#something something she hates to draw the blade because it means she must take a life

[ahollowgrave]

-- sorrowing.

#pigeon screens #odette hollows #hyur #middie #midlander #paladin #something something she hates to draw the blade because it means she must take a life #she guides she does not take -- except.

[mckennamayfairgoode]

The Songbirds Keep Singing Like They Know the Score

Wilhemina Venable x Reader

Word Count: 5.8k

Summary: Wilhemina vs. the voices that haunt her.

Warnings: Angsty angst as requested and fluffy fluff because I am a marshmallow.

A/N: @lucyintheskywithxanax Hi, this is for you x.

Song: Songbird by Fleetwood Mac

When Wilhemina was a child, when she was small and broken and scared, when she could no longer see the world in front of her past the tears in her eyes, when the voices would overwhelm her and threaten to swallow her whole, she’d picture a place in her mind: a field of wildflowers, of daffodils and daisies and sunflowers, and a large weeping willow tree. She’d sit against the trunk, feel the bark against her back and the wind brushing her face, and she would close her eyes and breathe in the smell of sunshine and just be. In her mind, she was safe. In a place of beauty and freedom that was hers and hers alone, no one could touch her.

She thinks about that place now - or tries to - as she watches you smile at someone that isn’t her. You laugh at something the other woman says, real, sincere, the way you laugh with Wilhemina in the evenings when you trade anecdotes in bed and she draws that beautiful sound out of you like coaxing butterflies from your belly.

You giggle and squirm, brushing her teasing fingers away from your bare stomach. “Mina,” you admonish playfully, capturing her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

Her expression is amused, dark eyes transfixed on her own fingertip as it traces the curve of your lips. “Yes, my darling?”

You melt under her ministrations, pressing another kiss to the tip of her finger. “Nothing, baby,” you murmur, eyelashes fluttering as the pad of her thumb brushes your cheekbone. She loves it when you're like this: soft and sleepy and so full of love that it shines from your eyes. You reach around her waist and pull her flush against you, bare skin and flesh melding until it feels like you are one person and have never been anything else.

She knew they were coming before she could feel them, your fingertips on her shoulder. They always start there, a warning, a sign, a whispered hello in the moonlight. Don’t be frightened, it’s just me, you seem to say. Can you feel my love? your heart will whisper. You’ll trace patterns on her skin, follow the curve until you reach the back of her neck. You’ll play with the strands of red hair you find there before slowly brushing your fingers down her spine. You’ll be slow and gentle - like you are enchanting a lioness who has shown you her belly and not a woman who is afraid of tenderness.

She doesn’t want to be scared of you. She wants to crawl into your heart and whisper poetry so that you might feel her love for you. She closes her eyes, imagines she can hear songbirds outside your window and melts against you, nuzzling the crook of your neck with her nose. She breathes you in just as your fingertips tease the back of her neck. You smell of sunshine.

Her body aches.

She watches, transfixed, as the woman reaches out and brushes your shoulder with the tips of her fingers. She can feel the cold creeping over her, passing over her skin and down her spine like morning dew clinging to blades of grass in the front lawn that you share.

She tries to conjure the wind, the flowers, the weeping willow tree but all she can see is you. She can’t look away - from you, from her, from the way you gaze almost adoringly at a woman that is beautiful and tall and normal. She does not have a crooked spine or a sharp tongue or hands that hurt more than they heal. She is not broken.

She raps her cane against the ground, one loud motion that claps around the room. It might as well be thunder. You and the woman both jump, heads swiveling in her direction. Wilhemina thinks she knows her but her mind lashes angrily, ocean waves slamming against the bow of a ship, and she can’t bother to remember her name. Her eyes brush past her - to you.

She wants to find the guilt in your eyes, to watch your pupils bloom wide like flower petals when you meet her gaze but all she can see is love and warmth. It sickens her, churns her gut, twists her insides until all she can feel is pain. She sneers. “Don’t you two have work to do?”

The woman offers a charming smile like she doesn’t know Venable at all. “Yes, of course, Ms. Venable. See you later, Y/N.” She winks at you and struts off down the hallway. Venable feels her blood boil but doesn’t give her the satisfaction of watching her leave. She is not worth her time, but you... you are worth all of it. But she is too angry to listen to the heart that loves you, too blinded by rage to realize that the look in your eyes is adoration and not contempt. The blood in her veins turns to ice. She looks at you and doesn’t recognize you at all.

Without a word, she turns and walks away.

-

The ride home is silent. She can feel you looking though, turning your head every so often to gaze at her when you think she’s not paying attention. She doesn’t know how to decipher your expression. She can’t tell the difference between the seasons, between the feelings pressed beneath her chest, between your heart and hers, much less the shadows painted on your beautiful face.

Your favorite song comes on the radio. You don’t even sing. You are probably thinking about her, she decides. That woman who must have snuck in when Wilhemina was happy and content and unaware, and stole you from her arms, from your bed, from the home that you built together brick by brick until it was a towering fortress in which she felt safe. She should have noticed, should have seen that the stars in your eyes were not for her at all. Not anymore. She should have realized that at some point, you had reached up and plucked them from the sky and replaced them with something entirely new.

Maybe you had finally seen them, all the things she had warned you about. Maybe one day you had woken up and seen the Wilhemina peeking out from within and been disgusted by her weakness, her vulnerability. Any moment now, you will turn to her with that pitying look in your eyes and explain, gently and with that tone of voice you reserve for those with less patience than you, that you are in love with someone else. You must be and that’s what the shadows must mean. They are your guilt put on display, an exhibit of black curtains and a moonless night sky and she is waiting for the day she arrives at your museum only to find it gone like you had never been there at all.

The thought makes her heart drop into her stomach. It annoys her, taunts her, reminds her that the ache in her chest is something she could have prevented if she had not let you in, if she had not allowed you to crawl inside her and make a home in her heart. Her gloves creak when she tightens her grip on the steering wheel. It echoes in the car, in the silence that you have made.

You will not break her. She is already broken.

-

You try to speak to her when you get home. She hasn’t looked at you since that moment in the atrium and she thinks maybe you have finally caught on. Or maybe you finally know what to say. She wonders if you have rehearsed this moment in your head, if the tides have finally turned and they are just now rushing in her direction to smash against her shore.

She stands at the counter, takes her gloves off one by one, and watches from the corner of her eye as you look at her and struggle to speak. A part of her takes joy in watching you flounder. A part of her wants you to squirm, to feel, to hurt. Just like her. The other part of her, the Wilhemina inside that bangs at the door and screams to be let out, only wants you to hold her. She hates it. Seethingly. With a ferocity she didn’t know she was capable of anymore after falling in love with you. She is broken, but she is not weak. She tells it to shut up and slams the door in its face.

“Mina?” Your voice comes from behind her. Not hesitant, but cautious. So at least you are aware of her ire. Good. You should be cautious. The Wilhemina inside reminds her that she could never hurt you, that it is useless to pretend otherwise. She locks the door and puts her hands over her ears so that the voice is muffled.

She raises an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “Is there something you need? Or have you finally worked up the courage to say what you so desperately need to say?”

You frown, eyebrows furrowing. “What?”

She tilts her head, annoyance clear in the downturned pull of her lips. “You’ve been sitting there like a daft moron for an hour. I was wondering if you’d finally grasped enough vocabulary in order to get on with it.” The Wilhemina inside flinches. You’re going to regret this, it says. She doesn’t hear it. She doesn’t want to.

“Get on with what?” You take a step closer, looking up into her face and studying her expression like you can figure out what's going on in her mind if she will only meet your eyes. She hates it. She hates that you can make her feel seen. She hates that she used to love it. That it used to make her feel safe. That once upon a time, she thought she could be someone. That she could be yours.

Her nostrils flare in annoyance. You are playing with her. She is just a pawn in your chess game, one you mean for her to lose. You want to make her say the words so you don’t have to. Coward, she thinks.

No, she’s not, the Wilhemina inside her says. The only coward here is you.

The thought chills her to the bone. The ice intensifies, freezing her heart solid like a stone in her chest. She can’t breathe, she can’t think. All she can feel is the weight of it sinking like an anchor. She turns her head to face you and looks into your eyes. God, how she loves you. A part of her melts. The tips of her fingers drip on the floor at your feet.

She can see it all now up close: the confusion, the despair, the worry gathering like storm clouds in your gaze. They can’t be real. You must have created them to fool her, to pull the wool over her eyes and lead her to believe that you are innocent. You have called upon the storm to wash away your sins, but Venable can see them still, washed up on the shore like seashells. The Wilhemina inside her can’t see them; she only sees your footprints in the sand as you walk away and she wants to chase after you, to melt in your arms and beg for forgiveness, but Venable rises up like the dragon buried underneath the mountain rubble, looks down her nose at you, and snarls. “I saw you today,” she says. She will not be fooled by the lie in your eyes.

You blink. “Saw me when?”

“Don’t play stupid,” she snaps. The Wilhemina inside her shrinks back. Don’t, please, it pleads. Venable turns her back on herself, on the weakness inside her. She pretends not to see when it cries.

You take a step towards her, hand reaching out like it alone can bridge the gap between you. She ignores how her stone cold heart clenches at the sight of it, at the memories those hands have created for her, the comfort that they have brought. She turns her nose up at it and moves away. “I hope she had something important to say. It looked like her head was full of hot air, but clearly looks can be deceiving.”

“What? Who are you talking about?” You stop trying to reach her finally and stand still and small in the middle of the room. You look so sad. Wilhemina swallows the lump in her throat and turns away.

“That woman you were speaking with,” she hisses, venom and poison laced within the words. “You two are certainly very familiar with each other.” Her mind conjures images in her head, things she would rather not see but that play on repeat until there is nothing else but them, them, them. Fingertips brushing your shoulder, a wink directed your way, a hand on the small of your back, your thigh, fingers sweeping hair away from your neck, lips against your skin, down, down-

“Valarie?”

She jerks like she’s been hit by a bolt of lightning. It is your storm. It has to be. “Is that her name?” she asks, her voice deathly quiet in the frozen tundra of your house. When did the cold spread so far? Was it touching you? Could you feel it?

“Baby-”

“Don’t,” she snaps.

You ignore her and look at her from beneath your eyelashes. “We’re just friends, Mina.”

She sniffs disdainfully. “I’m sure.” Her lips purse. A picture hangs on the wall she stands in front of. She looks at it and remembers the overcast Sunday morning she told you about the place she felt safest. You had pulled the comforter over your heads and she had whispered the details in your ear - the meadow, the flowers, the weeping willow tree - and you had listened and stroked your fingers down her bare back and it felt like she was telling you a secret and trusted you to keep it. One day not long after, you had given her the painting and she had looked at it and seen her happiness and sunshine depicted in brush strokes and splashes of color. You told her that she’d never have to go inside her mind to feel safe ever again, that she was never going to be safer than she was right here, in the home that you built together, with you. She had cried.

Tears well in her eyes, and she curses under her breath, wrangles the Wilhemina inside her back under control and turns her head to face you. She tries to conjure up the weeping willow tree, to picture it in her mind instead of the gentle way you had kissed her goodbye that morning, but the image only comes to her for a second before fizzling into dust and in its place is you.

That sweet smile you greet her with each day, sleepy and soft and just for her. How you rest your hands on her hips when you pass behind her to reach for your toothbrush, your gazes locking in the mirror and your eyes twinkling with mischief. Fingers brushing when you exchange cups of tea, fingers brushing when you reach out to turn the page of a book, fingers brushing as you walk down the driveway to your car, brushing, brushing, brushing.

She blinks, finds the love still staring back at her, patient and calm and she does not know anything anymore. She saw you with that woman. She heard your laugh, recognized the adoration on your face. She can’t be wrong. The ice builds and builds until it is a wall surrounding her heart. “Did you fuck her?”

You reel back as if she had slapped you, pain flashing across your face and Wilhemina trembles at the realization that she put it there. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She draws up to her full height and curls her lip and she pretends that you are just an employee at Kineros and that you are not the woman she loves and she does not hurt at all. “I saw you throwing yourself at her today - like a whore.” You’re wrong, the Wilhemina in her heart whispers, shrinking back, shaking and curled up in the dark corner of her mind she hasn’t seen since she was a child. You’re wrong, wrong, wrong.

“You can’t be serious,” you say, blinking up at her in disbelief. She ignores the tears welling in your eyes, the crack that shatters the ice around her heart at the sight of them, and arches an eyebrow, giving you the look she reserves for lowly employees too stupid to recognize her ire. You recognize it. Realization flashes across your face. You shake your head. “I’m not doing this, Mina,” you finally say. You blink and look away from her, trying to prevent the pain from showing on your face, but she can see it. She put it there.

“I can see that you’re hurting and that you’re in your head, but whatever you think I did, I didn’t. And you know that.” Your beautiful face pleads with her, your eyes large and wet and loving, but she refuses to give in, knowing that if she does, the ice around her heart will melt and she’ll feel everything all at once. She does not want to ache. Not like she did before you, not like she will after.

“You are a fool,” she hisses. You are the fool, it says.

You shake your head, wipe tears from your eyelids. You look like you might walk away, body turned toward the stairs, but you step towards her instead, so close that she can feel your warmth. It makes her body shudder. You search her gaze, looking so deep into her eyes that she thinks you are looking directly into the Wilhemina she tries to keep buried inside. “I love you,” you tell her. She hates that she believes you. “You own my heart and my soul and I know you know that I would never do that to you. Whatever’s going on up here -” you touch your fingers to her temple, warm and cold all at once, a direct link to the voices freezing her soul, “- whatever that voice is saying, it’s wrong,” you whisper. You reach down to place your hand over her chest. “Your heart knows me,” you pause, desperation in your eyes as they flicker back and forth between hers. “Don’t you?” Yes, the Whilemina inside whispers. I know you.

The warmth that had threaded through her being disappears the moment you drop your hands. She watches you walk away, wants to call out for you, to beg for mercy, to tell you that she is the fool and that she is sorry and that she loves you, loves you, loves you, but she doesn’t.

She tears her gaze away and looks down at her hands. They’re shaking.

-

That night, she climbs the stairs to your shared room and finds you already in bed, your back to the door. You don’t say a word and neither does she. She moves around the room with purpose, changing her clothes and brushing her hair free from its ponytail. She can’t help but watch you out of the corner of her eye. You are motionless, a still life in her bed. Your bed. Yours, together.

She crawls under the sheets next to you, turns off the bedroom light, rolls on her side and looks at you facing away from her. The distance between you is miniscule; she could reach out and touch you if she wanted, bridge the gap and pull your back against her chest. She raises her hand, reaches for you but does not touch. It lingers in the air between you, shaking and desperate. After a moment, it drops to the mattress. She closes her eyes and feels herself weep. She doesn't know how to fix herself.

When she opens her eyes again, she finds herself standing alone on a beach. The sky is overcast and grey, angry clouds forming on the horizon and wind coursing through her hair. Where are you? Her heart thunders in her chest. She tries to quell the panic but it rises and rises until it becomes a chokehold around her neck. It threatens to consume her.

“Y/N?” She looks down and notices a trail of footprints in the sand. They dance away from her, following the shoreline and circling back and around again. She knows they are yours, that they could belong to no one else. She has to find you.

She has to tell you that she loves you.

She puts her foot in a rivet in the sand, stands where you stood and imagines that you are with her, that you are laughing and your pinkies are interlocked in that way she knows makes you smile. And then she remembers that expression on your face when she asked about that woman, the tears in your eyes when she hurled a slur at you to make up for the pain that she alone inflicted on herself. She has to find you.

She has to tell you that she’s sorry.

“Y/N?” She calls your name again and again, listens to it bounce off the water as the waves lap at her bare feet. The footprints end where the sand bleeds into grass. She looks down at her feet, studies the area like she knows it well even though she doesn’t know it at all. Her heart whispers, pings, right there, and she looks up like she had known where you would be all along to find your silhouette standing at the top of a bluff overlooking the ocean. She knows that it's you, that it could be no one else.

You stand at the edge, looking out over the jagged rocks and thrashing waves below. “Y/N!” Your head swivels in her direction and you wave cheerfully down at her, shuffling too close to the brink for her liking. Her heart jumps into her throat. “You stay right there! Don’t you move, I mean it!” She doesn’t think you can hear her. She wonders if the words are leaving her mouth or if it’s just her soul sighing your name. She has to get to you.

She has to, she has to, she has to.

The trail up to the cliff looks different when she gets closer. Darker, full of tall, imposing trees and a treacherous climb she knows will hurt her back. She doesn’t care, doesn’t hesitate, just pushes past the first branch and marches on. Nothing will keep her from you. She thinks she can feel eyes watching her from the darkness between the trees, black beady eyes that disappear when she turns to look. They make her skin crawl, but she silences the warnings in her head and ignores them. They don’t matter. She clutches her cane and moves forward and prays that you are staying put.

Then the whispers start.

“You’re no good for her,” a voice murmurs into her ear and she startles and jerks back, glancing behind her to see a shadowy figure that closely resembles your father.

Wilhemina swallows the lump in her throat and looks away. “I know,” she says and continues on.

“We’ve talked about this, darling, stand up straight,” a familiar voice purrs from over her shoulder. She doesn’t look, doesn’t need to see to know who will be waiting there. “No one will love an invalid.”

“She loves me,” Wilhemina snaps, head straight forward, dark eyes fixed on the patch of light she can see up ahead. The sky. Safety. You.

A figure steps out of the tree line into Wilhemina’s path causing her to jerk to a halt. “Look what you did, twisting your fears and projecting them onto the one who loves you most,” the woman sing-songs, her tone playful and barbed like a rosebush. Valarie. Tall and beautiful Valarie. “She’d be happier with me, you know.”

Wilhemina looks into Valarie’s soulless black eyes and glares defiantly. “She is happy with me.”

Valarie chuckles, dancing and spinning around Wilhemina’s form as the other figures get closer. Surrounding her, crowding her, boxing her in like predators to weak prey. “She didn’t look happy last night, did she?” Valarie leans her chin on Wilhemina’s shoulder and whispers in her ear. “You made her cry.”

“You called her a whore,” your father says from behind her.

Her mother clicks her tongue disapprovingly, appearing in front of her and adjusting the collar of her shirt. “You accused her of infidelity, my dear.”

“I made a mistake,” she snaps.

“You seem to be making a lot of mistakes, Mina,” Valarie taunts.

Wilhemina’s blood runs cold. No one calls her that. No one but you. She shoves her mother out of the way and darts up the trail, her back screaming in protest. She can feel them following her, the wolves nipping at her heels, but she doesn’t stop.

“-could do better-”

“If only you were normal-”

“Maybe she’ll finally leave you and come to m-”

Their voices sound like they’re coming from the very trees themselves, winding through the branches and leaves and floating down like lightning bugs to settle in her ears.

“- a failure -”

“- never should have let you lea-”

“-fall in love with a cripple.”

“When you wake in the morning, she’ll be gone.”

“SHUT UP!” Her voice echoes into the forest and birds burst from the tree line in a cacophony of sound. When she opens her eyes, the figures are gone and the voices are silent.

She finds herself standing at the edge of the forest and feels her eyes well with tears as she looks upon her meadow. Sunlit and beautiful, full of flowers in bloom and honeybees and songbirds. The wind nuzzles her cheek as if greeting an old friend. The horrors of the forest melt from her weary bones and she feels at peace. A part of her wants to stay here where it is safe, where she is safe, but her heart urges her onwards. What is a life of safety if you aren’t in it?

Her willow tree stands tall and proud in the center of the clearing and behind it, overlooking the ocean, is you.

“Y/N!” She breathes a sigh of relief to see you standing where she left you.

You turn to face her and smile, soft and sweet and just for her. “Hi, baby,” you say. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to take you home, sweetheart,” she murmurs, looking imploringly into your eyes.

You frown. “I don’t have a home, Mina. You don’t want me anymore, remember?” You take a step back from her, toward the cliff’s edge and she follows you, hands reaching out as if she could grab you from where she stands.

“Wait,” she pleads. “You do have a home. It’s with me.”

You cock your head. “It used to be,” you state. Like it is a fact. Like you have always known it to be so. Her heart aches.

“Please, Y/N. Step away from the edge.” Her voice is hard, lined with barbs but not directed at you. Only to herself. She wants them to hurt, to sting, to make her hiss in pain. She wants to feel anything other than this ache.

You giggle softly, familiar and lovely, the sound that never fails to make her head spin, but she doesn’t hear the joy in it now. It sounds haunted. "I know your heart,” you say, taking another step back as she steps forward. You meet her eyes. “Do you know mine?”

She can only watch in horror as your foot lands on empty air. You tip backwards - and then you fall.

Wilhemina screams.

She gasps and shoots up in bed causing her back to protest but she can barely feel it over the throbbing in her chest. She moans like a wounded animal, leaning over and curling into herself like it will muffle the pain, like she can smother it so she won’t have to feel anything. She clutches her hair and pulls at the strands as if physically capable of plucking the image of you falling out of her head.

My fault, my fault, I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry, I know your heart, I promise, I know it.

She doesn’t realize she’s murmuring out loud until she hears your voice in her ear, breaking through the mantra like a siren song. “Shh, baby. I’m right here, Mina. It’s okay.”

Her eyes snap open and she turns to seek out your eyes. She finds them instantly, warm and loving and tender. They’re shining, real and alive, and her own flood with fresh tears at the sight of them. Her voice comes out in a broken whisper that scratches her throat, “Y/N?”

“I’m right here, baby. Everything’s okay.” You reach out a hand as if to touch her but hover right before it makes contact with her skin. “Can I touch you?”

Wilhemina manages to nod, her eyes not leaving you for a second as you reach forward and brush her tears away with your thumb. They fall faster than you can wipe them away, but you try. You always try for her. She feels your other hand cup the back of her head before you lean forward and press your foreheads together in the way you always do when you comfort her. Your noses brush. “It was just a nightmare, baby,” you murmur, gazing into her eyes, deep pools with shadows that reflect the terrors she had seen. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She can only stare at you in disbelief, tear tracks trailing paths down her cheeks. Once she had felt nothing at all, now she feels too much. The ice around her heart has shattered into a million tiny pieces and the only evidence that it still lies within is the persistent ache beneath her ribcage. She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know where to start. She called you names. She doubted your love for her. She hurt you. A tinge runs down her spine. A muffled sob presses against her closed mouth and she nudges into you, brushing her trembling tear-stained lips against your own.

She feels your hand on her spine, the warmth of it soothing the trembling ache of her body. Your lips press against her forehead, long and hard like you want to seep all of your love into her skin. “I know, baby. Whatever you can’t say, I already know.” Your hand brushes a strand of hair back from her eyes. You cup her cheek in your palm, press a kiss to it followed by the other. Then one to each of her eyelids. You peck the tip of her nose before capturing her lips with your own. She gasps into your mouth, passes her tongue between your lips and tastes the saltiness of her own tears. When you pull away, your eyes are shining. You are brighter than the sun. “I love you and I’m not leaving you. Not now, not ever,” you say and she believes you. God, she believes you.

You settle back into the pillows and gently pull her with you, tucking her into your arms where she is safe, safe, safe. The shadows in her mind disappear. She doesn’t even remember what they said. Only that they were wrong.

She places her ear over your heart and listens to it beat. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. It soothes her own into submission and she melts into you, boneless and spent. Your fingers appear at her shoulder just as they always do and the familiarity of it coaxes a new wave of tears from her closed eyelids. Can you feel my love? your heart asks. “Yes, I can,” she whispers. Your fingertips trace the curve of her shoulder to the back of her neck. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” she manages to say around the lump in her throat.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” you soothe, brushing your fingers into her hair, down her neck and back again. “I know you love me.”

Wilhemina bites the inside of her cheek. She doesn’t want to cry anymore, but she doesn’t know what else to do. She doesn’t deserve your love, your patience, your kindness, your beautiful heart. She is broken and you deserve better than her. You deserve more from life than just picking up her shattered pieces.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” you say, interrupting her thoughts. She blinks. Had she been speaking out loud or did you just live inside her head? “Picking up your pieces is not a chore. It is a privilege.” Your finger traces a line from her neck to the top of her spine. She tilts her head to look up at you. She can barely see your face in the darkness of your bedroom, but your eyes are on fire. “You are not broken, baby. You are a songbird and I’m going to prove to you that you can fly.” She presses her face into the crook of your neck and cries.

As your hand trails down her back, gentle and revering like you are enchanting a lioness that has shown you her belly and not a woman who is afraid of tenderness, you start to sing. Your voice soothes her soul, wraps around her like a comforting blanket, and warms her shivering body until it no longer feels like ice. She recognizes the song. It’s your favorite, the one she’s heard you sing a thousand times. The words piece together from her memories, from morning showers before work, from those nights you spend swaying to the sound of it in the kitchen, from bits of it sung under your breath as you walk side by side, your hands brushing, your pinkies intertwining. Wilhemina buries her face in your chest and realizes that you had been singing about her all along. God, how she loves you.

She does not conjure up her meadow or the wild flowers or the weeping willow tree. She does not think of the wind on her face or the bark against her back. She breathes in the smell of sunshine, feels your fingers stroke her spine, and does not think of anything at all. She is exactly where she wants to be.

“And the songbirds are singing,

Like they know the score

And I love you, I love you, I love you

Like never before.”

Tag List: @supremeinlilac @lovelypeasantjellyfish @angelxsarahp

#wilhemina venable x reader #sarah paulson x reader #wilhemina venable #sarah paulson #american horror story #american horror story apocalypse #ahs fic #wilhemina venable imagine #sarah paulson imagine #ahs imagine #venable x reader #wilhemina x reader #angst fic #wlw imagine #wlw fic #romance fic

[write-like-wright]

since you did the prosecutors before can we get exes headcanons for them (like what they would be like if they were ur ex LMAO)? if this is too broad u can pick ur favorite aspect of it (u dumping them, them dumping u, seeing them in public one month later 🥰 etc)

skjdksfnfjnf this is so funny yes!

Being their ex: Ace Attorney rival prosecutor edition

Miles Edgeworth

if you thought he was awkward while you were dating, wait until you see him after your breakup

he does NOT know how to behave around you at all anymore

mostly attempts to avoid you

may or may not pull another one of his "prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death" stunts

goes to Europe for a few months to compose himself and figure out how to proceed

he's especially stumped if you are somehow obligated to interact, either through work or maybe if you live nearby

tries his best to be civil and gentlemanly, but it's painfully obvious he'd rather be anywhere else in the world at that moment

I imagine you'd have mutual friends, so before every group outing he asks if you're going to be there

something may suddenly come up if the answer is yes

*cough, cough* "I can't, I'm sick"

"boo you, Edgeworth"

I'm assuming you broke up either because of how much he works or because he fears for your safety because of your relationship

maybe it was just a heated steel samurai discussion taken too far

Franziska von Karma

oh boy, this is not gonna go well

so cold to you in the public

throws around a "foolish fool" or two your way

grips her whip so tight her knuckles turn white

cries when she gets home

absolutely cannot forgive herself for allowing someone to know her so intimately and see her in her vulnerable moments and then they're just... gone

probably puts her off dating for a while

if I had to guess why you broke up, I'd assume it was due to her intensity or competitive nature

Diego Armando/Godot

this man has many, many exes

not much changes in his demeanour towards you

he's as cool and as smooth as ever, but is careful not to cross over into the flirty territory

you're either addicted to caffeine or absolutely repulsed by it at this point

walking by a coffee shop makes you uncomfortable

don't know why you broke up, but you get back together at least twice before separating for good

Klavier Gavin

Klav remains his good old, friendly self

will drop an album about your breakup

expect a lot of hate from his stans

the media hounds you

you get invited to participate in a few reality shows probably

he feels bad and tries to defend you

offers to make it up to you by taking you out for dinner

you hook up

you break up again because you can't stand the constant scrutiny and him being away for long periods of time

rinse and repeat

Simon Blackquill

there are so many potential reasons why you could've broken up

too intense? scary at times?? manipulative without even realizing it??? spends half his life savings on a fancy katana???? who knows with him

goes full emo

do you guys know that canonically those marks on his face are from crying so much in prison? yeah (they're apparently starting to heal too, good for him)

acts all tough at work, goes home and cries to HIM - Gone With The Sin blasting at full volume

flip-flops between being a gentleman and a jerk should you meet in public

makes a few snarky comments about you and your relationship to hurt you, then has a minor freakout when realization.exe kicks in and he notices you actually are hurt

apologises by sending you cute bird pics

"Look at what Taka did today."

"He's wearing the bandana you bought him :)"

"Please respond I'm so sorry don't block me"

You eventually remain friends so you can get bird visitation rights

Nahyuta Sahdmadhi

acts polite and smiles sweetly, but occasionally ends the conversation with "I will pray for you", not unlike a hostile southern lady

you miss him and his expensive haircare and skincare products

you can definitely live without the 8-hour sermons

perhaps the cultural differences were too hard to overcome? or maybe it was the constant travelling? in either case, you mutually decide that ending your relationship would be for the best

I imagine dating literal royalty would be exhausting

Barok van Zieks

make no mistake, this WILL cause a scandal

no matter the reason for your separation, get ready to deal with some serious gossip

everywhere you go, you notice people whispering about you

"I hear they ended their betrothal with Lord van Zieks."

"Well, I say! Can't imagine dealing with the Reaper myself."

everyone wants to hear your side of the story and any potential dirt you may have on him

Barok acts as gentlemanly as ever, as befits a man of his standing

he's a solitary man, but his solitude soon leads to loneliness and resentment

his consumption of fine vintages increases by tenfold

whatever it is that happened between the two of you must have been major

betrothals are not lightly ended, especially with the heir of a powerful noble family

might not even be your doing, perhaps family got involved

perhaps, his family reputation has been besmirched? ahem

Bonus: Kazuma Asogi

poor Kazuma can't catch a break

Ryu gets a tear-stained letter written on 18 sheets of paper, front and back

"Oh, dear," Susato sighs. "I suppose this means the wedding is off."

while he's no lord, he is a prosecutor in the service of Her Majesty and the news of a courtship ending would be scandalous

perhaps, for that reason, and fearing how the public would react to your relationship (it is Victorian England we're talking about after all, Van Zieks' views are far from unique), you chose to keep it a secret

at first exciting, your secret meetings and whispered words soon become tiresome

the fear of being caught is always gnawing at you

he may lash out initially when you leave him

offers to make your relationship public, to hell with the society

you both know it's a bad idea

"This is all your fault." he sighs as he pours himself another chalice of Van Ziek's fine vintage.

"My fault? How is your poor performance today in court my fault, my Nipponese friend?" Barok spits out. "You have been distraught for days now, man! Pull yourself together!"

"Not you specifically," Kazuma brushes off. "Your kind."

"My kind?"

"Stuck up posh twats."

Gina walks in just as they're about to draw their blades

listen babes I'm a Kazuma simp this is the only way i could envision dumping his ass

#miles edgeworth #franziska von karma #godot #diego armando #klavier gavin #simon blackquill #nahyuta sahdmadhi #barok van zieks #kazuma asogi #ace attorney #the great ace attorney #gyakuten saiban #dai gyakuten saiban #aa ramblings #anon #request #ask #this was so much fun to write i hope you enjoy!!!

[joucearchived]

The Hell In Your Eyes - 3

Summary: Loki doesn't meet her until two weeks after his initial imprisonment, but he knows he hates her. He has to hate her. Because the way she talks to him and helps him and saves him meals can't mean anything. She is too soft to deal with Loki, who is hardened with pain, pain, and more pain. And Loki hates soft things.

Have you ever seen the hell in someone’s eyes and loved it anyway?

Characters: Loki Laufeyson/(f)Reader

Warnings: brief mentions of violence

Word Count: 4836

Previous Chapter

Loki is annoyed.  

Loki has sat through thousands of years of political dinners, exchanging thinly veiled insults under a layer of diplomacy, all while smiling through his teeth. Loki has spewed sensical nonsense, charming naive, innocent maids and sweeping young stable boys off their feet. Loki has endured Odin’s wrath — in all its horrible glory — countless times, and never once had he shed a tear, nor had a single cry escaped his lips.  

The whole of Asgard had coined him the Dark Prince — and who was Loki to disappoint? 

He had long since learned people saw what they expected to see. 

And so as the entire realm rejoiced in his demise, as Laufey left him to die, as Odin condemned him for eternity, as Thor abandoned him, as Frigga had sided with her husband again and again and again, Loki maintained his carefully constructed front.  

Yet one encounter with a mortal, and he had unraveled at her feet.  

