind you. He presses a small blue box wordlessly into your hands. Your heart stops when you open it.

   Talbott isn't one for material gifts. You never ask them of him. You had intended, once you were married, to find a simple wedding band to indicate your new status. For Talbott to think of it himself means more than you can say in words. Instead, you spend a long, fervid night showing him.

   You close your eyes, savouring the echoes of bliss reverberating through your body. Until a question wheedles its way in like a leech.

   Why would Felix have pretended the ring was his? Even for a second? It didn't fit Felix's extravagant style at all. He hadn't been happy with it, that much is clear from your newly remembered honeymoon scene. So why didn't he remove it after obliviating you? Replace it with another?

   The inconsistency bothers you. Against your better judgment, you tentatively prod your brain for an explanation. But while your memories from before the fateful spell all seem to be intact, the days immediately after remain fuzzy.

     "...talking about visiting her family, and it's much too soon for that. Imagine going all the way to France for a girl he's really only known a short time. I didn't meet Arthur's family until..."

   You shake your head firmly, clearing it of unwanted thoughts. You'll never understand what Felix did. You're not supposed to be thinking about him, anyway. You straighten, and interrupt Mrs Weasley mid-sentence.

   "Can I do something to help, Mrs Weasley?"

   "Oh," Mrs Weasley stops abruptly. "Well, I really only have the potatoes left to mash, and that’s just -"    

   "I'll do it.”

   You walk to the sink before Mrs Weasley can argue. A pot of peeled and boiled potatoes waits expectantly. You tap the masher with your wand and set it to work with vigour. You can feel Mrs Weasley's eyes on you, but you keeps yours fixed to the sink.

   After a moment, Mrs Weasley returns to her knives, now scraping the diced vegetables into a bowl. "You know, I was thinking," she says in an airy, would-be-casual voice that instantly puts you on your guard. "I'd planned for four, and it would be a shame to let all this extra food go to waste. Why not invite your young man to dinner?"

    The masher spins wildly in the pot, spilling potatoes over the side before you can correct it. Mrs Weasley continues as though she hasn’t noticed.

   "It's been some time since you last saw him. And goodness knows, he looks like he could use a solid meal. What he must be eating without anyone to take care of him..."

   You remember the assorted debris of take-away strewn about your old flat's kitchen table. A short stab of pain punctures your lungs. Imagining Talbott alone in the ruins of the home you once shared robs you of air.

   "Y/N, the masher!"

    "What?"

   You look up to find the masher dancing across the counter, trailing potato in its wake. You break the enchantment and return it to the pot, then reach for a dish towel. You try to mop up the soggy potato droppings, but your vision is blurred by tears.

   The dish towel is plucked gently from your fingers. You look up through wet eyes to find Mrs Weasley peering at you in concern.

   "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I didn't mean to press. I understand if you need more time to-"

   "It's not that, Mrs Weasley," you say, through sniffs. "I just...I... I miss him. I miss everything."

   "You know, dear," Mrs Weasley says delicately, "Arthur and I have had our fair share of rows. Why, I remember one in our seventh year, nearly ended us. I couldn't eat a bite for weeks. But, there's never a problem two people can't solve if they're just willing to talk through it."

   You sigh heavily, wiping your hand across your eyes. You let yourself sink into a kitchen chair.

   "Talbott doesn't talk, Mrs Weasley. I'm the one who always solves these sorts of problems. I've never minded, but this time...this time I just don't know how."

   Mrs Weasley flicks her wand at the masher. It resumes its duties at a more stately pace, and she draws the chair next to yours.

   "Talbott is a good man, dear. A bit strange, and - well, I do admit, I'd rather hoped you and Charlie would...well...that doesn't matter now - what I mean to say is Talbott loves you. I'm sure he doesn't expect everything to be just the way it was all at once. But you have to start somewhere or it'll never come right."

   You worry your lip between your teeth. You don’t know what Talbott thinks of you right now, and you’re afraid to find out. But Mrs Weasley's arguments chip away at your fear. You do want to see him again. And Talbott is unlikely to come find you himself.

   "I suppose I might...send him an owl."

   Mrs Weasley's smile is so bright it hurts to look at it.

   "Really? Oh, that's wonderful! I'm so thrilled. Here, let me do it. You go get dressed!"

   "What?"

   "Well, you can't let him see you in that!"

   You look down at your clothes: an old house dress of Mrs Weasley's and a jumper of Charlie's, both extremely baggy.

   "Mrs Weasley, Talbott's seen me in just about everything."

   "Yes, well, a little bit of effort never hurt. In fact, why don't I pop down to Diagon Alley before the shops close and pick up some of those delightful little cakes he liked so much last Christmas. I'll send the owl on the way. Now go!"

    It's useless to argue with Mrs Weasley when she's in this state. You climb the stairs, listening to her chatter to herself as she pulls on a travelling shawl. For the first time in days, you manage a weak smile.

-

   You spend a few minutes prodding your wand across an old summer dress from Mrs Weasley's school days. You've never excelled at the sort of charms Andre used to transform clothes into something magical, but you do your best. The end result, if not exactly fashionable, doesn't look as though two of you might fit in it. You run a brush through the tangled knots in your hair, and, after a minute's debate, decide in favour of lipstick.

    You feel distinctly foolish.

    It makes no sense to be dressing yourself up to meet the man you've lived with since you left school. Even less so to be this self-conscious about it. But Mrs Weasley's excitement has apparently infected you. Your stomach is full of swarming butterflies. It reminds you of your very first date with Talbott.

   You cross to the looking-glass and inspect yourself critically. While you may feel like a teenager again, your reflection shows quite a bit more wear. Your face is pinched and wan, like someone recovering from a long illness. You lean in closer, practicing a smile. Something moves in the corner of the glass.

   You whirl around, fumbling for your wand. The room is empty. It must have a been a trick of the light. Instinct puts you on your guard, however, and you inspect the room again, more slowly. As your eyes pass the window, you catch a glimpse of something moving in the yard. You blink, and look again, unwilling to believe your eyes.

   Felix is picking his way across the long grass, surveying the Burrow with a mixture of distaste and apprehension.

   Your brain stalls. Thoughts peter out as soon as they begin. You don't know what to do, what to think, what to feel.

   Felix glances up. You know he can see your silhouette in the window. It's in the way his rich brown eyes suddenly catch fire.

   "Y/N, I know you're there," Felix calls softly. "I just want to talk to you. Please."

   A battle begins inside you. Part of you wants to hurl a curse out the window at Felix. Part of you wants to hide under the bed. But neither of these are in charge of your feet. You're walking out of the room and down the stairs before your brain catches up to what you're doing. It stops you just before you reach the kitchen door. You can't really be considering this. Felix has proven exactly what he's capable of. Walking out there to him is like walking into a snake pit.

   Only this time, you know. You're prepared. You're not the girl of a year ago, naively believing she could be just friends with a Rosier. Nor are you his thrall. Your head is as clear as it's ever been. And you have things you want to say. You clench your hand firmly around your wand, and step outside.

   You keep your eyes on your feet as you walk. Just taking even steps requires considerable effort. You stop when you see Felix's shoes. It's several seconds before you're able to raise your gaze to his, and then it takes all your self-control to keep your jaw from dropping.

   You've never seen Felix this worse for wear. His robes are so rumpled he might have slept in them. His hair is untidy, his nails unclean. There are circles under his eyes as dark as bruises.

   Pity, and something else you refuse to name, well up inside your throat. The desire to put your arms around him, to stroke his cheek or straighten his hair, anything to fix his face into something less pained, is overwhelming. You hate yourself for it. You quickly recite every terrible thing Felix has done in your head. But you've never been able to stay angry with Felix when he looks at you like that.

   "Y/N." Felix says your name like a prayer. You will your heart not to break. You keep your voice as expressionless as possible.

   "What do you want?"

   "I - I just want to talk," Felix repeats. "To ex-explain."  His impassive mask slips as he stutters. For some reason, this display of nerves inspires you with confidence.

   "I already heard your explanations. What else could you possibly have to say?"

   Felix rubs his palms against his trousers.

   'That wasn't - I mean - I didn't get to...to say everything I needed to. It was all so..."  You don't think you've ever seen Felix so lost for words. You grip your wand tighter to stop your hand reaching for him. "I didn't get to explain myself clearly. Explain what happened. Why I...I did what I did."

   At these words, your desire erupts into rage. It's almost a relief to finally feel it. You let it boil your blood, vibrate in your limbs. You clench your fist around your wand so tight your knuckles turn white. As if the immensity of Felix's crimes could be summed up in a few simple words.

   "You mean, why you obliviated me? Why you erased Talbott from my memories and ruined both our lives?" The bitterness that's festered inside you for weeks spews forth like lava. "You lied to me, Felix! You let me feel like I was going mad! You forced me to marry you, and then kept me locked in your house like a-"

   "But I didn't!" Felix's cry is anguished. It only fuels your fury.

   "How...dare you! How can you really think I'm that stupid? That I would fall for that? I remember everything Felix! I heard you admit it, and I know I'm not insane. Denying what you've done won't change anything, it just makes you look pathetic.”

   Felix flinches as if your word were a curse.

   "I'm not denying what I did. I did...obliviate you. And I did lie. But...I didn't force you to marry me."

   "Just because you didn't hold a wand to my head doesn't mean I wasn't forced. You can't get out of this on semantics."

   "I'm not trying to get out of anything," Felix says quickly. He looks up, staring at a point just near your ear. "Look, I made you forget him...Talbott. I thought...without him to worry about or pressuring you to stay...I could convince you to run. Go visit your relatives in America. But I-I don't know...maybe the spell went wrong. I've never used a memory charm before. But you seemed to forget everything. You weren't sure who you were, or where you were. I was terrified."

   Felix takes a step closer. You know you should stop him, but you're hooked to his words. Your anger flounders as you struggle to find this memory, to prove Felix is lying yet again. But all you remember is Felix's wand pointed at you...then nothing.

   "I didn't know what to do," Felix continues. "I couldn't just leave you there, or - or send you to another country while you didn't even know your own name. So I...I took you home. With me. I thought...maybe I could figure out a way to undo it. Or something. I don't know, I never had to find out. When you woke the next morning, you were better. Or at least, you knew who you were and who I was. But...I suppose the spell had worked because you didn't remember...Talbott." Felix's fingers twist at his sides. "But then you - you saw the ring and you asked if... we were...engaged."

   You look down at the diamond ring on your hand. Something in the way it catches the light reminds you of a moment in the Rosier kitchen: leaning against the butcher's table, your head pounding, a fog across your senses; Felix standing in front of you, as nervous as he is now. You hear your voice ask a question, and you hear Felix's response...

   "I didn't know what to say! I didn't know how to explain the ring without mentioning Talbott, and I didn't know what else you remembered or-or how you felt about me. I just...I wanted you. I've always wanted you, so I...I said-"

   " 'Only if you want to be'."

   Felix's eyes meet yours. There's a soft, eager light in them, as if the memory is something he cherishes.

   "You...remember that?"

   'I didn't until just now."

   You stare at the Felix in front of you, but your mind is faraway. Back in the kitchen, watching Felix wait for your answer. You stood there, your aching mind picking through its tangled memories, sorting through all your moments with Felix. The way he'd always been there for you at school. The way his seriousness made you laugh, and his little touches made you shiver. The decision was as easy as breathing.

   "I said, yes," you whisper into the air.

   Felix says nothing. He only nods.

   The emotions writhing within you evaporate. Anger, desire, everything you've felt toward Felix is suddenly missing. Wind blows, and it sounds like a foreign language. The world around you is as unfamiliar and threatening as a different planet. You don't know how to exist in it. You can only stand, frozen and unsure.

   After a minute of silence, Felix continues.

   "I know I shouldn't have let you believe it, or - or let it go as far as I did. I should have sent you to America, like I meant to. But... I couldn't help it. I love you. I always have." Felix's hand jerks oddly, as if he meant to take yours before thinking better of it."I told myself it was better this way. That you were safer with me. But...you were right. I did it for myself, and I - I'm sorry. I know it doesn't fix anything, but I am. And, I want...to make it up to you."

   This time, Felix lets his hand reach for yours. You make no move to stop him. He strokes your limp fingers delicately, as if they were made of glass.

   "I made a mistake, and I - I hate what it's done to you. But I love you, Y/N. You can't pretend I don't. And if you'll let me, I'll spend my life making it up to you."

   You can only stare. Your brain has forgotten how to form words. Felix is just beginning to look concerned, when the door to the Burrow's kitchen opens with a bang. The sound breaks your spell, and you rip your hand away.

   "Get - off - my - land!"

   Mr Weasley marches across the grass toward you, Mrs Weasley and Talbott in his wake. Mr Weasley's wand is stretched out in front of him, but Talbott gets there first. He sends a quick, silent hex flying across the yard. Felix has no time to block it. He throws himself to the ground to avoid the red light, then rolls into a crouch, wand at the ready.

   "Come inside, Y/N, quickly!" Mrs Weasley grabs your arm and yanks you away. You let her drag you back toward the Burrow. Your legs are too weak to walk on their own. You watch Talbott hurl spell after spell at Felix, who blocks them as he beats a hasty retreat. He reaches the edge of the Weasley property, and with a last glance in your direction, disapparates.