If physically kneeling before the wretched creature wasn’t enough, he knew she had seen past his mask. By the time he had regained his composure, he was sure she had seen him.  

It won’t happen again.  

Loki is a god, and gods do not crack. Gods maintain their image, regardless of circumstance. Gods do not show weakness, do not show vulnerability.  

This is a lesson Loki knows well, a lesson etched into his skin countless times by Odin’s hand.  

And yet for each time Odin reinforced this lesson, the very same lesson was burned away by Thanos a thousand more. 

Loki tried, he truly did. Loki maintained his godly facade for an impressive amount of time, resisting as his body was taken apart over and over and over again. Perhaps it wasn’t as long as he thought. Loki feels as if his entire life was spent doused in agony, spent with his flesh melting off and his bones withering away. 

Ultimately, a god is no match for a Titan.  

But a mortal is no match for a god.  

And yet, Loki has found himself at her feet — at her mercy — twice. 

Even after, Loki couldn’t bring himself to summon his cruel exterior. Perhaps it had to do with the way she had waltzed into his space, all soft and defenseless, carrying that deplorable drink as if it was the elixir of eternal life (unfortunately, it tasted just as divine). Perhaps it was his body, still sated and full for the first time in months, reminding him of the food — the debt — he owes. Perhaps it was the way she held out her arm towards him, even though he could see it shaking.  

Whether it was any of these things or none at all, Loki’s cool mask of indifference was rendered utterly useless at her delicate, mortal hands.  

Loki hates her.  

His hatred fills every fiber of his being. It’s a scalding, fiery hatred, much unlike the frozen excuse of Loki’s heart. His frost giant heritage seems to reject her very being.  

Loki hates her voice, hates her hands, hates her. He hates how she makes him falter when there is no place for mistakes.  

Loki’s thoughts are interrupted by Thor, who enters Loki’s quarters without an ounce of hesitation — ever the righteous, confident, arrogant bastard. 

Ah, but Loki almost forgot. Thor is not the bastard — Loki is. How despicable; for really, Loki can not even call himself a bastard. Yet, ‘the Bastard Son of Odin’ has a certain charm to it. Perhaps another false title for his collection.  

“Loki!” Thor booms, “Here are your clothes that Lady Angel washed. You should be grateful brother, for she offered of her own volition — ” 

Is it so surprising someone would offer to help Loki without external influence?  

“ — to see and visit you! You are doing well. I am happy to see you are finally making an effort to get to know all of our friends — ” 

Thor is happy? For Loki, or for himself? Why must Loki, even now, strive to prove himself to Thor? Why is Loki’s worth solely dependent on Thor’s judgement?  

“ — and Lady Angel is absolutely wonderful. I am delighted to see you two getting along so well! I can’t believe you finally made a friend— ” 

At this, Loki’s composure cracks for the second time that day.  

“What am I? A pathetic child wandering aimlessly through a school corridor? A helpless hatchling at the mercy of others — groveling for the bare minimum? Who are you to congratulate me for ‘making a friend?’ She is not a friend ,” Loki spits out. He can feel his teeth grinding against each other, his fingernails once again digging into his palms. “She is nothing more than another worthless mortal, unworthy of even breathing the same air as I, and yet you suggest I be grateful?” 

Thor advances on Loki, his eyes hardening. The atmosphere is tense; unlike the typical bickering between the brothers, Loki identifies something distinctly different in the way the air vibrates. The space between the two gods crackles. “Watch yourself brother —” 

Brother. The word grates upon Loki’s nerves. How can Thor so carelessly throw the word around, even knowing of its false implications — implications and lies Loki foolishly believed.  

Sometimes Loki wonders if Thor does it on purpose.  

“Do you hear yourself Thor? Bending yourself over backwards to defend this wasted excuse of consciousness — you are the King of Asgard. What is she? She is nothing.” 

And now Loki is no longer staring at his brother, but the ceiling of his prison. His back is slammed against Stark’s hardwood floors and there is sharp ringing in his ears, likely the result of the crack in the floor right behind where his head is currently embedded.  

Loki almost laughs. 

Truly, it is comical — comical that even now, Thor’s first instinct is to physically threaten Loki. As if Loki doesn’t almost enjoy it. 

But Loki’s laugh catches in his throat, prevented from escaping by the large hand tightening around his airway.  

Thor’s hand is around Loki’s neck — a mirror of His. 

A thousand years Loki has known Thor. A thousand years of childish brawls, foolhardy battles, pointless arguments. How many times has Loki betrayed Thor? Thor betrayed Loki? And yet, Loki believed he knew his brother’s character.  

A thousand years Loki has known Thor, but never once has he thought Thor to be cruel.  

Oh how wrong he is.  

Thor’s hands are gripping Loki’s neck and for the life of him Loki can’t breathe. He tries to draw air into his lungs — lungs that are screaming with a familiar ache — and fails. Phantom pains flicker across his entire body and somehow, in the second before his vision goes black, Loki manages to croak out a strangled wheeze of a laugh.  

Loki is once again strapped upon a bed of coals, once again stabbed with blades of flame, once again torched with fire so hot he freezes. Loki remembers the only other time he begged — begged and pleaded for the sweet mercy of death, all while knowing death was a pleasure he was never to be granted.  

Loki is once again kneeling — boneless — at the feet of a Titan, looking up into a face promising endless pain, a face painted with the patience of a thousand moons and splattered with the ruined blood of a Frost Giant. 

Loki did not know that a Frost Giant’s blood could boil. 

Ah, but the Mad Titan knew, and he ensured Loki would never forget.  

Loki recalls the moment he let go — an eerie echo of his fall from grace, his fall from the Bifrost. And he remembers the horribly invasive power of the scepter, along with the blessed relief and utter disregard for self preservation that followed. 

And it is this — the relief — that plagues Loki. He does not fool himself; Loki may be the God of Lies, but he has no reason to lie to himself . It is not the destruction of New York nor the deaths at his hand that weigh upon his shattered mind. No, it is the fact that Loki found solace in his actions.  

Make no mistake — Loki does not rejoice in his crime, but nor could he say he regrets it. 

For if Loki were given the choice, he could not — would not — choose to spare Midgard at the cost of his own sanity. 

(But Loki was never given a choice.) 

Alas, Loki is already insane. 

The Mad Titan has taken so much from Loki.  

Physically, Loki has long since disregarded his own body. He remembers the beginning of his torture, when he still held the title of 'Prince of Asgard,' when he spoke with arrogance and oozed of indignantion. Oh how naive he had been. When the first whips had landed across his skin, Loki's thoughts could never have anticipated what the coming months would entail. Loki did not once stop to consider how he would escape the clutches of his captor — oh the confidence he held! — but instead lamented the scars he would surely have to bear. Dimly, Loki recalls worrying over his marred skin, irritated at the blemishes he would surely have to cover when taking future lovers.  

Loki scoffs.  

Loki does not recognize the man who spent time thinking of lovers. Or of his physical appearance. Or of his interests. Or of any other insignificant pleasure that ultimately contributes to the annihilation of a soul. 

(Even now, Loki carries with him an irrational fear of physical touch — a seed planted by the Mad Titan that Loki cannot gouge out, not even if he tore open his very being.) 

In fact, Loki wondered if his corporeal form had even existed anymore. But most of all, more than the ruination of his physical form, Loki mourns the damnation of his mind. 

Ultimately, the Mad Titan did triumph over Loki. For no matter how many times Loki escapes, fakes his death, runs away, he can never evade the visions that haunt his mind, the voices that infect his thoughts, the termites eating away at what remains of Loki’s sanity. 

(If Loki were given a choice, he would have chosen death again and again and again.) 

Alas, Loki was not — is not — given a choice, for suddenly he is not lying on a bed of coals, but on his apartment floor again. Thor has since removed his hand from Loki’s neck and Loki half wishes Thor just kept it there. Just kept on squeezing and squeezing and squeezing until Loki died on that bed of coals.  

Loki wonders, if he were to die at Thor’s hand, would his brother feel remorse? Or perhaps, more realistically, relief?  

Unfortunately, Loki is not dead, and Thor is gazing at him, concern evident in his gaze. As if Thor wasn’t the one who put Loki in this condition — wasn’t the one who greedily snatched all of Odin’s affection, wasn’t the one who pushed Loki out of favor, wasn’t the one who led his brainless minions in a brash suicide mission, as if Thor wasn’t the one who stared Loki in the eye as Loki let go into the abyss.  

As if Thor wasn’t the first domino in a long ripple effect that eventually drowned Loki in his sins.  

Thor was the smooth pebble that young children skipped over lakes, just barely skimming the surface of a tempting downfall — nevertheless gracefully leaping unscathed across the reflective waters. Yet Loki was the jagged, unskippable rock, destined to fall through the air and fall through the water with no hesitation. Loki has long since come to terms with this simple fact.  

No longer does Loki resent his brother, for he understands: light can only shine in the presence of darkness. And if Loki is condemned to darkness — so be it.  

Loki does not resent his brother, but oftentimes Loki despises his lightness . What some might say is endearing — the inability for Thor to give up — is just a burden. Even now, Thor still thinks he can change Loki, can fix him. Thor still thinks that by vouching for Loki and providing Loki a place to live and surrounding Loki with Thor’s friends that he can mend Loki’s broken soul and bring back the brother he once had. Thor is still in denial — he refuses to grasp the very simple concept that Thor’s brother — the Second Prince of Asgard, God of Lighthearted Mischief — is long dead. And so Thor continues to try. But light yelling into the darkness does not change it.  

And even now, with Thor looming above Loki, Loki does not resent his brother.  

But Loki resents Thor’s very being — the core of who Thor is. Thor is a duality; one of naivety and compassion, yet tainted — or perhaps embellished — with a smidge of cruelty and arrogance.  

And as Thor is speaking to Loki, mouth forming words Loki is too tired to hear, Loki simply lies on the floor, limbs relaxed around him, throat sore, and does the only thing he can do when feeling so utterly empty.  

Loki laughs.  

______________________________

Midgard is rather charming in some regards.  

Loki will eventually have to investigate the laundry process, for he has just now made the curious discovery that freshly dried clothes are warm . He suspects they were warmer right after they were dried, but he can still feel the presence of the heat, lingering within the very fabric of his garments. He wonders just how much they were heated up to — would it have burnt his frozen hands at the peak of its fiery glory? 

No, Loki’s hands are too well accustomed to fire now. 

But he doubts that her hands are. He envisions Angel pulling his clothes out of the dryer, her hands touching the same clothes that he has worn, that he will wear, that he is currently touching.  

Yet is it entirely possible Loki is standing around, imagining a scene that never played out, for it was not Angel who brought Loki’s laundry back to him, but his dearest brother. Looking at his pile of clothes again, Loki takes in the telltale signs of Thor. The messily folded shirts stare back at Loki, mocking him.  

He wonders if she ever even did any part of his laundry. Perhaps she only offered it as a way to ease the uncomfortable tension that had arisen earlier. Or rather, (and his stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought) she lugged his laundry basket downstairs and dumped it straight into Thor’s arms. 

Why else would she refuse his help to accompany her?  

A twinge of something rises up within Loki as he realizes she accepted Thor’s offer to bring his clothes back. Or, much more likely, she had pushed the task onto Thor in a desperate attempt to avoid encountering him again.  

Not that Loki could blame her. 

And yet the uncomfortable sensation within Loki only grows, and he realizes that he feels something akin to disappointment. Loki cannot allow himself to feel disappointment. He had long since learned not to expect anything from anyone — or perhaps, much more cynically, to only depend on — to trust — himself.  

Trust, Loki knows, is a fickle concept the naive embrace. Trust itself is ill fated, the certainty of an inevitable betrayal the same as the certainty that one day everyone living on this cursed realm will perish.  

Loki hates Angel. He hates how she pretends to care for him, hates how she imitates Thor, hates how she always finds a way to break him, and Loki hates how Angel makes him feel.  

Loki's silent anger boils inside of him — like the steady countdown of a ticking bomb — manifesting itself out of him as the laundry basket is violently launched across the room. 

He hates how he feels absolutely no satisfaction at the way the freshly clean clothes scatter across the floor, hates how he lost control, and hates how the damned mortal forces him to feel emotions he does not want to feel . 

Sometimes all Loki can do is hate. 

______________________________

The heat from the clothes have long since seeped into the floor. 

The sun is just now setting, dousing Loki’s room in a fiery glow. Warm light spills across Loki’s bookshelves, his impeccably made bed, the clothes strewn around his floor. Loki sits on the ground, bare of his illusions, allowing himself to just be .  

Staring across the room, he notices tendrils of light carefully curling around the air, miniscule particles of dust dancing in the golden glow. This is a gold Loki enjoys. Unlike the brash, loud character of Thor’s gold — of Asgard’s gold, this is a much softer, gentle color. The comforting hue reminds Loki of his mother, and against his will, he feels a wall of despair beginning to build within his chest.  

For a second, Loki loses himself as the wall crashes over him. He drops his head, allowing his hair to dangle in front of his face, obscuring his view of the floating particles. He feels like a child — wants nothing more in this moment than to run to Frigga, for her floral scent to fill his senses as she envelopes him in her arms. What Loki wouldn’t give to have Frigga’s delicate fingers comb through his hair just once more, for her soft lips against his forehead, murmuring words of comfort.  

But he can’t have that. Instead, here he is, sitting on the floor of a glorified prison in the midst of a community of people who hate him, with nothing but Thor to act as his buffer. 

Looking up, Loki gazes at the honeyed light as it glides over a particular heap of clothing. He watches, mesmerized, as the light gently moves, unhurriedly bathing each corner of the fabric in its rich glow.  

If he were still on Asgard, Loki would most likely have been reading, thoroughly immersed in some story or another. The sun would have showered his pages in its quiet glow, lighting the words aflame. He would have taken a stroll in his mother’s gardens, breathing in the sweet scent of her flowers as he sat in his favorite hidden alcove. He would have taken out his book and continued to read, read until the golden hue of the sun was replaced by the tender shine of the moon. Only then would Loki return, serenely walking back to his chambers, stopping only to retrieve a cup of tea, and resume his reading on his balcony.  

Loki wants that. 

Loki wants an afternoon to himself, with no worries plaguing his mind. 

Loki wants to be able to read, and to do so in an environment which permits him to let his guard down. 

Loki wants to sit outside, surrounded by flowers, and watch as the sun transitions into the moon. 

Loki wants to indulge in a hot cup of tea as he watches the moonlight spills across the pages of his book. 

Loki wants so many things — and he can’t have any of them. 

Standing up, Loki decides he has spent enough time reminiscing over what he cannot have today. He feels sticky and hot and cold and hungry and all he wants right now , is a long shower.  

And so Loki walks over to the same pile of clothes, now dull and abandoned by the sun, gazing disapprovingly downwards. Thor is truly an imbecile, for he has not even managed to separate their clothes correctly. Loki is currently staring at a dark green sweatshirt, one he knows for a fact he has never seen before. Tiredly, he tosses it upon his bed and scoops up a clean change of clothes, then turns around and trodds slowly into the bathroom.  

______________________________

Water droplets rain all around Loki, swiftly sliding down his body. 

He doesn’t particularly enjoy showering — it reminds him too much of another substance: denser, stickier, and much more red, trickling down his skin. Loki much prefers baths. Baths, however, render their subject very much vulnerable, and Loki does not fancy risking any more vulnerability than strictly necessary.  

So Loki is standing in the shower, unabashedly soaking up the shallow warmth the water provides. Surely if Thor could see him, his brother would lecture Loki on wasting Midgard’s precious resources. But, Loki reasons, if Stark truly possesses the excess of wealth he boasts of, Loki’s water usage will not be of much concern to the man. And so this is a luxury Loki will grant himself.  

The shower is one place where Loki feels the safest, where he allows his thoughts to wander and drift into otherwise forbidden territories. Today especially has been challenging, and even his muscles seem to ache, the fibers pulling away from each other, trying to rip Loki apart from the inside out. His mind is exhausted, filled with swirling thoughts of Frigga and Angel and Thor, with the occasional Odin and Titan intruding whenever a particular body part cries out.  

And as Loki gazes down at his body, the disfigured canvas of scars stare back at him and he attempts to soothe away the countless aches. No matter how much time has passed and how much magic Loki pours into himself, the pains never seem to retreat. Rationally, Loki knows it doesn’t make sense. He knows his magic is fully capable of healing himself, knows that by all accounts he is healed.  

But Loki also knows he does not imagine the sharp pains coursing through his veins.  

He is fighting himself — the part of himself that does not want the pain to stop. Because all Loki knows is pain, and he fears the absence of pain almost as much as he dreads its glorious presence.  

Loki raises his head, allowing for the stream of water to bruise his face. And if Loki’s closed eyes leak the occasional tear, no one would know.  

______________________________

Loki’s self destructive spiraling is abruptly cut short by three succinct knocks from his bedroom door. Still soaking in the shower, Loki debates whether or not to answer; after all, he truly has no desire to see his brother again today. Or preferably, ever again. Unfortunately, Loki is all too aware that if he does not answer the door to let Thor in, Thor will simply let himself in. And if there’s anything worse than seeing Thor, it will be seeing a displeased Thor while Loki stands nude and wet.  

Reluctantly, Loki turns off his shower, changes into his freshly washed ‘sweatpants’, and leisurely walks towards the door. He is honestly surprised Thor hasn’t invited himself in yet. He is more surprised when he finally opens the door and is promptly met with — not Thor’s brutish face, but the goddamned mortal.  

She stands there, in front of his door, barely out of arm's reach. Loki can’t help but drink her in. He notices her hair, laying loosely around her face, framing her profile. She’s sporting a sweater, much too warm for the present weather. Its collar is stretched out over years of use, teasing his eyes with a fraction of her collarbones peaking through. Her legs are barely covered by absurdly short shorts, and Loki feels the back of his ears heating up. Hurriedly, he averts his eyes, falling down to her feet, once again hugged by soft looking socks — mismatched.  

His scrutinization is interrupted by her voice; so soft.  

“Hey! Sorry if I interrupted you. I heard you were in the shower but I was going around taking everyone’s dinner orders. We’re getting Chinese.” She tilts her head to the side, lifting her chin ever-so-slightly, distractedly exposing the tantalizing skin of her neck. She swallows, and Loki’s eyes discreetly follow the bob of her throat. “I was just wondering if you wanted anything?” 

It takes a moment for Loki to register her question and another for him to process it. She is going to order dinner? For him? And she is asking him for his preference? Loki has not had the privilege of preferring anything in a long, long time. Damn this mortal. 

“I am not familiar with this particular cuisine, nor Midgard’s in particular.” 

She meets his eyes then, and only after does it occur to him that her eyes had been previously glued to his abdomen. His abdomen, he realizes which has been bare this entire interaction. “That doesn’t answer my question.” 

He forces himself to roll his eyes, running a hand through his still dripping hair to hide the scarlet his ears have surely become. “I am saying that I do not have a preference, woman.” 

She lifts her shoulders briefly in a gesture Loki has come to associate with Midgard’s daftness and promptly moves closer to him. Instinctively, Loki takes a step back, then curses himself for doing so. He truly must be losing it, backing away from a defenseless mortal. But she doesn’t push further, instead tilting her head at that angle again, asking him another question.  

“Can I come in?” 

Loki hesitates. He doesn’t understand her motives, doesn’t know if this is a trick the Avengers have set up or perhaps a test designed by his brother. All he knows is that Angel is staring at him with her eyes wide and innocent and completely devoid of deceit.  

Angel must carry magic or Loki must be possessed by the Mind Stone again, for against his will, Loki steps to the side, allowing her to brush past him. The sleeve of her sweater comes into contact with Loki’s stomach, and he jerks away.  

Awkwardly, Loki closes his door and turns to face the mortal, noting how hilariously out of place she looks, standing in the midst of Loki’s domain. With a wave of his hand, the previously scattered articles of clothing fly onto his bed, meticulously folding themselves. Angel’s surprised, quiet gasp does not escape his notice. She walks towards his bed, small hand landing on Thor’s sweatshirt.  

“Take that when you leave.” Loki internally bristles at his own tone, noticing how Angel’s shoulders locked up when he spoke and did not relax when he stopped. “Please,” he adds. 

To his surprise (again), Angel approaches him, sweater in hand. “Why?” 

At this, Loki is caught off guard. Without warning, he is overwhelmed by distaste. His patience has been tested over and over again, and he does not have even a drop more to deal with this mortal’s incompetence. His hatred for her rushes back, multiplied a thousandfold. Who does she think she is and why will she not leave Loki alone? Why must she cut short his relaxation, intrude upon his personal space, inquire after him when he knows — he knows — she does so unwillingly? Why is she holding up Thor’s goddamned sweater, pretending not to know why Loki hates it so? As if she doesn’t know it belongs to Thor. 

In fact, Loki is positive she is intimately aware of whom it belongs to, undoubtedly so. He hates Angel, hates her for reluctantly offering her help, hates her for her smoothies, hates her for asking him about his preferences. Briefly, he envisions snapping her neck. Effortlessly. But the image makes him recoil, bringing about not satisfaction, but horror.  

His fists clench, his broken fingernails once again digging into bruised skin. It costs Loki an immeasurable amount of self control not to simply throw her out, hurl her from his quarters. Instead, he snaps at her. 

“Girl, do not test my patience. I am warning you, it has been a very long day and if you do not exit extremely promptly, it will not end well for one of us.” 

Loki hates the way her shoulders tense up again, hates the way she physically flinches away at his dismissal.  

Loki hates how though he can sense her increasing heartbeat, her nervousness, Angel still looks him in the eye and informs him, in a terrified voice coated with forced calm, “I’m sorry to hear that Loki. I added this sweater into your laundry after it was done, but I should have known it would not have been welcome.” 

Loki hates how she then drops her eyes, staring intently at her mismatched socks.  

“I’ll just leave your dinner outside.” 

Loki hates how she leaves, her hands gripping Thor’s — his — sweatshirt tightly, footsteps moving at a much brisker pace.  

Loki hates how Angel closed off, how he closed her off.  

Loki hates how Angel clearly did do his laundry. 

Loki hates how Angel thought of him, giving him an extra sweatshirt, offering him a choice for dinner. 

Loki hates Angel more than he hates Thor, more than he hates Odin. 

Loki hates Angel more than he hates the Mad Titan.  

The only person Loki hates more than Angel is himself. 

Fuck. 

______________________________ 

We don't even ask for happiness, just a little less pain.  

- Charles Bukowski 

______________________________

Previous Chapter

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Taglist: @spacedaddydinn @doct0rstrange

#Loki Laufeyson #loki x reader #Loki Laufeyson x Reader #the hell in your eyes #thiye #loki x you #friends to enemies to lovers #reader insert #loki fic #jouce writes

[ikeromantic]

Trust

A Mitsuhide Akechi fanfiction, approx. 2200 words. This scene takes place toward the end of Ch. 13 of the Romantic Route. SPOILERS!

First: Mitsuhide and the Maiden

Previous: Base Villains

Mitsuhide felt a surge of incoherent rage. His beloved little mouse stood beside the shogun, her arm in his iron-grip. Her face was bruised - and likely more of her that he couldn’t see. Her clothes were torn and bloody. If Ashikaga thought this would bring him mercy, he was badly mistaken.

She turned her eyes from the shogun to look at Mitsuhide. There was a world of hurt in that gaze, but strength too. Despite all she’d suffered, she was angry and determined. There was even a flare of joy in her at seeing him.

“You base villains,” Ashikaga shrieked. He waved the guards to attack, but the daimyo’s men didn’t move.

Motonari ignored the shogun completely. He gave the chatelaine a saucy grin. “Hey! Yer lookin’ pretty good fer a prisoner, m’lady!” He even dipped in a slight bow to her, though the effect was somewhat lacking given the blood spatter and gore on him.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, my love.” Mitsuhide took a step toward her.

She smiled, though the expression clearly caused her pain. “I knew you’d come.”

“I hoped you would say that, which is why I endeavored to come just as you needed me.” Mitsuhide couldn’t help the genuine affection that colored his voice when he spoke to her. He was still angry - still planning to tear the shogun’s body into pieces - but that rage burned right beside the fires of his love. One did not contradict the other. He knew he didn’t need to gentle himself for her. “I will have you free and in my arms in a moment.”

“Guards!” Ashikaga shrieked, his voice cutting through the nearby sounds of battle. He was not a man that liked being ignored.

The door of the side room burst open, spilling the shogun’s personal guards into the room. Where the daimyo’s men would not obey, these men were eager to do as ordered. There were only four of them, and at least one looked as if he was already half-dead.

“I expected more from you, Yoshiaki. It seems your popularity has taken a plunge.” Mitsuhide lifted his sword, ready to fight.

Motonari laughed. “Aww, if I’da known you were so hard-up fer help, I might not a’ betrayed ya so quick.”

The shogun’s face flushed crimson and he shook with anger. “You - you fools think to mock me? Know your position!” He jerked the chatelaine in front of him. “Besides, I have a hostage. You are mad to go against me!”

“I am quite sane, I assure you,” Mitsuhide’s eyes narrowed. The shogun clearly wasn’t. Mitsuhide was willing to kill a man for making his little one cry. For this . . . death was too easy. “Yoshiaki, this world has moved on. It has no more need for men like you. Because you fail to grasp this, I have come to assist you off the stage myself.”

The shogun’s eyes were wide, though with fear or anger, it was impossible to say. “Insolence! Make your jokes while you have breath for them.” Then he smiled and pulled a dagger from his belt. He pressed the sharp edge to the chatelaine’s throat.

She gasped and froze.

Behind them, one of the servants - no, Mitsuhide realized - Kyubei! - began to step forward. Mitsuhide gave the barest shake of his head. An attack now would mean death for his little mouse. The right moment would come.

“See they do not approach me,” Ashikaga ordered his men.

The half-dead looking guard bowed to the shogun. “As you command, majesty.” Then he turned his gaze to the intruders. Mitsuhide saw in them the fires of fanaticism, and the darkness of death approaching. This man had no fear, not anymore. He pulled a long sword and held it up. “I sentence you to death, kitsune. It is too light a punishment for turning on the shogun, but it is the best I can mete out.”

Motonari gave an excited shout. “Hell yes! Looks like one o’ yer men has got some backbone!”

Yoshiaki hissed something to the chatelaine and then pulled her to the corner of the room.

“I’ll take the room. You can have the shogun.” Motonari didn’t wait for a reply, just charged forward. He was immediately met by the half-dead fanatic, who despite his wounds, was clearly the best of the remaining fighters. “Let’s have us some fun!”

“This will be no game,” the fanatic’s expression was grim.

They exchanged blows, their blades screeching as they met again and again.

Mitsuhide shook his head. Mouri was mad, but at least that had its usefulness. At least this provided him an opening. He dodged past the remaining guards toward the shogun.

“You rush to your end,” Yoshiaki shouted. He pushed past the doors to a small balcony. It was a bare ledge with no railings. Below, the battle was slowing as men died or surrendered. Their cries were carried up to the tenshu on the cold night air.

The chatelaine went with him, the dagger still on her throat kept her still and compliant.

“If you so much as twitch, I’ll throw you to your death,” the shogun hissed at her.

Mitsuhide sheathed his sword and pulled the matchlock from his back. There wasn’t enough space on that narrow ledge to fight. In this, the tanegashima was a better choice. If his aim held true. He checked the load and primed it to fire. Then he pointed it at the shogun. “Do not move.”

The shogun pressed his knife hard against the chatelaine’s throat, drawing a thin line of blood. “It is you who should be careful of his movements.” He grinned, already feeling he’d won. “Now lower your rifle.”

“You can only kill her once, Yoshiaki.”

“Disarm yourself and kneel, kitsune! Do it, or I will kill her!”

Despite his words, Mitsuhide was terrified. Seeing the blood on her neck only drove home the very real possibility that she would die here, now. He would still finish his mission. The shogun would die. But his little one . . . The thought froze his limbs and stopped his heart. He told himself that Ashikaga would kill her anyway, even if he dropped the gun and knelt. Yet . . . if there was a chance that he would let her go . . .

Seeing Mitsuhide’s conflict, Yoshiaki’s smile widened. “Call off your troops and I will let the girl live. Do it, and I may even forgive you for turning against me.”

Mitsuhide didn’t move.

“Now, or must I say it louder?!”

He ignored the shogun and studied the face of his beloved little one. She saw the decision he had to make. And she understood. Without moving, she gifted him her trust. His little mouse knew the risk he was about to take and accepted it, as he must. Her bravery made his chest hurt and his throat close. But he could only honor it now by taking action.

As Mitsuhide took aim, the chatelaine lifted her hands and in a practiced motion, grabbed the shogun’s knife arm. “Now,” she shouted. She had only seconds that she could hold Ashikaga at bay.

Mitsuhide sent a prayer to whatever gods or devils may be listening, and he pulled the trigger.

The moment stretched. He saw the powder light, heard the explosion of the bullet as it left the barrel. Watched Ashikaga’s ribs buckle under the impact, and his blood stained the cloth around the wound.

“What?” The shogun looked down at himself in confusion. His grip on the knife loosened. The blade fell to the ground.

The messenger stopped fighting Motonari in the room behind them and flung himself toward Mitsuhide. There was death in his eyes. He knew he couldn’t survive this attack, but he was determined to avenge the shogun as his last living act.

Kyubei lunged forward, putting himself between Mitsuhide and the nearly dead warrior. His sword took the man in his gut, stopping him before he could so much as breathe on Akechi. The hate in the messenger’s eyes burned to emptiness as his life-blood spilled. Kyubei watched impassively until he was sure the man was really dead.

“Nice kill,” Motonari remarked. “Who’re you?”

“No one.” Kyubei gave a half smile and pulled his sword free.

Mitsuhide spared a moment to clap him on the shoulder. Their eyes met. There was much to discuss, of course, but it could wait. The shogun was dead, the chatelaine was alright, and there were yet plans to put in motion.

“Mouri, go make sure Kennyo isn’t overwhelmed. There is still fighting on the grounds below us. Everything must be calm before the shogun arrives.”

“Yer losin’ yer mind, kitsune. The shogun’s right there.” Mouri’s eyes narrowed as Yoshiaki staggered to the edge of the narrow ledge. His legs shook. His chest spasmed as he gasped for air. And then, Yoshiaki Ashikaga fell.

Mitsuhide closed the distance between him and his little mouse. He pulled her tight against him. “You are alright.”

“I know.” She snuggled closer.

“Guess I’ll leave ya two lovebirds and go see to Kennyo,” Motonari said gruffly. “Ya did good princess.”

She didn’t look up to watch him go, though Mitsuhide’s eyes followed the pirate until he was gone from sight. Then his attention was back on his little one. Her deep, shaking breaths slowed and steadied. “I hope one day, awful things like this don’t have to happen anymore.”

“As do I.” He stroked her back gently. He had wanted to insulate her from this. To protect her. But his little mouse was strong enough to see death and recover from it. She’d proven herself yet again to be his match. Here she was, injured and in shock, yet she still held strength. Though he hadn’t believed he could love her more, he felt a surge of affection for this strange, sweet woman.

A dry cough from the room behind them eventually broke their moment of peace. Kyubei, still dressed as one of the daimyo’s servants, stood beside . . . Ashikaga Yoshiaki. Or, his replacement.

“Sorry to interrupt. I was just wondering when you’d clear this place out. My room is a mess!” The shogun wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Kyubei nudged him. “The shogun would never apologize.”

“Ah, right. Interrupting you was an annoyance. How dare you embrace and not regard my entrance with the appropriate obeisance?” The shogun smiled.

Mitsuhide smiled back. “I see. My apologies to you then. Shall I kneel?”

The chatelaine looked down at the ground below for a moment as if to check that Ashikaga’s body was still there. Then she looked back up at his double. “You - who? No wait! You’re the scribe! We met you in Kyoto at the shogun’s estate.”

“Riku, at your service, princess.” The shogun bowed. “Ashikaga kept my service while he was in hiding here, and eventually brought me out to scribe for him. Just as Akechi suspected he would.”

“And you made contact with my spy as instructed, I see,” Mitsuhide smiled.

“I did. He told me your idea and, at first I wasn’t interested but -”

“I am very persuasive,” Kyubei grinned.

Riku, now the shogun’s double, nodded. “And the daimyo agreed to go along with it, provided his family was spared. So here we are.” He looked a little nervous.

“You will make an excellent shogun in exile,” Mitsuhide reassured him. “All you need do is enjoy the remaining wealth of the Ashikaga clan and stay out of Oda’s way.”

“I will,” Riku’s expression was determined, if a little pale. “It’s more than I ever could have hoped for as a mere scribe.”

Mitsuhide nodded. “I will leave you in Kyubei’s care for now. He will alert me if you need support.” His eyes fell to his little mouse. “I have more important tasks this day.”

He spared not a heartbeat more before lifting her into his arms. It felt like they’d been apart forever, though it was really only a few days. Mitsuhide carried her past the few lingering fights, and into one of the daimyo’s guest rooms. It was quieter here, though the smell of gunpowder and blood still hung on the air.

“I would take you to Kyoto, but first . . .” he brushed a finger along the edge of her jaw. Her cheek was swollen and bruised. “We must see to your injuries. What happened?”

She told him about her capture as he gently rubbed balm into her wounds. Mitsuhide could tell it stung - both the ointment and relating her capture. But he was proud of her for trying to outsmart Ashikaga’s man, and for fighting back.

“I am sorry I wasn’t there to protect you,” he said softly, and kissed her forehead.

She put her hand to his cheek and shook her head. “You can’t always be right beside me. I don’t expect you to be. I did my best to keep myself safe and . . . I knew if I couldn’t, that you would rescue me. And you did.”

Mitsuhide felt a sharp warmth in his eyes and realized he might cry. Her trust in him . . . he simply didn’t have words for the way it made him feel. “I love you, little one.”

“And I love you.”

Next: Tears of Joy

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen mitsuhide #mitsuhide akechi #otome guys #otome #fanfiction #fanfic

[superhappyyellowrainbowsmoo-blog]

Cut the Ties #2

The second chapter is here!!

Thanks and Credit to @professionallydeadinside for bringing Muriel into the world ^^

Chapter Two

'My Lords.' Duke spoke.

A meeting was organised quickly and within minutes the four lords spilled into the usual meeting spot, in the church. They all sat accordingly, all wondering the reason to as why they had been summoned.

'Duke,' Alcina Dimitrescu began, she sat with one leg crossed over the over. 'My time is very important, it better not go to waste.'

Heisenberg muttered something under his breath, he was ignored.

'Of course, Lady Dimitrescu.' Duke said. 'This will not take up too much of your precious time.' He smiled then coughed. 'I am afraid it is about our dear Muriel.'

'Is she OK?!' Donna cried, bouncing out of her chair.

'She is, she is Miss Beneviento. Little Muriel is within my carriage sleeping off a rather bad dream.'

He was lying, stuck on the ceiling, making sure not to make a sound was the little girl. She strained her ears as she listened into the meeting.

'Bad dream?' Whimpered Moreau, genuinely sad.

'It was a dream of Mother Miranda.'

The room fell silent, the name was taboo.

Heisenberg scoffed. 'So the kid had a nightmare, it means nothing.'

'Muriel spoke of cutting ties to Mother Miranda, after all, they do share a bond.' Duke explained

'No any more, Muriel fought and won against that... that demon!' Donna said. 'As Karl said, it was just a dream, I bet a lot is on her mind at the moment.'

'True but,' Duke tried.

'There is no buts about it, Duke! Mother Miranda is gone, she will not come back to the Village. She'd have to get through us and an army of lycans before she can lay her hands on Muriel!'

Muriel watched on and felt herself smiling only to have regret eat away at it for having been so miserable to Donna this morning at breakfast, she sighed.

'I am sorry to have to tell you Miss Beneviento, but their bond still lies, the pair merely wounded the other, they are still one.' Duke carried on.

Donna huffed and sat back down, she was too angry to talk back.

'What ever do you mean, Duke?' Alcina asked.

'Miranda and Muriel are made of the same blood, she made sure of that thinking a child would happily obey her, of course she did not expect Muriel to bond with you four instead.'

'Thank god.' Karl nodded. 'She's a good kid.'

'But, Muriel is young and will only grow stronger, Mother Miranda has already picked up on that not to mention she knows the girl's weaknesses.' Duke said in a low tone, his eyes darting to Donna. 'I'd hate to see the lot of you harmed because of Muriel.'

'I'd gladly take anything from that BITCH if it meant Muriel's safety.' Donna spoke bluntly. It was the first time anyone heard Donna speak with such force.

'And with that, I hope you are prepared to do anything to make sure Muriel is safe? The lot of you?' Duke asked the room. 'Even if it means hurting her?'

No one spoke, unsure of what Duke meant. Half of them were worried.

Duke cleared his throat. 'Lady Dimitrescu, does The Dagger of Death's Flowers mean anything to you.'

The Lady's eyes widened. 'Duke, you go to far.'

'To stop Mother Miranda, I must.'

'No.' She said.

'It is the only way to ensure their tie is cut.'

Muriel gasped, is that what Mother Miranda meant in her dream? A literal cut?

'Your plan is to kill Muriel?' Alcina sneered. 'You better be joking.'

'We use it and draw out the Mold in Muriel's Cadou.'

'I will not take that risk, that blade was designed to kill me, it is too powerful.'

'Can't we just use it and kill Miranda?' Karl asked.

'No, as Muriel Cadou lives so does Miranda. It's the only way, I am afraid.'

Donna sobbed, her head in her hands.

Alcina glared to Duke. 'You are done here, you talk about harming our girl and you've upset my sister, that's all you have done this meeting.'

My Lady, you must listen to me-.'

'You have seconds to leave this village before I cut you up and make enough lard to last me a hundred years.'

Duke was taken aback then laughed it off. 'Of course, it has been a pleasure, my lords.'

Muriel watched as the Duke shuffled himself away, she almost wanted to call out for him but knew she had remain quiet.

As the merchant left, the lords remained in the room.

'Donna?' Alcina asked, rubbing the woman's arm.

'I'm fine.' She lied, poorly.

'Hmm, does this knife exist?' Karl asked.

'Yes, too long ago a man tried to assassinate me with it, he almost won if it not for my daughters.' Alcina said. 'I keep it buried along with the man, it was an honourable fight.'

'So it is in the castle?' Karl pried.

'It is, hidden and out of sight.'

'But if Duke knows about the dagger then surely other people do too?' Moreau got worried.

The thought didn't hit until now, Moreau was right. All it took was for Miranda to realise this.

'Then, I'll have it ready for relocation. I know a place.' Alcina said, straightening herself out. 'Good evening to you all.'

Alcina nodded and turned her heel, making her way out of the church.

Muriel quietly followed the tall woman.

#Muriel #Resident Evil 8 #Resident Evil Village #donna beneviento #karl heisenberg #moreau salvatore #fanfiction #chapter two #Alcina Dimitrescu

[inkandpen22]

Otherworldly Kings and Queens (6/?)

Pairing: Peter Pevensie x Female!Reader / Prince Caspian x Female!Reader 

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2k

Part Summary: After calming down the river, Peter and Y/N return to the How to a distressing scene. Then, Y/N meets someone who seems awfully familiar. 

Masterlist

Peter and I arrive back at the How hand-in-hand sometime after sunset. Spending the afternoon by the river with just us seemed to do him a lot of good. We talked for some periods, laid in the grass, and watched the clouds silently for others.  Simply being together in each other's presence was enough to bring peace of mind. 

"Hey Peter," Edmund waves his brother up to the top of the stone structure. 

The eldest Pevensie turns to me, "I'll be right back." 

"No, take your time," I assure him. "I think I'm going to go find your sisters and see if they're hungry." 

He offers me a soft smile and plants a quick peck on my forehead. "See you soon!" 

I watch as the blonde jogs off to join his brother. A content smile creeps up on my lips as I enter the How. Narnians of all sorts are gathered beneath the ground in the golden lit space. They continue working on their weapons and preparing for the battle to come. I hate the idea of battles and wars. There's a constant state of unsettlement leading up to them and all through it. If I could, I would stay in the plush, pillowy, grass under the spring sun all day with Peter. It would be just us in silence, nothing but the sound of birds chirping, the breeze, and rushing water. 

I don't find Susan and Lu in the main area, so I go check for them down the hall in the tomb. Instead, I'm met with three Narnians pressuring Caspian toward the alter. Between the two stone pillars is a sheet of ice with a white/shinny female reaching out. This isn't right. 

"Caspian, no!" I sprint toward them. 

While drawing my katana, I run up the cracked stone table. I dodge a werewolf on the way, slicing its cheek. I leap over the top and onto a dazed Caspian. He falls out of the circle in the dirt and I land in his place. By the hair, I'm yanked to my knees by Nikabrik.  

"Let me go!" I growl, clawing at his fist. 

"Address Her Majesty when you're in her presence!" A hag hisses beside me. 

"So protective," the woman in white comments from the sheet of ice in front of me. "You must be Y/N." 

Her smile is deceiving. She must be the White Witch Peter and the others warned me about. Peter had so many nightmares about her I recall. I witnessed one once when we spent the afternoon in the park. He fell asleep and woke up shaking. 

"Jadis?" I mutter, frightened. 

"I've heard of you too," she smiles lightly. Sweet Edmund mentioned you. Peter did as well. You're his beloved." 

"Beloved?" I question. 

"Oh, so you're not the 'High King Peter's' dear Queen?" She smirks, narrowing her gaze at me knowingly. 

Caspian comes to with a groan as he shifts on the dirt. My sight changes between Jadis and Caspian. 

"What does it matter to you?" I sass the witch. 

"Don't you wonder what it would be like for it to be the two of you ruling all of Narnia? To have a life together..." She insinuates. 

This afternoon comes to mind. The idea of us that way forever, always at peace. There would be no world with Germany. London would be a distant memory. 

I shake my head slowly at the woman, "but the other Pevensies, they-" 

"They would want it to be you and Peter," she assures sweetly. "It only makes sense, doesn't it? For the two young people who love one another to be together as King and Queen." 

"Y/N, don't listen to her," Caspian struggles to speak. 

The hag jabs him in the chest with her staff and he lays back forcibly. Switching my gaze back to Jadis, I instantly start to imagine that life. I can see it in her eyes. Peter and I would wake up each more in a rebuilt Cair Paravel, just as Peter described it. Narnia would free as he envisions it. He could show all of the different lands he's visited. 

"I can make your future with Peter brighter than you could ever imagine," Jadis describes. "You will be his Queen and you two will live a full life in Narnia." 

"My family..." I try to remind myself.  

I find myself gazing into her crystal eyes and seeing the future she describes. Peter and I would happy. He would smile and all of his worries would be gone. 

"They will know you'll be safe and happy here. All I need to make it possible is a drop of your blood," Jadis reaches out her fingertips to me. 

I rise up from my knees, starring into her eyes. Nikabik grabs my hand and sliced my palm. I hiss, holding it close to my chest. 

"My blood?" I whisper. 

"Just to seal the agreement. Just a drop daughter of Eve," she instructs. "A small fee for a life with the boy you're destined to be with forever." 

Her term 'daughter of Eve' snaps me back to reality slightly. I start to question her intentions again. 

"What would be the entirety of the arrangement?" 

"A drop of your blood, I become alive again, and I make the world a safe and better place for you two," she sells the offer so well. "A life, a warm and loving life with Peter..." 

Chills course over my skin. A life, the perfect one. Peace by the river, harmony in Narnia, each day with the boy who's always been in my life. He knows me better than anyone. 

All I can do is stare at Jadis as I raise my palm to her. 

"Y/N!" Peter's voice echos through the tomb.

I'm knocked to the floor onto Caspian with a grunt. I lay on the floor beside him in a weak daze. He moves me so my headrests in his lap. 

"Are you okay?" Caspian checks on me. 

"Peter Dear," I hear the witch mutters to Peter standing just feet away. "I've missed you." 

Caspian's face is blurry. There's more chatter in the room as my mind starts to get sorted. Slowly but surely, I start to recall all that just occurred.

"Lucy!" He shouts needily. He glances back down at me. "You'll be okay Y/N! She was hypnotizing you." 

"I'm sorry," I apologize breathlessly to the prince as he tries to help me. 

Lucy kneels next to me, across from Caspian. As he brushes his hand over my hair gently, she pours some of her healing liquid into my mouth. 

"It'll help you," she promises. 

 I start to remind myself that Jadis is evil and all of the horrible things she's done. Everything around me is a blur and I feel almost out of touch with reality. What she described, felt so real. 

Then, there's a shatter. Soon, Peter is then at my side, brushing my hair from my face. He takes me away from Caspian, moving me to rest against his chest. His arms keep me close to him. Edmund appears too, standing behind his brother and younger sister.  

"What did she say to you?" He asks urgently. 

"Nothing," I struggle to form the words. "She-" 

"She was going to make Y/N Queen. She offered her Narnia," Caspian announces at Peter, but loud enough for the entire room to hear. He rises to his feet, gripping the handle of his sword. "She offered her a life with you." 

"This is all your fault!" Peter barks at Caspian. "If you weren't so naive, this wouldn't have happened to Y/N!" 

"Peter!" Susan calls his name sharply. "Fighting won't fix this." 

"She knew me," I whisper as I begin to process everything fully with Lucy's serum. "She knew everything." 

I shiver at the thought and Peter wraps his arms around me tighter. 

"You're okay now," Peter comforts in my ear. 

"She's wicked," Edmund states sternly. 

"This is all my fault," Caspian swallows hard. 

I stare off at the morale of Aslan on the wall in front of me. The fire beneath him makes his eyes glow. I can practically feel the disappointment raiding from the massive lion. I've never made his acquaintance, but in my heart I know he wouldn't approve of my weakness. I was willing to give my blood to an evil witch in exchange for a lifetime guaranteed with Peter. I almost sold my soul to the devil practically. 

"She should rest," Susan suggests. 

"I'll take her," Peter agrees. 

With some help from Edmund, he picks me up. Caspian moves to help, but Peter offered him a warning glare. While carrying out of the tomb to down the hall where we sleep, I can feel the quick rate of Peter's heart in his chest. The sound and Lucy's serum makes me sleepy, I wonder if it's supposed to do that. 

"It appeared so nice..." I mutter against his chest. 

"What was that?" Peter voices and I can feel the vibration from him. 

"Can't you see it? Simple days and hours of peace," I yawn. 

As I drift off to sleep, I think I hear Peter say something, but it slips away into my unconscious. 

 ____________________________

The sound of waves of the river is the first thing I hear when I ease back into consciousness. I press my palms down on either side of me and feel plush grass blades between my fingers. My eyes flicker open to reveal bright golden sunlight. I can feel the warmth of the sun's rays seeping into my skin. I turn my head to the side, expecting to see Peter. Instead, I'm met with the large eyes of a lion. I scream and scoot back as far as I can manage until I hit a tree with a thud just feet away. 

"It's okay, Y/N," the lion voices calmly. 

I bring my knees to my chest comfortably and rest against the tree. A sense of contentment rushes over me at the sound of the lion speaking. His smile and knowing eyes ease my mind.

Aslan. 

"We've met before haven't we?" I ask as soon as it pops into my mind. 

He nods, "on many occasions. You simply know me by another name." 

“I’m dreaming,” I conclude. 

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t real,” Aslan determines. 

"How come you've never shown yourself before?" 

The lion chuckles, "must I show myself for you to believe in me?" 

"No, I suppose not," I giggle. 

"Just because you don't see me, that doesn't mean I'm not with you, but you already knew that," he speaks wisely. 

It's strange, we've never met this way, but I swear I feel as though I'm speaking with an old friend. There's an immense calmness in his presence. 

"I'm sorry that I was tempted by Jadis," I apologize feeling terribly guilty. 

"You're human. There will always be temptations. The important part is that you didn't act on them," he assures. 

"Is it wrong that I considered it so I would have a life with Peter here in Narnia? I'm not even supposed to be here," I shrug. 

"Who told you that?" Aslan frowns. "Y/N, everything happens for a reason. You are meant to be here." 

"What possible purpose do I serve?" I snicker, mocking myself. 

"Only you can come to that conclusion," the lion instructs. 

My mind wonders to Caspian and Peter. Aslan would understand. He could give me real advice. He knows everything. Besides, I can talk to him. 

"Caspian and Peter, which-" 

"In all due time," he predicts what I'm going to ask. 

Then, his features shift as though he's heard something stirring in the woods around us. 

"You have something on your mind," I conclude. 

"You've always been perceptive," Aslan compliments with a light chuckle. "I've always liked that about you." 

"What is it?" I now act as a therapist to the lion. 

"There's something you'll have to do, but I believe you're ready," he announces as he shifts from his laid position to standing. 

"Well, aren't you going to tell me what it is?" 

"You'll see. For now, you're needed," he states steadily and starts to stroll away into the wood. 

"Needed? Where?" I frown as I watch Aslan walk away. 

What is happening? What do I have to do? He says that and then leaves? I have so many questions! 

"Y/N! Wake up!" A voice echoes around me. 

_______________________

Masterlist

Tags: @blackbirddaredevil23 @rangergranger11 @hyperactiveravenclaw

#narnia #edmund #prince caspian #narnia imagine #caspian x reader #peter pevensie #peter pevensie x reader #lucy pevensie #edmund pevensie

[sonoftatooine]

Whumptober 2021

DAY 6: ‘TOUCH AND GO’ - TOUCH STARVED / HUNGER

Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Sheev Palpatine

Warnings: Abuse, starvation, solitary confinement

Summary: Prequel to my raised as a Sith Anakin AU where Anakin saves Padmé from execution by the Separatists, here, here and here. A young Vader defies his master, and he pays the price.

***

Curled up in the pitch darkness of the cell that his master had thrown him into three days past, Darth Vader, second apprentice to the Sith Lord Darth Sidious, wrestled down the urge to moan in pain as he wrapped his arms tight around his midriff in a futile attempt to soothe the gnawing ache deep in his stomach. It had been three days since he had been given even so much as half an old ration bar to eat. Three days since he had seen the slightest sliver of light or spoken to another being, organic or droid. Three days that he was only able to count because of the small ration of water he was given through a hatch in the wall what he presumed was each morning—enough to keep him alive but nowhere near what was needed to relieve the the dryness in his mouth, nor the unrelenting headache that was pounding behind his eyes and wrapping around his skull like a vice. He felt sick and dizzy, and he had to fight the instinct to cry. It would do him no good—it would only waste water.

Another groan threatened to escape him as a particularly severe pang of hunger laced through his abdomen. The familiar tang of blood filled his mouth as he bit down hard on his lip to suppress it. His master could well be monitoring him, and any display of weakness would do little to convince him to put an end to his punishment. He wondered how long the man intended to keep him here this time, without food, with barely any water. Surely...surely it wouldn't be much longer. It wouldn't— It couldn't— But his transgression—

Oh Force, his transgression had been really bad this time.

He hadn't meant to disobey. He hadn't. He hadn't defied his master in years—not after the first few times he had balked at being brought...fodder to feed his growing power in the Dark Side, as Lord Sidious liked to call it. But those had been criminals and scum and slavers, people whom nobody would miss and could best serve the Galaxy by perishing on his blade. The trembling padawan that had been dumped at his feet, barely able to hold the lightsaber she had been thrown straight as his master prowled around them, hissing at him to prove his mettle against the Jedi and strike her down—well, that had been...different. He had fought her, of course, and won easily, but when it came to strike the final blow, something had stayed his hand. The look in her eyes, perhaps, wide and terrified and full of tears. Or the fact that she must have been much the same age as he was—fifteen or sixteen, he thought? Whatever it was, it had frozen him stock still above her, his saber pointed towards her throat, and no amount of cajoling, taunting or threats from his master could make him draw back and deal the blow.

It had done her no good in the end. Lord Sidious had killed her in his place, and his rage afterwards had been terrible.

It had only been after he'd taken out the worst of his fury on his wayward apprentice that he had grabbed him by the hair, aching, hardly able to stand, and dragged him down to the small prison cell that he had first kept him in after he'd been stolen from Qui-Gon Jinn's custody on Naboo. The pain was tolerable—he had become accustomed to his master's cold but violent temper by now—but the cell... The cell always wore him down.

It was not necessarily the hunger and the thirst. Hunger and thirst were common even amongst the masters on Tatooine (with the notable exception of the Hutts), and amongst the planet's slaves even more so. Such things were well known to him, deep in his bones. But then, it had always been tempered by the loving embrace of his mother and the warm presence of his friends. Now, he had nothing like that. Only Tyranus, who loathed and resented him as an unnecessary waste of time and effort, and Sidious, whose touches brought pain more than comfort, and only offered him scraps of kindness as a reward for good behaviour. Here, in the dark, he only had misery and isolation and an ache in his gut that paled in comparison to the ache in his chest that was the absence of Shmi Skywalker. Like a hole that had been punched right through his heart.

Vader swallowed dryly as he tried, without success, to ease the soreness of his throat. He could feel a sudden surge of resentment growing within him, familiar and dangerous. It wasn't fair. Lord Sidious was as much Tyranus' master as he was his, but he never treated him this way. He didn't lock him up and starve him of both sustenance and sentient company. He let him see and speak to other people, didn't punish him for not bowing down like a slave to his owner in every aspect of his life. Yes, he was a lot younger than Tyranus—not yet even a man, the snobbish Count had a habit of sneering within his earshot—but both of them had become Sidious' apprentices at much the same time. He had been a Sith just as long as Dooku, and their shared master didn't even want the man as a permanent apprentice. So why was it him who was treated like—

His anger was well on the way to turning into a raging inferno by the time he managed to stamp it back down again. He mustn't think of such things. If he ever wanted to get out of this cell, he mustn't think of such things.

He had no way of knowing how much time passed before he heard the pneumatic hiss of his cell door being activated—it could have been minutes, hours. The sound was almost deafening after so long of silence, and the light which flooded into the cell from the other side of the door fairly blinded him. He blinked, dazed, stretching out his senses to identify who it was that was entering the cell. His mind brushed up against a horribly familiar presence, vast and cold and empty like a dark chasm in the Force. His master.

Still barely able to see, he scrambled to his knees, head bowed and properly subservient as he fought to keep himself from shaking. He could hear the hiss of soft robes dragging against the floor—the only warning he had before his chin was caught in a punishing grip, and his head was wrenched upwards to meet his master's gaze. Blinking away the spots in his vision, he stared up into what little he could see of Lord Sidious' face, shrouded in shadows, expression hard and cold with displeasure.

"Well, my apprentice," he croaked, his eyes gleaming like a hungry anooba's under the shadow of his hood. "Have you learnt your lesson yet?"

"Master..." Vader's throat was so parched that his voice was almost as dry and cracked as Lord Sidious'. He trembled under the man's gaze, trying to shrink in on himself and hating how pathetic he felt. "Master, please—"

Sidious' lips twisted into a wicked smile, teeth flashing dangerously.

"'Please'?," he taunted. "'Please' what, Vader? Do you believe you have paid sufficient penance for your transgression?"

Vader shut his eyes tight, forcing down the tears that were threatening to well up beneath his lids. He mustn't show weakness in front of his master. It would only make him angry.

Of course, disobedience made him angry too, and Vader had already shown him defiance beyond the limited patience with him the man possessed.

"I will accept your judgement, master" he said, because what else could he say when anything but complete subservience would mean further punishment? He wished his master would let go of his chin, so he could bow his head and hide from those piercing eyed behind a curtain of hair. But Sidious did not let him go, held firm and forced him to stare up into his twisted face, without reprieve. His gaze seemed to burrow into his skull like a laser, and Vader was sure that, without even bothering to call upon the Force, he could see past the lie he had so clumsily pasted over the truth of his feelings, even as he tried to bury them so deep down that no one—not even himself— would sense them. The man's smile turned grim and cold.

"Will you now?," he sneered. "How generous of you. And if I choose to keep you here until I deem you adequately punished? Will you accept it then?"

Vader trembled. He would do it, he knew. Lord Sidious was not in the habit of making idle threats.

"Master...," he whimpered hoarsely. "Master, please. Please forgive me. I-I'll obey. I've learnt my lesson. Please—”

Sidious smirked.

"Forgive you?"

The hand that had been holding his chin in a vice-like grip moved to slide up to his cheek in a gesture that, if not for his cruel words and the hard gleam in his yellow eyes, might have felt gentle, almost affectionate. Even as a worm of disgust—at himself as much as Sidious—twisted violently in his gut, Vader couldn't help but lean into the touch, desperate for even the tiniest scraps after so long in isolation. He wanted to shut his eyes—anything to pretend that he were somewhere else, with someone else—but he didn't dare. Not when one wrong move could turn the man back to icy fury at any moment.

"Perhaps I will forgive you." Sidious' fingers trailed down his cheek one last time before he drew back and suddenly, with only the slightest of warnings in the Force, struck him such a hard blow across the face that he toppled hard onto the floor. Vader let out a soft, startled little cry as pain jarred through his shoulder, his mechno hand shooting up to clutch at his burning cheek. "Once I believe you are properly contrite."

There was a whisper of robes above him and then something dropped down to the ground in front of his face. He blinked, dazed, at first not quite taking in what he was seeing. A ration bar. Oh Force, a ration bar. He scrambled to grab it, to snatch it up before his master took it away and—

But Sidious was already out in the corridor, and the door was closing behind him.

"Master!," Vader cried. His voice came out as a thin scream as he dashed to the already sealing door. He collided with it hard as he was caged once again in darkness. "Master—!"

For a moment, fear and anger and frustration welled up inside him to the point of explosion, and he let out a broken yell, slamming his metal hand into the durasteel of the door over and over. But it was not long before the exhaustion and sickness from his hunger overcame him and he sank down to the ground in a heap of dark robes and trembling misery. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair—

But... But at least he had food now, he thought as he clutched the ration bar possessively to his chest. His master had given him food. Did that mean he was on his way towards forgiving him? Would he let him out soon? How soon? At least...at least, even if it was a few more days, he would have something to stave off the hunger. He could make it last. He could make it last until his master decided to let him out. Yes.

All he needed to do was obey—truly obey—and then Lord Sidious would show him mercy.

#whumptober2021 #no.6 #touch starved #hunger #fandom #fic #abuse #starvation #solitary confinement #star wars #star wars fic #star wars au #anakin skywalker #sheev palpatine #anakin & palpatine #sith anakin #raised as a sith anakin #suitless vader #mine #my fic #sfw

[ammocharis]

OC Interview: Vatna

Thanks for the tag @cleverblackcat, @mageofholyandraste, @darethshirl! It sounds fun!

Introduction

This event was organized a few weeks prior to the Winter Palace ball. Ambassador Josephine Montilyet had invited a few Orlesian journalists to Skyhold to interview the newly appointed Inquisitor.

Can you introduce yourself?

Vatna Einarsdotten Selkesdotten of Two Falcon Hold. (a moment of silence) In the Frostback Mountains. (another moment of silence as the interviewers wait for her to say something else) Inquisitor of the Second Inquisition. (it seems that she won’t say anything more, so one of the journalists asks the next question)

What are your gender identity, orientation, and relationship status?

Is that what you ask every Lowlander? (grumbles) Alright. I see myself a woman. Who I invite or don’t invite to my bed is my very own matter. I am unmarried and have never been before. If you’re curious, yes, the Avvar may marry multiple times in their life if they wish so. Does this answer satisfy you?

Where and when were you born?

I was born in Two Falcon Hold, eighteen... no, nineteen winters ago. (she corrects herself as she remembers that winter came and went when she was away from home, making her one winter older than when she left)

What is your weapon of choice and fighting style?

I am a mage. Unlike most spellweavers in your Circles, we in the mountains train with all sort of weapons, just like any other warrior. I prefer fighting in close quarters. When I came of age, I chose an axe as my preferred weapon. It was commissioned from the dwarves of Orzammar. The blade is engraved with runes and the handle has lyrium core that I can easily channel my magic through. It has been... misplaced for the first few months that I spent with the Inquisition, but it was recovered. Fortunately, the gods blessed me with another weapon in the meantime - the fire-staff that belonged to the Avvar-Mother. I’ve been told this topic is a source of confusion, but I’m not sure how to explain it better. Yes, I do use both an axe and a staff now. I had a battleaxe when I arrived into the Lowlands. Then I lost it. Then I claimed the staff of Tyrdda Bright-Axe. Tyrdda was called Bright-Axe because she had a staff with a fire-focusing crystal. But the word ‘axe’ used to mean every hafted weapon. Then I got back my axe, my regular axe... Let’s go to the next question.

Are you happy?

I’ll be happy when the Lady’s Veil is fully repaired and Corypheus lies dead. Until then, I have work to do. Would you be happy if there were world-dooming critters in your house? Because there are. There are cowards in Orlais scheming together with Corypheus, maybe even people you know. (a lady in a pale blue mask exchanges looks with the others and suggests a lighter topic)

Family and friends

What should I say? Just talk about my family and friends? Well, my father is called Einar, my mother is called Selke. In my hold, we take bynames after both our parents, so I actually already revealed their names. My father was born is Two Falcon Hold, my mother moved from another hold further south. They’ve been married for twenty three years now. They were rather mad to promise such a long marriage without extensions. Eighty-eight knots, can you imagine? I mean, they could always as the Thane to cut the rope short if they grew tired of each other... But it works well for them. I hope they’ll live together until it the last knot. (the interviewers prompt her to explain what she meant by knots and ropes) Oh, I run away with that. The number of knots is the number of years the marriage is supposed to last. Before the wedding, the bride ties a number of knots into a rope, and the groom’s task is to untie them. On the wedding day, the bride starts to sing hymns to the Lady of the Skies. The groom begins to untie the knots then. However many he’ll manage to unravel before the hymns ends, that many years they shall be married together. After the promise ends, they can get married again if they wish. But my parents vowed to get married for eighty-eight years right away. Eight is a blessed amount. Eighty-eight, doubly so. I’ve been told the ritual took all day to complete. By the end of it, my mother’s throat was sore and my father’s knuckles were raw. But they got married how they wanted, and the bond has been steadfast for many years now.

I have a younger sister, Hirka. She’s only four winters younger than me but she can be a real brat sometimes. We used to be inseparable as children. Then we both grew a bit. I got my magic and had to spent a lot of time mastering my abilities. She had other things to do too. But she’s my sister no matter what.

I have some (she pauses to rememeber the right word in Common language) aunts and uncles, but most of them and their families live in other holds, so I haven’t seen them a lot. Only a few times, never in some cases. The word still travels through the Mountains, so we do hear news from them every now and then. 

In the end, the whole hold is your kin.

Have you ever run away from home?

Once or twice, I skulked outside of the hold and refused to go back until well after nightfall. But I never really run away, I wouldn’t abandon my family like that.

Would you consider marriage or having children?

I don’t know.

Do you secretly hate any of your friends?

No, I do not. Those who I call my friends, I think as such. I make my dislikes known. Too easily, I’ve been told.

Which friend knows everything about you?

There is someone who knows my soul, but I’m not going to talk about it.

Asked by fans

Are you literate? Have you been to school?

Yes, I can read and write. Not everyone in the Mountains does, but more than you imagine, I think. Augurs, skalds, merchants, those who aspire to be thanes... Many are able to tell the numbers, in order to trade with dwarves, but haven’t practiced beyond that.

The augurs learn how to read so that they may study old magics. I was an apprentice to the Sky Watcher of my hold - uh, a Sky Watcher is like a... priest to the Lady of the Skies. I was supposed to become his successor. So I studied something almost every day since I was eight. One day, I would memorize the shapes of protection sigils, and then try to draw them myself. Another day, I would study the uses of all mushrooms found in caves. But we don’t have any schools like there are in the lowlands. You learn from your mentors and from the gods, and most importantly, from your own mistakes.

The eeriest prediction you made that later came true?

Eeriest? I’m not sure. I dreams of many things. Some come true, but not in the way I imagined them to.

What is something you were embarrassingly late to realise?

I had no idea those lap dogs your Orlesian ladies carry around are really dogs. I’d never guess they share blood with wolves. I thought they’re some sort of magic toy.

Do you have mental or physical problems?

Do you honestly expect me to reveal my weaknesses to you?

What is your current main goal?

As I said before, restore the Veil and kill Corypheus.

Drink or food?

Am I supposed to choose between the two? Food, I guess. I could live on soups and stews, maybe. Does goat milk count as drink or food?

Cats or dogs?

Birds.

Optimist or pessimist?

I learned these words only recently. I must say, I do not fully understand why your sages would divide people like that. Is there someone who truly sees everything in bright colours? And someone who sees everything in black? Isn’t everyone a little bit of this and a little bit of that? Perhaps I’m more on the pessimist side.

Sassy or sarcastic?

Eh, sarcastic.

HAVE YOU EVER:

Have you ever been caught sneaking out?

Yes, I once got so bored with my healing lessons that I decided to sneak out while Jokka wasn’t looking. She of course noticed me right away. I never tried to sneak out again.