-

   "Sit here, dear. Let me make a cup of tea." Mrs Weasley pushes you into a chair. "I should never have left you alone, I can't believe I-"

   Her prattle is interrupted by the slam of the kitchen door. Talbott tumbles inside, breathing heavily, still clutching his wand. His head swivels until he finds you.

   "Why was he here?"

   It's the first time in weeks you've stared into Talbott's yellow-gold eyes. They're flashing like you've never seen. You search for your voice. Your brain is still racing.

   "What was he doing here, Y/N?"

  Talbott stalks closer, his movements rigid. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. You have no frame of reference for Talbott angry with you.

   Mrs Weasley clears her throat. "Now really, Talbott, I don't think that's-"

   "He just...came to talk." Your voice is a low rasp, but it cuts cleanly through Mrs Weasley's protests.

   "To talk?"

   "Yes."

   A feral sort of growl escapes Talbott's throat. He turns, kneading the back of his neck viciously. He paces to the kitchen door, then back again, like a caged animal. It's almost frightening. But you're sick of feeling confusion and fear, and you're sick of feeling sorry. You'd rather be angry some more. You stand, letting the rage you couldn't finish venting on Felix flow through you again.

   "So you talked?” Talbott spits the words, each syllable tight and clipped. "You talked to him after everything he's done? After you know what he is? He's a Death Eater, Y/N, and a liar. That's who you want to talk to?”

   "At least he cared enough to come find me - unlike you." Your words shock Talbott into stillness. “I just disappear, you get some letter that doesn't even sound like me, and you just write me off as lost?"

   Talbott is rooted to the floor. He can't move, even as you advance on him.

   "What Felix did was terrible, Talbott. But he did it because he loves me."

   "You want me to do something terrible to prove I love you?"

   "I just want you to do something!"

   Talbott's nostrils flare. His upper lip twitches like he's holding back a sneer.

   "So, you'd like me better if I were more like Felix Rosier? If I kidnapped you? Cast spells on you to make you do what I want, like a puppet?"

   "I wasn't a puppet!" Your vision blurs red, and you lose all control of your tongue. “Felix didn't force me to marry him, Talbott, I wanted to! When I didn't remember you anymore, I realised I was in love with him and I wanted to be with him. That's what he came for. To remind me of that."

   The ghost of your words lingers in the kitchen for several minutes, each as long as years. Talbott's face is entirely blank. Mrs Weasley's hands are clapped over her mouth in horror. You don't care. Saying it out loud releases a weight from your shoulders. It leaves you light-headed and exhausted.

   "So...you do love him."

   It isn't a question. Talbott's voice is resigned. Guilt tugs at your heart, but you can't really feel it. You're too tired to feel much of anything.

   "I don't know. I don't know...anything anymore." You fall into the nearest chair. You drop your head into your hands, your eyelids heavy. "I feel like I'm two different people. Like I've lived two different lives. I was happy in both of them, but... I don't know which one I am now. Maybe neither. I don't know how to choose."

   Talbott blinks. It draws curtains over his molten eyes.

   "You don't have to choose."

   He turns and walks away from you, without a backward glance.

-

   There's no reunion dinner that night. Mrs Weasley sends you straight up to bed. You hear her and Mr Weasley conversing in low tones into the wee hours of the morning. You pull the pillow over your head. You don't want to hear what they're saying about you.

   It's two days before you're ready to rejoin the rest of the world. Another before you can eat and drink again properly. One more day, and you're participating in conversation, if only to nod or say, "Of course, Mrs Weasley." By the end of the week, you're as close to normal as you were before Felix's unexpected visit.

   The days don't bring you any closer to an answer, but they do bring you further from heartache. You find it's easier to turn your mind from memories of Felix now you've confessed your love out loud.  It's as if the feeling has lost power over you. Each day, the loss of him hurts slightly less.

   The hardest part of your life now is how little you can do for the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore's task for you reminds you unpleasantly of your school days: to lay low and let others handle it. You would happily ignore this if you thought you might be useful, but the truth is, you don't know how to help. There's no mystery to solve, no secrets to uncover. Just ones to protect.

   Still, you attend each meeting, week after week. You help Mrs Weasley with the dinner beforehand and the cleaning afterward. You pay attention to the news that's shared. You contribute what insight your experiences offer.

   But mostly you watch Talbott.

   Talbott attends almost every meeting, but you never speak and he never approaches. He sits as close to the door as he can manage, and bolts the moment the meeting ends. He's careful never to turn his eyes on you. You watch him just the same. It’s so long since you’ve been in his presence without something horrible happening. Every movement he makes is mesmerizing, the way it always was at school. His sharp nods, his slow blinks, the tapping of his finger against the table you're sure he's unaware of.

   You miss Talbott, you realise. Or maybe you just miss the part of your life he represents; the life you built together. The damage done to it seems irreparable. Though you spend many nights wracking your brain, you can think of no way to fix it.

   Talbott may choose to ignore your eyes on him, but Mrs Weasley does not. She, at least, is not content to watch and wonder. She renews her encouragements that the two of you talk. She attempts to seat you together at meetings. You deflect her machinations as best you can, but Mrs Weasley won't be thwarted forever.

   One evening she insists on arriving at Grimmauld Place earlier than usual. "It's a large meeting tonight, dear," she explains, a little too airily, "so we'll need to start dinner early. And I promised Sirius I would take a look at the drawing room curtains, he thinks the doxies are moving back in."

   Sirius is sitting at the end of the kitchen table when the two of you enter. You call a soft greeting, but he merely lifts a hand and grunts. He's staring at a notebook on the table in front of him, as if waiting for words to appear in it. You light a fire with your wand and set water to boil, then begin chopping onions.

   As you work, you notice Mrs Weasley shoot furtive glances at the clock. Her attitude is strangely expectant. Something about her nervous energy raises your hackles. When the doorbell clangs, you have a sneaking suspicion who it might be.

   "I'll get it!" she says with entirely too much enthusiasm. You narrow your eyes at her as she leaves.

   "Bit early, isn't it?" grumbles Sirius. You don't reply. You're listening hard to catch the sounds from the floor above. You hear the front door open, and the murmur of low voices. Your heart stutters as you recognise them both. Mrs Weasley returns to the kitchen with a stiff Talbott in tow. Her face is practically glowing.

   "I'm so sorry, dear, Arthur must have got the times mixed up! The meeting's not for another half hour. We're just getting dinner ready, but there's a good bit to do. Perhaps you might be willing to pitch in?"

   Talbott stops moving when he notices you. His head darts about the room, searching for an escape. There's a twinge of heartache at seeing him so desperate to get away from you. You turn back to the onions, face burning.

   You hear Talbott mumble something about not being much good in the kitchen. Mrs Weasley ignores this entirely.

   "Oh, just a bit of slicing. Nothing too difficult! A simple severing charm will work if you're uncomfortable with a knife."

   Mrs Weasley drops a cutting board and several loaves of bread on the table. Even with your eyes down, you can see Talbott's hands in your peripheral vision. You wield your knife with extra care, worried you might sever one of your own jittery fingers.

   The only sound in the room is the dull thud of blades on wood. After a minute, Mrs Weasley speaks into the awkward silence.

   "Well, while I have you two here, I think I'll just pop upstairs and take a look at those curtains. Sirius," she calls, and you hear Sirius stir. "Why don't you show me which room they're in?"

   "It's the curtains in the drawing room, Molly."

   "Why don't you show me," Mrs Weasley says slowly behind a clenched smile. You can't see her face, but you're sure her eyes are boring into Sirius. He must have taken the hint. You hear his chair being pushed back hastily.

   "Oh! Right, of course. I'll show you."

   You close your eyes in a plea for patience. You're not sure whether you want to laugh or cry or throw an onion at Mrs Weasley's retreating back. When you open them again, Talbott is watching you. He looks away as soon as your eyes meet.

   How long has it been since you were this close to Talbott? Close enough that you could reach across and touch his cheek, if you wanted. If you were still allowed.

   Something changes in the room. It takes you a minute to realise what. The sporadic sound of Talbott's knife has stopped. You glance up and find him staring at your hand. You see thoughts race behind his molten eyes.

   "What's wrong?" you ask softly, and feel instantly foolish. What isn't wrong in Talbott's life at the moment? You don't expect him to answer, but after a quick gulp he says, "Your ring." He nods at the naked skin of your fourth finger.

   Your blush is almost painful. It's been so long since you wore your engagement ring, you've actually forgotten to miss it.

   "I...took it off. It didn't feel right...under the circumstances."

   Talbott doesn't reply. His head moves in something that might be a nod or a twitch. His eyes return to his cutting board.

   You work in silence. A silence you grow quickly to hate. It feels ridiculous to be this uncomfortable around the man you've known for years, a man you know better than anyone else. You used to be able to read his silences so well, interpret meaning from his every change in posture. But you suppose you're both different people now. Each unsure what the other is thinking.

   The tension reminds you of something. When you remember what it is, you can't stop a small chuckle. Talbott's head jerks up, eyes registering alarm.

   "Do you remember when we first met?"

   Talbott only blinks.

   "At the start of third year?" you remind him. "When I decided I wanted to become an animagus, and Tulip said I ought to talk to you?"

   "I remember," Talbott says. After a beat he adds, "Why?"

   "I was just thinking...I think that's the last time I was this nervous to talk to you."

   Talbott's eyes shed some of their armor. You catch a glimpse of the man you remember underneath.

   "Why were you nervous to talk to me?"

   "You were so...intimidating." You smile. It's a rusty, disused expression on your face now. "And you looked like the last thing in the world you wanted to do was talk to me.  I was sure you must not like me for some reason."

   It had taken so much courage to seat yourself at the Ravenclaw table that day. You'd defeated a cursed vault, battled yetis and werewolves, and Talbott's piercing gaze had made you more nervous than any of them.

   You return to chopping, but Talbott remains still.

   "I did like you. I'd fancied you since first year."

   The knife slices cleanly through the pad of your finger. Drops of blood sprinkle the onions, but you barely notice. You're looking at Talbott in wonder.

   "You never told me that."

   "Your finger." Talbott nods at your bleeding hand.

   "Why did you never tell me that?"

   Talbott doesn't answer. He walks around the table toward you. Your heart beats louder with each step. He pries the knife from your suddenly clenched fist, and takes your bleeding hand in his. He taps his wand to your wound and murmurs a spell. The skin seals back up flawlessly. Talbott returns his wand to his pocket, but he doesn't release your hand.

   Your gaze is drawn to his face by an impulse you can't control. Talbott's molten eyes are on your mouth. You watch his lips part, his tongue wet them nervously. But he doesn't speak. He doesn't move. You recognise the symptoms. You know he's trapped in his head. There's no parchment or quill to hand, but that tradition really belongs to two different people.

   You lean in to Talbott's face until your lips are a breath apart. You pause, waiting for permission. Talbott hesitates, and your heart stops. Then he closes the narrow space between you. Your lips meet, then meet again. You had forgotten what it feels like to kiss Talbott, or maybe it was never like this before. Your lips tingle, and your skin crawls with desire to be touched. Talbott's mouth is careful, almost reluctant, as if he's sure you'll be gone in a moment. You want to promise him you won't be, but neither of you could believe that now.

   When Talbott doesn't draw you to him the way you're used to, you pull away. You search his face for answers. Yellow-gold eyes meet yours, begging for something you don't understand. You've always been the one to figure out the next move, but this time you need his help.

   "Talbott." Your voice is a whisper. "What do we do now?"

   "I don't know," Talbott murmurs. He closes his eyes so you can't see him think.

   "I don't know how to fix this," you admit softly.

   You lower your gaze to your hands. Your fingers are still twined together.

   "Maybe you can't."

   You look up, your heart horribly still. "Is that...what you want?"

   Talbott untangles his fingers from yours.

   "I want you to be happy. Even...if that's not with me."

   You don't know what to say. You open your mouth hoping the right words will appear on their own, when he kitchen door bangs open.

   Talbott jumps away from you as if hexed. You look up, expecting to see Mrs Weasley.

   It's Professor Snape. By itself, this isn't unusual. Snape is a member of the Order, and he attends every meeting he cannot avoid. It isn't his presence that's cause for concern, it's his unfamiliar expression: one of pale fear. A look you've never seen on the forbidding Professor. The implication leaves you cold. If something has happened to worry Snape...

    "What's wrong, Professor?" you ask.

   "Potter," and even Snape's voice is missing its usual sneer. "Where is Black?"

-

  You must look ridiculous, you think to yourself, sprinting through the Ministry for Magic alongside Talbott and Sirius in a sundress of all things. At school, there was always time to dress carefully before running into danger. But Harry Potter and his friends are trapped in the Department of Mysteries, and you're determined to help, no matter what you're wearing.

   "What are they doing here?" Mad-Eye Moody addresses Talbott as the three of you reach the lifts. "They can't be here. They're not aurors."

   Both you and Sirius begin to argue at once. Your recitation of all the dark wizards and dangerous creatures you've defeated is drowned by Sirius' roars of, "I'm his godfather!" Your words reverberate through the huge, empty chamber until Moody slams his staff against the ground for silence.

   "There's no time. Just get in!"

   The four of you squeeze into the lift where Kingsley Shacklebolt, Remus Lupin, and Tonks are already waiting. The small space throbs with tension as the lift makes its impassively slow descent.

   "Isn't there another way?" Sirius barks, slapping his wand against his leg.