Broken a bone?

I broke my left wrist while climbing. My mentor healed it quickly but he left a scar to serve as a reminder to not be so reckless.

Received flowers?

I... (she bits her tongue) Josephine tells me I had received several bouquets of flowers this last week. She had placed them in the guest hall where everyone can enjoy them.

Ghosted someone?

Ghosted? (a man in a green mask explains mirthfully) No, never. I wouldn’t leave someone hanging like that. I’d tell him straight in the face. (she replies sharply)

Pretended to laugh at a joke you didn't get?

I have yet to learn how to pretend so well as to laugh at something I don’t understand or find funny.

~

Tagging (no pressure, of course, this is just for fun): @dreadfutures, @tejaswrites, @serenpedac, @molliehaswords, @crackinglamb, @a11sha11fade, @rakshadow, @samuraisaucefrites, @noire-pandora, @1000generations

#oc interview #dragon age #vatna #avvar #watch the skies #long post

[ricksroaches]

Y/N part 1 - Dysphoria ch. 5

pairing: Yoongi x Reader, OT7 x Reader (platonic)

summary: Y/N has an accident at a Halloween party that sends her further down the wrong path.

notes: Occasionally I'll make some grammatical errors on purpose for emotional emphasis so that's why. Also sorry this took so long I'm kinda going through some stuff right now.

word count: 16.9k

warnings: language, drugs, self harm, mental hospitalization, shitty parents, near drowning, anxiety attack, overdose, hospitalization, miscarriage, sedation

“Do you know why you’re here, Y/N?”

“Spare me. I’ve done this before.”

“I know you have. I’m simply asking if you understand that you need this.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t understand?”

“No, I mean that I don’t need this.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I’ve already accepted that this is how I feel, and how I’ll keep feeling ‘til I die. No amount of talking it out and coping skills will change that.”

“Well, that’s not a very healthy way to look at it.”

“Yeah, no shit, but it works for me and I’d appreciate it if people didn’t waste their time trying to fix me so they can feel better about themselves.”

“I understand.”

“Obviously, you don’t. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I do. I’m not here to tell you what you're doing wrong. I’m here to figure out how and why you got to where you are.”

“What, you gonna pick apart my life and tell me where everything went wrong?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what?”

“Well first, I’d like to go back and discuss your experience at St. Joseph’s.”

“I don’t really feel like talking about that.”

“Y/N, these sessions are mandatory. No matter how much you resist, we’re still stuck here, so you might as well take advantage of the time we still have.”

“…”

“Or, we could just here in silen-”

“Fine. Anything but that.”

~~~

8TH GRADE

The cold classroom was silent except for the steady tick of the clock on the wall. It was only third hour and Y/N already wanted to jump out a window. She’d long finished her classwork and homework, so she buried herself in her sketchbook. Drawing was always her safe place. She found it meditative being able to just turn off her brain and let the pencil map out her mind.

Everyone jumped a little when the intercom released its usual loud beep. “I need to see Y/N L/N in the office.” Her stomach fluttered at the chance to get out of class. “And tell her to bring her things.” She halted. What? She didn’t have any appointments that she knew of, and her parents weren’t the type to check her out for minor things. Her head pounded while she stuffed everything in her backpack with everyone, including her teacher, watching her.

Backpack slung over one shoulder, she made her way down the bland cream and blue hallway that she’d spent the last three miserable years in. Jimin was her best friend all through elementary school, but he switched to a private school, leaving her to fend for herself in a new school of unfamiliar faces. He didn’t want to leave her, but the school she was going to didn’t have a dance department, and his mom had convinced him to go. By the time she found out that the school in question had the best arts program in the district, it was too late. There was no way her parents could afford to send her there anyway.

She’d be lying if she said she was happy he was pursuing his dream. Making friends wasn’t an easy task, Jimin was always the one that did the talking. So she settled for whoever cared enough to give her the time of day. There was only one person she was actually close enough with to hang out outside of school, Abigail. To say she was the dominant one in their relationship would be an understatement. Whatever Abi said, went. Whatever Abi wanted, she got. Whatever she wanted to do, Y/N was dragged along whether she liked it or not. She didn’t mind that much. It was better than no one.

The office door came into view, and she ran over every possible circumstance in her head before opening it. Her parents stood by the front desk. Her dad was clutching her mom’s trembling hand. “Mom? Dad? What’s going on? Did somebody die??”

“No, everything’s fine. We’ll explain on the way.” Her dad took it upon himself to answer.

“Uh...o-kay?”

The second her dad pulled the car onto the road, her mom turned around to face her. “I don’t really know how to start this, so I’m just going to say it. I was cleaning your room last week and found something.”

“What?” She pulled an old DVD case from the glove box and set it in Y/N’s lap. Every single defense mechanism in her body went off at once as she gawked at the image of a black bobbed Uma Thurman laying on a bed with racey magazines, puffing on a cigarette. Her favorite movie. But she knew it wasn’t the inappropriate film that her parents were concerned about. She slid the plastic sheath off to reveal-. They weren’t there.

“Looking for these?” Her mom held up her palm stacked with the razor blades she’d tucked behind the cover. Y/N’s face turned a sickly white, her mouth opening and closing to think of something to say. Her mind was moving so fast her words couldn’t keep up. She had nothing.

“Really? You have nothing to say for yourself?” She subconsciously pulled down her sweater sleeves. Her mom snatched her wrist and yanked the knit fabric back. “How could you do this to yourself?” She turned her arm to make her look at the pale pink and red lines that peppered all the way up her arm. “This is going to stay on you forever. What do you expect people to think when summer comes?”

Y/N dropped her head against the headrest and squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. Of all the scenarios she thought of, this wasn't one of them. This had to be a dream. It had to be. She tried to pull her arm away and her mom let go, letting it fall to her side. She turned to her dad with a look that screamed, Say something! He simply shook his head in disappointment.

The car was silent for a long time before she finally mustered the strength to open her mouth. “W-where are we going...?”

“A Catholic youth center.”

“A youth center?”

“Yes. They offer great adolescent counseling.”

“But I don't want to.” She crossed her arms defensively.

“Y/N, we just want to get you help, but we can’t do this on our own.” Her dad finally spoke up.

“It’s a nice place. Sister Adrianne from church volunteers there.” Her mom added.

They turned into the parking lot of an old fashioned brick building decorated with stained glass and white molding. She could smell the Catholicism from here. A black suit, white collared man was waiting for them at the entrance once they’d found a parking space. His wire rimmed glasses caught the late morning sun, shining it right in Y/N’s eyes. That alone was enough to make her scowl. “Hello, I’m Father McCarthy, you must be the L/Ns.” Her parents exchanged pleasantries with him before he led them into the lobby.

Sitting smack dab in the middle of the room was a marble statue of St. Joseph, patron saint of children. Y/N scoffed to herself. She hated this place already. The priest spun on his heels to face the family. “If you don’t mind, I was hoping to have a word with Miss Y/N before the tour.” They looked at each other, shrugged, and nudged the poor girl out to him. “It won’t take but a minute.” He said before cupping her shoulder and steering her through the lobby to a set of backdoors.

Outside was a meditation garden that spanned farther than she could see. Cobblestone paths twisted and turned around rose bushes and vines of ivy. The steady flow of the fountain at the center gave the air a calming ambience. Y/N was anything but calm. “Why are we here?”

“I thought maybe a look at the garden would suit your nerves.” He caught her confused stare and laughed lightly. “Your mask is thick, strong, but I can see deeper than most.”

“I appreciate the effort, but it takes more than some pretty flowers to make me feel better. Are we done?” He sighed and checked his watch.

“I suppose. Right this way.” He placed a guiding hand on her back and steered them to the path out of the garden and inside. Her stride slowed when she saw her parents standing in the lobby, a suitcase in her dad’s hand. Her suitcase. A man in white scrubs took it from him and carried it in the other direction. Everything clicked.

¨No…” She breathed, her head mindlessly shaking. She stepped back and bumped into something firm and whipped around. Another man in the same white uniform towered over her. His face was gentle but his jacked body told a completely different story. His hand clamped onto her bicep. “No, no, no, nonoNONO!” She frantically looked to her parents, who were standing at the exit with pain stricken faces. Her mom buried her head into him while she heard her daughter being dragged away kicking and screaming by two nurses. She’d never forget the final words she caught before she disappeared behind a set of swinging doors.

“I’LL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!”

~~~

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you ever forgive your parents?”

“I tried, but she ruined it.”

“How?”

~~~

Y/N followed her screaming, cussing mom through the house as she took trips from her room to the porch, tossing her belongings out onto the lawn.

She’d found her stash.

“Mom! Stop it! This is childish!” she stopped in her tracks and whipped around to face her daughter.

“CHILDISH?!” She took an aggressive step forward. “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT”S CHILDISH! STEALING FROM YOUR OWN PARENTS TO BY DRUGS!” Y/N threw her hands into her hair and tugged at her scalp.

“It’s just weed! And I bought it with my own money! It’s not like I’m doing crack!” She looked to her dad sitting in his chair in the corner of the living room, observing the whole debacle. “Dad? Help?” He gave her a look of surrender. Not my call. Her mom disappeared back into her room.

“IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT YOU’RE DOING!” Her mom shouted as she threw another handful of clothes out the door. “AFTER ALL THE MONEY WE SPENT ON YOU AND YOU GO AND BUY DRUGS?! IT’S LIKE YOU CHOOSE TO BE MISERABLE!” Y/N pounded across the floorboards and got nose to nose with her.

“OH, I’M SO SORRY YOU HAD TO PAY TO THROW YOUR OWN DAUGHTER IN A PSYCH WARD BECAUSE NOT HAVING A NORMAL KID WAS TOO HARD FOR YOU! AND I’M SORRY YOUR HUSBAND WAS TOO PUSSY TO STOP YOU! AND YOU KNOW WHAT’S MAKING ME MISERABLE?! YOU!”

“THEN GET THE FUCK OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Her mom shoved her by the shoulders into the wall.

“FINE!” Y/N stomped to her room and grabbed her backpack, stuffing in as many necessities as she could. She threw it over her shoulder and blew past her still fuming (and still cussing) mom. “Good fucking riddance!” she shouted over her shoulder. She swiped her car keys from the bowl and slammed the front door behind her so hard she heard a line of books topple to the floor inside. The lock on the door clicked and the curtains at the front of the house were hastily drawn.

She lividly gathered her clothes and suitcase strewn about the grass and crammed them into her shitty grey Corolla wherever they could fit. She dropped into the driver's seat and ripped the car out of the driveway and down the dimly lit street.

She crashed at Jimin’s for a bit while she looked for a place. Abi was long gone by then. Back when she was at St. Joseph’s, she’d called Abi for comfort, but what she didn’t know was that she happened to be at a sleepover, and that she’d put her on speaker. It didn’t take long for Y/N to hear a muffled giggle from the other end, and it was safe to say their friendship died the second she slammed the hospital phone receiver back onto its hook.

She didn’t need her anymore. Not with Jimin coming back for high school. He begged his mom to let him go to public school so he could be with Y/N again. What managed to convince her was the impressive dance team the school boasted.

Within the first week away from home, a packet of government documents for her emancipation arrived in her parents’ mail. She was surprised to receive a phone call from her attorney the next day, saying he already received the pettily signed forms and that they’d been filed with the district court. That was it. In a few months, she would be legally on her own. Sixteen years old and on her own.

~~~

“Good. That was good. I know that wasn’t the easiest thing to say, just know that it’s a step in the right direction.”

“Whatever. Are we done?”

“I suppose.”

~~~

Y/N sat on Yoongi’s lap while she painted his hairline into a V and thickened his sideburns into a more boxy shape. His hair was slicked back and he sported a suit and bolo tie. It didn’t take much to convince him to dress as Vincent and Mia from Pulp Fiction for Halloween. She bit the inside of her red painted lips while she cleaned up the edges of his widow’s peak with a steady hand.

It was a lot weirder than Yoongi expected to see her in a wig. The silky black bob made it feel like a complete stranger was parked on his thighs. Her unbuttoned white blouse and wide-bottomed slacks the complete opposite of her usual style. The only thing about her that was the same as he always loved were her eyes. He admired the e/c orbs that flicked back and forth in concentration, oblivious of his gaze.

“I think I’m done.” She leaned back and moved his face side to side to make sure his sideburns were even. “Yeah, you're good to go.” She gave his cheek two solid pats and climbed off his lap to get her shoes. He stood from her bed and checked himself out in her full length mirror. His hair had grown out quite a bit. Long enough to brush the back of his neck when he turned his head. He didn’t think he’d like how he looked with this hair, but it was quickly growing on him.

Y/N came up from behind and wrapped her arms around his torso. She peaked her head around his shoulder to admire his look put together. “If I didn’t know a better word, I’d say you look hot right now.” He caught her eye in the mirror with a smirk as he smoothed back his hair once last time.

“I think,” He pulled her in front of him to see her reflection, “I should be the one saying that.” He slid his hands up her shirt and adjusted the black bralette hidden underneath that had been wrinkled from her hunching over him. Her skin tingled under his large, warm hands. That asshole. He did that on purpose. He dipped his head to be even with hers. “Now, we should go before I mess up that lipstick of yours.”

~~~

Jin leaned against the kitchen counter and surveyed the frat house filled with college and high school students alike. Cobwebs stretched over every corner and fog machines gave the air a dark, heavy look. He always loved throwing his annual Halloween party. It was his favorite holiday other than his birthday. Couples cutely matching, friends coordinating costumes, comedians in gag outfits, and almost every girl wearing a sexy version of what we all dressed as kids. He loved any excuse to dress up.

He wore a loose white tunic and black slacks, his defining piece was the pink and blue diamond printed coat hanging from his shoulders. Howl from, only his favorite movie ever, Howl’s Moving Castle. He watched that shit like it was his job.

“Damn, do you need a maid? I’m not an old lady, but I can cook and clean.” He spun and met a smirking Jimin. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned, black tie loosened, hair tousled, and red lipstick marks trailed from his chest all the way to his cheeks. Jin eyed the scene with visible concern. “Relax, this is my costume. I have a little class.”

“Oh, thank God.” Jin laughed.

“Although some of these are courtesy of some lovely ladies here tonight.” He turned to show the words “KISS ME” written on his back in big letters.

“How did you even get them to agree to do that?” Jimin flashed a proud smile.

“It was easy. Girls aren’t threatened by me. Being part gay is great, you get the best of both worlds!” Jins phone buzzed in his pocket.

Thing 1: Me and Yoongi are about to pull up

Jin smiled at his screen and typed a quick response.

“Who’s Thing 2?” He turned to the younger looking over his shoulder.

“You.” Before Jimin could offer a rebuttal, Jungkook squeezed out of the crowd and nested at his side, beer in hand.

“There’s my Ponyboy!” Jimin gave him a slap on the back. Jungkook's hair was greased back with a single curl hanging on his forehead. His white t-shirt and jeans matched well with Yoongi’s leather jacket that he lended for the occasion. “Doesn’t he scream Ponyboy vibes?”

“I’ll admit it,” Jin added, “he does.” Jungkook took a sip of his beer to hide his embarrassment. He never liked being the center of attention.

The front door burst open to reveal Taehyung, clad in a full face of clown makeup, green hair, and a purple and yellow suit. “WHAT’S POPPIN’ ASS WIPES!!!” He marched inside and made a beeline to the three with Jiwoo in tow. Her skunk stripes were in pink and blue pigtails and her black and red corset top and tights hugged her slim figure. “GUESS WHO HAS A FUCKING GIRLFRIEND!” He laced his fingers with hers and lifted her arm triumphantly in the air. She hid her face bashfully with her free hand. Jimin gasped.

“Shut. Up. You're joking!” Tae flashed a boxy grin.

“No, I’m Joker.” Jiwoo slapped him in the arm.

“Yes, he’s for real.” She answered on his behalf. Jimin and Jin exchanged dramatic, wide-eyed looks and threw their arms around the new couple.

“We did it! He’s off the streets!”

“He’s off the streets!”

“I’m off the streets!”

Jiwoo watched the three jump in circles with their arms linked like a bunch of kids who were told they’re going to McDonald’s. Yeah, she made the right choice.

The front door opened again, not flying off the hinges this time, and Y/N stepped in with Yoongi flush against her back. She spotted the group in the kitchen and threw her arms up. “Heyyyyy!!!!” Taehyung turned with an ecstatic smile and bounded over, pulling her off the ground in a big bear hug.

“Y/N GUESS WHAT! GUESS WHAT! GUESS WHAT!”

“What?” she gasped under his grip. He dropped her and gripped her shoulders.

“I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!” Both Yoongi and Y/N’s faces lit up.

“WHAT?! TAE, OH MY GOD YOU'RE OFF THE STREETS!” She clapped her hands together giddily and threw her arms back around his neck.

“I KNOW! THAT’S WHAT EVERYONE ELSE SAID!”

“Okay, okay, break it up.” Yoongi pried the two children apart and steered them to the kitchen. On the way, he leaned into Tae’s ear and whispered, “I trust you, but I’ll say this anyway. You hurt her, I hurt you.” He snapped out of his scary tone when Jimin came and pulled Y/N into a hug and kissed both her cheeks.

“Ahh! You two look so hot together! Best couple costume ever!” Yoongi never minded how close they were. He knew about their brief fling before he came along, but he trusted her when she said it was all in the past.

Y/N’s excited squeal broke through his thoughts. She booked it for Jungkook to gush over his costume. “Kookie! You look so friggin’ cute!!” She played with the piece of hair hanging on his forehead and fixed a few loose strands. He smiled at his feet and fiddled with his jacket zipper. “Come on, gimme a spin!” He sheepishly did a 360 to give her a full look at his outfit.

“I’ll be damned,” Yoongi added, “you almost look better in that jacket than I do.” Jungkook hid his face behind his hands. He couldn’t control the big ass grin plastered on his face.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him all night!” Jimin cut in, fists on his hips. She squeezed past him and Jungkook to say hi to Jiwoo and Jin.

The eldest boy pulled her into a sweet hug, his coat draping partially over her back. He leaned back to catch her eye. “How are you? You doing okay?” Jin, ever the mom.

The truth was, she wasn’t. Her situation with the pills was getting out of hand. What started out as a party topper, became a full blown addiction. She hated the person she had become. If she didn’t get her fix, she’d turn into a monster, snapping at anyone and everyone if they rubbed her the wrong way.

The moment she realized she had a problem was when Jungkook tried to approach her at school on one of her bad days. She ended up punching her locker with enough force to turn heads. The cold, unsympathetic eyes of the complete stranger that took her place bore into him before storming off. Tears welled in his eyes and he was frozen in place. All he asked was if he could help.

She scared him, and she'd never forgive herself for it. Even after he did.

She put on her best convincing smile and patted Jin’s chest. “I’m fine, you shouldn’t be worrying about me.” He searched her eyes for a crack in the facade, but he saw none. A warm smile played on his lips and he gave her a kiss on the head before turning her loose. She immediately pivoted to Jiwoo, trying to change the subject.

“Now I’m no DC expert, but I’m pretty sure you two are from different movies.” She gestured to the couple. “Tae, I know you’re from the Dark Knight, but I've never seen Harley in this hot ass outfit before.” Jiwoo chuckled and shuffled in her knee length boots.

“I’m actually Harley from Arkham Knight, a video game. It’s my favorite look of hers.” Y/N gave her another up and down, nodding her head.

“It’s great ‘cus Harley wasn’t in The Dark Knight, so she could be any version she wanted.” Tae commented.

“Except Suicide Squad.” Jiwoo added.

“Except Suicide Squad.” He echoed. “That movie was a disgrace.”

“Hey,” Y/N slapped Jimin on the arm, “Is Hobi here yet? I need a little...” She tapped the side of her nose. He giggled and pointed to the loft on the second floor.

“He was up there last I saw him. Have at it.” She made her way back to Yoongi and went on her tiptoes to give him a quick peck.

“Go ahead and make yourself a drink. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” She said seductively in her best Mia Wallace voice. Her index and middle fingers walked up his chest and dragged across his shoulder as she walked past him.

The loft was surprisingly hard to get to being that it was clogged with partygoers. She finally managed to squeeze through and fall to the floor, her face inches from a pair of sharp-toed dress shoes. She followed the white suit up to the face peering down at her. “The floor is no place for you, Mrs. Wallace.” A hand gripped her forearm and hoisted her to her feet with ease. At the other end of the arm holding her, was Hoseok’s beaming smile. The pointed collar of his black dress shirt was folded over the lapel of his suit.

“Saturday Night Fever?” He nodded. “Yay, now I have two John Travolta’s.” She took her arm from his hold and fixed her bangs.

“I think I might know why you’re here.” He inquired

“You would be correct, sir.” He chuckled.

“Follow me.”

He led her to a couch at the edge of the loft that overlooked the sea of costumes below. There was so much smoke in the air it was impossible to tell if it came from the fog machines or someone’s lungs. They plopped onto the cushions and he went to work cutting lines on a mirror laid on the coffee table. “So how’s life?”

“Eh, I've been better.” She let herself slip a little. Talking to Hoseok was easy. She liked being able to tell him some heavier things because he never pressed for more information. He accepted what he was given and took it in stride. She leaned forward and grabbed an almost empty bottle of cherry vodka and finished it off.

“I feel ‘ya. Soccer practice is really starting to get to me. Just gotta take it day by day, my friend.” He slid the mirror to her side and handed her a rolled up bill. “Here.”

“Thank you, good sir.” She plucked the makeshift tube from his fingers and dipped her head to sniff up the pristine white line. The feeling hit her instantly. A huge smile spread across her face and her whole body felt like it was floating among the smoke clouds.

“Good?” She couldn’t find the words, so she gave him a simple thumbs up. Their moment was cut short when Taehyung’s booming voice cut through the music and conversation.

“EVERYONE! OUR BELOVED QUARTERBACK, NAMJOON KIM, IS OFFICIALLY OFF THE MARKET!”

“WHAT?!” They shouted in unison. With a quick shared look, they scrambled down the stairs and through the cheering crowd. Taehyung was standing, red cup in hand, on the thick mantle of the fireplace at the head of the room. “Jesus fucking Christ.” She mumbled as they watched Jiwoo weave through the mob to pull him down.

“There he is!” Hoseok pointed to the head of brown hair that poked above everyone else. He pulled her along behind him, using his strength to cut through the congestion. When they broke through the wall of bodies, the entire friend group was gathered on the massive sectional couch at the center of the room. She picked the couple from the cluster and her jaw dropped.

“No fucking way. Cheyenne?!”

“Yes way.” Jimin chimed. The girl in question was perched on the arm of the couch next to Namjoon. Her amber eyes lit up when she recognized Y/N standing there.

“Y/N?!” She jumped up and crashed her body into hers with a crushing embrace. “Oh my God you grew up so much!! You’re not a little shrimp anymore!”

“I haven’t seen you since what? Fifth grade?” Cheyenne’s smile flashed white against her sepia skin. They were rather close in elementary until she moved away before middle school. She was the extrovert that found her and acted almost like a mother to her. Cheyenne was the one that cracked Y/N’s shell.

“I know, girl! We moved back and I’m going to Westview!”

“Westview?! I go to Westview!” Her eyes widened.

“What?! How come I haven’t seen you at school?” Y/N chuckled.

“I make myself very hard to spot.”

“She’s right,” Yoongi added, coming to stand beside her, “took me forever to track her down to talk to her for the first time.” He handed her a solo cup of vodka cranberry and she gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. Cheyenne’s hand flew to her chest.

“I’m gonna cry. My baby’s all glown up and she got herself a man!” She dramatically fanned her eyes. Her long false lashes almost reached her brows when she looked to the ceiling. Her box braids were twisted into space buns on either side of her head and her long, flowing white dress cinched at the waist and had a slit running up to reveal her muscular leg.

Y/N peaked over her shoulder at Namjoon. His long sleeved, tan v-neck and black vest made everything click. “Oh my god! Han Solo and Leia! That’s so fucking cute!”

“Can you guess whose idea it was?” Cheyenne cocked an eyebrow and looked over her shoulder at him, who blushed and gave a little finger wave. What a man baby. She took her seat back by him and Y/N and Yoongi sat on the couch across from them.

“So how did you guys meet?” The couple shared a humored look.

“Remember that bloody nose I said I got in P.E. a couple weeks ago?” Namjoon asked.

“Yeah?” Cheyenne proudly raised her hand.

“That was me. It was girls vs boys in dodgeball and I nailed him in the face.” Y/N would expect nothing less from her. Even in elementary, Cheyenne was the best softball player she’d ever seen. That girl had an arm like a cannon.

“She walked with me to get ice and we kinda just got to know each other along the way.”

“Awwww~” Jimin and Taehyung swooned.

“As much as I hate to break up the moment, I'm trying to get fucked up tonight.” Y/N finally said once the conversation died down. “Chey, do you,” She put her thumb and index finger to her lips and puffed on an imaginary joint, “partake?”

Cheyenne raised an eyebrow at her. She wasn’t surprised Y/N had turned to drugs. That girl had issues from the very start. “Of course I do, who the fuck do you think I am?” Smirks cracked the pair’s lips and they shared a mischievous look for the first time in a long time.

~~~

Y/N, Yoongi, Cheyenne, Namjoon and Jimin gathered on the sofa by the swimming pool filled with splashing guys and girls stripped down to their underwear. Which was insane given that it was basically November and the water was 70 degrees at most. Yoongi placed a thick blunt between his lips and flicked his Zippo lighter, casting a brief warm glow on his face. He expertly cupped his hand against the flame and got a good burn going, then snapped the lighter closed against his thigh. The blunt cherried bright orange when he took a colossal hit, letting the smoke roll out of his nose in plumes before passing it to Y/N. She gathered a thick cloud in her mouth and let it float out to inhale through her nose. The milky reverse waterfall flowed into her nostrils like a yellow tinted nebula. The THC hit her already intoxicated brain, sending her further into the couch.

Jimin took his two puffs quickly and passed it on. On her turn, Cheyenne blew a single smoke ring and ran her finger down the middle to make it a heart, sending it floating into Namjoon’s face.

“Cute.” He said sarcastically as he took the blunt from her manicured nails and drew a long hit. “I don’t know any tricks so you’re just gonna have to deal with my boring ass.”

“We’ve been dealing with your boring ass for years.” Y/N deadpanned, earning a series of laughs from the group.

The blunt made its way around the circle back to Yoongi for the third time, and it was starting to reach its end. “Have you two smoked together before?” He questioned the new couple. They looked at each other and shook their heads. “Well then,” he clapped his hands together and plucked the blunt from his lip, “it’s customary that new couples christen the relationship by shotgunning.”

“What?” Namjoon’s brows knit together in confusion.

“Come on Joon, you’ve hung around us this long and you still don’t know what shotgunning is?” Y/N spoke up. He threw his hands up in defense.

“Hey! I’ve only ever heard it mentioned. No one ever told me what it actually was!” Yoongi huffed a chuckle.

“Watch and learn.” He puffed on the blunt and trapped the smoke in his mouth. His hand went to the back of Y/N’s neck and pulled her into a kiss, slowly delivering the cloud to her lungs. They parted, and white fog poured from her lips. “Now you try.” He handed him the blunt. Namjoon pocketed a good bit in his cheeks and cupped Cheyenne’s jaw. He pressed a light kiss on her full lips, transferring the smoke to her.

“Like that?” Yoongi and Y/N gave him an approving nod with a shared smirk.

“Consider us properly christened.” Cheyenne quipped. Before anything else could be said, a guy popped out from the sliding doors leading inside.

“AYE! WE GOT JELLO SHOTS IN HERE!”

“Oh fuck yes!” Y/N lept up, not giving herself time to ride out the head-rush that blacked out her senses and made a beeline inside. Yoongi watched her stumble through the glass doors and disappear in the crowd with visible torment.

“You good?” Cheyenne’s robust voice broke through his inner turmoil.

“Yeah.” He kept his gaze on the spot he lost sight of her in, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

~~~

Six Jello shots, two shotgunned beers with Taehyung, another rip from Hoseok, and a bonus sniff of crushed oxy in the bathroom later, Y/N was completely, totally, and utterly wrecked. She had to hold onto the walls and furniture for dear life to make her way outside. It had been almost an hour since she left Yoongi, so it was about time she found him.

The pool was a little less crowded and she could see her reflection on the surface. It’s hair was wild, clothes wrinkled, lipstick faded. Stars twinkled across the ripples, drawing her gaze up to the sky. She walked along the edge of the pool as she admired the lights that dotted the heavens. Her feet stopped their ambling to match the two sets of pictures in her vision back in place. The luring abyss of the sky gave a sharp contrast to the glimmering lights. Everything in her peripheral melted into the darkness that blanketed her view, and the frigid water rushed up to meet her.

It sounded like any other splash. Yoongi didn’t think anything of it. People had been jumping in and out of the pool all night.

“Hey, wasn’t that your girlfriend?” He turned to see a random girl standing behind his seat. His brows furrowed.

“What?” She pointed behind her to the steady bubbles that rose to the surface of the water.

“She was walking on the edge and just keeled-” He rocketed out of his chair and shoved her out of the way. He stripped off his coat mid sprint and dove head first into the jarring water without a second thought.

The water blurred his vision, but he could make out Y/N’s body steadily sinking to the bottom of the pool. He kicked as hard as he could and propelled himself deeper and deeper until he could reach her. His hand gripped her fuzzy wrist and pulled her up to him. Arm around her waist, he swam towards the light with powerful strokes from his three free limbs.

They broke the surface and he swung his head side to side to rid the hair from his eyes. He hooked an elbow over the edge for support while he lugged her unconscious figure out of the water.

“What the fuck?” Taehyung stood dumbly at the sliding door looking out, joint hanging between his lips.

“Get her, get her!” Yoongi grunted. Taehyung rushed over and hooked his hands under her shoulders. With one big tug, he dragged her onto the cement. Her upper body rested in his lap while Yoongi hauled himself out of the pool and scrambled to her side. He pressed his ear to her chest, listening for a pulse in agonizing suspense. The breath he was holding exploded out of his chest when he heard the familiar beats. Taehyung held his finger under her nose.

“She’s breathing.” The adrenaline left Yoongi’s system, taking every ounce of his energy along with it. He collapsed onto his back next to her, gasping for air. The sliding door opened and closed.

“Tae? Why’d you- holy fuck!” Jiwoo came rushing to his side and looked over Y/N’s soaked frame. The black wig was long gone, leaving her h/c mane splayed on the wet cement. The water turned them into a dark mass of limp waves, dulling their natural brilliance. “What happened?!”

“Fell…” Yoongi huffed, “…didn't hear...splash.” His heaving breaths spaced out his words into incoherent fragments. By now, a few heads turned to watch the scene, but most everyone else was too drunk to notice there was even a problem. Jiwoo jumped up.

“I'll go find some towels.” She disappeared back inside and came out not long after with Jin and Jimin carrying thick, blue towels in their arms. Jin immediately dropped to his knees, wrapping it around her soaked body and hugged her to his chest like an infant.

“Is she okay?” He asked apprehensively.

“Yeah. I think so.” Taehyung answered for Yoongi, who was tweaking and on the verge of an anxiety attack. The first one in nearly two years. His heart clamped in his chest and despite the biting cold, his trembling body was drenched in sweat.

Switching to mom mode, Jin snapped his fingers at Jimin, who was staring at the scene before his wasted eyes. “Jimin, wrap Yoongi up and try to calm him down. You,” he pointed to Taehyung, “go find Jungkook. He’s the only one who’ll know if she’s actually okay.” The three, Jiwoo following Taehyung, jumped to work on their tasks.

Jimin draped the towel over his figure as best he could given he was laying flat on his back and there was no getting him to sit up. Yoongi’s eyes darted back and forth, pinballing against his peripheral in all different directions. “Yoongi? Yoongi, I need you to look at me okay?” He sandwiched his face between his hands and tried to catch his eyes. Yoongi shook his head rapidly, eyes still all over the place. “I need you to listen to me. If you can’t look at me then close your eyes.” He squeezed them shut in hopes the roaring panic in his system wouldn’t be able to find him. “I’m gonna press on your chest, and I need you to push back, okay?” He didn't show any kind of response, so Jimin went ahead. He placed both palms against his hyperventilating chest and applied a gentle pressure that compelled him to take longer breaths. “You can breathe, it's okay. Feel that pressure? That’s air filling up your chest. You’re not suffocating, you have plenty of air. You’re okay.” He repeated the affirmations like a mantra. “Deep breaths. Push against my hands for as long as you can.” His chest pressed against his hands again and again, each breath growing deeper and longer. “There you go.”

The sliding door ripped open and Taehyung had Jungkook by the elbow, all but dragging him across the ground. Jungkook yanked his arm free. “What the hell is happening?!”

“You didn’t tell him?!” Jin shouted. Jungkook’s frustration disintegrated when his eyes landed on Y/N wrapped in Jin’s arms and Jimin bent over Yoongi splayed out on the ground.

“I was in a hurry, okay?! I couldn’t think of the words!” Taehyung retorted. Jungkook pointed a shaky finger at her, flashes of a life without her sent his anxiety through the roof.

“Is...is she?”

“No, she’s not dead.” Jin answered his unasked question. “We need you to check her and see if anything’s wrong that we didn’t catch.” Thank God. He could live again.

“Why me?” A stupid question, honestly.

“Because you’re the closest thing we have to a doctor, now get your ass down there and do your thing!” Taehyung gave him an urgent nudge. Jungkook hesitantly knelt by Jin’s side. It almost felt wrong seeing her in such a vulnerable state.

“U-uh...okay. You found a good pulse, right?”

“Yeah, but you need to be the judge of that.” He swallowed hard and pressed two fingers to her neck. “Well?”

“Her pulse is fine, and from the looks of it, her brain is getting enough oxygen.” He pointed at her lips, which were coming back to a healthy peach. “If she wasn’t, her lips and fingernails would be blue.”

“Is she okay?” Yoongi’s raspy voice was barely audible over the din of the party. Jimin managed to wrap the towel around him and his breath was nearing back to normal. The occasional twitch jolted his muscles from the lingering bad high.

“Yeah, just keep her warm and she’ll be fine.” Yoongi’s head fell back against the ground in relief. “Just make sure she stays on her side all night so she doesn’t aspirate.”

“Aspirate?” Jimin inquired.

“Suffocate on her own vomit.”

“Christ. That doesn’t happen a lot does it?” Taehyung asked.

“Enough to have a word for it.”

The door slid open yet again and out came Namjoon, Cheyenne, and Hoseok. “Jiwoo told us what happened. Are you sure she’s okay?” Hoseok spoke first.

“Jungkook said she should be.” Jin replied. “I’m gonna take her home and watch her for the night. Just in case.”

“That’s probably a good idea.”

Namjoon carried Y/N in his arms to Jin’s car and laid her down in the backseat, taking care that she was propped on her side. Yoongi and Jin came to the car soon after, the latter carrying a hastily packed duffle bag.

“Yoongi, sit with her in the back and keep her from rolling over.” Jin ordered. The younger gladly climbed into the backseat and readjusted her head on his lap. Jin dropped into the driver's seat and hooked an elbow over his rolled down window. “Joon, I trust you can handle things while I’m gone. I might not live here, but it’s still my party so make sure everyone gets the fuck out by 6.” Namjoon gave him two thumbs up and headed inside when Jin started the car.

~~~

Jin slid his copy of Y/N’s house key into the lock, and the deadbolt snapped open. He pushed the door in for Yoongi, who was carrying her up the steps. The clock on the microwave read 3:45. Surprisingly early for leaving a frat party. “I’m gonna change her into some dry clothes.” Yoongi said.

“Okay, make sure you guy’s hair is dry so you don’t catch a cold.” Yoongi rolled his eyes and disappeared into her bedroom. Jin helped himself to the closet of sheets and blankets and grabbed a pillow from the bottom shelf. Once he was happy with the nest he made on the couch, he slipped in the tiny guest bathroom to wash his face, change, and take his meds. High blood pressure. His mom always said it ran in the family.

A few minutes later, he emerged in a pair of Totoro pajama pants and a grey t-shirt. He eyed the kitchen cabinet that was always stocked with ramen. Yoongi’s gonna be starving when he’s done with her. He set out a pot on the stove and grabbed three packages from the cabinet. “Hey Yoongs,” he padded to her doorway, “I’m making ramen do you want beef or-” His voice quieted when he peeked inside and saw them both in bed. He’d changed her into one of his hoodies and tied her hair in a bun. He laid behind her, arms seatbelting her to his torso, fast asleep. Without context, it was a heartwarming scene. Jin's lips formed a small smile and he eased the door shut, careful not to wake him. “Goodnight guys~”

He plopped onto the couch and plugged his phone into the charger that ran across the floor to reach the coffee table. The second his head hit the pillow he felt himself being pulled under by the current of sleep. He wondered to himself, what was going on in Y/N’s head that was so bad she nearly died just to get away from. She’d never lost control like that before. At least not bad enough for Yoongi to have a whole anxiety attack over. Whatever it was, he prayed it was nothing too horrible because he knew no matter how much he’d try to help, there was no getting anything out of her. That scared him. Hell, it terrified him not two hours ago. He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind for the time being, and let his lids droop until sleep overtook him.

~~~

NOVEMBER 9TH

“Haaaaappy Biiiirthdayyyy tooo youu~! Haaappy Birthdaaayy tooooo youuuuu~! Happy Biiirthday dear Yoongiiiiiiii~!” The birthday boy buried his face in his hands out of sheer embarrassment while the group drunkenly sang around the cake in front of him. “Happy Birthdayyy toooooo yooouuuuuuuuuu~!” A birthday party, his worst nightmare. He was never one for birthdays, his family didn’t have the money for that kind of luxury. Every year, his dad would just gift him a pack of cigarettes, grab him by the collar, and give the same drunken speech about how he needs to toughen up if he’s gonna survive in the real world. Y/N carded her fingers through his hair to get it out of his face.

“Make a wish, Yoongi.” Her gentle touch was enough to coax him back to reality. He lifted his face from his hands and studied the three joints stuck into the frosting as candles. He thought for a minute then leaned in and blew the tiny flames out in one breath. Their cheers bounced off the old, bare walls of the abandoned house. Everyone was there, even Cheyenne.

“Finally!” Taehyung and Hoseok pounced on the cake and plucked off the “candles” before ash fell on the frosting. The cake was white with colorful piping on the edges and pink flowers dotting the sides. It was obviously for a kid, which was most likely the reason Y/N and Jiwoo chose it. The room quickly filled with wispy clouds of smoke courtesy of Tae, Hobi, Jimin, and Cheyenne.

“Holy shit!” Cheyenne’s hand flew to her mouth to cover her grin and pointed at Yoongi and Y/N.

“What?” She asked.

“Yoongi’s 18 now! You guys can’t fuck!” Y/N turned bright red and hid her face behind her hands.

“2 months, 17 days and...” Yoongi checked the time on his phone, “10 hours.” He sighed. The time until her 18th birthday. She got held back a year in kindergarten after a nasty case of pneumonia. So, technically, she should’ve been a senior by now. But then she never would’ve met Jimin. Or Cheyenne for that matter.

Y/N leaned her cheek on her fist and observed the spectacle. Her natural smile slowly faded, and corners of her lips grew heavier and heavier. She could feel the curtain of despair lowering over her, suffocating the enjoyment out of the otherwise jubilant moment. The all too familiar mentality settled in her mind that she’d never be happy again, or see life as anything more than some sick joke. Not now. Not now, not now please… She tried to keep it together for everyone’s sake, but the tears were coming any second now.

Under the cover of the noise, she slipped away and into the bathroom on the other side of the house. She eased the door shut with a tiny click. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. The harder she pressed her lips together, the wetter her eyes became. She leaned against the sink, staring into the abyss of the rusty drain. Five hours. Five hours of sobriety and she was already a sobbing mess. She tried. She really did. She wanted to be sober for Yoongi’s birthday so she’d have the memories and not need to rely on pictures and stories the next day. Her and what little self preservation she had left were fighting a war against her demons. And she was losing. Five hours would soon turn to four, then three, then... She stopped from scaring herself any further.

She hurriedly fished out two Zoloft tablets from her black skinny jeans pocket. The bulge of the baggie was covered by her oversized, snow white sweater. Using her phone case to crush them and credit card to scrape the dust into a neat line, she bent down and snorted the powder in one quick sniff. Her head jerked up and she stared at the person in the mirror. Slowly but surely, her face relaxed, her smile returned, and everything felt okay again. She wiped the runny mascara from under her eyes and stepped out to return to the joyful madness.

~~~

DECEMBER

The heated architect’s office provided a welcome contrast to the biting cold outside. Y/N sat behind the receptionist desk, filing the last of a client’s paperwork so she could finally leave. Everyone else had left for the day, leaving her the task of locking everything up. After her emancipation, Jimin’s mom couldn’t have offered her a job at her office fast enough. Hell, she even offered for her to live with them permanently. The work was boring, but it paid better than any other part-time job ever would.

“Y/N!” Jimin quacked from the employee lounge down the hall. He’d tagged along after school to study for midterms with her in the downtime.

“WHAT!”

“ARE YOU DONE YET?!”

“ALMOST!” Were they yelling louder than necessary? Probably, their dynamic accepted nothing less. He popped his head around the corner, his body following suit. There wasn’t anything good to raid from the fridge, so he had nothing else to do but watch her lock up.

The phone on her desk rang, breaking the silence. “Fuck a duck! Do people not pay attention to business hours?!” She huffed aggressively and ripped the receiver off the hook. “Mijeong Park’s office, this is Y/N, how can I help you?” Her voice took a hard right to a bright, singsongy tone, and he had to bite his lip to not laugh. Hearing her speak in such a way he knew she hated brought him pure joy. On busy days it was like watching two personalities fight over their host. “Oh, I’m sorry she just left. Would you like to leave a message?” She grabbed a pen and jotted something down on a sticky note. “Uh-huh. Mhm...Alright, thank you!” She hung up and her face immediately fell back to its usual resting bitch face. She slipped on her coat and threw her messenger bag on her shoulder. “Okay, let’s go.”

~~~

The euphoric ring of the bell signaling that school was over washed over Y/N’s senses. She did it. Midterms were over. Granted, she didn’t study that hard, so she wasn’t expecting the best results. Oh well. C’est la vie. Now all she had was another week before winter break and she was home free.

Yoongi had work, Jimin had dance, Namjoon had football, Jungkook was with his family, and pretty much everyone else seemed to be busy when she texted each one to hang out. Whatever. She’d treat herself to something special.

The clock on her nightstand read 8:50 by the time Y/N stepped out of the steamy bathroom. She did everything; shave, exfoliate, lotion, face mask, hair mask. She scrunched her hair with a t-shirt until the curls were almost dry, leaving the rest of the water to soak into her roots. Yoongi’s Kendrick Lamar hoodie with the word “DAMN.” across the chest in big red letters kept her warm in the chilly apartment. She never used the heat system. It was cheaper and more comfortable to just bundle up. Her black sweatpants had the RIPNDIP cat giving the one finger salute on the side of one of the legs. There was no contest. They were her favorite pair.

The only light that filled her room was from the moon that poured through her open blinds. Long black shadows were projected over the space, giving it a strange yet aesthetically pleasing contrast. She shimmied under her bed to grab the shoe box shoved to the very back against the wall and tossed it on the bed. She climbed onto the mattress and sat legs crossed. The box was full of various paraphernalia she’d collected over the years. Digging to the very bottom, she pulled out a tiny baggie with two white tablets. They were bought a few weeks ago, but had been saved for a special occasion such as this.

She’d always been interested in trying Fentanyl. Just once. To satiate her curiosity. The pills crushed into power nicely. She cut and scraped a small line -- much smaller than the usual line of coke -- on her makeup mirror. This stuff was fifty times stronger than heroin. She wasn’t a complete idiot. Come on.

The line stared back up at her with a silent urgency. Now or never. She put the straw to her nose and snorted up the dust.

She waited.

Nothing.

She waited some more.

Still nothing.

A frustrated huff left her and she reached for her phone to cuss out the plug who had the audacity to sell her fake shit.

She reached for the phone.

The phone.

Get the phone.

Get the fucking phone.

Her mind completed the action time and time again but her body moved at a snail's pace. The last of her strength gave out and she collapsed onto the bed, only to realize, she’d been laying down the whole time. Woah.

A sedated smile spread ear to ear and a string of lazy, incoherent giggles made her diaphragm flutter. At that moment, the entire world shut the fuck up, and she was alone. Truly alone. It was just her inside her head. No depression, no anxiety, no trauma, no mommy issues. Nothing. Just her. It was like walking around in an empty mall. She had the entire world to herself. You know what would be great right now? Music.

She inched for her headphones.

Didn’t move.

She tried to focus on that singular action as hard as she could.

Didn’t move.

Okay...this isn’t really funny anymore.

She tried again.

Her muscles didn’t even flinch.

Tears pricked her eyes and her back broke into a cold sweat. Panic began to make its entrance as her eyes darted around the room for something, anything, that could help her. Her lungs struggled to replenish her oxygen leaving her chest in agony. She regressed back to the terrified, helpless little girl that she ran so far to lose.

She almost didn’t hear the knock at her door over the internal cacophony. She tried to listen for it to happen again. Maybe she was just hearing things. Sure enough, another knock split through the roaring static in her ears. Help! Please Dear God! I'm here! I’M IN HERE!

“Y/N?”

Jungkook.

Oh shit. No. No, no, no, no! Anyone but him!

“Y/N?” Every emotion that she’d freed herself from was dumped over her head like a bucket of ice water when, out of the corner of her eye, the door eased open. Jungkook’s silky head of black hair reflected the moonlight streaming through her window. He almost didn’t spot her from the glare. “Y/N? Are you okay? I felt bad that you were alone today, so I thought I’d stop by and check on you...” She made a barely audible, unintelligible sound. Attempting to raise her voice above a teensy whisper was an exercise in futility. His heart sank at her response. “Oh, you’re in the middle of something. I-I’ll just come back tomorrow.” He turned back around. Wait! No! Please don’t go! Forget what I said earlier! Help me please!

“..d-n’t g-o…” She scraped all the energy left in her body — from the top of her head to the tips of her toes — to say those two words.

Jungkook turned and stared at her stagnant figure. Wow. She must be really high. “Alright, come here.” He sat on the bed next to her and helped her sit up. Her head rested on his shoulder. His arm was the sole thing keeping her upright. He took a deep breath and thought about what he planned on telling her when he got there. He might as well practice now since she wouldn’t remember anyway.

“So uh...about me being with my family… That was a lie.”

“Mmm..?”

“I went on a date. Well, not really, but I really like her and I think she might like me too..” His cheeks blushed a little at the thought. “She’s a great friend, so if it doesn’t work out I hope we still have that.” He grew more confident with his words the more he talked about her. “I think you’d like her. She smokes weed and stuff for pain, but she does it recreationally too.” Her silence finally caught his attention after the mention of weed. He giggled a little. “Did you fall asleep?” When he turned to look down at her, she slipped past his shoulder and slumped onto the bed. The impact of the mattress didn’t stir her in the slightest. “Y/N?”

He shook her shoulder.

Nothing.

He shook harder, the familiar fear germinating in the pit of his stomach.

“Y/N?”

Nothing.

Fear festered into horror as each attempt failed. Tears blinded him while he turned her on her back and roughly patted her cheeks. “Y/N?! Y/N, wake up!” His heart dropped past his stomach and onto the floor. Her lips and fingernails had turned an unhealthy shade of indigo and her breathing was dangerously shallow. No. This wasn’t real. It had to be a nightmare. It had to be. “Please wake up!!” He couldn’t stop saying her name in hopes that it would somehow magically awaken her. Her declining state said otherwise.

“Don’t leave me!” He pulled her onto the floor and straddled her hips, pulling his phone out to dial 911 in the process. His hands lined up with one another over her heart and jumped into action pumping her heart for her.

“Just stay with me! Please!”

“Blood oxygen at 60%!”

Jungkook had to be ripped from Y/N’s body as the team of EMTs swarmed around her. One of them lifted her lid with a gloved finger and flashed a penlight in her eye.

“Pupils are constricted! I need 2mg of Narcan!”

He was shoved out of her room and forced to watch from the doorway while the first responders stuck her with needle after needle. They slipped an oxygen mask over her lifeless face. The world seemed to slow with every jagged breath he took. His eyes unfocused and his hearing grew fuzzy except for the faint sound of his hammering heart. All was quiet in the eye of the storm. Then, the air left. Every atom of oxygen was sucked from the world with no regard for his existence. He fell to his knees gripping his throat and chest, his lungs screaming for air.

“..........d!……..id!……..Hey, kid!” He was snapped back to reality when large hands pressed into his shoulders. He darted his red, watery eyes to the paramedic restraining him to the floor. “You need to calm down!” His kicking, screaming and crying had been silenced by the ringing in his ears. A sharp pinch pricked his side and before long, he stilled as a wave of serenity washed over him. It was like someone flipped his off switch.

“What… what did you give me..?”

“Just some Valium to help you relax.” He felt his body sink into the floor, being pulled further into the abyss of slumber. He fought his lids open despite their growing weight, but it was no use. They drooped closed and all the chaos and fear gave way to darkness.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital pierced Jungkook’s lids pulling him back into consciousness. He was stretched out on a firm sofa with a simple heart monitor clipped to his fingertip in what looked like an ICU room. The soft beeping of an EKG drew his attention to the bed next to him. He got to his feet as fast as he could with the Valium still lingering in his system and raced to Y/N’s bedside. The bittersweet excitement of getting to see her went completely sour when he took in her state. She’d never looked so frail and delicate before. Dark circles sunk in her eyes with rings of yellow on their border giving the illusion of two black eyes. Her lips were chapped and bleeding. Countless tubes and IVs protruded from her body which only stressed the severity of her condition further. Yet, despite her broken appearance, she never looked so peaceful.

“Good. You’re up.” He spun around. The voice came from a doctor standing in the doorway clipboard in hand. “I’m Dr. Lobrano, I’m the one in charge of your friend’s case.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s stable, but the stress overload caused her to slip into a coma so her body can heal itself to its full extent.” Jungkook’s face paled. “Now, I’m not saying it’s 100%, but most opioid coma patients wake up and make a full recovery. Physically, that is.” “How long will that take?” He took in a calculating breath.

“It’s hard to say. It could take three days or three weeks. Every case is different” His heart sank for the nth time that night. He looked over his shoulder at her motionless figure under the sheets. The only thing that told she was even alive was the soft, steady beep of the EKG. He could hardly bear to look at her. It was like seeing Superman fall from the sky. She was his Superman. Whether she believed it or not didn’t matter because it was true. “I hate to bother you during such a stressful time,” he pulled a pen out of his pocket protector, “but I need you to answer a few questions about our friend over there.” He pointed the end of the pen at her.

“U-um, okay.” Dr. Lobrano took a seat in the chair facing the sofa which Jungkook had retaken his seat on. He clicked the pen against his knee and held it at the ready.

“Next of kin?”

“Her parents, but she’s emancipated.” He nodded and silently jotted something on his clipboard.

“Siblings?”

“No.” He looked up.

“Extended family?” Jungkook opened mouth to answer when he realized -- she didn’t. She had no one. From what he’d caught over the years he knew her mom was an only child and her dad’s only brother died when he was in college. No aunts, no uncles, no cousins. No one.

“Not that I can think of. No.”

“Okay...any other significant relationships? We need someone to sign off on her paperwork and consent forms in case anything happens.”

“But it won’t, right?” He clicked his pen.

“As a medical professional, I’m legally obligated to tell my patients and their loved ones the truth. And the truth is, your friend over there took an almost lethal dose of Fentanyl. And with her age and weight? I consider myself a man of science, but that’s a miracle if I ever saw one. However, just because she made it past those first critical hours doesn’t mean there’s zero risk of other complications that may arise later on.” Jungkook nodded, trying to take in the information as stoically as possible. He didn’t want the doctor to see how he really felt on the inside.

“How old are you?”

“I’m sixteen, sir.”

“Do you have anyone you can call who’s at least eighteen that can sign for her?”

“Yeah, her…boyfriend” The weight of his circumstances hit him like a bus. The thought of anyone else hadn’t even crossed his mind until now. How the hell was he supposed to tell Yoongi that the only person keeping his life together was in a coma from almost killing herself?

“Then I suggest you give him a call as soon as possible, and if you don’t have any other questions I should finish making my rounds.” He gave a distant nod and was left alone with Y/N once again. His eyes were drawn back to the subtle rise and fall of her chest. A long sigh of anguish left his lips and he buried his face in his hands.

“What am I gonna do?”

~~~

Jungkook stared at Yoongi’s contact in his phone. His thumb hovered over the call button. He knew he was about to hurt him worse than anyone ever has in his life. It was going to kill him. He forced his thumb down on the screen. The dial tone counted down the seconds before the heartbreak. It stopped after three rings.

“Hello?”

“....”

“Kook?”

“Yoongi…” His voice began to quiver, “Yoongi, something bad happened.”

~~~

Jiwoo laid in bed on her stomach with her feet swishing in the air. She held her phone to her ear with her shoulder while she painted her nails their usual black chrome. “You should listen to Never Know by Bad Omens. I bet you’d like it.”

“You think?” Taehyung’s voice came from the other end. Before she could answer, she heard Yoongi in the living room on the phone.

“Woah, woah, calm down. What happened?” Silence.

“Jiwo-?”

“Sh!” The silence stretched for a good four seconds. She jumped when Yoongi came barreling down the hall to his room like a bat out of Hell and came back out with his jacket slung over his arm. The front door opened and slammed shut. Within seconds, his car peeled out of the driveway. The roar of his engine quickly dissipated in the distance.

~~~

Jungkook bounced his knee in anticipation. It had been almost ten minutes since he called Yoongi and there was still no sign of him. He was beginning to worry something might’ve happened to him on the way when the door swung open sending the doorknob colliding into the wall. Jungkook shot up and immediately broke down in tears when he laid eyes on Yoongi’s familiar face. Yoongi rushed to catch his crumpling body and hugged his head to his chest. Jungkook sobbed like he never sobbed before. Every emotion he’d kept bottled up since the moment he found her in her room spilled out onto Yoongi’s grey hoodie.

His heart — along with every other function in his body — stopped when he saw Y/N. She’d never looked so broken and it tore at his insides to even look at her. It didn’t feel natural. It didn’t feel real. There was no way this was the girl he loved.

When Jungkook’s cries diminished to a sniffle, Yoongi gingerly took him off his chest and approached her bedside. He tentatively placed his hand over her cold one. IV needles were sunken into each of her wrists and one on the back of her hand. He drew a shuddery breath. “What-....what did she take?”

“Fentanyl.” Yoongi squeezed his eyes shut trying not to dwell on it.

“Is she gonna be okay?” He knew it was a stupid question. Of course Jungkook couldn’t answer that.

“I don’t know.” Jungkook muttered.

“Did they say when she’d wake up?” Jungkook winced at his question. He must’ve been in shock to assume she even would.

“Yoongi,” the older turned to face him, “Y/N’s in a coma.”

~~~

Yoongi and Jungkook stayed the night in the spacious ICU room with Jungkook passed out on his little couch and Yoongi pulled up a chair next to Y/N’s bedside. He stayed awake all night watching her. It wasn’t that he thought something would happen if he fell asleep, he just couldn’t bring himself to leave her. Even if he may have still physically been there.

Breaking the news to everyone the next day was hard. Hearing their reactions over the phone was harder. ICU patients were only allowed to have three visitors per day —excluding Yoongi—so he was forced to decide who would get to see her first. He decided to just go by age.

Jimin and Taehyung arrived within five minutes of getting the call. Yoongi was waiting outside her room when the two came flying down the hall. They skidded to a stop and Yoongi had to hold them back with his palms against their chests. “Hold on, hold on. You can’t see her just yet.”

“Fucking why not?!” Taehyung shouted.

“Yeah, what the hell?” Jimin added.

“The doctor said that it helps to talk to coma patients, so we’re taking turns visiting her alone. Jungkook’s in there right now.”

~~~

Jungkook sat in Yoongi’s chair beside the hospital bed. His fists balled against his knees trying to think of something to say.

“Y/N…..I’m…. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I took your pills. I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I watched this happen and didn’t get you help.” Tears pooled in his eyes. “I’m so sorry...You're my hero Y/N….You probably don’t think so, but if I never met you...” He choked, “I don’t-...I don’t think I’d be alive right now.” His lips quivered trying to form the words. He’d never said anything like that out loud before. “You’re the only person who makes me feel like I’m not alone. I’ve never felt more loved and wanted than when I’m with you. You’re the strongest person I know. You always make sure I get all of my work done and eat right even when you can barely take care of yourself. It sounds useless, but it’s those reminders that reassure me that someone actually cares. If you go I-...I don’t know what I’m gonna do. But it’s not gonna be anything good.” He put his head down on her thigh and cried. “I need you, Y/N. I need you so much it hurts.”

~~~

The three in the hall jumped to their feet when the door finally opened, and Jungkook stepped out. His eyes and nose were puffy and red from hours of stop and start tears. Jimin pulled him into a soft hug which he gratefully accepted. “Okay Tae, you’re next.” Yoongi said. Taehyung thought for a second.

“No. Jimin should go. He’s known her longer than I have.” Yoongi looked from Taehyung to Jimin who looked up in surprise.

“That’s fine.” He said. Jimin gave Taehyung a thankful look and entered the room.

He drew a hard breath when he saw her. Her hospital gown washed away the color of her cheeks that once gave her a youthful glow. “Oh, Y/N…” He put his hand to his heart and sat down. “What happened to you?” The dark circles under her eyes popped against the blank canvas of her face. He slipped his hand under hers and rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. “You can’t be doing this to yourself. You scared me. You scared us.”

He spent a long time just looking at her in silence. He couldn’t find a way to put his emotions into words. “God, you’re so gorgeous. Even when you're wearing a paper gown with bags that rival a panda’s.” He reached and twirled a piece of her hair in his fingers — something he did a lot when they relaxed together. Her usual bouncy coils laid in dull, limp waves against her shoulders. “You almost left me. You can’t do that, because you’re stuck with me. And there’s nothing you can do to change that. Wherever you go, I’ll follow, whatever you do, I’ll copy. We’re in this together, so your ass better wake up so we can fuck shit up until we’re old and grey, scaring kids on Halloween together.” He giggled, but it slowly turned to whimpers. He wiped tears from his cheeks with his sleeves. “You’re my best friend, N/N. I don’t know if I can handle it if you go.” He took a sniffly breath. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve always loved you. Even if it was in different ways, but I always have.” He sniffed and his voice cracked under the emotion. “You deserve the world, you deserve someone who loves you the way I know you should be loved. That’s why I was so happy when you met Yoongi, because I knew he was perfect for you. He worships you, Y/N, kisses the ground you walk on. And I can rest easy knowing you’re in the best possible hands. Don’t worry about me though, I’m happy loving you in any way I can.” Tears patted on the bed sheets when he leaned in to give her a lingering kiss on the cheek. “Please come back to us.”

~~~

An hour passed, and Jimin emerged from the room. “Finally! I was starting to regret giving up my turn.” Taehyung stood. Jimin and Jungkook held hands and Yoongi stripped his leather jacket off. The extra layers were starting to get to him. He looked up and saw Taehyung still standing there.

“What are you lookin’ at me for?”

“C-can I go now?” Yoongi chuckled a little.

“Of course you can.”

~~~

It took a while for Taehyung to eventually gravitate to the chair beside her. He mainly stood near the door and stared at her for the first five minutes. Another twenty went by of him just sitting in the chair with his hands clasped between his knees. “Listen uh...I’m not good at this whole sentimental thing, so if it’s true that coma patients remember what they hear, don’t judge. I know I get on your nerves a lot and tease you, but I do it ‘cus that’s just how I show love.” He looked down. “Truth is, you’re like a sister to me, Y/N. I always wanted an older sister to annoy, and when I met you it felt like I’d found my missing piece. Nobody in my life ever stays long, but you’re the one constant that I could hang on to. No matter which girl left me or friends I lost, I knew I could always count on you to be there, ready to go along with whatever I wanted.” He chuckled at the tears brimming in his eyes. “Look at this shit. You got me cryin’.” He roughly wiped his eyes with the collar of his hoodie. “Well, that’s my spiel. Wake up soon. I need somebody to roll their eyes at my jokes again.” He stood and wiped his palms on his sweats. His fingers twitched at his side as he peered down at her. Hesitantly, he leaned down and gave her a quick peck on the forehead. “Get better, sis.”

~~~

The next day was Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jin’s turn. Namjoon, unsurprisingly, got there at the exact time Yoongi texted him to. He came in carrying a to-go cup of coffee with the Starbucks logo on the sleeve. Immediately, he pulled Yoongi into a quick hug before he could protest. “Here, I know you’re not sleeping.”

“Thanks.” Yoongi took it with a small smile. Namjoon wasn’t wrong. He hadn’t slept a wink since he got there, and it was starting to show. His raven hair hung in glossy clumps and he was starting to develop his own set of dark circles. “You can go in whenever you’re ready.”

Namjoon stepped in and closed the door gently behind him. “Hey, N/N.” He sighed and took a seat in the chair that he dwarfed with his long legs. “I know you probably could care less, but I’m gonna take care of your homework for you until you get out of this. That is, if you don’t wake up by Monday. Anyway, uh, Cheyenne couldn’t make it. She’s at a tournament in Las Vegas, but she sends her love. Maybe when you wake up, you can FaceTime her. She’s really worried about you, y’know. Even if you guys haven’t seen each other for years.” He gazed at her almost as if he was waiting for her to respond. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Normally, I always know what to say, but….with you there’s just so much to be said I can’t think straight, so I thought,” he fished a small book out of his coat pocket, “I’d read you some poetry instead. I know the guys have probably talked your ear off, so it should be a nice break from it all.” He cracked open the book to one of the pages he’d marked with a sticky note. “I’ll start with this one, since I know it’s your favorite.”

Life is unpredictable,

It changes with the seasons,

Even your coldest winter,

Happens for the best of reasons,

And though it feels eternal,

Like all you’ll ever do is freeze,

I promise spring is coming,

And with it, brand new leaves.

- Erin Hanson

~~~

Hoseok was already in the hallway when Namjoon finished up. “How’d it go?” He showed him the book in his hand.

“Just some reading. She always likes that.” Hoseok gave him a nod and circled around him to take his place.