   "No," says Kingsley shortly.

   Moody shuffles about to fix his normal, beady eye on you.

   "Seeing as neither of you are aurors, and you ought not to be here in the first-"

   "I am Harry's godfather!"

   "Then make him your responsibility!" Moody snaps at Sirius. "You, Remus, and Y/N: find the students and get them out. Leave the Death Eaters to us."

   You give a sharp nod. Talbott shifts uncomfortably next to you.

   The lift finally settles. Your party is out and running before the doors click shut behind you. Moody leads the way through the Department of Mysteries labyrinth, a strange instrument in the hand not holding his wand apparently providing him directions.

   "This way!" he calls, leading the group through another door.

   Adrenaline courses through you as you run. It's a feeling as familiar as your old school robes. This is your element. For the first time in so long, you’re unburdened by confusion or indecision. When you burst through a door to find black-robed figures surrounding two students, you know exactly what to do.

   In front of you, the aurors advance on the Death Eaters. Their spells fill the room with light and sound. You wait until the Death Eaters have turned to face this new threat, then descend toward the dark-haired boys, yanking them into a crouch behind a stone step.

   "Where are the others?"

   You have to shout to be heard over the noise of the duelling around you. The boy with glasses - Harry Potter, you realise by the scar - rips his eyes away from the fight.  

   "Up there! They're still in that other room." He gestures at a different door than the one you entered through. "The girls are all unconscious, I think. And Ron - one of those brain things got him. You have to help them!"

   You twist around, searching for Sirius or Lupin. Sirius is a few rows down, a wide grin on his face as he duels. Lupin, you don't see at all. You cast about for threats, but the boys don't appear to be in immediate danger.

   "Stay here," you order them, feeling a bit of a hypocrite. "Wands out, heads down."

   Keeping your body low to minimise your target, you sprint up the stairs. None of the Death Eaters have a glance to spare for you, and you make it to the door unmolested. Before you push through it, you can't help but look back, scanning the fight for yellow-gold eyes.

   Talbott is dueling a Death Eater nearly twice his girth. You watch, transfixed. You've never seen Talbott move like this. He's usually twitchy, better in the air than on his feet. Now, as he duels, his movements are smooth and precise. He twists to avoid a purple spell, then spins back, sending a stunner of his own. It catches the Death Eater in the chest, and he drops instantly. In spite of everything, you grin.

   As if able to feel your gaze, Talbott's eyes find yours across the room. You nod your head at the door to indicate your direction. Then, with a last look at Talbott, you hurtle through.

-

   Desks and shelves and heavy tables indicate the room is some sort of office. Only every single piece of furniture is now overturned or collapsed. You step with caution, but still manage to slip. The floor is slick with liquid. You notice strange, jelly-like objects floating in the shallow pools - the brains Harry Potter had mentioned? You take care to avoid them as you search for signs of the students.

    "Hello?" you call softly. There's no answer.

   You reach the middle of the room and survey your surroundings. There's a door just ahead; another to the side. You're considering which is more likely when you hear shallow breathing nearby. You ready your wand, then hesitate. It could be one of the students, hiding from you. Ron or Ginny would know you right away, but not the others.

   "It's alright," you call again. "I'm here to get you out. I'm a friend. I'm with the Order."

   "Well, hello, Friend with the Order."

   You whirl around. A tall figure in a black hood emerges from behind a fallen cabinet. Without pause for thought you yell, "Stupefy!" but he easily sidesteps the spell. You cast a quick shield charm, blocking his return attack, then steady yourself for another. But the Death Eater hesitates. His hood flicks to a space over your left shoulder. On instinct, you dive to the side. Red sparks explode through the air where your body had been, thrown by a second Death Eater behind you. His spell hits the other masked figure in the arm and he howls in rage and pain.

   "Watch where you're aiming!" he snarls, clutching his injury.

    You use the second's distraction to throw yourself behind a desk. You lean back against it, breathing through your nose and thinking past your racing heartbeat. The wreckage of furniture forms an almost unbroken wall for several metres. If you can just make it around without them noticing...

   One of the Death Eaters shouts a curse. Red light slams your hiding spot into the wall with a crash. But you're already two desks away, flat against the floor and crawling carefully. Your dress snags as you press close to the wall of splintered wood.

   "Just kill her!"

   "Rosier said not to kill until we're sure Malfoy has the prophecy. You want to go back to the Dark Lord empty-handed?"

   "That's the students, not the Order members.'

   These words make your heart stutter horribly. Your hand slips on the wet floor.

   "Over there!"

   Heavy footfalls sound nearby. You straighten, but only make it to your knees before two hooded figures loom over the desk. There's time to aim a stunning spell at only one. The Death Eater you hit drops instantly, but your stomach still clenches in dread. The other's wand is pointed at your face and his spell is already half voiced.

   "Avada-"

   You throw yourself flat, your only hope that the spell might miss. You hold your breath, waiting for bright green light.

   But the rest of the curse never comes. There’s the thud of a body hitting the floor. Then rapid footsteps. You roll over quickly, wand at the ready.

   "Y/N?"

   Felix's black hood is thrown back. His rich brown eyes gaze down at you, swimming in fear and relief. You squeeze your own shut to stop yourself staring. It's been so long since you've seen that expression, you'd forgotten how much you missed it. Or maybe you've never been so glad to see it. You take in large gulps of air, trying to catch your breath.

   "Are you alright? What are you doing here?“

   Felix's panicked words remind your of your mission. You push yourself up with a groan, skin smarting where it's smacked the hard floor. Felix bends hastily, holding out a hand. You hesitate for only a second before letting him pull you to your feet.

   It's a moment before either of you can speak. Felix inspects you from head to toe, presumably searching for injuries. You straighten your dress, trying to hide your blush. You wish you were wearing something more substantial.

   "I...thank you...I guess," you say at last, to your shoes. You're not quite ready to look Felix in the face.

   Felix doesn't answer. You lift your gaze, head buzzing with nerves, and catch him staring at your hand.

   "You're...not wearing your ring," Felix says haltingly. An eager light flickers briefly in his eyes. "Are you and Talbott...not-"

   Your face contorts in annoyance. You cross your arms to hide your hand.

   "Is this really the time?"

   Shaking his head as if to clear it, Felix answers, "No. No it's not." Hints of concern reform on his features. "Y/N, you have to go. Now."

   "I'm not going anywhere,” you insist hotly. “Not until I find the other students."

   "They're safe. Relatively. As safe as I could manage. If the aurors hurry, they can get them out in time.”

   "What do you mean, as safe as you can manage?"

   "We have them rounded up in another room," Felix explains rapidly, eyes darting nervously to the doors. "I convinced the others we could use them as leverage, so they're not about to be killed. I'll make sure the aurors finds them, I promise. Just trust me."

   At the word We, you can't suppress a shiver. It isn't the pleasant sort of shiver Felix usually inspires.

   "Trust you?" you repeat, adjusting your grip on your wand. "You're a Death Eater, Felix."

   Felix makes a noise of exasperation. He shuffles in place, as if desperate to be gone.

   "That doesn't mean I want students to be killed. I'm not a murderer."

   "How could I know? You've already proven you're more than willing to lie to me when it suits you."

   "That was to keep you safe! " Felix almost shouts in frustration. "Exactly what I'm trying to do now!"

   He makes a sudden movement as if to grab your shoulders. You jump back, wand lifting on instinct. Felix freezes. He eyes your wand, and perhaps you're only imagining hurt in the lines of his face. When he speaks again, his words are fast and strained.

   "Y/N, I made a mistake. An awful mistake, and I'm paying for it every day I'm not with you. Every day I wake up and realise I have - have nothing." Felix's voice cracks briefly. "I know I deserve that. I deserve for you not to trust me. But you have to believe that all I want in the world is get you out of here alive."

    You wish you didn't believe him. It would make everything so much easier. But in spite of his crimes, your instinct about Felix hasn't changed. You can't imagine him ever doing anything to hurt you. On purpose, anyway.

   "If that's true," you say softly, "Then help me get the students out. Because I'm not going anywhere until I do."

   It's clear from Felix's grimace how much he dislikes this plan. He runs desperate fingers through his hair, searching for cracks in your resolute expression. But your face remains firm. Felix is finally forced to sigh.

   "Alright. Follow me."

-

   Felix leads you through the twisting labyrinth of rooms and corridors, most showing evidence of a fight. Doors are splintered or hang off hinges, and you have to watch your feet to avoid scattered piles of broken glass. You're just beginning to be concerned about how far in you are when Felix stops outside a heavy, un-battered door. A low mutter of voices carries from inside.

   "Stay here," Felix whispers. Catching sight of your raised eyebrows, he adds, "Please. There are guards. I'll need to get rid of them."

   "I can help," you whisper back, but Felix shakes his head. Only your desire to find the students quickly keeps you from further protests. Reluctantly, you lean against the wall out of sight of the door. Felix readjusts his black hood before sweeping into the room.

   As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, you press your ear to the jam. You can hear Felix's footsteps walking away, his voice mingling with the others. You lean in closer, trying to make out the words, until a deafening bang from inside makes you flinch. You hear footsteps again, this time coming closer, running fast across hard floor. You grip the doorknob but hesitate, unsure whether to intervene. 

   Someone shouts an incantation. There's a heavy thud, and a voice cries out in pain. Felix's voice. Without thinking, you grab the handle and fling the door wide.

   It takes you only a second to locate Felix, hood askew and blood dripping from his face, on the floor in the middle of the dimly lit room. Another hooded figure looms over him, wand out and aimed.

   "Stupefy!"

   Your jet of light hits the Death Eater square in the chest. Without waiting to watch him fall, you swing your wand from side to side, searching for enemies. But the only other robed figure you see lies prone beside a door set into the opposite wall.

   Felix groans. You step forward quickly, holding out your hand and helping him struggle to his feet. There's a long, clean gash down the side of his face. You're surprised at how sick the sight of the wound makes you.

   "Are you alright?"

   "I - yes, of course. That was..." Felix rubs the back of his neck, not quite able to meet your eye. "Thank you."

    You're saved from thinking up a reply by a muffled cry from behind. Three girls and a boy, all dressed in Hogwarts robes, are huddled against the wall as if thrown there, each trussed up in snaking, black cords. Only one is awake and struggling.

   "Ginny!"

   You skirt the fallen Death Eater and drop to the ground, using your wand to sever Ginny's bonds. As soon as you tug the cord out of her mouth, Ginny croaks, "Y/N, he's one of them! He's a Death Eater, too!"

   You follow her frantic gaze to Felix, standing awkwardly in the background.

   "It's alright, Ginny. He's a friend."

   Felix blinks, and for a moment his face is filled with the soft joy you love so much to see. Then a door slams.

   Felix whirls around, wand raised, and you're on your feet only a second later. But no attack comes; no spells fly. You glance between the doors on either end of the room, but no new hooded figures appear. Instinct suddenly chills your blood and you scan the floor instead.

   "Where's...the other one?" you ask haltingly.

   Felix's eyes widen as he understands. He shoots a panicked look at the place where the Death Eater had fallen, but his body is nowhere to be seen. Felix sprints to the far door, pressing his ear against it.

   "He...must have gone to get the others."

   Felix runs his wand across the door frame, sealing it with a squelch. You turn back to Ginny, struggling to stand on what looks like a broken ankle. You mutter, "Episkey" and watch the swelling in the ankle subside, then inspect the other three students. It isn't immediately clear what's wrong with them, but none react when you attempt to use magic to wake them.

   "We'll have to carry them," you tell Felix, at your side once more. "You take Ron and I'll get the taller girl. Ginny, do you think you could carry the blonde one? She looks the lightest."

   "This isn't going to work." Something in Felix's voice makes your skin crawl.

   "Why not?”

   "It’s too late. The rest of the Death Eaters will be here in minutes. Even if we use magic to carry them, we'll never make it to the lifts in time."

    A leaden weight sinks in your stomach. There's too much truth in Felix's words for you to deny. You cast about for counterpoints, solutions, some sort of foolproof plan, but your brain comes up short.

   "Well," you say, forcing yourself to breathe through your panic, "We'll just have to try. Maybe there's somewhere we can hide, or-"

   A second slam in as many minutes almost shatters your brittle nerves. You fumble with your wand, aiming it at the door nearest you this time, and almost drop it when you recognise the intruders.

   "Talbott," you breathe in relief. "Tonks, Lupin, thank Merlin! The students are here and we've got to get them out. Now. Death Eaters are on the way..."

   But Talbott's face steals the words from your lips. He's staring at Felix with eyes so molten they might be made of fire. When he speaks, his voice thrums with suppressed hatred.

   "Drop it." Talbott gives a curt nod at Felix's half-raised wand.

   Felix's gaze flicks warily from Talbott to Tonks, her wand also lifted, to Lupin, ignoring the stand-off and kneeling to inspect the unconscious students. You notice all three are pale and grim-faced, and you wonder what else has happened. But there isn't time for questions now.

   "I said, drop it!"

   "Talbott, wait!" You step quickly in between the two men. "Felix led me here. He was keeping the students safe."

   Talbott doesn't even blink. If it weren't for his reply, you'd wonder if he heard you at all.

   "One half-decent act doesn't make him any less of a Death Eater."