He took a seat and rested his elbows on the mattress. “Hey...God, I don’t even know how I’m supposed to do this. I’m not used to one sided conversations.” He gave a tiny chuckle. “I was a mess when I heard about your accident...I mean, Fentanyl, Y/N? Fentanyl?? I know how bad that shit’s reputation is and when I heard you ODed on it, I was certain you were dead. It took five minutes for Yoongi to calm me down and say you were alive.” He eyed all the tubes and machines she was hooked up to. “Although it doesn’t really look like it….Fuck you scared me, Y/N. Don’t you ever do that again.” He grabbed her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You hear me? You’re the only one who knows how bad my coke problem really is. In fact, no one else even knows I’m bipolar. Only you. Because you’re the only person I feel comfortable talking about it with. So please, don’t scare me like that again. I don’t expect you to come out of this clean as a whistle. Hell, I don’t even expect you to stop snorting your prescriptions. That’s why we need each other. We can work on ourselves together. I know you’ll wake up. I just know it. And I’ll be waiting with a big ass bag of all your favorite candy and movies when you do. So, you just focus on healing that body of yours and get back to us as soon as you can.” He gave her a kiss on the hand and another on her forehead. “Love ‘ya.”

~~~

Yoongi eyed the book Namjoon had set on one of the chairs lining the hall. He picked it up and leafed through it. “Hey, Joon?”

“Yeah?”

“You think I can borrow this for a bit?” He looked over to see what he was talking about.

“Yeah, of course.” Yoongi continued to flip through the pages when Hoseok stepped out and shut the door behind him. His eyes were misty and his voice was a little nasally.

“That was a lot harder than I thought it was gonna be.” He scanned the hallway. “Is Jin coming?”

“He’s coming around six after he gets off work.” Yoongi said, not looking up from the poem he was in the middle of.

“Oh, okay. Well, I have practice later so I’ll try to come visit again as soon as I can.” Hoseok gave each of them a hug and took his leave.

“I can stick around if you want, Yoongi.” Namjoon offered.

“No, no. I’m okay. There’s really not much you can do here. I’ll call you if anything comes up.” He stood again and Namjoon gave him another parting hug. “Thanks for the book, by the way.”

“No problem. I’ll see you later.”

Yoongi took his spot in the chair by Y/N’s bed and delved back into his book. As he went along, he wrote poems that reminded him of her on the hospital stationary from the bedside table. He didn’t read them aloud. He found it hard to believe that talking would actually help. His life hadn’t been fortunate enough for him to believe in anything more than cold, hard facts. He wasn’t one for talking anyway, and he knew neither was she.

He didn’t realize how much time had passed until Jin came knocking with a duffel bag in his hand. “Who’s that for?” Yoongi asked.

“You.” Jin said as he tossed it at him. He dropped the book and caught it against his chest. “Now go shower while I talk to my baby because I know you haven’t. You don’t want Y/N to wake up and have you smelling like ass.” He had him there. He stood up with a sigh and took the duffel to the connecting bathroom.

Jin turned and felt his heart sink at the sight of her. It hurt to see her like this and not be able to do anything to help. “I hope you’re feeling okay in there.” He sat on the edge of the bed by her thigh. “I can’t stay as long as I’d hoped, so I’ll have to make this quick. I know you probably don’t want me boo-hooing over you, so I’ll try to keep the tears to a minimum.” He rubbed the smooth tape securing the IV in her hand. “I’ll never forget that time I found you curled up on the floor, in the middle of your living room, so depressed you couldn't walk. I had to bathe you and tuck you in bed. I even fed you soup even though you said you could do it yourself.” He smiled softly. “I know I have to take care of you sometimes when you can’t do it yourself. And that’s okay. It’s okay to ask for help every once in a while. That’s my job. We always joke about how I’m your guys’ momma, but it’s true. You’re the reason I realized how much I want to be a dad one day. Believe me, if I could take care of you for the rest of my life I would, but I don’t think you’d care for that too much.” A small tear slipped past his guard and dripped down his cheek. “Sorry,” he wiped it away, “but you can’t blame me. I’m worried about you, Y/N. I don’t know what drove you to do this, but I know you tried your hardest to fight it.” He squeezed her hand. “I want you to know that I’m not mad, I’m not disappointed. You were trying to take your pain away. I just wish you could’ve told me how much you were suffering. Even if you want to spare me the stress and heartbreak of it all, I’d rather know you're in pain so maybe I can help you. Please don’t hide like that again. I need my little gremlin around to give me grey hairs before I hit thirty.” He leaned down and gave her a kiss on the head. “And you’re worth every single one.”

The door to the bathroom opened and Yoongi stepped out rubbing a towel over his hair. “Sorry, I tried to take as long as possible.”

“It’s fine, I need to be going anyway.” Jin stood and gave Y/N one last glance. “I’ll be waiting for you, kiddo.” He turned to Yoongi. “You gonna be okay here by yourself?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Have you talked to her yet?” Yoongi paused. “You should. Even if you think it doesn’t do anything, you’d be surprised what comes out.” With that, he took his jacket off the chair and closed the door behind him.

~~~

The clock read 11:50 by the time Yoongi finished his book. He set it on the bedside table with a sigh. Over a dozen notes were taped to the railing in a long line of comforting messages. It was surprising how much it helped him take his mind off the worst. But now, he had nothing to do but wait. He let out another long sigh. “I’m sorry I haven’t talked much. It’s just hard not being able to hear your voice...I figured if I tried to say anything I’d fucking lose it, but it feels like I already am.” He rested his forehead in his hands and ran his fingers through his hair. “Jesus...what am I gonna do? If you go, I don’t know what I’m gonna do to myself. It scares me...One of the nurses told me you’d be going to a better place, but I don’t care if you’re going to a better place, I need you here.” He sniffed. “And I know that’s wrong, but I need you in this shitty ass world because I can’t survive without you.” He tried to blink the brimming tears out of his eyes, but it was no use. “There’s no one else in the world I’d rather be with than you. I don’t know how you made me like this, but I don’t ever want to change. I love you. I love you so fucking much I don’t know what to do with myself. I love the little things about you the most. I love that one curl that you hate because it goes the wrong way, how you’re not afraid to eat twice as much as me, how you grab my shirt in your sleep, how you walk in the grass with a flashlight during the summer so you don’t step on any frogs.”

The steady beep of the EKG was the only response he got. “Please don’t leave me. Please? No one’s ever made me feel this good before. And if you leave...if you-...” His head sank as he tried to hold back his tears. “It’s just- It’s easier to smile with you because when I look at you, I can feel it. And I-I look at you and I-....I’m home….Please, I don’t want that to go away.”

~~~

Yoongi didn’t remember falling asleep, but he woke up with his head resting against Y/N’s hip. He blinked away his sleepiness and tried to read the clock. 6:20. He groaned. Stayed awake two nights in a row and didn’t even get so much as six hours. Despite his suspicions, he did feel a lot better having talked to her. It seemed to bring her a little closer to him in these God awful times.

She was looking better. The dark circles were fading and the color was returning to her lips. It lifted his spirits to see she was visibly healing. He called Namjoon to bring him another poetry book. The stuff was really starting to grow on him. Of all people.

Other than a visit from Jungkook, Jiwoo, and Jimin, the day was pretty uneventful. A few nurses came in to take her vitals and stretch her joints, but he wouldn’t necessarily consider that an event.

“Here’s a good one.” Yoongi leaned forward in his chair for her to hear.

I don’t think you will

Ever fully understand

How you touched my life

And made me who I am.

You are the keeper of my dreams,

The man who holds my heart,

The one I want to spend my life with,

The one with whom I will always stand.

Stand beside through thick and thin

Through all that life throws our way

Knowing that this special love we share

Will guide us each and every day.

I don’t think you could ever feel

All the love I have to give,

And I’m sure you never realize

You’ve been my will to live.

- Stephanie Schiavone

~~~

The light of dawn shone through the thin curtains that billowed in the breeze coming from the open balcony door, casting the spacious bedroom in a golden glow. Yoongi shifted under the white, linen sheets and stretched out his spine like a cat. He cracked an eye open and took in the view of Y/N’s bare back on the other side of the bed. The fabric only came up to her hips and was pulled around to her chest with her sleeping hands. Her hair swept over the entire pillow scattering her curls every which way.

He ghosted his knuckle down her spine and back up again, repeating the action until her slender shoulders stirred. She let out a small, airy groan and dug herself further into the mattress. Birds chirped in the lush trees swaying outside with the coming morning. Yoongi scooted closer until her back was flush against his chest. The heat between their skin was a welcome sensation that seemed to fill his heart with even more love. If that was possible. He slipped his arms around her waist and buried his face in the crook of her neck. She wriggled again when he started peppering her with kisses up and down her neck and cheek. He finally brought his lips to her ear. “Wake up.”

~~~

Y/N’s eyes drifted open and fluttered against the cold lights of the ICU room. She looked down at her IVs and around the room groggily. Yoongi was asleep on the edge of the bed with his head resting on his folded arms. It broke her heart to see how tired he looked. Dark bags marked his red, puffy eyes from hours of vigil. Tears welled in her eyes and her lips drew into a pained frown as the memories of her night flashed in her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut and attempted to silence her hiccups. Her head sank back into the pillow and hoped it would just swallow her whole. There was no way she’d be able to face anyone after what she did. Oh God. Jungkook. Instant guilt and shame washed over her when she realized what she put that poor boy through.

When her eyes cleared enough to see, she noticed the dozens of messages littering her bed and side table. She took one off the railing with a shaky hand. It was in Yoongi’s handwriting.

When I first met you

I remembered you

From a hundred different dreams

And there you were

For me to love

All over again

For the very first time

- Atticus

A smile crept onto her lips as she read each one.

Your eyes.

Your eyes hold everything

My soul thirsts for.

- Paul Perry

She read another.

You gave light to my soul

You helped me to be whole

I have felt love for you before

And it will be more and more,

You are mine, my dear

You are the angel from above

Who taught me how to love.

Please, forever keep me near.

- Anonymous

~~~

The feeling of his hair being carded through slowly coaxed Yoongi out of his dream. He peeked an eye open. Y/N was mindlessly playing with his hair while she intently read one of his notes. “Oh my God!” He jumped onto the bed and cupped her head in his hands as he attacked her with kisses wherever he could land them. “You’re awake! Holy shit, you’re awake!” He pressed his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. “I thought I lost you.”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Her hoarse voice was like music to his ears. He let himself laugh for the first time in the longest three days of his life. She looked up at him and he finally got to see those e/c eyes that he missed so much. Another wave of kisses washed over her that concluded with a final long, heated kiss on her lips.

“I’ve been waiting to be able to do that again.” She giggled and pushed against his chest.

“Get off, creepo. If the nurses saw you like this you’d get kicked out so fucking fast.”

“Oh shit,” he jumped off, “I need to tell them you’re up!” She watched in amusement as he ran out the door, then frantically popped back in.

“I’ll be right back!”

~~~

Everything that happened next flew by in a blur. She nearly suffocated under the hugs and kisses and gifts she was bombarded with. She was transferred to a standard room where she was allowed to have as many visitors as she wanted. Her entire day consisted of catching up with everyone, watching movies, and lots, and lots of Jello. Most of her IVs were removed which allowed Yoongi to curl up beside her that night.

The next evening, Jungkook was visiting her when Dr. Lobrano stepped in with his usual clipboard and pen. “Hey you two. If you don’t mind, I need to speak with Miss Y/N for a few minutes in private.”

“Oh..okay.” Jungkook reluctantly got up and left the room, stealing a glance on his way out.

“So?” She asked. The doctor folded his hands in front of him and looked down for a bit.

“I’m afraid there’s one thing about your condition that I’ve yet to mention.” She sat up straighter, her stomach churning.

“What is it?”

“When you first arrived at the ER you had major vaginal bleeding, so we did some tests...” Her heart stopped. “You were pregnant, but I’m afraid the shock of your overdose also caused you to miscarry.” It felt like she got punched in the stomach by Mike Tyson. All the air was sucked out of her lungs.

“P-pregnant..?”

“I’m sorry. I wanted to give you some time to catch up with loved ones before I informed you.” Hot tears rolled down her cheeks and her eyes darted back and forth trying to make sense of it all.

“H-how far along was I?”

“About three weeks.”

“Does...does Yoongi know?”

“I’m leaving you the choice to decide that. Once again, my deepest condolences.” He left her to process the news in privacy.

She collapsed onto the bed, her sobs coming out in hiccupy squeaks. Her hands gravitated to her stomach and tried to imagine the little being that used to be there. Three soft knocks sounded from the other side of the door. It slowly opened and Jungkook peaked his head in. “Y/N? Are you okay?” She only stared up at the ceiling. He approached her bedside. “....Y/N?” Her eyes eventually found him and filled with more tears.

“Can you hug me?” He immediately sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her up into a hug. Her shoulders quivered and she gripped desperately at his shirt.

“Hey, it's okay. It’s okay…” He stroked her hair and rested his chin on the top of her head. She cried, and cried, and cried until nothing else came out. Jungkook held her until her sobs faded, and her body leaned against his chest. He gently laid her down, taking care not to wake her up. Her peaceful face was a stark contrast to the tears that wet her cheeks and reddened her nose. Whatever the doctor told her must’ve been pretty damn bad to have her asking for a hug, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

Y/N was still asleep when Yoongi stepped out of the shower. Moonlight that came from a small window lit his path to her bed. She stirred when he climbed in. “It’s me. Go back to sleep.” He whispered. The sheets were pulled over their bodies and she rolled onto her side with her back to him. He took the opportunity to pull her closer. His face nestled on her shoulder and he let out a long sigh of contentment. She clenched her muscles to suppress her whimpers, but it was no use. He lifted his head to look down at her. “Why are you crying? What’s wrong?” Her eyes clamped shut and a choked sob escaped her chest.

“I killed our baby.”

~~~

It took a long time for Yoongi to wrap his head around what she told him the night before. When he finally put two and two together, he immediately turned her around so she was facing his chest and pulled her in as close as he possibly could. He was absolutely distraught, but only a few silent tears of shock came out as she sobbed into his shoulder all over again.

They slept late into the afternoon until they were woken up by a beaming Jimin. “Wake up, sleepyheads! It’s your discharge day!” Yoongi scowled at the unwelcome noise and lazily swatted at him. Jimin grabbed his wrist and pulled him to sit up straight. “Come on! Don’t you wanna get out of here?”

“Gimme a minute before I punch you.” He grumbled, rubbing his eyes. Jimin circled around to Y/N’s side and played with her hair.

“Y/Naaa, wake uuuup~” She cracked an eye and glared at him. “Oh, don’t give me that look too. It’s noon, and you’re supposed to check out at two. Let's get a move on.”

They spent the better half of an hour watching TV while Yoongi packed up the duffel Jin brought him. Y/N brushed her teeth in bed and spat the toothpaste in a cup when she was done. “Here.” She handed it to Jimin who took it and rinsed it out in the sink.

There was a knock at the door and Dr. Lobrano stepped inside. “How’re we feeling today?”

“Fine, I guess.” she shrugged. “I’m just ready to go home.”

“About that. It’s come to my attention that you have a history of suicidal behavior, and while it’s not my position to judge, I also can’t rule your overdose out as a suicide attempt.” “What?” She was dumbfounded. How could that be any of his business? “I wasn’t trying to kill myself!”

“But did you or did you not have any concern for your safety when you took that Fentanyl?” She pressed her lips into an angry thin line. She was angry because she knew he was right. She knew the risk and she did it anyway.

“What are you getting at?” Yoongi stepped in.

“According to California law, overdose victims are required to participate in a mandatory 28 days of rehabilitation. And since you’re also a danger to yourself, your treatment will have to be in a psychiatric facility.”

Y/N, Yoongi, and Jimin’s jaws dropped. There was no way he was serious. Right? Her heart beat faster, and faster, and faster with every memory of St. Joseph’s that flashed in her mind. “No….no, no, no!” She clawed at her IV and yanked it out of her hand. She threw the sheets up and made a mad dash for the door, but two male nurses stood ready to catch her. “NO! NO! NO! I’M NOT GOING BACK!” They hauled her back on the bed and tried to pin her kicking legs down. Her screams brought another team of nurses rushing in with a set of bed restraints.

“What the hell are you doing to her?!” Yoongi shouted. One of the nurses turned and put her hand to the boys’ chests.

“You two need to leave, right now.” They were shoved outside the room and forced to watch the crowd of people struggle to hold Y/N’s thrashing body to the mattress so the restraints could be slipped on. Jimin held his hands to his mouth and stared through wide, teary eyes.

“NO! NO! NO! NO! I CAN’T GO BACK! YOONGI!” It felt like someone stabbed him in the heart when she desperately called out to him. He could hear the terror in her voice.

“YOONGI!”

Pain filled his entire body and he bit the inside of his lip, visibly restraining himself from lunging forward and ripping her from the restraints that she jerked so furiously against. “YOONGI! PLEASE DON’T LET-'' A nurse sank a syringe into her hip and her legs quickly ceased their kicking. Y/N fell silent.

Yoongi stood like a statue and stared at the only half of her that he could see. “Yoongi, I-” he ripped his shoulder away when Jimin placed a hand on it and stormed away. He didn’t stop until he got all the way to his car in the parking lot. The door slammed shut behind him and he was left in silence. His forehead fell against the steering wheel and he let out a long breath.

A single whimper escaped his chest.

Then another.

And another.

Loud, hiccupy sobs wracked his whole body as he white-knuckled the leather wrapped wheel. One especially aggressive wave had him hugging himself in a bawling heap. He hadn’t cried like this since he was little, hiding in the closet from his dad’s drunken rage. It was scary how quickly he lost control, and he knew there was nothing he could do to get it back.

#bts x reader #bts angst #bts fanfic #bts fic #yoongi x reader #yoongi fic #yoongi angst #namjoon #bts seokjin #yoongi #jimin #taehyung #jungkook #bts sad

[mehreya]

you!

↬ wc: 3k

↬ pairing: oikawa tooru x fem!reader

↬ genre: fluff, soulmate au (where the first words you hear your soulmate say, whether to you or to someone else, are tattooed somewhere on your arm.)

↬ summary: of course your soulmate tattoo had to be a spoiler. of course.

-- send an ask to @/seraee to be on my gen taglist or fill out my form in navi!!

You’ve been walking all afternoon, your feet are sore beyond belief despite being encased in comfortable sneakers, and yet Haruka still wants you to go to the movies with her. It’s truly unbelievable how much stamina this girl has. She just roamed the entire Minetan Mall, one of the largest in Japan, and she still has enough energy to go watch a movie. You think she must be on a constant sugar rush or something. You protest and try to tell her that your feet can’t handle any more, but she just gives you a look, blond hair shining in the late afternoon sunlight, sky blue orbs sparkling incredulously.

“You’re wearing sneakers.” she says firmly, as if that’s reason enough for you to go on. And okay, maybe it kind of is, but you’re also really not in the mood for a movie tonight, especially not the one Haruka is dragging you to, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

It’s not because you don’t like the movie, it’s because you’ve never watched it and don’t plan on ever watching it. You live in a world where soulmates exist, where the first words you hear your soulmate say are tattooed somewhere on your arm, whether it be your wrist, finger, palm or shoulder blade. People usually get their tattoos when they turn 8, you were a special case and got yours a year later unfortunately. But you didn’t let it deter you. You had been excited, practically buzzing with eagerness and begging your parents to let you stay awake till midnight.

You had stayed up while going through Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, book four of a series you had recently started and much enjoyed. Your nine-year old heart had grown incredibly emotionally attached to all the characters, and you were so invested that you almost didn’t notice when the clock struck midnight.

But then there had been a tingling feeling spreading along your wrist, and you had put your book down, thrilled to see what sweet words would be tattooed on your arm, hoping for something like your mother’s. Hers read, “you have a really pretty smile”. The first words she heard your dad say were words that had been spoken to her. You had hoped your tattoo reflects your soulmate’s first words to you, too.

You had closed your eyes, fingers crossed, waiting for the tingling feeling to stop and the words to finish forming. And then your eyes had shot open eagerly, flipping your wrist to see your tattoo. And the result had you feeling heartbroken at first, then furious.

Your tattoo read, “Man, I can’t believe Dumbledore died” in beautiful cursive. But the words themselves were not as beautiful. They were a spoiler! You had stared at it, unblinking for a few seconds, and then the meaning of the words set in. Dumbledore was one of your favorite characters! The lovable, kooky old man! How could he just die?! And you were only on book four, why did you have to find out before?!

You hated spoilers, and you were furious at your soulmate, at the fact that the first words he said to you, or the first words you heard him say, were a spoiler. You didn’t have the heart to read book five, six, or seven after that, too scared to go through with the emotionally devastating task of actually reading about Dumbledore dying.

You explain all this to Haruka patiently and with as much emotion as you can muster, hoping your tragic soulmate story will convince her to let you go home and rest. But you should have known it would be a futile effort; it’s Haruka after all. She merely pats you on the back once or twice hurriedly as you gape at her unconcerned nature, then locks arms with you and continues dragging you down the street, your objections falling on deaf ears.

They’re doing reruns of Harry Potter films at the Kieta Cinema this week, and Oikawa really wants to go watch the one they’re showing today. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. During his teen years, he didn’t really have much interest in anything other than volleyball and high school life was strenuous, so he didn’t have enough time anyway.

Now that he’s in university, he has a much more flexible timetable, which makes it easier to indulge in other activities and friendly outings from time to time. Kuroo recommended the Harry Potter series one day, told him he would like it. He was curious to see if he would. Oikawa still doesn’t have enough time to read the books, but he does have enough time to watch condensed versions of them. Kuroo is indignant when he hears Oikawa’s only going to watch the movies, and tells him the best experience is from the books. Oikawa, in usual Oikawa fashion, waves it off and tells him he’s too nerdy, to which Kuroo responds with a roll of his eyes.

Oikawa’s watched the first five films already, two of them in one go, and he’s found the series fascinating, the mix of magic and adventure intriguing. He especially likes watching the scenes where the characters play Quidditch, and he wouldn’t admit it, but he’s impressed that someone came up with such a sport all on their own. It still doesn’t hold a candle to volleyball, though.

He manages to drag Kuroo and Bokuto with him to the cinema, despite Kuroo’s faint reluctance, because going would mean he’s being disloyal to the books, and Bokuto’s reluctance because of the long commute, but this is the only cinema currently playing Harry Potter re-runs, and it’s the nearest. So Oikawa quells their arguments effortlessly, as one would expect. (“Tetsu-chan! Bo-kun! It’s an experience with your teammates, you know, bonding~~ We can bond during the trip too! Besides, isn’t it better to experience your favorite series in different ways?” “I mean, that is a solid argument…” “See!”)

They reach their destination just as the sun is sinking below the horizon, deep pinks and reds painting the sky, fading golden daylight dipped with orange as it creates faint dancing shadows. It’s pretty, Oikawa thinks off-handedly, not really paying much attention to the beautiful sunset as he counts the number of people in the line at the front desk of the cinema. Oikawa, Kuroo and Bokuto enter the cinema, front doors sliding open automatically, Bokuto complaining that it’s cold as a gust of cool air hits them; a result of the air conditioning.

Oikawa looks around casually as they stand in line, hands in the pockets of his navy blue hoodie. He’s only half-listening to Kuroo and Bokuto mildly bickering about which snacks to buy in front of him. Disinterested -because he knows both are going to end up going for the classic, popcorn- he takes his time looking at the neon displays in the cinema, and observing the staff workers. His attention is refocused to the doors as they slide open and two girls walk in, one of them clearly dragging the other as she covers her ears.

It’s an entertaining sight, and so he twists around a little to watch them, an amused smirk playing at his lips. There’s no one standing behind him, so he has a clear view of the two as they squabble. One of them looks like your standard bubbly blonde with a bright smile, but has the prettiest sky blue eyes, ones that are sharp and intelligently observant as they take in their surroundings, still talking to her friend as she does. Probably good at multi-tasking, he’d say.

The other has (h/c) hair, and is trying (and failing) to dig the heels of her sneakers into the ground. She has her hands clamped over her ears, probably to block out whatever the blonde is saying. Maybe the blonde is scolding her? Or she doesn’t want to go to the movies? He theorizes, eyes alert as they scan over her. Whatever, he shrugs it off a minute later. It’s of no consequence anyway. The (h/c)-haired girl looks average, not out of the ordinary in the least. As he’s about to dismiss her, something sticks out in his observations. Her eyes. They’re not the most stunning color he’s seen, but there’s something kind of alluring lurking in the depths of those (e/c) orbs. It’s attractive, he muses, thumb unconsciously running over the tattoo on his pointer finger.

They’ve come closer now. I must have been staring for a good five minutes, he realizes with a start. Bokuto and Kuroo are still arguing, debating over whether they should buy sweet or salty popcorn. Fools, Oikawa rolls his eyes somewhat fondly, you always pick butter popcorn. He’s about to voice his thoughts when he realizes the girls have stopped just a few feet behind him.

His body is still half-turned toward them, and the blonde looks at him sharply, wondering why he’s staring. There’s a challenging glint to her eyes, but she’s still talking to the girl next to her in a sing-song voice. The girl in question is still covering her ears, but she’s noticed him too and her eyes rove over him quickly before dismissing his feasibility as a threat. Astute, he thinks, one eyebrow cocked. The line becomes shorter, and he turns around, drawing forward with Kuroo and Bokuto, who have now moved on to playfully arguing about whether butter and caramel popcorn are a good combination with Coke. At least they’re on the right track.

Oikawa takes out his phone then, left hand still hidden in his hoodie pocket as he dismisses the notification from his Instagram, instead clicking on his messages app. He’s replying to a few messages from Hanamaki when he realizes the two girls are within hearing distance of him now. He can hear their conversation and he snorts quietly in amusement when he hears what they’re arguing about.

The blonde one is loudly singing out what seems to be random facts from the Harry Potter universe, but what he comes to recognize as events that happened in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Possibly spoilers? He can hear the other girl muttering something under her breath quickly, and it seems she’s trying to block out what the blonde’s saying. Maybe she didn’t watch the previous book or read the series?

This argument of theirs continues for a few minutes as the line moves up, Oikawa mindlessly scrolling through his phone, although he’s focusing more on the two arguments happening in front and behind him. It’s quite a good source of entertainment, and he’s giving Hanamaki a play-by-play account of the events, and Hanamaki’s just as entertained, even offering to audio call so he can listen.

Oikawa shoots down that idea unfortunately, saying the providers of their entertainment might find out (the line is quite cramped, although there is a lot of space). He would have texted Iwaizumi too, that would have been even more entertaining since he would have been annoyed at Oikawa, but he’s offline. (Oikawa spams him just to make sure, and he knows he’s going to get in so much trouble for all those messages later).

It’s their turn to pay for the ticket and buy snacks, and Kuroo and Bokuto have finally ceased their little argument, now grinning at each other, proud they made the right decision. They finally look toward Oikawa for his input, and he sees they’ve chosen butter popcorn, like he thought they would. Feeling a little smug that he was right, he nods and tells them it’s the right choice. They pick up their snacks and start heading toward theater room B.

The sound of argument from the two girls has ceased, he notices suddenly and looks back curiously. The blonde is looking smug as she pays for the tickets and food, chattering amiably with the cashier. The (h/c)-haired girl sees him looking, and just shrugs helplessly, a look of defeat on her face. He grins at her, and turns back slinging either arm across Kuroo’s and Bokuto’s shoulders. Looks like the blonde won.

You’re resigned to your fate now, trudging inside theater room B with a heavy heart and heavy feet. You really, really, really don’t want to see Dumbledore die. You’ve decided you’re going to close your eyes as soon as it looks like anyone’s going to die. Haruka leads you along the rows, choosing the one just below the center. “Up-close and personal!” she grins. I don’t want to be up-close and personal when Dumbledore dies, you think sullenly.

There’s loud chatter coming a few rows in front of you. There’s not a lot of people at the cinema today, so you can see quite clearly where the noise is emanating from. It’s a group of three boys, the ones who were standing in front of you in line earlier.

You can see the backs of their heads from where you sit, black, brown, black and white all bobbing together. Your eyes fixate on the back of the brunet’s head, his hair looks fluffy from the back too, not at all messy. You’d seen him as you walked in, and you’d been immediately enamored. Because how could someone be so handsome? His perfectly coiffed brown locks, deep chocolate brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a smile playing at his lips. His soulmate would be so lucky, you think wistfully.

You’d seen him staring at you earlier, at first thinking it was weird he was looking at you, then seeing the curiosity in his eyes, realized he was probably staring at the whole mess that was you and Haruka. You had torn your gaze away from his then, not wanting to be caught staring.

You did peek at him in between a few times when Haruka had been occupied (with her phone, to search up more spoilers), always making sure to study his expression, so you could look away when you knew he’d look toward you. It wasn’t that you were being creepy, he just radiated this aura that made people want to look at him. It wasn’t just his looks, you noted, but you couldn’t quite grasp what else it was.

The movie starts then, and the beginning intro with the Harry Potter logo shows up. All thoughts of the brunet disappear as you focus on the movie, because despite your reluctance, you know the film is going to be epic.

You’re left sitting there with your mouth wide open as the credits roll out. The entire theater is silent, the ending scene of the movie sinking in, and then there’s a burst of chatter as the lights turn on, everyone shielding their eyes quickly.

In the end, you had to look at the Dumbledore death scene. You couldn’t tear your eyes away. And knowing what was going to happen (courtesy of your soulmate) did prepare you for it a little, but didn’t soften the blow.

It seems Haruka was surprised by the scene too, because she’s gushing about it now, especially Draco Malfoy and his troubles. He’s always been her favorite, inexplicably. You’re listening to her chatter as she walks ahead a little, adding a few comments here and there as you head up. You’re moving without really looking, and then you hear it. The words. “Man, I can’t believe Dumbledore died.”

You start in shock, Haruka looking at you in concern. Recognizing the sound came from behind you, you whirl around and shout furiously, “You! You’re the one!” You blink in surprise as you realize you’ve come face to face with the brunet, his friends flanking him on the step behind.

His chocolate brown eyes are wide in surprise, but then recognition settles in as he breaks out into a wide smile. It’s blinding, to say the very least. “That’s not how I imagined this conversation going, but I’ll take it.” he says teasingly.

You take a step back to put some distance in between yourselves. He notices, eyes assessing you quickly, but merely smiles amusedly, choosing not to speak about it. “At least your tattoo was much better than mine. Mine was a spoiler! I hadn’t even finished the fourth book when the tattoo showed up.” You scowl, recalling the frustration you felt, but it’s weak, without as much emotion.

He laughs, and extends a hand out to shake yours. You go to shake it as he says, “Well, let me take you out to make up for it. There’s a café next to the cinema?” He’s smiling charmingly, brown eyes twinkling invitingly. He takes the hand that’s clasped with his, and entwines it with his own, ignoring the slight snickering coming from behind him, courtesy of the black-haired guy.

You flush slightly, but tell him you’ll go as long as he buys you scones to make up for the hit your nine-year old heart took. His eyes flicker with something akin to mirth as he agrees, and then he leads you out, asking about your favorite color, song, movie, everything. You’re barely keeping up and you nudge his shoulder, telling him to slow down as he laughs at you. You don’t know him, but you feel at ease, comfortable, even as you joke, “Wow, I can’t believe my soulmate’s teasing me already, after dropping that huge spoiler on me when I was just nine.” 

“Guilt-tripping never works on me, (Name)-chan~~” 

“Guess I need to find a different soulmate.” 

“Rude, (Name)-chan!”

__________________________________________________

“They’re like an old, married couple already.” Haruka giggles, gazing fondly at her friend. “At least Oikawa’s met his match.” Kuroo says, snickering as he watches you prod Oikawa’s shoulder as your complexion colours, Oikawa laughing and apologizing as you scowl. Bokuto doesn’t reply, so he looks to his right to see him staring at Haruka with puppy dog eyes. Understanding what happened, Kuroo snickers again. “That has got to be the weirdest soulmate tattoo ever.” Then he realises he’s the only one who hasn’t found his soulmate yet, and he groans as he leaves the other two and slinks out of the room. Why am I the last one, ugh.

#haikyuucreations #mknet #haikyuu x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa x reader #mmmmm #i mean this got a lot of kudos on my ao3 so ig yeah #but mmmm #oikawa tooru #oikawa #tooru oikawa #tooru oikawa x reader #oikawa x you #hq x reader #haikyuu soulmate au #oikawa x y/n #hq!! #haikyuu #haikyuu!! #seijoh #haikyuu fanfiction #raeyn writes

[ladyofasoiaf]

Jon ‘One Eye’ & Sansa Stark

In this meta I will try to point out the clues of Jon’s death- warging into his direwolf- coming back to life process. 

Our main hint is going to be : ONE EYE motifs... 

And interestingly this hint is always close to Sansa... 

[Most of these clues etc have been already examined by many people but I will try to put them all in order to show the pattern..]

A GAME OF THRONES:

Waymar Royce

Waymar Royce appearence and story are very similar with Jon’s. 

They look similar:

Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs. He was a handsome youth of eighteen, grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife.

[AGOT; Prologue]

Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast.  

[AGOT; Bran I]

They are both young men of Night’s Watch but they were not very welcomed by their other black brothers:

His cloak was his crowning glory; sable, thick and black and soft as sin. “Bet he killed them all himself, he did,” Gared told the barracks over wine, “twisted their little heads off, our mighty warrior.” They had all shared the laugh. It is hard to take orders from a man you laughed at in your cups, Will reflected as he sat shivering atop his garron. Gared must have felt the same.

[AGOT; Prologue]

“Yes, life,” Noye said. “A long life or a short one, it’s up to you, Snow. The road you’re walking, one of your brothers will slit your throat for you one night.” “They’re not my brothers,” Jon snapped. “They hate me because I’m better than they are.” “No. They hate you because you act like you’re better than they are. They look at you and see a castle-bred bastard who thinks he’s a lordling.” The armorer leaned close. “You’re no lordling. Remember that. You’re a Snow, not a Stark. You’re a bastard and a bully.”

[AGOT; Jon III]

Others are a very important part of Jon’s arc and story and Waymar meets with them in Prologue:

Ser Waymar met him bravely. “Dance with me then.” He lifted his sword high over his head, defiant. His hands trembled from the weight of it, or perhaps from the cold. Yet in that moment, Will thought, he was a boy no longer, but a man of the Night’s Watch.

[AGOT; Prologue]

This phrase also reminds us Jon:

It is more than impatience, Jon realized. They are afraid. Warriors, spearwives, raiders, they are frightened of those woods, of shadows moving through the trees. They want to put the Wall between them before the night descends. 

A snowflake danced upon the air. Then another. Dance with me, Jon Snow, he thought. You’ll dance with me anon.

[ADWD; Jon XII]

In Prologue, Waymar gets killed by Others:

Royce’s body lay facedown in the snow, one arm out-flung. The thick sable cloak had been slashed in a dozen places. Lying dead like that, you saw how young he was. A boy.

[AGOT; Prologue]

And Jon dies in ADWD:

Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger’s hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. “Ghost,” he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold …

[ADWD; Jon XIII]

But Waymar comes back to life as a wight with ‘ONE EYE’:

Will rose. Ser Waymar Royce stood over him. His fine clothes were a tatter, his face a ruin. A shard from his sword transfixed the blind white pupil of his left eye. The right eye was open. The pupil burned blue. It saw.

[AGOT; Prologue]

So: A young man of Night’s Watch who looks like Jon dies and comes back to life with ONE EYE. 

Let’s continue with the second book...

A CLASH OF KINGS:

Orell

Orell is Wildling who is also a skinchanger. His animal is an EAGLE. 

Jon kills Orell in ACOK; Jon VI:

Jon nodded toward the one by the fire. It felt queer, picking a man to kill. 

[...]

Jon’s man leapt to his feet, thrusting at his face with a burning brand. He could feel the heat of the flames as he flinched back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sleeper stirring, and knew he must finish his man quick. When the brand swung again, he bulled into it, swinging the bastard sword with both hands. The Valyrian steel sheared through leather, fur, wool, and flesh, but when the wildling fell he twisted, ripping the sword from Jon’s grasp. 

[...]

“You ought to burn them you killed,” said Ygritte.

[ACOK; Jon VI]

But due to the magic of skinchanging, a portion of Orell’s consciousness remained in the eagle, which developed a fierce hatred for Jon.

And in ACOK; Jon VII he dreams of an eagle attacking him and people talk about vargs and skinchangers:

Then a sudden gust of cold made his fur stand up, and the air thrilled to the sound of wings. As he lifted his eyes to the ice-white mountain heights above, a shadow plummeted out of the sky. A shrill scream split the air. He glimpsed blue-grey pinions spread wide, shutting out the sun… “Ghost!” Jon shouted, sitting up. He could still feel the talons, the pain. “Ghost, to me!” Ebben appeared, grabbed him, shook him. “Quiet! You mean to bring the wildlings down on us? What’s wrong with you, boy?” “A dream,” said Jon feebly. “I was Ghost, I was on the edge of the mountain looking down on a frozen river, and something attacked me. A bird… an eagle, I think…”

[...]

“Skinchanger?” said Ebben grimly, looking at the Halfhand. Does he mean the eagle? Jon wondered. Or me? Skinchangers and wargs belonged in Old Nan’s stories, not in the world he had lived in all his life. Yet here, in this strange bleak wilderness of rock and ice, it was not hard to believe.

[ACOK; Jon VII]

So: There is a skinchanger who dies because of Jon but a part of him keeps living in his animal: eagle. 

The interesting thing is that between these two Jon chapters (Orell and eagle dream) comes a very important Sansa chapter which has many parallels with Jon VI chapter...

An example of parallels:

[…] ‘All I ask is a flower,’ Bael answered, ‘the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o’ Winterfell.”

“Now as it happened the winter roses had only then come into bloom, and no flower is so rare nor precious…  

[ACOK; Jon VI]

Sansa lowered her head. “The blood frightened me.”

“The blood is the seal of your womanhood. Lady Catelyn might have prepared you. You’ve had your first flowering, no more.”

Sansa had never felt less flowery. “My lady mother told me, but I… I thought it would be different.”  

[ACOK; Sansa IV]

For more, please check: Jonsa Book Hints: B5 

In this chapter Sansa says she wants to be loved and Cersei warns her that “love kills too...” Next chapter is Jon with his eagle dreams and warging abilities:

A half smile flickered across the queen’s face. “[…]Robert wanted to be loved. My brother Tyrion has the same disease. Do you want to be loved, Sansa?”

“Everyone wants to be loved.”

“I see flowering hasn’t made you any brighter,” said Cersei. “Sansa, permit me to share a bit of womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.”  

[ACOK; Sansa IV]

Let’s move on to third book...

A STORM OF SWORDS:

Orell and Wargs

In ASOS; Jon I, we learn the name of the Wildling that Jon has killed in ACOK; Jon VI:

“He slew Qhorin Halfhand,” said Longspear Ryk. “Him and that wolf o’ his.”

“And did for Orell too,” said Rattleshirt.

“The lad’s a warg, or close enough,” put in Ragwyle, the big spearwife. “His wolf took a piece o’ Halfhand’s leg.”

[...]

“What’s this?” he said. “A crow?”

“The black bastard what gutted Orell,” said Rattleshirt, “and a bloody warg as well.”

“You were to kill them all.”

“This one come over,” explained Ygritte. “He slew Qhorin Halfhand with his own hand.”

[ASOS; Jon I]

This Jon chapter comes after ASOS; Sansa I. 

And these chapters have many parallels such as:

Sansa knelt at the feet of her future queen. “You do me great honor, Your Grace.” “Won’t you call me Margaery? Please, rise. Loras, help the Lady Sansa to her feet. Might I call you Sansa?”  

[ASOS; Sansa I]  

“I would be pleased to eat, Your Grace. And thank you.”

“Your Grace?” The king smiled. “That’s not a style one often hears from the lips of the free folk. I’m Mance to most, The Mance to some. Will you take a horn of mead?”  

[ASOS; Jon I]

For more, please check: Jonsa Book Hints: C1

We also learn about Sansa’s new betrothed: Willas Tyrell.. 

Willas has a bad leg and so does Jon, in ASOS:

“Willas has a bad leg but a good heart,” said Margaery. “He used to read to me when I was a little girl, and draw me pictures of the stars. You will love him as much as we do, Sansa.”

[ASOS; Sansa I]

If the mare had gone down, he would have been doomed. “A lucky thing my leg got in the way,” he muttered.

He rested for a while to let the horse graze. She did not wander far. That was good. Hobbled with a bad leg, he could never have caught her.

[ASOS; Jon V]

Let’s keep reading...

In ASOS; Jon II chapter Jon’s eagle dream from ACOK comes true and Orell’s eagle attacks Jon’s eye:

He could still hear wings, though the eagle was not in sight. Half his world was black. “My eye,” he said in sudden panic, raising a hand to his face.

“It’s only blood, Jon Snow. He missed the eye, just ripped your skin up some.”

[…]

Can a bird hate? Jon had slain the wilding Orell, but some part of the man remained within the eagle. The golden eyes looked out on him with cold malevolence.

[…]

I will need to get this tended, he thought, but not just now. Let the King-beyond-the-Wall see what his eagle did to me.

[…]

The look Mance gave Jon was grim and cold. “What happened to your face?”

Ygritte said, “Orell tried to take his eye out.”

“It was him I asked. Has he lost his tongue? Perhaps he should, to spare us further lies.”

Styr the Magnar drew a long knife. “The boy might see more clear with one eye, instead of two.”

“Would you like to keep your eye, Jon?” asked the King-beyond-the-Wall. “If so, tell me how many they were. And try and speak the truth this time, Bastard of Winterfell.”

Jon’s throat was dry. “My lord… what…”

[ASOS; Jon II]

Jon almosts loses his ‘one eye’ and becomes Jon ‘One Eye’ Snow because of this attack..

After this eagle attack Jon chapter comes ASOS; Sansa II 

And these chapters have many parallels such as:

Jon wheeled and followed Tormund back toward the head of the column, his new cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders. It was made of unwashed sheepskins, worn fleece side in, as the wildlings suggested.

[…]  

“I wear the cloak you gave me, Your Grace.”  

[ASOS; Jon II]

A new gown?” she said, as wary as she was astonished.

“More lovely than any you have worn, my lady,” the old woman promised. She measured Sansa’s hips with a length of knotted string. “All silk and Myrish lace, with satin linings. You will be very beautiful. The queen herself has commanded it.”

“Which queen?” Margaery was not yet Joff’s queen, but she had been Renly’s. Or did she mean the Queen of Thorns? Or…“The Queen Regent, to be sure.”  

[ASOS; Sansa II]

For more, please check: Jonsa Book Hints: C2

And after the chapter of an eagle attacks Jon’s eye we learn in next chapter that Sansa’s betrothed Willas Tyrell flies EAGLES:

“Willas has the best birds in the Seven Kingdoms,” Margaery said when the two of them were briefly alone. “He flies an eagle sometimes. You will see, Sansa.” 

[ASOS; Sansa II]

Why is Almost One Eye Jon and Sansa Stark being near to each other important?

Because the first Sansa Stark in Stark family tree was married with her half-uncle Jonnel ‘One Eye’ Stark:

So another Sansa being close to another Stark family member who almost had lost his one eye sounds interesting. 

Well, Jon didn’t lose his eye but his face got scarred:

He had almost forgotten about his face. “A skinchanger tried to rip out my eye.”

Noye frowned. “Scarred or smooth, it’s a face I thought I’d seen the last of. We heard you’d gone over to Mance Rayder.”

[ASOS; Jon VI]

Who else has a scarred face? Sansa’s husband- Tyrion Lannister:

“I like your scar.” She traced it with her finger. “It makes you look very fierce and strong.”

He laughed. “Very ugly, you mean.”

“M’lord will never be ugly in my eyes.” She kissed the scab that covered the ragged stub of his nose.

[ASOS; Tyrion II]

Varamyr 

What happens to this eagle later?

Skinchanger, Varamyr Sixskins, takes control of Orell’s eagle. Varamyr uses the eagle to scout Castle Black and spots Stannis Baratheon’s arrival at the Wall.

The eagle bursts into flames during the attack on Castle Black with Melisandre claiming she was responsible. 

The skinchanger was grey-faced, round-shouldered, and bald, a mouse of a man with a wolfling’s eyes. “Once a horse is broken to the saddle, any man can mount him,” he said in a soft voice. “Once a beast’s been joined to a man, any skinchanger can slip inside and ride him. Orell was withering inside his feathers, so I took the eagle for my own. But the joining works both ways, warg. Orell lives inside me now, whispering how much he hates you. And I can soar above the Wall, and see with eagle eyes.”

[...]

“Banners,” he heard Varamyr murmur, “I see golden banners, oh . . .” A mammoth lumbered by, trumpeting, a half-dozen bowmen in the wooden tower on its back. “The king . . . no . . .”

Then the skinchanger threw back his head and screamed.The sound was shocking, ear-piercing, thick with agony. Varamyr fell, writhing, and the ’cat was screaming too.... and high, high in the eastern sky, against the wall of cloud, Jon saw the eagle burning. For a heartbeat it flamed brighter than a star, wreathed in red and gold and orange, its wings beating wildly at the air as if it could fly from the pain. Higher it flew, and higher, and higher still.

[ASOS; Jon X]

Melisandre burns the eagle. Who else got burned in the books? 

Jon Snow in AGOT:

He had burned himself more badly than he knew throwing the flaming drapes, and his right hand was swathed in silk halfway to the elbow. At the time he’d felt nothing; the agony had come after.

[AGOT; Jon VIII]

And Jon burns himself in AGOT; Jon VII:

Jon tried to shout, but his voice was gone. Staggering to his feet, he kicked the arm away and snatched the lamp from the Old Bear’s fingers. The flame flickered and almost died. “Burn!” the raven cawed. “Burn, burn, burn!”

Spinning, Jon saw the drapes he’d ripped from the window. He flung the lamp into the puddled cloth with both hands. Metal crunched, glass shattered, oil spewed, and the hangings went up in a great whoosh of flame. The heat of it on his face was sweeter than any kiss Jon had ever known. “Ghost!” he shouted.

The direwolf wrenched free and came to him as the wight struggled to rise, dark snakes spilling from the great wound in its belly. Jon plunged his hand into the flames, grabbed a fistful of the burning drapes, and whipped them at the dead man. Let it burn, he prayed as the cloth smothered the corpse, gods, please, please, let it burn.

[AGOT; Jon VII]

This Jon chapter comes after AGOT; Sansa IV:

And these two chapters have many parallels such as:

So she went to the queen instead, and poured out her heart, and Cersei had listened and thanked her sweetly … only then Ser Arys had escorted her to the high room in Maegor’s Holdfast and posted guards, and a few hours later, the fighting had begun outside.

[AGOT; Sansa IV]

They took his knife and his sword and told him he was not to leave his cell until the high officers met to decide what was to be done with him. And then they placed a guard outside his door to make certain he obeyed. His friends were not allowed to see him, but the Old Bear did relent and permit him Ghost, so he was not utterly alone.

[AGOT; Jon VII]

*

Yet somehow it seemed colder with Jeyne gone, even after she’d built a fire. She pulled a chair close to the hearth, took down one of her favorite books, and lost herself in the stories of Florian and Jonquil, of Lady Shella and the Rainbow Knight, of valiant Prince Aemon and his doomed love for his brother’s queen.

[AGOT; Sansa IV]

Yet he was trembling, violently. When had it gotten so cold?

[…]


Metal crunched, glass shattered, oil spewed, and the hangings went up in a great whoosh of flame. The heat of it on his face was sweeter than any kiss Jon had ever known. “Ghost!” he shouted.

[AGOT; Jon VII]

For more, please check: Jonsa Book Hints: A10

What happens to skinchanger Orell and warg Varamyr after the eagle burst into flames?

The incident greatly affects Varamyr and supposedly kills the remnants of Orell inside the eagle. 

After the defeat of the wildlings at the battle beneath the Wall, Varamyr has lost all his possessions in his madness from experiencing the eagle’s death; he has also lost control of his snow bear and shadowcat, but his wolves remain.

[Orell dying completely and Varamyr gets mad also reminds me another resurrected character Beric Dondarrion who also has ONE EYE and him dying for good to bring Catelyn Stark back to life... And like Varamyr, Lady Stoneheart loses her mind too... ]

Let’s move on to fourth book...

A FEAST FOR CROWS:

Jon is not even in this book? 

But Sansa is and we learn few things about her crushes:

Waymar Royce:

She had fallen wildly in love with Ser Waymar, she remembered dimly, but that was a lifetime ago, when she was a stupid little girl.

[AFFC; Alayne I]

Grrm reminds us Waymar Royce aka the biggest foreshadowing for Jon in AFFC book via Sansa’s chapter... 

Loras Tyrell:

Loras was another crush of Sansa and we learn that he got burned really bad in AFFC. 

Like the eagle and Jon. 

“Tell me,” said Margaery. “I command it.” Command it? Cersei paused a moment, then decided she would let that pass. “The defenders fell back to an inner keep once the curtain wall was taken. Loras led the attack there as well. He was doused with boiling oil.” Lady Alla turned white as chalk, and ran from the room. “The maesters are doing all they can, Lord Waters assures me, but I fear your brother is too badly burned.”

[AFFC; Cersei VIII]

More about Loras // Jon, please check: Jonsa Book Hints: A8

Let’s keep reading the fifth book...

A DANCE WITH DRAGONS:

In ADWD; Prologue Varamyr encounters with Others (just like AGOT; Prologue) and Varamyr’s body dies, but his mind lives on in his wolf One Eye. 

And Varamyr also thinks about Jon and his direwolf.. 

So we have dead warg who kept living in his animal: A WOLF whose name is ONE EYE. 

Varamyr could feel the snowflakes melting on his brow. This is not so bad as burning. Let me sleep and never wake, let me begin my second life. His wolves were close now. He could feel them. He would leave this feeble flesh behind, become one with them, hunting the night and howling at the moon. The warg would become a true wolf. Which, though?

[...]

“They say you forget,” Haggon had told him, a few weeks before his own death. “When the man’s flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains.”

Varamyr knew the truth of that. When he claimed the eagle that had been Orell’s, he could feel the other skinchanger raging at his presence. Orell had been slain by the turncloak crow Jon Snow, and his hate for his killer had been so strong that Varamyr found himself hating the beastling boy as well. He had known what Snow was the moment he saw that great white direwolf stalking silent at his side. One skinchanger can always sense another. Mance should have let me take the direwolf. There would be a second life worthy of a king. He could have done it, he did not doubt. The gift was strong in Snow, but the youth was untaught, still fighting his nature when he should have gloried in it.

[...]

A sleeping direwolf raised his head to snarl at empty air. Before their hearts could beat again he had passed on, searching for his own, for One Eye, Sly, and Stalker, for his pack. His wolves would save him, he told himself. That was his last thought as a man. True death came suddenly; he felt a shock of cold, as if he had been plunged into the icy waters of a frozen lake. Then he found himself rushing over moonlit snows with his packmates close behind him. Half the world was dark. One Eye, he knew. He bayed, and Sly and Stalker gave echo. When they reached the crest the wolves paused. 

[...]

The things below moved, but did not live. One by one, they raised their heads toward the three wolves on the hill. The last to look was the thing that had been Thistle. She wore wool and fur and leather, and over that she wore a coat of hoarfrost that crackled when she moved and glistened in the moonlight. Pale pink icicles hung from her fingertips, ten long knives of frozen blood. And in the pits where her eyes had been, a pale blue light was flickering, lending her coarse features an eerie beauty they had never known in life. She sees me.

[ADWD; Prologue]

Jon dies in his last ADWD chapter and his last word was his direwolf’s name: GHOST... 

Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger’s hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. “Ghost,” he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold …

[ADWD; Jon XIII]

So we have a full circle: 

It started with Agot; Prologue 

and ended with ADWD; Jon XIII

Let’s not forget that Jon’s death was foreshadowed in ASOS; Sansa VI chapter. 

Lord Petyr dismissed him with a wave, and returned to the pomegranate again as Oswell shuffled down the steps. “Tell me, Alayne—which is more dangerous, the dagger brandished by an enemy, or the hidden one pressed to your back by someone you never even see?”  

“The hidden dagger.”  

“There’s a clever girl.” He smiled, his thin lips bright red from the pomegranate seeds.  

[ASOS; Sansa VI]

Next chapter was Jon:

Fore more about Jon’s death and Sansa; please check: 

Jonsa Book Hints: C12 & E7 

“Do not be so certain.” The ruby at Melisandre’s throat gleamed red. “It is not the foes who curse you to your face that you must fear, but those who smile when you are looking and sharpen their knives when you turn your back. You would do well to keep your wolf close beside you. Ice, I see, and daggers in the dark. Blood frozen red and hard, and naked steel. It was very cold.”

“It is always cold on the Wall.”

“You think so?”

“I know so, my lady.”

“Then you know nothing, Jon Snow,” she whispered.  

[ADWD; Jon I]

In conclusion:

Jon’s death, him warging into his direwolf during his death and him coming back to life arc has been foreshadowed since AGOT; Prologue and its most obvious hints were given in ADWD; Prologue by echoing AGOT; Prologue. 

The ‘ONE EYE’ motif seems like a key hint for his resurrection. 

And Sansa is always close to this motif or she has some connections with this motif via other characters or her chapters. 

A Sansa Stark being close to another ‘ONE EYE’ Stark is interesting because of the historical couple: Jonnel ‘One Eye’ & Sansa Stark in Stark family tree.. 

Even the hints of Jon’s death can be found in Sansa chapters. 

All of these tell us that Sansa will be important in Jon’s past resurrection story. 

Thanks for reading. 

Some sources:

Waymar // Jon 

Disfigurements 

Jonnel / Sansa

Jon’s fate and losing an eye

#jonsa #jon snow #varamyr #orell #jonnel one eye stark #sansa stark #agot #acok #asos #affc #adwd #actually jonsa #jon snow x sansa stark #waymar royce #one eye #meta #mine

[moony-artnstuff]

Commission @rowandor

Note: @rowandor​ here it is, love! I hope you like it ❤

Thorin:

It took a little while for Thorin to get to know you, as he wasn’t really focused on forming friendships but rather on the quest ahead of him. And with yourself being rather shy and introverted the two of you didn’t really talk, at first.

However during the quest he started to notice more and more things about you, like the fact you carried a lot of different notebooks with you. He became intrigued and when he stole a glance he saw you sketching the most beautiful drawings, and before he knew it he had asked you about them and the two of you started a conversation.

When Thorin and you were on night watch he would often ask you about your many talents and interests, thinking it was amazing that you could do so many things (not that he’d tell you that, of course). He found your shy demeanour endearing, and he felt a small sense of pride when he noticed your growing more and more comfortable with him, eager to hear more interesting facts from you

When in a relationship with you, Thorin would get you all kinds of (courting)gifts having your talents in mind; expensive paints and brushes, beautiful handbound sketchbooks, gorgeous writing supplies for you to write your stories with (please read them to him, he loves to hear about your stories).

He would also take you to all kinds of theatre shows, and encourage you to participate in them. And you can bet he will always be there to see you perform.

Thorin knows he’s hit the jackpot when in a council meeting, you come up with the most creative ideas and solutions for rebuilding Erebor, and they work. He’s grinning to himself like heck yeah, look how smart and creative my wife is.

Thorin is pretty introverted as well. Like yeah, he arranges council meetings and attends feasts, but often only because he has to as the king of Erebor. He’d much rather spend his time with you cuddled up in your shared chambers, just talking and enjoying each other's company while you do your own things.

Thorin would never get mad at you if your depression made you incapable of doing your daily duties. He’d tell you to take you a few days off to just relax and take your mind off things. When your anxiety acts up during a council meeting, you’d just have to give Thorin a sign and he’d come up with an excuse for you on why you have to leave.

Fili:

Fili quickly became intrigued by you when he noticed that, although you were always polite and nice when talking with the others, you would often sit by yourself and do something for yourself. Every now and then he would sit with you, and ask you about what you were doing. He knew you were a bit shy, so he tried to take it slow, but he really wanted to know more about you, and when you finally let him in he was so happy.

He thinks it’s so amazing you can do so many wonderful things, and he’s not afraid to ask you to teach him some things, and he’s more than happy to teach you some cool tricks with his blades, if you are interested, that is.

One time he jokingly asked you to make a painting of him, and when you actually did it he fell in love. He shows it off to everyone, saying “look what she made! It’s beautiful!!”

Fili respects that, because you’re introverted, you don’t like to attend big gatherings and such, and he often helps you out avoiding such events, making up excuses for you. The fact that you are an introvert who prefers to spend most of her time in her room is a bonus for him too, because that means he gets to have you all to himself.

He think you’re so amazing, with your strange and mysterious aura, and he thinks it’s so cute when you ramble on about something you’re passionate about, and he will ask you a million questions about it, both because he’s genuinely interested but also because he loves seeing that excited spark in your eyes.

Please tell him everything about what’s going on in your imagination. Fili is so fascinated by what’s going on in your head and he wants to know everything.

He would be so honored if you let him proof-read your stories.

Fili knows when you start feeling really anxious. He will take your hand in his and try to direct as much attention as possible away from you to him. If you need to leave the room he would simply kiss your forehead and lead you outside, helping you calm down and telling you it’ll be alright. 

When your depression gets too much, Fili would hold you tight, softly swaying you and letting you pour your heart out to him. He would dry your tears, kiss you and whisper sweet nothings into your ear, reminding you that you’re not a bad person for being mentally ill, that things will get better and that he will stay with you until they do. 

Kili:

Oh he was infatuated with you since the moment you two met.

You were just so mysterious and interesting! How could he not want to know everything about you?

He thought your shy demeanour was adorable! And it only made him want to get to know you more.

He’d try to find out as much as possible about your interests and talents so he could talk about them with you, and he loves it when you tell him all kinds of different facts.

Kili would want to spend as much time with you as possible, but when you tell him you’re an introvert and need time alone he respects that, and gives you space when you need it.

Kili is your number one supporter in everything you do; you’re performing in a show? He’s gonna be on the front row cheering you on and being mesmerized by you. You’ve written a new story and need someone to proofread? He’s right there! You made a new painting or drawing? Kili’s gonna show it to the whole of Erebor and then hang it somewhere in your room where you can always see it.

I can totally imagine Kili asking you if he can draw with you, and then when you show each other your drawings you made a beautiful portrait of you and Kili made something that looks more like a stick figure with hair but he tried very hard and you love it.

Kili loves your hyperactive imagination, and if you were to help him come up with fun and creative ways to prank someone he would be the happiest dwarf alive.

Kili is an extravert, but he understands that you, because you’re an introvert, need some time alone to recharge. He loves to cuddle with you in those moments (actually kili always loves to cuddle you, he thinks you’re so amazing and he wants to hold you because of it).

When you feel particularly anxious and need to leave a crowded place, Kili is more than ready to act silly and attract all the attention to him, so you have a chance to slip away unseen. After that he will check up on you with something to drink and your favorite snacks.

He hates to see you sad, and always tries his best to cheer you up, but he understands that when you feel really depressed sometimes all he can do is hold you and be there for you, and he does exactly that. He hugs you, kisses you, tells you all the reasons he loves you and promises that you’ll be happy again.

He understands that life isn’t always great, and sometimes it can be really hard to reach out to the good things, so he brings the good things to you. He sneaks all kinds of good food from the kitchen, so everyday he can surprise you with a different meal. He picks colorful flowers so you have something pretty to look at when you don’t feel like going outside, and he reminds you everyday how beautiful you are and that you are enough the way you are.

Dwalin:

What can I say? Opposites attract.

Dwalin really doesn’t know what it was that pulled him toward you, but something did

He wouldn’t admit it, but he thought your shyness was cute, and though he wasn’t really a creative person himself, he wanted to know all about your talents and interests.

He isn’t very good with words, but he tries to compliment your work as much as possible, and ask questions when you tell him about one of your hobbies.

Dwalin is a dwarf of action, so to show you he loves you he takes you out on dates to the theaters, and buys you new paint when you mentioned you were running out of it.

Dwalin loves your paintings. He hangs them all around the house, and they remind him of you when you’re not home.

It’s very good you’re emotionally intelligent, because Dwalin tends to bottle things up. You help him be more open and express his emotions in other ways then anger and food.

Like I said before, Dwalin isn’t the best with words, but he does his best when trying to comfort you, and you can bet there’s no way he’s gonna let anyone treat you like shit for having mental illnesses! If someone even thinks about making you feel bad for not being able to do daily tasks he will not hesitate to punch them in the face and give them a piece of his mind.

Dwalin loves you, and your happiness is his number one priority.

Bofur:

Ohohoho this dwarf adores you!

Bofur is a joyful dwarf who finds joy in many things, most of all creative things. And you can do so many things! How amazing is that? Bofur wants to know everything about you, your mysterious aura only adding onto how much he wants to show you he likes you.

I headcanon Bofur as someone who’s good at carving things from wood (because his cousin is a toy maker, I’m sure he must have picked some things up from that) and he likes to make you little wooden figures.

When you tell him you do theatre he’s over the moon. Bofur loves to entertain others (I mean, just look at that one scene with the dwarves in Rivendell, where Bofur gets on the table and starts singing). He’ll definitely drag you up at least twice to do some kind of show for the company during the quest.

Bofur enjoys hearing you talk about your many talents, and he likes it even more when you infodump him about something! He thinks it’s so cute to see you rambling, looking all excited. But what he loves most of all is to just watch you do your thing. You could simply be sitting by the windowsill, writing away in your notebook as the sunlight falling through the window makes it seem like you have a halo around you, and Bofur would have the most lovesick look on his face.

It’s easy for Bofur to lift your spirits, even when he’s not trying. He’s always smiling, because most of the time he feels genuinely happy. He’s always cracking jokes and his laid back nature creates a calming atmosphere. When you need him to be there for you, he will be there. He’ll caress your cheeks, call you sweet nicknames and remind you of all the beautiful things in life.

Something Bofur likes to do when you’re feeling particularly down is to take your hand, hum a sweet song and just sway around the room with you. He’ll shower you in compliments and cheesy pick-up lines and won’t stop until you’re laughing again.

Bilbo:

You’re an introvert? Bilbo couldn’t be happier. We all know this hobbit is a gigantic introvert himself, and he’s more than happy to just spend all day with you inside or in the garden, enjoying each other’s company and a good meal.

You both share a love for writing, proofreading each other’s work and supporting each other when writing stories.

Bilbo is fascinated by your drawings and paintings. He himself tends to draw some sketches every now and then, but it’s nothing like the things you create. He’s always in awe when you show him your work, and he covers every wall in his hobbit-hole with your paintings and drawings.

You’re the one that got him to love theatre. He would always come and watch when you performed, bringing you a bouquet of flowers from his gardens to give you after your show, and after watching some of them he realized he actually really liked theater shows.

His favorite pastime is to sit in the garden with you watching the sunset, as he smokes his pipe and works on his book, and you sitting next to him drawing the many flowers surrounding you.

When your depression gets extra hard to deal with Bilbo will spoil you as much as possible. He’ll bring you breakfast on bed, fill the room with flowers, take over your chores and just lets you rest until you feel like you can face the day again, and he will never make you feel bad for sometimes not being able to. Bilbo loves you, all of you, and he wants you to be as comfortable and happy as possible.

#Commisions #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit #TH #thorin x reader #dwalin x reader #bilbo x reader #fili x reader #kili x reader #bofur x reader

[sirisuorionblack]

Hello 👋 I was wondering if you could write about Remus Lupin bitting one of Harry’s friends, and they’re relatively alright with it but lovely Remus hates himself for it- a bit of angst but with happy ending?

Family

Remus Lupin x Sirius Black

Summary - The marauders are back at Hogwarts at the age of 34 for yet another adventurous night after years but this time it didn't end rather well but Remus had his family.

A/N Okie so this was a wonderful idea and I just had to write it and I might have tweaked my request status a bit. But, anyway, a few things before you start, everybody is alive, no voldy, no nothing. And since you didn’t specify which one of Harry’s friends, I naturally went for Ron to add in the drama. Also, this happens in their third year and Remus and Sirius are well, married, sorry if it isn't a pairing you are comfortable with. And this may be a bit rushed, idk but I loved it tbh.

Remus ran his fingers over the scars on his knuckles. Remus was gifted with such a beautiful life, his friends and family so close to him, leading a life filled with love and happiness, the sound of innocent laughter always echoing in his ears no matter what.

Over the years, he and his best friends had grown from adventurous teens to adventurous adults, still spending every full moon like a tightly-knit pack, running into the woods and barking in their animal forms. They had never grown out of it and Remus was more than grateful for it. It was truly a wonder, regardless of how much they had grown, married and having kids of their own, never spared a thought if any other was in need of help.

Thirty-four. It was bewildering how he managed to pass twenty-seven years tuning into a full-on beast with insane thoughts and no memory of his human self, only noticing the stag, dog and the rat that managed to keep him accompanied no matter what. He pitied the wolf at times, he would never have the chance to know what love is, never understand how people care about others and would protect their loved ones.

Remus knew what love is, Sirius taught him that like his life depended on it. Remus shivered every time he thought about this. They were no longer the playful and traumatized teens, they were adults with responsibilities now and it was terrifying. But Remus found comfort in the very aspect of it, teaching and just as his friends insisted he did become the Defence Against Dark Arts professor and he more than just loved it.

And now after years, they were back in the shrieking shack for the next full moon, this time, honestly dreading it. Remus suspected that Harry and his friends were rather curious about their shenanigans in the shrieking shack. Harry, of course, knew that Remus was a werewolf he had known it ever since he was realised, his father, Moony, Padfoot and Wormtail would go missing for hours and then his mother would be with Uncle Moony, treating all the new scars that Harry was told is a sign of bravery from a young age by his godfather.

For some odd reason, Dumbledore had requested that Harry must not know was that it was his very own Uncle Moony spending his night away in the shrieking shack for which Sirius had reasoned was solely for the drama it ensued.

“Moony, stop fretting,” James said, patting him on the shoulder and pulling him away from the window sill he was standing before, “It is Harry we are talking about, I think he would be rather cautious,”

“That’s the stupidest things you have ever told in your whole life, Prongs,” Sirius commented, smirking and looking out of the window, to see when the full moon rises.

“Hey!” James glared at him, “I mean, yes, he could be a curious little shit but he is…good,”

“This is not about if he is good or not, James,” Remus snapped. He took a deep breath and sat on a chair that had been placed near the wall, away from the three of them.

“Right, sorry,” James said, looking at him apologetically and remained silent giving Remus an opportunity to continue, “Just like you said, he is a curious child and his friends almost give him a run for his money and there is so little chance to no chance that they would not be coming here to “find out“ what’s going on! And like what if I accidentally hurt someone!?”

Remus shuddered as he said those words. Contrasting how he was speaking moments ago, he looked up to see Peter, James and Sirius looking at him and he fixed his eyes to Sirius’ and he whispered, “They could die or even worse become a monster like me,”

“Moony, enough,” Sirius said, calmly, drawing the attention to himself rather than Remus, “The full moon will be in minutes, there is nothing we can do,”

“Remus,” Peter sighed, emerging from the corner he stood in, “First of all - you are not a monster. Second of all - we are here, nothing wrong is gonna happen,”

”What if something does?” Remus argued. He didn’t have to see to know that Sirius closed his eyes to calm himself down.