   "But he isn't helping the Death Eaters, he's helping us! Helping me. He saved my life from a Death Eater that-"

   "This isn't about you!" Flame flickers in Talbott's eyes. "This isn't about us. This is my job. We're rounding up all the Death Eaters. You'll have to plead his case to Mad-Eye, if that's what you want."

   The thought of trying to convince Mad-Eye Moody to give Felix a second chance makes you blanch. You open your mouth to argue, but this time it's Felix who cuts you off.

   "You won't have to worry about in any of that in a minute. A dozen powerful wizards are on their way through that door." Felix jerks his head toward the other end of the room. "I highly doubt you'll be able to round them all up just the three of you."

   Talbott spares a wary glance at the far door.

   "He's right," Tonks chimes in, her voice uncharacteristically serious. "Let's get the students out first, then come back with Mad-Eye and the others."

   Tonks lowers her wand, and moves to help Lupin with the unconscious teenagers. Lupin has already lifted the taller, bushy-haired girl over his shoulder, and uses his wand to levitate the unconscious Ron. Tonks mirrors his spell on the small, blonde girl. She wraps her free arm around Ginny to help keep weight of her still-tender ankle.

   "We'll never make it at that pace," Felix says darkly, eyeing the careful way Lupin manoeuvres Ron toward the door. "They'll catch us up before we're halfway to the lifts."

   "You're not going anywhere until you drop your wand!" Talbott tries to point his wand around you at Felix, but you move with him, blocking his view. Behind you, Felix snorts.

   "And leave myself unarmed when they all surge in at any second? I've betrayed them! They'll spare me about as much mercy as they will you."

   A soft sound from the far end of the room suddenly stops your heart. All three of you fall silent as you watch the doorknob turn slowly. It rotates each way once, then stills. You hold your breath, braced for another loud slam, but the door remains closed.

   "Tonks," you say into the trembling silence, "You and Lupin, take the students and go."

   Lupin is two steps ahead of you. He has Ron through the door already, and waits impatiently for Tonks. But Tonks looks from you to Talbott uncertainly.

   "I think...we ought to stick together."

   "We'll be right behind you," you say. "We'll give you time to get to the lifts." You try to smile reassuringly, but your mouth doesn't remember how. You can only hope you sound more confident than you look.

   Tonks continues to hesitate, until a hard thud on the opposite door makes her and Ginny both jump.

   "Come on!" Lupin calls from the other room. Tonks shoots a final, unsure look at Talbott before forcing the eerily floating blonde student ahead of her through the door.

   Another thud, then the sound of voices echoes from the other side of the room. The doorknob rattles again, violently this time. The noise seems to shake Talbott from his unswervable anger. His wand wavers before finally abandoning Felix for the far door, his eyes reflecting frantic thought.

    "What spell did you use on the door?" you ask Felix, your voice betraying your nerves. Felix's answer is equally unsteady.

   "It's a variation on an imperturbable charm. But it's not impenetrable. With enough of them, they can break the spell." Felix's head snaps toward you, mouth set in a thin, grim line. "Y/N, you need to leave. Now. Go with the others."

    "That's ridiculous, we stand a better chance with three of us.“

   "He's right." Both you and Felix look at Talbott in shock. For the first time since entering the room, Talbott meets your gaze. "You need to go."

   "I'm not leaving you," you argue, holding Talbott's eyes. You're close enough that you can watch the fire in them melt into liquid, like a churning yellow-gold ocean.

   "Please, Y/N, go." And there's a pain in Talbott's voice like you've never heard. "I can't lose you. Not again."

   Your heart breaks gently at Talbott's confession. Exactly as it had when he first managed to pen those words. You wish you could promise him something, anything to assuage his fear. But the far door is shaking now. You've run out of time. You take a breath, steeling yourself for a last stand, the way you have so many times before. Facing death is nothing new for you, but you don't want anything to be left unsaid if it comes.

   "Talbott." You close the distance between you in short, measured steps, as though worried he might fly away. "I did get lost...but I found my way back. You led me back. And I'm not going anywhere. Not ever again. I - I promise." Your fingers brush Talbott's softly, asking permission. "Whatever happens, happens to both of us."

  Talbott's fingers close around yours on instinct. He grips your hand tightly, all his attention on you as if there were nothing else in the room.

   "Do you mean that?"

   You can only nod, your words exhausted. But he sees the answer in the spark of your eye.

   "Y/N." Talbott releases your hand to reach for your face. He strokes your cheek in careful wonder like he's forgotten how. You close your eyes, reveling in his touch.

   "Go."

   The word startles both of you. Talbott let his hand fall abruptly. You turn to face Felix, unable to hide a slight blush. Talbott's mere touch has made you so dizzy you can't comprehend Felix's meaning right away.

   "What?"

   "Go. Both of you, go." Something has changed in Felix’s voice. It's no longer nervous. It's no longer anything. It's empty and lifeless, like the voice of a corpse. "I'll distract them. Tell them some story. Buy you enough time to get to the lifts."

   You shake your head slowly. "No...Felix, that's...there must be some other-"

   Felix takes your chin delicately in his hand, and your voice trails away. You feel Talbott shift beside you, but Felix moves no closer. His empty eyes merely wander your face, as if trying to memorise each part of it.

   "Y/N. Let me do this. For you. I-" His voice cracks like dead leaves. "I never meant to hurt you."

   The pounding on the far door intensifies. The heavy wood splinters, and light pokes through from the other side. If anything else can be seen, your vision is too blurry to catch it. You close your hand around Felix's, trying to blink back the tears. There's so much you want to say to him. To this man who handles you so delicately, looks at you like treasure, loves you like you're the only thing in the world that matters. But you aren't sure there are words to explain how you feel. You can only nod, and say inadequately, "I know."

   Felix releases your face, then locks eyes with Talbott.

   "Keep her safe."

    Talbott's jaw tenses once before he manages a short nod. He grasps your hand again and tugs you gently toward the door.

   You take a last look at Felix Rosier, watching you walk away from him.

    "Go," he says once more. 

    Felix turns to face the oncoming noise. And you turn and run the other way, Talbott at your side.

   You don't stop running until you reach the lifts. Talbott guides you back through the labyrinth of rooms, never loosing his grip on your fingers. There's no sign of Tonks, Lupin, and the students, and you can only hope distantly that they've made it out alright. Once inside the lift, you throw yourself against the wall. Your breathing comes in short, painful gasps and hot tears still threaten the corners of your eyes.

   "Are you alright?" Talbott's voice is so quiet you almost miss it under the sound of blood pounding in yours ears.

   You glance up at Talbott, blinking through your tears. He stands stock still, eyes alert and tense. You choke back a mad laugh. It reminds you forcibly of teenaged Talbott: the awkward, anxious boy you fell in love with almost instantly, whose stillness hid such depths and inspired the best in you.

   "Yes," you answer honestly, wiping your eyes. "I'm - I'm alright." You take a shuddering breath, trying to settle your swirling thoughts. "Talbott... I-"

   There's no time to worry about finding the right words. Talbott takes your face in his hands and stops you with a kiss like wildfire. He clutches you to him, dragging his hands across you artlessly, trying to pull you into him until you occupy the same space. It's a closeness you've craved for so long, and your hands are no less wild. You can never have enough of this. Enough of him.

   You tear your lips away, gasping for breath, but Talbott won’t release you. You're forced to speak against his neck as he clings to you for life.

   "Talbott, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." You repeat the words over and over. You can't think of anything else to say. Talbott's head shakes where its pressed against yours.

   "I'm sorry," he whispers.

   "What?"

   You struggle to ease Talbott’s hold on you just enough so you can meet his molten eyes.

   "You've always come after me. All the time I've known you, our whole lives - I run and you come find me. And the one time you needed me to come find you, I didn't. I was...too afraid." Talbott tangles his fingers in your hair, closing the fraction of space between you again, until his forehead rests against yours. "But this time, I promise...I won't let you go. Not ever again."

   For once, it's you that can’t give your thoughts voice. When the lift doors open, you and Talbott are still clasped together, speaking softly in a language that communicates feeling better than words ever could. 

-

    Epilogue

   "Good morning," you whisper huskily in your husband's ear.

   He groans without opening his eyes. You giggle softly, trailing breathy, teasing kisses up his neck, under his chin. His lips part, inviting yours into a lazy, lingering kiss. When you pull away, his eyes remain firmly shut.

   "You're sleepy this morning," you murmur.

   Talbott cracks an eye. "You know, some people sleep in on their honeymoon."

   "Really?"

   "Mmhmm. Some people even enjoy it."

   You trace his collarbone with a finger. You can hear Talbott's breath catch.

   "Strange. I enjoy my waking life a lot more than dreams."

   Talbott stirs, at your touch or your words. He rolls you over in his arms until you're pinned beneath him. You revel in the sensation of being very slightly crushed by the body you adore.

   "What's so great about it, then?" Talbott asks in dry amusement. "The smell of the sea, or the sound of the waves, or the room service that means we never actually have to get out of bed?"

   You grin, and shake your head against the pillow. "None of the above."

   "Really?"

   "Really." You trail your fingernails lightly up and down Talbott's back, savouring the feel of his warm skin. Talbott shudders under your hands. He locks eyes with you, his molten, yellow-gold stare saying everything you love to hear. He leans down to murmur against your lips:

   "What then?"

   You smile. Your mouth meets Talbott's and you say in between tantalising kisses:

   "I'm Mrs Talbott Winger. I'm your wife. I'm on my honeymoon - in the middle of a war, where we're being constantly hunted - but...I'm with you. So I'm better than safe."

   Talbott's only response is another kiss, but you know exactly what he means.

#felix rosier #talbott winger #felix rosier x mc #felix rosier reader insert #Talbott winger reader insert #Talbott winger x mc #felix rosier fanfiction #talbott winger fanfiction #hphm fanfiction #hphm #hogwarts mystery #hogwarts mystery fanfic #juniper windsong #reader insert #love triangle #dark!

[saiilorstars]

Fairy Tale Memoirs

Author’s Note: This is part of a one-shot/AU companion story to Stars Dance & Falling in Temptation that features Avalon Reynolds and the Doctor (from 9th-13th Doctor) along with other companions + Lena Reynolds.

// Current Masterlist //

taglist: @ocfairygodmother @anotherunreadblog @maaaaarveeeeel​

Ch. 4: The Builders

Summary: While her mother is asleep, Aurora gets to have some bonding time with her father. The Doctor is amazed to see his daughter's work.

Aurora’s face claim is Kennedy McMann!

Things were mostly quiet in the TARDIS. The Doctor expected it to be that way even though he had finally taken Avalon and Aurora away in the TARDIS. His girls were actually going to live with him from now on. He had so many plans for them and he couldn't wait to get started...but first they needed to rest. Avalon needed to sleep. Though she didn't sleep as much as an average human would, she still needed sleep at times. So, as much as it pained him to keep waiting, the Doctor let her rest. Aurora disappeared in her new room too...

Or so he thought.

He'd heard a spark from the console and since he wasn't around to cause it, he practically dashed into the room. "Where's the fire, dear!? Where's the fire!?" Instead of getting a usual hum from the TARDIS, Aurora popped up from the other side of the console. Her green eyes were wide as could be - she was a deer caught in headlights. Nothing like her mother in that aspect. Avalon never cared if she got caught, the Doctor always had too much fun to get caught up in 'getting caught' but Aurora...she was quite different in that aspect.

"Hi Dad..." she greeted all too innocently. "I wasn't messing with the console. I definitely wasn't trying to see what the knobs did..."

"Aurora! What are—" he sputtered, "Didn't you—weren't you supposed to be asleep!?"

Aurora scratched behind her ear. "Not really."

"What!?"

"I just...I knew if I didn't say I was sleepy then Mum wouldn't have gone to sleep either."

"So you just lied!?"

"No, I just...agreed with her," Aurora smirked. That was all Avalon.

It actually scared the Doctor how similar the smirks were but at the same time it warmed his hearts to see a little copy of his Ava. He couldn't wait to see more moments like these.

"Oh don't be mad with me, Dad," Aurora sighed and started coming around the console. "And don't tell Mum either. I don't really sleep that much. I actually sleep less than Mum."

"Makes sense since you are my daughter," the Doctor came up the steps to join her. "Avalon relatively sleeps about 3 or 4 days a week."

"I don't need it," Aurora shrugged. "I've gone on two days sometimes. But Mum doesn't really know about that — I think it'd make her feel bad that I'm up in the nights while she physically can't be."

"That would sound like her," the Doctor agreed with a nod of his head. "So...what do you do during those nights?"

Aurora hummed. "Lots of things! I go sneaking out to meet boys, of course!"

"What!?" The Doctor's hand came flinging to his chest. He actually felt like a heart attack was coming. A true, proper one. Aurora burst into laughter. "You're not dating anyone until you're 5000 years old!"

"You're not even 5000 years old!"

"Well, then that means there's still a long time to wait!"

Aurora rolled her eyes, attempting to look as irritated as she sounded, but the truth is she was ecstatic to have a conversation like this. She was finally with her father and even when he pulled stuff like this, she would never be bothered.

"You can't go pushing buttons like that, dear," the Doctor said and it earned himself a deep scoff. Aurora shot him a look for him to re-evualute his words. Eventually, the Doctor smirked. "Yeah, alright."

Aurora giggled. "When I was a kid, like 3 years old, I was staying with grandma Amy and grandpa Rory. I found the button for the disposal in the sink." The look on her face promised the Doctor there was a good ending to come. "I took it as a 'How much is too much?' and my answer was 3 apples, 2 hair scrunchies and one dishrag."

"You did not..." the Doctor struggled incredibly hard to keep his laughter at bay. He could already imagine the Ponds' reactions finding the littlest Pond experimenting with their kitchen sink.

Aurora smirked. "I did. I realized that human sink disposals are far too weak. I had to upgrade it...but Mum said I wasn't allowed to. Something about being 3 years old..." The Doctor looked at her for the longest time. Aurora would've taken it had it not been for the story she had just told. "Are you mad too?"

"No..." He admitted. "But don't tell your mother."

Aurora laughed and sprinted up to him for a hug. The Doctor welcomed it with tight arms. They both suspected that it would be like this for a long time. Centuries of missing out on each other's lives did that.

"I'm really glad that you're here now," Aurora murmured. "There's so many things I've always wanted to do with you."

"Well...we're together now, and your mother is going to be sleeping for a few more hours..." the Doctor untangled his arms from his daughter to look at her, "What's first on that list?"

Aurora beamed at the prospect. "Can we finish my sonic screwdriver? Mum doesn't know about it and I get the feeling she'd be the same type of mad whether it was finish or not. I'd rather be in trouble with a finished sonic than an unfinished one."

The Doctor chuckled. "Your thought logic is...interesting."

Aurora grinned. "So is that a yes?"

"For my daughter? How could I say 'no'?"

Aurora cheered and threw her arms around her father. "You're the best!"

How easily those words came out of her mouth when she barely knew him. It warmed the Doctor's hearts to know that even when he was gone, Avalon never spoke ill of him to their daughter.

~0~

Aurora had of course brought along her unfinished screwdriver, cleverly hidden amongst her boxes so Avalon wouldn't find it. The Doctor wouldn't say it out loud but he was impressed with how cleverly it was done. He was never able to hide anything from Avalon for long.

The Doctor had brought them to his old workshop where they would have everything to work with. Aurora had already, just like her mother had the first time she walked in, remarked about the messy state of the room.

"Critics, the both of you," the Doctor had responded with, making her laugh.

"This is what I have so far," Aurora timidly placed her work on the table. She stepped back so that the Doctor could examine what she'd built so far.

"It's amazing how similar the mechanics are to my previous sonics," he remarked.

"I-I may have asked your friend, Sarah Jane, to see hers for a bit. She didn't really know what I was doing."

"You did this from the memory of a quick inspection of another sonic?" The Doctor turned around.

Aurora nodded her head slowly. She was practically holding her breath waiting to hear what he would say. Would he be disappointed? Had she missed something? She'd tried her best to remember but it really had been a long time since she saw Sarah Jane.

"Well done, princess!" the Doctor exclaimed.

Aurora's face lit up. "Really? You like it?"

"Of course! This is great work and you did this without the usual tools you need. You're naturally intelligent."

Aurora's face might as well be a Christmas tree. "You really mean that?"

The Doctor nodded. "Of course! We just need to add a couple things to it."

"Yeah! What kind of things!?" Aurora scurried beside him, eager to learn what ideas he had in mind.

"You said like building things, right?"

"Mhm, I have so many unfinished projects in my boxes...if you want to take a look at them later on...?" Aurora nervously smiled at him.

The Doctor softly smiled down at her. "I would love to." He put an arm around her shoulders and gestured to the sonic on the table. "Since you like building things, we could make that a primary function for your sonic. Maybe we can even make it functional for wood."

Aurora giggled. "Mum says it's stupid that your high-tech sonic doesn't do wood."

"Yeah, and I told her not to diss it," the Doctor grumbled.

"Can we really make it work for wood?"

"Of course we can. We're the best team! Let's get to work!"

The Doctor started gathering some of the usual tools and, regretfully, had to tear into what Aurora already had done. "It's just to connect a few wires," he told Aurora when she started pouting. He didn't want her to think her work wasn't good enough because it was. He was amazed with her work and the fact she had done it all on her own was even more impressive. It reminded him of his young days locked in a workshop with endless plans.

Aurora was up and ready to bring along whatever her father needed. She was ecstatic to be working with him. It wasn't like anything she could've imagined. He was a rambler and sometimes he mind of lost her. She tried to follow along as much as she could but now she could really understand her mother when she said the Doctor talked nonsense. It was funny nonsense but nonsense nonetheless.

"Dad, what are you talking about?" she decided to interject once the rambling had gone somewhere banana-related. "I don't want bananas in my sonic!"

The Doctor laughed. "I didn't mean it like that. These wires are getting crossed and I'm going bananas!"

"Oh," Aurora scratched the side of her head. "Can I try?"

"Of course," the Doctor pulled off his goggles, the same ones that Aurora had made fun of as soon as she found them "But you have to put these on."

Aurora grumbled. "This is payback, isn't it?"

"No..." the Doctor promptly put them on her and barely held his laughter in when he got a good look at her. "What do you know? They do make you look like a bug."

"Dad!" she cried.

"Alright, alright, have at it," he stepped aside so she could see the wires. "We need to carefully twist the wires so they'll connect at the end right..." he tried pointing to the itty-bitty hole at the end of the sonic, "...there."

"Easy peasy," Aurora declared. She grabbed clippers and lowered them to the wires.

"Take it slowly," her father warned. "Can't tell you how many times I burned my fingers."

"You don't have to tell me, I can see it."

The Doctor huffed. "Oh, you're a funny one!"

Aurora bared a cheeky smile. "I am, aren't I?"

"Do the wires!"

Aurora giggled but started to focus on the task. The last thing she wanted to do was to ruin her own sonic. "I have to twist..."

"Slowly," the Doctor warned again.

"Mhm," Aurora's tongue stuck out between her teeth the more focused she got. She carefully twisted the wires as her father instructed. She could see the tiny hole and she was proud to say the wires might just fit in.

"You have to hear the click of the wires before you let go," the Doctor said once the wires were close to the hole.

"Got it," Aurora promised. She neared the wires and paid absolute attention. Being so silent had never been her thing. She didn't even know she was capable of it.

And then she heard the click.

"Click?" Aurora's eyes widened, though they were covered by the big goggles over her face. "Click! I did it! Dad, I did it!"

The Doctor couldn't be more proud of his daughter. "You did!"

Aurora dropped the tool with the biggest grin on her face. "I did it!" She pulled off her goggles and chucked them to the table then hugged her father.

"I'm so proud of you, Aurora!" the Doctor hugged her tightly and kissed the top of her head. "My girl's a genius!"

Aurora laughed. "Dad, I just plugged in wires. Not exactly a genius moment."

"Nonsense!" The Doctor set her down and gestured to the nearly finished sonic. "This takes genius to build and you had a lot built before I got to it."

Suddenly, they heard the open. Avalon, a very sleepy version of her, walked into the room. "What the hell is going on with this all noise?"

Aurora's face went into full panic when her mother spotted the almost finished sonic between her and her father. "M-morning Mum..."

"My sweet Ava—" the Doctor started but Avalon zipped him with a wave of her hand.

"Don't even try it, Fairy Tale Man," she took in a deep breath before adding, "You know, one good thing about having you around now is I no longer have to pretend that I don't know my daughter is building things behind my back." Aurora squeaked with the revelation. "Now I can sleep peacefully knowing she won't blow herself up..." Of course then a new thought popped into Avalon's head. "Or maybe I should be more concerned that you two might blow yourselves up..." She sighed heavily. "You're both going to kill me."

"Mum, I'm making a sonic screwdriver!" Aurora exclaimed.

Avalon's face fell flat as her eyes landed on the Doctor. He nervously smiled at her. "If she regenerates, I'm going to kill you." She reached for the door and closed it behind her when she left.

"That was her 'go for it!'," the Doctor clapped his hands together.

Aurora laughed at him. "Seriously?"

"Oh yeah, and she was even nice this time. I guess having you around is a safety measure for me," he smirked.

"Dad."

"Just saying. So, shall we finish this?" He turned to the table where the sonic awaited them.

Aurora nodded. "Oh yeah. Let's do this!"

Author's Note:

I thought there needed to be at least a moment between these two to really finish the series xD. And when I say "finish" i mean the term very loosely because I might add more parts who knows.

#ocappreciation #doctor who #11th doctor #dw #dw imagine #11th doctor imagine #11th doctor imagines #11th doctor fics #dw fics #doctor who fics #oc: Aurora Leigh Reynolds #oc: Avalon Reynolds

[batmanie]

Crimeless crime - riddlebat

"What time is it, when a bat flies through your window?"

The question is aimed at no one in particular, shot at the darkness of the spacious lobby of his modern penthouse – but then, the darkness shifts and answers with a brooding voice: "It's time to confess." It sounds like the night itself has taken a human-like form and came to haunt him.

Riddler smiles faintly, playing with the glass in his hand with a nonchalant motion. Ice-cubes make a little 'ting' as they collide with one another. "Confess? Too bad, I'm not a very religious man." He doesn’t look at his late-night 'guest', he doesn't have to – he has this one-of-a-kind image of the man dressed as a bat burned into his brain like a stigma. "The correct answer is..."

"I don't care about your riddles!" Batman growls at him and Edward puts up a little frown.

"Well, that's rude..." Spread over the massive, green couch – legs outstretched under a coffee table – Riddler is less offended than he probably should be. That might be thanks to the whiskey in his system, or thanks to the fact that Batman didn't punch him yet.

"Don't worry," the low, menacing voice is now much closer to the spot where Edward is relaxing, which is strange since there was no sound of footsteps to be heard. How does a 6ft tall, muscular man even manage to move so swiftly? "...you will have your chance to give me all the answers. And it is up to you, which way this conversation goes.”

It's a warning which Edward chooses to ignore.

He reaches to loosen his tie, just to find out that it isn't there. He must have removed it hours ago when he has opened the bottle. “By all means, ask away.” He takes a slow sip, enjoying the tingling sensation of the alcohol on his tongue.

Batman is staring him down, he can tell. The weight of his heavy, unforgiving glare falls onto Edward's shoulders, the pressure is almost tangible.

“How long have you been on parole, Nygma? Not even two months,” the cold, judgmental voice states. “And as a part of your resocialization program, you are working at the production line at Feelgood Inc., correct?”

“You are well informed, Detective,” Edward admits and tilts back his head to catch a glimpse of Batman's masked, unreadable face.

“With a $22 per hour, it is very unlikely you could afford a big, fancy apartment on the top floor of Diamond Tower. But here you are...”

“I had my savings,” he shrugs, brushing off the obvious accusation with no real effort. “Next question?”

“You have an O'Keeffe hanging in your bedroom. The original was mysteriously stolen from the Art Institute of Chicago."

This one made Riddler snort. "I don't remember inviting you into my bedroom. If you wanted to see it, you could have just asked..." Seeing that the comment has no effect on Batman's ever-stern expression, Edward rolls his eyes. "It's a reproduction. Happy?"

"Never." There is a heavy hand pressed right next to Riddler's head. "I know it was you, Nygma...”

A ticklish sensation on his upper back makes Riddler realize that he is all sweaty. It might be the whiskey or this hot, stormy weather – making the air too thick and humid to breathe freely. “That...is not a question.”

“We both know that Clayface is too reckless, too simpleminded to come with such plan on his own, and Two-Face? Financial crimes are not exactly his style.” Batman's tone is sharp, designed to intimidate but it doesn't work on Riddler as long as the actual violence is not there. “It's obvious they had some help. Same as Blackmask and Clock King. What are you playing at, Nygma?” The Bat almost growls. “A consulting criminal? You're selling yourself out like a common whore!”

It probably shouldn't, but somehow it stings – much like a splinter that gets under your nail. Edward bites his lips, feeling the sudden rush of blood and a wave of fury. “Is that how you see me?” His words are sipping slowly through his gritted teeth.

“It's how you make yourself look.”

Batman looms over him from behind and Edward yet again feels unfairly judged. He lowers his eyes and looks down into his glass, ice cubes have halfway melted at this point. A drop of water slides down the glass like a lonely teardrop.

He needs another sip. He doesn't get the chance.

It takes him by surprise when the Dark Knight leans down, with one arm still holding onto a couch and the other catching Riddler's own, preventing him from drinking. “I know you, Edward,” comes the hated voice, far too close to his left ear for Riddler's own sake. “I know you better than you know yourself. You think it is a perfect solution – a crime without a crime. But you and I know, it won't work for you. You can't simply let those morons use your brilliant ideas when it is you, only you, who deserve the appreciation for all the clever heists.”

Edward gulps, fighting back the sudden, embarrassing urge to admit to everything Batman wants him to. “I...” He shifts nervously, wriggling on a couch but there is nowhere to hide from these prying eyes. That damn, nosy detective is still holding his wrist, trapping his hand in an iron grip. “I think you should leave now... It is very late.”

“It is.” The Bat nods toward the small coffee table. “But you are clearly expecting someone.”

There is an empty glass placed on a tray, right next to the unfinished bottle of Scotch whiskey.

“It's almost 2 am and you're wearing a shirt – not a very casual outfit, if you ask me. The bottle is half-empty, and you are already tipsy. You were waiting for someone,” the man makes his assumption and Edward can only listen, his hand shaking slightly within Batman's grasp. “The main light is off, which means, you didn't want to be seen with that 'someone'. But they never showed up, did they?” There's a pause and Riddler waits for the blow to come. “Who was it, Nygma? One of your 'clients'?” The voice turns harsh and downright accusing. “Who were you waiting for? Penguin? Scarecrow? Tell me!”