“Sirius, do you hear yourself!?” Remus stood up abruptly, “Your words drip with irresponsibility!”

“It’s not irresponsibility, Moony,” he said, motioning Peter to take over as he walked towards Remus, “it’s the reality. What do you think we should do, then?”

For once, Remus Lupin was out of ideas. He didn’t know what to say but he knew Sirius was right, there was almost nothing they could do other than control the wolf and every full moon they deal with would be a unique tale of itself, never certain of what could happen. It was woven with time.

“It’s time,” Peter said, grimly. Remus took a shuddering breath and fell into Sirius’ arms, who was still in his human form, unlike the stag and rat, watching their moves carefully.

Remus was right. In the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory, Harry Potter laid wide awake, staring at the ceiling, the noises in the shrieking shack and the tales about it resonating in his mind. He was confused about what might be there and curious to find out when nobody would tell him the truth although they seemed to know. And today, they would unveil it.

James was rather happy that the full moon would end in a couple of minutes but he was not allowed to stay that way when he saw the wolf stop dead in tracks, sniffing the air. They all behaved rather weirdly, sometimes hilarious, in these forms but this time, it seemed different, like the wolf had encountered something out of order.

The stag and the dog stood cautiously, ready to pounce any moment while the rat, discreetly moved in the direction of the wolf’s sight and to a bush. They could hear whispers and murmurs as the animals and humans stood still on both sides, afraid of what might show and for the first time they all saw the wolf stand so extremely still.

And then slowly, a mess of unruly, jet black hair emerged from behind the bush. The wolf took deep, rapid, breaths that almost sounded like growling, bared its fangs.

The black hair further raised until they could see the bright green eyes, behind the round glasses and the wolf noticing the presence of the human, pounced.

The dog was rather quick to act and jumped on the wolf, redirecting its path but a stag and a dog wasn’t enough for the wolf to be distracted from its meal. Hunger in the pit of the wolf’s stomach derived its senses insane.

Harry stood up to his full height, wide eyes watching the wolf push a familiar black dog away from itself and leapt forward, fangs sinking into the flesh before it blacked out, falling to the ground.

He is going to get an earful from his father.

“Careful, Mr Lupin,” Madam Pomfrey rushed to him as Remus tried to sit up and take a look around. She gently pushed him back to a sleeping position on the hospital bed. Through half-lidded eyes, he frantically murmured Sirius’ name over and over again.

“Hey, hey, calm down, love,” Sirius was at his side, holding his scarred hand. Remus held onto it tightly and asked, “What happened?”

He could see Sirius hesitating to tell him and the vague memories remaining in his head from the night was not doing him any better.

“Sirus, please tell me what happened!?” He asked, anxiety rising in the bit of his stomach, the nasty churning feeling retuning. Sirius gently pushed the strands of hair from his forehead and leaned up, pressing his lips to Remus’ forehead.

“Th-the kids-” Sirius started just for him to be interrupted as Remus sat up, abruptly. He didn’t have time to sort out his chaotically, messy feelings and the one thing in his mind was what happened to the kids.

“Moony, Moony,” Sirius hurried to calm him down that, if anything, just made Remus panic even more in his hazy state of mind. Sirius placed his hands against Remus’ shoulder, pushing him gently to sit on the edge of the bed when he tried to stand up.

“Nobody is hurt, Remus,” he said, crouching a bit to look at Remus in the eyes but sighed with a pang in his chest when he saw Remus’ eyes unfocused and roaming above his head, at the various hospital beds.

Remus gasped and his heart sunk to the bottom when he saw the bed surrounded by kids and adults. It was Ron Weasley. His teeth had sunk into the boy’s shoulder blades where he could clearly see the bandages wrapped tightly around. He couldn’t imagine the pain the poor boy would have felt.

Remus Lupin felt like a terrible monster.

Why him? Why is it always him!? Just when he thought everything would be alright when he began to let himself wallow in the joy of being back at Hogwarts. And because of him the boy, merely thirteen, would have to become a monster every month.

“You are awake,” James, who seemed to have been outside the hospital wing, rushed to him, "Oh, thank gods-”

”I told you this would happen,” Remus whispered, hoarsely, staring at the foot of the empty bed before him. His mind was racing with unwanted thoughts. He felt mad at himself, at his friends, at the kids but was immediately engulfed in a pang of even bigger guilt.

A dry sob involuntarily escaped from his lips. He couldn’t understand how Greyback did that to the kids when here he was dying with guilt. He didn’t dare think of that one terrible evening when he was just seven.

Remus struggled to take a deep breath. “Moony, look at me, please,” Sirius said and these words in Remus’ head felt like a command. He slowly raised his head to look into those mesmerising grey eyes, sparkling like they always did in the sunlight. Those grey eyes were the only ones that had the ability to calm him down in seconds yet he found it difficult at the moment to regain his normal breathing pace.

“Hey, it's alright. I am here. We all are right here,” Sirius pushed the strands of hair out of his face as Remus tugged at his own shirt, as though it would help him breathe properly.

Sirius looked at James who immediately moved to the nearest window, pushing it open. The gush of fresh, cold breeze for some reason warmed his shattered heart. Remus, although still shaking, managed to take deep breaths.

“Listen to me, alright?” Sirius said, cautiously and slowly, “Nothing is wrong, everybody is doing good - I said you to just listen, Lupin. Ron did get a few injuries but, thankfully, since it was time for you to transform back, the bite was equivalent to that of a domestic dog or something,”

Remus didn't have the ability to comprehend what he was saying and just gawked, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

Sirius smiled gently, looking at Remus’ wide, confused eyes. “Ron will not transform every month. You didn’t “ruin“ his life, which I am sure at this point you have confirmed. And Madam Pomfrey had down all the necessities so he would be alright in a couple of days,”

“Oh,” Remus breathed, chuckling lightly but happily. Ron was alright. He was alright! He wouldn't turn into a monster every month, he wouldn't have all those hideous scars, he wouldn't be weak every other day, he wouldn't seem to look way older than he actually was. He would be able to lead a peaceful childhood.

James sat next to him while Peter sat on the bed before him, “Now you might be wondering why is Molly crying buckets when her son would be alright,”

“No, I’m not James,” Remus rolled his eyes, pushing James away and shaking his head with a light smile. He discreetly wiped the tears forming in the edge of his eyes.

“Uncle Moony!” Harry yelled, and ran to his uncle. Remus tried to stand up as his nephew rushed into his arms, the boy holding onto him so tightly. Remus slowly wrapped his arms around the boy and felt Sirius stand up behind him, providing support to his weak frame.

“But you should ‘cause I have prepared an answer for it. If you are not asking me why then Padfoot go ahead,” James said and watched with a smirk as Sirius cleared his throat, and asked, “Why?”

”Thank you very much for your certainly not forced question - it is because she is a mother!” James said going jazz hands just for him to be hit with three pillows.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Moony,” Harry whispered into his uncle’s chest, feeling guilty as ever. He heard the man sigh and the arms wrapped around him grew tighter. Remus took off Harry’s askew glasses and whispered, “It’s okay to me, Haz but your mum,”

Harry giggled, burying his face into Remus’ chest, “I love you, Uncle Moony,”

“I love you too, Haz” Remus ruffled the boy’s already messy hair.

"Wait!" Peter said, jumping up and stood beside Harry, smirking, "Can we, I dunno, take points from him?"

"No! that's stupid!" James complained, shaking his head, "Gryffindor needs to win the house cup. We can ground him or something but not take away points,"

"Yes! Can I ground him, please?" Sirius asked.

"No,, absolutely not," Remus said, holding the boy closer to him, "Nobody is gonna ground the poor boy. Leave him alone,"

"Gah! You're no fun, Moony," Peter said, shaking his head in disapproval.

James, after controlling his laughter said, “Also, Harry, your mum told me to yell at you as a favour for her and she would do her job when you come home for break,”

"Uncle W," Harry said, making Peter chuckle at the nickname the boy insisted in calling him saying it was too weird calling his uncle "Wormtail", "I will steal your cheese sticks,"

"No," Peter groaned, dramatically, "Cheese sticks, my weakness,"

“But you won’t yell at me, dad,” Harry said, pulling away from Remus and putting his glasses on.

“I will,” James said, seriously.

“It is not that you won’t, Prongs,” Sirius said, from behind Remus, “It is that you cant,”

“Oh shut up,” James said, rolling his eyes.

Remus couldn’t help but allow his eyes to skip towards Ron every often and harry, of course, noticed it. “Ron is alright, Uncle Moony. He was actually saying it doesn’t hurt much anymore and he was rather bewildered why his mother was crying too. Oh! he also says you guys were so cool yesterday,”

“We know, prongslet, we are the coolest people ever to exist,” Sirius flipped his hair, dramatically. Harry laughed.

Remus took a deep breath. He would never forgive himself for what had happened, but he had his family with him and they sure would make him forget it. These wonderful people were his family.

#remus lupin #sirius black #james potter #peter pettigrew #harry potter #ron weasley #hermione granger #remus lupin x sirius black #wolfstar #remus x sirius #domestic wolfstar #wolfstar raising harry #jily #remus john lupin #sirius orion black #hogwarts #harry potter fanfiction

[alostsock]

An exercise in futility.

Summary/Snippet: “Did you think it hadn’t been tried, Booker?” Booker blinks, slowly turning to face Nicky.

“What?”

“Did you really think it hadn’t been tried? That everything hadn’t been tried? Everything that woman did, every experiment she ran. None of it is new.”

TW: self-harm, medical experimentation (nothing graphic), body horror, self-hatred, suicidal ideation

This is based on a headcanon by @dearpatroclus which you can read here, so thank you to them! Thank you also to @socvrates for the amazing beta, and to @shaolinqueen for the brainstorming, and for the line “Maybe next time, habibi” because it crushed me and so I included it.

Everything below the cut.

Part 1: Booker

“Did you think it hadn’t been tried, Booker?” Booker blinks, slowly turning to face Nicky.

“What?”

“Did you really think it hadn’t been tried? That everything hadn’t been tried? Everything that woman did, every experiment she ran. None of it is new.”

“You’ve been… wait no, you haven’t been taken in the past 200 years, I would have known about it. Science has changed, Nicky. There’s so much that they can do now that they couldn’t do in the 1700s. You don’t know -”

Nicky says nothing. He turns to face Booker, his eyes dark.

“I would have known…” Booker tries again, losing steam when Nicky continues to look at him with a carefully blank face. His shoulders slump. “When were you taken? Where? Was it you? Was it Joe? Andy? Was it when I was in Shanghai in ‘89? Or  Rennes in ‘27? Why didn’t you tell -”

“We weren’t taken, Booker. Or at least, nothing you don’t know about.”

Booker straightens up again. “Well then how would you know - ?”

“I tried it.”

“What?”

“I tried it myself.”

Booker looks at him in confusion. “What do you mean you tried it yourself?”

“I did the research myself.”

Booker knows there’s something that Nicky isn’t saying (as there tends to be with Nicky, his words always hinting at depths he won’t say) but it’s just out of reach, his mind failing to put it together.

Nicky pushes himself up off of the porch step and heads back inside, the door swinging shut behind him.

-----

Part 2: Nile

They’re in an apartment by the Bay of Naples when Nile finds them. It’s an old property, definitely older than Nile (as most things are), and the things scattered around the house show it. The pots are old, the fireplace is well-used, and some of the clothes that Joe pulls out of the closet look like they’re from the wrong century (they just might be).

It looks innocent enough, at first. In an alcove off of the living room there’s a tall bookshelf, full to bursting. Nile hesitates. They’ve told her time and time again that what’s theirs is hers now, but these old books, clearly well-worn and often looked through, feel personal. She leans closer, hesitant to touch anything. Some of them have titles still legible on the spines. Others are too worn to read, while others still don’t appear to have anything written on the spines at all.

There are a few worn classics in Italian, English, and French that Nile recognizes.

Boccaccio, Shakespeare, Hugo, Rabelais.

There are others in languages Nile can’t read.

Curious and vaguely emboldened, Nile pulls out one of the unmarked books.

The only things she really understands are the dates on some of the pages. There are a few drawings that might have been done by Joe, but most of the book is filled with what Nile recognizes as Nicky’s hand.

She thinks it’s in Latin. It might be in Italian, but she suspects it’s too old of a form for her to read with her limited skills. Flipping through a few more pages and unable to really make out anything meaningful, she carefully closes it and puts it back on the shelf, picking up another.

The next one is much the same.

The pictures, scarce though they are, seem scientific, medical. She knows that Nicky has a medical degree - possibly more than one. Maybe he wrote something and Joe did the drawings for him.

It isn’t until the fifth book that the language starts to tend toward a recent enough form that Nile can make some things out between her recently acquired Italian skills and the Spanish she learned in high school. Between that and the obvious progress over the tomes in methodicity and organization, Nile realizes what she’s looking at.

They’re records of experiments.

She feels dread building in her stomach as she sits heavily on the couch, unable to tear her eyes away. There are a few times she needs to pull out her phone to check a translation but it becomes very clear what the experiments were about: they were experiments on immortality.

Nicky experimented on someone - and given what she knows about the immortal… community, or lack thereof? It must have been Joe or Andy or Booker.

She sits in silence, trying to understand.

Kind Nicky, gentle Nicky, very-much-the-mom-friend Nicky, had it in him to cut out pieces of his friends. It doesn’t feel right. Didn’t doctors take an oath to “do no harm”? She supposes it didn’t stop Kozak, and she knows that anything that was done would heal instantly, but the idea of Nicky taking a blade to Joe or Andy or Booker willingly unsettles Nile deeply.

And based on the number of books here (and Nile is sure that, with the number of properties they have around the globe, this isn’t the only stash of them), Nicky did a lot.

The notes are meticulous, and even with the language barrier Nile gets a pretty good idea of the extent to which Nicky went. Even though they heal, it feels wrong.

She hears the padding of footsteps on the stairs and she can’t help but hope that it isn’t Nicky. She isn’t sure if she can face him just yet - if she can handle how much her perception of him has changed.

She lets out a breath of relief when she sees that it’s Joe. When he sees her sitting on the couch he immediately beams at her, and she feels guilt rush through her when his face drops as he notices the book on her lap.

She shouldn’t have looked.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then he huffs out a breath before calling out “Tea?” and heading to the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

Nile doesn’t know if she can stomach tea.

---

When he comes back he places both teacups on the coffee table before carefully taking the book out of her hands, closing it, and putting it back on the shelf. She notices that he does it all without even looking down at the page. He keeps his gaze averted as if he can’t bear to look at it.

She’s speaking before she can stop herself. “Was it you?”

Joe freezes midway from the shelf to the couch.

“What?”

Nile gestures vaguely. “The… the book. Was it you?”

Joe frowns. “What? No… I mean… Nicky wrote it. He’s the one with the medical training, you know that.”

Nile blinks. “I mean… who did he… who did he experiment on. Was it you? I just… I can’t imagine he would, on you… and so much, too. Even on Andy, or Booker, I...”

Joe’s expression shutters. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment before hesitantly walking the rest of the way back to the couch and sitting down beside her.

He stares down at his own hands, fiddling with one of his rings. “Nicky never touched us.”

That does not make Nile feel better. She squeezes her hands together to stop them from shaking. If he wasn’t experimenting on immortals, then that only left… “He - he must have killed them.”

Joe whips his head around to face her. “What?”

“I… I know I didn’t understand everything, but some of the things he did, there’s no way they made it. He was just… just killing them. For the sake of what, science? Nicky? I never - ”

Joe cuts her off with a quick shake of his head, taking her hand in his.

“No.”

“Joe, have you read those? Even with my shitty Italian and no medical degree I can tell that -”

“No.”

Nile softens. She knows denial. Nicky’s been the love of his life for 900 years. “Joe…”

Joe clears his throat uncomfortably, giving her hand a squeeze. “I’ve read them, Nile. I did the art… when I could handle it.” She waits, sensing he has more to say. “But… Nile… he didn’t hurt anybody else.” She opens her mouth, about to argue that it’s impossible when he continues, “The point was to test immortality, test how it can be… what it can do. If it can be harnessed. Testing mortals would have been pointless.”

“But you said he didn’t touch you. He clearly experimented on someone, Joe, he -”

“He refused to hurt anyone else.”

Nile blinks, confused, but Joe doesn’t say anything else. He lets go of her hand and goes back to playing with his rings, but Nile can see the anguish written all over his face. She reaches out a tentative hand to rest on his back, unsure how to comfort him, or even, really, what she’s comforting him for. 

“Joe…” But then, what he said seems to settle in her mind. “He didn’t hurt anyone else.” Joe nods, doesn’t look at her. “He didn’t hurt anyone else,” Nile continues. She thinks she’s going to be sick. “All of that… all of that, he did to himself?”

Joe doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to.

-----

Part 3: Joe

Joe loves and hates medical breakthroughs. He loves them because, having lived for so long, it’s such an amazing thing to see things that used to cause so much suffering no longer need to. He loves how many unfathomable things have become possible.

He hates them because every time something groundbreaking is published, Nicky gets a distant look in his eyes. Then come the days of scouring the literature, the planning, the hypothesizing. Nicky sinks into a dark hole that will only get darker, and Joe has to try to press food into his hands and drag his love to bed because if he didn’t, he knows Nicky wouldn’t stop to breathe.

What Joe hates most is that working himself to the bone is hardly the worst thing that Nicky will do to himself when he gets into it.

He hates that he knows that nothing he says will dissuade Nicky from desperately destroying himself.

He hates that all he can do is wait until he sees in Nicky’s eyes that it won’t work - until he sees that Nicky knows (however much he doesn’t want to admit it) that he’s tried everything, and that continuing is pointless.

He hates that even though, in the back of his mind, Nicky knows he’s done, he will continue regardless, doing the same thing over and over, still hoping for a different outcome. He hates that all he can do is pull the notebook out of Nicky’s trembling hands, press a kiss to his forehead, and brush back his sweaty hair before putting a hand under his elbow and helping him to his feet.

“Maybe next time, habibi. For now, sleep.”

-----

Part 4: Andy

Healing is exhausting. The human body (even the immortal one) needs fuel. It needs rest.

It isn’t meant to be taken apart over and over, no matter how seamlessly the skin grows back.

After she walks in to find Nicky focused over a piece of his own liver, a frenzied, desperate look in his eyes for the umpteenth time, his cheeks gaunt and his face pale, she realizes the best and worst part of the progression of humanity is science.

It’s not the first time he’s gotten like this, and she’s sure that it won’t be the last.

She knows that Nicky carries guilt. She knows that horrors from his first life still haunt him in his dreams, and that he still sees himself as responsible for the atrocities committed centuries ago at Jerusalem.

She suspects that, in everything that he does, a part of Nicky is still trying to atone - a part of him still sees himself as owing penance.

She suspects that, in the deepest part of his heart, Nicky hates himself a little

She suspects that this will never really change..

She knows that no amount of pleading, of Joe’s tears, of reminders that nothing has ever worked, will stop Nicky from desperately hoping that this time, this time he can pull something out of himself that will save the world.

She has offered, Joe has offered, every time Nicky is convinced that something is different, now - that humankind has what it needs, to make it work this time - to be the sample, to be the source.

Nicky took a scalpel to Andy’s skin once with a quivering hand before leaving to throw up.

“You’ve cut me in training before. You don’t need to keep hurting yourself.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It’s different.”

“How?”

“What if… what if it’s the last time and I did it on purpose?”

“What if it’s your last time?”

Nicky turns away without a word, but Andy hears the “it wouldn’t matter” all the same.

#the old guard #fanfic #fic #angst #catholic guilt #tw: suicidal ideation #tw: self loathing #tw: self harm #tw: body horror #tw: horror #tw: vomit

[jamiemackenziefraser]

All That Was Fair 

Chapter 13: A Good Touch

Chapter Summary: Claire learns one of Jamie’s secrets.

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a/n: We take another foray into Claire’s brain!! The last Claire POV chapter was Chapter 7 (if you want a refresher on where she's at, maybe take a glance back there). I'll just remind you that it ended with "In that moment, she knew she loved him." :))

Chapter 13: A Good Touch 

***

Claire was lost in the heavenly feeling of water rushing over her skin— hot and soothing to her muscles, easing all the tension out of her. It wasn’t often that she felt truly warm these days. The few occasions included being wrapped in the soft (what was it called… blankit?) and sitting in front of the “space heater.” Or being wrapped in Jamie’s arms... 

As much as she loved all the human conveniences for warmth, nothing compared to the feeling of Jamie’s ever-present heat seeping into her as he clasped her securely to his body. Just the thought of his arms— unreasonably big but still soft, making them the perfect place on which to rest her head— twisted her belly and made her flush a bit. 

She tangled her fingers through her curls, letting the water flow down to her scalp. Her head fell forward in pleasure and a sigh escaped her lips.

But her luxuriating was interrupted by a woody bang from outside and Jamie’s voice calling, “are ye doin’ alright, lass?” 

She startled a little and then nodded before remembering that of course he couldn’t see that. 

“Better than alright. I’ll be out in a second,” she replied cheerily. 

Feeling a sudden haste (that may or may not have had anything to do with her human), she stepped out of the shower and grabbed the soft (also a blankit?-) thing... and used it to dry herself off. She wrapped it around her middle and then made to open the door. 

A bit of disappointment tugged at her when she saw that Jamie was nowhere in sight. Figuring he was taking care of whatever it was that he needed to, she padded down to her room to change. 

The collection of dresses they had gotten were delightful. She hadn’t had a chance to put them all on yet (especially after their hasty departure from Mrs. Fitz’ place), but just looking at them made her feel excited. Her favorite was by far the white one— it was most reminiscent of what the fair folk of the seelie court wore— but seeing the darker colors piqued her interest. She chose a dark blue one for now and quickly pulled it over her head. Her curls were still drying, but she didn’t think it’d be a problem. Peeking behind her to make sure her wings were covered (though it probably didn’t matter if Jamie was the only one seeing her), she decided it would do. 

As she wandered back into the hallway, meaning to go down and maybe find Adso, she suddenly caught sight of Jamie and her jaw dropped. 

He must have just finished with the shower because he was bare save the blankit wrapped around his hips and there were drops of water smattered over his chest and shoulders. There was no indication that he’d seen her, busy as he was doing… whatever it was that he was doing— but she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him. When she had told him he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, she hadn’t been exaggerating. Looking at his smooth, tanned skin— dotted with occasional freckles that gave Claire the sudden urge to run to him and kiss every last one— she felt a heat rise in her cheeks. If only she could run her hands along every inch, to feel how smooth and soft it was under her fingertips...

But then he turned a little, getting ready to head toward his room, and she caught sight of his back. 

All the air was punched out of her. 

The skin of his back was marred terribly, the flesh criss-crossed by silvery-white lines that stretched all across it, healed laboriously from being brutally torn some time ago. Some indents were deeper than others, making divots in the skin, but others were barely visible other than faint lines. The scars made a terrible spider’s web across what should have been a perfect canvas. 

“Jamie.” 

It was completely inadvertent as she suddenly found herself rushing toward him and a sigh of his name tumbling from her lips. 

He turned and saw her, his eyes widening, and then he hastily angled himself to make sure she couldn’t see his back. His cheeks flamed red— not with the sweet color of embarrassment, but rather the hue of shame that sent Claire’s insides twisting all the more.

“I didna ken ye were there,” he forced out. 

Claire couldn’t be bothered with words at the moment. She reached out for him, feeling her heart break at the expression on his face and the thought of his old wounds. First, she gently cupped his face, feeling the stubble rough against her palm. 

“Let me see?” she entreated in a whisper. 

He looked reluctant for a second, but then nodded against her hand. 

With as much gentleness as she could possibly convey, Claire took him by the shoulders and turned him. He went willingly, and then his entire back was on display for her. All the trauma. The evidence of raw pain now healed but forever etched into his skin. 

As if drawn by a magnet, her hand raised and just barely brushed over the marred skin. He tensed at first, which almost made her draw back. But in the next second, he was relaxing to her touch. Her fingertips brushed across shoulder blades and down the plane of his back, hardly any contact. She could feel— not just sense, but actually feel in her body— the echoes of his pain. 

“What happened?” she whispered. 

“Dinna fash, it was a long time ago—” he started, but she wouldn’t let him get away with dismissing this as if it didn’t matter. 

“Tell me,” she pleaded. 

She placed her whole hand over his back and pressed gently in reassurance that she was here. He wasn’t alone. 

“It was a car accident,” he began, a slight tremor in his voice, “ye ken, what we rode in the other day? Sometimes they crash. I dinna mean tae scare ye, lass—“  Claire almost laughed aloud at this. Even in re-living his trauma, he still was so concerned about her. “—but sometimes things happen. Infrequently, mind ye. They’re verra safe. But this time it wasna. Another car hit mine. I was jes’ a foolish lad of 19, and I wasna strapped in properly. I flew through the front window and went skidding on my back across the ground wi’ all the shards of glass and pavement tearing up my back.” 

Claire wasn’t sure what half of those words meant, but she could imagine well enough. She felt sick to her stomach with how well she did understand. It took great willpower to keep her hand steady where it lay on his back. 

“I lay in agony for weeks. It took me so long to recover that sometimes I thought I couldna bear to live.” 

Tears were beading at her eyes and she had to swallow the lump in her throat. The force of the pain she felt for his suffering hit her like a wave. As much as she didn’t want to add to Jamie’s discomfort, she found she couldn’t stop the tears from falling. 

“I wish I had been there,” she choked as she resumed gently tracing over his scars, “I wish desperately I could have healed you. Eased your suffering. I wish—” the tremor in her voice halted all words. 

Her vision was so blurred that all she saw was a flash of skin as Jamie turned toward her so he was facing her again. 

“Ye’ve the kindest heart, mo nighean donn,” he said quietly.  

She felt his hands gently cupping her face, and his thumbs swiped over her falling tears. She cursed herself for making him comfort her in a moment like this, but the onslaught of emotion radiating from him had overtaken her. But if she was being honest with herself, it was far more than her sensing his suffering and emotions. It went beyond empathy— the thought of him in agony hurt her directly because of the force of her love for him. 

Looking up at his face through the gathered tears in her eyes, she said, “I’m sorry you went through that, Jamie.” 

“It only made me who I am today,” he answered.

There was such strength in his voice. A man wise beyond his years. 

There was a strength in his heart as well— one that soothed the surge of emotions and brought calm to Claire’s reeling mind. 

“Are you ashamed of them?” she suddenly burst out, “You turned away from me when I saw...” 

“I dinna-” he swallowed, “I dinna show them to anyone. I have no use for pity. I hate it when people look at me differently when they find out. It’s jes’ no’ somethin’ I talk about anymore.” 

“Thank you for sharing it with me,” she breathed, understanding the gravity of his trust, “I could never pity you, and you should never feel ashamed. They’re a part of you, Jamie. And everything about you is perfect.” 

The air had never returned to her lungs during this whole conversation. Her insides were still knotted up with the strength of her emotion for him, making it hard to force words out. But she needed him to know. She loved every part of him. And she wanted his heart— complete with all the wounds and scars. 

“Ye have a good touch,” he commented softly as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, “I’ve never let anyone touch the scars before, save the doctors and nurses or my family. But— I didna mind when you did...” 

The force of the last statement made it quite clear that he more than didn’t mind, he’d liked it, and Claire made a note to touch him as often as she could until he no longer thought of the scars as something ugly. 

“I like when you touch me too,” she suddenly found herself saying. She didn’t remember the words leaving her mouth, let alone deciding to say them, but she heard the echo of them in the air and saw quite clearly his reaction. 

Jamie’s whole body seemed to tense. He withdrew from her as if he suddenly couldn’t be near her, and her hand on him fell away to hang limply at her side. His downward glance as he avoided her eyes made her wonder if it had been wrong to say. The distance between them was like a blow, and the absence of his touch ached inside her. Perhaps she’d crossed a line with him? But for the life of her, she didn’t know what she’d done that was wrong. His energy had changed in an instant— one second they were sharing a connection, and the next, he was pulling away from her. 

“I’m sorry, I’ll— leave you to get dressed,” she stuttered out a bit helplessly. 

“Aye,” came his awkward response. 

When she gave him one last look before departing, she found his ears were red and he couldn’t seem to meet her eye. 

She went downstairs with a stone in the pit of her stomach, hoping desperately that she hadn’t inadvertently created a distance between them. 

***

The rest of the night passed with a soothing easiness. Jamie came down from his shower seeming quite his usual self again. She’d watched him make food while trying not to get entranced by the shapes of his muscles shifting underneath his shirt. They sat and talked for a while as he ate— him telling stories of his childhood and family. Jamie was quite the storyteller, and Claire found herself getting lost in his enthusiasm. His face lit up as he told her animatedly about his parents meeting, about his awkward years as a boy, and about an incident involving him, Ian, and an owl (at which she couldn’t stop laughing until her sides ached). Claire thought she would never tire of listening to him talk about his passions. She could tell he loved fiercely and felt things deeply, and that brought such a well of affection bubbling up in her chest that she had to get up and give him a hug. 

They sat on the odd, tall stumps, so she slipped off a little clumsily before bridging the distance between them, Jamie’s eyes wide as he watched her while he attempted to finish speaking. 

He chuckled as she looped her arms around his neck and squeezed— right at the end of his story. 

“What was that for, lass?” he asked, adorably breathless. 

His big hands came up to rest on her back, smoothing down it in response. 

She ran her fingers through his curls, enjoying their softness, and then answered without letting go, “you’re just so passionate, Jamie.” 

He had no response for her, but she didn’t mind. With one last squeeze to the nape of his neck, she let him go. But before she withdrew completely, she ran a tender hand along the length of his back. A silent reassurance of her acceptance of the scars— just as she promised herself she would at every opportunity. 

It was late. When she drew back from him, her gaze caught sight of the darkness outside, and she had to stifle a yawn. Seeing the distant stars (the familiar gleam making her bones ache with a sudden homesickness), she wandered closer to the clear square that let them view outside. 

“Tired, lass?” Jamie asked, craning his head to look at her from his spot. 

She nodded; there was no point in insisting otherwise (Jamie always could read her). As much as she would have loved to stay up to listen to more of his stories and look out at the stars, she was more than ready to sleep. 

“Will you lay down with me?” Claire asked, feeling suddenly shy. She didn’t turn around to look at him when she asked.  

There was absolutely no desire within her to spend any time away from him. She longed for the warmth and comfort of his arms— the long planes of his body against her. It was only with that safety and security that she found real rest. 

“Aye, give me jes’ a moment, lass.” 

Relief flooded her at his acceptance. 

Jamie rose, gathering his things, and she hovered behind him as he puttered around in the kitchen. The moment his hands were free and he started to turn toward her, she slipped her hand into his. He rewarded her with a soft smile that made her feel warm inside, and then took her up with him. 

Before long, she was under the blankits and waiting for Jamie to join her. She tossed and turned several times, her mind sorting through all the things that had happened that day. The argument, Jamie’s injury, learning about his past… there was so much to digest. In the unnatural quiet, her mind was racing with the assaults of too many things she didn’t wish to think about. It sometimes felt to her that life was moving so unbelievably fast. She wished it would slow down and give her a moment to breathe. 

That breath came when Jamie slid in beside her. Instead of laying down flat like he usually did (giving her the perfect opportunity to rest her head on his chest) Jamie fitted himself along the length of her back and pulled her close to him. The moment his body came in contact with hers, peace descended on her. A feeling took hold of her, a sensation that was indescribable and something she had never experienced before Jamie. 

“Is this alright?” Jamie asked with the sweetest sincerity that made her love him all the more. 

“Perfect,” she breathed, shifting back so she was fully encapsulated in his astonishing warmth. 

She drifted to sleep under the solid anchor of Jamie’s arms and the security of his presence.

***

a/n: So if you're wondering about the progress of this story... There are only 3 more chapters left in the first arc, ahh!! Things are about to ramp uppp, stick with me. But don't worry, I would very much like to continue with the arc II once we finish arc I. I prewrote all 16 chapters of the first arc, but the second arc only exists in my brain currently. I'm trying to get over some major writer's block + real life, but if you guys are interested, I hope to get working on arc II soon. 

Thanks so much for your support of the story, love to you all!!

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#ahh yes the OG moodboard again #all that was fair #update #claire x jamie #outlander fanfiction #outlander fanfic #fae claire