What gives this man the right to treat Edward like that? To act like he was better than everyone else?

“It was you,” Edward hisses and yanks his arm out of Batman's grip, spilling the liquid all over his shirt in the process. He growls in frustration and springs up from the couch, standing face to face with the god-damn Bat-freak. “I was waiting for you, you idiot!”

“Why?” The bat narrows his eyes and it's a nasty kind of a look.

“Because I know you as much as you know me! You can't stand the thought of me, or any other rogue, being out of Arkham! Being free and happy!” He waves his hand with a furious gesture, the empty glass still in his hold. All the ice cubes fall out, rolling on the carpet. Batman is not even surprised, that cold-hearted bastard!

“You want me to be guilty,” Edward shouts at him. “...you need me to be because that would justify all the things you did to me in the past! Even now, I can see what you really want to do! You have enough of talking, you just want to punch me, throw me onto a table, grab me by the neck and squeeze it! You can't wait to hurt me because you think I deserve it.”

With one swift kick, Riddler flips a coffee table, sending a tray, a glass, and a whiskey bottle flying. “Go on! Do it! Hit me like you always do!” His voice it comically high-pitched and dramatic as he jabs Batman's wide, muscular chest with the empty glass. “You're just like my father! When you're done with your favorite violence, why don't you also screw me like a common whore you think I am!”

This time, a strong hand lands on his shoulder, making his whole body to instantly freeze.

“I'm sorry, Edward,” Batman's voice is strangely calm, it doesn't show any particular emotion. “I shouldn't have compared you to a whore. Prostitutes do what they do for money, but you, you do crimes because you have to – you can't help yourself.”

“I'm not crazy!”

“Of course, you're not,” the sarcasm is almost hurtful. “And your riddles are just for fun. Why aren't you on medication?”

“What makes you think I'm not?”

Batman's gaze wanders from the glass in his hand, to the mess on the floor. “You wouldn't be so stupid to mix your meds with whiskey.”

A pang of shame strikes him unexpectedly. “I suppose, I wouldn't... Not that you really care.”

There is no confirmation, no denial either. The hand on his shoulder squeezes a little harder but not strong enough to be painful.

“Just let me be, Batman,” Riddler goes a tone lower. “Unless you have some other interrogation methods you want to try with me, I advise you should be going.”

Strangely enough, the hand is still there – resting on his left shoulder. Edward perks his head up, shooting the tall man a daring glare. And for the first time tonight, he is scared – because the Bat locks their eyes together and leans down to him. Riddler freezes again, and for a terrifying moment, he is certain that Batman is going to kiss him. The worst thing about it, is that he knows, deep down in his guts he wants this to happen. But Batman only whispers into his ear: “I have my eye on you, Nygma.”

He is gone within less than a few seconds, leaving Edward alone with his boggling thoughts.

What gives this man the right to stand above the law when a true genius like himself is bound to play by the rules made by lesser minds?

Riddler stands in the darkness, motionless for a while. Then, he walks toward the bookshelf, finding a little device securely hidden between the books. A micro-camera is light like a feather in his hand as he switches it off. Unfortunately, no interesting footage got registered from the encounter with the Bat – no violence, no harassment – nothing really good to blackmail the so-called detective with. Can it be that the Dark Knight has predicted such a move?

Quite disappointed, Edward sighs and puts his empty glass on a shelf. At least, he managed not to give the Bat any clues – which is good, since the meddling rodent were surely recording their conversation as well. Passing by the mess left on the carpet, he's heading for the still open balcony door. He looks through the glass at the night sky of Gotham.

“What time is it, when a bat flies through your window?” The riddle is aimed at no one and he feels compelled to answer it himself. “It's time to start sleeping with your windows closed.”

If leaving no riddles is still not enough, next time, he will make sure no flying pest slips through the cracks of his brilliant plan.

Originally posted on AO3 here -

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20461700/chapters/61962691

#batman fanfiction #batman #riddler #riddlebat #edward nygma #bruce wayne #edward nigma #the riddler #my story #Bat-mania #temarcia #fanfiction

[thewritepages]

The Diary of the Older Collegiate (#TheFreshman Series) (2)

Synopsis : Annabelle Green is somewhat in a situation no thirty year woman would want to find herself in : (Un) Happily divorced, childless and with a job worth peanuts and migraine. The downward spiral of her life doesn't seem to end anytime soon until her sister reminds her of her most cherished dream.

College.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

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

MAY 10, 2019

3.30 A.M.

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

Maybe Kat was right- A few days away has done me good.

I've actually stopped bawling every ten minutes. I have even managed to sleep for five hours straight last night, which is a significant improvement.

My family members quickly realized that I had to no intention to talk about the disastrous interview or about my estranged husband. Instead, they've tried distracting me with all sorts of things-

Mum: "Anna, darling, come here and help us with the gardening."

Me: "Who's the other person in the 'we'?"

Kat: (appearing out of nowhere) "That would be me."

Me: "Okay, fine. Wait...Mum. Didn't you complain of knee pain? You may have arthritis! You need to stop exerting yourself."

Mum: "Oh, Anna, really, it isn't so bad-"

Me: "And you, Kat, what do you think you're doing here? Without GLOVES?? You may develop toxoplasmosis! Do you know how toxic-"

Kat: (rolling her eyes) "Oh, now enough already Miss Know-It-All. I was going to wear them! Would you please-"

Me: "On second thoughts, gloves won't suffice. According to Youronlinegynac.com, You have to make sure you wear long sleeve blouses, long trousers, rain boots and a mask, for good measure."

Mum: "Anna-"

Me: "Plus, you're carrying twins for heaven's sake. Don't you ever read pregnancy articles? You must give your back as much rest as possible-"

Kat: "I JUST GOT OUT OF BED-"

Me: "Back to you, Mum. The morning sun is not very good for your aging skin. I think-"

Kat: "You know what, Anna? Never mind about us. You should probably go back to sleep."

Jeez, so much for being considerate.

So, yeah. That's what I've been the entire week – Eat, Read and Watch Movies. Sometimes, Kat pops in to chat but storms away ten minutes later claiming that my "Ridiculous Internet Articles" exasperates her. I completely fail to understand why she gets so agitated about it. The other day when I told her all about Kim K's regime for fighting flabby abdomen and about her extremely shapely hips despite having four kids, all she did was glare at me for a full minute and then stomps away.

Must be the hormones.

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

MAY 11, 2019

3.30 A.M.

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

IT'S DEFINITELY THE HORMONES.

I MEAN, HOW COULD SHE - I WOULD NEVER – IT'S JUST IMPOSSIBLE –

Calm down, Anna. Deep breaths. In and out. In and out.

Okay... let's just rewind all that.

About two hours ago, I was just roaming around the house, munching on Pop Tarts, having nothing else to do with sleep permanently erased from my mind. Passing through the corridor, I suddenly spotted the narrow staircase leading up to the attic.

Deciding to go check out the old stuff stashed up there, I climbed up the rickety staircase, opening up the dusty wooden door. As I rifled through old furniture and documents, a familiar cardboard box caught my eye. It was labeled "ANNA'S STUFF. DO NOT TOUCH." In my old scrawly handwriting. As my gaze lingers on the label, memories seep into my mind. Why did I skip college? Why did I leave town? Why did I sacrifice everything...for him?

With shaky hands, I open the box.

The box was filled with dozens of college applications, unfinished application essays and my high school books. I touched the frayed sheets, decaying with years, wondering how life would have been, if I had just taken the chance.

"Anna! What happened? " Kat dropped down beside me, breathing heavily.

"Kat! Why did you come up here? The latest article in the Mom-to-be e-magazine says that –"

"Oh, will you just stop with your goddamn articles and tell me what the hell is wrong? Why are you crying?" Her gaze shifted to the box.

"What's in that?"

I quickly closed the lid. "Nothing, nothing. I'm just being my usual pathetic self, I guess." I wiped my cheeks hastily.

"Aw. C'mere, Annie." She opens her arms wide, offering comfort. I accepted it gratefully.

"Okay. Now tell me what's wrong."

Despite my state of weakness, I still found the strength to roll my eyes at her. "Really? You want me to tell you the messy details of my marriage, once again?"

"Oh lord, not that. I'm sick of hearing your big, sad story." I let out a sad chuckle. "The other reason for your misery. There's something else, I know it."

I sniffed. "How do you 'know'? "

"I just...know."

"Jeez, and I thought I was the weird one."

She broke away from the embrace and looked at me right in the eye.

"Now, will you stop deflecting the topic and tell me what the hell is wrong with you?"

I looked here and there for some distraction. A few moments later, I realized that I was trapped.

"It's nothing, really."

"I'll be the judge of that." She smiled kindly at me.

And that was it. I began to bawl like a two year old.

"I wish I never skipped college. I wish I never gave up on my dream. I wish I'd waited like you d-did. "I swallow the huge lump in my throat. "And you know what's the worst part? I gave up everything, for that...that bastard!" I threw my face in my lap, muffling my high decibel cry.

Kat, on the other hand, waits patiently. Ten minutes later, I sit up straight, staring at her with bloodshot eyes.

"So...no words of comfort or consolation?"

"Why is there a need for that when the solution is right in front of you?"

"What do you mean?"

Her face grows impatient. "You sound like you're eighty and lying on your deathbed or something. You have so much of life ahead of you, so many opportunities waiting for you."

I shake my head, still not getting the point.

All of the sudden, she grabs my face tightly and looks at me with happiness glimmering in her eyes.

"You wanted to attend college, right? Get a degree? Discover your talents? This is the moment, Anna! You can finally live your dream!"

I stare at her for a solid minute. And then I stare at her some more.

"Well?" she inquires.

"Me? Attend college? Now?"

She nods vigorously. "This is your chance, Anna. What's there to stop you?"

I blink. She blinks.

Suddenly, I explode into a full-fledged, insane laughter. I laugh and I laugh, till my cheeks hurt.

Kat waits again, calmly as ever. She appraises me grimly. "If you're done with the schizophrenic behavior, would you be kind enough to tell me what you found so funny about what I said?"

"What's funny about it? Seriously? I'll tell you what's funny." I stand in front of her. "Look at me. I'm a thirty year old divorced, childless woman with nothing to look forward to. I've spent my entire life listening to complaints, be it from my boss in office or from my husband back home. Now that my darling husband has got rid of me, I have to work extra shifts to pay the rent, the bills, everything."

"So what, Anna? This is what you've always wanted to do. You are an intelligent, young"- I snorted-"independent woman, as far as I've seen you. You deserve a fun college experience, even if you think you're twelve years late for it."

"Well, sorry to burst your bubble, Kat, but I really am twelve years too late to apply. And anyway, which college will be willing to take me in?"

"Any college would be lucky to have you, Annabelle Green. Just you wait and watch." She strides out of the attic, determined and excited.

Oh, well. Now that I think of it, all of this was probably a part of the mood swings she goes through. I bet she'll forget all of this by breakfast time.

Yeah, nothing to worry about.

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

A/N :

Hi there, thank you for taking the time to read my new diary styled new ChickLit series:

"The Diaries of an Older Collegiate"(#TheFreshman).

If this chapter ignited an interest for this series, please let me know by reblogging or sending me a message. It helps a lot and keeps me motivated. Till then stay healthy :)

Love and Kisses,

D <3

#chicklit #teenagers #young adult #writers on tumblr #womenwritingfiction #fiction #funnyshit #college life #university #holy heck #literature #romance #diariesoftheoldercollegiate

[nadiestar]

The Lie of Black and White: Part 2/?

The wedding changed things. The wedding led to Patton apologizing and Janus opening up. To Logan reminisce and Virgil to re-evaluate. And for the twins it - well for the twins it led to confrontation, hurt and facing the mistakes and lies they had made theselves and the others believe for far too long. (ca. 4900 words)

TW: Mention of suicidal thoughts and burnt skin! Please proceed with care.

Link on Ao3

@aprincehasgotoslay,

First Next

Remus was throwing some ugly vases against the wall in his room. Their shattering sound always managed to inspire him. And he was in need of some good ideas. Just something fun and juicy. Some light-hearted arson or poisoning.

Arson? That usually wasn’t his go to. Why had he been thinking of arson?

Only now Remus realized that he had stopped throwing vases and let the one in his hands fall down to the floor and stumbled backwards to his bed. Sloppily, he sat down and blinked several times. His vision was weird. The wall was blurry.

He blinked some more. He felt a water drop fall on his hand.

Was he crying?

Pain ripped over his right arm and he felt something like agonizing guilt in his guts. His breathing got quicker. His eyes flew all over his room, rested on the door in the corner of the room. He ran to it.

There was dust on the door knob. Of course. He hadn’t tried to open it since Roman had closed it all those years ago.

He tried to open it anyway.

It opened.

Remus wept. Everywhere. Lying unfinished pictures, poems, scripts. Scattered on the floor. Some edges were burnt. A clay statue was smashed. The air was thick and the big golden framed mirror was glowing on the wall.

Roman had left the portal into the imagination open.

Oh Roman, thank God you don’t have a moustache. Otherwise between you and Remus I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is. Oh Roman, thank God you don’t have a moustache. Otherwise between you and Remus I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is. Oh Roman, thank God you don’t have a moustache. Otherwise between you and Remus I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is. Oh Roman, thank God you don’t have a moustache. Otherwise between you and Remus I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is. Oh Roman, thank God you don’t have a moustache. Otherwise between you and Remus I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is. Oh Roman, thank God you don’t have a moustache. Otherwise between you and Remus I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is. Oh roman thank god you don’t have a moustache otherwise between you and remus i wouldn’t know who the evil twin is oh roman thank god you don’t have a moustache otherwise between you and remus i wouldn’t know who the evil twin is ohromanthankgodyoudon’thaveamoustacheotherwisebetweenyouandremusiwouldn’tknowwhotheeviltwinis

Remus ran outside. To the dining table in the living room.

The snake. Sitting on a chair, talking to nerdy wolverine. Stopping. Staring at him. A small movement from his lower eyelid.

Popsicle said something from the kitchen. Maybe even shouted. Remus didn’t hear it. He bolted towards Janus and grabbed him by the collar. Pulled him up from the chair, as if he didn’t weight as much as a feather.

Now popsicle screamed something and nerdy wolverine stood up. Remus didn’t care. His arm hurt more. He had finally recognized which kind of pain it was. He finally recognized the burning sensation of his brother’s flames.

“What have you done to Roman! What have you done!?!”

Remus didn’t sound mocking nor dramatic. He sounded desperate and enraged. Janus had never heard him like this. Had never seen him cry like this. Had never thought he would actually be able to fear him. And yet now he did.

And at once, Remus dropped him and stared angrily at Patton, who had stepped forth probably to try and stop Remus from doing anything harsh.

“Remus! Clam down”, Janus tried to get Remus’s attention back “I did nothing to Roman! I haven’t sseen him in days! I don’t-”

Before Janus could end, Remus turned around and rushed past him back to the hallway leading to their rooms. With no much thinking Janus went after him, so did Logan and Patton.

Just as Janus was able to see around the corner, he noticed Virgil rushing out of his room and blocking Remus’s way. Virgil had a scared look on his face, yet seemed determined to stop him and was about to shout, as Remus simply jumped against the wall, over Virgil’s head and sprinted further towards Roman’s room.

And at that point the other sides started sprinting. Somehow, Janus got in front of the group and was first to reach Roman’s door and first to see the mess that his room was. The first to see Remus crying, pacing in circles in front of the glowing mirror and muttering, whispering, spurting things. He stepped inside and Logan pressed forward, looking around in utter disbelieve.

Patton and Virgil were still behind them and Janus heard Patton utter a loud gasp. He could almost see how tears formed in his eyes.

“What the fuck!?!” Virgil half-screamed and the other sides flinched at the creepy echo that had come with Virgil’s words.

It made Remus turn towards the group. Suddenly he was still. He stared at Janus, then Patton. The tears were still running down his face.

“He’s burNING!” Remus squeaked pained and a paper behind him evaporated in flames.

“Remus come back to your senses!” Janus demanded and tried to step in front of Logan, who was still closest to Remus.

But as the word ‘senses’ had fallen, Remus’s eyes lit up and his whole focus shifted towards Logan and just like that Remus grabbed his arm and bolted towards the mirror. He was too strong for Logan to fight against and the whole move had been too unpredictable for him to anticipate. And so, Logan was dragged into the imagination and Janus, Patton and Virgil stood back in Roman’s room in quiet shock.

That was until Virgil rushed forth about to follow them blindly, before Janus and Patton held him back.

“What – We – We need to get to Logan! What do you think will the mad man do!?” Virgil hissed agitated towards Janus.

Latter only shook his head and quickly exchanged a look with Patton before he turned his attention back to Virgil. Remus and Virgil had always had a weird relationship even before Virgil had left him and Janus behind. At times it was as if they were partners in crime, at times it was as if they were cellmates. The more anxious Virgil grew the more bizarre and gruesome Remus’s illusions and acts got.

And right now, that Logan was in Remus’s hands Janus could not risk Remus getting any more gruesome. He couldn’t risk Virgil getting too close to him.

“I don’t know”, Janus admitted and took a step backwards towards the mirror, “but he will get more random the closer you are to him! And like that I won’t be able to do anything anymore! Especially not in the imagination. It is their territory, Virgil. It is their land and we certainly won’t stand a chance against Remus’s craziness in there, if you make him anymore mad.”

Then Janus turned his head towards Patton and held onto the side of the mirror.

“I’ll go in and get them back. Sstay here and take care of him. Will you?”

Patton was shaking, his eyes uncertain and his breath unsteady. But his words sounded true as he said: “I will. I trust you.”

And with that Janus jumped inside the mirror into the imagination. It felt like falling for an infinity but was over with the blink of an eye and Janus landed wobblily on his feet. And before he could even start to begin taking in what he could see, he was overwhelmed by the smell of thick and heavy smoke. Janus blinked and his eyes stung. Only after a few seconds of adjustment he managed to truly open his eyes and found himself standing in front of a wall of fire. Just fire.

He was frozen. Remus could not be right. He could not. Be. Right.

Janus shook himself out of his state and looked away from the wall and finally found Logan standing only a few feet away from him. He seemed to be uninjured, if a little unsettled, but Janus would take whatever he could get at this point. Quickly he walked over to him and soon saw Remus wandering along the fire wall, forth and back, both hands pressed against his skull.

Logan saw Janus approach out of the corner of his eye and turned slightly towards him.

“Are you unharmed?” was the first question out of Janus’s mouth and Logan just nodded.

“Well, at least one thing is all right then. Did he say anything concerning this…”

“Catastrophe? No, he did not. He has been mumbling incoherently since he has gotten here and as much as I want to say that such behaviour is quite usual for him, I know that this is cannot be usual for him”, Logan responded and pointed towards the still wandering Remus.

Janus just stared at Remus, then back to Logan, gulped and waved for him to get closer towards the Duke. Logan followed and they soon heard Remus mutter: “Fire. Burn. Blaze. Flame. Bruise. Blister. Blood. Red. Red. Orange. Orange. Sun. Campfire. Witch burning. Burnt flesh. Burn. Burn. Burn. Pain – Pain! Blister. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. O p p O s I t e!”

An association game?

“Water?” Logan blurted out and Remus immediately turned towards him with a big smile.

“Water! Rain! Rain clouds!” Remus screamed and immediately the sky went grey and clouds formed to pour down to the earth.

The flames didn’t go down but it stopped the fire from spreading and steam rose up into the sky. Within moments the sides were wet to the bone and Remus turned towards the two others. Meretriciously, he watched both for a moment before his focus went back to Logan and he made a step towards him.

Logan let him approach. He wanted to ask Remus, what was going on but was not sure how well Remus could even understand his questions at this point. He seemed to be absolutely delusional and his eyes were red from crying. This was an absolute mess.

“Can you hold my hand?”

Logan rose his eyebrows as high as it was possible for him and asked Remus simply: “Pardon me?”

“You make sense! I need to make sense to think and to find Roman. If you hold my hand, I will make sense. Please. We need to go. Now. He’s getting worse”, Remus pledged with the lowest voice he could muster to utter.

Logan didn’t understand what was happening. Not completely at least. He was aware that Remus’s state certainly was linked to what was going on with Roman and that Roman probably was the source of this ridiculous fire, since it was his half of the imagination which was burning. What he did not understand was the fact that of all sides Remus decided to trust him and ask for his help. He was so far out of his territory of expertise that it felt almost ridiculous to think he might be of any help in here.

But here Remus was the Duke. He knew how this world worked and quite honestly after looking at the fire wall again Logan decided he might as well just listen to him.

“Very well”, Logan said and held out his hand for Remus to take it.

Remus grabbed his hand and started walking, while Logan looked back over his shoulder to Janus who stared at him flabbergasted. Logan just shrugged and then focused on the path in front of them.

And so, they followed Remus through the pouring rain. Minutes passed and the two sides felt slowly how the imagination started pulling on their nerves. Things here didn’t follow the laws of nature or some sort of coherent concept. What was believed to be true, would be true. What was believed to be wrong would be wrong. There were no rules, no sense, no time and neither Logan nor Janus liked being part of such world. It just didn’t fit their mindsets.

And naturally, there was also the fact the humongous fire was burning next to them and it seemed not to stop. This fire which probably was Roman’s doing and made them question, how greatly they had underestimated Roman’s mental state. They both had assumed that it wasn’t too good; the Prince hadn’t come to their dinners, but ate alone in his room. He hadn’t come out to present his ideas, didn’t sing and didn’t smile anymore. But he had done his part for Thomas and it had been decided to let him have his privacy and not fester him too much. In hindsight, a decision they should have thought through more thoroughly.

Thunder. Logan flinched and quickly looked around to look where the sound had been coming from.

Thunder.

Go away.

Remus stopped. Logan looked around hysterically. Where was this voice coming from? It couldn’t just be projected through the sky- Unless it could since this was imagination and Roman had seen Lion King about a million times and loved Mufasa speaking in the clouds.

So, he looked up but found nothing. Instead, Logan suddenly felt how Remus let go of his hand and started running straight towards the fire. Janus next to him shouted for Remus to stop but at once shut up as they both realized that there was something standing out of the fire. A glass surface. Logan and Janus exchanged a look and followed Remus, who had already started to knock against the glass wall.

The heat was blazing and even though they both were able to just heal themselves, in case they were burnt, neither had the urge to get closer to the flames. They didn’t understand how Remus could be so close to it and not show any signs of pain or exhaustion at all.

And then they were close enough to see through the glass. It was a gigantic glass dome, within flames burning just like outside of it. Only that in the middle of the construct sat a white character. With a red sash.

“Rooman!”

Remus’s voice was shrill and dry.

Nobody understands. How much… it hurts.

“Stop being dramatic! Stop! Stop! Stop!”

I can’t do this any longer… I can’t…

“StoP! If I can, you-”

Remus stopped. He turned around. His eyes again on Logan. Filled with desperation. And –

Hope.

“I forgot”, Remus laughed and scratched his head maniacally, “I forgot, I don’t know why, but I forgot and – I need to remember! I need to show him, Logan! I need to remind him too, to make him stop! Will you help me? Please?”

Logan just gaped at him for a solid twenty seconds. He was unable to do anything. He had no power in here. How could he possibly help Remus resolve this situation?

But if he didn’t try, he would surely be of no use at all.

And so, Logan fought off his paralyzed state and got closer to Remus.

“What do you need me to do?”

Remus smiled desperately and waved him towards the glass dome. Janus just walked beside them, holding up his cape, which he had conjured to be longer and fireproof, to shield the two other sides.

“Just put your hands on my back. I need to project something onto the dome, so Ro sees it. I’ll need to focus pretty hard so please don’t go away. Stay.”

The monotone tone of Remus’s voice scared both Logan and Janus but there was no time left. Swiftly, Logan positioned himself behind Remus and laid his hands on his shoulder blades while Remus carefully held his hand onto the glass.

Nothing happened at first. Then there was a static through the crackling of fire. Then there appeared a light, a projection on the other side of the glass dome.

And a sob. The projection showed one of their rooms out of Thomas’s childhood. Judging the angle, it was the view from a child sitting on a floor. Their gaze fell down on the floor and another sob made the whole frame waver.

It was one of them. It was a memory.

More crying. Louder. Heavier. Pained. The view got black as the boy blinked and was fogged when he opened his eyes again.

Logan felt himself gulp. Janus felt a cold shiver running down his spine.

 The scene seemed to never end, seemed to get mushier, more desperate. The crying didn’t stop, the pain got deeper and more chaotic.

 Then white. The boy blinked. White and red. A red sash. Roman. Merely eleven it seemed.

 “Remus?”

 His voice was so high. So childish.

 “Ree?”

 Remus sobbed harder. The scene shook. There was a shoulder. The scene grew steadier. Roman had hugged Remus.

 “It’s them, isn’t it? They fight all day long, so they must be screaming at you at night, aren’t they?” Child Roman said so softly.

 A nod. A little wail.

 Remus answered: “D says I – I – I overdramatize what they say! Says that I shouldn’t do what I’m doing! But – but-”

 He cried more.

 “I know. This is what you do. This is what you are for. You give Thomas’s fears and doubts form”, Roman said for him.

 “Yes!”

 Remus’s view had cleared a bit. Roman kneeled in front of him and held his hands. His eyes were filled with so much adoration and sadness.

 “Does it hurt Thomas? Am I bad? Should I not be? Are they right? Should I just die?”

 Roman’s eyes were also filled with tears.

 But on his lips, there was a smile.

 “And take me with you? No, thanks I wanna live and we both know that Thomas wouldn’t stand a day without me.”

 “Yeah”, Remus sniffled and watched his brother put on this faulty self-confident smile.

 “And if he cannot stand a day without me, he couldn’t stand a day without you either, dummy. We need your shouting just like we need my singing and Logic’s curiosity.”

 “But- But why? How am I helping now?”

 Roman frowned in frustration. Irritated he put his hand on Remus’s shoulder.

 “Ree, you’re awful, right?”

 “Butthole!”

 Remus hit his brother in the chest and Roman yelped and then sighed impatiently.

 “Not like that! I mean you feel awful, right?”

 “Oh, yeah I feel like cow dung.”

 “Yeah, and that means Thomas is feeling awful too! And nobody of the others can see that as clear as you do! This is why you need to show them all the things you show them.”

 “Why can’t you just tell them that Thomas isn’t feeling happy? You’re not good either”, Remus replied.

 Roman’s smile faltered a little before he caught himself and shrugged.

 “No, I’m not but Morality and Logic won’t listen to me. I’m not there to warn them but to be brave and talk to people and give Thomas energy and motivation. And to dream. They think I’m just dramatic. So, I can’t make them listen to me. But you can be loud and bizarre and gross! You can make Morality snap and then Logic is going to realize how bad it really is and will finally accept that we need to talk with Mom and Dad!”

 “But…” Remus voice was weak as he spoke. “What if I unsettle Thomas so much that he can’t talk to them anymore?”

 “Then I will be brave! I will ask Logic to let me take the lead and he will let me because I’m brave enough to talk over stupid Fear!”

 There was Remus’s laugh. He pulled Roman in another hug. Roman laughed too. The moment held on for a long time.

 “But”, Roman carefully pulled back and sternly looked Remus in the eyes, “I can only do that with you. I need you. We all do. You are essential for Thomas.”

 For a second Remus said nothing. A last sniffle.

 “And you’re my and Thomas’s hero.”

“And you still are!”

Logan finally tumbled backwards, as the projection faded away and fell on his backside while pressing his hand against his mouth to silence his crying. Janus had dropped his cape and starred at Remus in utter horror. They had almost got him killed. They had almost killed Remus, without even realizing it. Without ever noticing how bad he was.

But Remus didn’t care. Not about the pain he had been through nor the many times he had been ignored. He only cared for the glass dome that finally evaporated and sloppily ran towards his twin in the middle of the flames.

Remus’s skin was burning. He smelled cooked flesh, ashes and smoke. Almost tasted the roasted air, as he fought through the flames on his way to Roman. Roman didn’t move, when Remus reached him. His clothes were burnt into rags, the visible skin was red and blistered. It didn’t look like Roman anymore.

Fiercely, Remus grabbed him under the armpits and dragged him backwards out of the heat. Roman didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t protest. When Remus dropped him outside of the fire, he just flopped on the ground. He would have hit his head had Remus dropped himself on his knees and caught him messily.

“Ro. RoRo! Come on! Look alive! Look alive dangnabbit!” Remus cursed weakly and cradled Roman closer to his chest.

And in that moment Remus felt how Roman’s clothes changed and a weak arm being thrown around his back. Remus laughed and pushed him into a more upright position, while Roman started to hold him more ferociously and press himself against Remus. Remus let out another chuckle and felt how Roman started to cry against his shoulder. He didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all.

Slowly Logan and Janus got closer. The rain was still pouring down and the flames finally started to falter and in the nearby forest, which had been spared from the fire, silhouettes moved in the shadows. Janus kept an eye on them while Logan quietly approached the brothers and waited for Remus to look up and notice him.

It took Roman a while to stop clinging to Remus. But no one dared to say anything about it and in all honesty Logan and Janus were just relieved to have a little time to calm down themselves. It had been so overwhelming to register what had just transpired and neither felt comfortable enough to console the Prince in this very moment.

As Remus eventually felt Roman slightly let go of him, he leaned back and tried to catch Roman’s look. His eyes were red from crying. His bottom lip still shivering. Remus cracked a smile, ignoring that he himself was still crying from the whole situation.

“Hey shit face”, Remus greeted Roman who promptly giggled, which led to him having a coughing fit.

Finally, Remus felt how the tears stopped running down and grinned towards Roman, while patting his back a little too hard.

“You asshole!” Roman blurted affectionately and scratched his nose. “But thanks for – yeah. Who from the others came with you? I can’t think right now.”

Roman still sat with his back turned towards Logan and Janus and Remus immediately realized that his brother might be not too happy with who had chosen to come with him. But they were there and he wasn’t going to tell Roman something else.

“Microsoft turd and J. I only brought the brain with me though”, Remus confessed and held Roman’s shoulders, which for everybody visibly stiffened by the mere mentioning from Janus name.

Logan and Janus heard Roman audibly gulp before he nodded and straightened his back.

“Makes sense. They couldn’t leave Virgil back on his own. That’s okay. It’s okay.”

Remus grinned. Roman shivered and so did Janus. The rain had made the air quite chilly and his fire-y brother as well as his coldblooded bastard friend didn’t like chilly that much. But with the fire still burning behind them he didn’t trust to stop the rain quite yet.

“Mind to put the fire out now?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course!” Roman said as if he had only now realized what was going on and tried too fast to get up, so that he almost fell down again had Remus not caught him in time.

“Sorry”, Roman mumbled and turned towards the fire. With a slight wave of his hand the flames went out and with an additional snap the rain stopped just a second later.

With a twist Roman turned towards Logan and just like that Logan’s clothes were dry as if it had never rained at all. It was the same for Remus and Janus, just that the latter didn’t get a look from Roman.

“Is it possible for us to get back to the mindscape, Roman? This environment is …” Logan inquired stiffly, while crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Roman gave him a weak nod, looked over to Remus only to then notice that there were silhouettes standing in the forest. Slightly panicked, Roman shook his head, guiltily shot a look over his shoulders to the ashes and then to Logan.

“We’ll – You – Give me a moment. I need to fix this mess”, Roman said and conjured a little camp side with a fire place and materials in order to rebuild a small town.

Then Roman took a deep breath and wandered wordlessly towards the forest, where now one of the silhouettes had stepped out. Remus recognized her. The stout, blond woman was the general Ren of Roman’s castle guard. She was an impressive nemesis to him and his people.

“Your Royal Highness!” Ren said and bowed for Roman, who held up his hand to stop her.

With a quick glance he found other citizen of the nearby villages and towns hiding in the shadows and then addressed his general: “General. Are our people safe? Did you manage to evacuate everybody?”

“We have a few people left missing and I haven’t heard from all my men yet, but as of now we know of no casualties yet, Your Highness!”

Roman suppressed a relieved sigh and told Ren calmly: “Perfect. Go and look for shelter over there. You should find enough resources for everybody for at least a week. Treat the hurt and let the tired rest. Also distribute the food I’ve provided. It should be enough for a while. As I am now, I can’t help you with the reconstruction quite yet. As soon as I can, I’ll be back though.”

“Thank you, Your Highness! Thank you so much! We will do our best with our work and will make you proud! You can count on us!” Ren exclaimed happily.

Roman smiled slightly, bowed his head and said before going back to the other sides: “I know. You have never let me down before.”

His face fell the moment he turned away from his subjects. His expression was pained and he motioned for the others to wait. Logan furrowed his eyebrows and Remus glanced over to the tree line. Janus just observed Roman, who still avoided eye contact.

As soon Roman was in reach, Remus put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and muttered: “I can’t teleport us right to the exit. But I can get us closer. That sounds like a plan?”

Roman only nodded and stared to the ground. Logan and Janus got closer to the twins and with a snap Remus teleported them back into the direction from where they had come before. Roman looked around. No subjects in sight. He let out a pained groan and Remus immediately went to support him. To Roman’s surprise Logan soon stood next to his side and as careful as he managed to helped him stand upright. Slightly confused he observed him, noticed his eyes being red and a certain unsteadiness in his look. He decided to let it go and just let the two help him out for the next few minutes.

They didn’t talk as they walked back to the portal into the Mindscape. They didn’t know how to start talking about what had happened or focus on what would happen next. And so, they reached the portal with no plan whatsoever on how to explain to Patton and Virgil what had just gone down.

“You go first”, Remus said to Logan and Janus.

Logan hesitated but let go of Roman and stepped in front of the waiting for Janus to join him.

Janus watched Remus for a moment. He stood there so straight and seemingly lucid. He had rarely seen him portray anything but silly grossness and tonight he had seen him being everything but gross and silly. He knew that Remus didn’t tend to lie. He knew that he was not a deceiver. But he wasn’t so sure if that was true at this very moment.

“If we go first the portal closes and you’re stuck in here.”

Janus clicked his tongue, nodded and reluctantly walked over to the portal. He exchanged a look with Logan and then both stepped through.

For a moment the imagination was silent. Remus just held on to Roman and the both simply stared at the glowing portal. If they wanted, they could just close it. Stay here and never face the others again. Roman knew that he was tempted to just do that. To just back down for eternity.

“Are you ready?”

Roman hated Remus’s voice, the tone he used, the way he put so much more emotion in every word than he ever could. He hated it that it made him want to try.

“No, but I’ll never will be and we might as well just get started”, Roman answered and pushed them both towards the portal.

Remus smirked and felt relief wash over him, as they stepped through the portal.

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #roman sanders #remus sanders #logan sanders #janus sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #my fic #angst #brotherly creativitwins #The Lie of Black and White #mim rambles #you can go and check it out on ao3 #there i have a better formatting #also it would be nice if you could reblog it if you enjoyed the story

[bemused-writer]

I miss Vnc so much that I re read previous chapter a lot because I miss ma boys noe and Roland 😭😭. I hope they resume soon.

Oh, I totally feel this pain. XD I miss them, too! And the suffering is real...

I’ve been thinking I might reread the whole series as well, partially because we’re in quarantine and I have time, but partially so I can make sure I’ve picked up on as many tiny details as possible. I still want to write my Roland comparison and I am still haunted by numerous unfinished fanfic, so... Rereading never hurt. 8D

But, uh, if anyone wants my personal suggestions for stuff they can check out while they wait for more VNC (Yes, I absolutely am trying to get more people invested in my personal obsessions) here are a few!

Manga

1. Witch Hat Atelier by Kamome Shirahama- If you like magic, witches, worldbuilding, and a plot that gets more complex over time, you will like this. A current obsession.

2. The Girl from the Other Side by Nagabe - Has a dreamy (or nightmarish?) quality. Uses simple language that ends up more powerful because of it. Haunting and elegant.

3. A Bride’s Story by Kaoru Mori- Incredibly detailed art and incredibly well researched, this one is awesome. It really speaks to the kid in me that loved the Little House books, but this is told in a more complex, adult manner and also takes place across the Silk Road.

4. The Poe Clan by Moto Hagio - It’s a classic for a reason! I just started reading this and I’m already hooked. If you need a vampire fix and a story that spans the years, this is a good one.

Graphic Novels

1. Loki: Agent of Asgard by Al Ewing and Jason Aaron - Actually deals with the idea of what a trickster god is, what stories are, and has a fantastic friendship.

2. Bird Boy by Anne Szabla - I believe you can also find this as an online Web comic. Beautiful art and vibes similar to ATLA.

3. Cucumber Quest by Gigi D.G. - This one is just a lot of fun. Lots of great humor and tropes turned on their head.

4. The Electric State by Simon Stålenhag- Kind of a cross between a graphic novel and a book. Deals with a woman trying to restore her robot brother in a ruined world.

Books

1. Uprooted and Spinning Silver - These are both standalone books, but they’re both by Naomi Novik and have a similar vibe. They both deal with magic, folklore, and they go in directions you might not expect. Highly recommend.

2. Brandon Sanderson - No, not a book, but an author who writes so many good books you may as well read all of them. 8D However, if you want something shorter, I would recommend starting with either Legion or Skyward. The former is a novella and the latter is a YA series. Both are sci-fi, both are awesome. If you want something longer, I would recommend Mistborn and The Stormlight Archive, which are so ridiculously good I can’t even begin.

3. Radiance by Catherynne M. Valente - If you want a book that feels like a silent film and has purposefully old-school sci-fi settings that also feels a little unreal, this is an excellent pick.

4. The Murderbot Diaries by Martha Wells - If you want some sci-fi novellas that feel like really good movies with witty dialogue and a sympathetic robot protagonist, this is your series.

Television

1. What We Do In the Shadows - Superb comedy and it features vampires. I just love this series.

2. Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency - The first season is so good that I have watched it numerous times, sometimes in a row. Everything you expect will be turned on its head.

3. Good Omens - Decent chance you’ve already watched or read this, but if you hadn’t, it’s very timely and is just a feel-good show despite the forces of Heaven and Hell trying to destroy the planet.

4. Over the Garden Wall - Has a delightfully surreal vibe set in an autumn wood where two boys try to figure out how to get home. Witty and thought provoking.

Video Games

1. Finding Teddy 2 AKA Chronicles of Teddy by Storybird - Super cute, great puzzles, and an excellent metroidvania. Way too much fun.

2. Anything by Frictional Games (Penumbra, Amnesia: The Dark Descent, SOMA). You will feel existential for days and be glad for it.

3. Anything by Wadjet Eye Games (Blackwell series, Technobabylon, Unavowed, etc.). They make fantastic point-and-click adventures with excellent plots and characters. Rosa is extremely relatable.

4. INSIDE by Playdead - A short game featuring a boy trying to escape unknown assailants trying to bring him back to a lab. Haunting, disturbing, and the story is told without a word of dialogue. Love this one.

Anyway, I could go on, but I’ll leave it there for now. 8D If anyone wants more suggestions, I’m happy to give them though. You can find all this stuff online, through streaming services, etc., but if all else fails your library probably has OverDrive and/or Hoopla where you can ask them to get said goods if they don’t have it already (except for the video games, but that’s a given).

I’m definitely looking forward to VNC’s return, but we can get through this! ^^

#vanitas no carte #Bemused's post #reference #suggestions #Anonymous